“Is that one of the new gas kind?” Jerry asks.
“Gift from my father-in-law,” says Ben. He looks at the grill, the outdoor furniture, the house—everything a gift from Morty. He sniffs at his fingers but all he can smell is the A-1 sauce.
“I’m sick of accounting,” says Jerry, who spends the next ten minutes complaining about his job.
Ben nods to show he’s listening, but behind his aviators he stares at his neighbor’s wife, Evelyn, who is wearing short shorts and a blouse tied under her breasts. She is just a few feet away on a plastic lounge chair talking to Andrea, a whiskey sour sweating in her hand, Andrea beside her in a white Peter Pan–collar blouse from AndiAnn with matching Capri pants, loose rather than formfitting. Ironic, he thinks, that the boss’s daughter is such a bad advertisement for her father’s clothing line.
“I like your hair,” Andrea says to Evelyn.
“I couldn’t take it long anymore, not in summer, in this heat.” Evelyn runs a hand through her short black curls. “Jerry hates it, says it makes me look like a man.”
Andrea plays with her ponytail, takes in Evelyn’s breasts swelling at the top of her blouse, her curvy hips. “I think it’s very … Italian, very … Gina Lollobrigida.”
“I’m thinking about quitting,” says Jerry, shrugging his shoulders, a high school football hero ten years later, short-sleeved plaid shirt showing off muscled arms gone soft, snub-nosed face starting to bloat, crew cut trained with Butch wax. He finishes the beer, his third. “I wanted to be a ranger.”
“A what?” Ben pokes at the steaks with tongs.
“A forest ranger, you know, in a national park, like in Colorado or Oregon. I even took the test.”
Ben thinks about the dark-haired I. Magnin buyer from Portland, Oregon, who stays at the Pennsylvania Hotel only a block away from AndiAnn when she comes to town twice a year and how he fucks her during his lunch hour and how she screams so loud he tells her to keep it down or his father-in-law might hear and she laughs then screams louder. “Did you pass?” he asks.
“Yeah, I passed. But there’s no money in it and Evelyn says no way she’s living out in the middle of nowhere.”
“I never said that,” says Evelyn.
“What do you call this?” says Ben.
“You don’t like it here?” Jerry asks.
“It’s fine,” says Ben.
“Better than living in the city with all those animals,” says Jerry.
“I like the city,” says Ben, thinking they should have stayed in the Village or bought a house in Hewlett or Levittown, where there are other Jews.
“Where are you from?” Jerry asks.
“Brooklyn,” says Ben.
“Never been,” says Jerry.
“I’m from Forest Hills,” says Andrea. “Where are you from, Evelyn?”
“Outside of Boston, Somerville.”
“Slum-erville,” says Jerry.
“Jerry’s from Yonkers, so fancy,” says Evelyn.
“Jerry’s from Yaaan-kaaas,” says Andrea, aping her.
“Oh, that’s perfect,” says Jerry, smirking. “She really nailed you, huh, Ev?”
“Sorry,” says Andrea. “I’ve always been good at accents and voices.”
“Hey, Ben,” says Jerry. “I go to a shooting range out in Haupauge. Want to come sometime?”
“You have a gun?” Andrea asks.
“Two,” says Jerry. “What about you, Ben?”
“Do I have a gun?”
“No, your job? What do you do?”
“Oh. Schmatas,” says Ben.
“What’s that?” asks Jerry.
“You know, women’s wear—dresses, blouses, slacks.”
“You must be surrounded by fags,” says Jerry.
“Jerry,” says Evelyn.
“It’s a living,” says Ben, eyes on Evelyn’s crotch, trying to figure out if she’s wearing panties.
“A good living,” says Andrea. “Ben has a terrific job. He should thank his lucky stars, production manager for Daddy’s company, AndiAnn. It’s named for me and my sister, but I haven’t been called Andi since I was ten.”
“You must get a lot of free clothes,” says Evelyn.
“Yes,” Andrea taps her blouse and pants. “You should come up to AndiAnn with me sometime.”
“Evelyn’s already got way too many—what was that word, Ben?” Jerry asks.
“Schmatas.”
“Schmatas,” says Jerry, and laughs.
“So, Ben, you wanted to be an architect?” Evelyn asks.
“Where’d you hear that?” asks Ben.
“From your wife,” says Evelyn.
Ben glares at Andrea.
Andrea leans closer to Evelyn. “Are you wearing Tabu?”
“Ambush,” says Evelyn.
“I used to wear Tabu but I became allergic.” Andrea fiddles with the transistor radio, stops at Gogi Grant, “The Wayward Wind,” and sings along.
“You have a nice voice,” says Evelyn.
“I’m just a good mimic,” says Andrea.
Jerry follows Ben to the picnic table, chugging another beer.
“Rare, medium, and charred,” says Ben, setting the dish of meat onto the table; blood sloshes over the side.
“Careful!” says Andrea.
“You should thank your lucky stars I didn’t get any blood on you,” says Ben.
Andrea takes a deep breath, arranging containers of potato salad and coleslaw on the table. “These are better than I can make so why pretend I made them, right?”
“Where did you get them?” asks Evelyn.
“Mandel’s, over in Plainview?”
“The Jewish place?” Jerry asks.
“The deli,” says Andrea. She forces a smile, goes into the house, comes out with a pitcher of lemonade, hard icy chunks still floating in the water.
Ben opens more beers, hands one to Jerry.
“What about me?” Evelyn asks.
“You want a beer?” Ben asks.
“In a glass. With lots of ice.”
“With ice?” Jerry makes a face.
“What’s it to you?” says Evelyn.
Andrea pours dressing over iceberg lettuce. “Is Thousand Island okay with everyone?”
“My office is testing that new oral polio vaccine,” says Jerry.
“It’s not a vaccine if it’s oral,” says Evelyn.
The sky is slate gray, no stars, no moon.
Andrea serves dessert, ambrosia. “From Mand—the deli,” she says.
“But better than you could make?” asks Ben.
“I have a Sara Lee in the freezer that I meant to bring over,” says Evelyn. “You know, that new cheesecake? Shall I get it?”
“None for me,” says Ben.
Everyone ignores the marshmallow fruit salad. Evelyn lights up a Cigarillo.
“Can I have one?” Andrea asks.
“Since when do you smoke?” Ben asks.
“Since now.” Andrea plucks one of the small cigars out of the box, places it carefully between her lips; Evelyn lights it for her.
“You don’t have to inhale,” says Evelyn. “You can just use it as a prop.”
“Is that what you do?” Andrea asks.
“No,” says Evelyn. “I inhale.”
Andrea drags on the Cigarillo, strains not to cough.
“You’re crazy,” says Ben.
… sixteen hundred and sixty people were rescued and survived, but forty-six people died as a consequence of the collision off Nantucket …
“Please turn that off,” says Andrea. She pictures people jumping off a ship that bears her name, drowning in black water. She snatches the transistor, finds another station, the Platters, sings along: “Oh-oh-oh—yes, I’m the great pre-te-en-der—”
Evelyn smacks her leg. “I’m getting bitten.”
“Let’s go inside,” says Andrea. “I want to show you the house. Just leave everything here.”
Ben plants himself behind the kno
tty pine bar, shakes a packet of whiskey sour mix into the blender, adds the liquor, flips the switch, runs it longer than necessary so he doesn’t have to chat with Jerry while the girls are upstairs.
“I considered the Cape Cod, like yours,” Andrea is saying to Evelyn as they come into the den, “but I like the idea of going from level to level.”
“We’ve got levels,” says Jerry.
“But not the split-level,” says Evelyn.
“It was the most expensive of the three models,” says Ben, “but that’s what Andrea wanted, and what Andrea wants, Andrea gets.”
“Evelyn’s an artist,” says Andrea. “And she’s doing a painting of me.”
“It’s just a beginning,” says Evelyn.
“But I’m going to keep posing,” says Andrea.
“When did this happen?” Ben asks.
“This morning,” says Andrea.
“Evelyn’s a regular da Vinci,” says Jerry, his meaty hand squeezing Evelyn’s thigh. “How come you never painted me, Ev?”
“Because you never asked,” says Evelyn.
“Where’s your kid?” Jerry asks.
“Sleepaway camp,” says Andrea. “For six weeks.”
“Isn’t he young to go away for so long?” Evelyn asks.
“He’s seven,” says Andrea. “Same age when I first went. Everyone I know went to camp.”
“Really?” says Evelyn. “Not me. Did you go to camp, Ben?”
“Ben’s parents couldn’t afford to send him,” says Andrea.
“We were destitute,” says Ben.
“Really?” Evelyn asks.
“No,” says Ben.
“Oh, it’s Elvis,” says Andrea, turning up the volume on the radio. “Dance with me, Ben.”
“In this heat?”
“I’ll dance with you,” says Evelyn. She kicks off her sandals, twirls Andrea around while she swivels her hips, bare feet disappearing into deep pile carpet.
“We could be on Bandstand,” says Andrea, laughing.
Jerry rolls his beer bottle across his forehead. “You have an attic fan you can turn on?”
“It’s on,” says Ben.
“I’m dizzy,” says Andrea.
“Sit down,” says Evelyn. “It’s the heat.”
Andrea flops onto the love seat. “The room is spinning.”
“Get some ice for her forehead,” says Evelyn.
“I’m fine,” says Andrea.
“You look pale,” says Ben. “Why don’t you go to bed. I’ll clean up.”
“I’ll help,” says Evelyn.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” says Andrea.
“Don’t be silly,” says Evelyn. “It’s my pleasure.”
Outside, the chirping of crickets adds an electric buzz to the still air.
Ben scrapes plates. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asks.
“Helping you clean up,” says Evelyn.
“You know what I mean. What are you doing here?”
“She asked. What was I supposed to say?”
“How about no?” Ben drops a dish; it clatters onto the slate patio but doesn’t break. “Melmac,” he says. “And you’re painting her?”
“It just happened.” Evelyn collects empty glasses and beer bottles. “You never told me you were from Brooklyn.”
“You never told me you were from Slum-erville.”
“Fuck you,” says Evelyn, tossing the container of ambrosia into a trash bag.
Ben pulls her to him. “I’ve had a hard-on for you all night.”
“Cut it out,” says Evelyn. “She could see us.”
Ben tugs her toward the house, gets her against the brick wall, unzips, presses into her. “I can’t wait till Wednesday.”
“Then go fuck your wife!” Evelyn dashes toward the fence, disappears. A minute later the light in her kitchen goes on. She stands in the window, opens her blouse, unhooks her bra.
Ben grips his cock; a few strokes and it’s over.
The light goes out.
“You’re still awake.”
“My head is pounding,” says Andrea.
“Too much booze—and that cigar. What was that about?”
“I felt like trying one.”
“It looked ridiculous.”
“Even when Evelyn smoked one?”
Ben takes off his shirt, squashes it into the hamper.
“You should do some exercise,” says Andrea.
“Like what?” Ben pats his belly.
“Something other than bowling.”
“I like bowling.”
“I know,” says Andrea. “How about tennis?”
“Oh, sure. I’ll play at the Brookville Country Club where they don’t allow Jews.” Ben turns around to take off his pants, worried he’s still hard. He tugs on pajama bottoms. “Let’s not make that a habit, okay, having them over.”
“Did you think Jerry’s comment was anti-Semitic?
“You mean about the Jew deli?” Ben gets into bed, aims the Lazy Bones remote at the TV. “We should have bought in Plainview or Hewlett.”
“Daddy said Jericho was a better value.”
“You like being the only Jews in the neighborhood?”
“Evelyn seems nice.”
Ben stares at the television.
“Do we have to have that on?” Andrea asks.
“I thought you liked Gunsmoke,” he says.
“It’s your favorite, not mine, and it’s a rerun. I saw it on Wednesday, when you were out, bowling.”
Ben switches the station, The Tonight Show, Jack Paar making small talk with Zsa Zsa Gabor.
“Do you think I should cut my hair?”
“No.”
“You didn’t like Evelyn’s hair?”
“No.”
“Do you love me, Ben?”
“What a thing to ask. Of course.” He leans over, kisses her forehead.
“I never had anyone paint me before. It’s exciting.”
“I think it’s stupid.” Ben presses the remote, but nothing happens. He shakes it, violently.
“You’re going to break that and Daddy just bought it.”
Ben shakes it again.
“Why is it stupid?”
“Wasting your day posing for a painting isn’t stupid?”
“I thought you liked art?”
“When did I say that?”
“When we met. When you wanted to be an architect.”
“I don’t remember,” says Ben.
“If the painting turns out well will you buy it for me?”
“Has Evelyn asked you to buy it?”
“Of course not. But if I like it I’m going to, and if you don’t buy it for me Daddy will.”
Wednesday
Ben leaves his bowling team before the last game. A headache, he says, the excuse Evelyn recommended when she called him at AndiAnn suggesting they meet earlier, that she couldn’t wait to see him.
It takes him ten minutes to drive his turquoise-and-white Ford Fairlane from Bowl-o-Rama to the Howard Johnson on Jericho Turnpike, the whole time picturing Evelyn showing off her tits in her kitchen window.
The motel is separate from the restaurant, a one-story strip of rooms that Ben knows well. Before Evelyn there was Babs, who worked at Bowl-o-Rama, fresh out of Holy Family High School over in Carle Place. He parks the Fairlane near the trash bins so it’s half hidden.
The room is dark but he can smell her perfume, Ambush, and just make her out sitting on a chair against the back wall, smoking a Cigarillo. He starts to unzip his pants before he even says hello.
“Wait,” she says.
“What’s wrong?”
“We have to talk.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been painting Andrea for days,” she says in a hoarse whisper. “And I’m getting to know her.”
“Yeah,” says Ben. “It’s all she talks about—Evelyn this, Evelyn that. I think she’s got a crush on you!”
“She’s sweet.”
�
��Sweet, my ass! She’s a spoiled brat! Daddy’s little girl.”
“Is that so bad?”
“If you’re married to her, yeah.”
“So why don’t you divorce her?”
“Because she’s my meal ticket, remember? And I don’t want to lose my kid. I thought I was clear, that you understood. Hey, I didn’t come here to talk about Andrea.” Ben kicks off his loafers, takes a step forward.
“Wait.”
“Now what?”
“Take off your shirt,” she whispers. “And your pants.”
“Now you’re talking.” Ben laughs, strips. He’s already hard.
She switches on the lamp, her face cast in harsh light, brows penciled black, lips dark red.
“Jesus—” he says. “What the—”
“Good imitation, huh? The voice, the accent. I nailed it, just like Jerry said.”
“How—”
“You didn’t think I knew? Please, I’ve known for years.”
“It’s only been a month.”
“I’m talking about all of them, all the women. The smell of them on you. Do you think I couldn’t tell? Do you really think I’m allergic to perfume? I gave it up so I could smell theirs—so I could smell them!” She crushes the Cigarillo into an ashtray, stands, cocks her hip.
Ben tries to think what to say, what’s expected of him. “I’ll end it.”
“No, I will.”
“Where the hell did you get that?”
“I asked Evelyn to show me Jerry’s guns this morning—after I finished posing—and I took it when she wasn’t looking.”
“And what—you’re going to kill me?” Ben forces a laugh.
“No, Evelyn is. I made sure the motel clerk got a good look at me, at Evelyn—from a distance of course—and I’m sure he recognized me—Evelyn, that is.” Andrea tugs off the short black wig. “Though I hate to do this to Evelyn. I really think we could have been friends.”
“This is crazy, Andrea. I love you.”
“I thought I was your meal ticket?”
“I was kidding. I knew it was you.”
“Is that why you said I was a spoiled brat?”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
Andrea steadies the gun with both hands.
“What is it you want, a divorce?”
“I discussed that with Daddy and he said no.”
“You discussed this with your father?”
“Of course.”
“And what did Daddy say?”
“That your AndiAnn life insurance policy is a million dollars.”
The Dark End of the Street: New Stories of Sex and Crime by Today's Top Authors Page 23