Page 105 of The New Couple in 5B

I turn it in the lock and a thrill moves through me as the door opens. It’s like a little gift from Ivan. I wonder why he had a key to this room.

I hesitate and then head inside with Sarah at my heels.

thirty-three

Willa

1963

Since the funeral, things have been strained between Paul and me. He’s started drinking, a thing he rarely does, and it makes him surly, cruel. I haven’t asked him what Ella told him at the burial. I am too afraid.

If she’s told him what Miles saw, or something she has seen, he hasn’t confronted me. And I won’t force that confrontation. I won’t lie to him if he asks me. If I have to tell him the truth, I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me. So maybe we’re at a standoff—where he doesn’t want to ask, and I hope to never have to tell him what an unfaithful wife I’ve been. Still, it’s as if we’re both breathing the same toxic air, getting sicker and sicker.

Miles is dead. Ella and Charles look like ghosts in their grief, pale and fragile. Whatever tentative friendship existed between our families has perished.

I’ve had my first doctor’s visit, where Paul sat stone-faced and grim the whole time. The doctor says I’m healthy and well and we should expect our first child to be the same.

“Let’s see a smile, kids,” the doctor said when we were both silent. Dr. Jackson is older, warm and comforting the way a physician should be. “Trust me, this is the good stuff. A baby will enrich your lives in a thousand ways.”

I chattered nervously all the way home and Paul barely said a word.

Now Paul is working, still in the room that will be the baby’s nursery until we find a house. I slip downstairs to do the laundry, sit with my book as the washerswish, swish, swishes. I’m so engrossed inThe Groupby Mary McCarthy that I startle when someone clears his throat.

My heart leaps when I lift my eyes. I can’t help it, even though Paul is just a few flights away. I run to him, my love. He takes me in his strong arms, lifts and spins me and holds me tight.

Paul hasn’t touched me since before Miles’s burial, and I’ve been so terribly lonely in my skin. We don’t go out, and I’ve promised myself to be good. So I’ve been the dutiful wife and helpmate—proofreading and making some of his calls, mailing his letters. But I’d be lying if it didn’t feel like part of me has been dying inside. At night I dream of dancing on stage, my body light, moving effortlessly and joyfully, the music entering through my pores and pulsing through my blood.

And then I wake in the mornings and even though I can feel the life growing inside me and I’m so happy for that, part of me is lost. Despair tugs at my heart with dark fingers. Is this it? Is this all? Wasn’t there meant to be bright lights and dancing, music and laughter, endless joyful parties, passion?

His strong arms, his kiss deep and passionate, his hunger, speaking to every hunger in me.

“Is it mine?” he whispers, taking me against one of the storage cages. “The baby. Is it mine?”

“No,” I say emphatically.

“Are you sure?”

His gaze is so deep and true.

“No,” I admit. “I’m not sure.”

His lips on my neck, his strong arm around my waist. My whole body aches for him. We’re tearing at our clothes then. He unzips his pants, and he enters me under my skirt. Oh, God, the joy, the pleasure.

“I can’t live without you, Willa,” he says, his voice taut with desire. “Leave him. He can’t make you happy. You’ll die living the quiet life he wants from you.”

I’m lost in the pleasure as the washer keeps swishing.

“Oh, my love, my love,” he whispers. The smell of him, the heat of him. I’m such a wicked girl and I’ve never felt better. I press my mouth against his shoulder as we climax powerfully, keeping silent as best we can.

A sound. A slamming door. I startle, nearly shriek. Oh, what are we doing? Shamefully, we pull ourselves together. He zips his pants and I smooth my skirt. Is someone here?

But when he goes around the corner to look, he shakes his head.

“No, no,” he says. “There’s no one. There are always strange sounds in this basement.”

“This—” I say, shame burning at my cheeks “—can’t happen again.”

How weak it sounds, even to my own ears, a promise broken again and again.

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