Richard came home that evening, flung off his winter coat, and grunted a perfunctory greeting at me.
“Where were you?” I asked.
“At the billiards parlor. I stopped in to play a couple of games and lost track of the time.” He bragged happily about some greenhorn he had bested there. I half-listened, as usual, to his pool hall exploits.
He took a second breath between his boasting. I jumped in. “Richard, can we drive out to Philadelphia this weekend? I’m really homesick. I want to visit my parents.”
He rummaged in the refrigerator. “Did you make anything for dinner?”
“There’s some tuna salad. I never know when you’re coming home, so I didn’t cook anything. Not that there’s much in the freezer. Just a roasting chicken. Can we go home this weekend?”
He pulled out his wallet to check its contents. “Hmmn. There’s still enough left of our emergency assistance check. It shouldn’t take too much gas, and the car’s running okay. Yeah, we can go.”
“Good. I’ll call my parents to tell them. We’ll stay overnight to Sunday.”
Richard heaped tuna salad onto a slice of bread and cut up a tomato. “Fine. I’m going to go down to the welfare office on Friday. See if they can’t sign us up for food stamps, maybe a monthly check until I get work. How’s the kid been?”
“Sleeping now. He was cranky most of the day, but I managed to get him down for a nap, and napped myself during it.”
“Mmn.” Richard wolfed his sandwich down and began fixing a second one. “Do we have anything to drink?”
“Iced tea.” I poured him a glass. “I’m going to take a shower now. I’m pretty worn down.”
“Mmn.” He reached for a book he’d left on the table earlier, reading as he ate.
The shower warmed me, almost felt like a caress against my naked flesh. I washed my hair, rinsing off the shampoo and soap, then toweled dry and blow-dried my hair, taking pleasure in its soft auburn sheen as it fell on my shoulders.
I watched myself in the mirror, taking a strangely clear, critical notice of my features—bright brown eyes, small rounded nose, heart-shaped face accentuating both cheekbones and a chin which dimpled—and found it pretty. This appraisal—so rarely did I judge myself narcissistically—caused a small smile to play at the corner of my lips, as I studied my mirrored self. For just an instant, it seemed someone else cracked that wry smile. I turned away abruptly, troubled, from my reflection, and busied myself, pulling my dry hair back in a band, wrapping the ponytail in a fat roller to curl it.
In the bedroom, I put on a soft flannel nightgown, then tiptoed into Daniel’s room. He still slept peacefully. He would probably wake for late night feeding, but I, for now, could get some sleep, too. I left the door slightly ajar to hear him if he awakened.
The covers of my bed hugged me, as if a strong arm had been laid protectively across me. I welcomed the nurturing sensation, feeling as cradled as Daniel in his crib. I wondered if Terence was perhaps sending some optimism to me psychically. But he, whose presence I can normally sense, as a bright flash commands attention, had been conspicuously absent all day.
I was nearly nodding off when Richard climbed onto the bed, his shifting of the mattress jarring me. As I leaned into the pillow, slipping back to sleep, the touch of his hand on my back intruded again. His fingers traveled downwards to my buttocks.
“You awake?” he whispered.
I pretended sleep.
His hand continued kneading the cheeks of my rear. “Leigh Ann? Are you that sleepy?” His tone presumed my response.
I turned wearily. “You want to make love.” It was a statement.
“Do you?”
“Mmn.” Perhaps it would make things better. Anything was better than making him angry. My refusal would do that. It would be a sullen anger, as usual, accompanied by further late night returns and his flimsy excuses.
He bent down to kiss me, and I returned his kiss. I still had feelings for him; they just weren’t always very good ones. Talking hadn’t helped. Perhaps sex would. Sex as the healer.
He spent scant time in foreplay; I was young, requiring little to ready me. Entering me, he worked his body above me, bent to his own satisfaction. Waiting patiently for him to climax, I gained some pleasure from the act itself. But he seemed to be having some difficulty; perhaps it was the six weeks of abstinence following Daniel’s birth. I became bored beneath him, wishing he would finish and let me return to sleep. And then a small wail filtered in, picking up volume, and becoming frantic cries.
“The baby,” I said, my body stiffening beneath Richard.
“The baby can wait,” he said between thrusts, panting. “He has to learn to sleep through the night anyway.”
I touched his arm, then pushed gently. “He’s an infant. He might be hungry or wet. I have to get up.”
Disgruntled, sighing, Richard withdrew himself and rolled over.
I got up and went into Daniel’s room. He lay on his back, squalling heartily, his small face reddened from his exertion. “There now, it’s okay. Mama’s here.” I picked him up, and held him as I checked his diaper: not the problem. Cooing and stroking his back, I went to the kitchen to heat his formula. His caterwauling had lessened; occasional bursts of baby indignation would issue from his lips, punctuated by silence. I tested the milk on my wrist, heated it a minute more, and retested it for warmth. Sitting on the chair, I offered Daniel the bottle. He took it eagerly, but drank only about one-third before pushing it away. “All done? That’s Mama’s angel.” I took the dish towel off the table and laid it across my shoulder, lifting Daniel against it to burp him. He let out an enormous gas bubble. I continued rubbing his shoulder lightly; he fell asleep against me.
I sat there, savoring the silence, and was only half-aware of a figure, seen peripherally, entering the kitchen archway.
I looked toward the entrance, expecting Richard.
No one was there.
—Terence?— I thought, but couldn’t sense his bright aura.
—No,— said a voice not physical, sounding like a whisper in my inner ear.
I responded with my own inner voice: —No?— And more cautiously: —Who is this?—
At first, just silence, outer and inner. Then, —One who’s waited. For you. Waited far too long, but willingly.—
I attempted to probe the spirit, to pick up his appearance. He blocked me, but not before I visualized coal-black, opaque, almond-shaped eyes. They seemed to have neither pupils nor whites. Only a wall of black, and I knew instinctively I could not see through them to the core of his soul. That, too, he had blocked.
I shivered, the kitchen suddenly cold, sitting there in my nightgown with Daniel asleep against me.
This spirit frightened me. I had neither courage nor curiosity to probe him further. My mother, who also had the psychic gift, had warned me of its dangers shortly after my first clairvoyant experience.
I had just turned eleven. My father, mother, sister, baby brother, and I were picnicking in the Pennsylvania countryside and decided to tour a nearby eighteenth century manor. I had spied a small girl, silent and alone in an upstairs alcove, dressed in period garb. She gazed directly at me, but no one else in the tour group, descending a staircase, seemed to notice her.
The tour ended in a drawing room below, and there on the wall above a fireplace was a portrait of the girl. When I questioned having just seen this child, Mother hushed me, making light of my comment.
Even