Praying for Sleep

Two p.m. sharp. Father rang a bell and we had to be there on the button. Roast, potatoes, green beans. We’d eat while he lectured about literature or business or space flights. Politics sometimes. Mostly he liked astronauts.”
    “It’s really in there, the thorn. Just the tip. I can see it.”
    “Hurts like hell. Can you get it out?”
    “I’ve got some tweezers.” He pulled out a Swiss Army knife.
    She dug into her pocket and handed him a Bic lighter. “Here.” When he looked blank she laughed and said, “Sterilize it. Living in New York you learn to be careful about what you put into your body.”
    He took the lighter and ran a flame over the end of the tweezers.
    “A Swiss Army knife,” she said, watching him. “Does it have a corkscrew on it, and everything? Little scissors? A magnifying glass?”
    “You know, Portia, sometimes it’s hard to tell if you’re making fun of somebody.”
    “It’s probably my abrasive big-city attitude. It gets me into trouble sometimes. Don’t take it personally.” Portia fell silent and turned away, lowering her face to a rosebush. She inhaled deeply.
    “I didn’t know you smoked.” He returned the lighter to her.
    “I don’t. Not cigarettes. And then, after we’d have our dessert, which was accompanied by . . . ?”
    “I have no idea.”
    “Port.”
    Owen said he should have guessed.
    “Do you like port, Owen?”
    “No. I don’t like port.”
    “Ow, Jesus, that hurts.”
    “Sorry.”
    He put his large hand on the front of Portia’s thigh and held it firmly as he pressed the tiny blade of the tweezers against the base of the thorn. “Keep your hem up, so it doesn’t get blood on it.” She hiked her skirt slightly higher and he caught a fast view of the lace trim on red panties. He pressed harder with the tweezers.
    Her eyes were closed and her teeth seated. “No, I can’t stand port either but I am an expert on the subject. I paid attention during dear Father’s dinnertime speeches. Nineteen seventeen was as good a year as the benchmark year. . . . Which was?” She raised a querying eyebrow. When he didn’t respond she exhaled against the pain and said, “Why, 1963, of course. I thought all of you upper-crust gentlemen farmers knew that.”
    “I don’t like to farm any more than I like port.”
    “Well, garden then.” He felt her thigh quivering in his hand. He gripped it tighter. Portia continued, “A really good 1917 port has a bouquet that’s reminiscent of tobacco. Sunday nights! After the port—and Father’s lecture about port or NASA or lit-ra-ture or God knew what—and after our bolos levados and jam, we kids had nothing to do.” She inhaled deeply, then asked, “Owen, I didn’t really have to be here, did I? I could’ve signed everything in New York, had it notarized and mailed to you, right?”
    He paused. “You could have, yes.”
    “So, what does she really want?”
    “You’re her sister.”
    “Does that mean I’m supposed to know why she asked me? Or does it mean she wants my company?”
    “She hasn’t seen much of you.”
    Portia laughed breathily. “You got that little sucker yet?”
    “It’s almost out.” Owen glanced at the doorway at which his wife, if inclined to enter the greenhouse at this moment, would catch them at whatever it was that they were doing. He probed again with the tweezers, felt her shiver. She bit her lip and remained silent. Then he lifted out the thorn and stood.
    Still holding her translucent skirt, Portia turned. Owen caught another flash of panties then held up the tweezers, the tip bright with her blood. “You’d think it’d be bigger,” she said. “Thanks. You’re a man of many talents.”
    “It’s not too bad. Just a pinprick. But you should put something on it. Bactine. Peroxide.”
    “You have anything?”
    “In the bathroom upstairs,” he answered. “The one next to our bedroom.”
    She dabbed a Kleenex on the wound and examined the tissue. “Damn roses,” Portia muttered, and dropping her hem she started toward the stairs.

5
    He encircled her with his arms and pressed his mouth against hers. It was not a gentle kiss. Her fingers found his solid biceps and pulled him closer. Against his bare chest she rubbed her breasts, covered by only the thin cloth of her blouse.
    I’m out of control, Owen thought. Out of goddamn control. He closed his eyes and kissed her again.
    His tongue slipped between her lips and played with hers. She gripped his lower lip