Haweyes

HAWKEYES

by Holly Rennick

Compared to our classmates, Sondra and I were slowpokes, and when we finally slept together, she'd seemed so innocent. She seemed to know how to, I'll concede, but as we'd come so close so many times, she'd probably already figured out a few things. I'd thought me being on top was the right way, but she said a book in her sorority was where she learned the others. She was more or less in charge, my challenge being to hold off until she was there.

Our first time, a friend lent Sondra the use of her apartment. She had me over for lasagna, we went to the bedroom and it just sort of happened. When I worried a little, she explained that she was already on the pill to make her periods lighter. She wasn't having one when we did it, of course.

Girls pop their cherries riding horses, I'd read, and indeed, she'd had riding lessons. The bed-sheet proof's just an old wives' tale.

Being my fiancé, Sondra called it "making love," but as that might sound overly romantic to my buddies, I just left it that we went out. They agreed that she was a great catch, her biggest fan being her brother. Mine, too, in a sense, as we're fraternity brothers. I say "are," as that sort of thing is for life.

We were married at First Presbyterian, me thinking that half of what her folks dropped on the shindig would have been enough to settle our loans, but Sondra's mother wanted everything perfect.

On our wedding night, I even carried her to the bed, and we had sex every night until she had her period, and from then on, maybe every other night, what I believe to be about average for a professional couple. Some weeks maybe we do it just once or twice, but then again, some Sunday mornings, we do it more than once.

But now to things more confusing.

The time when I came home early. Sondra had forgotten to unhook the security bolt -- home invasion best thwarted by precaution, not a firearm -- and it took her the longest while to get in the door. As she'd been busy with her writing, she sent me for a take-out pizza. I usually get pepperoni with black olives. On my way to pick it up, just down the street was what looked to be her brother's car; there not being that many real Saab 900s with Hawkeye decals, Paul, like us, being an Iowa graduate. When I came back, it was gone.

In taking the pizza box to our recycle dumpster, I noticed that our back door was unlocked and reminded Sondra that latching the front door isn't enough when you forget the back one. She said she'd taken out the trash while I was gone and will be sure to take more care in the future.

Then that time when I returned from Pittsburgh. In our bedroom was a Sports Illustrated with Paul's name on the address label. When asked about it, Sondra said he'd been in town and stopped by to see how we were doing. Hopes to catch me next time. We have lots to talk about, us being in the insurance field, just different companies.

Then the time Sondra had been to a meeting in St. Louis. The Holiday Inn receipt on her dresser showed the room booked in Paul's name. She said she had him book it for her because he collected points from the chain.

And the Thanksgiving with the ice storm when Paul was in town for the game. Sondra bought us hats, hers with "I'm a"; his with a hawk; and mine with an eye, so we sit that way, and we'd had him over for dinner. Rather than risking the roads -- our neighborhood gets sanded after those with schools-- it made sense for him to stay over, why we have a guest room.

He and Sondra were putting away the leftovers when I headed for bed. He's into cooking and they were talking about some sort of potato dish, as I recall.

Out the window I could see the kitchen light reflected off the hedge. It went out, and a few minutes later, me almost asleep, the door cracked open and then clicked shut without her coming in.

Maybe she'd gone to the basement to shelve some jars or something. As I should probably help her, me being taller, I got up and headed down the hall.

Oh! The sounds from the guest room!

When Sondra later slipped in later, "I could see your shadow under the door," she told me.

I said something about having been on my way to the basement.

"Saying goodnight to my brother," her explanation.

But l'm no fool.

It was Paul who'd taught her, but the past can't be changed. We don't have a time machine where you can unsleep with your brother. It's not like Paul is just some random guy. It's more of an organic thing.

I've read that women need more sex at times. Some of my friends have wives who've had flings, but then again, so have they, so maybe it comes out even.

As Sondra and I love each other, I'm doing what I can regarding that. I've read some books. I've never asked her how I compare, though, because she might get too specific. She says I'm great, and that's enough.

When Paul stays over, I get the guest room, but it works out because I keep spare underwear in the drawer and shirts in the closet. If their mother phones, I don't mention that she's in the shower with Paul, just she's in the shower and will call back later. Sondra knows I listen to them from the hallway,,but doesn't mind.

Why confront Paul? What good would that do? You have to get along with your brother-in-law with whom you've much in common.