© 2004 by Penelope Street
Last night I dreamed of a dark horse. With the images in my mind both fresh and vivid, I seek the dictionary of dreams I keep in my bedside table, to discover if there is any significance to this particular nighttime vision. I learn a dream of a black horse is a dream of passion. Considering all that has happened in the past few weeks, I am not surprised.
With a sigh of satisfaction, I allow my body to fall back onto my bed. My thoughts fall back as well, to the time but a fortnight ago when no dark horse would have dared grace my nocturnal visions.
It started in the dreary morning of a late autumn Monday. I sat with my cup of coffee by the parlor window, gazing outside at nothing in particular. In retrospect, I was just watching the world go by, as I had for most of my life.
My meandering gaze left the white of the snow-covered lawn for the gray of the concrete walk and I recalled how I had there with teary eyes seen my first-borne off to school. He had waddled down the sidewalk without looking back. His brother had done the same the next year. And their sister in September last.
With secret shame, I had awaited the moment when my children would all be in school that I might have some time to myself. Now that the moment had arrived and, like all moments do, passed, I found I had nothing much to do with the time I had once imagined to be so precious. I listened for a moment to nothing, remembering the days with a house full of noise when I would have given almost anything for a morning's peace. The very quiet I had once coveted turned out to be haunting instead of comforting.
I extended my fingers and put them against the cold glass of the window, only to remove them and watch the pane claim the fuzzy gray imprints of warmth that I had left upon it. The bleakness of late autumn seemed to be trying to swallow my soul much as the glass had consumed my heat.
My eyes wandered the parlor of my home. It was a pleasant, comfortable dwelling. My husband was a good provider. Our children were at school. Wasn't this what every woman was supposed to want? The Yuletide holidays were fast approaching. Wasn't this supposed to be the most joyous time of the year? Why was I so miserable?
The scare over missiles in Cuba last year and the assassination of the president but a fortnight before had given everyone reason to put their own existence in a new perspective, but I couldn't seem to find one. I was haunted not by the fear of an untimely death or the specter of nuclear annihilation. My terror was the prospect of year upon year of endless tedium, until the day my descendants would finally plant my remains in the earth, utter a few customary phrases, and then forget I had ever lived at all.
I retreated to the kitchen to clean up, although there was not anything I knew to be untidy there. By mid-morning I could find nothing else that I could even pretend needed cleaning.
Half thinking and half hoping a walk might brighten my spirits, I donned my coat and ventured out into the crisp air. During the summer I would certainly have stumbled upon someone doing a bit of gardening or the like, but this day the neighborhood was as chilly socially as it was meteorologically.
For a second or two, I considered going down to the beauty salon to sit and chat with the other ladies, but I rejected the idea on the same grounds I always had- to me it still seemed more appealing to be the subject of the gossip than the recipient of it.
I continued along the ubiquitous avenues in no particular pattern, finally returning to my street in the same somber mood I had departed.
The day might have gone as any other, and my life with it, but for Mr. Stanley, the owner of the house adjacent to ours, arriving home for what I at first imagined to be lunch. The young man leapt from his vehicle before it had even come to a complete stop. Without so much as a glance my way, he rushed into the house, leaving both the door of his automobile and that of his home open in his wake.
Certain there was some emergency, I shifted my gaze through the Stanleys' picture window- this being no problem since their drapes were as wide as their door.
Mr. Stanley met his wife in their parlor. Without a word they embraced, using both mouths and bodies to caress one another.
I expect my eyes must have widened considerably in the moment I first comprehended the nature of the crisis. In shock I stared as the man lifted his wife just as if it might be their wedding night and began to carry her toward the stairs.
As Mrs. Stanley swung within her husband's arms, her field of view passed out of the window. At once, her eyes locked upon my own. I felt the warmth of blood rushing to my cheeks, yet I still could not pry my eyes from the scene. The young lady issued a subtle smile and wave before the couple disappeared.
I looked about and was relieved to find the street as deserted as it had been all morning. With a sigh, I turned back to the Stanleys' still open front door, trying to imagine my Russell being so smitten with my charms that he might be willing to heat the entire neighborhood to get to me but a moment sooner.
Shaking my head, I scolded myself for being nosy and scurried back along the walkway toward my home. Upon arrival, I scanned my tranquil parlor and wondered what passions, if any, would ever play out there. None, I concluded with a sigh.
The afternoon wore on and the sun made an overdue appearance, brightening my spirits none, but my courage some. I put on what I considered to be a flattering dress, combed my hair, and added a touch of lipstick and eyeliner.
Keeping my eyes to the gray ribbon concrete that split our lawn, I strode from my house to the street, along the sidewalk and then returned along the Stanleys' walkway. Without giving my determination a chance to waver, I rapped upon their door.
A handful of seconds later, the entry opened to reveal a floral pastel dress and the hourglass frame within. My eyes did not long linger on the dress- Mrs. Stanley's face could outshine any fabric. Creamy full cheeks contrasted with the jet-black of her wavy, shoulder-length locks. Her eyebrows and lashes were just as thick and dark, framing a pair of piercing gray orbs. She was but the final step of her concrete porch above me, yet she hovered over me much like a pastor at the pulpit.
Her mouth curved in a smile. "Why, good afternoon, Mrs. Kramer. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"It's Barbara," I insisted. "I came to apologize for snooping earlier. You see, the way your husband ran into your home, I thought there must have been some trouble..."
"Good trouble," Mrs. Stanley interjected with a smile. "And I'm Elaine, remember?" She shifted to one side and held the door wider. "Would you care to come in?"
I didn't really want to. I had only intended to make amends for any imagined affront, yet I did not wish to appear rude. My head bobbed forward in a modest nod. "Thank you."
"Can I get you anything?" Elaine offered as I passed. "Tea? Water? Sandwich?"
"No, thanks," I replied. "I just ate."
"Oh," Elaine said. "Well, perhaps we could just chat a bit. I'm afraid I haven't been a very good member of the block. Donald and I have been so busy with things, we haven't had much chance to come by and see all our new neighbors."
"Not to worry," I assured her as I took a seat on her second-hand sofa. "I was the one that was being the bad neighbor, remember?"
Elaine smiled and flipped her open palm downward as if to dismiss the notion. "Oh, nonsense," she said, taking a seat in a cushioned chair that did not match the couch. "If we were worried about people looking through our window, we would have closed the curtains. Besides, it's not as if we were doing anything wrong."
I nodded. "I suppose not."
An awkward silence ensued, made more awkward by the question that ended it.
"Doesn't your husband ever come home during the day for sex?"
My entire body stiffened as I absorbed the inquiry. My initial instinct was to feign indignation and depart, but a moment later I decided that would, at the very least, make it appear as though I was ashamed of the answer.
"No," I replied. "I can't say that he ever has."
Elaine tilted her head and twisted her features. "Why? Do you have young ones?"
I smiled. "Yes. Three, but they're all in school."
Elaine smiled. "Sounds like every woman's dream."
I suspect my blank expression must have said what my mouth did not.
Elaine sat upright. "I'm sorry," she offered. "Did I say something wrong?"
"No," I lied.
"You looked sad."
"I think it's just the season."
"Are you sure? Sometimes marriage can be quite the rut."
I forced a smile. "Yes. It can."
Elaine's head leaned to one side. "Your husband treats you well, doesn't he."
In spite of my wishes, my eyes left hers for the floor. "Sure."
"But...?"
I shrugged. "Something seems missing."
"I did say marriage can be a rut, didn't I?"
"Yeah. Maybe that's all it is."
"Why'd you get married in the first place?"
I sighed. "My mother said he was a good man."
"Your mother?" Elaine smiled. "Did you always do what your mother said?"
My eyes wandered. "Yes. Our father died before I was old enough to remember him."
Elaine sighed, then nodded. "I'm sorry."
I shrugged. "Me too. I'm sure my mother was just trying to be sure I had what she didn't. And she was right, he is a good man."
"But you do love Mr. Kramer?"
"Of course!" I replied at once. "And his name is Russell."
"What attracted you to him in the first place?"
The ends of my lips curled upward and my cheeks warmed. "I always thought he was kinda cute."
Elaine smiled back. "Oh, he's more than cute."
My smile vanished. I wasn't sure whether to be happy or alarmed that she thought my husband attractive. "Thank you," I managed, for lack of anything better to say.
"How many men did you date before Russell?"
"Three."
"Were they cute too?"
My eyes wandered to one side as my thoughts drifted back. "Yeah," I said, smiling again. "They were cute too."
"How many did you fuck?"
My jaw dropped as my eyes snapped back to Elaine. "What?"
"How many men have you had sex with besides Russell?" she pressed in a disturbing monotone.
For the second time, the urge to make a hasty and altogether appropriate exit rose within me- but something else rose along with it. I'd never had a chance to speak to another soul about such things- not my mother, not my sister, not anyone. The opportunity to do so, even with a near stranger, overwhelmed my reservations.
"None," I replied.
"Why?"
"Because it isn't proper."
"You mean it wasn't proper?"
"What?"
"Times are changing," Elaine said. "Most brides these days aren't virgins. Quite a few have had sex with someone besides the groom too."
"Really?"
"Yes." My hostess paused to smile. "Isn't that wonderful? In another generation, two at the most, no one will think a thing about an unmarried girl having sex."
"How do you know?"
"Reading mostly."
"Like what?"
"'Sex and the Single Girl.'"
"But you aren't single," I noted.
Elaine grinned. "True, but that's no reason I have to quit living. I take it you've not read the book?"
