“You’re so predictably unpredictable,” said Cassi, smiling. “Your mother and I had a most interesting conversation. Thomas, I never knew about your clubfoot. Why didn’t you tell me?”
She sat down on the arm of his chair, forcing him to swing around into a normal position. He didn’t answer, concentrating on his drink. “It’s not important,” said Cassi, “but I’m an expert on childhood afflictions. I find it reassuring that we shared such an experience. I think it gives us a special degree of understanding.”
“I can’t remember anything about a clubfoot,” said Thomas. “As far as I know I never had one. The whole thing is some elaborate delusion of my mother’s. She wants you to be impressed by how she suffered bringing me up. Look at my feet: Do they look deformed?”
Thomas took off his shoes and raised his feet.
Looking down, Cassi had to admit both feet looked entirely normal. She knew Thomas had no problem walking and had been something of a college athlete. But she still wasn’t sure who had been telling the truth.
“It seems incredible that your mother would make something like that up?”
Her tone was more a question than a statement, but Thomas took it as a statement.
Throwing down the medical journal, he leaped to his feet, nearly knocking Cassi to the floor. “Listen, I don’t care who you believe,” said Thomas. “My feet are fine, have always been fine, and I don’t want to hear anything more about a clubfoot.”
“All right, all right,” said Cassi soothingly. With a professional eye she watched her husband, noting that his equilibrium was slightly off in that he’d overshoot with simple motions that required him to make subtle readjustments. And that wasn’t all. His speech was slightly slurred as well. Cassandra had noticed similar episodes over the previous months but she’d ignored them. He had every right to indulge himself with alcohol now and then, and she knew he liked Scotch. What surprised her was how short a time had passed since he’d fled from the dinner table. He must have tossed off quite a few drinks, one after another. More than anything, Cassi wanted Thomas to relax. If a discussion about a hypothetical clubfoot was going to upset him, she was perfectly willing to drop the subject forever if necessary. Sliding off the chair, she reached up to place her arm around his shoulder.
He fended her off, defiantly taking another sip of Scotch. He looked contentious and eager to quarrel. At close range Cassi noted his pupils were constricted to mere dots of black in his bright blue irises. Suppressing her own irritation at being rejected, Cassi said: “Thomas, you must be exhausted. You need a good night’s sleep.” She reached up again and this time he permitted her to put her arm around his neck. “Come to bed with me,” she said softly.
Thomas sighed but didn’t speak. He put down his half-finished drink and let Cassi lead him back down the hall to their bedroom. He started to unbutton his shirt, but Cassi pushed his hands away and did it for him. Slowly she undressed him, discarding his clothes in a careless heap on the floor. Once he was under the covers, she rapidly undressed herself, sliding in next to him. It was a delicious sensation to feel the coolness of the freshly laundered sheets, the comforting weight of the blankets, and the warmth of Thomas’s body. Outside the November wind howled and shook the Japanese wind chimes on the balcony.
Cassi began by rubbing his neck and shoulders. Then she slowly worked her way down his body. Beneath her fingers she could feel him relax and respond to her. He stirred and enveloped her in an embrace. She kissed him and gently reached down between his legs. He was flaccid.
The moment Thomas felt Cassi’s hand touch him, he sat up and pushed her away. “I don’t think it’s quite fair to expect that I’d be able to satisfy you tonight.”
“I was interested in your pleasure,” said Cassi softly, not my own.”
“I’ll bet,” said Thomas viciously. “Don’t try any of your psychiatric bullshit on me.”