Violet tried to keep her gaze on his face, but she couldn’t help stealing glimpses of the delicate graying curls on his chest, the plaited tendons of his forearms as he ate his cake, which was frosted with buttercream and studded with tiny black poppy seeds. She saw the indent of his navel, just above the waist of his checked wool trousers, and his braces dangling down past his hips. An odd thrill ran through her limbs: excitement and a sort of bemused nausea. No turning back now.
After a while, he asked her again how she felt, and she had said again that she was quite well, and she realized that she meant it. The room was warm, and the brandy simmered happily in her veins. The shock had faded, leaving relief in its place. (Relief for what, she wasn’t quite sure.) Dr. Grant moved closer. He lifted her hair and kissed it. “This lovely hair. I’ve pictured it like this, spread out on my sofa cushion, from the first moment you walked into my office, months ago. You must grow it longer for me, child.”
“If you like.”
Dr. Grant put on his shirt, secured his braces, and left the room. He returned with a black rubber bulb syringe and a jar of vinegar, and told her she should use the lavatory to clean herself, and to do it thoroughly and at once to avoid any consequences of the afternoon’s work. Violet, knowing almost nothing about the prevention of pregnancy, presuming Dr. Grant was an expert, obeyed him to the letter, though the vinegar stung horribly on her raw flesh.
By now it was past seven o’clock. Dr. Grant helped her dress and walked her to her lodging house, where they stood close in the chill gloom of the hallway, at the bottom of the stairs. There was no sign of the landlady. Violet’s head was buzzing. She asked him if he wanted to come upstairs, and he smiled and said no, not this time. He recommended she soak in a warm salt bath for at least half an hour before bed.
Then he ran his hand over her hair and kissed her good night, and told her he was looking very much forward to seeing her again.
Vivian
Doctor Paul was moving invisibly around the edge of the bed, like a certain six-foot rabbit you might or might not have encountered. After all that vigorous exercise I shouldn’t have woken up, but I did. We New Yorkers are an alert and suspicious breed.
“Go back to sleep, Vivian,” he said.
“What time is it?”
He sank into the mattress next to me. It was too dark to see his face properly, but the Manhattan glow cast rings of white light around his pupils and made him less invisible. “Eleven-thirty. I have to leave for the hospital.” He brushed the hair away from my face and tucked it behind my ear, as if I were a child with a trick appendix and not a woman lying naked in his bed, flushed of skin and dreamy of eye.
“That was reckless of us,” I said.
“Fraught with danger,” he agreed. Now the thumb on my cheekbone. Was there no end to him?
I said: “You aren’t new at it, however.”
“No.” He hesitated. “But never like this.”
“No. Not even close.”
He might have sighed a little. Probably he did. “Vivian . . .”
“Already with the Vivian.”
“Stop it, will you? I was just going to say you’re dazzling. I’m dazzled, I’m upside down and inside out and . . . God, Vivian. I don’t know what to say. There aren’t words. I just want to crawl back under the blanket and spend my life doing that with you. And everything else we did today.”
“Except that you’re married? On the lam? You have a dozen ankle-biters back home in San Francisco?”
“None of those things. I just . . . just a loose end or two to tie up, that’s all. Nothing for you to worry about.”
I nodded. “Everyone has a loose end or two.”
“Do you?”
“I might.” I looked straight into those light-circled pupils. “But not at the moment.”
This time he sighed in earnest. “Well, then. When can I see you again?”
“When does your shift end?”
He laughed. “Twelve long hours. But I need to sleep, actually sleep this time, and clean up. And—”
“Loose ends.”
“Just one, really. So . . . Monday evening? Six o’clock? Dinner?”
“You don’t have my telephone number.”
“I have your address.”
I opened my arms. “Kiss me good-bye, Doctor.”
? ? ?
THE THIRD TIME I woke up, it was full morning, and my love-struck body was twisted into a cocoon made of Doctor Paul’s sheets. I had to untangle myself before I could reach down for the alarm clock, and then I nearly went into cardiac arrest. It was ten a.m. I’d never slept that late in my life. I’d certainly never known the luxury of waking up in a man’s bed before.
Oh, ho? You don’t believe me, Vivian Schuyler, not for a second?
Very well, then. Picture me, a wise fool of a college sophomore, caressing the dampened nape of my professor’s neck, staring up at his office ceiling, moon-eyed as all get-out. I watch him heave himself up, shuck off the Trojan, straighten his trousers, and light the obligatory cigarette.
Me (dreamily): Let’s make love at your house next time. I’ll bring champagne and make you pancakes in the morning.
Professor (lovingly): Let’s just meet at the library and screw in the stacks, shall we?