She kept her head down, preoccupied, as he led her back to the road. The rain had picked up, drenching the jeep, and it cut into them when they started to drive. He left the open road for the woods, as if, crazily, the trees would shelter them, forgetting that the trails were dirt at this end of the park, full of ruts and puddles. He went faster when they hit the straight road heading east, worried now that the wet would chill her, make her sick again. She had crouched down behind the windshield, curled up against the rain, an excuse to withdraw into herself.
The woods were dreary and somber, and he cursed himself for taking the shortcut, no drier and filled with shadows, like the rest of the day. What had he expected, sunlit meadows and a picnic rug wet with sex? Too soon. But what if it was always going to be too soon? When she had stood by the tree, shuddering, he’d felt he was back in the collapsing house, its joints creaking, too wounded to be propped up again. A gasp, just at a touch. It won’t be like that. How did he know? Only one of them had gone through it. And he had pushed, maybe ruined things, like some kid eager to get laid. Except he hadn’t planned anything, it had just happened, trying to get it back, one of those afternoons when everything had been good, when they both wanted it. Too soon.
He stopped to take cover at the Avus underpass, army trucks roaring on the concrete trestle over their heads, but she was shivering, no warmer than out in the rain. Walls dripping, clammy. Better to make a run for it, change clothes, not huddle in the wet. But where? Wittenbergplatz was miles. At least get out of the woods. They passed Krumme Lanke, almost through now, and he saw the street leading to the Document Center. Maybe Bernie was there, snug in his cellar of index cards, but what good would he be? Jake looked over at her, alarmed. Still hunched and shivering, all the healing of the past week about to be undone. A hot bath. He remembered carrying pots to the tepid tub. Speeding now, past the press camp. Maybe Liz had something dry to wear. No civilians in the billets. But who would stop him, the old couple?
He was lucky. There was no one at Gelferstrasse, the house so empty you could hear the clock. She hesitated at the door.
“Is this where you live? It’s allowed?”
“Say you’re my niece,” he said, pulling her in.
Their wet shoes squeaked up the stairs, leaving prints.
“In there,” he said, pointing to his door. “I’ll start a bath for you.”
Water so hot it steamed. He opened the tap as far as it would go, then saw a jar of bath salts Liz had left on the shelf and poured some in. A little foam, the smell of lavender-maybe a present from tall Joe.
She was standing inside the door, looking around, her dress dripping.
“Your room, it’s so funny. Pink. Like a girl’s.”
“It was. Here.” He handed her a towel. “Better get those off. The bath’s all yours.”
He went over to his closet, stripping down and throwing the wet clothes in a pile. He pulled out a clean shirt and went over to the drawer for underwear. When he turned, he found her watching him and, suddenly shy, held up the shirt to cover himself.
“You’re still dressed,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, and he realized she was waiting for him to leave, modest again, afraid to reveal anything.
“Okay, okay,” he said, grabbing his pants. “I’ll be downstairs. Take as long as you want-the heat’ll do you good.”
“I’d forgotten,” she said, “what you looked like.”
He glanced up at her, disconcerted, then picked up dry shoes and headed for the door. “That’ll give you something to think about in the tub. Come on, off,” he said, pointing to her dress. “Don’t worry, I won’t look. There’s a woman lives next door. She won’t mind if you borrow something.”
“No, I have my new dress,” she said, unfolding it. “Only a little damp here.”
“See, a bargain,” he said, closing the door.
Downstairs, he put on his shoes, then sat staring out the window at the rain. A little bit at a time. And yet there they’d been, almost naked in a room, looking at each other. He could hear the water running, but more slowly now, keeping it hot while she soaked. Like strangers, as if they’d never been to bed. Lying there afterward, watching her at the mirror. But that had been before.
He got a drink from one of the labeled bottles in the dining room-Muller, who could certainly spare it-and brought it back to the window. The rain was falling straight, not even hitting the open sill, the kind of steady rain that could go on for hours, good for crops and staying indoors. There was a phonograph near the piano, and he went over and flipped through the stack of records. V Discs, the Nat Cole Trio, clearly somebody’s favorite. He took a record out of its sleeve and put it on. “Straighten Up and Fly Right.” Light and silly, American. He sat down with a cigarette and put his feet on the win-dowsill, brooding despite the music. The last thing he’d anticipated. So sure how it would be.
