Early Warning

“Well, darling, I might as well have been a detached head, I was so cerebral. Don’t you remember the girl I told you about, the one in my class who only realized she was preggers when the infant dropped preparatory to delivery? I mean, she said afterwards that she wondered what that strange sensation was, the kicking, don’t you know, but it never occurred to her to ask anyone.” He helped himself to another strawberry, sucked it between his lips, and pulled out the hull. Henry took the opportunity to smooth the hair back from Philip’s very lovely forehead. “All the other graduate students said, well, only in America, so I didn’t tell them about the time I went swimming and emerged with a leech attached to my bum and never noticed it until it swelled and dropped at my feet while I was chatting up two girls from Sydney.” For Philip was born not in England but in Australia — Brisbane to be exact — though never once had Henry caught him out, pronunciation-wise. He did it like an actor — BBC most of the time, yes, but he would also do Johannesburg, New Orleans, Minnesota (which made Henry laugh), and Parisian-homme-speaking-broken-anglais, which came in handy for his literary-critical studies.

And then the door opened, and here they were, stark naked on the couch in the middle of the afternoon, and as soon as he saw Claire, Henry remembered that she’d told him she and Paul were coming for the weekend, a getaway, and he had sent her a key in case he was at school. But that was three weeks ago; it had slipped his mind completely. Claire looked at Philip, then at Henry. Her hand was still on the doorknob, and Henry thought for a moment that she would back out the door and disappear, but she said, “Yoohoo! We’re here! Did you remember?” And behind her was Paul — and even though he had on a beautiful Harris-tweed sport jacket, he was so stiff and pale that he might as well have been wearing his white coat. Philip said, “I say, you must be Claire. What a spiffing frock, darling. The color is perfect for you. I’m Philip. We’re almost finished with the strawberries, but the best ones are left.”

Henry got up, went to his room, and returned with his jeans and Philip’s khakis. Claire was on the phone. Philip made a gesture to him to keep silent as Claire was saying, “Yes, Sarah. We got here just fine. I left the snacks in the refrigerator. Did you find them? And no TV until after they eat supper. We are so looking forward to the play. Yes. Kiss the boys for us, and thanks so much for helping us take the weekend.” Paul held out his hand for the phone, but Henry saw that she turned away, as if not noticing. In the quiet after she hung up, Paul stepped up to Philip and said, “I’m Paul Darnell.”

—

CLAIRE WHISPERED, “I don’t think my mother knows that such a thing exists.”

“They’re very open about it.”

“Henry always acted like he’s never found the right girl.”

“Your mother told me that no one is boring enough.”

“How wrong she is,” said Claire.

It was only about nine o’clock; the ceiling of the bedroom was still flowing with light, like the surface of a pond. Paul shifted her head on his shoulder, and she said, “I feel like my whole life is being readjusted.”

“He’s thirty-eight years old. I can’t believe no one thought of this possibility before now.”

“Remember when he brought Jacob to our house for Christmas?”

“Jacob has kids. Whatever he was thinking about Jacob, Jacob wasn’t thinking that about him.”

“But he was gorgeous, I must say.”

“Now we know,” said Paul.

Claire hoisted herself onto her elbow and stared at her husband. She would have expected him to be more outraged and to say something about how maybe Henry shouldn’t spend time with their boys anymore. She would have expected him not even to shake Philip’s hand, or to put on a rubber glove before doing so. But he had been in a good mood all the way over from Des Moines, enjoying the drive and not complaining. She wondered if she was going to have to change her perception of Paul as well as to continue her marriage to him. She said, “You don’t want to go to a hotel?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Paul.

But he made no move toward her. They both lay quietly, and then he said, in his doctory voice, “You know what they’re doing, right?”

She hated to admit, “Not exactly.”

Paul shifted against her, and said, “Well, I do, and being near it doesn’t turn me on.”

Claire said, “Okay.” The room was now almost dark, which had a way of magnifying the significance of the silence from the other end of the hall.

Paul’s voice rose a bit. He said, “I mean, you really didn’t know about this?”

“I really didn’t. Did you?”

He moved away from her slightly, not as if he did so knowingly, more as if he suddenly felt uncomfortable. She said, “It’s only ten after nine. Let’s go to a hotel. We can afford it.”