by G. H. Holmes
Stark stared at the screen and frowned, suddenly exhausted. He glanced at the brass clock on his desk. The hour was approaching midnight.
“Listen,” he wrote. “Let’s call it quits for today.”
“Wait!” she replied quickly.
“What?”
“I don’t want to let you go without telling you that I love you and that you’re the most important man in my life—not Bert.”
She had it wrong again, but he’d set her straight tomorrow. He wrote, “Good night. And make sure you empty your sent-items folder before you go.” A click later he was offline.
Shutting down his computer, he became aware of the hot breeze wafting in through the window. He grabbed the towel that had become his constant carry-on and massaged his face and neck with it.
Then he got up and stretched.
He’d spend the night on a roll-away in the basement, surrounded by pans and buckets filled with floating ice on which a new fan set on high would blow. He started down the stairs with Coco in tow, who’d keep him company. Romy lay upstairs. He had no idea how she coped, sleeping in her normal bed while a furnace blast swept through the house like a ghoul set on withering every living thing. It took your breath away.
The room had a low ceiling, was damp, and smelled faintly of rags, but it was cool, the coolest in the house, anyway.
He laid down next to the washer and dryer and reached out his hand, touching the cool metal. Don’t lead us into temptation… His lids felt like lead and he couldn’t remember the rest of the line. It slowly came to him. …but deliver us from evil.
The fan whirled, and Stark fell asleep, his mind overrun with images of sunshine and iron skies and the desert, and the faint thrum of helicopters in his ears.
29
Sunday, 3 August 2003, Afternoon, 32°C
Ralph acted very self-conscious as he clomped through the dusty meadows around Elmendorf with Tom and Coco after coffee. Sometimes he turned around and his gaze wandered up and down the trail. So far, nobody had seen him with his new friend.
Maybe it was the close proximity of home and relatives, Tom thought; surely nothing personal, since both he and Gina had come to church in the morning listening to another message on “family.” (Their kids stayed with Grandma.) Stark seemed obsessed with the topic for some reason. It was the subject of their discussion now.
“Now, in order to make your wife eager to, um, love you,” the expert said to his apprentice, “you have to take her female psyche into account. Women are completely different from men.”
Ralph nodded somberly, his gaze on the country lane.
“See,” Tom said, “men are like the sun. They’re always ready, if you know what I’m saying. I mean, all a tired man has to do to get kickin’ is to look at his wife when she undresses. She drops her furnishings, and he is ready for close combat of the intimate kind. He wakes up.”
Stark took a deep breath. “A woman on the other hand is more like the moon with its phases. One day she’s shining brightly, eager, can’t wait. Next day she’s so-so. Then again she’s indifferent; and when you start whispering in her ear at that point, you know, suggesting things, she looks at you as if you’d asked her to stick her foot into goo. Her eyes say, ‘How dare you suggest something so vile?’ and then she complains to God about the gross invention he’s come up with.”
“What’s that?” Ralph wondered.
“You know… sex.”
“I see. Sure.” The carpenter nodded.
“Man sees a girl, and wow! he gets excited. But when a girl watches a man undress, she usually stays tired. Don’t ask me how come, I don’t know; God wired them that way. For them it works only during the appropriate phase—and even then there’s no guarantee.”
“You tried it?”
“Uh… I’m speaking in general.”
“Sure.” Ralph understood.
“The principle is true. Women are not aroused by skin the way men are. And all those Chippendale male dancers that are so popular here are unnatural, and if you get a sober woman to explain herself truthfully, she admits that her rooting and hollering at it is motivated by nothing but peer pressure. The whole thing’s a silly attempt at demonstrating equality with men. But it’s as hokey as a men’s needle-pointing class. Unisex gender-equalizing. Makes me weep.” He fell silent.
“So, women go by phases,” Ralph said after some reflecting.
“Correct.”
“But isn’t it sort of tedious, always having to calculate the phase they’re in?” He hadn’t smiled all afternoon.
“Can’t do anything about the moon, that’s true,” Tom said. “Actually, the Bible uses a different analogy. It says that men are fountains and women are wells. Fountain’s always bubbling, you know, ‘cause there’s pressure inside. Men are like that. But a well’s treasure is in the ground. Deep down there’s water, but to get to it, you have to lower a bucket, make sure it fills, and then draw it up. It’s almost an art.”
Tom began to get intrigued with his own advice.
“In sex,” he said, “drawing water is called foreplay.”
“But if you never even get to that?” Ralph interjected. “What if she doesn’t even let you, uh… get close enough for any hanky-panky?”
“Hmh.” Tom’s inspiration kicked into high gear. “Then you’ll have to be wily as a snake—the Bible says we’re to be wily, and harmless as doves. You’ll have to initiate romancing first thing in the morning.”
The carpenter gave him a stare of disbelief, prompting Tom to clarify, “I mean, you’ll have to prime the pump first thing.”
“You mean, simply reach over…?”
“No, no.” Tom shook his head with energy. “What I mean is, be nice to her. Praise her for her efforts, like making breakfast, then—”
“But don’t you think that’s overdone? Praising her for breakfast?”
“Just an example. You can praise her for anything you want to—as long as you do it with an honest heart. Makes her feel good; she warms up to you. Start the process early—”
“Butter her up, you mean?”
Tom hesitated. “That’s one way of looking at it. Let me put it this way: men get animated by looks, women by moods. What they feel is as important to them as what he sees is to a man. You need to influence her mood, put her at ease. If you’re demanding in a non-demanding way, you’ll succeed. And if you can get her to the point where she takes over the initiative, then you’re an artist.”
“So, it’s buttering her up?”
Tom clicked his tongue. “Just do it in a way that she doesn’t realize you’re motivating her. Be nice early on—and you’re welcome later. You know, get her flowers, empty the dishwater; fix things she’s asked you to fix a hundred times—if you won’t, she’ll become a nag—stick the kids in bed, tell them a story, and then sit down, put your hands on the table, and listen to her. That last thing is especially important. Did you hear me? Don’t say anything, just listen…
“We don’t always understand the female mind,” he went on, “so don’t even try to answer whatever silliness she might bring up.”
“Uh-huh.” Ralph wrinkled his brow, digesting the sage’s advice. “You happy? I mean, you and Romy?”
Tom swallowed. “Sure.”
Delors marched on in silence, his eyes casting about. He was struggling with his next question. “And you…” he finally said, “you really killed people…?”
Stark grunted and rubbed his chin. You asked for it, buddy. He looked at Ralph out of the tail of his eye. “Ever heard of pungi sticks?”
“Uh, no.”
“They used them in Vietnam.”
“You been to Vietnam?”
“No-ho. I’m too young to have been in Nam. Anyway. Pungi sticks are simple and easy to use; I’m sure your grandpa had them too in the great war. You dig a hole or make a pit—doesn’t have to be very big—then you plant rows of skinny sticks with sharp points in them—iron spikes work especially well. Then yo
u camouflage the whole contraption with a net and leaves, and wait.”
Ralph’s wide, sorrowful eyes blinked rapidly.
“You should see what a man looks like after he falls into one of those traps. Spikes sticking out everywhere, oh man…”
“Did you…?”
“Hey, I liberated Kuwait.” Tom narrowed his brows. “Why are you so green?”
30
Friday, 8 August 2003, Morning, 33°C
Tom snorted in disgust and turned away. He stood among the carefully replicated skyscrapers of downtown Frankfurt. Legoland Germany was lovingly designed, with many ornery details to be discovered by the curious eye. But in some cases the park’s model crafters—140 by the official count—had gone overboard, creating details he didn’t care for.
“What’d you find?” Gina said.
Tom mumbled, “Nothing.”
“Come on, tell me.”
His head pointed in the direction of a brownstone in the business district. On a balcony on the top floor stood three smiling figurines, models of women, wearing exactly—nothing.
Gina giggled.
“Eye candy,” he said, “for the guys having to follow their brood around.”
“Loosen up.” She still grinned.
He huffed.
“What will you do about it?” She shaded her eyes with her hand and looked at him.
“’Bout what? Public nudity?”
“Tom, they’re not people, they’re Legos.”
“They’re not Legos—“
“They are Legos.”
“—they’re naked Legos; there’s a difference.”
She sighed. “It’s just a joke.” She gestured toward the brownstone. “Besides, the kids can’t see up that high.”
He didn’t reply.
“Love’s not sex,” she said after a brief reflection. “Those little figurines… You’re offended because they’re tan. But what is nudity? In reality, the physical neither adds nor subtracts from the love of two people. Love’s a heart-to-heart thing; it’s forever God’s domain.”
Baloney. Sex was the ultimate expression of love, the seal and sign of a blood covenant between a man and a woman, sanctified and ordained by God, and… “Gina, public nudity is a serious matter—”
“Oh, come on.” She reached out and offered her hand in that bashful way he found so appealing.
He hesitated—then he took it. For the first time. Today, there was nothing to it. Ralph and Romy might be doing the same, he imagined. At least for a second, to pull the other along. They were friends now too. All the Delors’ were friends. Good friends. Kids and adults.
“Come on.” She pulled on his hand. “The others are already in Berlin. I bet the Love Parade’s there.”
Tom groaned.
“The kids can see nothing,” Gina said, her voice plaintive.
Romy tried to ignore the host of licentious ravers arrayed on balconies and courtyards around her. Luckily, her children had already rushed off to Holland—or Switzerland.
She hoped no idyllic alpine skin scenes were waiting there, a motif around which a whole industry had sprung up in the Sixties and Seventies, to be recycled today in the late night program of private TV channels.
Tax-funded public TV bought its skin shows in Hollywood. The paper had recently announced Demi Moore’s Striptease, then Sharon Stone’s Basic Instinct, then a show-it-all with John Travolta’s wife. But for Romy, this year’s Lego version of Berlin was entirely enough, even though the model floats on the ground were harmless. Still too loud for her taste, but the figurines were at least dressed.
Ralph, strolling along beside her, didn’t mention any of them. She would have sunk into the ground if he’d pointed out details. But he seemed oblivious to his surroundings.
“You’re a lot like me,” he said, his gaze on the walkway.
Romy gave him a questioning look.
He smiled and for a second had such a commanding presence that Romy deemed him more competent than her husband. He was a boss too, and probably an excellent craftsman. He was able to give his wife a security and prosperity she didn’t experience with Tom. But the impression was fleeting; now Ralph was Ralph again, the young believer who’d found God without looking for him.
“And Tom’s a lot like Gina,” he said.
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t mean to say that Gina is like Tom thinking-wise, you know, like, brain…” His hands described helpless circles.
“You mean intellectually?”
“Yeah. I mean, Tom knows people; he reads them like the newspaper. Gina’s not like that. And she’s certainly not like you.” His gaze settled on her again, this time lingering. “You’re quiet, stable, dependable; same day-in and day-out...”
Romy’s cheeks flushed. “Think you know me, huh?” She felt very conscious of herself.
“It’s what my gut tells me,” he said. “I’m not a total fool either. Deal with people in the business. Talk, you know; find out who’s up to what and so on.” He looked down the street toward the pillars in front of the Reichstag parliament building. “I bet Tom can count on you all the time.”
“We’re not perfect,” she admitted.
He weighed his words and said, “Who is?”
She stared at the pavement.
Berlin was sparsely populated today; not many vacationers spent their time here. Suddenly Tom and Gina walked behind them.
“Oooh,” Gina said, noticing the abundant carnality on the balconies. “What do we have here?” She leaned closer.
Romy blushed again and Tom said, “Cut it out…”
Gina giggled and slid her arm around her husband’s waist. Then she gazed up and adored him.
Ralph the Stoic looked straight ahead.
Like a king, Romy thought. She shadowed her eyes. “I see a playground.”
“Where?” Gina said.
“Beyond Venice—“ Romy turned toward Tom. “Is that Venice?”
“See any gondolas?” he said.
A hundred yards away, the children were climbing around in a pyramid of ropes around a central pole.
The kids were smiling with hot faces, having fun. Romy stood by and had an eye on them.
Gina, Ralph, and Tom stood in front of another pole, this one bare and of metal, like one might find in a fire station.
“All right!” Gina said, “who’s strong? Who can pull himself up with just his hands?”
Tom’s gaze wandered up. “All the way to the top?”
Gina nodded. “All the way.”
Ralph seemed absent-minded. “You go first,” he said.
Tom inhaled deeply. “Now, I haven’t done that in a long time…”
“Chicken!” Gina crowed. She threw her head back and laughed. “You’re afraid you’re too heavy, admit it. Fatblob.”
“Ralph…” Tom’s hand made an inviting motion.
But the carpenter shook his head. “No, no. You go first.”
“Please,” Tom said. “After you.”
“Let the Pastor go first,” Gina demanded.
Ralph didn’t move.
Tom sighed. “Well…” Looking up the pole, he dried his palms on his pants and jumped, grabbing the rod with both fists. He groaned like an old man, and puffing, he pulled himself up, his feet kicking air. His elbows bent, placing one hand above the other, he inched on, his face beet-red, the veins in his neck bulging, until at the approximate middle of the pole’s length, his soles a yard and a half off the ground, he suddenly let go. He dropped down and rolled backwards into the grass.
“Wooow.” Gina clapped.
Stark jumped, his eyes snapping toward Ralph. But the carpenter was staring at the pyramid of ropes. Tom wasn’t sure how to react.
“Your turn,” Gina said. “Ralph!”
Ralph spun around. “Huh?”
“Climb.” She gestured at the pole.
“How far did you make it?” he asked Tom.
“I’ll tell you when you get there
,” Gina said.
Ralph jumped and grasped the pole. Holding his breath, he put hand over hand and pulled himself upward—until his strength gave out, inches below the top, and he let go and fell to the ground.
Gina hadn’t said anything, so, when he got up, he said to Tom, “You’re in better shape, I concede.”
“No, no,” Tom said. “You won. Didn’t you notice?”
“Uh…”
Suddenly Gina tucked the seam of her ankle-long summer dress into her underwear, baring her legs, and stepped out of her sandals. She took hold of the pole with both hands. Then she put her bare foot up, secured her stand, and began to walk up the pole with the swiftness and efficiency of a macaque. Tom followed her with his eyes. Close to the top her arms began to tremble and she froze. Then she shrieked and let go, falling backwards—
—into Tom’s arms.
Suddenly faced with her weight, he staggered, and they both went down, tumbling into the grass.
Looking at him with wanton eyes, she tossed back her hair and giggled. “Thanks for saving my life.” She laughed.
Stark got up. His eyes searched for Ralph, but the carpenter was on his way to the pyramid.
“Up with you,” Tom said to the woman next to him.
It was 9:00 PM and the park was closing. Out in the lot, both families stashed their bags and then got into their cars. When the kids were strapped in and Gina sat in the passenger’s seat, Ralph came over to Tom’s window and said, “Grandma’s not home today.”
“Uh-huh?” Tom looked up at him.
“Talked to Gina…”
Stark saw how she looked straight ahead through the windshield.
“After you guys stick the kids in bed, why don’t you come over and we jump in the pool?” Ralph’s gaze slid toward Romy. “Like I said, her parents aren’t there; it’ll be real private-like. We’ll have the pond to ourselves.”
Tom turned toward his wife.
She leaned forward. “It’s going to be late…”
“No matter,” Ralph said. “Just come on down for an hour or so and we’ll take it easy. Don’t have to bring nothing.”