Sarah Hall - The Wolf Border

He makes a casserole, which smells delicious as it bubbles away. She puts Charlie to bed and they open a bottle of wine and eat. She is quiet, toying with the food, not drinking the wine, kicking herself all the while for not relishing what is extremely enjoyable. Halfway through the meal Alexander puts his cutlery down.

OK. What is it? Too much salt? Not enough salt?

No. It’s lovely.

Why are you sulking?

I’m not sulking.

Have I done something to upset you?

No.

Rachel.

No, really.

She tries to smile. The truth is she has been braced all evening. For words she does not want to hear, the slipping of a ring box out of his top pocket, perhaps — wild fantasies based on very little evidence. He is acting the same as ever — chatting casually, telling funny stories. There are flirtatious looks, but he is certainly not mooning. He is not nervous or looking for a right moment.

Sorry, she says. Just an odd day.

How come?

Oh, I don’t know. We had another email from our friendly nutter.

Nigh?

Yes.

Saying what?

Very little that made sense, as usual. But he’s persistent, which generally means there’s something to it — in my experience, anyway. Over Christmas it did cross my mind that it’s Leo.

Leo Pennington?

Alexander’s tone is sceptical.

I know, she says. I thought maybe it was a way of getting at his family. Silly.

From what I hear he’s a good kid, just a bit of a black sheep. I doubt he’d be against the project.

She nods. She does not mention the flowers, other than to thank him, briefly, for them. He tells her she is welcome. The transaction is low-key. It was a gesture with no ulterior motive, she decides; he simply felt like sending them, or perhaps he had vouchers, or there was an offer on. A romantic blip in the practical run of things.

Later, upstairs, he watches her from the bed as she undresses. She strips unprovocatively. In the mirror she glances at herself: stomach, slack, with silky creping at the sides where the skin was stretched. The telltale line between her hips is less vivid, a few inches wide, still slightly overhung. The scar sits just below the hairline and contains tiny gristled knots. It is not offensive. Her breasts are full, white and veined, the nipples hard as cartilage — in a month or so she will stop breastfeeding, meanwhile they must contend with spillage during any sexual act. Her hair has reached her shoulders for the first time in a decade. She must get it cut.

Come here, Alexander says.

She turns back to the bed. He is waiting, naked and smiling, half erect. His gaze is soft, blind to any imperfection, a body altered by utility, if not blind then unaffected. He is enjoying the view overall, and its prospect. He will have seen far worse, she knows, during his wife’s illness. There is no noise from the cot in the neighbouring room. She moves to the bed and sits. He puts a hand on her thigh, but otherwise waits for permission. Her body feels far less fragile than during the previous attempts, not the hive of strong muscles it once was, but functional, desiring. Now he is hard. A faint dark line runs the length of his cock, a scribble of vein. He reaches round her back, to the old scar, which, though she hardly ever sees it, is much worse, and puts his other hand on her lower abdomen.

Front and back, he says. You match. I like it.

The erotic nature of damage. She kisses him. He will be passive, a considerate lover, she knows, as he has been since the surgery, lying back, gently pulling her over him — a kind of sexual supplicant. There are men who make the world seem populated by good men, those who are intuitive, or have been taught. She straddles him, sits proud, moves his hands from her hips to her breasts. Their size and weight are enormously pleasurable, a weapon almost. There’s a thrilling power to seeing him so aroused. She slides down his body, cups the end of him in her mouth, moves her tongue confidently trying to dispel the mood of caution. It is in part a test, of course, to see what he can withstand. He holds her head. Then curses. Fuck . He hefts her up, rolls her onto her side, facing away, puts his hand between her legs. Then he pulls her closer, angles her leg up, takes hold of himself and pushes in. He butts firmly against her, the flesh of her bottom slapping, and does not last long.

How small is their window for breeding? he asks.

Small enough.

Not like dogs, then. At it all year round.

He bites her collarbone playfully. They are lying facing each other, wetly stained, happy, a slight sting to her broken tissues.

A shorter period of fertility means males have less incentive to abandon a pregnant mate and find another.

Ah, clever.

He knows enough about wolves, does not need the education, but he enjoys having her teach. He rubs a finger over the tooth marks in her skin. The wind is beginning to get up, playing the trees like instruments. Above, the sound of aerial tectonics, as if great portions of the sky are moving apart or grinding together. The windowpane reveals absolute blackout, the occasional volley of white. A true winter’s evening. The idiocy of the flowers is forgotten. The mood is warm, suggestive, with the possibility of more exchanges. Then, out of nowhere, she says,

I’ve been thinking about telling Charlie’s father.

There’s a brief pause.

Right. About?

Alexander leans over her and takes a sip of water from the glass next to the bed — old water, several glasses have been left uncleared.

About Charlie.

Right. So he doesn’t know?

No.

Now the words are out, she’s not sure what she expects him to say in response, or even why she mentioned it. Something subconscious, unearthed by the talk of mates and disappearances, perhaps. He has, other than their first night together, never asked about the situation. Perhaps it has not mattered to him. Perhaps he has not wanted to know details, or has constructed a phantom rival in his mind.

He lives in America.

I assumed that was the case.

I didn’t want to involve him.

And now you do?

The question is level-toned, and yet it cannot be that simple, so much depends on her answer. She shakes her head, sits up, and leans forward, away from the heat of his body.

I don’t know. Not really. I just don’t know if it’s OK for him not to know he even exists.

Are you sure he doesn’t? In this day and age –

He doesn’t. He would have said something.

So you’re still in touch?

Sometimes.

He places his large hand on her shoulder, pulls gently. She leans back against his chest and he puts an arm round her. For a while he is quiet.

Is he a prick? Is that why you didn’t involve him?

It sounds foolish either way, she thinks. To have been involved with someone unappealing, or to have excluded a good man from a child’s life.

No, he’s not a prick. He’s pretty great, actually. I worked with him at Chief Joseph. He was a friend.

Oh.

I just mean, that wasn’t the reason. I was the reason. I’m not very good at any of this.

He puts his mouth to the side of her head, his words muffle in her hair.

You’re very good at it.

He means the sex, or he is being overly kind about her level of effort. They do not ring each other regularly with news or for no reason at all, just to say hi, as lovers in the fast spiral do. It is Alexander who comes to her. She knows better than to assume, as she did for years, that men enjoy her casualness, her coolness, that it suits them better, or that they are less invested. It doesn’t take them long to sense that such an attitude stems from something else — a fear, a flaw, stuntedness. Finally, with Alexander, with the baby, or simply with her coordinates in life, the game seems up. She is exposed. Silence. She feels tension creeping in. The mood is still light, but something is slipping, spoiling. She tries to explain.