The Trouble with Eden

by Lawrence Block

  “No panties.”

  “I didn’t think you’d be wearing them.”

  “I was before. They’re in the glove compartment. I took them off as soon as I got in my own car. They were already wet by then. God, you’re good. You know just what to do to me.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “Oh, are we gonna fuck. You’re getting me so hot. Anything you want to do. What’s that?”

  A car had turned into the driveway, and for a moment his heart froze. He could see Sully coming through the door with a gun in his hand. Then in an instant he recognized the unmistakable sound of the Volkswagen.

  “It’s all right. It’s my daughter.”

  “I didn’t know you had a daughter.”

  “She’s spending the summer here.”

  She sat back, brushed her hair out of her face with her fingers. “You want to go upstairs before she comes in?”

  “There’s no need.”

  “Well, you want me to go upstairs?”

  He shook his head. “We have a fairly open living arrangement here.”

  “Well, open or not, you don’t want me sitting around with my tits hanging out.” She tucked herself back into the cocoa brown halter. She started to say something but stopped when the key turned in the door. He lit a cigarette and settled himself on the couch next to Melanie. He was taking a second drag when Karen and the boy came into the room. There was a glow in Karen’s cheeks and a firm smile on her face.

  She said, “Dad, this is Jeffrey. Jeff, my father, Hugh Markarian. And you must be Linda.”

  “That’s right,” Melanie said.

  “I’m Karen, and I’m glad to meet you. Dad’s said a lot about you.”

  “Well,” Hugh said. He got to his feet, shook hands with the boy. “You kids like a drink?”

  “I think we’ll just go upstairs,” Karen said. “We wanted to listen to some records.”

  There was no record player in Karen’s room. “Enjoy yourselves,” he said. He turned to put out his cigarette in an ashtray, and when he looked up again they were already on the stairs.

  “Control.”

  “How’s that?”

  “What I noticed about you right away,” she said. “You stay in control. You don’t get rattled.”

  He smiled. “Why should I get rattled?” He sat next to her and let his eyes note the rich young body, let his hands remember the feel of the rich young flesh.

  “It didn’t bother you?”

  He shook his head. “I told her she could bring people here. And that I would bring people here if I wanted.”

  “Like Linda. Right. It would bother most fathers.”

  “It didn’t bother me.”

  “It didn’t upset you that he was black?”

  “No,” he said, reaching for her. “Why should it?”

  TEN

  When Sully heard her car in the driveway he stayed where he was. He sat in his chair in the living room and did not move when her key turned in the lock and she entered the house. She said, “Honey? I’m home,” and he made no response. He sat in his chair and looked at nothing. There was a glass of applejack in his left hand and a cigarette in his right, but he was neither smoking nor drinking. He had poured the drink over an hour ago and had not yet taken a first sip of it. The ashtray beside him was filled with cigarette butts. He would light one and hold it until the heat of it warmed his fingers, then put it out and light another.

  She came into the room and dropped down onto his lap, reaching out a hand to touch his ear and rub the back of his neck. “I’m home,” she said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Miss me?”

  “You cunt.”

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want me to stop telling you about it?”

  He couldn’t look at her.

  “No.”

  “I won’t tell you if you don’t want me to, Sully.”

  She settled herself on his lap, her arms around his neck. The smell of her was heady, intoxicating. She waited, silent, and he knew he would tell her to speak and hated himself for it.

  He said, “This fucking game we play.”

  “You want to stop playing?”

  “Shit. I do and I don’t.”

  “It’s up to you, baby.”

  He put out the cigarette. He raised the glass of applejack, looked at it thoughtfully, put it down untasted on the small mahogany table.

  He said, “Who was it?”

  “Are you sure you want to know?”

  Part of the game, part of their ritual, all of it carefully evolved during the past weeks by an elaborate system of trial and error. It was more exciting when he knew. He hated himself more, hated her more, but it was more exciting and that was what seemed to count in the long run.

  “Tell me” he said.

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Tell me.”

  She licked her lips. Anticipation glowed in her eyes. This, he knew, was what she lived for. She would go out and enjoy her adventures, but they themselves were spiced by her expectations of returning home to tell him her story. She would come home with her dirty little stories and she would tell him everything in as tantalizing a manner as possible. And then he would take her, and that part of it was what she lived for. What they both lived for.

  “I went to the Lambertville House,” she said. “I took a corner booth and just waited for somebody to come in.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I had quite a wait. There were a lot of men who gave me the eye, but I wanted just the right one.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Hugh Markarian.”

  “Christ.”

  “I remembered you pointing him out to me. He comes to the Barge a lot, doesn’t he?”

  “Christ.”

  “I groped him right there at the table. He was very cool about it. It got to him in a big way but he was very cool about it.”

  She went on, giving him the story an inch at a time. The words did not excite him now. That wasn’t how it worked. He would listen all the way through, feeling nothing but a slight sense of nausea, his whole being deadened by the flow of words. That was the pattern they had established. And then, as she neared the end of the story, something would happen within him that he did not begin to understand.

  “Talk about cool,” she was saying. “His daughter walked in then, see, and she’s hanging on the arm of a big black nigger.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “And she takes him upstairs. And he tells me she’s free to bring friends home if she wants. Right? And he says why should it bother him if it’s a nigger. Just as cool as ice he said that, but he didn’t know I saw his face when he first caught sight of the nigger. He went white, Sully. He went absolutely white. But just for that instant, and the kid never saw it, and from then on he’s Mister Cool again.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I thought it would throw him off, you know? Not being able to get it out of his head. I mean, we went upstairs to his bedroom. And a couple doors down the hall is her bedroom, and she’s in there with the black, and he’s her father and how can he get this out of his head? But I guess I took his mind off it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “See, I really got him hot necking. With our clothes on and everything like kids in a drive-in. And by the time we were upstairs we were so hot for each other that nothing else mattered. Do you want to know what we did?”

  “You know what I want.”

  “Yeah. And I know what I want, too.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  His expression did not change while she spoke. Her eyes on him, she constructed her description of what had taken place at Hugh Markarian’s house, constructed it skillfully and deliberately. From time to time she was purposely vague, forcing him to ask questions. She never invented, never exaggerated, but stayed strictly with the exact truth as she perceived it.

  After about a quarter of an hour she had
finished. She thought there would be more questions from him, he seemed on the point of asking something, but he remained silent, and they sat together for several minutes without talking.

  Then he said, “I guess I’ll get some sleep.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He got heavily to his feet. She followed him up the stairs. Her hands were trembling, she noticed, and her mouth was dry. She recognized both anticipation and fear within herself, anticipation of his lovemaking, fear that what had worked before might by now have lost its magic. She had read nothing in his face but defeat and exhaustion, both of them now echoed the slump of his shoulders as he mounted the stairs.

  It might not work this time. Worse, it might provoke not lust but loathing. And that could be very dangerous for her. She looked at the size of him and remembered his strength. He had never struck her, but if he ever did—God, he was strong. It would be so easy for him to kill her with his hands.

  She shivered at that thought. And wondered, fleetingly, whether there was more than fear in what she felt. The possibility was a shade more frightening than the fear which had occasioned it, and she made herself stop thinking about it.

  In bed beside him, both fear and anticipation mounted while she waited to see if it would work. She wanted to reach for him but knew not to. It would be he who would reach for her. Or not reach for her.

  When his hand settled on her thigh, her entire body sighed. Breath drained from her lungs and tension from her muscles. She had not realized that she had been holding her breath, nor had she been aware of the taut knots in her calves and forearms. She closed her eyes against the glow of false dawn and surrendered to the hand upon her thigh. Her mind filled with a picture of that hand. She could see it so clearly, the hairs on its back, the fading scar on the index finger. The hand moved to touch between her legs, and she gasped. Her arousal was instant and total.

  He played with her for a long time. Idly, undemandingly, using only his hands. Once, as he reached for her breasts, she felt his cock press like a bar of hot iron against her leg. She wanted it in her. She felt it against her leg and saw it in her mind and ached with her own emptiness. But her hand did not reach for him. She waited.

  And when he took her—and who knew how long it was, seconds or minutes or hours, who knew, who cared?—When he took her it was with strength and fury and power that took her completely out of herself. It was frightening to be fucked like this. And more frightening to think of living without it. All the women he had had, and none of them had ever been possessed as he possessed her. Oh, it was worth it. It was worth anything she had to do, anything at all.

  She woke around noon, showered, dressed, put up a pot of coffee. While it was perking she heard him upstairs in the bathroom. She set two places at the breakfast room table, broke eggs into a frying pan. Then she remembered how he liked pancakes. She hadn’t made them for him in ages. In fact they rarely had breakfast together anymore. She would fry eggs for him and sit with a cup of coffee while he ate, then make herself something after he left. It wasn’t that much trouble to make a real breakfast. She’d just grown out of the habit.

  She had to hunt to find the box of pancake mix. It had been in the cupboard half-empty for more than a year but it seemed to be all right. No worms in it. The chemicals kept it from spoiling and rendered it unfit for insect consumption. Only human beings could eat it.

  Apple pancakes—he loved apple pancakes. She found apples in the refrigerator and sliced them into the batter. By the time he came downstairs she had a stack of pancakes on both their plates and two mugs of coffee poured.

  He said, “Well, what do you know? What’s the occasion?”

  “Just breakfast.”

  “You picked the right day for it. I got an appetite like I don’t know what. What’s the expression? ‘My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.’ What did you put, apples in the coffee? I’m tasting apples from the pancakes. You put applejack in the coffee.”

  “Well, I figured what wine goes with apple pancakes and I figured why not. If it’s no good, I’ll get you another cup.”

  “When I finish this one you can get me another cup exactly the same. What got into you?”

  “You did.”

  “Yeah.” He grinned, then let the grin fade. “I guess we got things to, I don’t know, talk about. But—”

  “Oh, let’s just enjoy breakfast for the time being.”

  “Let’s do that.”

  The day went quickly. She found things to do around the house, did some marketing, watched television. She was watching an Errol Flynn movie when he returned home. She turned off the set and went downstairs to meet him.

  “You’re home,” he said.

  “Yeah. Where else would I be?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. You might be cooking up apple pancakes for somebody or other.”

  “I bought some pure maple syrup this afternoon. It’s expensive but I figured let’s live a little.”

  He reached for her suddenly, one hand on her bottom, the other between her legs. He kissed her for a long time. When he released her she was dizzy and had trouble staying on her feet.

  “Just what I say,” he said. “Let’s live a little.”

  “Jesus.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. Just you came on me by surprise.”

  “I didn’t, but it sounds like fun.”

  “Huh?”

  “Coming on you. Feel this, will you? I been like this all day long.”

  “You should of come home for dinner.”

  “I never would of gone back.”

  “I never would of let you. Let’s go upstairs.”

  “What, and climb all those stairs? There’s a perfectly good couch in the living room.”

  The next two days held to the pattern. Breakfast together, elaborately prepared and enthusiastically received, with an almost unreal warmth between them. Lovemaking at night, his potency on honeymoon level, her own satisfaction greater than anything she had ever known. And, for prelude and aftermath, more conversation than had been their custom.

  And yet it was not conversation at all. It was talk, but it was not about anything.

  On Thursday night she met him at the door. There was something in his eyes. She saw it immediately. He embraced her and put his hands on her but she sensed the difference in his response and in her own.

  “There’s fresh coffee.”

  “Good.”

  She brought two cups. She thought of putting applejack in his but didn’t. He took a cup of coffee and put the cup down. “He was in tonight,” he said.

  She knew who he meant but asked anyway.

  “Markarian. Came over around ten thirty with a girl, took a table on the water side. Had two rounds, left a little after eleven.”

  “Was that the first time since—”

  “No. He was in Monday. Came in alone and had four or five quick ones at the bar. Talked with some of the regulars. Talked with me, I talked with him. Didn’t show a thing. Couple of times I’d look his way sudden to see if he’s giving me a look. But not once. Not one time. All the shitty actors in this town, I’ll tell you, he could give them lessons.”

  “I told you how cool he was.”

  “He was cool and I was cool. He didn’t let a thing show. And neither did I. He’s got no idea, I know. Last night, no, the night before. Yeah, Tuesday. He’s in there with his daughter. Karen?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Introduced me to her. Here she’s sitting with her Daddy and I’m seeing her in my mind with a black cock in her mouth. Not the point. Point is, she showed it.”

  “Showed what?”

  “Showed she knew it was my wife with her father the other night. I mean I sensed this from her that I hadn’t from him. Before that I had it in my mind that maybe you were making it up. Not really. I mean I knew it but I didn’t know it. You get me?”

  “I think so.”

  He
started to say something, then lapsed into silence. She felt an undercurrent of nervous excitement moving inside her. It was not all she felt, there were other feelings, but it was there.

  He said, “He’s cool and I’m cool and even the kid was cool. I never would have known anything from her if I didn’t know it in the first place. Everybody’s cool and I got something inside me that I don’t know what it is.”

  “How do you feel about him?”

  “Him? I don’t know. What’s there to feel? Do I want to kill him? No. Do I want to take a punch at him? No. Do I want him to walk in front of a train? No. I look at him, and I see him with you, the whole scene goes through my mind, and I don’t know what I feel.”

  “Does it excite you?”

  “I don’t know. Does it give me a hard-on? No. There’s excitement and there’s excitement. It does something. I don’t know what It does. The point isn’t how I feel about Markarian. Fuck Markarian. I mean he’s nothing. Unless—would you see him again?”

  “No.”

  “So he’s one night. One particular night he happens to be a cock with a man on the end of it. The point is not how I feel about him.”

  “The point’s how you feel about me.”

  “I guess. No.”

  “Then what?”

  “It’s how I feel about me, Melanie.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m not myself.”

  She put her hand on his arm.

  “You hear that expression all the time but I never really knew what it meant before. I’m not myself. I look the same, I act the same on the surface, but I’m walking around wearing somebody else’s head. For years I was one particular person, and now I’m not the same man anymore. I don’t know who the hell I am.”

  “Are you happier or sadder or—”

  “It isn’t like that. It’s something different. It’s—Melanie?”

  She looked at him. She had never seen his face so open.

  “Melanie, I’m afraid.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m afraid and I don’t know what of.”

  “Are you worried about your mind?”

  “You mean worried I’m going crazy? I don’t know. Maybe I’m crazy already. I don’t know how to say any of this because I can’t get it right in my own head to begin with. I’m afraid of not being myself. That I’m turning into a person I got no respect for. What kind of man is it that can only be a man by hearing his wife tell him what she did with somebody else? And then I’ll think that one day I’ll wake up and everything’ll be the way it used to be, I’ll be the way I was, and all of this is just something I’m going through. A stage. And when I think that I’m afraid, that makes me afraid too. Melanie, I don’t know what I want.”