Queen of the Owls Page 7

  “Oh, pumpkin.” Elizabeth knelt and gathered her daughter close.

  “Mama.”

  She felt the warm, impossibly tender flesh against her own. A bad dream? Or an over-wrought toddler whose sleep cycle had gone haywire from napping too late in the afternoon?

  Elizabeth inhaled the purity of her daughter’s scent. “Do you need a special song? A sleepy-time song?” Katie nodded. “Well, then. That’s exactly what you shall have.”

  Pulling her shirt closed with one hand, she hoisted Katie with the other arm. She carried Katie down the hall, back to her own bed, singing softly. Just as Katie drifted back to sleep, Elizabeth heard Ben open the front door.

  Quickly, she fastened the shirt buttons, all the way to the collar. “Liz?” he called.

  She stepped out of the children’s room and closed the door. “I was putting Katie back down. Bad dream, I think.”

  “Ah. All okay now?” Before she could reply, he said, “I’m hopping in the shower. The hot water was on the fritz at the gym.”

  Elizabeth waited in the hall until she heard the click of the shower door and the steady stream of the water. Then she slipped back into their bedroom.

  The bathroom door was ajar, the sound of the shower spilling into the room. She pictured Ben soaping himself. He had a nice body, a body any woman might want next to hers. It was the body she had made up her mind to get, to have, when she met him. And she’d done it, she’d convinced him they would be good together. Elizabeth lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, remembering.

  She had seen right away that the match made sense. Their taste in movies and music, their views on government and ethics and the environment. It all fit, and it was time to get started on the life she envisioned. Maybe he didn’t burn for her, but he admired her—her intelligence, her principles, so much like his.

  Elizabeth remembered the moment when she knew she had won. They’d been at a party, in someone’s apartment. Somehow they had ended up in the kitchen, arguing. It was a tiny kitchen with white metal cabinets and grimy yellow tile. Ben was leaning against the sink, arms folded. He thought they should break up.

  “It’s just not there between us, Liz. I feel like we’re being dishonest. With ourselves, each other. With the world.”

  Elizabeth’s skin had turned cold. Oh no, you don’t, she’d thought. You don’t get to drop me like that. Her brain shifted into a hyper-alertness. She could out-think him.

  “It’s not dishonest if we’re open and truthful with each other. We’re not caught up in some Hollywood fantasy. We’re clean, real. That’s what matters.”

  Ben looked unsure. “What if that’s not enough?”

  “You mean, theoretically? If someone else comes along who you think would be better, just say so. But until then, it’s a lot of speculation.” She shrugged, feigning indifference. “I’ll take reality over speculation.”

  It had worked. He hadn’t found a way to contradict her, or maybe there wasn’t anyone better, or maybe they simply got used to each other. Eight months later they were married. Elizabeth was a beautiful bride; everyone said so. She wove real flowers into her hair and wore a vintage dress made of lace the color of palest tea. They read from Rilke and Khalil Gibran. A Baroque trio played in the background.

  After the ceremony they climbed into the waiting limos and headed to the reception. Swept inside the restaurant by her friends and relatives, Elizabeth laughed and lifted the lacy hem of her dress off the curb. Ben’s four-year old niece looked at her in awe. Feeling regal and happy, she held up her glass for the first toast. She turned to Ben with a radiant smile.

  He was holding the champagne glass in front of him, gazing at it thoughtfully. Elizabeth recognized the expression on Ben’s face; he was figuring out exactly the right thing to say. He raised his head and looked out at the crowd. Elizabeth looked too, because he was.

  Suddenly, fiercely, she wanted him to be looking at her, not at their guests. It was like a bell, calling to her from the distance: why wasn’t he looking at her? Today of all days, his eyes should be riveted on her, his bride.

  When he turned to her, finally, it was with a quiet nod. All right, then. A pact. Elizabeth’s breath seized in her chest. His words, uttered in that tiny kitchen months before, echoed in the banquet hall. What if that’s not enough?

  She had made it enough. Until now. A chorus of voices—Georgia’s, Richard’s, Phoebe’s—were whispering the same chant. Maybe it isn’t.

  Okay, Elizabeth told herself. You’re smart. If it’s not enough, do something about it.

  There was a metallic thunk as Ben flipped the shower head, and the sound of running water came to a halt. She straightened the bedspread, tugging at an edge that wasn’t even crooked, as he opened the bathroom door. Steam poured out, filling the bedroom like the fog in the ’Iao Valley.

  Ben was drying his hair with a lime green towel. Water beaded on his limbs, matting the hair on his chest and stomach and calves. Elizabeth watched as it dripped onto the tiled floor. He wasn’t a terrible man. He was a good father, conscientious and dependable. She had someone right there, if she wanted to take off her clothes and put her arms around a male body. Husbands and wives did that.

  She blinked. Her face was wet. Steam, or sweat, or tears.

  Ben wiped his chest. “This is the second time in a month the hot water’s been screwed up at the gym. It’s getting ridiculous.”

  Elizabeth watched the towel swipe up and down across his skin. She thought of the torsos the Greeks liked to sculpt, the nude photos of Georgia. The naked body wasn’t intrinsically erotic. It was the beholder’s gaze that made it so.

  The words formed in her mind. Look at me. Want me.

  A yearning swept over her. A wave cresting from its unbearable weight. An ache, exquisite and terrible, tipping her forward into an ocean of longing.

  She longed—no, she needed, the way lungs needed air—for Ben to look at her and whisper, “My god, you’re beautiful.” The way Michael looked at Andrea. The way Stieglitz looked at O’Keeffe.

  If only he would truly desire her, she was certain she would respond—a flower opening to the sun, the blades dropping away, scattering, to reveal the delicate inner core. A white crane, lifting its petaled wings.

  What did a woman need to do, or be, for a man to look at her that way?

  Elizabeth bit her lip. Try. A woman could try.

  Ben reached behind the door for his robe. “Did you happen to pick up my shirts?”

  It took Elizabeth a moment to understand what he was talking about. The cleaners. “No, sorry. It took forever to extract the kids from Lucy’s.” A half-truth. “I ironed the striped one for you, though. It was still clean.”

  You can buy next time. His fingers on her elbow. A slow meditative touch that could mean everything or nothing.

  Stupid. A fantasy, a useless distraction.

  Try. Ben was her husband, right there in front of her.

  He belted the robe and crossed in front of Elizabeth to the open closet. “Speaking of clothes.” He pulled a rectangular box from the top shelf. “I wanted to wait till the kids were asleep.”

  She frowned. “For what?”

  He handed her the box, his expression sheepish. “I picked this up yesterday. After the business with Andie, and how upset you got?” Slowly, Elizabeth took the box from him. There was no wrapping, no tape. The lid came off easily. Inside, beneath a flap of tissue, was a peach-colored negligee. Ben gave an awkward shrug. “I thought it might help you feel sexier.”

  Elizabeth stared at the silk. She couldn’t look at him, though she knew he was waiting for her to respond. And how was she supposed to respond?

  With gratitude? For taking the time to pick this out. For trying, finally.

  Or with shame, because they shouldn’t have to try so hard.

  Or with the fury that was shoving its way to the surface—a wild, blood-red rage at the way he was putting the onus on her. Tossing a Victoria’s Secret costume at her l
ike an assignment, instead of looking at himself and what he could do to make it better, what they could do together.

  She jerked away from the garment, tears filling her eyes. Why now, after ten years? Because she’d embarrassed him in front of Andrea and Michael?

  She didn’t want the negligee. She wanted to be a woman who would wear a negligee—because of who she was, already, not because I thought it might help you feel sexier.

  No. This was insane. Her husband had bought her a gift. Any woman would be happy if her husband gave her a negligee.

  Elizabeth bit back her tears, hoping Ben hadn’t seen. Then she traced the edge of the strap. It was thin, delicate, descending into a lace-trimmed V. She could stop analyzing its presence and put it on.

  “It’s pretty.” She could feel Ben waiting, hoping for more. She lifted the garment from the tissue. It weighed nothing at all. She tossed her head, the way Andrea might. “Doesn’t do any good for it to sit there in the box, does it?”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  She could hear the restraint in his voice, as if he didn’t want to appear too eager. It touched her, made her want to assure him that the gift had been a good idea, loving and brave.

  She stood, the peach-colored silk draped over her arm, and went to the bathroom to change. The air was still wet with steam. She unbuttoned her blouse for the second time that evening and pulled off her slacks. The negligee fell into place over her shoulders.

  Ben was waiting for her in bed, his bathrobe folded neatly on the back of the chair. Don’t think, Elizabeth told herself. Just go to him. Be Liz the Lovely. Liz the Minx.

  “Hey,” he said, propping his weight on an elbow. “It looks great on you.” He took her arm and pulled her onto the bed. “Or off you.”

  His arousal surprised her. Unless it was the middle-of-the-night pressure of flesh against flesh, they had to work at it. She’d learned to adapt, get what she needed, and then focus on him. He’d accepted that, followed the choreography with meticulous attention. Their lovemaking, like their marriage, was courteous and fair.

  Tonight, in contrast, Ben’s ardor was startling. It was the negligee, clearly. The prop was working. He slid his palm along her hip, and Elizabeth could feel his breathing sharpen. She ought to feel happy; it was what she wanted.

  And yet. She didn’t know what was missing, only that something was. The very thing she craved but had no words for.

  See me. Want me.

  Fingers on the skin just above her elbow.

  Georgia, her robe open, offering her breasts.

  Elizabeth felt herself begin to retreat, away from the present. She caught the movement, like catching a door with her heel. Again, she told herself: Try.

  She reached up to stroke her husband’s back, tracing the path of his vertebrae, down to the dip in his flesh. Ben shivered, pulled at the silk, and the negligee slipped to the floor.

  Then she thought: Wait. Let’s do something different. New little tricks in bed, like Andrea and Michael. She rolled across him, straddling his chest, drawing his hand between her legs where their bodies met. Like this. Not what we always do.

  Ben obliged her for few minutes, then turned her onto her back— gently, yet leaving no doubt that he preferred the pattern they could count on. Elizabeth’s heart sank but she forced herself to focus. He was hard; that was the main thing. If they failed, even with the negligee, it would be terrible.

  She gave a low murmur, ran her hands along his spine, the way he liked. She was playing a role now—better than usual, so that was something—but she couldn’t let him know. It would hurt his feelings, and she didn’t want to do that. He’d gone to a store and bought a peach-colored negligee; he deserved whatever return gift she could offer.

  Shutting her eyes, she let the sequence unfold. Unless she thought too much, the response was programmed into her nerves and skin. A certain rhythm that her nipple liked, a certain kind of touch. She knew what she had to do—deliberately, dependably—until her body surrendered to the orgasm that always left her feeling sad and alone.

  Ben gave the small moan that meant he could let go and take his turn. Elizabeth wanted to cry. Maybe he’d been right, all those years ago. It’s just not there between us. She wondered if he ever thought about it or, like her, simply kept going. Then she felt his spasm, her own relief. Two high achievers, succeeding at the task they had set themselves.

  The sorrow that filled her was too huge to contain. It poured over the sheets. Surely Ben could feel it.

  He was already drifting toward sleep. Elizabeth reached across his chest to the nightstand and turned off the light. After a few minutes she could feel the slow steady breathing that meant he had fallen asleep. Carefully, so she wouldn’t wake him, she rolled onto her side and touched herself between her legs. A light touch, hardly anything at all. Just enough to make the ache return.

  Today was Ben’s squash night. Tomorrow was Tai Chi.

  Seven

  Richard seemed to take it for granted that they would have coffee again, after Tai Chi. He waited for her by the elevator, falling into step beside her as they exited on the ground floor, then steering her away from the others with the barest touch on the small of her back. Elizabeth gave him an oblique look, and he smiled. “You have time for another Americano? You’re buying, as I recall.”

  “I’m buying.”

  The words came easily, surprising her with their lightness. A sliver of caution slid into her pleasure, but she pushed it aside. She had a right to have coffee if she wanted.

  The little café was closed. “Family emergency,” the sign said. “Back on Friday.”

  “Ah well,” she said, trying not to let Richard see her disappointment. “Too bad.” She began to move away, ready to return to the bus stop.

  “We don’t have to give up so easily, do we? Come, let’s walk.”

  Startled, she said, “Oh.” Well, why not?

  He steered her again, another quick touch, as they turned from the closed café and made their way along the darkening street.

  They were taking a walk, that was all. People took walks all the time.

  Richard slowed his pace. Around them, the dusk darkened to a silvery-blue. “You know, I looked at Stieglitz’s photos of O’Keeffe,” he told her. “You got me interested in what you said, about how he wanted to record the whole of a person—O’Keeffe, that is—by accumulating fragments, moments, parts of her.”

  “You did?” Elizabeth stopped and faced him. It was his eyes that made him seem so handsome, she decided. They were grey, deep set, framed by dark brows. They were fixed on her now, intent, looking straight through her skin.

  “I did.” He smiled again, a private look that made her pulse jump. “Stieglitz called his exhibit A Demonstration of Portraiture, though you probably knew that.”

  “Yes. I did know.”

  Richard nodded, and they resumed walking. “Stieglitz had this idea that he could show everything about one specific person. Every side of her, from those photos where she’s staring straight at the camera—you know, deadpan, in that awful hat—to those gorgeously voluptuous close-ups. It excited him, as a photographer, because it was a whole new way of thinking about a portrait. Of course, he was crazy about her, but he was crazy about his own breakthrough too, as an artist.”

  “Some people said it was the same thing.”

  Richard laughed. “It’s true. He couldn’t have taken those photos of just anyone. They were uniquely her, O’Keeffe, because he never got tired of trying to see her, and to capture what he saw. That’s the essence of portraiture, isn’t it? The effort to see someone, and to convey what you see.” He flashed another smile, light and disarming. “Of course, Stieglitz was a modernist, so he was interested in form. From that point of view, the photos were impersonal, abstract, universal.” He inclined his head, as if surrendering to the paradox. “So you’ve given me a puzzle to solve.”

  “Maybe it was both.”

  “Ah. Good answe
r.”

  He guided her across the street. Behind them, the light changed from yellow to red. The evening wrapped around them like a shawl.

  “I think it was Stieglitz’s genius, as a photographer,” Elizabeth said. “But it was O’Keeffe’s genius too, as a model. To be able to include both. Be both.”

  “That’s why the photos are so extraordinary.” Richard’s steps were even, unhurried. “O’Keeffe holds her breasts and looks right at the viewer, daring us to understand. Denying and heightening the eroticism at the same time. De-personalizing the image, and claiming it. Both, like you said.”

  Elizabeth was grateful that they were walking side-by-side instead of facing each other across the marble table. That would have been too much to bear.

  Images swirled in her mind. Georgia, grave and introspective, arms raised, the dark mass of hair in the open armpits. Georgia, holding a breast. Herself, reflected in the bedroom mirror as she unbuttoned her blouse.

  She began to talk. If she kept talking, the dangerous swell of feeling would recede.

  “That was how Stieglitz saw her, you know. On the one hand, as this pure, ascetic, moral ideal. He talked about what he called her whiteness, a kind of lucidity and integrity that set her above everyone else, including him. And on the other hand, as the sensuous, uninhibited essence of womanhood. You can see it in O’Keeffe’s own paintings too, those contradictory sides.”

  This time it was Richard who stopped walking. “Is that why you picked her?”

  “I was talking about Stieglitz.”

  “And I was talking about you.”

  “You’re the one who brought up the photos.” Elizabeth’s heart began to race. “You’re the photographer. I’m just focusing on Hawaii. That was years later.”

  Richard lifted a shoulder. “Well, I’m no professor but it seems to me that you can’t yank a group of paintings out of the middle of someone’s life, out of the whole body of their work.”

  “That’s what my adviser said.”

  “Wise man.”