A male cardinal watched us through the bedroom window. It was a sunny late-November Tuesday, the branches of the oak outside were still, and Harve was hard as a Roman statue. Bette was gone for her weekly hair appointment, and I had slipped over, as usual. 

Harve sat on the ottoman, and I mounted him in reverse, my legs outside his so I could push up from the floor with my feet. He held me upright, cupping my breasts, and I pogoed on him languorously, and watched the cardinal watching us. I wondered why the bird was alone. I hated being alone, especially now that the twins were in school, and was continually grateful that Harve lived next door.

Neither of us spoke, except through grunts and breaths, and I had lost track of time, until a canorous string of sighs and moans, intermixed with my name, signaled Harve’s climax. I had come six, eight, ten times by then, but knew that he would be hard long enough for me to hit one more, so I bore down and concentrated on the feel of his 70-year-old power throbbing in me. With increased tempo I rode another minute, maybe two, adjusting myself forward by leaning forcefully into his hands. The tiny change of angle and strain against him was enough and I was rewarded with one last blossoming inside, a marvel I never tired of. 

The cardinal sang with us, a kind of natural benediction.

“Gina, what god did I please to have you like this?”

I stood and turned around, bending over to kiss him. He never failed to make me feel beautiful inside and out. “The same one that gave you to me.” I kissed him again, tickled by his essence easing out of me. 

Totally his for three hours every Tuesday! Oh, it was more than that, but Tuesdays were our day for sex. The rest of the time Bette was home and we were neighbors. 

Harve reached a tissue and wiped at our sexes, and I helped him.

“I’d better get back home. Bette will be home soon and the boys back from kindergarten.”

Harve nodded. “I live for Tuesdays, you know.”

“I know. Me, too.” I said, slipping my clothes on.

“Funniest thing last Friday.”

“Oh, what was that?

“Black Friday at the mall, and two college girls were flashing the shoppers. They never looked at me, but I sure saw them. Made me want you all the more.”

“Oh, darling. I always want you. I’m sure those girls got a thrill out of that. You and Bette coming over tonight?

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

“See you at seven.” I kissed him one last time and made my way to the door.

As I opened the back door at home, Dorkie yapped like a toy machine gun. The Dachshund-Yorkie mix was a gift to the boys last Christmas, and she had stolen their hearts. Harve would have to come up with something pretty phenomenal to beat that in the eyes of the twins.

*

When Harve and Bette came over for dessert, they carried a wrapped box between them, except the top was loosely flapped and unpapered.

“I know it’s not Christmas yet, but I thought the boys could have their gift from us a little early,” Harve said.

Bette smiled indulgently. “You know Harve can never keep a secret. Better to give it now so he doesn’t burst a blood vessel trying to keep his mouth closed.”

“This is for you boys,” Harve announced superfluously, because they were already yammering at his knees and reaching for the box.

“Harold and Lawrence,” Bette said in her unnecessarily formal manner, “you need to open it together.”

Harve leaned forward, keeping the box securely in his arms but allowing the boys to pull back the top.

“A goose,” yelled Larry.

“No, it’s a duck,” countered Harry.

“Yes, a duck,” Harve confirmed. “It’s a breed called a Pomeranian. It might look a little like a goose. When I was a boy in Sweden, we had some of them.”

“What do you tell Grandpa Harvey?” Ned coaxed.

“Thank you, Grandpa Harvey,” they said in a sing-song unison.

“I’ve got a pen to keep it in. For now, it’s in my yard, but I’ll have your dad plan a good place to move it over here.”

“Can we take it out and pet it?” begged Larry, trying to pull back the mosquito netting at the top of the box.

“Let’s not. See the poop?” Harve tipped the box for them to see, and the duck slid to the corner crease in mild protest, and a plop of sludge started to slide, too, before Harve righted the box. “Let’s put it in the pen and you can see it there.”

The boys followed Harve and Bette back to their yard, their red hair bobbing like candles. I started to follow, but Ned squeezed my elbow, holding me back.

“Did you know about this?” he asked.

“No, it’s a surprise to me.”

“I wish he would find gifts with a lot lower maintenance. First the dog, and now a duck.”

“He doesn’t have grandkids of his own. You know he dotes on them. He does more than either of our fathers do.”

“I know. And it’s not even December yet. I just get tired of gifts that come with an upkeep cost.”

“It will help teach the boys responsibility.”

“But until then, it’s up to us.”

“Be grateful, Ned. You know the Werles are the best thing that’s happened to us. And I’m the one home doing most of that upkeep.”

Ned started to argue then pursed his lips. “Yes, as usual, you’re right. If you’re okay with it . . .”

“I am.”

“Okay. I’m sorry I made a fuss. Let’s go see the pen.”

“Wait,” I said. “I have a little something for you early, too.” I went to a kitchen cabinet and took out a small, wrapped package. “Open this while the others are outside.”

Ned greedily pulled the paper back to reveal a pack of Fire & Ice condoms.

“We can try those out tonight,” I told him. “Now put them away.” And I went out to the yard while he took them to the bedroom, smiling as he went. 

The cage was a 6-by-6 wire cube that Harve had lined with chicken wire to keep out raccoons or other small carnivores that might roam the neighborhood at night. In an open garbage can, a bag of Purina Duck Starter had been ripped open and a plastic scoop stood handle-upward inside. In a wooden tray, some of the pellets had been spread. The duck was easily visible, lying black against the grass, and well illuminated by Harve’s yard light, but the pen also had a nesting box about 3 feet off the ground. 

The duck seemed happy, the boys were happy, Harve and Bette were happy, and I made Ned happy later that night.

*

On Friday, Bette showed me some pictures in an old-fashioned album of Harve and her when they were younger. The old ones were black-and-white, but the very first color ones showed Harve and Bette at a lake. Bette was in a 60s-style bikini that covered more than most underwear does today, and Harve was in some knee-length board shorts. 

“That was quite a risqué shot, for the times,” Bette said, pointing.

Harve had told me, when the twins were born, he’d once had red hair, but I could hardly believe it. No one, except perhaps Bette, knew him as anything other than the silver fox he was today. Well, not exactly silver, now that I look at him closely. The pictures chronicle the 40-year adjustment from ginger to fading copper to sunset blond to rosy white.

Harve came in while we flipped through the album and sat quietly.

“What’s wrong, dear?” Bette asked as we finished the last page.

“Something wrong with the boys’ duck.”

“Is it ill?” Bette asked.

“I think it has a broken leg. You remember when we were taking it from the box and one of the boys stepped on it?” Turning toward me, he said, “That was before you came out. Well, I didn’t think much of it at the time, but it hasn’t been very mobile. Just now it kind of flopped its way over to the food, and I thought, ‘That’s not right.’ I’m afraid I’ll have to go in and see for sure.”

“Oh, dear. The boys will be heartbroken,” Bette concluded.

“And the duck,” I added.

“I don’t want to. Go in.”

“I’ll go with you,” I said without hesitation.

Harve looked at me with an unmistakably melted heart. “Thank you.”

*

It was bad. After the vet amputated the useless leg and said he would keep the duck overnight just to make sure there weren’t any complications or apparent infection, Harve and I decided we would make a bit of a production picking up the sick duck with the boys on Saturday morning, the six of us.

That night, after the boys were down, Ned slipped his arms around me. “Thanks for taking care of all things ducky. I’m sure it was a stressful day.”

I turned and looked at him. I missed Harve, but I loved Ned, too. He was not a substitute, just different. Like the difference between John Phillip Sousa and Mozart: different instruments, different combinations of rhythms, different internal beats, but delightful, gorgeous music each in their own way. “It’s up to me to keep things up around here,” I said with a grin. “I think we should destress with your Christmas present.” I kissed him.

“Mmmmm,” he murmured. “That sounds like a perfect way to end the day.”

I did a medium-fast strip tease for him in the bedroom; I didn’t want to stall the process, but I wanted to savor it as well. Ned bent me over the bed the way I’d taught him and probed with the fire-and-ice in place. God, it was exciting, and I came within a couple of minutes. With Ned, I know I’ve got five minutes on a good day, so after I came a second time, I grabbed him and whirled him. I’d intended for us to fold onto the bed, but we hit the edge at an odd angle and slid to the carpet. Neither of us cared, and Ned emptied himself into me as I wished I had come for the third time. But we don’t always get it the way we’d like.

“Every time we make love, the world is a better place,” he whispered, still panting from his race to the finish.

“Making love is a beautiful song,” I replied, and I looked instinctively at the window, but there was no cardinal, and the sky was black, of course.

*

Harve had been my boss at first. I was hired on as a secretary at his law firm. I was dating Ned at the time, but when I interviewed for the job, I knew I wanted that man inside me. And I did that just eight days later, on his office desk. I was hired, obviously, before that. Ned was hired a few weeks after me. Ned and I got engaged. I got pregnant. We got married. And Harve was able to arrange things so that we bought the house next door to his. I quit work when the twins were born, and Harve retired about the same time. When I say I’ve lived a charmed life, I mean it.

The forty years between us in age has never bothered me, and it makes it much less likely that anyone will guess we’ve been lovers for more than six years. Even the twins think of Harve more like a grandpa, than neighbor, or, truthfully, biological father. At six-foot-two, he commands attention just by standing in the room. God, I grow wet every time he’s near me.

And so, we’ve picked up the duck from the vet and the boys are dripping ice cream on the floor of Bateman’s. We probably weren’t supposed to bring the duck inside but did because leaving it in the car seemed unkind. And it’s not making any fuss in its box.

“Grandpa Harvey, how will the duck walk with only one leg?” asks Harry.

“He’ll adjust.”

“Can we get him a wooden one, like a pirate?” asks Larry.

“No,” Harve answers amid our laughter. “He’s got wings to help keep him upright and he’ll start to hop before long.”

“All ducks have different strengths and weaknesses,” I add. “Just like people. We adapt to whatever restrictions we have to deal with. It doesn’t make life any less sweet.”

Nods from Harve and Ned and Bette, let me know I’ve found the right chord.