IT'S ALL IN THE GAME
Title: "It's All in the Game" (1/2)
Author: Plausible Deniability
Address: pdeniability@hotmail.com
Category: S R A
Rating: a strong R (sexual situations; mature language)
Spoilers: Concerns events hinted at in Talitha Cumi (3.24) and Patient X
(5.13)/The Red and the Black (5.14); also contains a name and references to
a pivotal incident from Musings of a Cigarette Smoking Man (4.7).
Keywords: Pre-XF, young CSM/Mrs. Mulder, young CSM/Cassandra Spender
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the television program "The X
Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting,
and Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission. The
song "It's All in the Game" was written by Carl Sigman and Charles Dawes
and originally recorded by Tommy Edwards. No copyright infringement is
intended.
Summary: Some business, some pleasure; and another character makes an
appearance in young CSM's life.
This is part four of the "Smoke Gets In Your Eyes" series. You may want to
read the first three parts to get the most out of this story, but you
should be able to follow it even if you don't. Just keep in mind that it's
the early 1960s, the characters here are still young, and CSM is involved
in a clandestine affair with Teena Mulder, the wife of his best friend. If
you are interested in reading the preceding stories, you can find them on
my website at http://www.Geocities.com/Area51/Dreamworld/2528.
THANKS to Becky, a beta reader made in heaven, and to JenRose, a friend
indeed.
FOR Hindy Bradley, who asked me to write more pillow talk.
----
"Murmuring how she loved me -- she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me for ever,
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain...
-- Robert Browning, "Porphyria's Lover"
****
Quonochontaug, Rhode Island
September 1963
"We have to get dressed," Teena says drowsily, her head on my shoulder.
"Bill will be back soon with Fox."
"Yes," I agree, but neither of us makes any move to get up.
She sighs softly. "I suppose this is the last time I'll see you for at
least a few months."
"I suppose so."
"I miss this, when you're not here...I hate the end of summer."
September, and already the sun's warmth is beginning to fade. Soon the
world will begin to die around us, the leaves changing and falling and
withering to dry scraps. The winter grey will roll in from the sea. The
house here, the beach house on Quonochontaug, will be closed up, the
windows shuttered, Holland covers on the furniture. Teena will move north.
I will turn south.
"I hate the end of summer, too."
"Bill will start drinking again," she says. She states it dispassionately,
with neither regret nor resignation. "He was fine most of the summer, but
he'll start again when we're back on the Vineyard. I know he will."
I draw back and look at her. "You can call me, you know, if it ever gets
out of hand."
She laughs mirthlessly. "Why, so you can come charging up and rescue me? Do
you really think you would?"
"I don't know," I say. "I might."
And, lying there in the boathouse with her head cradled on my shoulder, I
rather think I would. I can just imagine the havoc it would create within
the Project: stalwart problem-solver steals chief administrator's wife. A
dangerous sort of havoc it would be, too -- one of us would have to go,
Bill or I, and I am under no illusions about my own indispensability.
Still, I would not think about the danger if Teena called. I care more
about her safety than my own.
"We'll be having a party during the holidays," she says. "Bill's promised
to corral as many friends as he can into coming to the Vineyard. I can see
you then. You could even stay through Christmas. Bill would probably like
having someone to celebrate his holiday with."
"I'm not sure if I'll be back in time for Christmas," I say, thinking
bleakly of the stark set of rooms I have rented under another name in
Dallas. "I'm going to be gone for a little while. I have a job to handle."
"What kind of a job?"
"Teena, you know I can't talk about that."
I feel the sleepy relaxation leaving her long limbs. "I just asked a simple
question. There must be *something* about it you can tell me."
"There isn't."
She rolls over onto her stomach. "You and Bill, you're both the same," she
says bitterly. "Neither of you trusts me."
I stretch out a hand, and feel in the pocket of my discarded shirt for my
cigarettes. "I can't imagine why Bill doesn't trust you."
She darts a resentful glance at me from the corner of her eye. "You know
what I mean. And, now that you mention it, that's all the more reason why
you should believe that I can keep a secret."
"We're not talking about private concerns here, like whose wife is a bottle
blonde or who cheated on his Spanish test in school, Teena. We're talking
about classified information. State secrets."
"So you're trustworthy enough to know them and Bill is trustworthy enough
to know them, but I'm not?"
I sigh. "It's not simply a case of being trustworthy or not -- "
"Obviously."
"-- it's a case of who needs to know. And you don't need to know, Teena.
You don't need to know anything about what we do."
She leans her cheek on her hand. "Maybe I want to know. Maybe I want to
know because I care about what happens."
"You can't have everything you want in life," I say, with a deep drag on my
cigarette. "Trust me. I'm an expert on the subject."
She stares at me. I can feel the resentment growing in her, the sense of
ill-use. She has shared her body with me, but I am sharing nothing.
"So that's all you're going to say?" she asks finally, her brows drawn
together in a frown. "I'm just a woman and therefore too stupid and too
unimportant to know? You're involved and Bill's involved but I'm just
supposed to stay home and -- and *worry* all the time?"
"They also serve who only stand and wait."
Teena turns her head away. "Oh, that's very witty. I'm trying to have a
serious conversation with you and you're quoting god-damned Milton at me."
"Well, what do you want me to tell you?" I ask. I get up unhappily, and
reach for my clothes. "I can't talk about what I do."
"You could at least tell me what this project is that Bill is always
working on," she says, getting to her feet. "It has something to do with
the Russians, doesn't it? Some kind of an arms race. That's why he goes
around looking so pessimistic all the time."
I throw down my cigarette and toe it into the sand. "Teena, let it drop."
She begins pulling on her clothes. "I know I'm right, about what Bill is
working on. I can see it in your face."
"Fine, then. Think whatever you like."
"I will," she says airily as she reaches behind her back and fastens her
bra. "Besides, I'll bet I already know a lot more about things than you
think I do."
My reaction is swift and instinctive. I seize her by the shoulders, and
shove her hard against the wall.
"Don't say that again," I tell her savagely. The blood is cold in my veins.
"Don't *ever* say that again."
She gazes back at me in shock. "I was only kidding."
"I don't care if you were kidding or not. Just don't say it again." I give
her an angry shake, to make sure the message sinks in.
"Stop it." Frightened, she tries to break away.
"No." My grip is like iron. "You're not getting off that easily. Promise,
damn it. Promise you won't say it again, not to me or anyone else."
"What's wrong with you? Why is it so important?"
"You know very well why it's so important. We're talking about matters of
-- of national security. It's dangerous."
"For God's sake, you make it sound like I have my finger on the button or
something -- "
I shake her again. "I'm not playing around here, Teena. It's dangerous to
claim you know things. People get killed, saying things like that. Promise
me."
She swallows, but her bravado is gone. "All right," she says reluctantly.
"I promise."
I draw the first easy breath since she began angling for information, and
let her go. The adrenaline begins to subside. She, too, now seems subdued.
She reaches up slowly to rub the spot where only a moment ago my fingers
were digging into her flesh. "I'm going to have bruises now, you know."
"I'm sure you'll think of some excuse to give Bill."
She darts a glance at me, half fear, half resentment. "My God, but you're
in a mood today."
She doesn't need this from me, I think, but I can't apologize. This is too
important. "I have a mood coming to me, every now and then."
Her chin lifts in defiance. "Oh, yes, you have a very hard lot, don't you?
Coming up here and fucking me whenever you feel like it..."
"Yes," I say without a trace of humor. "And it's getting harder all the
time."
****
Eastern Airline Flight #198
December 14, 1963
"I know you."
I look over at the thin blonde girl in the aisle seat. "I beg your pardon?"
She smiles at me. "I know you. I work in Washington, doing typing and
filing for General Francis. I've seen you in his office."
I reach in my breast pocket and take out a Morley. "Perhaps you've confused
me with someone else," I say, coaxing my lighter into flame. "I'm not
military."
She laughs. "Oh, I know. I already decided you were State Department or CIA
or one of those. But I'm sure I know you. You were in the office once late
last year, and then a couple of times this past summer."
I look at her through narrowed eyes. "You have a good memory."
She is pretty, but in a skinny, forgettable way. "Not really. You're just
one of the few that made an impression. Most of the civilians who come to
see General Francis are balding men over forty. You're not only a lot
younger, but you're about the only one I can remember who didn't tip-toe
around in awe of him."
She is leaning across the empty seat between us, smiling at me, clearly
expecting conversation. I resign myself to trading the obligatory civil
question or two. "You were in Texas on business, I suppose?"
"Oh, no, I'm just a girl from the typing pool, hardly important enough to
go jetting around the country on business. I was a bridesmaid in a
girlfriend's wedding. How about you?"
I think of a sunny Dallas plaza, of the crisp air and the excited onlookers
and then a familiar well-shaped head exploding in a burst of brain and
blood. I think of sitting in a theatre just a few shell-shocked minutes
afterward, smoking, numb inside, and suddenly afraid of myself. "A little
business," I say. "And then some loose ends to tie up."
"You're part of the new Administration, I suppose?"
I glance out the airplane window, only to meet my own reflection. It is
already dark outside; darkness falls so early these days. "No, I don't work
for President Johnson," I answer. "Although you could say that he owes me a
big favor..."
****
Chilmark, Massachusetts
December 23, 1963
"How many lovers did you have before me?"
Teena is in a talkative mood today. Perhaps it is the novelty of the
situation. For once we are in a real bed, not on the damp sand of the
Quonochontaug boathouse or the rough cold earth of the woodshed behind this
house. To my surprise, she came to me this afternoon here in the guest
room.
Her little boy is down the hall in his room sleeping the innocent sleep of
the very young, and Bill is gone to the mainland until dinner, Christmas
shopping. I am not sure why Teena suddenly decided to take the risk of
meeting me under Bill's roof -- before today, she adamantly refused even to
consider it -- but I am glad of it, and not only for the superficial
reasons of lust and a firm mattress. I have been needing an afternoon like
this one very badly.
"So," she prods, "how many?"
"Lovers, or just women I had sex with?"
She thinks for a minute. "Women you had sex with, I suppose."
"Counting all of them, then, five. That includes a couple of times that I
paid for it."
She wrinkles her nose. "I can't imagine paying for it."
"I can't imagine you having to pay for it," I say, laughing.
She giggles, her hair fanned out over the pillow. Teena in a happy mood is
a joy to behold: lips in a bewitching curve, light dancing in her eyes. It
takes me right out of myself, out of the brooding pattern I had fallen
into. I feel alive again.
"Well, I was out of the country at the time, and the solitude was getting
to me," I excuse myself. "Besides, I was younger then, too. It seemed more
-- urgent."
"*More* urgent?" She rolls her eyes. "I hope the poor girl could walk when
you were finished."
"It's different with a prostitute. Very businesslike. You strike a bargain
and you do it and you get the hell out."
"Mmm-hmm," she says with a knowing smirk. "Why does that scenario sound
distressingly familiar?"
Her tone is so arch and so playful that I can't help grinning. "I'm not the
one with a husband who persists in coming home."
"If you had a husband, my darling, we wouldn't be having this
conversation."
I chuckle, and close my eyes contentedly. For too many weeks now I had been
waking up alone, dispirited, empty. Thank God for this day. Thank God for
Teena, and for the renewing experience of making love to her in a warm bed
on a sparkling winter afternoon. This is exactly what I needed.
She reaches out, and brushes a lock of hair from my forehead. "Who is
Cassandra?" she asks.
"Cassandra?" I smile bemusedly at her. "Where did you hear that name?"
"Bill mentioned her. Who is she?" There is a note of something almost like
anxiousness in her voice.
"Just a girl I met on an airplane. I took her to a Christmas party in D.C.,
and for some reason that seemed to amuse Bill."
"He said she has nice legs."
"I suppose she does," I agree, but without much enthusiasm.
Teena is silent for a moment, thinking. "Did you sleep with her?"
I give a startled laugh. "No."
"Why not?" Teena asks. "She turned you down, or you didn't really try?"
"I didn't try," I say, hands tucked behind my head. "Teena, she's just a
girl. Just a secretary. We were stuck together on a plane, and I had been
away for a long time, and a party sounded like a good idea. I didn't even
think she'd come with me when I asked her."
"Do you think she would have let you sleep with her if you'd tried?"
"I don't know," I say honestly. "Maybe. Probably."
Teena lies still for a moment, digesting this. After lengthy reflection,
she seems to decide that my account passes muster. She raises herself up on
one elbow and leans over me, running her hand over my chest in a caress.
My response is immediate. I reach up and pull her down, rolling her under
me.
"Too bad for Cassandra," Teena says huskily as I kiss her neck and enter
her in one quick, impassioned thrust. "She doesn't know what she's
missing..."
****
Washington, DC
December 27, 1963
The corner drug store is pretty much deserted on this post-Christmas Friday
afternoon. I set the carton of Morleys on the counter, and reach for my
wallet.
There is a tapping on the store window. I turn my head, and see a blonde
girl on the other side of the glass, smiling and trying to get my
attention. Cassandra.
I stroll out, the Morleys tucked under my arm. It is a cold day, and the
wind is whipping her hair into her face. She laughs, and pushes the errant
strands back behind her ears. "Well, hello," she says, beaming. "I wasn't
expecting to bump into you."
"No, I didn't even know you lived near here."
She blushes. "Well, I don't, really. I was just in the area. I had some
work to catch up on for General Francis."
There is something in the way she says it which makes me think she is
lying. But the suspicion that immediately pops into my head, that she has
been haunting this street corner purely in the hope of spotting me, seems
too improbable for serious consideration.
"I was wondering if I'd hear from you," she says. "You mentioned at that
party that you might call me."
Now it is my turn to sound insincere. "Well, I was out of town for
Christmas, visiting some friends. I just got back late last night."
She smiles wanly. "That's okay. I understand."
"Really, I was. You met one of them, in fact -- Bill Mulder. The one who
kept teasing me at the party about having kept you a closely-guarded
secret."
She laughs. "Oh, that one."
"Anyway, he has a house up on Martha's Vineyard, and I spent the holiday
with his family."
She smiles again. I take out a cigarette and light it, cupping the flame
with my hand against the wind. Why doesn't she just say good-bye now, I
think with annoyance, so we can both be on our way?
"He was nice," she says.
"Yes, he's a good friend."
She bites her lip, and says in a rush, "I was just wondering -- you don't
have any plans for New Year's Eve yet, do you?" She breaks into a rosy
blush.
"New Year's Eve?" I grope for an excuse, but on top of the slight of never
having called her, nothing seems satisfactory. "No, no plans."
"Oh, I'm so glad. I have these tickets, these two tickets to the party in
the ballroom of the Watergate. Would you like to go with me?"
I don't want to go. And yet how can I say no, trapped here on this windy
street corner with her? Besides, it is probably wiser to stay in her good
graces. She is General Francis's secretary. If Francis is ever connected
with what happened in Dealy Plaza, she can place me in his office on at
least three different occasions before November 22. She knows I was in
Texas, too.
"Sure," I say reluctantly, playing with my cigarette. "I'd love to."
She beams.
****
The Watergate Hotel, Washington, D.C.
December 31, 1963
"The orchestra is good, don't you think?" Cassandra asks. "And not too
loud. I hate having to shout over the music."
I nod my head. The party is crowded, but we have one of the best tables in
the ballroom. We have been here for two hours now, drinking and listening
to the music and making stilted small talk.
Cassandra leans over the back of her chair, watching the bandleader sing
"Blue Velvet." She is decked out in a powder-pink cocktail dress which I
suspect she bought specially for this night. She looks pretty. Not
spectacular, but pretty.
"I like this song," she says, turning her head in my direction. "But Bobby
Vinton does it better."
I nod again. Indifferently, I notice that Bill is right. She does have nice
legs.
She glances back at me, and catches me staring. "What are you looking at?"
"Your legs."
She smiles in transparent pleasure. "Really? I didn't know there were any
leg men left. I thought everyone was a breast man these days."
"Actually, I like to eat the whole chicken."
It takes a moment for her to process the innuendo -- Teena, I think
critically, would have laughed immediately -- and then she breaks into an
expression of scandalized delight. "You're trying to make me blush."
"I'll behave myself from now on."
She smiles and says coyly, "No, don't do that."
I ought to be enjoying this, I tell myself. She's a pretty girl and she's
gotten herself dressed up for me and it's patently obvious that she wants
to flirt. And yet I'm apathetic, just marking time until the evening ends.
Cassandra bores me. When all is said and done, she's just another secretary
in a Woolworth's dress.
The party around us is growing steadily noisier. On the stage, the
orchestra breaks into a slow song. The bandleader steps up to the
microphone.
"Many a tear has to fall
But it's all
In the game..."
Cassandra turns to me excitedly, her eyes sparkling. "Oh, I love this song!
It reminds me of high school."
High school?, I wonder, faintly irritated. Was I ever that young? And yet,
despite her ingenuous air, we are probably not so very far apart in age. I
doubt I am more than five or six years older than she is.
"Come on, I'll dance with you," I say, rising. Dancing seems easier than
talking.
She jumps up eagerly, and steps into my arms. I prepare for a little
awkward fencing, but she molds herself against me easily and lays her head
on my shoulder. We move together, slow-dancing to the music.
By the second verse she is singing along softly with the bandleader:
"Once in a while he won't call
But it's all
In the game.
Soon he'll be there at your side
With a sweet bouquet.
And he'll kiss your lips,
And caress your waiting fingertips,
And your heart...will fly...away..."
Her hair is pale, the color of cornsilk. She is even thinner than Teena, as
thin as a child; I can feel the delicate bones of her ribcage under my
right hand. She is too thin. Teena in my arms is all warmth and soft
curves.
Cassandra smiles up at me. "You're a good dancer. Most men don't know how
to lead any more."
I am an unremarkable dancer. If I'd still had any doubts about her
willingness to flirt, it would be gone now. "You're easy to dance with," I
say, unable to think of anything more original.
Soon the music fades. Another slow tune begins -- "Since I Fell for You" --
and we dance to that one, too. By the end of the song she has melted
against me, every inch of her slim body pressed pliantly to mine. I wonder
how much champagne she has had. I can recall her sipping at least two
glasses, and I wasn't even paying attention.
The next song is faster, a swaggering cover of Dion's "The Wanderer," and
so we wind our way back to our table. I check my watch. "Only about five
minutes until the new year," I tell her.
I hold her chair out for her, and she settles into it, smoothing her skirt
as she sits. "Is it really that late already?" she asks, looking up at me.
"This night has flown by."
I take my seat beside her. "Time flies when you're having fun." Something
about Cassandra reduces me to platitudes and dull cliches.
She smiles wistfully. "I won't be sorry to leave 1963 behind. It was such a
terrible year. I thought it was sad when Mrs. Kennedy's little baby died
this summer, but that was nothing to how I felt last month. I just sat by
the television for two days, watching the news and crying. The funeral was
the saddest thing I've ever seen in my life. It felt like the world was
coming to an end."
Yes, I think in dull recognition, that's how it felt. I remember when I
first learned that the Date was set, and realized then that the world
really *was* coming to an end. I stumbled around for days, numb, sick,
empty, as if I had a giant hole in the middle of me. I looked at things,
familiar things, and they seemed changed. All the comfort and all the
meaning in this world had disappeared. That's how Dallas felt, too.
"I feel so sorry for Mrs. Kennedy now, and for her little children,"
Cassandra continues. "He was the first president I ever voted for and he
seemed so clever and so attractive. I used to love the way -- "
"Let's talk about something else."
She startles at the sharpness of my tone. "Of course. Of course, if you'd
rather..."
"It's just that it's New Year's Eve," I say, recovering a little. "We
should be celebrating, looking forward to 1964. Not dwelling on the past."
She smiles at me. "To 1964, then."
"Yes." A sense of vast relief comes over me, at the thought of leaving 1963
behind. I reach gratefully for the champagne bottle. "To 1964."
And the relief is still with me, buoying me, when midnight arrives two
minutes later, and I kiss her.
****
I have to take her home. It is a date, after all, and the hour is late, the
streets still full of inebriated party-goers. We take a cab and then I walk
her inside the squat brick building and to her door. Her apartment is a
walk-up, just one of many identical doors opening off an austere, narrow
corridor.
When I kiss her good night, she clings to me. "You don't have to go," she
whispers into my collar. "I have a roommate but she's gone to visit family
for the holidays."
"Perhaps I'd better go, just the same."
Her arms tighten around neck. She pulls me closer, into another kiss.
"Don't go," she says softly when I break the contact. The request is
forlorn and a little breathless.
And so I follow her into her apartment -- it is neat and low-ceilinged and
decorated with cheap, girlish touches -- and let her lead me into her
bedroom. Too much champagne, I think even as I close the door behind us; I
shouldn't be here. Then she reaches behind her back and unzips her dress,
and the gesture reminds me fleetingly of Teena. Perhaps it will not be so
very difficult to forget my misgivings after all.
It feels new, taking her in my arms; new and strange. It *is* strange. But
then, there is really no reason I shouldn't. I don't owe Teena anything.
She is Bill's wife. I never promised her my fidelity, as she has never
given me hers. I can sleep with Cassandra if I like.
And yet it feels wrong, wrong and a little tawdry, as I peel the straps of
her dress from her shoulders. The dress falls to the floor with a swish and
she steps out of it. I lift my hand, and run one knuckle along the delicate
line of her jaw. She catches my hand in hers and presses a kiss into my
palm.
"You don't have to do this, you know," I say.
"I'm not a little girl." Her eyes meet mine, and I see the light of
eagerness in them.
I lower my head and kiss her. Her mouth, warm and tasting of champagne,
opens beneath my own. I feel her hands slide under my sportcoat, exploring
my back and shoulders. "Mmmm," she sighs into my mouth. I am surprised and
more than a little relieved when I feel the first stirring of arousal.
I shrug out of my jacket and unbutton my shirt. She goes to the sole light
burning in the room, a lamp standing beside the bed, and switches it off.
Only dim moonlight illuminates her pale body as she busies herself with the
rest of her own clothing -- shoes, stocking, bra, panties. She folds back
the sheets and slips into the bed.
I finish undressing, and join her there. She is lying on her side. I set a
hand on her back and draw her against me. She is so thin. Too thin, I think
for the second time; I don't like the way I can count her ribs in the dark.
But thin or not, I can feel the tips of her breasts against my chest. I
move my hand to caress them, using my thumb to stroke one hardening nipple.
"Oh," she says. "Oh, that feels good."
I am fully erect at last. Thank God, I think. I was afraid that this might
turn out to be impossible. But her hands are moving over me, sliding down
my back, and her mouth is hungry under mine, and all cats are gray in the
dark.
I slip a hand between her thighs, parting damp flesh, circling, stroking
lightly. She is wet and slick and my fingers slip easily inside her. She
tilts her pelvis further into my hand, making a soft moaning sound.
She is more than ready by the time I turn her onto her back and move atop
her. She is more than ready, and I am impatient to get this over with. I
raise myself up on my elbows and enter her. She bites her lip, and makes an
almost imperceptible whimper. I push in an inch at a time.
She feels so thin and so...different. I start gradually, giving her a
chance to adjust to our fit, withdrawing slowly and then pushing slowly
back. She seems so quiet, so passive. I am used to more outspoken ardor. It
is not the same without dreamy, heavy-lidded eyes and husky whispers.
I try to concentrate on the positives, on her perfume and her breasts and
the silkiness of her hair, as my pace builds. She gazes up at me
trustingly. I find myself wishing that there were less trust in her eyes,
and more challenge. She told me she was not a child but that's what it
feels like, like I am having sex with a twelve-year-old.
Her arms are around my waist. I reach back and, lacing my fingers with
hers, stretch her hands up above her head. I stroke into her, forcefully,
with a firm, steady rhythm. "Mmmm," she says; but that is all she says.
Her orgasm is something of a surprise, when it breaks around me; a surprise
and a circumstance for which I am infinitely thankful. Her fingers tighten
on mine and she makes a small stifled cry as her muscles clench in spasms.
I wait for her shudders to subside and then I finish as quickly as I can.
When I pull out and move to her side, I am already feeling the beginnings
of a hangover from the champagne that I had tonight, already wondering how
I can make a tactful exit. It is certainly, I think, a strange way to begin
1964. Only one week ago I was in Chilmark with Teena.
Cassandra sighs and nestles her cheek against my shoulder. "I knew it would
be good."
I want to laugh at the ludicrousness of her remark. What a sad commentary
on her life, that a perfunctory and half-hearted New Year's fuck is the
culmination of her romantic dreams. I feel guilty for wanting to laugh, and
guiltier still for lying here beside her, receiving her artless confidence
with not an ounce of matching sentiment.
After a time her breathing slows and her head becomes dead weight on my
shoulder. If I wait a little longer, I think, she will be deeply asleep
enough that I can gather up my clothes and go. I can let myself out and be
home in twenty minutes. I will call her tomorrow, I promise myself,
although I know I am not really going to.
I wonder what Teena is doing five hundred miles away in wintry Chilmark.
Perhaps she is still awake, still celebrating the arrival of the new year.
I wonder if I will tell her about Cassandra, or if I will add this night to
the list of secrets that we keep from one another.
My life might have been so different if I'd met her before Bill did. Or
maybe it wouldn't; maybe without Bill to lend me countenance she wouldn't
have given me the time of day, maybe she would have looked at me and seen
nothing but a poor hungry kid with eyes that followed her too much. I do
not have Bill's advantages to flaunt, after all -- his money or his
education or his damned New England pedigree. And, Bill aside, I know I was
not her first choice. Even so I can't help wondering: how does she feel
about our arrangement now? Does she ever think of me at all?
I certainly think of her. Sometimes, in the empty hours before the sunrise,
she is all I think about. I try to write but all I can see in my mind is
her smile, her supple shape, the graceful curve of her neck and the fall of
her dark hair. I sit at my typewriter and I long for Teena: Teena with her
dress blowing in the ocean breeze, Teena laughing, Teena soft and
starry-eyed, Teena gasping passionately beneath me --
Cassandra stirs, snuggling her blonde head into my arm. "You still awake?"
she murmurs.
I turn my head slowly, and give her a small, reassuring smile. "Go back to
sleep," I whisper. "I was only thinking about you."
----
END
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