"God," he said. "I haven't slept like that for a year." He rubbed his eyes. "Have you been here all the time? You look as fresh as a daisy."
"I took a little nap."
"You stayed all night?"
"You asked me to."
He frowned. "I seem to remember. . . ." He shook his head. "Boy, I had some dreams." He went to the phone. "Room service? Let me have a T-bone steak, rare, with three eggs, sunnyside. Plus orange juice, toast, and coffee."
Billie frowned. She had never spent the night with a man, so she did not know what to expect in the morning, but this disappointed her. It was so unromantic that she felt almost insulted. She was reminded of her brothers waking up--they, too, emerged stubbly, grouchy, and ravenous. But, she recalled, they generally improved when they had eaten.
"Hold on," he said into the phone. He looked at Billie. "Would you like something?"
"Yeah, some iced tea."
He repeated her order and hung up.
He sat beside her on the couch. "I talked a lot yesterday."
"That's the truth."
"How long?"
"About five hours straight."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Whatever you do, please don't be sorry." Tears came to her eyes. "I'll never forget it as long as I live."
He took her hands. "I'm so glad we met again."
Her heart jumped. "Me too." This was more like what she had hoped for.
"I'd like to kiss you, but I've been in the same clothes for twenty-four hours."
She felt a sudden sensation inside, like a spring breaking, and she was conscious of wetness. She was shocked at herself: it had never happened this fast before.
But she held back. She had not decided where she wanted this to go. She had had all night to make a decision, but she had not even thought about it. Now she was afraid that once she touched him she would lose control. And then what?
The war had brought about a new moral laxity in Washington, but she was not part of it. She clasped her hands in her lap and said, "I sure don't aim to kiss you until you're dressed."
He gave her a skeptical look. "Are you afraid of compromising yourself?"
She winced at the irony in his voice. "Just what does that mean?"
He shrugged. "We spent the night together."
She felt hurt and indignant. "I stayed here because you begged me too!" she protested.
"All right, don't get mad."
But her desire for him had turned, in a flash, to equally powerful anger. "You were falling down with exhaustion, and I put you to bed," she said wrathfully. "Then you asked me not to leave you, so I stayed."
"I appreciate it."
"Then don't talk as if I've acted like a . . . whore!"
"That's not what I meant."
"It sure is! You implied I've already compromised myself so much that anything else I might do makes no difference."
He gave a big sigh. "Well, I didn't intend to imply that. Jesus, you're making a hell of a fuss about a casual remark."
"Too darn casual." The trouble was, she had compromised herself.
There was a knock at the door.
They looked at one another. Luke said, "Room service, I guess."
She did not want a waiter to see her with an undressed man. "Get in the bedroom."
"Okay."
"First, give me your ring."
He looked at his left hand. He wore a gold signet ring on the little finger. "Why?"
"So the waiter will think I'm married."
"But I never take it off."
That angered her even more. "Get out of sight," she hissed.
He went into the bedroom. Billie opened the suite door and a waitress brought in the room service cart. "There you go, Miss," she said.
Billie flushed. There was an insult in that "Miss." She signed the check but did not tip. "There you go," she said, and turned her back.
The waitress left. Billie heard the shower running. She felt exhausted. She had spent hours in the grip of a profound romantic passion, then in a few minutes it had turned sour. Luke was normally so gracious, yet he had metamorphosized into a bear. How could such things happen?
Whatever the reason, he had made her feel cheap. In a minute or two, he would come out of the bathroom, ready to sit down and have breakfast with her as if they were a married couple. But they were not, and she was feeling more and more uncomfortable.
Well, she thought, if I don't like it, why am I still here? It was a good question.
She put on her hat. It was better to get out with what dignity she had left.
She thought about writing him a note. The sound of the shower stopped. He was about to reappear, smelling of soap, wearing a dressing gown, his hair wet and his feet bare, looking good enough to eat. There was no time for a note.
She left the suite, closing the door quietly behind her.
>>>
She saw him almost every day for the next four weeks.
At first he was in Q Building for daily debriefing sessions. He would seek her out at lunchtime, and they would eat together in the cafeteria or take sandwiches to the park. His manner reverted to his characteristic relaxed courtesy, making her feel respected and cared for. The sting of his behavior in the Carlton eased. Maybe, she thought, he, too, had never spent the night with a lover and, like her, he was not sure of the etiquette. He had treated her casually, as he might treat his sister--and perhaps his sister was the only girl who had ever seen him in his underwear.
At the end of the week he asked her for a date, and they saw the movie of Jane Eyre on Saturday night. On Sunday, they went canoeing on the Potomac. There was a spirit of recklessness in the Washington air. The city was full of young men on their way to the front or back home on leave, men for whom violent death was an everyday event. They wanted to gamble, drink, dance, and make love because they might never have another chance. The bars were jammed, and a single girl never needed to spend an evening alone. The Allies were winning the war, but the bubble of exuberance was burst daily by news of relatives, neighbors, and college friends killed and wounded on the front line.
Luke put on a little weight and started to sleep better. The haunted look went from his eyes. He bought some clothes that fitted him, short-sleeved shirts and white pants and a navy flannel suit that he wore for their evening dates. A little of his boyishness came back.
They talked endlessly. She explained how the study of human psychology would eventually eliminate mental illness, and he told her how men could fly to the moon. They relived the fateful Harvard weekend that had changed their lives. They discussed the war, and when it might end: Billie thought the Germans could not last much longer, now that Italy had fallen, but Luke believed it would take years to clear the Japanese out of the Pacific. Sometimes they went out with Anthony and Bern, and argued politics in bars, just as they had when they were all at college together, in a different world. One weekend Luke flew to New York to see his family, and Billie missed him so badly she felt ill. She never tired of him, never came near to being bored. He was thoughtful and witty and smart.
They had a major fight about twice a week. Each followed the pattern of their first row, in his hotel suite. He would say something high-handed, or make a decision about their evening's plans without consulting her, or assume he knew better about some subject, radio or automobiles or tennis. She would protest hotly, and he would accuse her of overreacting. She would get more and more angry as she tried to make him understand what was wrong with his attitude, and he would start to feel like a hostile witness under cross-examination. In the heat of the argument, she would exaggerate, or make some wild assertion, or say something she knew to be false. Then he would accuse her of insincerity and say there was no point in talking to her, because she was willing to say anything to win an argument. He would walk out, more convinced than ever that he was right. Within minutes, she would be distraught. She would seek him out and beg him to forget it and be friends. At first he would be
stony-faced; then she would say something that made him laugh, and he would melt.
But in all that time she did not go to his hotel, and when she kissed him it was a chaste brush of the lips, always in a public place. Even so, she felt the liquid sensation inside every time she touched him, and she knew she could go no further without going the whole way.
The sunny September turned into a chilly October, and Luke was posted.
He got the news on a Friday afternoon. He was waiting for Billie in the lobby of Q Building when she left for the day. She could see by his face that something bad had happened. "What's wrong?" she said immediately.
"I'm going back to France."
She was dismayed. "When?"
"I leave Washington early on Monday morning. Bern, too."
"For God's sake, haven't you done your share?"
"I don't mind the danger," he said. "I just don't want to leave you."
Tears came to her eyes. She swallowed hard. "Two days."
"I've got to pack."
"I'll help you."
They went to his hotel.
As soon as they were inside the door she grabbed him by his sweater, pulled him to her, and tilted her face to be kissed. This time there was nothing chaste about it. She ran the tip of her tongue along his lips, top and bottom, then opened her mouth to his tongue.
She slipped off her coat. She was wearing a dress with blue-and-white vertical stripes and a white collar. She said, "Touch my breasts."
He looked startled.
"Please," she begged.
His hands closed over her small breasts. She shut her eyes and concentrated on the sensation.
They broke apart, and she stared at him hungrily, memorizing his face. She wanted never to forget the particular blue of his eyes, the lock of dark hair that fell over his forehead, the curve of his jaw, the soft cushion of his mouth. "I want a photo of you," she said. "Do you have one?"
"I don't carry photographs of myself around," he said with a grin. In a New York accent he added: "What am I, Frank Sinatra?"
"You must have a picture of yourself somewhere."
"I might have a family photo. Let me look." He went into the bedroom.
She followed him.
His battered brown leather bag lay on a suitcase stand where, Billie guessed, it had been for four weeks. He took out a silver picture frame that opened up like a small book. Inside were two photographs, one on each side. He slipped a picture out and handed it to her.
It had been taken three or four years ago, and showed a younger, heavier Luke in a polo shirt. With him were an older couple, presumably his parents, plus twin boys of around fifteen, and a little girl. They were all dressed in beach clothes.
"I can't take this, it's your picture of your family," she said, although she longed for it with all her heart.
"I want you to have it. That's me, I'm part of my family."
That was what she loved about it. "Did you take it to France with you?"
"Yes."
It was so important to him, she could hardly bear to deprive him of it--yet that made it even more precious to her. "Show me the other one," she said.
"What?"
"There are two photos in that frame."
He seemed reluctant but opened it. The second picture had been cut out of the Radcliffe year book. It was a photo of Billie.
"You had that in France too?" she said. She could not breathe properly, her throat felt constricted.
"Yes."
She burst into tears. It was unbearable. He had cut her picture out of the year book and carried it, alongside the photo of his family, all that time his life was in such danger. She had had no idea that she meant so much to him.
"Why are you crying?" he said.
"Because you love me," she replied.
"It's true," he said. "I was frightened to tell you. I've loved you ever since Pearl Harbor weekend."
Her passion turned to rage. "How can you say that, you bastard? You left me!"
"If you and I had become lovers then, it would have destroyed Anthony."
"To hell with Anthony!" She hammered his chest with her fist, but he did not seem to feel it. "How could you put Anthony's happiness before mine, you son of a bitch?"
"It would have been dishonorable."
"But don't you see, we could have had each other for two years!" The tears streamed down her cheeks. "Now we've only got two days--two lousy goddamn days!"
"Then stop crying and kiss me again," he said.
She put her arms around his neck and pulled his head down. Her tears ran between their lips and into their mouths. He began to unfasten her dress. Impatient, she said, "Please, just rip it." He pulled hard, and the buttons flew off down to her waist. Another tug opened it completely. She slipped it back off her shoulders and stood in her slip and stockings.
He looked solemn. "Are you sure you want to?"
She was afraid he would become paralyzed by moral misgivings. "I have to, I have to, please don't stop!" she cried.
He pushed her gently back to the bed. She lay on her back and he lay on top of her, resting his weight on his elbows. He looked into her eyes. "I've never done this before."
"That's all right," she said. "I haven't either."
>>>
The first time was over quite quickly, but an hour later they wanted it again, and this time it took longer. She told him she wanted to do everything, give him every pleasure he had ever dreamed of, perform every possible act of sexual intimacy. They made love all weekend, frantic with desire and sorrow, knowing they might never meet again.
After Luke left on Monday morning, Billie cried for two days.
Eight weeks later she discovered she was pregnant.
6.30 P.M.
Scientists can only guess at the extremes of heat and cold the satellite will suffer in space as it moves from the deep darkness of the earth's shadow into the glare of naked sunlight. To mitigate the effects of this, the cylinder is partially coated with shiny aluminium oxide in stripes 1/8 of an inch wide, to reflect the sun's scorching rays, and insulated with glass fiber, to keep out the ultimate cold of space.
"Yes, we dated," Billie said as they went down the stairs.
Luke's mouth was dry. He imagined holding her hand, looking at her face over a candlelit table, kissing her, watching her slip out of her clothes. He felt guilty, knowing he had a wife, but he could not remember his wife, and Billie was right here beside him, talking animatedly and smiling and smelling faintly of scented soap.
They came to the door of the building and stopped. "Were we in love?" Luke asked. He looked hard at her, studying her expression. Until now, her face had been easy to read, but suddenly the book had been closed, and all he could see was a blank cover.
"Oh, sure," she said, and, although her tone was light, there was a catch in her voice. "I thought you were the only man in the world."
How could he have let a woman like this slip away from him? It seemed a tragedy worse than losing his all memories. "But you learned better."
"I'm old enough now to know there's no Prince Charming, just a bunch of more or less flawed men. Sometimes they wear shining armor, but it's always rusty in spots."
He wanted to know everything, every detail, but there were too many questions. "So you married Bern."
"Yes."
"What's he like?"
"Clever. All my men have to be smart. Otherwise I get bored. Strong, too--strong enough to challenge me." She smiled the smile of someone with a big heart.
He said, "What went wrong?"
"Conflicting values. It sounds abstract, but Bern risked his life for the cause of freedom in two wars, the Spanish Civil War and then the Second World War--and for him, politics came above all else."
There was one question Luke wanted to ask more than any. He could not think of a delicate, roundabout way of putting it, so he blurted it out. "Do you have anyone now?"
"Sure. His name's Harold Brodsky."
Luke f
elt foolish. Of course she had someone. She was a beautiful divorcee in her thirties, men would be queueing up to take her out. He smiled ruefully. "Is he Prince Charming?"
"No, but he's smart, he makes me laugh, and he adores me."
Envy stabbed Luke's heart. Lucky Harold, he thought. "And I guess he shares your values."
"Yes. The most important thing in his life is his child--he's a widower--and after that comes his academic work."
"Which is?"
"Iodine chemistry. I feel the same about my work." She smiled. "I may not be starry-eyed about men, but I guess I'm still idealistic about unravelling the mysteries of the human mind."
That brought him back to his immediate crisis. The reminder was like an unexpected blow, shocking and painful. "I wish you could unravel the mystery of my mind."
She frowned, and despite the weight of his problems he noticed how pretty she was when her nose wrinkled in puzzlement. "It's strange," she said. "Maybe you suffered a cranial injury that left no visible trace, but in that case it's surprising you don't still have a headache."
"Nope."
"You're not an alcoholic or a drug addict, I can tell by looking at you. If you'd suffered some terrible shock, or been under prolonged stress, I probably would have heard about it, either from you or from our mutual friends."
"Which leaves . . . ?"
She shook her head. "You certainly aren't schizophrenic, so there's no way you could have been given the combination drug-and-electrotherapy treatment, which could have caused--"
She stopped suddenly, looking alluringly startled, mouth open, eyes wide.
"What?" Luke said.
"I just remembered Joe Blow."
"Who's he?"
"Joseph Bellow. The name struck me because I thought it sounded made up."
"And?"
"He was admitted late yesterday, after I'd gone home. Then he was discharged in the night--which was real strange."
"What was wrong with him?"
"He was a schizophrenic." She paled. "Oh, shit."
Luke began to see what she was thinking. "So this patient . . ."
"Let's check his file."
She turned and ran back up the stairs. They hurried along the corridor and entered a room marked Records Office. There was no one inside. Billie turned on the light.
She opened a drawer marked "A--D," flipped through the file, and pulled out a folder. She read aloud: "White male, six foot one inch tall, one hundred and eighty pounds, thirty-seven years old."