The Sculptress

bed, the first time she had seen a man, other than her father, naked. She took off her dress and undergarments. He spread her legs with his hands, enjoying her moistness with his fingers and then his mouth. Then, he pulled a rubber condom from his jacket, put it on, and straddled her, pushing his erection into her. She cried out as an unexpected slickness permeated her insides. Eventually she relaxed into his rhythm, but soon—too soon for Emma—he moaned, shuddered, and withdrew from her body.
He said nothing as he washed himself in the basin.
The breeze filled the curtains like billowing sails and ran pleasant, cool streamers over her heated body. Her breath waned as the light fell in dappled patches on her stomach and breasts. She expected him to return to bed, to thank her for making love, and to cover her with kisses. Instead he muttered, “Shit,” and looked down at the white sheet. She shifted her legs and saw a reddish-brown spot where their bodies had joined.
“That’s done it,” he said. “Now they’ll know. Charlene’s parents will suspect a man was in the house and the trail will lead to me. My father will disown me if he finds out. He thinks I’m on a study weekend.”
“Don’t worry,” she replied, still unsteady from the experience. “I’ll say I had an accident—my time of the month.”
He stood naked at the foot of the bed and smirked. “I never for a moment suspected you were a virgin.”
She sat upright and pulled the sheet over her breasts, shocked at his presumption of her promiscuity, after such boisterous lovemaking at his initiation. “Of course I was a virgin. Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve lived with my parents all my life. I don’t sneak around with men.” She got off the bed and grabbed her slip. “I can’t put this on. I’m bleeding.”
He sighed and sat on the bed. “Wash yourself off. I wouldn’t have gone through with it had I known. A gentleman doesn’t deflower a . . .”
“Deflower a virgin? What kind of girl does a gentleman deflower?”
“The virtuous woman he’s just married,” he snapped.
Emma’s body tightened, as if a blow had been aimed at her gut. “I see. So, obviously, I’m not that kind of woman?”
He started toward her and she instinctively drew back.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice dropping. “I got caught up . . . in the passion of the moment.” He placed his hands on either side of her face and pushed his fingers back through her hair. “Help me, Emma. Please don’t tell anyone about this—not even Charlene. If anyone found it, it would ruin me . . . and you.”
“You don’t love me?” she asked, falling back on her innocence as she walked to the basin.
“I adore you, but we have our lives ahead of us, as well as my career. We have to think about the future.”
“According to my mother I have no career other than as a wife—the collector of the scraps a man sees fit to throw my way.” She wiped a washcloth between her legs. “Or as a mistress.”
“What about your art?” he asked, resting his hands on her shoulders. “You have your studies as well.” He sighed and turned away from her. “This is a strain. I was wrong to do this. Please, help me out of this jam—don’t say a word.”
“What will you do for me if I promise?”
“Anything you want.”
“Make love to me as often as I wish.” She drew in a sharp breath. Because her virginity was gone she would have him whenever she wanted; she could control him if she used her sex. She would no longer be lonely. He would pay attention to her and tell her she was beautiful, and maybe even take her away from her mother and her miserable home.
Kurt left her alone in the bedroom for a few minutes and returned with a pair of scissors from the kitchen. “You accidentally cut yourself trying to mend your slip.” He handed her the scissors.
She took the instrument from him, ran a finger along the sharp silver blade, and gritted her teeth. With a quick slash, she opened a cut on her left index finger. The blood pooled in a red patch and when the quantity was sufficient, she turned her hand over, let the flow drip onto the stain, and smeared it across the sheet.
“We have a pact,” he said. “I must get back to my friend’s house before they return.” He kissed her and pulled on his pants as the leaves’ crimson reflections flashed against the walls.
“She doesn’t live far away?” she asked, baiting him.
“He. I’ve known him for years through Charlene. The house is just over the mountain—I can walk from here.”
“When will I see you again?” she asked, forgetting that she sought to control him. She walked to the basin and wrapped the washcloth around the cut.
He smiled, kissed her once more, and walked quietly down the stairs. She fell back on the bed, knowing that she should take a bath and tidy up the room, preparing her story for the reason behind the bloodstained sheet. As the warm breeze played over her, a strange sadness filled her and she felt as if she had lost much more than she had gained.
* * *
“Well?” Charlene asked after dinner.
Wrapped in sweaters, they sat on the porch steps, drinking in the cool night air, watching the flash of stars rise in the east, hearing the flutter of moths around the oil lamp, thinking of nothing but the present and little of the future.
“Why did you do it?” Emma’s voice seemed lost in the void, the words empty and meaningless.
“What happened?” Charlene turned to her with a concerned look in her eyes.
“Nothing . . . nothing at all.” She bowed her head.
“I don’t believe you . . . I’m worried, Emma. You’ve seemed distant—far away from me—since we got back from town.”
“All I want to know is why you did it?”
Charlene