Evan Hunter - Lizzie

Nonetheless, here in a house — well, on a lawn, she supposed, which was not quite the same as a sitting room — but even so, here in her home, for such it was, there seemed something inordinately wrong about exposing her body as freely as if she were private and alone. That was what troubled Lizzie most, she supposed. The fact that Alison considered herself as effectively alone as if Lizzie were a stick of furniture or a blade of grass. And if such were honestly the case, if despite all her protestations of neglected hospitality, Alison felt so truly unmindful of her guest as to shed all her clothing without a by-your-leave, well, then—

Well, then what ? Lizzie wondered.

Well, then, surely it was time to announce her departure, time to study the routes and the train schedules, time to make her way to Milan. Firmly fixed in her resolve, she walked out of the kitchen and onto the terrace and through the riotously blooming flower garden, and was starting to cross the lawn when Alison opened her eyes and called, “Lizzie, be a dear. Would you bring me my bag? It’s just on the table there.”

Lizzie picked up the bag. Undoubtedly, it was time for the mistress of the house to douse herself with coconut oil, the better to protect her exposed flesh from the searing rays of the sun. She walked to where Alison was now lying on her side, a smile on her face, her breasts exposed, not quite as tanned as the rest of her body, her hip curving, the blond tufts of her womanhood partially visible at the joining of her legs. Lizzie set the bag down on the grass, and sat in the wicker lounge beside hers. She realized, all at once, that she was quite angry, and she could not imagine why.

“There’s a dear,” Alison said, and sat up fully. Reaching for the bag, she moved it closer on the grass and, unmindful of modesty, opened her legs and set it down between her feet. Lizzie looked away. She heard Alison rummaging in the bag, heard a match striking, smelled the unmistakable odor of first sulphur and next tobacco, and turned to see her — smoking!

“It’s such a relief when those ninnies are away,” Alison said, puffing on the cigarette as though she were a chimney afire. “Do you smoke, Lizzie? These are French, and rather strong, but...” Her eyes opened wide. “My dear Lizzie,” she said, “your jaw is hanging agape .”

“You will try to shock me at every turn of the way, won’t you?” Lizzie said.

“But I had no idea...”

“What kind of woman are you?” Lizzie said. “I have never in my life...”

“Oh, dearest, forgive me,” Alison said, and at once dropped the cigarette into the grass and started to step on it until she realized she was barefoot. She picked it up again at once, and flicked it into the nearby shrubbery, as though wishing to banish it from Lizzie’s sight. “I intended no offense,” she said, reaching for Lizzie’s hand, taking it onto her palm, patting it wildly with her other hand, “forgive me, please, you surely don’t think...”

“I don’t know what to think,” Lizzie said. “You take off your clothing, you...”

“But surely...”

“... light a cigarette like a...”

“... the sight of me naked...”

“... practiced tart...”

“... doesn’t offend...”

They had been speaking simultaneously, their words overlapping, and now they stopped simultaneously and stared at each other, each of them a trifle breathless.

“Or does it?” Alison said.

“Does what?”

“Does it offend you? My nakedness?”

“No.”

“Then what...?”

“Not in the way you think.”

“But in what way, Lizzie? Please tell me, dearest. I shall cover myself to my eyes like a Moslem, if you desire. I shall wrap myself like a mummy, I shall...”

“You promised never to mock me,” Lizzie said.

“But do I mock you with my body? How?”

“By pretending I’m not here,” Lizzie said softly.

“But you are here. I’m only too aware of your presence.”

“And trying to shock me. I’m not a child.”

“I apologize for the cigarette. I really never...”

“You should.”

“I do.”

“A lady smoking.”

“I apologize.”

“That is shocking, Alison. That is truly and deeply shocking.”

“I shall never do it again.”

“In my presence.”

“Or beyond it. Never again. If it disturbs you...”

“It does.”

“Then never again. I promise.”

“I don’t care what you do when you’re alone. Once I’m gone, you can...”

“Don’t say it!”

The words were spoken so sharply that Lizzie physically recoiled from them.

“Please,” Alison said softly. “Not yet. Not so soon.” And suddenly she moved to sit beside her and took her in her arms and held her close in embrace and kissed her hair and her cheeks and her closed eyes, murmuring, “Please don’t leave, I shall do my best, oh dearest, not so soon, we’ve scarcely, oh, please, please,” and kissed her on the lips.

Lizzie’s mouth opened in shocked surprise. She tried to twist away, but Alison’s mouth pursued her own, more insistently demanding, her body pressing closer, her naked breasts straining against her. She thought at once No! and pushed Alison away forcefully, and stared incredulously into her face.

The face crumbled.

Panic stabbed the green eyes, and suddenly they flooded with tears.

Lizzie sat stock still, watching her as she wept into her hands, awkward and helpless and feeling unspeakably cruel. At last she reached out tentatively to touch her friend’s hands where they covered her face, and then drew her into her arms, overwhelmed by a sudden wave of unbearable tenderness, pitying her, wanting to comfort and console her. She held her close, her fingers widespread on her back, patting and stroking her, murmuring gently to her, their heads close together, cheek against cheek, the early morning sunlight glistening palely on russet and gold.

When Alison kissed her again, tenderly this time, she felt oddly as if she were somehow distantly and safely removed, an anonymous spectator watching a theatrical performed by two faceless women, merely she and she, herself somewhere else, observing but curiously uninvolved. No longer shocked or even surprised, except by the fact that she was not revulsed, she allowed Alison’s gentle exploration of her lips with mild curiosity, the observer still, the silent witness to a shadow play in the sunlight, distantly aware of the buzzing of the bees in the grass and the musky fragrance of the flowers. She did not move (this was not happening to her) when Alison loosened the ribbons of her combing cape and let it fall soundlessly to the grass. She sat silently when Alison’s right hand moved to the muslin bodice of her nightdress to linger on her breast, and then caught her breath sharply when she felt Alison’s hands gliding up under the muslin.

She thought again No! , and the single unspoken word splintered and ricocheted, No! , shattering any illusion of asylum, the indistinct performers coming at once into sharp sunlit focus, the she and she unmistakably Alison and herself. She tried to twist away again, but Alison’s relentless mouth found her own, and she drew in her breath on a gasp that served only as binding mortar between their lips. Her cheeks were suddenly burning. She felt a rush of blood to her temples, and all at once she was faint, clinging to Alison, dizzily rescuing her mouth, pressing her feverish cheek to hers as she struggled to catch her breath.

Alison took her hands. Silently she drew her to her feet.