Family Secrets

by Nancy Thayer

  Still, when the evening was finally over, Erich had invited her to the movies with him the next night, and had her parents’ permission to take her.

  They went to Loew’s Palace Theater to see a Betty Hutton movie, which might have been projected upside down and backward for all Jean knew. As the shadowy images moved on the screen, similar ghostly shapes flickered within her. After carefully helping her remove her coat and align it along the back of her seat, Erich did not let his hand linger against her back. He did not try to hold her hand during the long movie or even to rest his arm alongside hers. She was aware of his steady, gentle breathing; the calm rise and fall of his chest pulled her vision sideways. Every time she dared to glance at his profile, she saw a man engrossed in a movie, almost unaware that he had a companion. His long legs stretched down into the darkness parallel to hers but never touching. Yet he seemed to be purposefully infusing the air with his own special odor, an incense of attraction.

  After the movie Erich took her for a drink at the Metropolitan Club. It was the first time she’d been there without a member of her family, and as she sat sipping her martini at the small table Jean felt exquisitely sophisticated. She’d gotten drunk enough times by now at Radcliffe, and earlier, when she and Midge had experimented with liquor with ghastly results, to know that she could handle one drink, and perhaps two, without losing her dignity. But the combination of Erich’s proximity and gin was a heady mixture. There was so much she wanted to know about him, yet she found herself babbling on and on about herself. It was nerves. And excitement. And anticipation mingled with terror because the moment of losing her virginity seemed to her now to be very close.

  “What are they saying up in Boston about this war in Europe?” Erich asked.

  “I can’t speak for Boston, or even for Radcliffe, but I can tell you what I’m doing about it. I hate war, hate the very idea of war. I’m volunteering for a review called War Stories; its debut issue will come out this spring. April, we hope.” As she described the review, she watched carefully for his response. Her brother, her father, Al, would have exploded by now at what they would see as harebrained, treacherous idiocy, but Erich was listening with what appeared to be detached interest.

  Finally he said, “You’re very brave to become involved with such a publication.”

  “Well, thank you. I would like to think I am brave.”

  “If it’s any help, I agree with your goals. I hate the idea of war. And in my own way, I’m working toward peace.”

  “You are? How? What—?”

  Erich looked at his watch. “It’s complicated. And it’s gotten late. Let me tell you about it another time. I’d better get you home, or your father will worry.”

  This time it seemed to her that when Erich helped her into her raccoon coat his hands lingered on her shoulders in a firm, deliberate caress. His body stayed behind hers a significant few seconds too long, and a significant few inches too close for courtesy. Her face flushed. During the ride home, they spoke of casual, common, everyday things: he was leaving the next day to spend some time in New York with his family. He would be back around the twenty-ninth. Would she spend New Year’s Eve with him?

  Jean was glad for the chaos of Christmas. The family rituals, the visitors, the presents, the festive meals, all helped make the time pass toward the day of Erich’s return. Al had gone back to California to spend Christmas with his family, so Jean was relieved of the burden of dealing with him. She knew she was fond of Al, but every word she spoke and gesture she made toward him was weighted by her fear that she was giving him hope.

  In this house, so sturdy, safe, and warm, provided by her father, kept cozy by her mother, with her smiling family milling around her like animals in a child’s picture book of a perfectly happy home, Jean knew she was a furtive, deceptive, desperate creature. She was a fox in a bunny’s costume. Her mother pampered her; her father responded to her good-girl behavior with suspicious approval.

  On Christmas morning, they gave her a car.

  Jean stood out in the driveway surrounded by her family, weeping. They had hastily pulled coats over their nightgowns and robes in order to hurry outside to inspect the shining dark blue DeSoto sedan, then Jean slid inside, onto its rather scratchy gray seat, and put her hands on the wheel. She was overwhelmed with emotions: gratitude, guilt, and glee: this would be her getaway car.

  On New Year’s Eve there were parties all over Washington. Commander and Mrs. Marshall were invited to one set, Bobby and Betty to another, and Erich was taking Jean to yet another: a small private dinner at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Upton, then to various celebrations at ballrooms and clubs all over town. It was possible, Jean told her parents and brother, that they’d run into each other sometime during the evening.

  Secretly she hoped she wouldn’t encounter any of her family. But during the dinner party at the Uptons’ palatial home she thought her family might as well have been there, too. It was a terribly formal function. Erich was seated at the other end of the table. Jean was placed between two older men, one avuncular and jovial, the other ancient and slightly deaf, his cupped hand and inclined head requiring that she repeatedly shout his way. From time to time she looked down the long table to see Erich also deferring to his companions, two older women; once or twice he met her eyes and smiled, but generally the meal was much more work than fun.

  Afterward, the banking crowd went off in their separate cars to the New Year’s Eve ball at the Raleigh Hotel. For the first hour Jean and Erich were caught up and swept along in the festivities. Jean grew discouraged—all her beauty, all her readiness was going to waste! Midge Carlisle’s parents were at the ball with another crowd, and they came across the long room to meet Erich and chat with Jean. Jean had always liked them; but she was especially glad to see them now, because she knew they could verify to her parents exactly where she’d been—in the Raleigh Hotel doing the foxtrot with some fuddy-duddies.

  Still, as midnight drew near, anticipation flushed through her. When at last Erich asked her to dance, he drew her far into the middle of the crowd so that they were hidden from those he knew.

  “Having a good time?” Erich asked, smiling down at her.

  “Oh …” Jean said, caught. She wanted to be herself with this man, but she didn’t want to insult the people he worked with. “Well, everyone is very nice—”

  “Oh, Jean,” Erich said with a laugh. “I know they’re boring, darling, but this has to be done. It’s part of the job. You’re good to put up with them. I’m grateful. They think you’re enchanting, by the way.”

  He had called her “darling.” For a few moments that was all she could think of, that and the pressure of his hand on her back, the warmth of their hands together, their bodies moving together as they danced. She had to look down, away, in order to hide her eyes.

  He was leading her farther away from the group, out of the center of the dance floor. When the music ended, as others clapped, he pulled her gently along to the doorway. They escaped from the noisy ballroom into a long corridor, and in silence he led her down the hall, around the corner, to another doorway. He took a key from his pocket and opened the door.

  Inside was a very small, plush living room, opening onto a bedroom. He had brought her to a suite, Jean realized. He had a key to a private suite. Her heart drove blood thudding into her ears so quickly she thought she would faint.

  Erich didn’t stop to notice her reaction but quickly crossed the room and shoved open a window. A blast of cold winter air whisked into the room, bringing with it sounds of merriment from the street and strains of the music from the ballroom down the hall.

  “Here,” he said, beckoning.

  She noticed then that on the table by the window was a silver bucket with a champagne bottle in it, and two glasses.

  “I thought that after we paid our dues to the good folk out there we should have a private New Year’s celebration ourselves. Don’t look so alarmed. I have no intention of tossing you over my shoul
der and carrying you into the bedroom to ravish you. I wanted a private living room for the two of us, and all they could give me was this suite. Here. Have a glass of champagne.”

  “Thank you.” Jean took the glass of champagne. She sipped, and the bubbles tingled in her nose. She looked up through her eyelashes at Erich. He was studying her.

  She studied him back. He wasn’t anywhere nearly as handsome as Al; he wasn’t even as handsome as Bobby. His nose was crooked. He didn’t have that shining quality her brother and Al had; he didn’t seem so new. Bluish stains spread under his very dark eyes. Perhaps he was tired. He’d only just gotten back from New York.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “I think you’re older than you say you are.”

  He smiled. “Perhaps I am, in many ways. But I promise you, I’m twenty-four.”

  He let the silence last. Jean took a deep breath and bravely said, “What do you think?”

  “I think,” he said, “that it’s midnight.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. When he pulled back after only a few seconds, she was disappointed. That wasn’t much of a kiss! But he was only setting his glass on the table, then taking hers from her to put on the table, so that he could take her properly into his arms.

  During the next hour they gradually moved from the table to the sofa where they sat and finally lay in each other’s arms. She had never been so thoroughly kissed. She was glad she’d put perfume on her throat, behind her ears, at her elbows and wrists, for he kissed her there, returning to her mouth often, then kissing her closed eyes, her cheeks, her hair. They didn’t speak. She could not keep from murmuring, and sometimes, in spite of herself, she moaned. Without any hesitation he put his hand on her breast; through the layers of their clothing she felt his body pressing against hers. Terrified by her audacity, she put her hands under his tux jacket in order to touch his body directly through the one soft layer of shirt. The smooth wide muscles of his back sank into the hard bony furrow of backbone which she traced with her fingers from his neck to the waistline of his trousers. She wanted to move her hands on down and to press his hips harder against hers, but she wasn’t that brave.

  His hands and lips were in her hair, on her throat, on her mouth, on the naked skin swelling from the bodice of her evening gown. His hands were on her breasts, on her waist, but he did not move his hands lower. The long, entreating movements of his legs were muffled by all the material of her full skirt; still, she could feel Erich’s lower body between her legs.

  And then she felt the thrust of his hardness against her. Through layers of soft clothing came an insistent, gentle battering. She tightened her arms around his back and twisted her head to one side, hiding her face against the sofa seat, concentrating on this new sensation. Erich’s body arched and shoved, and Jean’s body replied, searching to keep the connection. Her underpants were wet, and their struggles made the silk of her slip slide against her inner thighs and against her crotch, causing small exquisite thrills, along with the deeper, blunter pleasure of Erich’s hardness pushing against her flesh.

  Erich supported his weight on one arm as he burrowed his face into her neck, kissing and biting lightly. She wanted to force him into her, and she ground against him with such strength it almost seemed she would in spite of all their clothing.

  “Oh,” she cried. “Oh, Erich. Please.”

  He let all his weight fall upon her. He took her face in his two hands and turned her mouth to meet his. His mouth crushed hers. His body crushed hers.

  Suddenly he pulled away from her. With a series of awkward, almost desperate movements, he pushed himself up and away until he ended up sitting at the far end of the sofa. A lock of dark hair had fallen down over his forehead, and he pushed it back. His chest was heaving. Jean, embarrassed and baffled, sat up, pulled herself together, and rearranged her disheveled clothing.

  “I’m sorry,” Erich said.

  “ ‘Sorry’!” Jean repeated, shocked. It was the last thing she’d expected him to say.

  “That was ungentlemanly of me. To force myself on you.”

  “It wasn’t—you weren’t—” She did not know how to respond. Certainly Al had never moved in on her with such ferocity, but she had never wanted him to. Al’s kisses, caresses, what few there had been, had been gentle—considerate.

  “We should rejoin the others,” Erich said, rising. “They’ll be wondering where we’ve gone. There’s a—powder room—through that door if you’d like to freshen up.”

  Jean collected her purse and went into the privacy of the hotel bathroom. Her face in the mirror dazzled her. She was radiant, flushed, glowing, beautiful. How could he resist her! What an odd man he was, what a mixture of impulse and restraint!

  By the time she came out of the bathroom, he had smoothed and straightened his clothing, and together in silence they left the hotel suite and walked down the hall to the ballroom door. The pulse of music struck Jean’s senses like a blow: so much noise and movement, laughter, light—an entire world was going on. They slipped back into place among the dancers. Erich held Jean just a slight bit away from him, so that their legs and chests did not touch. A glaze had come over Erich’s face, and his eyes were distant. It was almost as if he were angry with her—but why?

  They rejoined the banking crowd gathered around the tables. Many people had gone home. Jean looked at her watch and was startled to see that it was almost two o’clock. They had been together on the sofa for almost two hours! It had flashed by like an instant.

  “I should take you home now,” Erich said, coming around the table to stand next to her. “We don’t want your parents to worry.”

  “They may not be home yet from their own parties!” Jean protested.

  But Erich did not relent. He stood, smiling a somehow official smile, while she gathered up her purse and said polite good nights to the people around her. At the coat check he helped her into her fur with only the briefest of touches. He was silent as they walked through the lobby of the hotel and waited for the man to bring the car around.

  Chapter 6

  Julia

  Light began to seep through the opening in the motel room curtains about six Tuesday morning. Between half-closed eyes Julia watched the glow slide and brighten. She’d slept a little, mostly tossed and turned. Beside her, Sam still slept the sleep of the blessed, completely relaxed.

  Julia remembered a conversation she’d overheard once between her mother and Sam’s.

  “Sam is a remarkable boy,” Diane had observed. “He’s so calm, so happy.”

  “He always was that way,” P.J. had replied. “He was given to us when he was only a few months old, but even then he was happy. A serene baby, if you can imagine such a thing. It always seemed to us that Sam was glad just to be here on this earth.”

  Julia had wondered then, and still she wondered, how it might feel to be glad just to be here on this earth. At some moments in her life, she’d been happy, or high, triumphant, or giddy, but she’d never felt serenely happy just to be alive. As she grew older she found the business of living more and more frightening. She was just terrified of being here on this earth.

  She’d started this year, her senior year at Gressex, feeling as if she were on ice skates, headed on a downhill slope of glass. Time was pulling her along. She had no control over her life. Over the past year she’d looked at colleges with her mother or father or Chase, and now she had to start the backbreaking task of filling out college applications. She had a full schedule of courses. She had her assigned dorm room and her old boarding-school friends. Everything was familiar and routine—yet it all felt like a prison. Everyone expected her to plod along with the herd into college and through another four years of books, term papers, boring lectures, and grades—a life cut up and sliced off into black-and-white columns. Just thinking about it made her whole body feel weighted down, as if all the rules she was forced to live by were piled upon her.

  The only time
she wasn’t anxious was when she was with Sam. Every weekend after they became lovers, he drove up from Wesleyan—a short trip, just over an hour—to visit her. They’d go to a motel room, the same motel they were lying in now. They’d make love, go out to dinner or a movie, then return to make love again. Sam was so calm. Julia felt reassured by his presence. She didn’t tell him that she was having anxiety attacks until last weekend. When she did tell him, she meant it as a compliment; she was trying to please him.

  It hadn’t worked out that way.

  Last Sunday afternoon they’d gone over to walk around Walden Pond. The day was brilliant with sunshine, and the trees encircling the pond were shivering and dipping in the breeze, flashing out oranges, crimsons, and golds. The side of the pond nearest the road was crowded with tourists and families with children playing on the shore, so Sam took Julia’s hand and they followed the path through the grass and low brush until they came to a solitary spot far over on the opposite shore. They settled shoulder to shoulder, almost hidden by the tall grass, with their feet dangling over the bank just inches above the dark blue water.

  “I love being with you, Sam,” Julia said, sighing.

  “I love being with you.”

  “Sometimes when I’m not with you, I can’t breathe.”

  Sam was quiet, thinking. Then he asked, “What do you mean, you can’t breathe?”

  She could feel the tension in his body. “Don’t worry, Sam. It’s nothing. Sometimes I just can’t breathe, that’s all. Like a weight’s been placed on my chest. And my stomach. I can’t inhale—like this.” Julia pulled up her navy T-shirt to show how her diaphragm rose and fell as she took several long, deep breaths.