"Poison ivy..."
              He sat at the edge of the bed, in short underwear.
          The inner side of his thighs was one big red swelling.
          Lines of little blisters and circular red spots popped
          up elsewhere - on his legs, arms, neck.
              "Did you work in the woods...?"
              "I did."
              "In shorts, in a tee-shirt?"
              He noddded his head.
              "But I warned you..."
              "You warned me about snakes; and about people who
          shoot if you put your foot over the property line..."
              "... and about poison ivy and chiggers."
              "What are the chiggers?"
              "Tiny red bugs that live in the grass and burrow
          under your skin..."
              She recalled that recently he had come back from
          France, from a symposium at a provincial university.
          They were put up in dorms. He was appalled by squalor.
          Maybe...
              Yet, most likely, poison ivy.
              "I warned you..."
              There was no point arguing. Poison ivy does not
          grow in Europe. Warned or not, he would not believe, as
          he refused to believe in tornados, hurricanes, and
          drugs. They did not exist where he came from.
          Therefore, they did not exist.
              "I must go to work," she said, and bent forward
          kissing his forehead. "I know it itches like hell. You
          must see a doctor. He will give you calamine lotion or
          something. Promise!"
              He nodded his head, unenthusiastically.
              "Take care. I love you..."
              She retreated, backwards, toward the door, looking
          at him as he, lost and unhappy, stared at his inflamed
          thighs.
              It itches like hell. As a little girl she more then
          once got into poison ivy (or poison oak or sumac);
          Grandmother would smear her with calamine lotion which
          turned into a hard crust, and made things a little bit
          better. She has never seen such a huge inflamation.
              She has kept warning him, ever since they moved to
          North Carolina. Ever since she brought him proudly
          home, the biggest trophy of her five years stay in the
          Yankee land, beyond the Mason-Dixon line. She did not
          feel particularly guilty. Even though this may be a bad
          case, the medical technology has surely advanced past
          calamine lotion. One doesn't die from poison ivy. He
          may feel grouchy for a few days...
              This thought made her sad.
              Rarely, during the four years of their
          relationship, has he been grouchy. He could be serious
          - he was a university professor when they met - and
          determined, but always pleasant and kind. He knew his
          own value and he did not have to scream to get what he
          wanted. She could not imagine him grouchy or morose.
          She did not want to.
              The big Mazda 929 purred idly down the freeway.
              She was a little bit worried, but that in itself
          somehow warmed her up. Half way to the office she
          realized that she would really like to turn around, go
          back, and make love to him in spite of the poison ivy.
          They did not make love last night... God, what if he
          loses his lust for weeks!?
              Their acquaintance, and later on marriage, was a
          fairy tale. Her last university course, the obligatory
          intro to some humanities discipline, which she deferred
          taking over and over again. She arrived at the first
          lecture straight from the bank, and to the bank she was
          to return. She was a few minutes late, yet she entered
          the classroom -- as usual she was very prettily dressed
          in brown tones which went so nicely with her long,
          thick brown hair, her brown eyes and dark complexion -
          she said, "I'm sorry," he said, "No problem. Go ahead." 
          
              He had a cute foreign accent, he lectured boldly,
          without notes, as if telling a story. He looked
          earnest, maybe she should say, intellectual, but when
          she tried to imagine him in brown blue-jeans and an
          unbuttoned, short-sleeved yellow shirt, she felt little
          needles at her lower back. She knew what that meant.
              After that first lecture she went to his office, to
          apologize, ask what she had missed, and to reconfirm
          her intuition. She stayed over five minutes. At one
          point, their eyes caught up like two radars. When the
          course is over...
              She skillfully took advantage of the fact that he
          did not mean to stay at the university forever. After
          the wedding, she took him to the sizzling hot, marshy
          forests of the Piedmont, showed him off to the
          relatives, and warned him: "North Carolina has more
          snakes per square foot than any other state of the
          nation; watch out lest you should step across the
          boundary lines; here people shoot first, and ask "who's
          coming" later." Certainly, she warned him about the
          chiggers and poison ivy.
              As a Southerner, a Mediterranean, he liked the
          scorched red dirt, cypresses, snakes... She said: "I am
          making good money at the investment department at the
          bank. Back home I could get a hell of a job at a
          brokerage firm. You may write, teach part-time, edit a
          magazine. Look after the house, and kids, and make as
          much money as I..."
              He said: "Yes."
              It was just as she had predicted. Only, no kids. He
          was now thirty-eight, and she was twenty-eight. Was it
          possible that they did not love each other enough? But
          nobody ever loved each other like the two of them! She
          did not dare ask any more questions.
              Those needles in her back now spread to her hips
          and thighs. In the elevator, she told herself, sternly:
          "Hey, cool off. Another busy day. What the devil has
          gotten into you. Full moon?"
              She felt an urgent need to call him, from her desk,
          but she suppressed it. She called him later, while the
          stock-market was taking a breather, but there was no
          answer.
          
              "Poison ivy", he said, when she appeared at the
          door. He wore brown blue-jeans and a well buttoned
          long-sleeved yellow shirt. She charged ahead and fell
          into his arms.
              "You were right," he said.
              "How are you?"
              "O.K. Doctor gave some tiny pills, eight first day,
          seven the next, and so on, steroids, I believe. And
          cortisone cream. And...
              "And...?"
              "He told me to take a hot shower. As hot as I can
          stand. It itches like crazy, but it knocks out... the
          histamine?, and then it does not itch for six to eight
          hours. You need not scratch it and so it heals faster.
              He was not depressed; on the contrary, he sounded
          quite pleased.
              She pressed against him, pushed her head under his
          chin and kissed his neck.
              "Still, tonight, put on a long-sleeved, long-legged
          pajamas. If necessary, we will turn on the air-
          conditioning, although it gives us both headache."
              "I asked the doctor and he said it does not spread
          by contact."
              "Doesn't spread? Ask Grandmother. Of course, it
          does."
              Then something horrible occurred to her. So
          horrible that she immediately repressed it. She pulled
          out of his arms, stepped back.
              "Dinner's on the table," he said. "Let's eat. Wanna
          beer? With those pills, no booze for me".
           
              They opened most of the windows and invited the
          pleasant mid-summer evening to stream in. He had just
          had a shower, he would be O.K. for hours.
              She approached him from the rear, and put her hands
          around his neck. She pressed her breasts against him
          and then she slowly bit his neck. Those little needles
          now flew freely from the periphery of her body toward
          the center of being. Never, never, did she feel so -
          how to say it - wonderfully blown up?
              Slowly he turned, pulled her to, and she joyfully
          recognized his readiness.  
              He said: "I must warn you. I have a few blisters...
          you know where."
              She froze. Never, never, even that first night,
          after a dinner at the "Happy Lobster," upon the
          completion of the course, did she want him so much.
              "After the visit to Dr. Bonner's I went to a
          drugstore and bought some condoms. Although Dr. Bonner
          said it does not spread by contact."
              She could hardly believe her ears! He really thinks
          of everything. He is so wonderful... She never wanted
          him so much...
           
              In the morning, while they slowly crept out of the
          light summer blankets -- it was Saturday -- she said:
              "That, you know what I mean, that reminded me of
          our early days. No, I am not nostalgic, it is getting
          better and more beautiful every day, but I got really
          turned on. And you were especially big and strong. I
          know it's impossible but I feel as if I was...
          pregnant!
              She tilted her head. Her hair fell and covered half
          of her face as she reached up to kiss him.
              "Wait..."
              He went to the bathroom. She could hear him
          rummaging through something.
              When he returned he wore a satisfied, slightly
          wistful smile.
              "You won't believe it. The balloon tore. I can
          bring it and show it to you, as exhibit."
              She hesitated fighting her inborn sense of
          propriety.
              "Bring it..."
              With disbelief she watched the small piece of
          crumpled latex.
              "Indeed..."
              "Indeed."
              He stood up, and headed for the bathroom again.
              "It itches like hell. Let me take that shower."
              He stopped within the door frame and tossed the
          condom into the trash basket. Then he turned around and
          smiled. He said:
              "Poison ivy!"
              "Take that shower and hurry back to me," she said.
              She patted her belly, then smiled and shrugged her
          shoulders. Maybe? No, not maybe. For sure! Poison ivy?
              She sank, heavy and warm, ready for his return,
          among scattered cushions cooled by the morning draft.
              Then she felt something, like a faint itch between
          the left hand fingers, just bellow her wedding ring.
              There was a string of tiny red jewels on the soft
          skin web. Poison ivy!
              Where did she get it?
              Or, was Grandmother indeed right, and it spread by
          contact?
              Indeed, indeed...
              She listened to the drumming of the shower, as the
          itching grew. A light cloud swept across her eyes. She
          brought her hand to her face and kissed the tiny red
          blisters, greeting them with tears of joy.