Those Who Save Us by Jenna Blum Page A

hasn’t permitted anything of the sort since then, so Anna is taken completely by surprise as he pushes her into a reclining position against the steps. He rips open her dress, buttons popping off and scattering into the stairwell, and tugs a cup of her brassiere to one side, and Anna gasps at the slipperiness and the nip of his teeth, which, in his enthusiasm, he uses a bit too hard.
    Straining against her, Max fumbles to undo his trousers, and Anna feels a draft on her thighs as he lifts her skirt to her waist. She inhales sharply when he enters her. There is some pain, but not much. Anna wonders if she will bleed, as she has heard sometimes happens. She is not frightened at the prospect of surrendering her virginity, although she has always thought this would occur on her wedding night and hopefully to a Siegfried-like bridegroom, rather than a doctor whose ribs, clashing against her own, have no more meat than those of a washboard. Later, in the bath, she will discover a dark raspberry on one breast and that her pubic bone feels bruised. But now, as Max drives into her, knocking her head against a riser and uttering small whimpers, Anna repeats to herself that this is Max, her Max, and is grateful.
    It is over within minutes. A drop of sweat falls on Anna’s forehead, and another, and one in her eye, stinging. Max whispers, Anna . . .and goes slack on top of her. He is still for what seems a very long time. Then he rolls back onto the landing and Anna can breathe again.
    Eventually Max draws Anna to him. They lie side by side, blinking into the column of light. Then Max props himself up on one elbow to look at her. Stretching his hand, he touches Anna’s nipples with thumb and ring finger.
    Like cherries, he says. Cherries in the snow.
    Anna smiles.
    Is there still snow on the ground outside? Max asks.
    Some, Anna tells him. But it’s melting.
    Max nods and sinks back down, resting his head on her chest. Anna strokes his damp hair, marveling at how soft it is over the fragile cradle of bone. She holds him this way, in meditative quiet, until the crunch of gravel on the drive signifies Gerhard’s return home.

6
    IT IS MAY, AND HOT. IN THE ROOM BEHIND THE STAIRS, Anna and Max lie naked, panting like mongrels. The atmosphere is too close to allow them to hold one another in comfort, so Anna settles for lacing her fingers through Max’s and hooking a friendly ankle over his. She gazes up into the stairwell. With the passage of months, the sun’s position has changed, and a concentrated beam of light pierces the gloom as if in a cathedral. Its angle lets Anna know that she has only a few more minutes to spend here, listening to Max talk. He craves conversation, which, Anna occasionally thinks with some guilt, she prefers to more physical intimacies.
    Max traces the length of her arm with a forefinger. You know what I love? he asks.
    Tell me.
    These freckles. So dark on such light skin. Like sprinkles of chocolate.
    Anna rolls her eyes.
    Why, thank you, she says. My other lovers like them too.
    Ah, your other lovers, says Max. His grip tightens on her waist. We’ll just have to do something to take your mind off them, won’t we? Come here.
    Anna obliges. A passionate tussle ensues but is interrupted when Max starts to sneeze. He hunches into a quivering ball, sneezing and sneezing. Eventually he stops and blinks miserably at Anna, who sees, even in this dim light, that his face has gone persimmon red.
    Dear sweet loving God, Max says, sniffling. There is nothing more wretched than a summer cold.
    How on earth could you have caught a cold?
    I suppose it could be the dust.
    Perhaps, Anna agrees. Or perhaps you’re allergic to the idea of my other lovers.
    She feels for her slip and wriggles into it, an awkward process in this small a space.
    Speaking of which, she adds, it’s time for me to go put the finishing touches on dinner. My father has another festive evening planned.
    Max helps her fasten a garter. More