by Lev Raphael
“With you? In New York? Impossible.” After some minutes she said, “Will you wait up for your uncle? I mean maybe you want to talk?”
“Tomorrow,” he said, feeling that there was lots of time.
They turned off all the lights except in the hall and took their bags upstairs to what had been Stefan’s room. They were both uneasy about making love in a strange place, and Marsha quickly fell asleep with one arm entwined in his.
Nothing had gone wrong, Stefan kept coming back to that; everyone seemed to like everyone else and nothing went wrong—it was a wonderful rich time. But there was something else that kept him from falling asleep and it wasn’t the house or the wind or the sounds of Mrs. Mannion and Sasha coming back from their walk and stirring around downstairs.
Marsha woke up, yawned and stroked his face in the dark. “What’s wrong? You don’t feel well?”
He couldn’t really see her face, which made it easier to say, “There was this guy, Louie, when I was in junior high.” He waited for a question that would keep him talking, but was surprised by the one she asked: “You were in love with him?”
“Maybe.” And then he sighed and said, “Probably. We had sex. I liked it. I liked it a lot.”
Marsha chuckled. “Well why not? Sex is great. I’ve slept with women. That’s one reason why Frank and I argued. I tried bringing it up with you before, when I mentioned that girl coming on to me. But you didn’t say anything, so I thought I should wait a little—”
“What’s it like for you?”
“It’s just different than men.” She hesitated. “It’s so strange, touching a woman like this,” she put Stefan’s hands on her breasts, and then between her legs, “And there—somehow it makes me feel that I’m more of a woman. I can’t explain it well.”
There was a dreamy softness in Marsha’s voice, as if she were a very old woman sitting on a back porch with her children, rocking, knitting, enjoying the sunshine, taking herself back to a time when she had been happy, whole, content.
“What do you think it means? Are we homosexuals?” He had never said the word before.
“I don’t have any idea, babe. Does it matter? And do we have to figure it out tonight?”
She lay back against him.
He was thinking of his one night here with Mrs. Mannion’s nephew Phil, and how letting Phil inside of him had felt just as overwhelming and right as entering Marsha the first time. Perhaps somewhere between those two experiences was complete truth. And maybe he didn’t have to tell all this to Sasha or Leo or his parents, not yet. Maybe it would be enough to start with Marsha, which, in a way, would be starting with himself.
“Let’s take a walk,” he said.
“What? Where?”
“Let’s go walk on the beach.”
“Now?” Marsha was sitting up, and he could see that she was smiling.
“I want to know what it feels like,” Stefan said.
Acknowledgments
Michael Denneny has been just the editor I needed: sensitive, encouraging, patient, good-humored, thoughtful, in tune, and his ideas about this book were very stimulating. Keith Kahla and Ray De Luca have made publishing with St. Martin’s even more enjoyable.
Kristin Lauer nursed and nurtured Winter Eyes from the very beginning, and over many rocky years. She always believed it would be published even when I didn’t, and consistently encouraged me not to give up. And here we are, almost twenty years after she started making her colorful predictions.…
This book would have been impossible without the love and support of my partner, Gersh Kaufman. It was as alive for him as for me, and besides offering many invaluable suggestions, he was always willing to help me talk out difficulties in the novel. He also gave important technical advice, proofread the manuscript, helped me over the rough spots, and was cool and resourceful in emergencies. Sharing the book with him was a great joy.
