Cutler 03 - Twilight's Child

last."
     
    Philip insisted on returning to the hotel and working during the week before his wedding. Jimmy thought he would have too much on his mind to be of any real use, but Philip said if he didn't keep busy, he would go mad. We were only two weeks or so away from moving into our new house, and Philip spent a great deal of time over there with Jimmy checking on the finishing touches.
    "I think the anticipation of getting married is driving Philip mad," Jimmy told me one evening.
    "Why do you say that, Jimmy?" I asked. We were getting ready for bed.
    "I don't mind him following me over to the house, and I don't even mind him hovering over my shoulder every time I look at something, but the questions . . ." Jimmy shook his head.
    "Like what, Jimmy?"
    "Like where exactly will our bed be located in our room? What side do you sleep on? Which closet is yours and which is mine? Why should he care about that? Today he sat at the vanity table and stared into the mirror the whole time I was in our suite. I left, and when I came back I thought he was gone, but I found him in the master bathroom, standing by the tub, just gazing down at it. He was in some kind of daze, because I had to call him three times to get his attention.
    "I've heard about men acting that way when they're in love, but . . . What's the matter, Dawn?" Jimmy asked. "You have the strangest expression on your face." He laughed. "Actually, you look like someone who's seen a ghost. Is something wrong?"
    "No," I said quickly. I smiled up at Jimmy. "Actually," I said, making it up as fast as I could, "I was just remembering how I was that day you came to New York to visit me at school. I was on pins and needles the whole time, and when you were late—"
    "I remember," he said. "I was so nervous, but the moment I set eyes on you I stopped worrying. I knew we just had to be together; it just had to happen.
    "Do you think Philip and Betty Ann have that kind of love?" Jimmy asked.
    I turned away.
    "I don't know, Jimmy. She appears to love him very much."
    "Well, I'm just happy now that things ended up the way they did—that you turned out to be his sister and not mine. I don't know if I would ever have found anyone else," he said.
    "Oh, Jimmy." Half undressed, I sat on the bed.
    "Hey . . . you're crying. Why are you crying?" he asked, sitting beside me and putting his arm around my shoulder.
    "I'm just happy I'm with you and you're with me," I said. "Really I am."
    He smiled, and we kissed.
    That night we tried once more to have our baby. I couldn't have wanted it any more than I did when we made love this time, but after we were finished and had kissed and turned away from each other to sleep, I had this empty feeling inside, this knowledge that we hadn't found the magic moment yet. I began to wonder if we ever would again. It was a frightening thought. What if the only child I would have was the one I had had with Michael? It would surely break Jimmy's heart. He craved family so and was constantly inquiring as to whether Mr. Updike's detective had made any headway in his search for Fern. I couldn't tell him that we had stopped searching because we had run into one dead end after another. I didn't have the courage to tell him that the facts were simply inaccessible to us; it was the law, and Mr. Updike had advised me that to pursue it was verging on something illegal.
    My mind was in such a turmoil, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes and tried, I saw Philip standing in my nearly completed new bedroom, gazing licentiously at my vanity table and tub—but in my imagination I saw myself in the tub, taking a bath. I lifted my head, and suddenly there was Philip in the doorway, smiling down at me. I tried to get him to leave, but he stepped in further and offered to wash my back. I couldn't help but imagine him forcing himself on me again, running that washcloth over my shoulders and then down and over my breasts.
    I moaned, frightened that these thoughts had even entered my mind. But it wasn't my fault, I told myself. It was Philip's. Somehow, slyly, surreptitiously, with the stealth of a fox in a chicken coop, he was creeping through the shadows and entering my world, first in little ways, and then bursting in upon me, upon my very thoughts.
    I couldn't help but relive his sexual attack on me in the shower. I had been so frustrated, so trapped; I had been unable to shout out for fear I would bring attention. In the end I had been