Page 16 of One of Them

By the time the Shakespeare class met again, Delia had gotten herself under control.

Mr. McQuaid— not Ian—was not going to kiss her, ever .

She needed to put a stop to these fantasies.

But when the class had ended and the students were filing out, he once again asked her to stay.

She was aware that Virginia Worthington had heard this as well, and could feel the other girl’s animosity, rising like steam around her.

When everyone had left, and Delia and the professor were alone, he said, “Mrs. McQuaid and I were wondering if you’d like a regular job watching the girls. Our babysitter’s had some family emergency, and she’s had to go back to Albany.”

Delia stared down at the clutch of books in her arms. She knew she should say no.

“My wife is very much hoping you’ll say yes,” he said. And then, after a few seconds, “So am I.”

Delia looked at him then; there was indeed something hopeful—bashful even—in his expression, and she found herself saying yes, she’d love to watch the babies.

From then on, at least once and sometimes twice a week, she walked over to the McQuaids’ house on Church Street.

The McQuaids would then go out—to a faculty party, a movie, dinner in Rhinebeck or Garrison—while Delia minded the twins.

She soon got to know them better and could discern their differences—Dot was the more outgoing, boisterous baby, while Vi was more reserved.

Delia found herself falling in love with both of them, just as she was falling in love with their father.

Because it was love, this feeling she had for him.

Then there was an unusually mild night for the beginning of November.

Delia sat in the passenger seat of Mr. McQuaid’s car and rolled down the window so she could see the wisp of the moon up above.

It wasn’t that she cared so much about the moon, but the exquisite tension of these drives back to the dorm—he continued to insist on driving her, and she’d stopped protesting—had been wound and tightened to such a degree that she felt she couldn’t stand it.

She needed something, anything, as a distraction.

“It’s a lovely evening,” he said. “It’s almost balmy.”

He had stopped the car right before passing through Main Gate.

Why? Could it be that he was feeling what she was feeling?

Delia turned to look at him but said nothing.

The space between them—mere inches, a foot at most—felt electrified.

To her own shock, she leaned across the seat and pressed her lips to his.

He was clearly taken aback. But his hesitation was no match for her desire.

Inhaling something redolent of pine—his bath soap?

His shampoo?—she traced the unfamiliar contours of his lips with her tongue and then, all at once, he was responding to her kiss, returning it with greater ardor than she could ever have imagined.

When they moved apart, Delia was breathing heavily.

She waited for him to say something, but he didn’t, so she just mumbled a hasty good night and jumped out of the car.

She ran up the stairs and threw herself onto her bed, grateful that she had no roommate and could replay what had just happened in the privacy of her own quivering soul.

The next time she babysat for the twins, she could barely contain her excitement or her unease—what would happen when he drove her home?

Would he bring up the last time they’d been together?

Would he scold her, tell her she’d done a terrible thing and that it could never be repeated?

Initiate the contact? Maybe he wouldn’t even offer her the lift home at all.

Or maybe he would say nothing, pretending it hadn’t happened.

To Delia, that would be the worst of all.

But no. When he and Mrs. McQuaid got home, he jingled the car keys merrily in one hand and said, as casually as could be, “Come on, Miss Goldhush. Time to get you back to campus.” Delia said good night to Mrs. McQuaid and followed him out into the dark.

They were both quiet on the drive. Then he took a slight detour and, instead of driving through Main Gate, turned a corner and parked on a side street, away from the streetlight.

There he took her in his arms and kissed her passionately, kissed her until she felt giddy.

Then it was over, and she once again got out of the car without any mention of what had just taken place.

She ran up the stairs to her room and bolted the door behind her.

He was a married man! A married man with a beautiful wife and two darling babies.

And he was her professor. But this was what she’d been wanting, yearning for, practically since the first day she’d walked into his class.

How astonishing, how wonderful that he wanted it too.

When the next time came, she couldn’t wait to be alone with him in the car, and for the next few weeks, this became their pattern.

They rarely spoke, or if they did, it was about something inconsequential, not about what they were doing to and with each other.

That was fine. She didn’t need to talk to him then.

She had spent hours listening to him talk in class; she was well aware of—and admired—the clarity of his thinking, of his eloquence.

What happened between them when he drove her back to campus was a different form of communication, one that needed no words.

They always began by kissing, but soon things progressed to more intimate caresses.

He slipped his hands first inside her sweater, then her brassiere, and finally her underpants, stroking her with such sureness, such delicacy, that she was surprised by the shuddering wave of pleasure that washed over her.

She was still shuddering when he guided her hand inside his trousers and showed her what to do.

She grew greedy for his touch, demanding of it; the more it happened, the more she craved it.

Delia felt herself split in two—there was the wordless girl in the parked car and then there was the composed, self-possessed girl in her classes.

She began to find reasons to walk past Avery, where the English department was located, in the hope that she might run into him.

She didn’t know what she’d say if she did, but that didn’t matter.

And early one evening, when the sky had already darkened, she walked past the building and saw just a single light in a window on the second floor.

Ian’s office was on the second floor; she’d been there to see him for meetings a couple of times early in the semester.

She was pretty sure the light was coming from his office.

And if that was true, it would mean he was inside, and most likely alone.

The building was unlocked, and she was able to slip inside and up the stairs.

On the second floor the hallway was dark, but at the far end she saw the light, the same light she’d seen from below, and she began to walk—slowly, quietly—toward it.

All the doors she passed were closed. All but one.

When she reached it, she stopped, her heart galloping.

He looked up. “Delia.” The word was a caress.

He had never called her that in this building; it was always Miss Goldhush.

Now what? She had no reason to be here, no reason other than that she wanted to see him, and to have him see her.

“Won’t you come in?” he asked, as if they were mere acquaintances, as if he hadn’t touched her everywhere.

When she didn’t move, he crossed the room, pulled her inside, and closed the door.

Locked it. The click startled her for a second, and then he was kissing her, pulling at her clothes, only this time they weren’t in a car, but in his office, where a sofa covered in some scratchy fabric of an indeterminate color beckoned.

Above it was a window whose shade was halfway down.

He stopped for a moment to pull it down completely.

Then he led her to the sofa, still kissing, still loosening her clothes and his.

When they had undressed, Delia found that she was trembling; as much as she wanted this to happen, she was frightened.

And she knew it would hurt. Her trembling intensified.

“I’ve never known a girl like you.” He brushed the hair from her face. “A girl who kissed me first. A girl who came here looking for me... for this.” He gestured to their naked bodies. “You’re a marvel, Delia,” he breathed into her ear.

Was she? He seemed to think so. Her fear was subsiding, and desire took its place.

She tilted her face up and kissed him, and then he lay back against the sofa.

“Here,” he said. “Let me show you how.” Gently he guided her so that she was straddling him.

Then he pulled her down so that her body lowered gently onto his.

Slowly he began thrusting his hips as his hands stayed at her waist, anchoring her.

She felt something sharp and tearing, but though it hurt, the pain was muted by the soft pressure of his lips on her nipples, his fingers touching her, arousing her, the tension building and building until it exploded like a shower of petals raining down.

He kept thrusting in a rhythmic, rocking motion; his body arched slightly, and he cried out.

Delia was quiet. She had never felt so close to anyone, and she leaned over to kiss him.

They remained like that for a moment until her legs began to ache and she gingerly pulled herself off of him.

Inside her thigh was a small smear of blood; she put her fingers to it with a kind of wonder but also fear.

This was more than kissing and caressing; she’d just crossed a line, and she understood that, having done it, she’d never be able to cross back.