By nine o’clock he could barely get off his chair. When he got back there was a message on the answering machine. The sound of her voice sobered him up faster than a bucket of cold water. The worst thing about it was she didn’t even sound mad anymore.
“Listen, Jake, I had better tell you, just in case you find out from someone else. I am on my way to Prague. I just got a call from the woman who looks after my grandfather. He’s had a heart attack. I am catching an eight A.M. flight. I’ll stay at a hotel tonight when I get in, then go south in the morning. I’ll call you when I get there. I . . . I hope things are well with you. I . . . I think of you even though I don’t want to. I’ll talk to you soon.”
Mirka in Prague, Jesus Christ. Mirka here tonight. He looked at his watch: nine twenty-four. New York was six hours behind. The flight was what, eight, eight and a half hours? That meant it would get in at, say, eleven-thirty P.M. Twelve? He grabbed a clean shirt from a drawer and applied the aftershave in the cab. She would have seen him looking better, but, then, she would also have seen him looking worse, and at least this way he would see her at all.
He’d calculated without the roadwork on the airport route. Jeez, why did they bother? Even when they’d fixed the roads they weren’t drivable. Fuck it, he should have commandeered a cop car. Then he could have put on the siren.
The plane had been in for forty minutes by the time he got there. He rushed into the arrivals terminal. There were businessmen coming out with New York duty-free bags. No, they hadn’t seen the woman he described. He thought of having her paged, but the line was enormous. He ran around the airport, then went outside.
He spotted her immediately. She was down at the other end of the concourse, where the taxis were parked, a man in a chauffeur’s hat by her side. He knew it was her, could recognize that mane of chestnut hair and the long, clean line of those beautiful legs anywhere. He called her name, but she was too far away to hear. He started pushing his way toward her, but she was already halfway into a big black car, the driver shutting the door.
“Hey, you!” he shouted. The driver turned into the sound of the voice and seemed to see him but walked quickly to the other side of the car and got in. The engine started immediately. He was within twenty feet of the car as it pulled out. He screamed her name, and she must have heard something because he saw her turn in the frame of the back window. He waved frantically and saw in her face that she had recognized him, because she looked suddenly startled, then lifted a hand and leaned over to say something to the driver. But instead of stopping the car moved smoothly away. He ran out into the road to follow but was blasted from behind by a car horn. He jumped out of the way just in time to watch the limo glide down the slip road, out into the central road, and away, accelerating all the time.
Catching his breath he watched it go, and, as he did so, something cold gripped at his bowels. He had seen the car before. Not the same license plate, of course. That one he would remember anywhere, and anyway, he already knew it had been stolen. But the car he had seen, with its door half open, offering another woman a lift, one from which she didn’t come back.
A call about an old man with a heart condition. It could have come from anyone. If he hadn’t been drunk he would have seen it from the start. But he still wouldn’t have got to the plane in time. Jesus, not Mirka. Please, God, no, not Mirka.
Finishing the chapter had made her late for the film, but at least it kept her mind off the date and the kitchen. She ran all the way from the underground. He was waiting outside the cinema, tickets in hand, clearly a little pissed off. Her lateness helped her to overcome her shyness and she was still apologizing as the credits rolled.
The movie had a smaller body count than her novel, and none of its corpses were female. In fact, it turned out to be quite a good idea: a swanky little thriller with a plot that snaked its way through sex into murder and a large bank account. In the end the villains won, but their triumph was a good-humored affair, more a victory for charm than a defeat for morality and therefore not to be taken seriously. He had chosen well. It was, she thought later, the perfect film for a first date.
Afterward they went to a Thai restaurant on Fourth Street where the food was great, but the spice warnings not entirely accurate, and one of the chili dishes took the roof of her mouth off. At least it gave them something to laugh about as she gulped down water. He had a good laugh, unselfconscious. It was, she thought at the time, the kind of laugh you could imagine going to bed with, should your imagination that way incline. By the end of the second bottle of wine she was beginning to see how it could.
They haggled over the bill, then agreed to split it. They lived near enough to each other to share a cab home. At the door she invited him in for coffee. He accepted and paid the fare. She let him.
She had trouble with the Chubb. It was, she realized as she fumbled in the dark only the second or third time she had opened it, and never before in the dark. He offered to help, and in the end she let him. “You’re well protected,” he said, as one lock led to another. Neither of them took it any further.
Inside, the house was quiet and well behaved, as it had been for the two days since she had made the date. Maybe it was biding its time, waiting to see how far she would go. She ushered him down to the kitchen. As she unlocked the door she wondered if she shouldn’t make some casual comment about a crazy cat, just in case the floor was littered with dessert spoons and potato peelings, but she couldn’t think of a way to bring it up, and by then the lights were on and the room was revealed as tidy and benign.
“Nice kitchen,” he said and appeared to mean it.
He flicked through the CD shelf as she made the coffee. “How do you put this thing on?” he asked, fiddling with the switch.
“It’s off at the source.”
“Doesn’t that mean you have to retune every time?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you just use the switch?”
“It’s a long story.”
He slid in a disc. By their music so may they be judged, she thought. It was as good a method as any other.
K.d. lang’s voice cruised its way into the room, its mind on women’s bodies. Well, that has to count for something, she thought.
He stood against the side and watched her as she fiddled with the coffee percolator. As she turned to say something she suddenly saw Tom there in his place. He must have stood there a thousand times, leaning his back against the counter, hands in his pockets, head on one side, pontificating about something or another. Except now she could no longer make out his face, no longer read every contour and feature from memory. Was he already so physically forgotten or was this more of a temporary eclipse?
“Sally tells me you have a really good voice,” he said.
“Does she?” Good old Sally.
“Yes, she says you used to be in a band.”
“Yes, well, Sally is tone-deaf and has an active imagination.”
He laughed. “I must remember that. But you did sing.”
“Usually only at parties when I was drunk. It was never a serious proposition.”
God, you make it sound so boring, she thought. That’s what seven years with Tom did for a girl: scrubbed out the glamorous bits and replaced them with tales of underachievement and failure. But, then, you couldn’t have two high fliers in the house. Especially when one of them was never that sure about the power of his wings. Next time I have this conversation I’ll make it sound better, she thought. More about possibilities.
She walked over to the other side of the room to get another pack of coffee from the cupboard, near to where he was standing. He watched her come, then moved to let her in, but not very far. She could feel the heat of his body. And the sound of her own breathing. You can bring a horse to water, she thought. . . . How do you do it? It was so long since she had contemplated the dance of courtship that she was suddenly petrified lest she couldn’t remember the steps. Or that even if she could they would somehow have changed
by now.
She moved out of his reach again. On the stereo k.d. was trying to help.
Where is your head, Kathryn
Where is your head
“There’s a bottle of brandy in the cupboard to your left, if you want,” she said, anxious to gain some independence from the song.
“No. I think I’ve had enough. How about you?”
She shook her head. They talked small talk while she made the coffee, their minds both distracted. He doesn’t find me interesting enough, she thought. But, then, that’s hardly surprising. Neither do I.
When it was ready she poured it out and brought his over to where he was standing. Their fingers touched as he took it. “Thanks,” he said. She grinned; he grinned back. Your move, she thought. Please.
Surely hope will arrive soon
And cure these self-induced wounds
Why hurt yourself, Kathryn
Why hurt yourself
This time they both listened. I’m blushing, she thought. What now?
He put down the cup and leaned his body slowly toward her. She didn’t move. He kissed her gently on the lips, more a caress than a real kiss. She waited for the saucepans to catapult themselves out of the cupboards and the lightbulbs to flash on and off. The kitchen remained dormant. He smiled, then kissed her again, this time pulling her toward him and sliding his tongue in between her teeth. It was thick and pushy. She didn’t know if she liked it or not. She found herself thinking of Jake Biderman and the woman with no eyes. She broke off, suddenly panicky.
He laughed softly and released her. It would be easy to leave it there, a test drilling. No oil. My God, she thought. We can’t stop now. It’s either you or a full Church exorcism. This time she reached out for him. And this time as she kissed him the need translated into something close to desire. How strange, she thought, this feeling in my stomach. It’s almost like fear, the same sweet-sour turbulence. The kiss continued, hungry on both their parts now, both of them pushing for more. She stopped thinking, starting to feel through her body rather than her brain. The sweetness turned to heat. They broke apart for a second, then came back together. The coffee went cold on the side. The sense of release was so powerful it made her shake. He took this as a further invitation. He slid his hand under her skirt, teasing his way upward. Each touch was like a minor electric shock. No time to stop now. They both knew it.
“Shall we go upstairs?” she said thickly.
He had moved his tongue from her mouth to her ear, his tongue darting in and out. She could hear a slurping, slipping sound, almost like sex. “I don’t know,” he said eagerly, between licks. “Do you think we can make it that far?”
She had an image of the kitchen table, him bent over her bent over it. Not quite what the reverend had had in mind for breakfast. But although it excited her she suddenly couldn’t handle the idea of that room. Not here, she thought. Not where they could be seen. She didn’t ask herself who exactly would be looking.
They broke apart to move upstairs. The abruptness of the separation was alarming, and she found herself suddenly unsure. As she led the way up out of the kitchen she felt him run a finger lightly down her spine. Her body shook beneath it.
By the time they reached the bedroom she was having trouble breathing, the adrenaline squeezing her lungs as well as her gut. It was becoming hard for her to distinguish excitement from fear.
She moved into the room, instinctively placing herself away from the bed, nearer to the window. It seemed so long since they’d touched each other that they felt like strangers again. She turned to face him and as she did so she knew she was in danger of losing it. God, what am I doing? she thought. I don’t know this man. I probably don’t even like him that much. For a terrible moment she thought she was going to cry. He took a step toward her. “I’m sorry,” she said too loudly. “I . . . I think I may have made a mistake.” Then she laughed awkwardly. “I’m not sure I really want to do this.”
He looked at her with a slight smile playing on his lips. Good firm lips, almost pouty. She remembered them from the party. But where was the excitement of playing with fantasy now? “Yes, you do,” he said quietly. “It’s just that it’s been a long time, and you think you’ve forgotten how. But you haven’t. You know what they say about riding a bicycle. All you have to do is get on.”
The crudeness of the remark sent a stab through her gut. But this time it hurt more than it exhilarated. What calculated little sob stories had Sally been pouring into his ear, selling him the notion of a bereaved woman who needed a little reawakening? “Just relax and let it happen,” he said. “It’ll be okay.”
He moved toward her and cupped her head in his hands. There had been a similar gesture in the movie they had just seen: the opening of a raunchy love scene. She understood the homage to be deliberate. He smiled at her. Though she had no idea who he was she knew it shouldn’t matter. It was just sex, nothing personal. Once upon a time, long, long ago, she had been good at this. Or if not good, then at least easy. He kissed her, the tongue back again, deeper this time, more insistent, more like a surrogate prick. What was so different about then and now? she thought frantically. Was it just that I was younger? Or did it matter less? Has the failure of Tom and me really made everything so hard? Oh God, give me a bit of time. Let me find my own pace.
But he didn’t hear her. She stayed semimotionless in his arms, not responding, waiting for him to realize the depth of her ambivalence. But he had other things on his mind. His hand slid up her skirt again, this time in between her thighs. She thought of the woman in the dingy Prague apartment. The trick was to go with it, imagine yourself getting power from it. But again her body betrayed her, keeping her legs too tight together. In the end he had a choice. He could either force it or let it be. “Please,” she murmured, but he wasn’t listening, and anyway it was hard to know if she had actually said it out loud. He pushed his hand farther up, until it reached her crotch. She cried out, but he cut off the cry with his tongue. Their silhouette in the window must have looked like true romance. She gathered herself up and, with a single shove, using all of her body weight, she pushed him away.
He lost his balance as he moved and tipped sideways, half falling against the bed. As he picked himself up she saw the battle between embarrassment and fury in his face.
“I’m sorry,” she said frantically. “I’m sorry . . .”
“Yeah, so am I.” And it was clear that the anger was winning. “I mean, I was under the impression I had been invited. You did ask me up here, didn’t you?”
“I said I was sorry.” But the harder she strove to keep it in, the more she could feel the inexorable pull of tears. And, once started, she knew they wouldn’t stop. “I just . . . I didn’t mean to . . . oh, shit, shit . . .”
He watched her disintegrate, watched the sobbing take her by the shoulders and shake her back and forth, a series of breathless little yelps that she couldn’t control.
“Hey, listen, it’s all right,” he said a little too loudly, embarrassed into a kind of pity. “You don’t need to worry. It’s over. I’m not going to force you.”
But this time it was she who wasn’t listening. She put a hand up to her mouth and nose to try to somehow stem the tears, but to no avail. She wanted to tell him to go, but the words wouldn’t form.
He stood there like some overgrown schoolboy trying to assimilate what he’d done wrong, wanting to be out of there, but not knowing how, and with enough conscience to be worried about the emotional chaos he might leave behind. “Look,” he said. “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you. Nothing happened. You’re okay. If you want I’ll go. Is that what you want? To leave you alone?”
She tried to nod her head, but the sobs prevented her. Then finally she took a huge, sudden breath and flung her head back, keeping her eyes shut tight, gulping it back down, holding it all in again. The heaving stopped, and she swallowed hard. When she opened her eyes he was gone.
She let out a long silent breath,
tasting the pain mixed in with the relief. She sank onto the bed and put her head in her hands, moaning slightly to herself.
But when she looked up he was there again, standing in the doorway, a glass of water in his hand. He hesitated then approached carefully, holding it out at arm’s length, as if he were feeding an animal that he had just been told might bite. “Here,” he said. “Have a drink.”
She took the glass and sipped it. Then she gave a large sniff. “Thanks.” There was silence. She pushed back her hair. “I’m fine now. You can go if you want. Thank you for . . . for . . . well, you know . . .” She trailed off.
He grunted. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m tremendous. It’s just my body that’s causing the trouble.” And then she gave him a grin so he’d know it was meant to be a joke.
He smiled back awkwardly. “Well, if you’re sure . . .” He moved his weight from one foot to the other. Important to do this right. After all, reputations were at stake. “Listen, if it’s any consolation . . . er . . . well, we were probably rushing it a bit.”
“Were we?” she said, in spite of herself genuinely interested in the idea.
“Well, you know, first date and all that. These days people don’t always . . .”
“Don’t they? God, I used to,” she said. “I mean, when . . . but that was awhile ago.”
He nodded. “Actually, I was quite surprised that you rang me at all.”
“Why?” She gave another great sniff, like a child. It was a strangely satisfying sound.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. . . . I just got the impression you weren’t particularly interested . . . at that party I mean.”
“And were you? Interested?”
“Ummm . . . yeah, well, you know how it is. I mean, you’re a good-looking woman. Bright, funny. A bit strange, but that’s okay.”
“Strange?”
“Yeah, er . . . bit tied up in yourself. Well, so are most people in one way or another. Especially when you don’t know them.”