Page 15 of One of Them
Now this put the request in a different light. He needed something from her. How could she say no? But even as she was jotting down his address on a page in her notebook, she had the distinct sense she was doing something wrong.
Several hours later she arrived at the house.
It was rather ordinary looking, brown-shingled and three stories; the paint was peeling on the front door and the window trim.
But the lawn was neatly raked, and several pumpkins and ears of multicolored corn had been arranged on the steps, giving it a welcoming air.
Mrs. McQuaid opened the door. “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” she said.
She was a delicate, pretty brunette with pale skin.
“Ian’s been singing your praises for weeks, so I’m glad we’re getting a chance to meet.
You’re his favorite student, you know.” Mr. McQuaid—Ian!
—had been telling his wife about her? What else had he said?
Delia wished she could have heard every word, every syllable.
Mrs. McQuaid brought her inside, introduced her to the twins, Violet and Dorothy, angelic-looking babies with wide blue eyes and hair in a deep, glowing shade of red—their father’s hair must have been that color when he was young.
Mrs. McQuaid gave her a list of instructions, as well as the phone numbers of the pediatrician and pharmacist.
“They’ll be fine,” Delia assured her. “You go and have a good time. And happy anniversary.”
By 7:30, the twins were sleeping peacefully.
Delia went downstairs, where she sat on the sofa and unpacked her textbooks, legal pads, and pens.
But she was too restless to study, and too restless to do anything really, other than prowl around this house, looking for.
.. well, exactly what was she looking for?
The sofa on which she sat was covered in a faded floral fabric; across from it were a pair of lumpy armchairs, and behind them, a playpen.
Anchoring the whole sorry group was a marble-topped coffee table, a handsome piece of furniture that only made the others look that much more woebegone.
The kitchen was somewhat cheerier—red-and-white gingham curtains and matching seat cushions, a cloth covering the round table in a bright pattern of apples, pears, and cherries, two high chairs in the corner.
There was a radio on the windowsill that she switched on and then off again.
What she really wanted to see were the rooms above, where the more private parts of Professor McQuaid’s life unfolded.
She went up on the pretext of checking on the babies; a quick peek in their room revealed that they were both still asleep, Violet’s tiny hands splayed like starfish, Dorothy curled up on her side.
Stepping into the hallway, Delia peered into the other open doors.
One led to the bathroom, another to what appeared to be a study, and a third to the bedroom that Mr. McQuaid shared with his wife.
Hesitating in front of the bedroom, she pivoted and instead went into the study.
It was a small but inviting room, books lined up on the shelves and piled on the floor too, with a graceful Queen Anne desk on which sat a typewriter and yet another pile of books.
Several tarnished silver vessels held pens and pencils; upon closer inspection, Delia saw that they were engraved trophies—for rugby, for rowing, for tennis, and even for golf.
So he was an athlete as well as a scholar.
In one corner was a leather armchair worn to a glorious brown patina, and next to it was a standing lamp.
Delia sat down in the chair and tried to imagine the life that he led here, the things he read and wrote about.
She turned to look at the small painting hanging near the chair.
It was of a tiger, and the image was accompanied by lines of what appeared to be verse.
Closer inspection revealed it to be William Blake’s poem “The Tyger,” rendered in an elegant black script.
She looked again at the image, painted in gouache, and quite expertly at that.
The feline lurked against a dense backdrop of deep greens and blues, his body, orange-gold with black stripes, glowing against the dark tones.
The paint was thickly applied, the brushstrokes swirling yet controlled, a metaphor for the animal’s power and grace, latent for the moment but ready to lunge forth at any second.
Delia knew that Blake had illustrated his own verse with watercolor images, but she’d seen them reproduced, and they did not resemble this gouache.
Then she saw the letters IMM in the right corner.
The artist must have been Ian Michael—she’d found a reference to his middle name—McQuaid.
She had a crush on him. A crush and nothing more.
Mr. McQuaid was more than a decade older than she was, married, with a family.
She might be his favorite student, but she was still a student.
Unfinished. Unformed. Abruptly she stood and, though she knew it was a transgression, walked into the bedroom.
There was a tall bureau on one side of the room and a lower, wider one on the other.
A closet door, no, two. A rocking chair and a pair of nightstands, also marble-topped, like the table in the living room.
And dominating the room: an ornate and highly polished brass bed topped with a white coverlet.
This is where he slept, dreamed, and presumably made love to his wife.
To Maggie. The thought of this made Delia burn with jealousy.
She stretched out on top of the coverlet.
What she was doing was wrong, but she remained where she was.
She didn’t imagine herself in this bed with him, but she did, with some shame, imagine the two of them entwined.
Her experience was limited—she’d dated a bit in high school but had been put off by the inept fumbling of boys her age.
Mr. McQuaid was a grown man. He would know what to do, how to guide her.
Though Delia felt she was more worldly than many of the girls here at Vassar, she knew that some of her sophistication was only an act.
With Professor McQuaid, she would be able to stop pretending and leave her girlhood behind.
Delia got up, smoothed the coverlet, and went downstairs, where she washed the little bowls and spoons she’d used to give the twins their dinner, wiped down the high chairs, and scoured the sink.
Then she parked herself on the sofa, opened her biology textbook, and forced herself to sit still and keep reading.
When the McQuaids arrived home, they found her in a pool of lamplight, the legal pad covered in her notes.
“Were they good? Did Violet fuss much when you put her to bed? I should have told you she could be fussy,” said Mrs. McQuaid.
She started unbuttoning her coat, and Mr. McQuaid was immediately beside her, helping to take it off and then hanging it in the coat closet.
Delia’s coat was in that same closet, and when he brought it to her, he helped her into it.
How gallant he was. Mrs. McQuaid was rummaging in her purse.
“Ian, do you have money for Delia? Somehow, I’ve left myself with only coins.
” She smiled at Delia warmly. “We can’t thank you enough. ”
“Yes, I have it right here.” He took out his wallet, handing Delia several bills; she realized she hadn’t even discussed what he would pay her.
“I think that should take care of it.” He’d given her five dollars, which seemed quite generous.
Delia didn’t want to take so much, but she put the money away and thanked him.
“You’re welcome. Now, let’s get you safely home.”
“I can walk,” Delia said, but only because she felt it was the right thing to say. Inside, she was jubilant—she’d get to be alone with him, even if only for a little while.
“Nonsense,” said Professor McQuaid.
“Ian’s right, Delia. It’s too late for you to be wandering about on your own.”
“I’ll be back in a flash,” Mr. McQuaid said to his wife as he ushered Delia out the door and into the car.
“How was the concert?” She was trying to cover her excitement—and awkwardness—with small talk.
“Superb,” he said. “It meant the world to Maggie. She adores the twins—we both do—but taking care of two babies all the time is a lot, even for the most adoring of mothers.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“You didn’t have any trouble tonight, did you?”
“None at all.” This wasn’t true. Dinner was messy—most of the creamed spinach and pureed chicken ended up on the floor—and changing the diapers was even messier.
Also Violet had resisted going to sleep, which meant Delia had to walk her back and forth, back and forth, before she settled her down for the night.
“Thank you so much, Delia. You saved the day. Or rather the evening.”
Delia. He’d called her Delia, and not Miss Goldhush, for the first time.
Did that mean something? They were almost at Main Gate; she’d be getting out in a moment, saying goodbye to him before she’d had a chance to offer something, anything, clever or witty, something he would remember.
Her heart was beating very hard when she turned her head to look at his profile.
She had the mad thought that he would kiss her.
She wanted him to kiss her. But he did nothing of the kind and kept his eyes on the dark road ahead.
When they had passed through Main Gate, he slowed the car and pulled up to her dorm.
She stepped out into the chilly night and watched as he drove away. Then she went upstairs and got into bed. What if he had kissed her? Then what? She lay awake for a long time, embellishing and embroidering such a scenario.