Precarious

by Al Riske

  Raised on a farm in the Skokomish Valley, Leslie is a tomboy who has turned into a well-endowed young woman with a mischievous grin and an unusually deep voice. I have always found her voice seductive, but now I have mixed feelings. The grin can throw me, too. Like when she says I have sexy legs—“better looking than mine.”

  A GOOD DISTANCE out, her head breaks the surface. Shaking back her shaggy hair, she smiles and calls to me. I switch off the radio, gather our clothes and the leftover food, then stash everything behind a tree. Slowly, I wade into the lake. To her, the water feels warm, but I’m so damn skinny it won’t be warm enough for me until late August, if then. Leslie splashes me playfully, so I have no choice but to dive in and start swimming.

  My plan is to swim freestyle until I reach her, but each time I look up, she’s farther ahead. I start to feel panicky. Finally, I turn over on my back and try to catch my breath. For some reason I can never just float the way other people do. If I remain motionless, I sink just below the surface and get a noseful of water.

  The next thing I know, her hand is supporting me.

  “Arch your back,” she says.

  It helps, but not a lot.

  “You need flotation devices like mine,” she says, rolling over and arching her back.

  “If I could just get my hands on a pair of those …”

  We laugh together, and then she suddenly becomes self-conscious and starts swimming again. I do too, using a sidestroke this time, and I only have to rest once more. Although Leslie floats next to me, I can tell by her breathing that she isn’t tired and my own breathing begins to slow a bit. I notice that the water is still cold but not in a bad way. It’s just … stimulating. I also like the sound it makes as it gently laps against my ears. From somewhere in the distance comes the hum of the first speedboat to appear on the lake.

  FOR THREE WEEKS now we have hardly kissed. I know why, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

  We were listening to James Taylor and Carly Simon records at my house late one Saturday. Though I had been to her house many times, this was the first time she had been to mine. We were having a good time, but I wasn’t thinking about sex. (Well, not much.) We were in the living room, the records playing softly, and my parents had already gone to bed, where they often sat up reading for an hour or so.

  Leslie made the first move …

  Afterward she said, “We’ll have to be more careful about the situations we let ourselves get into.”

  I agreed, but I didn’t really mean it. Apparently she did.

  WHEN WE REACH the island, Leslie leads the way up the bank and into the shadows. Dripping and shivering, I am surprised by the hot, dusty smell of blackberry vines. We look around briefly and find a small, sunlit clearing with a patch of moss big enough for two people to lie on. She smiles as she pulls me down. I stretch out on my back, put my hands behind my head, and close my eyes. The sunlight makes the inside of my eyelids orange.

  I KEEP THINKING about that night at my house. We were lying on our sides, facing each other, smiling and letting our eyelids droop and close and open again slowly. From the stereo came a click, hiss, and crackle, followed by the low-volume music of another album.

  Leslie ran her long, thin fingers over my shoulder and down my spine. My eyes flicked open and I saw her smile. It was so pure—she seemed so aware of her own pleasure and so unaware of my gaze—that I felt as if I shouldn’t be looking. Then I touched a warm spot, the gap between her T-shirt and jeans, and closed my eyes again.

  My shirt was untucked, too, and Leslie fingered the elastic band of my white cotton briefs, which peeked out from under my jeans. Tugging them down a fraction of an inch, she moaned as if she wanted to rip them off completely.

  It was a deep, low moan, almost a growl, and I was fully prepared to be ravished. But she only moaned.

  “I’M SURE GLAD you packed lunch today,” Leslie says, tickling my chest with a blade of grass she’s been chewing. “I was gonna offer to fry some chicken or something, but I can’t stand to cook. Mom says I’ll have to learn sometime, but the only way she’s been able to keep me in the kitchen so far is by standing guard with a butcher knife in her hand.”

  “Fried chicken would have been excellent,” I say.

  “Not if I made it, Toots. Maybe if you did.”

  I have this image of myself wearing an apron, Officer Leslie Williams patting me on the butt and asking “What’s for dinner?” I worry about her whenever she’s on duty. It makes me angry.

  LESLIE LIKES TO tease me, and sometimes I take it to heart but can’t say so. I don’t really know what I want from her—and if I did, I probably wouldn’t tell her. There are some things you can’t ask for. Asking would spoil it. Then, just when it was all getting to be too much for me, she’d say something like this:

  “When I really think about it, I can’t imagine us ever breaking up.”

  “YOU’D NEED MORE than a butcher knife to get me to do the cooking,” I say.

  She is taken aback by my vehemence.

  “Besides,” I add, smiling now, “I don’t think I could turn out anything edible.”

  “Fair enough,” she says, suddenly straddling me. “Then we’ll live on love.”

  Cold lake water drips from her hair, and when I turn my head away, she kisses my neck, sucking hard enough, I know without looking, to leave a hickey. Then, just as suddenly, she rolls off of me, smiling in a way that makes me blush. I laugh and so does she.

  It’s 1972, and we’re both seventeen.

  “Don’t stop now,” I say.

  Men Are Such Boys

  Part One: Deirdre

  DEIRDRE IS HAVING a drink with her old friend Candace but can’t keep her mind on the conversation.

  “Do you need to check in with the sitter?” Candace asks.

  Deirdre just laughs. She doesn’t have any children. What she does have is a very young boyfriend—a twenty-something waiter named Randy, who works at a seafood place on the Seattle waterfront, not far from where they are now.

  “You know what I like most about him?”

  “That he’s never too tired?”

  “He likes to take baths,” Deirdre says.

  “How nice.”

  “I just mean instead of showers.”

  She also loves the way he wraps himself in his towel to dry off and stay warm, his hair damp and tousled, but Deirdre decides to keep that image to herself.

  IN THE WINDOW of a favorite boutique, just three blocks from her office—a travel agency she opened shortly after her divorce—there’s a gorgeous Valentino sheath that Deirdre can see herself dancing in.

  A soft voice calls her name, but it doesn’t really register until she feels a warm hand on her shoulder.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  It’s Jonathan. He’s Randy’s older brother (and head chef at the Charthouse, where Randy waits tables), but she thinks of him as her friend. A quiet man, he has kind eyes—and a soft stomach from eating too much of his own cooking.

  “I thought I’d treat myself to a new dress,” she says. “What do you think of that one?”

  “The red one?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “I think you’d look great in it.”

  Deirdre knows the dress will be too expensive. Still, she’s giving it serious consideration.

  “I shouldn’t ask you this,” she says. “It’s about Randy.”

  “Is this about the mental hospital?”

  Deirdre laughs.

  “It’s just that … I’ve heard rumors,” she says.

  “Listen, as long as he takes his medication, he’s practically normal.”

  “Does he normally go out with a girl named Roxanne?”

  “You mean our new hostess?”

  “I guess.”

  “She’s just a kid.”

  “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  Jonathan laughs and she does feel better, at least temporarily.

  AT 10 O’CLOCK the n
ext morning, Deirdre calls Randy from work and finds he’s just waking up.

  “Are you hard?” she whispers, though there’s no one else in the office.

  His response is a sort of mumble-groan.

  “What were you dreaming about?” she says.

  He chuckles softly but doesn’t answer.

  “Tell me about your very first time,” she says.

  Sounding more awake now, he says, “You should know, you were there.”

  “Oh, good one.” It’s her turn to chuckle now. “Tell me about your fantasies.”

  “You’re all I think about,” he tells her.

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “Because you’re whispering.”

  “I’m at work,” she says. “Are you still in bed, you bad boy?” “I was.

  I’m in the kitchen now.”

  “Well, go back to bed. I want to talk dirty.”

  DEIRDRE IS PROBABLY the last person to come to the conclusion that she has a thing for younger men. The evidence is hard to refute. The last three have been ten to fifteen years her junior.

  Her relationships rarely last long, but maybe that’s the point, maybe she doesn’t want them to. Besides, it’s ridiculously easy to start again. Look a young man in the eyes, smile, and pretty soon he’s introducing himself.

  She wonders sometimes what it says about her that she generally prefers the company of men. It probably isn’t good, whatever it is. But she genuinely likes men. They’re all just boys in bigger bodies. Sweet boys, for the most part. With the notable exception of her ex-husband, who was so fun at first but all too quickly turned into a mean-spirited bore.

  ON A WAKE-UP call, Deirdre finally cajoles Randy into sharing a fantasy from his first frantic year of puberty. Two girls at once. Pretty typical, except that they force him to have sex against his will.

  As if!

  Still, she’s taken by the vivid details he shares: The green-and-blue bedspread of his boyhood bedroom. The brunette’s yellow bikini. The blonde’s pink nightie. She even likes the incongruity of it all—two strangers, one from the beach, the other from a lingerie catalog, somehow breaking into his room together.

  “So I’m on my bed imagining all this,” he says, “and the next thing I know I’m on the floor with my shorts torn to shreds.”

  She laughs and wants to laugh harder, but she holds back because sometimes he gets his feelings hurt over silly things like this.

  DEIRDRE TAKES CANDACE with her to the boutique to see the Valentino. She pulls the dress off the rack, but she doesn’t really see it. There’s a more interesting image in her mind: Randy as a skinny fifteen-year-old flailing around on the bed, tearing his underpants apart, and finally falling to the floor in a desperate effort to get away from… himself.

  Candace isn’t paying attention anyway. She’s venting, rather loudly, about her own boyfriend. So they’re even, because Deirdre isn’t really listening.

  The image of Randy’s eyes popping open, the confusion on his face, the chagrin—so easy to imagine since she’s seen it on the man—tickles Deirdre. She tries to hold back the impulse to laugh, but can’t.

  “I’m serious,” Candace says. “I have nothing more to say to that jackass.”

  Deirdre nods and composes herself.

  “I know I’ve said this before,” Candace continues, “but we have not a thing in common.”

  Deirdre holds the dress at arm’s length. She loves the color.

  “Tell me about it,” she says. “I’m dating a guy who doesn’t know who the Beatles were.”

  The Beatles remark isn’t really true. When pressed, Randy can actually name three of the Fab Four.

  “You should get that,” Candace says. Then, in an urgent whisper, she adds: “Don’t look. Don’t look. She’s over there.”

  “Who?”

  “The girl I was telling you about—Roxanne.”

  ALL THROUGH DINNER Deirdre keeps taking deep breaths, and Randy keeps looking at her, expecting her to say something. She feels as if he can see right through her. She does want to speak. She wants to take a deep breath and say … what? That she ran into Roxanne downtown? That it made her feel older and younger all at once? Older because Roxanne’s skin has no laugh lines or crow’s feet? Younger because, next to her, Deirdre suddenly feels like she did when she was thir-teen—no confidence, no clue how to act.

  Finally, Randy takes her home, and Deirdre senses he’s trying to think of a reason to go, but she grabs his arm. In a low voice, she says, “Hold on, you. We need to talk.”

  She leads him into her living room and pushes him backward so that he sinks into her sofa. She remains standing, hands on her hips, fingers pressing into the crushed velvet of her dress.

  Again she takes a deep breath, but she doesn’t say a word. Instead, she simply unzips her dress and lets it drop to the floor.

  All Randy can say is, “Mercy.”

  CANDACE DROPS BY the travel agency around noon the next day.

  “So, how’d it go?”

  Deirdre thinks for a moment.

  “It went okay.”

  “Okay? What is that? Understatement?”

  Deirdre smiles. “Modesty.”

  “Yeah, false modesty.”

  Indeed, the evening exceeded Deirdre’s expectations and restored her confidence. Though certain vague doubts have stayed with her.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” she says. “That’s the last time I wear a corset. I could hardly breathe all night.”

  An elderly couple enters the small office, and Deirdre smiles at them. They nod and begin to browse through the brochures on the wall.

  Candace lowers her voice, says, “You’re not supposed to wear it all night, honey. You wait until you get him back to your place and then you say, ‘Pardon me while I slip into something uncomfortable.’”

  Deirdre smiles absently, stands, and comes out from behind her desk. It wasn’t just the corset that made her uncomfortable; there was something more, something she hasn’t been able to define until this very moment. It comes to her as she watches the elderly couple—how polite they are with each other, even in silence: She knows Randy in ways he doesn’t know her.

  “Call me tonight,” Candace says. “I want details.”

  Knowing more is an advantage Deirdre has always enjoyed with younger men. What’s new is her sudden reluctance to use it.

  THREE WEEKS LATER, they’re at her place, just about to settle in for the night, and she notices that Randy looks suddenly pale.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  “I’m not feeling so good. Think I better head home.”

  “Stay,” she says. “I’ll brew a pot of herbal tea.”

  “Naw, I’ll just go.”

  “You sure? The tea will make you feel better.”

  “Can’t have you getting sick, too,” he says.

  IN THE MORNING, she gets a call from Candace, who tells her about a new dance club she went to.

  “Randy was there,” she says.

  “Randy?”

  “The little rat wasn’t alone either.”

  “He’s not a rat. He’s … I have customers,” Deirdre says.

  “Call me, okay?”

  Deirdre hangs up.

  AT THE CHARTHOUSE, just as the kitchen is closing, Deirdre takes a seat at the bar and realizes she doesn’t have a plan. She hasn’t even thought about whether Roxanne might be working. She’s not, thank God. The place is much quieter than usual, which is nice, and Deirdre feels even better when Jonathan sits beside her. Randy has one last table to take care of and then he joins them, all smiles, and orders a new round of drinks.

  She can tell he’s nervous, though. He can’t be sure how much Candace has told her, if anything, or how much she’ll make of it. That’s just it—she doesn’t know herself. She’s here because she wants to find out what she’s going to do.

  They talk for a while, and Deirdre lets conflicting images and impulses flit through her mind. This is prob
ably really serious, she thinks, but maybe it’s just funny. An addled and oversexed boy who can’t seem to choose between two horny women.

  Then, apropos of nothing, Randy says, “What time is it, anyway?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “Yeah, just wondering whether you have time to swing by Rox-anne’s place, I’ll bet.”

  Deirdre says this in an almost playful way, and Randy, unfortunately, follows suit.

  “Hey, now there’s a thought.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Deirdre says.

  Randy turns to his brother. “Jonathan, what time is it?”

  “Late,” he says.

  “How late?”

  Deirdre cocks her head and narrows her eyes. “Randy—”

  “What?”

  “Behave yourself.”

  “Or what?”

  She dumps her drink in his lap—an accident, really. But she doesn’t feel like apologizing, so she just goes with it. Stands up. Walks out.

  DEIRDRE TIRES OF looking at espresso machines and commuter mugs, so she orders a mocha and picks up a copy of the Times. Can-dace is late, which is not like her.

  Deirdre starts reading the travel section and watching an artsy-looking guy in the corner scribble sporadically in a small black notebook, the kind Hemingway and Chatwin used to use. She knows this because she has one just like it in her purse.

  She jumps when her cell phone rings. The young writer looks up at her, and she catches his eye for a moment before digging through her Kate Spade bag.

  It’s Candace. Her car has overheated and she’s waiting for a tow.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Deirdre says.

  The writer looks up again and she smiles at him.

  Part Two: Randy

  RANDY SITS ON the edge of a swimming pool, feet in the water, and drinks iced tea from a red plastic tumbler. He hears Deirdre telling him about Sardinia and Corsica and other places he’s never even heard of, but he’s distracted by the kids in the pool—two brothers playing keep away from their little sister. He tells them, as sternly as he can, to take it down to the other end of the pool, but they always seem to end up right back where they started—the beach ball landing with a sudden splat right in front of Deirdre. Then comes the shouting and splashing, the shrieking and laughing, the inevitable “No fair!”