Loonglow

by Helen Eisenbach

  “How formal would I have to be?”

  “Oh, I’ll get you a dress—”

  She interrupted him, but he silenced her protests, for the first time almost eagerly anticipating what lay ahead. With Louey, being in his father’s home might actually prove interesting. Whatever would she make of his family?

  “You’re crazy,” she said, laughing, “and I have to get back to work. Go call Audrey Hepburn and buy her a dress. I’ll talk to you later, Clay.”

  Smiling, he hung up. Brushing aside a possible explanation for his sudden high spirits as quickly as it arose, he ran his fingers through his hair and turned to brave the streets of New York.

  The weekend was beautiful, clear and unusually warm for spring. Clay’s cab maneuvered through the narrow streets bustling with people dressed in shirtsleeves, sitting on apartment stoops or walking around to soak up the sudden wealth of sunlight. As he looked out the car window, the pent-up energy that always burst forth from the city with the first sign of warm weather was threatening to reach a fever pitch.

  Louey lived in a tiny walk-up apartment in a neighborhood Clay wouldn’t have chosen to pass through voluntarily in daylight, much less picked to live in. He rang her buzzer, looking at his watch. It was two o’clock.

  No answer: Clay cursed his impulsiveness. He should have called her first. If he’d come earlier, or called, he might have caught her in. Halfheartedly he pressed the button again, glancing down the street. He had just turned to leave when the return buzzer came, letting him in.

  Clay scaled the five flights of stairs, not fully certain it was Louey who had responded to his buzz. Sometimes in apartments like these anyone who heard a buzzer would answer it; he’d been greeted on other stairs by unfamiliar grizzled faces, bathrobes, curlers.

  He rang her doorbell. There was the sound of movement inside, and a faint “Who is it?” The voice was barely awake, incredulous that someone might be there.

  “It’s Clay, Louey, Clayton Lee. Have I come at a bad time?”

  She opened the door, wearing a dark blue robe several sizes too big that she’d clearly flung on hastily. (It slipped off one shoulder to bare the pale, creamy skin of a nine-year-old.)

  “I woke you.”

  “No, that’s okay,” she said vaguely, yawning. “I should be up, anyway.” She blushed. “Come on in.” He followed her through the narrow hallway into a small room dominated by a disheveled bed.

  “Do you always sleep this late?” he asked. Two o’clock beat even his own record.

  “What are you doing here?” She was starting to wake up and peered at him suspiciously. “Don’t you normally call before you visit someone?”

  “I should have given you some warning. I’m sorry.” Curled up on a corner of the bed, pressed against the wall with her legs crossed yoga-style under her, she looked like a Botticelli angel on the verge of dropping off again. The robe had slipped so that her legs were bared up to the thigh. He was suddenly struck with a fierce longing to disrobe her completely and ease the fatigue off her face. Jesus! He must be out of his mind. He averted his eyes, concentrating on her face. Her eyes flashed sarcasm and annoyance.

  “You’re really having a good time with this, aren’t you?” she said. She was now fully awake. “This is the limit, this beats even my 3 a.m. calls from Bambi.”

  It had never occurred to him that she would get so upset. Her eyes were blazing. He hardly knew what to say to her. “I’m sorry,” he tried finally. (Her jaw remained set.) “You’re absolutely right. I’ve been relying on you as if you have nothing else to do but help me. I’ll try to be more considerate from now on.”

  She waited for him to say more, but he’d finished, and they sat in silence. She laid her hands flat on her knees, studying them intently. It occurred to him that her outburst had taken her as much by surprise as it had him. “Well!” She took a breath. “Now that was fun.”

  “I take it you’re not much for mornings,” he said, relieved. “Species Homo nocturnus, eh?”

  “Watch who you’re calling homo, pal.” She made a face at him.

  “So what do you want to do today?” Clay said. “I was thinking we might get you that dress.”

  “Pinhead,” she said, stretching. “For a start, I’d like to take a shower.” She slumped farther into the mattress, sighing loudly as if the thought of moving was too painful to bear. “I do have time for a shower, don’t I?” She seemed completely oblivious to him physically, as if he presented not the slightest threat—or interest—to her. It was an odd sensation. Here Clay was, acutely conscious of her body, small, compact, disarming, and very nearly revealed to him. It unnerved him; no doubt she could have dropped her robe and stood naked in front of him without giving a thought to his presence. “Clay?”

  “Don’t be silly,” he said. “Of course you have time for a shower. Go ahead with whatever you were planning to do before I came.”

  “Now there’s a novel idea.” She gave him a dirty look, going into the bathroom. A minute later Clay heard the water being turned on, and then the sound of a body entering it. No point in imagining her robe dropping to the floor and the water hitting her bare flesh, the small rounded breasts, the little belly, the smooth, full thighs and dampening triangle between them. He wasn’t a masochist—or a fool. There was nothing here for him. It was true he’d never met anyone quite like her—his life had been excruciatingly predictable until he’d come to know her—but he knew better than to expect more from her than occasional distraction from whatever dismal future Fate had planned for him.

  He was completely unprepared for the sight of her emerging from the bathroom. Wrapped in a white towel, she shook her hair dry, bending her head slightly to one side and then another as the fine hair stood out in spikes. He wasn’t ready for the pang he felt when she twisted to towel the back of a knee and revealed a glimpse of pink breast. What was the meaning of the involuntary quickening of his heart as she walked past him and he inhaled shampoo and clean skin? He wasn’t here for that. The smile froze on his face as he tried to implant some reason on his mind, to forestall his senses. She hadn’t the slightest interest in him; she would never have the slightest interest in him, not that way. He could not fathom how his practical nature had so abruptly and thoroughly sabotaged him. Surely he could shake this folly; he was merely reacting to externals, to the physical body before him.

  “What are you smiling like that for?” she said, somehow slipping into some pants without revealing any more of herself. “You have to be the gooniest boy I’ve ever met.” She went to her closet, dropping the robe and pulling a jersey over her head. The skin of her back was pale and smooth; she was probably smooth all over. The sight of her shoulder blades straining together as she put her arms into the sleeves tugged at him. He had an urge to place one cool hand in the center of her back, between the warm wings. (He could see where this was leading him.)

  “Have you known many?” His voice was constricted; he cleared his throat.

  She was silent. “Some,” she said. She looked out the window briefly. “Not the way you mean, I suppose.”

  “Lots of women?”

  “No,” she said. “Not lots.”

  “More than one?” She didn’t answer. “What was it like?” he blurted in a hoarse whisper. “How did you meet her?”

  Her face took on the same expression he’d seen at the restaurant those years ago: a kind of amused misery, as if she were mocking herself for the extent of the pain she felt. “Who?” she said, choking on her next word, “Mia?” A look of horror crossed her features as her eyes suddenly filled. She turned abruptly and went back into the bathroom.

  Clay sat breathing as heavily as if he’d just raced to slip through the doors of a departing subway, missing the train by mere seconds. The afternoon lay around him in a shambles. How was he going to get through casually buying her a dress now? The prospect was so far beyond his imagining that he could only wait, his mind blank, until she came out of the bathroom to face h
im.

  He lay, spread-eagled on a cool white table, arms extended high above his head, crossed at the wrists. The sensation coming from his nipples was agonizing yet almost unendurably pleasurable. When he tried to reach down to stop it, his hands wouldn’t oblige. They were tied, somehow, bound with a soft, unyielding fabric. He lifted his head. She was tonguing his nipples, one, the other, slowly, excruciatingly slowly, like a cat lapping up milk. Only she wasn’t a cat and her tongue felt like liquid fire, every so often yielding to a nip from her teeth. His whole body throbbed; his cock felt so inflamed he half expected to see it rise to monstrous proportions, like a creature from a horror movie. Every flick of her tongue had his body twitching. Wouldn’t she touch him?

  Without warning, she slowed her pace. Rather than give him relief, the now-rare flicks drove him near frenzy, causing every nerve in his body to shriek. How could she be doing this with just her tongue, with just his nipples? Wouldn’t she ever release him from this torture? Stop? Let him go?

  One hand idly brushed his thigh as if by accident. He groaned, twisting his head. If only he could loosen his hands, touch her. He tried to slide his knee up her smooth curves but he discovered his legs were also bound. He was her prisoner. She could taunt him for hours and he’d never be able to lift a finger to stop her.

  One hand slid up, grazing his bare chest and stomach; the other moved down, a trail of heat and damp. A brief caress of his inflamed core left him gasping, straining toward her for more. Abruptly she stopped, leaving his body throbbing. Then, after an agonizing moment, she began the most tentative exploration of the surface of his skin. Just when he thought he could take no more, she lowered herself onto him, engulfing him in satiny heat, plunging his tortured body over the edge.

  Clay woke, crying out as passion racked his body in an arc. The breaths came from him in painful gasps. When the beating of his heart finally slowed, he opened his eyes to peer at the lighted dial: 4:30. He fell back onto his mattress, wondering if he’d ever sleep a peaceful night again.

  “I feel like a drag queen,” she said, getting into the cab and sliding next to him.

  Several drinks had enabled Clay to pick Louey up without too much difficulty, although the grim set of her jaw sent his hopes for the evening plummeting. She looked beautiful in the dress they had picked out, a rich blue that brought out the color of her troubled eyes and the rosy glow of her pale skin. The narrow waist emphasized the curves she normally camouflaged, her lovely breasts confronting him defiantly, like an assault. Closing the car door, he wiped a small patch of moisture from his brow.

  “You look wonderful,” he said. Was he imagining the slur of his words? He couldn’t be that drunk.

  “Right. I can see how I did so nicely not owning a formal dress all these years. Got any drugs?”

  He stared at her, instinctively patting his pockets. “Uh, well, no, I—”

  “Kidding!” She laughed at his expression, and he relaxed, trying to laugh with her. If only he could get his muscles to work normally. All he had to do was control himself, put this foolishness out of his mind. (Easy as ripping the lungs from his body.)

  He had spent the last week unable to get the picture of Louey out of his head, running over and over the vision of her half naked as she’d opened her door to him; the unfamiliar flash of rage in her eyes when he’d awakened her, the image of her eyes filling as she fled the room.

  That night he’d blundered home after their agonizing shopping spree. Once she’d emerged from the bathroom, red-eyed and thin-lipped, they’d barely spoken four sentences to each other, avoiding serious topics like two people after a collision who might shatter at the slightest hint of pressure. She’d tried on dress after dress; in between fittings, Clay had had to close his eyes, willing himself far away, anywhere but here with this girl who left him so precariously balanced in reality, so aching and bewildered. No woman had ever made him feel so lost—his brief obsession with the beautiful Mia paled to invisibility in comparison with the unheralded passion he’d developed for the woman she’d jilted. This tiny girl he’d come to rely on completely—what had he done to reward her for her attentions? He had not even been able to keep his lust under control, lust for a woman for whom the thought of male bodies was at best irrelevant. He’d doused himself in alcohol in an orgy of self-recrimination and gone out cold, only to find her image floating before him night after night. Her body had taunted him in so many infinite variations he wondered if he’d become truly depraved.

  Now, riding in a car with her, he felt removed, a detached observer. He responded to her wit intellectually, taking note of his amusement as if it belonged to someone else.

  “You look tired,” she said softly. Her tone caused something to tear inside him; with some effort he kept his breathing even. They’d only known each other in the context of a business project, he told himself; it was the artificial intimacy of a long train ride or joint kidnapping that had provoked such feelings of kinship. This physical business would pass, and then perhaps they could truly become friends.

  By the time they arrived at the party, he had convinced himself there was still some chance that the evening could turn out a success. This notion was quickly dispelled upon seeing his father, who took one look at Louey and seemed to draw upon his full capacity for disdain. Clay was stunned. What possible fault could his father find with Louey, to be regarding her like that? She looked lovely, obviously spirited, intelligent. Was it that Clayton still harbored some notion of pairing him with a woman of the “proper” background and ambition, someone who would ease him into working for the family firm? He introduced them, but this only made matters worse; upon hearing Louey described as his son’s editor, Clayton hardened his face to granite. Louey was polite, if a bit puzzled by his coldness, but before Clay could think to steer Louey away from his father, the older man had excused himself and retreated without warning.

  “Well!” Louey said, turning to him. “I think he liked me!” She grinned wryly, but Clay hadn’t recovered quickly enough to answer. “Must be the horns …”

  Then the worst possible thing that he would ever have imagined happened. The young capitalist who had been enterprising enough to bring Mia to the last neo-maternal party nearly three years earlier showed up, with Mia on his arm once again. Clay felt the room begin to spin as he took in the sight of Mia arriving in a ravishing glow and obscene gown. He turned to Louey, who paled, faltering. He took her arm to keep her from falling, grasping it like a life preserver, but it was clearly too late for salvation of any kind.

  “Excuse me—” Louey blurted, and flung herself from the room, taking refuge in the kitchen adjoining the main hall. He followed her blindly, uttering an apology, but the face she turned to him was ghostly, pitiful, halting his speech. “Please, Clay, I just—can you leave me alone for a minute? I promise I’ll be back as soon as—please?” He obeyed, following stray relatives from table to table. He drank from first one bar and then the next, but it didn’t seem to have any effect on him; he was as sober as he’d ever been. People he knew came up to him while he waited for Louey to emerge, but he was unable to muster the energy to make even small talk. His father’s lips grew thinner by the minute, but every time he started to approach Clay, his lovely bride steered him toward another pillar of society. How was he going to make it up to Louey? She would think he’d done it on purpose.

  Mia was now speaking to one of the men carrying hors d’oeuvres, Clay noted, making his way toward her. Before he’d reached her, she had gone outside to where her date stood smoking on the terrace. Clay followed, stopping just inside the door and listening like a child molester.

  “What’s the matter, Mia?” her companion asked. “You’ve been so down lately.”

  “I’ve always thought it rude to be too happy in front of other people,” Mia said, taking his cigarette. “Oh, but this will interest you.” She exhaled smoke. “I saw the hugest cock in America last night.”

  “Pardon?”

  �
��My next-door neighbor’s shower broke, so I offered him mine. Before I knew it—well, I’ve never seen anything like it. I tried to explain that I was a vegetarian, but he didn’t seem to understand. I don’t know how I managed to get out alive.”

  “What’s his number?” the man asked. Mia laughed, and her friend put out the cigarette. “Really, Mia, you just can’t leave cocks lying around like that without even giving them a chance to show what they can do.”

  “Honey, I don’t even want to know their names, much less find out what they do.”

  At this Clay bolted back inside the apartment, his head pounding. He had to save Louey from this person. The throbbing in his brain refused to subside even as Louey emerged from the kitchen. He headed toward her, as his father appeared like a bad vision, cutting him off. From the corner of his eye he could see Mia coming in from the terrace, approaching Louey.

  Escape seemed impossible. Louey started to move unsuspectingly toward Mia, but Clay caught her arm; he had to save her. “Father,” he began, “I don’t think you were treating Louey with the courtesy she deserves.” His father raised an eyebrow in surprise and disdain. Clay could feel Louey’s puzzled eyes on him, but suddenly he wanted nothing more than to wipe the smug look off his father’s face. “You’d better show her more respect,” he said, “because I plan to marry her.” He smiled, like the good son he was.

  Clay had a long meeting with his hangover, but by noon they were able to find Louey’s home phone number. She answered on the second ring.

  “Why do I get the feeling you don’t appreciate my sense of humor?” he started.

  “You and I have different definitions of fun,” Louey answered.

  This was going to be considerably more difficult than he’d anticipated, judging by her tone. “Say, Louey,” he should ask, “are there a lot of Communists in your family?” (“Hordes,” she’d answer.) Then he could point out that, as her family surely also included many Jews and maybe even some poor people, the notion of marriage to him was a heaven-sent opportunity to torment his father, to repay his snubbing her. Yet all signs indicated that she’d failed to see the irony in the situation. “At least let me explain,” he said. “I’m so sorry—I had no idea that Mia would be there.”