Saw him on Fifth Avenue today, walking the other direction, face abstracted, blank. Impossible to know what was in his mind. Was afraid he'd see me and set my face quickly in case he did, but then he walked by as I was hoping, and, natch, I began to feel hurt. Decided to follow him, actually did for five or six blocks through the lunch-hour mobs. A crazy lady with a monkey passed—he didn't give her a glance. A gaunt street violinist with crudely lettered cardboard sign ('Please help me continue my lessons') serenaded him with Mendelssohn, but he didn't even pause. I kept saying to myself hide, hide in case he turns. And then I thought: don't let the others know, all these people passing—don't let them read your face. Finally I lost him. Think he turned on 56th where there're a zillion restaurants.
On Monday morning she overslept and didn't make it to the reservoir till seven. There was a herd already jogging when she arrived—gays with Afghans, Farrah Fawcett look-alikes, interracial couples, the Columbia University track squad. She ran past fancy Fifth Avenue ladies trying to trudge off excess flab, was passed in turn by handsome lawyer types with tanned and rippling backs.
She spent most of the morning on the phone, contacting young agents, introducing herself, setting up appointments for lunch. Lillian Ryan came in and started typing up her reader's reports. She acted secretive, shielding her papers whenever Penny passed her desk. Had she actually discovered something in the slushpile, or was that what she wanted Penny to think?
There was some excitement in the office in the early afternoon. The subsidiary rights director was wrapping up an auction; it looked as if a B&A novel would go to paperback for half a million dollars. Penny hung around the corridors picking up the gossip, sharing in the excitement of the junior staff. Later in the afternoon, as she was writing some letters, her telephone rang.
"Babe?"
"Hi." She was a little surprised to hear from him so soon.
"That was fun the other night."
"Yes," she said, wondering how he'd gotten her number; she hadn't told him where she worked.
"Look, I understand what you said about not seeing each other. I respect your feelings on that. But I kind of hoped—well—I'd like to see you again." She was silent, and then she felt resentful. What right had he to bother her now, after everything, all those silent years? "I'd like to see you again," be repeated.
"There's no point, Jared. I don't think there is."
"Come on, babe. I want us to be friends."
"It's too late for that. Don't you understand?"
"All right—listen to me." His voice suddenly took on an edge. "I understand plenty. You bet I do. I understand I did a lousy thing, and you have plenty of reason to be pissed—"
"I don't want to listen to this!"
"We got to talk it through. You owe me that."
"How did you get my number?"
"What?"
"I didn't tell you where I worked."
"Yes you did."
"No, I didn't. I made a point of not telling you, because I didn't want you to—" She stopped. A thought flashed into her brain. "That wasn't any accident was it, your meeting me in Chinatown Friday night?" Silence. "Was it?"
"No."
"You lied to me, goddammit."
"Don't hang up, Penny. Please."
She hung up. She felt sorry for him, and anger, too. He had no right to bother her, follow her on the street, pursue her, lie. They'd had their talk. Why couldn't he just accept the fact that she was done with all that now? Owed him? She'd stood up for him when all the world believed he was a killer. Now it was he who owed her, owed her respect for her wish to be left alone.
She was still upset at five o'clock. There was something about the situation she didn't understand. She thought about it as she waited for the elevator. Could he have gotten to her, somehow attracted her again? She couldn't accept that, not after so many years. What was it then? Was she going to feel awkward about him all the rest of her life?
She didn't notice him at first. He was leaning against a column in the busy lobby, watching the elevators disgorging people hurrying from offices, rushing to beat the rush hour mobs. He was at her elbow before she realized he was there, was reaching for her arm.
"Babe—"
She jumped. "Don't touch me!" Some people nearby turned and stared.
"Relax, babe. OK?"
He was wearing a denim wrangler's jacket. His jeans were cinched by a cowboy belt.
"Just relax. Hey. Relax." She nodded. The people who'd been staring turned away.
"What are you trying to do?" They were standing in the middle of the lobby, away from the elevator banks still disgorging crowds.
"I'm not trying to do anything. I just want to see you—that's all. I just want to sit down with you someplace peaceful and talk. Is there any crime in that?"
"I told you—"
"I know."
"And you don't care what I want?"
"Sure I care. For God's sakes I care. I'm not asking so much, you know." He stood back from her and let his arms hang at his sides. "OK, babe, anything you want. Just tell me to go away now, and I'll never bother you again."
She examined him: he looked resigned and hungry. "OK," she said, "there's a fairly decent bar around the corner from here." He looked so happy then, beamed so warmly, she felt incredulous at her power to affect his moods.
The bar wasn't much, dark and overly airconditioned, an after-work pub, the sort of place where executives got chummy with their secretaries before heading for the railroad stations and their commutes back to wives and kids. There were booths along a mirrored wall, and they sat in one. He ordered a bourbon, she asked for a glass of wine.
"I just can't get over seeing you again."
She nodded. She'd resolved not to say much, to let him talk himself out.
"How was work today?"
"So-so."
"You're going to make it big. I can tell." She smiled. "No. I mean it. You got that special thing. You know—the executive look." She laughed. "Like your dad. The power look. You know—class."
She couldn't tell if he was being bitter or ironic, or just transparently insincere. "Look, Jared—I don't like being lied to. That was very neat, your pretending to run into me. Now I want to know what really happened. Otherwise, I'm going home."
"All right. I got to New York couple weeks ago, and I called Schrader and asked about you. He told me where you worked. I was going to call you a couple of times, but I didn't have the nerve. So on Friday I went over to your building to wait, and then I saw you and, I don't know, you looked so happy, triumphant, so sure of yourself, and I just couldn't—well, I thought I'd follow you a couple of blocks."
"You followed me into the movie?"
"Yeah. Wasn't much of a picture, was it?"
"For Christ's sake, Jared—you were stalking me. How do you think that makes me feel?"
"Uncomfortable, I guess."
"Very uncomfortable."
"Yeah, I guess it would."
"And then you followed me on the subway?" He nodded. "How did you manage that?"
"I just stood in the car behind, kept an eye on you through the door. You were so wrapped up in your thoughts you didn't notice anything."
"And then you followed me into the restaurant?"
"I already admitted that."
She stared at him, shaking her head in amazement.
"You're not afraid of me, are you?"
"Of course not."
"I'm glad. But when you look at me now, I guess you sort of think of me as a bum."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it? That's what I am, right? What did Robinson say? That I took you all for a ride? Yeah—I did, I guess. Except nobody ever understood. I wasn't some crazy sex fiend like they tried to make you think. That wasn't why I did those films. It was to live on, because I was hungry, and I needed to eat, and somebody offered me the deal, so I took off my clothes and fucked and sucked, and so what anyway? I mean, what the hell? I never harmed anybody. Those
pictures never hurt a living soul."
"I never cared about that."
"Sure you did. You thought I should have told you. You were right. But how could I? What was I going to say? 'Gee, babe, I've done some porn, you know, like this far-out flick, Pussy Ranch.'"
"What?"
"Pussy Ranch. Pretty good, right? It was about this kid who—well, never mind. The plot wasn't much anyway. I took it seriously, though. Did the best I could."
"How many of these things were you in?"
"Six or eight. I don't remember now. They shoot them so fast, a couple of days at most. Then they cut them together or split them apart. You never know how many pictures they're making. They pay you by the day."
"How much?"
"Hundred and a quarter. More now I guess. Hey, why are we talking about all this crap, anyway? It's just something I did." She shook her head again, trying to contain her smile. "What's the joke?"
"Oh, nothing. When I met you, the first time I saw you, you were reciting Gerard Manley Hopkins, and if anybody had told me then you'd been in something called Pussy Ranch—"
He started to laugh, too. "You wouldn't have believed it, would you?"
"Nope."
"Remember that poem? '. . . how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing—' "
"Yes," she said. "I haven't forgotten that."
He was quiet for a while, and as she looked at him she began to feel something strange. Was it a melting, like that first time on the cliffs? How crazy, to feel that way now.
"You were great."
"What?"
"At the trial—you were really great. To think that I was worried about you. We were all worried, actually. Schrader, his people, especially me. But you socked it to them, babe. You got up there and performed."
He was looking at her with such admiration that she felt embarrassed and lowered her eyes.
"You were really something else."
Finally, when she realized it was seven o'clock, and that she'd devoured four saucers of peanuts and drunk five glasses of wine, she told him she had to go. She paid the bill, and when he offered to escort her home she told him firmly she'd manage by herself.
"Well," he said as they parted ways, "I hope we can do this again sometime."
He called her the next afternoon. They met again in the lobby and returned to the same bar for drinks. Afterwards they bought pizza slices at a storefront stand and ate them on the street. She told him about her running. He said he understood why she did it and that he admired her for leading such a disciplined life. She asked him if he still practiced throwing his voice.
"Yeah," he said, "every night, with gravel in my mouth."
She looked at him sharply. Was he really bitter, or just kidding around? She still couldn't tell, and she wished she could. There was something in his grin—something caustic and rebellious, yet vulnerable and mellow, too.
He was waiting for her in the lobby on Wednesday, and again they had drinks. On Thursday they went to a Philippine restaurant. The food was awful, but they laughed about it anyway.
"This is sauteed pig's navel," he said, "stuffed with goose shit."
"And this," she said, holding up her fork, "is goat's tonsil in extract of mildew sauce."
"You're disgusting."
"You chose this place," she said.
He didn't call on Friday and didn't show up either. She searched the lobby for him, waited half an hour, then shrugged and started home. It had been a week since they'd met. Already he'd become a part of her life. Why hadn't he come? She didn't know, and didn't know why she cared. She spent the evening staring at TV, feeling lonely and confused.
Just before she fell asleep she tried to think things through. She liked him—she admitted that. They were friends. She liked his company. He made her feel happy, made her forget she was chronically depressed. Why hadn't he come then? Maybe he'd been busy auditioning for a part. Maybe he'd tried to call her but it was too late; maybe the switchboard at the office was closed, and he hadn't gotten through. He couldn't call her at home because she hadn't given him her unlisted number. It could all be as simple as that. Or maybe he'd just decided he'd had enough of her. He'd felt that way about her once before.
Something's rubbed off on me. I'll never be rid of it—NEVER! What? Love of fucking, passion for fucking? No. Something else. Deeper. Primitive. Has got to do with power. Seduction. Thrill of the hunt. Ecstasy of the kill. Blood on the knife. Rituals. Magic. Want to be torn. Tired of wriggling like an insect, pinned down, twisting, working up a little set-of-tennis sweat. My pussy shrieks like the baby thy forgot to feed. Crying, shrieking in my crib, spitting out my pacifier. In need of milk. Hungry, hungry—thirsty, too, staggering in the desert, drying out, shriveling, dying beneath the cruel sun—
She rose early Saturday morning and walked up to the reservoir. She felt empty and sad, lethargic, too. She wondered if she could do a lap, if she even had the will. Then she saw him standing in front of the pumphouse at the southern tip, wearing a pair of cut-off jeans, a faded "I Love New York" T-shirt, and a pair of tattered sneakers held together with tape.
"Hey, babe. I've been waiting here since five."
"What?"
"Yeah. To work out. Waiting here for you to teach me how. Sorry about yesterday. Would have called, but we didn't exactly have a date."
"That's OK," she said. "I figured you were busy."
He nodded. "Well, which way do we go?"
She showed him how to stretch, which they did together against the little iron railing at the entrance to the track. They started off then, running slowly side by side.
"Great view," he exclaimed as they rounded the northeast tip. "The city just there waiting to be conquered, right?"
She looked at him. He was breathing fairly hard. "Tired?" He shook his head. By the time they'd run threequarters of a mile she could tell he was about to drop. "Take a rest," she said. "I'll pick you up when I come around again."
He nodded with gratitude and dropped back. She sped up her pace, was soon off running by herself. How miraculous, she thought, the way he turns up at the oddest times. She felt good, energetic, almost joyful as she reached out with her legs. When she was done she found him sitting on a bench beside the pumphouse. She stood before him, hands resting on her hips. "Now I'm tired," she said.
"Don't look it. You're barely breathing hard. God—I wish I could keep up with you." He asked her how long she thought it would take him to get in shape. She told him three or four months at least. When she first started out, she said, she hadn't even been able to run a mile.
"Yeah, I remember. You were the bookworm," he said. "Suzie was the jock."
It was the first time since they'd met in Chinatown that he'd used Suzie's name.
"I wish I'd never let her turn my head," he said softly after a moment. "I wish I'd stuck with you."
"Jared, please—"
"It's true. I've thought it a thousand times."
"Please—"
"Come here, babe." He motioned for her to sit beside him on the bench. She hesitated. She was wet. Her shirt was sticking to her back. Also she felt afraid, of something in him and in herself, too, a weakness, a longing she didn't understand. "Penny, Penny, Penny—" He took her hand. "You have perfect form. You run like a pony. You're so beautiful—" He was gazing at her, admiration in his eyes. His smile beckoned. She stepped back slightly, and her hand slipped from his.
"So," he said, "what's next?"
"I go home and take a shower."
"I want to kiss you."
"Please—"
"Well?"
"Don't."
He nodded.
"I don't know—" She turned away, took a few steps, realized she was starting home. She stood still. Jared came up to her, placed his hands on her shoulders from behind.
"I feel this attraction. It's too much. Can't shake it off." She stood very still then. "I always felt it. Always."
He turned her around so she could look into
his eyes. They were serious, sincere. He pulled her gently to him, slowly brought his lips down on hers. Then she was lost in his kiss. The weakness she'd felt now filled her, rose up in her as she pressed her perspiring body against his.
"Do you remember?"
"Yes."
"God—it's been so long. You're not afraid now, are you?"
"No."
"Yes, you are. I feel it. Let it go, babe. Let it go."
Walking back to her building she felt as though she were in a trance. She was haunted by that time three years before, and she kept saying to herself, over and over: I can't believe this is happening to me; I can't believe it is. In his arms she'd felt as she had on the cliffs, as if she were crossing a line, stepping into a world from which she'd never return. Then she was falling, yielding to something too powerful to resist. He was like a magnet in whose presence the compass point of her mind twirled round and round. Her will went slack; her brain felt fuzzy. Nothing mattered—certainly not her thoughts. She was merely flesh, and now she was walking with him to her apartment. They would go to bed. He would fuck her. Yes— she savored the word—he will fuck me; we will fuck.
"Smells like a cathouse," he said when she opened up the lobby door. But when she unlocked her own apartment, and he went inside, he turned to her and smiled.
"Great, and the window seat—just like you said."
She was pleased he liked it. She wanted him to like everything about her. As she showed him around she realized he was the first visitor she'd had in months. He sat down on the bed, then motioned for her to join him there. When she paused, he reached out for her and brought her down beside him, and then they were lying side by side.
"I ought to take a shower," she whispered.
"I don't want you to take a shower. I want to make love to you while you're still hot and wet and slippery in my hands."
He drew her T-shirt up and over her shoulders, then left it there so it covered her face. Inside the tent she could smell her body. He going to fuck me, she thought again; we're going to fuck.
She raised her arms so he could pull off her shirt, then watched as he peeled off his own. Then it was as if the years had never passed and the two of them had just met upon the cliffs. He made love to her as he had that afternoon, showing the same intuition, knowing just where to touch her, knowing when he should be gentle and when he should be rough. Everything was the same, the same sense of melting, of intoxication, the same rising, the same hunger for skin. She was lost in waves of pleasure, she could smell the pines again, the spray, and feel the summer sun. She squirmed against him, and all the time the same thought kept coming: It's happening to me again.
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