Time Enough for Love

by Robert A. Heinlein

  He did so.

  When they were quiet, she sighed happily and said, lips against his ear, arms and legs around him: “Theodore, even in this you are so much like my husband that I can barely wait till the war is over to tell him all about you.”

  “You’ve decided to tell him?”

  “Beloved Theodore, there was never a doubt that I would. I softened some of what I told you tonight and left out a little. Brian does not require me to confess. But it does not upset him; we settled that fifteen years ago. He convinced me that he really does trust my judgment and my taste.” Very softly but merrily she giggled against his ear. “It’s a shame that I so seldom have anything to confess; he enjoys hearing my adventures. He has me tell him about them over and over—like rereading a favorite book. I wish I could tell him this one tomorrow night. But I won’t, I’ll save it.”

  “He’s coming home tomorrow?”

  “Late. Quite late. Which is just as well, as I don’t expect to get any sleep once he arrives.” She chuckled softly. “He told me on the telephone to ‘b. i. b. a. w. y. l. o.’ and he would ‘w. y. t. b. w.’ That means: Be in bed asleep with my legs open and he will wake me the best way. But I just pretend to be asleep as I wake up no matter how quietly he tiptoes in.”

  She gave a tiny giggle. “Then we have a happy little game. As he enters me, I pretend to wake up and call him by name—but never his name. I moan, ‘Oh, Albert, darling, I thought you would never come!’ or some such. Then it’s his turn. He says something like, ‘This is Buffalo Bill, Mrs. O’Malley. Hush up and get busy!’ Then I hush up and do the best I know how, not another word until we both explode.”

  “Your best is superb, Mrs. O’Malley. Or was that your best?”

  “I tried to make it my best—Buffalo Bill. But I was so dreadfully excited that I got all blurry so it probably was not. I’d like a chance to do better. Are you going to give me one?”

  “Only if you promise not to do better. Darling, if that was not your best, then your best would kill me.”

  “You not only talk like my husband and feel like him—especially here—but you even smell like him.”

  “You smell like Tamara.”

  “Do I really? Do I make love like her?”

  (Tamara knows a thousand ways, darling, but rarely uses anything unusual—lovemaking is not technique, dear, it’s an attitude. Wanting to make someone happy, which you do. But you startled me with your command of technique; you would fetch a high price on Iskander.)

  “You do. But that’s not what makes you so much like her. Uh, it’s your attitude. Tamara knows what is going on in another person’s mind and gives him exactly what he needs. Wants to give it.”

  “She’s a mindreader? Then I’m not like her, after all.”

  “No, she’s not a mindreader. But she feels a person’s emotions and knows what he needs and gives him that. It might not be sex. Aren’t there times when Brian needs something else?”

  “Oh, certainly. If he’s tired and tense, I hold off and rub his back or head. Or cuddle with him. Maybe encourage him to nap, and then perhaps he really will wake me ‘the best way.’ I don’t try to eat him alive. Unless that’s what he wants.”

  “Tamara all over again. Maureen, when Tamara was healing me, at first she didn’t even share a bed with me. Just slept in the same room and ate with me and listened if I felt like talking. Then for ten days or so she did sleep with me, but we just slept . . and I slept soundly and had no nightmares. Then one night I woke up, and without a word Tamara took me into her, and we made love the rest of that night. And next morning I knew I was well—soul-sickness all gone.

  “You are that way, Maureen. You know, and you do. I’ve been very homesick and much troubled by this war. Now I’m not, you’ve cured it. Tell me, what did you feel from me the first night I was in this house?”

  “Loved you at first sight, like a silly schoolgirl. Wanted to take you to bed. I told you so.”

  “Not how you felt—how did I feel?”

  “Oh. You had an erection over me.”

  “Yes, I did. But I thought I had concealed it. You noticed?”

  “Oh, I didn’t see a bulge in your trousers or anything like that. Theodore, I never look down that far; men become embarrassed so easily. I simply knew you felt as I did—and I felt like a she dog in heat. Bitch in heat, I mean—I don’t intend to be prim in bed. The instant you met my eyes—standing, out in the front hall—I knew we needed each other and I grew terribly excited . . and rushed out into the kitchen to get myself under control.”

  “You didn’t rush, you moved with smooth grace, like a ship under sail.”

  “That ship was sailing fast; I was rushing. I got myself under control but not less excited. More. My breasts ached and my nipples hurt, all the time you were here. But that doesn’t show. It would not have mattered had Father noticed my excitement except that he would not have invited you back—and I wanted you to come back. Father knows what I am; he told me so when he was helping me. He told me to face up to what I am and be happy with it—but that I must learn never to let my ruttiness show, things being the way they are. I’ve tried—but that night it was very hard not to show it.”

  “You succeeded.”

  “Brian tells me that I don’t show it. But that night was so difficult. I—Theodore, there is something boys do—and sometimes men—when they’re terribly frustrated. With their hands.”

  “Certainly. Masturbation. Boys call it ‘jacking off.’ ”

  “So Brian says. But perhaps you don’t know that girls—and women—can do something like it?”

  “I do know. For a lonely person of either sex, it’s a harmless but inadequate substitute.”

  “‘Harmless but inadequate—’ Quite inadequate. But I’m glad you think it’s harmless. Because I went upstairs and took a bath—I needed one although I had bathed before supper. And did it, in the tub. And went to bed and stared at the ceiling. Then got up and locked the door and took off my nightgown—and did it and did it and did it! Thinking about you, Theodore, every instant. Your voice, how you smelled, the touch of your hand on mine. But it took at least an hour before I was relaxed enough to sleep.”

  (It took me even longer, dear, and I should have used your direct therapy. But I was punishing myself for being a fool. Off my trolley, dearest one, as I know it is never foolish to love. But I didn’t see how we could ever show our love.) “I wish I could have been there, darling—because a mile or two away I was aching with it—thinking of you.”

  “Theodore, I hoped you felt that way. I needed you so and hoped that you needed me just as much. But the best I could do was lock my door and do that and think about you, with nobody around but Ethel in her crib and her too young to notice. Oops! I lost you. Oh, dear!”

  “You haven’t lost me, just that wee bit of proud flesh. Which will recover soon; you promised me a second chance. Change position? Shoulder pillow? Left, or right? I shouldn’t have kept my weight on you so long, but I didn’t want tc move.”

  “I didn’t want you to move as long as I could keep even a little of you in me. You aren’t too heavy; my hips are broad, and you let a woman breathe, sir. Put me on either side, whichever you prefer.”

  “Like this?”

  “That’s comfy. Oh, Theodore, this doesn’t feel like our first time; I feel as if I had loved you forever and you had come back to me at last.”

  (Let’s get away from that subject, Mama Maureen.) “I’ll go on loving you forever, my darling.”

  (Omitted)

  “—told her bluntly that he would not marry her if she made any fuss over his joining the Army when he didn’t have to.”

  “What did Nancy tell him?”

  “She told him that she had been waiting to hear that, so now get her pregnant at once so they could have a few days’ honeymoon before he joined up. Nancy feels as strongly about warriors as her mother does. She came into my bedroom that night and told me what she had done, slightly teary but no
t worried over having jumped the gun.

  “So we cried happy tears, and I cleared the matter with Brian and the Weatherals, and Nancy missed her next period —this was a month ago—and the wedding may be day after tomorrow or perhaps the day after that.”

  (Omitted)

  “Darling, I wish I could see you.”

  “Oh, dear! I’d rather not turn on the Mazda lamp, Theodore. These blinds are not so tight but what light would shine out, as well as light under the door if by any chance Father came downstairs.”

  “Maureen, I will never ask you to take any chance you don’t like. I see you quite well with my fingertips—and these are not broken down.”

  “They flow off my ribs like melted marshmallows. Theodore, when you open that package, please be very careful that no one is around; there is more in it than a pair of garters.”

  “I did open it.”

  “Then you know what I look like.”

  “Was that beautiful girl you?”

  “Tease. Brian had me look straight at his camera.”

  “But, darling, while you don’t look down that far, men don’t tend to look up very far. Especially me. Not when I’m looking at a photograph of a perfectly gorgeous nude model.”

  “‘Nude model,’ my best Sunday hat!”

  “Maureen, it is the loveliest picture I have ever owned and I will cherish it always.”

  “That’s better and I don’t believe it and I love hearing it. Did you open the paper folded in with it?”

  “The baby curl? Did you clip it off Mane?”

  “Theodore, I do not mind being teased; it just makes you more like Brian. But if he teases too much, I bite him. Anywhere. Here, for example.”

  “Hey, not so hard!”

  “Then tell me where that curl came from.”

  “It came from your pretty, my pretty one, and I’ll wear it over my heart forever. But one reason I wanted to look at you is that you clipped so generous a lock that I worried that Brian might notice something missing—and ask why.”

  “I can tell him I gave it to the iceman.”

  “He won’t believe that and will be sure that you have a new adventure to confess.”

  “Then he won’t press me to tell him now; he’ll change the subject. Although I wish I could tell him now; I keep thinking about both of you, outdoors in daylight; that was the fantasy that kept me awake. Sweetheart, there is a candle on the dresser—electricity not being as dependable as the gas lights we used to have. It wouldn’t throw enough light to worry me. You may look at me by candlelight all you wish and as you wish.”

  “Yes, darling! Matches where?”

  “Let me go and I’ll get up and light it; I can find both in the dark. Will I be allowed to look at you, too?”

  “Sure. For contrast. ‘Beauty and the Beast.’”

  She giggled and kissed his ear. “Goat, maybe. Or a stallion. Theodore, I needed to be baby-stretched to accept you.”

  “I thought you said I felt like Brian?”

  “But he is a stallion, too. Let me go.”

  “Pay toll.”

  “Oh, goodness, darling, don’t do that now! Or I’ll be so shaky I won’t be able to strike a match.”

  Standing and by the light on one candle, they studied each other. Lazarus felt his breath grow short at the dazzling glory of her. For most of two years he had been deprived of the sweet joy of seeing a woman, and had not realized how starved he had been for that great privilege. Darling, can you guess how much this means to me? Mama Maureen, has no one ever told you how much more sweetly beautiful a fullblown woman is than a maiden? Certainly your lovely breasts have held milk; that’s what they’re for. Why would I want them to look like marble?—I don’t!

  She studied him just as closely, her face solemn, her nipples crinkled tightly. Theodore-Lazarus my strange love, will you guess that I suggested candlelight so that I could see you? A woman is not supposed to get hungry for such things—but I miss the sight, the naked sight, of my husband . . and how in the Name of Satan and all His Fallen Thrones I can last even till November without even seeing a man I do not know. Alma Bixby told me that she had never seen her husband without clothes. How can a woman live like that? Five children by a man she’s never seen all over—Shocked her when I said that of course I had seen my husband naked!

  Theodore-Lazarus, you don’t look like my Briney Boy; your coloration is more like mine. But, oh, how you feel like him, smell like him, talk like him, love like him! Your pretty thing is coming up high again. Briney beloved, I’m going to have him once more, as hard as possible!—and I’ll tell you about it tomorrow night if you’ll just ask me for a new bedtime story . . or if I must, I’ll save it for you till you get back. You’re as strange a man as he is . . and just the wise and tolerant husband your bawdy wife needs. Then, cross my heart, dearest, I’ll try my best to keep from it until you come back from Over There—but if I can’t, even with Father and eight children to guard me, I promise you solemnly that I will never bed with anyone but a warrior, a man to be proud of in every way. Such as this strange man.

  Lazarus, my love, are you really my descendant? I do believe that you know when the war will be over and that my Briney will come safely back to me. Why, I am not sure—but since you told me, I have been free from worry for the first time in many a lonely moon. I hope the rest is true, too; I want to believe in Tamara, and that she is descended from me. But I don’t want you to go away in only eight years!

  That innocent little picture—If I had not feared shocking you, I would have given you some real “French postcards” Briney has taken of me. Will you be upset if I take a closer look? I’ll chance it.

  Mrs. Smith suddenly dropped to one knee, looked closely, then touched him. She looked up. “Now?”

  “Yes!” He picked her up, placed her on the bed. Almost solemnly she helped him, then caught her breath as they joined. ”Hard, Theodore! This time don’t be gentle!”

  “Yes, my beautiful one!”

  When their happy violence was over, she lay quiet in his arms, not talking, communing through touch and the light of one candle.

  At last she said, “I must go, Theodore. No, don’t get up, just let me slide out.” She got up, picked up her wrap, blew out the candle, came back, leaned down and kissed him. “Thank you, Theodore—for everything. But—come back to me, come back to me!”

  “I will, I will!”

  Quickly and silently she was gone.

  I

  Somewhere in France

  Dear All my Family,

  I am writing this in my pocket diary where it will stay until this war is over—not that it matters; you’ll get it just as soon. But I can’t send a sealed letter now, much less one sealed into five envelopes. Something called “censorship”—which means that every letter is opened and read and anything that might interest the Boche is cut out. Such as dates and places and designations of military units and probably what I had for breakfast. (Beans and boiled pork and fried potatoes, with coffee that would dissolve a spoon.)

  You see, I had this lovely ocean voyage as a guest of Uncle Sam and am now in the land of fine wines and beautiful women. (The wine has been vin extremely ordinaire, and they seem to be hiding the beautiful women. The best-looking one I’ve seen had a slight mustache and very hairy legs, which I could have ignored had I not made the mistake of standing downwind. Darlings, I am not sure the French take baths, at least in wartime. But I’m in no position to criticize, a bath is a luxury. Today, given a choice between a beautiful woman and a hot bath, I’d pick the bath—otherwise she wouldn’t touch me.)

  Don’t worry that I am now in a “war zone.” That you’ve received this is proof that the war is over and I am okay. But it’s easier to write a letter than it is to put trivia into a diary every day. “War zone” is an exaggeration; this is “fixed warfare”—meaning both sides are in the same fix: pinned down—and I am too far behind the lines to get hurt.

  I am in charge of a unit called a �
��squad”—eight men —me and five other riflemen, plus an automatic rifleman (the rifle, not the man; this war has no robot fighters) and an eighth man who carries ammunition for the automatic rifleman. It’s a corporal’s job, and that’s what I am; the promotion to sergeant I was expecting (in my last letter as dated from the United States) got lost in the shuffle when I was transferred to another outfit.

  Being a corporal suits me. It is the first time I’ve had men permanently assigned to me, time enough to get acquainted with each one, learn his strong points and weak ones, and how to handle him. They are a fine bunch of men. Only one is a problem, and it’s not his fault; it results from the prejudices of the time. His name is F. X. Dinkowski, and he is simultaneously the only Catholic and the only Jew in my squad—and, twins, if you’ve never heard of either one, ask Athene. By ancestry he comes from one religion, then he was brought up in another—and he has had the tough luck to be placed with country boys who have still a third religion and are not very tolerant.

  Plus the additional misfortunes of being a city boy and having a voice that grates (even on me) and is clumsy, and when they pick on him (they do if I’m not right there), it makes him more clumsy. Truthfully he’s not soldier material—but I wasn’t asked. So he’s the ammunition carrier, the best I can do to balance my squad.

  They call him “Dinky,” which is only mildly disparaging, but he hates it. (I use his full last name—I do with all of them. For ritualistic reasons having to do with the mystique of military organizations at this here-&-now it is best to call a man by his family name.)

  But let’s leave the finest squad in the AEF and bring you up to date on my first family and your ancestors. Just before Uncle Sam sent me on that pleasure cruise, I was given a vacation. I spent it with the Brian Smith family and lived in their house, as they have “adopted” me for the rest of this war, me being an “orphan.”