Sleeping in Flame

I got off the other train in the afternoon. I needed only three hours to do what was necessary. The only real problem was finding the place.

On the train back to Vie

It is summer in East Hampton, Long Island. Victoria Marshall's parents own a house there by the ocean and invited me down for the weekend. That evening we'd gone to a play at the John Drew Theatre. It was boring, but the interesting part of the two hours was Victoria's hand on my thigh. It wasn't like her. At college we'd spent months rolling around on my narrow bed, touching and pushing clothes aside, getting too hot and too frustrated for our own good. She wants to be a virgin when she gets married, but she also loves me and doesn't know what to do. She wants us to sleep together, but she also wants to keep her promise to herself. I love her but she is begi

Her hand rubbing my thigh in the theatre, inches away from the eyes of her High Episcopalian parents, tells me something is very different tonight. Is this it? Is she saying yes?

The parents know their daughter and don't worry that anything untoward might happen if they're not around to keep an eye on my shenanigans. They have one drink with us after the show and go off upstairs to their bedroom.

Victoria and I are sitting on the couch. I have a drink in my hand but things have gotten so heated in me that the ice has melted. She waits until the toilet flushes twice up there and the familiar sounds of people getting into bed are over before she turns to me, her eyes full of smoke and promises. She says nothing, but when she reaches over to touch me, I almost pull back because the moment has really come and I can't believe it. Not only does she touch me, but pulls me to the floor with her.

She whispers, "Do you have something with you?"

"Yes."

"All right." She begins to take off her clothes. Me too. When we're naked I remember at the last minute to take it out of my wallet. Hands trembling, I tear it open but leave it in its wrapper. I am afraid the floor will squeak and tell on us, but it is a silent conspirator.

We kiss and touch and everything is hot. Plus, everything is not just this, it is leading up to the moment I've been waiting for almost a year. I touch her between her legs and she is wetter than I've ever felt. This is unbelievable. Moving away, I reach for the rubber. It comes gliding out of its envelope and expands into a circle in my hand. I have no trouble putting it on. Turning to her, she is more beautiful than ever. I rise up and gently part her legs. They move open quickly, and already she is moving her head from side to side.

I can't get in. I move and use my hands and she does what she can, but it is no use. I simply can't get in. Her eyes are wide open now and they say something I can't hear. Is she afraid? Have I scared her into thinking she is too small and will be this way forever? Is it disgust? How could I be so bumbling and inept? How could I do this to her?

We try more and more until my penis gives up any hope and says good night. We lie on our sides, fingertips still touching, but we are lost. What now?

I see all this, but it's nothing new. I was there and remember too well that embarrassing night. What is different is something else I see with my new eyes. Something outside the house, sitting on top of the Marshalls' Cape Cod roof.

He has been up there the whole time, watching. Squatting like a Fuseli creature, his hand over his mouth, he's laughing and snickering, trying to keep quiet so that no one inside will know something is up on the roof listening to the hopeless silence of two nineteen-year-olds.

I called him on the phone.

"How'd you get my number?"

"I'd like you to come to di

"When? Where'd you get this number?"

"Can you come tonight?"

He was silent, suspicious, but there was nothing he could do anymore. I knew that, but he didn't.

"Tonight? Why tonight?"

"I have to talk to you."

I convinced him. We'd have his favorite meal, done the way he liked it. I told him I'd had a dream and remembered how to cook it. I even called him Papa once and that must have done it. He agreed. Seven o'clock.

I called Maris and told her I'd be home a day early. Then I went shopping.

They wanted to help, but I said they were my guests and I wouldn't hear of it.

At the market I bought Tafelspitz, Kren, applesauce, the makings for tartar sauce. Two bottles of good red wine from Styria. An old menu but one all of them would feel comfortable eating. If we ever got around to eating. No matter what happened, I didn't think it was going to be a long evening.

They loved television; couldn't get over it. They watched a documentary about famine in Africa, a Bud Spencer film, a choral group from the Vorarlberg that sang some songs they knew. That made them especially happy.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in the kitchen. Maris was such a good cook that I hadn't whipped up a big meal for a long time. I enjoyed the hours putting the pieces together.

I was done at six and went in to take a shower. This was going to be a big evening and I wanted to look right for it.

At six-thirty they insisted on setting the table. I let them because I think they were so embarrassed that I'd cooked the meal.

The bell rang promptly at seven. I walked down the hall, accompanied as always by Orlando. He walked faster now that he could see, but his sweet personality was still the same.

When I opened the door I only saw a big bouquet of flowers wrapped in shiny plastic paper. Tilting his head to one side, he peeked out from behind them and said, "I brought you some flowers. You used to like roses."

I smiled and took them. "I still do. That's nice, Papa. Come in."

I let him pass me and gestured toward the living room. "Di

He went forward a few steps, but then Orlando began weaving his way in and out between his feet, almost tripping him. "Get out of here! I hate cats!" He put his hand out, fingers spread. Orlando fell over, dead in an instant.

I put my hand out, fingers spread, and the cat opened his eyes again.

The old man stopped, back to me, and didn't move.

"Your name is Breath, Papa. Come on, di

He walked slowly forward. What else could he do?

At the door to the living room he saw the two women sitting on the couch. Both had their hands folded carefully in their laps over the wide spread of their silk dresses. For two such plain-looking women, in that moment with their faces lit expectantly, they were quite lovely.

"Papa, I'd like to introduce you to the Wild Sisters. Dortchen and Lisette."

For the first time he turned and looked at me. "What is this?"

"You're all my guests for di

"What the fuck is this, Walter? Who are they?"

"You don't know?"

"I wouldn't ask if I knew!"

I turned to the women. "Please excuse my father, ladies. He must be tired."

He grabbed my jacket and pulled me to him. "What are you doing, Walter? What's going on?" There was no fear in his face, only distrust and malice.

Did I feel any pity for what I was about to do? Pity for the man who'd once upon a time raised me like a son and taught me everything he knew? Taught me everything I knew once again now?

I laughed in his face. "Do you want to eat first, or should the ladies begin?"

He said nothing, only continued glaring at me, holding my jacket.

"I think we should start with the story," Lisette said in her small, cultured voice. "A good story always enhances the appetite."