O flawless faithless one.
Folly for Three
GOOD, HE SAID AGAIN, THIS IS VERY GOOD. Just turn a little, let the light catch you. I want to see you in profile, against the light. There, he said, that’s good. That’s what I want. His voice had thickened, whether with passion or contempt she had no idea. They were still at that tentative state of connection where all moves were suspect, all signals indeterminate.
Ah, he said, you’re a piece all right. That’s what you are.
I’ve never done this before, she said. I’ve never done anything like this before. I want you to know that. She looked out the window, the gray clouds on the high floor hammering at the panes. Way, way up now. For everything there’s a first time, she said.
Right, he said, humoring her. Whatever you say. I’m your first. Best in the world. Anything for a hump. He backed against a chair, crouched, fell into the cushions, stared at her from that angle, looking upward intently, checking out her crotch, then the high angle of her breasts, pulled upward within the brassiere, arching. He muttered something she could not hear and raised a hand.
What is it? she said. What do you want?
Come here. I want you to come here right now.
Tell me why.
I don’t want games, he said. We’ll have time for that later. You want to fool around, play with yourself. Come over here. Move it.
Can’t you be a little kinder? I told you, I’ve never done anything like this before.
You want a commendation? he said. A Congressional Medal of Honor? He cleared his throat, looked at her with an odd and exacting impatience. Everybody has to have a first time, he said. Even I did once. I got through it. You’ll get through it too. But you have to close your eyes and jump. Move it over here now.
This isn’t the way I thought it would be, she said.
How did you think it would be? Flowers and wine? Tchaikovsky on the turntable? White Russians with straws? This is the setup, he said, this is what a nooner feels like. You don’t hang out in bars midday if you’re not looking for a nooner.
She looked at him, almost as if for the first time, noting the age spots on his arms, the fine, dense wrinkling around the eyes, which she had not noticed in the bar. Could she back out now? No, she thought, she couldn’t. This was not the way it was done. That was all behind her now. I’m on the forty-eighth floor and that’s all there is to it and no one in the world except this man knows I’m here. Not the kids, not Harry, not the cops. Okay, she said, I’m coming. She went toward him, trying to make her stockings glide, trying to move the way they moved in this kind of scene on Dallas. Maybe she could break him on the anvil of desire. Maybe she could quit him. Maybe—
There was a pounding on the door. Open up, someone in the hall said, open it! Open it now! The voice was huge, insistent.
For God’s sake, she said, who is that?
He was trembling. I don’t know, he said. What have you put us into? Detectives? Photographers? You got me into this, bitch. He backed away from her. His lips moved but there was no sound.
The noises in the hall were enormous, like nothing she had ever heard. The hammering was regular, once every three or four seconds now, an avid panting just beyond earshot. Like fucking, that’s how it sounded. Last chance, the voice said. You open the goddamned door or we break it down.
What have you done? she said to the man. Stunned, absolutely without response, he ran his hands over his clothing, looked stupidly at the belt. This wasn’t supposed to happen, she said. This wasn’t part of it. Who is out there?
Nothing. He had nothing to say. He brought his clothing against him helplessly in the thin off-light in which she had so recently posed. She heard the sound of keys in the hallway. They were going to open the door.
* * *
An hour earlier in the bar she had said, Let’s go now. I have a room in the Lenox around the corner.
Fast mover, he had said. His briefcase was on his lap, concealing an erection she supposed, one elbow draped over it awkwardly, clutching the briefcase there, the other hand running up and down her bare arm. She could feel the tremor in his fingers. He wanted her. Well, that was his problem.
I can be fast when I want, she said. Other times I can be slow. Whatever you say, big boy, I’m on your side. Who can believe these lines? she thought. This is what it’s come to now.
Okay, he said. Just let me finish this drink. He raised the cocktail glass. I paid for it, he said, it’s mine, I ought to have it.
She pressed his arm. You only think you’re paying, she said. I’m paying. All the way, up and down the line. In his face she could see the pallor of acknowledgment, a blush of realization. I’ve got a hot one here, that face was saying. Well, that’s the idea all right.
Let’s go, friend, she said. She pushed away her own glass, clung to him for an instant, then pulled him upright. Let’s see how fast you are where it counts. Out in the clean fresh air and then forty-eight stories up, that’s the right place to put it.
He released her, yanked upright from the stool, took out a twenty, and put it on the bar. We’ll see how fast I am, he said. He took the briefcase against his side, gripped the handle. Now, he said. The lust on his face seemed to struggle for just a moment with doubt, then faded to a kind of bleakness as she reached out again and stroked him. Now and now. He rose gravely to her touch. For God’s sake, he said. For God’s sake—
Now, she said.
They struggled toward the door. The man on the stool nearest the entrance looked up at them, his glasses dazzling in the strobe and said, You too? Every one of you?
She stared. She had never seen this man in her life. Of course, she reminded herself, the salesman with the briefcase was new also. Two strangers, one maybe as good as the other when she had walked in but the salesman was the one she had picked and in whom the time had been invested. No looking back. She said nothing, started toward the door.
Fornicators, the seated man said, infidels. Desolate lost angels of the Lord. Have you no shame? No hope?
Out on the street, the salesman said, Another bar, another crazy. They’re all over the place. This city—
I don’t want to hear about the city, she said. Please. Just take me to the hotel. Right now. She was appalled by the thought that the man at the bar would come after them. The thought was crazy but there it was. To the hotel, she said. I’m burning up, can’t you tell. She yanked at his wrist. Now, she said, let’s go.
She began to tug at him, he broke into a small trot. Hey, he said, hey look, it’s all right. We’ve got all afternoon. I’m not going anywhere, we have hours. We have—
I’m afraid he’s following us, she said. There, it was out, be done with it. I’m afraid he’s going to come after us.
Who? The guy from the bar?
His footsteps, she said, I know them. He’s coming up behind us. She turned and pointed, ready for a confrontation right there but of course there was nothing. A couple of secretaries giggling, a man with a dog, a beggar with a sign saying I AM BLIND, that was all. Quickly, she said, before he finds us. I know he’s on the way.
She moved rapidly then, dropping her grip, striding out, making the salesman race. Let him struggle, she thought. Let him chase her a little. She was afraid of the man in the bar whether or not he was coming. Desolate lost angels of the Lord. Fornicators, she thought. We’re all fornicators but some of us know more than others. There was something to come to terms with in this but she simply could not. All she wanted to do was get to the forty-eighth floor of the Hotel Lenox, take him into that room, get it over with, take him as deep as her brains. Make it happen, make it done. Get it into her. She was burning. Burning.
* * *
That morning in the kitchen he had said, I don’t know how late I’ll be. There’s a conference midday and then I have to go out with the accounts exec again. I could be tied up till midnight with this guy, he’s a professional drunk. If that’s it I’ll just get a room in the city and sleep in.
Hey, he said, his head tilting to attention, you think I’m lying? You think this is some kind of crap here, that I’m making up a story? Then just say it.
I didn’t say a thing.
You think I’m running around? he said. I’m knocking my brains out to keep us in this $250,000 house we can’t afford and can’t sell and you’re running tabs on me? Maybe we ought to have a discussion about that.
We’re not going to have a discussion about anything, she said. He looks forty, she thought, and his gut is starting to swell. The sideburns are ragged and at night, the nights that he’s next to me, he breathes like an old man, a sob in his throat. He’s not going to last but who lasts? What stays? Ten years ago we made plans and every one of them worked out. I’m having trouble getting wet. AIDS is crossing the Huguenot line. The kids are no longer an excuse. We moved here expecting the usual, who was to know the joke was on us? I’m entitled to something too, she said, just think of that.
What does that mean? he said indifferently. He stood, gathered papers, stacked them, and leaned to open his briefcase. You trying to tell me something?
Nothing, she said, nothing at all. Make of it what you will.
Because if that’s the deal, two can play, you know. I don’t have to get a heart attack at forty-two to keep you in a place like this. I can just let it go.
Forget it, she said. I didn’t mean anything. It was just an expression. Pushing it, she thought. We’re starting to push it now. It used to be easier; now we’ve got to get closer and closer to the bull.
Everything’s an expression, he said. He opened the briefcase, inserted the papers, closed it with a snap. There’s no time to discuss this now, he said. Maybe later we ought to settle a few goddamned things. Maybe we’ll sit down this weekend and talk.
I’ll make an appointment, she said.
Enough, he said, enough of this. I’m out the door. You got something to say, maybe you write it down in words of one syllable, we fix it so a simple guy like me can see this. We’re practical in the sales department, we only know what’s in front of us. You got to spell it out.
Me and my imaginary friend, she said.
Imaginary friend? Is that what you call him now?
You’ll be late for the bus, she said. You’ll miss your connections and what will happen midday? He stared at her. You’ve got a schedule to meet, I mean, she said. In four years he won’t be able to come, she thought. He’ll be a heavy, barking lump next to me and I’ll be counting the heartbeats, waiting for the hammer. That’s what’s going to happen. You bet it would have to be imaginary, she said.
He laughed, a strangulated groan. Too much, he said, you’re too much for me. Always were. Always ahead of me. He leaned forward, kissed her cheek, his eyes flicking down indifferently, taking in her body, then moving away, all of him moving away, arching toward the wall and then the door. Keep it going, he said, just take a tip from me and keep it going. He reached toward the door.
Just like I do, he said and with a wink was gone.
She followed him, closed the heavy service door, sat on the stool, ran her feet in and around her slippers, looking at the clock. In her mind she ran the day forward, spun the hours, turned it until it was one in the afternoon and she would be in the Lenox waiting to be taken. She had worked it all out. But that still left hours, even figuring in the time at the bar and the arrangements to be made there. Too much time altogether. She thought of that.
She thought of it for a long time and of other things, the kids off at school, the difficult arc of the morning already getting passed. What do you think? she said to herself, what do you really think of this? Does it make any sense at all? Is this what we wanted?
Desolation, a voice said. That isn’t what you wanted, that’s what you’ve got. So you do the best you can. You make it up as you go along. That’s the suburban way of life.
Well, there was nothing to say to that. There almost never was. What she could say would destroy the game. She kicked off her slippers and moved toward the stairs, ready to get dressed, ready to pull herself together. Again. Playing it out.
* * *
Two years before that, a Thursday in summer she had said, I can’t go on this way anymore, Harry. Can you understand that? It’s too much for me, it’s not enough for me, it’s a greyness, a vastness, I can’t take it. I need something else. I can’t die this way. She had run her hand on his thigh, felt the cooling, deadly torment of his inanition.
It’s not just you, she said. It’s everything. It’s everybody.
We can work it out, he said. There are things we can do.
We can’t do anything. I’ve thought it through. It’s just the situation and it’s too much. It’s not enough, it’s—
It’s not just the two of us, he said. There are things to be done.
No shrinks, she said. No counselors. We’ve had enough of them. We’re not getting anywhere.
I don’t mean that, he said. There are other things. Things we can do on our own, things that will change.
Oh, Harry, she said, Harry, you have answers, but there are no answers, there are only plagues out there and darkness.
So we’ll do something, he said, practically. He was a practical man. Because of the plagues, the risks. No one goes out there now if they can help it. I don’t want to go out there and neither do you. So we have to work something out.
What? she said. What do you want? What’s the answer?
He clutched her hand. We know all about it in the sales game, he said, and I can teach you.
Teach me what?
Masks, he said.
Masks? Halloween?
Repertory theater, he said. That’s what we’re going to have here. A little repertory theater. So get ready for the roles of your life.
Once she had loved him, she supposed. She must have loved him a lot. In deference to that, then, she laid back in the bed wide-eyed, listened to the tempo of his breathing as it picked up, touched him.
Okay, she said. Tell me more, I’m listening.
Yes, he said. Yes.
In the darkness, as he spoke, it was as if there were now another presence heaped under the bedclothes, an imaginary friend maybe, her imaginary friend listening.
He told her what he had in mind.
He sold her on it.
* * *
On the forty-eighth floor, she backed against the high window in the hotel room, her eyes fixed on the door, listening to the sound of the key turning. No, she said, no.
The man hobbling toward the door, half-dressed, turned, stared. No what? he said.
No more of this, she said. There’s someone out there, she said. There’s someone really out there with the key in the lock. We’re in over our heads.
She could hear the key turning, turning. It encountered an obstruction, then suddenly it didn’t and it was through. The door was moving.
The terror was clambering within her like an animal. He looks forty, she thought, and his gut is starting to swell. He’s breathing like an old man. Over our heads, she said. I don’t know what to do.
He looked at her, speechless. Wait a minute, he said. Now just wait—
The door was open. The man from the bar was there smiling, holding a gun now, pointing it. Fornicators, he said, I knew what you were up to. I have the key and I followed you here. Now you’re going to pay. You disgust me.
She moved toward the window. Harry was rooted in place.
She looked at the priestly little man with the gun and sadly she looked at her husband, waiting now for whatever would happen.
Curtain, Harry, she said.
Posar: With the Aliens
MUCH LATER, THEN, AN INCALCULABLE TIME PAST those years in the iron clamp of the city, Posar could still remember the dank of the hallways, the hush of the fires in the distance, the fires tearing the sky and beyond it all, the cries and response
of both women. Earlier there had been the luminescent smile of the tantalizing “actress” as he had called her, as she submitted to his touches and grope in the fire and dank. This actress was what he remembered most poignantly but there was also Constance whom he had been trained to desire. Two women and yet somehow mingled, they were of equal importance if different creation. Yet during those times when he looked back upon all of this, when he remembered standing alone outside that bankless river of time, it was she who clung more insistently in memory.
Enameled against the false, the shuddering sky which he knew the aliens had donated for their trysts, the actress was enormous, she was fierce and stern in ways which took him back to childhood, and then, when she broke from that frieze into grinding contact, she became both less threatening and more moving to him. Dusk leapt as she leaned toward him, touched his forehead, whispered the few sentences which they had given her to speak, and the yearning Posar managed to join with her, to become fluid within her dense embrace.
The planes of her face, the extraordinary tilt of her features had touched him in ways he could barely articulate as she had held him there and he had whispered to her of his necessity. I know this isn’t real, Posar had said to her, but it matters none the less for that. Prayers are real, the actress had said, prayers and demonstration. So does that make this meaningful? he had said. I am not sure, the actress had said, I cannot answer your question. I am placed here for particular purposes, I cannot judge the extent of my feelings for you. Can a ghost lift you from the darkness? What darkness could not survive a ghost?
The questions had haunted him, had tantalized Posar, had filled his blood and breath with some sense of the incalculable. He could remember the feel of her against him, the metal of her shoulders, metal of her breath as he held her on the parapet they had constructed above the city. Looking down with her upon the impossible crevices and burning temper of this place, Posar had felt over and again the way that he had when they had torn him back to consciousness, had exposed him to the wires and business of that recovery. Since that time of upheaval, even after the restoration of his memory, he had been unable to trust himself, there was no particle of his experience which did not seem to have been open to them, and clasping the actress at that high place, trying to turn the steel of her body to something approaching heat, he had restored to him that sense which had emerged along with restored consciousness: almost anything could break him open.
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