Pool Night, Part 3 of 3


"I wouldn't worry, David. You're here."
Before I can answer, she's standing up, and she walks to the edge of the
pool. "You keep the pool really clean," she says. "It's a lot of work, isn't
it?"
"I suppose," I say. "I keep it clean in case my daughter wants to come by
and swim."
Her shoes, white docksiders, are already off and lying by her chair; she
dips one foot into the water, swishing it back and forth, and hugs herself,
as if she's cold. She looks back toward me. "It feels wonderful," she says.
She turns around again and stands for a moment moving her foot back and
forth in the water.
"You could come here and use the pool this summer," I say.
"Maybe I'll do that," she says. "If you think it's okay, that is." She at me
again and smiles, then she reaches down and unbuttons her cutoffs and pushes
them down and steps out of them. She throws them toward me, and they land on
the far side of the chair she's been using. I sit and watch, unable to say
anything as she pulls the blouse over her head and throws it at me. She sits
on the edge of the pool with her legs in the water and pulls off her blue
panties, then she slides off into the water. It's the shallow end, and the
water comes up to just above her navel. Her breasts are small, and her
nipples are erect. "Put these with my things, please?" she says, and throws
the panties. They land halfway between the pool and my chair. I go and pick
them up and hold them, stand there watching her as she sinks into the water.
Her hair trails off behind in a fluid mass, like a Portugese man-o'-war. She
reaches back and does something to it, and then her ponytail is gone and the
hair spreads out across the water as she sinks deeper, until the water is at
her lower lip. "I'm going to do some laps," she says. "Wait for me, huh?"
I sit down again and pick up my glass. It's empty, and I look into it for a
moment, contemplating whether I want more. Monica's body cuts the water in
smooth strokes, her hair flying straight out behind her. She makes three
laps, then reaches the opposite end and stops, resting her arms on the edge.
"Would you like for me to stay here tonight?" she says to the wooden fence
in front of her. Her voice seems larger in the enclosed yard, as if it were
a small room.
"That wouldn't be a very good idea," I say, and I wonder whether she can
hear me. My voice sounds small and tense.
"I like you, David. I wanted you to ask me out months ago."
"And I like you, too, Monica. But it wouldn't be right, you see. I'm a
professor. You might take another of my classes sometime."
She turns and swims back, then hoists herself up to the edge. She sits and
draws her legs up and puts her arms around them. "I won't. I don't need any
more history." She begins to wring out her wet hair. "Could you bring me a
towel? I'm getting cold."
I get a large bath towel from the bathroom cabinet and go back. She's lying
back in the lounge chair, watching the cat as she stands poised at the edge
of the pool, looking into the water. The cat dips a paw into the water, then
takes it out and shakes the water off. She begins to lick at the paw and
bathe her face. Monica is rubbing the rim of her wineglass with a finger,
and the glass gives off a high-pitched sound. She dampens the finger and
tries again, but nothing happens. I hand her the towel, and she turns,
putting her legs over the side of the chair. She sits up and starts drying
her hair, flattening the hair between layers of the towel and pulling it
down to the end. "Sit down, David," she says. "I'll be dry in a minute. Then
we can go inside."
I sit and watch her; the cat comes over and starts rubbing on my leg. I
reach down to pet her, and she rubs her head against my hand. She's purring.
She enjoys what I'm doing, but then she seems to get bored and goes off into
the house. "This isn't a good idea at all, Monica," I say.
She stops drying her hair and holds the towel up by a corner in front of
her. "Come dry my back, David?"
I begin to stand, but hesitate. In the light from the pool her skin is
darker, and its dampness shines like polished marble. "I haven't been near a
woman in months, Monica. I think I'm afraid of you."
"Are you worried that someone will accuse you of sleeping with a student to
change a grade, David? Do you think this is about a silly grade?"
I don't want to admit my thoughts; Monica should have been an "A" student,
but her attendance was spotty during the last two months of the semester.
"No, of course not," I say. "I'm just nervous is all. You're a lot younger
than I am." She holds the towel against her chest, patting herself dry, but
the warm air has nearly done the job for her. "I'm just confused, is all," I
say.
She stands and holds out her hand. "Don't be. Let's go inside." She leads me
into the house, and inside the door I stop long enough to turn off the pool
lights.
I'm nervous when we get to the bedroom; Monica turns off the lights and
turns down the sheets I placed so carefully on the bed, and then I lie down
while she undresses me. When she guides me into her I seem inept, like a
frightened teenager, but Monica knows what to do. Afterwards, when Monica is
asleep, I lie awake listening to her, and to the cat playing with the catnip
mouse I bought after I got her from the shelter. Monica stirs, and I feel
her looking at me in the darkness. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
I kiss her forehead in much the same way I would kiss my daughter. "It was
nice," I say.
She puts her arms around me and draws me close. "You're a nice person,
David. I like you a lot." She burrows her head into my chest and scratches
my back lightly with her nails. I try to remember if they are polished or
plain. "And don't worry about my grade in your class," she says. "If you
want to change it that's okay."
We lie there until she goes to sleep, and in the early morning I get up and
take the cordless phone out to the pool and sit there watching the
rectangular blackness of it. I feel the cat rubbing against my leg, and then
she's gone, and I hear a soft splash and then the rhythmic churning of her
feet as she swims. When it's light enough to see the buttons on the phone I
dial Mandy's number at her mother's house, the house the three of us shared
until a few months ago. When she comes on the line I say her name over and
over, perhaps a dozen times until she's awake, and I say, "Mandy, thanks for
being concerned about me. I'll be all right. Everything will be all right."
She says something in return, and her voice sounds worried, though I can't
make out the words exactly. I want to understand what it is she's saying, as
if knowing this is the most important thing in my life, and I listen, trying
to comprehend what is wrong with me.