The Loves of Harry Dancer

by Lawrence Sanders

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just sweetheart. Do you like that?”

  “No, I do not. And I’ll give you exactly three hours to stop.”

  “Nut,” he says. Laughing. “I’ve married a nut.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Nut,” she says. “Doesn’t it sound nice?”

  “Back rub?” he asks.

  “Yes. Please.”

  She rolls prone. He straddles her. Begins softly massaging her neck and shoulders.

  “Magic fingers,” she murmurs.

  He kneads her back. Gently rubs the stones of her spine.

  “Got to fatten you up,” he says.

  “Whatever.”

  He bends to drift lips and tongue. Kisses ribs.

  Hunches to nibble her rounded tush.

  “Ooh…” she says. “You never did that before.”

  “I’ve never been married before. Want to sleep?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  She rolls over. They embrace with smiling delight. Their love is airy. No strain, no pain. Then, flesh fevered, the easy joining. Slick slide.

  “I do,” she says. Repeating her marriage vow. “I do, I do, I do. Oh lordy, do I ever do.”

  It is a memorable week in Manhattan. Filled with odd charms. Unexpected incidents. Good food. A crazy session at a roller skating rink. One good Broadway play. They eat raw fish for the first time. See an Ingres at the Metropolitan that makes Sylvia weep with pleasure. Take a yacht trip around the island. Buy pretzels from a man on stilts.

  Then they are back in Florida. Settling into their beachfront home. Dancer goes back to work. Sylvia gets busy redecorating the house. Moving her things in. And trying not to call him every hour to say, “I love you.”

  Routine and habit grow. There are minor clashes—as they expected. Little, stupid things, they agree. All smoothed over. But their marriage grows. Blooms. Until they rather spend an evening alone together than to endure the company of friendly strangers.

  “We’ve got to stop this,” Sylvia says. “The honeymoon is over.”

  But it is not.

  What saves them from cloying happiness, despicable to acquaintances, is the clash of their personalities. She so light, breezy. A sprite, really. He so heavy, introspective. And sometimes, when the mood is on him, silent and lachrymose. This disparity is the cause of psychic pushings, pullings, a covert and occasionally overt warfare that leaves them shaken and depressed.

  Until, three years wed, they realize that this tension is pepper to their lives, and their marriage would not survive without it. Then they accept each other as is. Their relationship deepens to become one of respect and understanding as much as love.

  39

  Martin Frey, trained Romeo, learns early on that small flattery is no flattery at all.

  “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met,” he tells Evelyn Heimdall.

  She smiles. Lazy as a cat. Rolling softly on her lounge at poolside. Toasting the flesh. Opening the body to that penetrating sun.

  “You’re a sweet boy,” she says. “A sweet, young boy.”

  “Does that make a difference?”

  She lowers her sunglasses to stare at him. “No, it doesn’t.”

  “You only live once.”

  “So I’m learning,” she says.

  “I’d like to take you to dinner tonight,” Frey says. “May I?”

  “Sorry. I have a date.”

  “A cocktail? Before your date?”

  She thinks about it. “AH right. One drink. Then I’ll have to run. Will you settle for that?”

  “I’ll settle for anything. Would you like to stop by my place? Say around five o’clock?”

  “Make it six. I’ll stay for an hour. No more. Now are you going to give me a swimming lesson?”

  “Of course.”

  “What are you going to teach me today?”

  “The breast stroke,” he says. Grinning.

  “You’re awful,” she says. Takes his hand so he can help her rise. They move to the pool together.

  “Let’s try the flutter kick again,” he says.

  They go into the shallow end. She grasps the gutter. Floats facedown.

  “All right,” he says, “start kicking. From the hips. Slowly at first.”

  She tries.

  “No, no,” he says. “You’re kicking from the knee. Here, keep your legs straight.”

  He puts his hands on her. Makes her lock her knees. His fingers are silk under water.

  “Point your toes,” he commands. “Keep your legs stiff. Try it again.”

  Her long legs scissor. From the hips. Knees locked. Toes pointed. She beats the water to froth.

  “Good,” he says. “You’re doing great. Now turn around. Float facedown. Push off and flutter kick across the pool. Take a deep breath and keep your face in the water. Arms extended. Don’t try to stroke. Just kick to the other side.”

  She pushes off. Almost makes it. But then has to raise her face from the water to take a breath. It breaks the rhythm of her kick.

  “Okay,” he calls, “you did fine. Now come back the same way. Just take it slow and easy. Put all your strength into your thighs.”

  She extends her arms. Takes a deep breath. Puts her face in the water. Pushes off. She kicks to him. He moves so that her grasping hands touch his tight briefs. She raises her head. Gasping for breath.

  “Well done,” he says. “Do it a few more times. Tomorrow we’ll try the length of the pool and see how far you can go.”

  She kicks across the width of the pool several more times. When she comes back to where he stands in shallow water, her hands reach to touch him. Lingeringly. A ballet.

  “You’re doing great,” he tells her.

  “Ami?”

  “Just keep those beautiful legs locked, and move from the hips.”

  “I’ll remember,” she says.

  When she shows up at his apartment at six o’clock, she is wearing a loose chemise of lavender linen. Cut high in front. Plunging almost to her waist in back. Tanned skin gleams.

  “You look smashing,” Frey says. “Lucky man you’re meeting tonight. What would you like to drink? I have vodka, rum, scotch, white wine. That’s about it.”

  “A white wine would be nice. You know, Martin, I’m beginning to feel all that kicking in my legs. My thighs and calves ache.”

  “You’ll work it out tomorrow. After awhile your muscles will get toned, and you won’t feel a thing.”

  He is barefoot, wearing tight white short-shorts and a khaki tank top. She sees tufts of soft black hair protruding from his armpits. She looks away. Oddly excited.

  “Good wine,” she says. “Thank you. How is the job-hunting coming?”

  “Another interview tomorrow,” he says. “I’m not discouraged. The jobs are there, but the salaries aren’t so great.”

  “I know very little about computers,” she confesses.

  “It’s not as difficult as you think. If I can do it, anyone can do it.”

  They sit side by side on his couch: a rattan monstrosity covered with an orange batik print. Frey puts his palm lightly on her bare back.

  “Hot,” he says. “You’re not getting too much sun, are you?”

  “I don’t think so. I use a sun-screen lotion.”

  “Good. Or you’ll be peeling like an onion. Ev, if your date is over early, or even if it isn’t, and you’d like to stop back here for a nightcap, I’d love to see you.”

  His fingertips glide over her back. Feathers. She shivers.

  “I don’t think I could do that,” she says.

  “Why not?”

  “A small matter of morality.”

  “Morality?” he says. Fierce grin. “What’s that? If you’re not hurting anyone, where’s the harm?”

  She doesn’t know the answer.

  “Well,” he says, “you think about it. I don’t get to bed until two in the morning, so you won’t be disturbing me.”

  “I’ll thin
k about it,” she says. Feeling his hard fingers caressing.

  “You’re obviously not wearing a bra, are you?”

  “Obviously I’m not.”

  “I’ll give you my phone number,” he says.

  40

  Evelyn Heimdall and Harry Dancer go to a new French restaurant on Las Olas. They have escargot, veal, and a Grand Marnier soufflé. A corky chablis. Dancer is in one of his moods. It’s a subdued dinner.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. Putting his hand on hers. “I’m grumpy tonight, and I know it. Please forgive me.”

  “What is it, Harry?”

  “Oh, I go through these things periodically. Not depression, exactly, but a kind of sulking. I’m ashamed of myself, but I can’t help it.”

  “I don’t believe you ever sulk.”

  “Solemn rumination then. Will you settle for that? It only lasts a day or two, but while it’s on me I know I’m lousy company.”

  “I have a confession to make, too,” she says. “It’s that time of month for me. Sorry about that, chief. But maybe we’re lucky our inactive moods coincide. In a few days we’ll be swinging from the chandelier again.”

  That elicits his first laugh of the evening.

  “You better believe it,” he says. “I’ll get you home early, and we’ll both dream of better things to come.”

  On the drive back to her apartment house, she says: “By the way, I have a new boyfriend.”

  “Good for you,” Dancer says.

  “Jealous?”

  “Madly.”

  “I find that hard to believe. He moved into my apartment house. Very nice, but a little too young for me. But he’s teaching me how to swim.”

  “You mean you can’t swim? Good lord, you should have told me. I’d have taught you.”

  “Too late,” she says. “I’ve got a teacher.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Martin Frey. He’s from somewhere in New Jersey. Trying to get a job down here working with computers.”

  “Is he handsome?”

  “Very.”

  “Now lam jealous.”

  She laughs. Pokes his arm. “Harry, you don’t have a thing to worry about.”

  It is a little after ten o’clock when she is home, alone, in her own apartment. Turns out all the lights. Undresses slowly. Goes out onto the balcony, naked. Lies on a lounge. The cool breeze has lips. She closes her eyes against the moonglow.

  How comforting to submit to a discipline. Army, state, religion—whatever. Accepts myths, dreams, illusions. Give yourself over. Oh, to be rid of choice! Those damned decisions. Sign on, and you’re free. Is tyranny a kind of liberty?

  She stirs. Opens her eyes wide to stare at the star-flecked sky. That means freedom is painful. Hurt and suffering. Take responsibility for your own destiny, and you’re in trouble, Charlie. The question is…The question is…

  “What is the question?” she asks. Aloud.

  That pilot light within her flickers hotter. She swears to herself, solemnly, it is not only physical desire. It is a want to breathe free. Take the world to bed and note what happens. She sees doors opening. Windows flung up. Intoxication. Wild fantasies come clamoring. She is aswoon.

  Rises shakily. Pads into the living room. Phones Dancer.

  “Harry? You got home all right?”

  “I did indeed. Sorry I was such a grump at dinner.”

  “You’re entitled. We all have moods. I was sorry I wasn’t, ah, physically capable of making you forget your troubles.”

  He laughs. “Tomorrow’s another day, Ev.”

  “So it is. I love you, Harry. Sleep well.”

  “You too, dear. Thank you for calling.”

  She goes back to her balcony lounge. Happy she phoned. But still dissatisfied. Harry seems part of a past life. Discipline, myths, dreams, illusions. He is behind closed doors. Windows down. No seductive breeze there, tanged with salt, to stir and excite.

  She touches herself. Confused by myriad “What ifs?” She is a tot, wandering into a garden. All those blooms, smells, sensations. She has never had to choose between alternatives. Doesn’t know how. Sign on, and your preferences are dictated. How can she wear red when white is prescribed?

  Lies back. Throws her arms wide. Lifts her knees. Spreads her thighs.

  “Fuck me, moon,” she says aloud. Giggling.

  Madness! She doesn’t know its source. But knows it is evil. And exciting. And cannot withstand its allure. To be all things! Know all things! No standards, morals, laws. Not a one. No desire for reward. No fear of punishment. Then how grand a life might be!

  She is not ready for that. Yet. But glimpses the enticement. It is, she tells herself, akin to prison doors unlocked, swinging wide. The prisoner looks in disbelief. Amazement. Takes one hesitant step. Another. Another. And then, released, trots, runs, sprints. Laughing. Weeping.

  Evelyn Heimdall is burning with that vision. Returns again to the living room. Switches on a table lamp to search through her purse. Finally finds his number.

  “Martin?” she says. “Good evening. This is Evelyn.”

  “Hi,” Frey says. “How was the date?”

  “It was okay. I’m home. Does that invitation for a nightcap still stand?”

  “Of course. Come on down.”

  “No,” she says. “You come up here.”

  41

  Sally Abaddon has forgotten what it is like to have a close woman friend. All her assignments are men. All her associates are male. Now here is Angela Bliss. Friendly. Generous. Eager to please. Sally enjoys having a confidante.

  The two women spend hours together. Usually in the mornings and afternoons. And those evenings Sally doesn’t see Harry Dancer. They laze at poolside or on the beach. Shop at malls. Search out amusing restaurants. Take a boat trip along the Intracoastal Waterway.

  Physically unalike, they have some things in common. The experience of hard work and long careers. Independence. Both with lives centered around men. In Angela’s case, it’s an invalid husband confined to a nursing home. She says.

  “I feel guilty about leaving him,” she confesses. “But I had to get away, if only for a few weeks. At home, I speak to him every day and visit him three or four times a week. It’s a drain.”

  “I should think so,” Sally says. “There’s no hope he’ll get better?”

  “No. None. It’s a degenerative nerve disorder. The doctors say he could live for years, getting progressively worse.”

  “How awful.”

  “Sometimes I feel like just taking off. You know? And never coming back. But I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I really do love him, and he’s completely dependent on me. Also, I’m a very religious woman, and I know that deserting him just wouldn’t be right. I don’t know what I’d do without my faith and my church. They give me strength to go on.”

  Sally Abaddon makes no reply.

  They are having breakfast at a Howard Johnson on Briny Avenue. Outside, a rainsquall drives spatters against the windows. But behind it is blue sky, promise of a steamy day.

  “It’ll blow over,” Sally says. “We’ll have some tanning time. You’re getting good color.”

  “I’ll never be as dark as you,” Angela says.

  “But you’re not really dark; more of an apricot shade.”

  “Apricot?” Sally says. Laughing. “Thanks a lot!”

  “You know what I mean. You’re really a very beautiful woman. I wish I had your figure.”

  “You do all right,” Sally assures her. “But I think you could do a lot more with yourself than you do. A padded bra would help, for starters. Or maybe cosmetic surgery. They can do wonders these days.”

  “Oh no,” Angela says. “I could never do that. My church teaches that vanity is a sin. I’ll just have to live with what I am.”

  Sky clearing. Sun beginning to glow redder. They walk slowly back to their motel.

  “We could go out to the Pompano Fashion Squa
re,” Sally suggests. “Jordan Marsh is having a sale on swimsuits.”

  “Maybe later,” Angela says. “I’d like to get some sun before it gets too hot. Then I have to write some letters.”

  “To your husband?”

  “My husband, my priest, other people.”

  “Your church really means a lot to you, doesn’t it, Angela?”

  “A lot? It means everything. I don’t know what I’d do without it. It keeps me going. You’re not religious, are you?”

  “No, not really. I just wasn’t brought up that way.”

  “Well, I never try to convert anyone. What you believe or don’t believe is your business. But I wish you’d come to church with me on Sunday morning. It’s so beautiful. So comforting.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Sally Abaddon says.

  She lies prone on a beach towel spread on the lawn. Unfastens the bra strap of her bikini. Angela sits beside her. Rubs suntan lotion onto her shoulders. Her back. Soft, caressing strokes.

  “That feels so good,” Sally murmurs.

  “Let me do the backs of your legs,” Angela says.

  That night, at Harry Dancer’s home, Sally tells him about her new friend.

  “It must be nice to believe in something as strongly as she does,” she says. “With a bedridden husband who’s dying, she’d have every reason not to believe.”

  “Does she work?” he asks.

  “Yes. In the loan department of a Chicago bank.”

  “Well, I hope her husband has good medical insurance. Or maybe he’s on disability. Those long illnesses can wipe you out.”

  “She didn’t mention how they were paying for it, and of course I didn’t ask. Do you go to church, Harry?”

  “Haven’t since Sylvia’s funeral. We used to go occasionally. Easter and Christmas. Some other times. But not regularly.”

  He has made a big salad of shrimp and lobster chunks. With crusty garlic toast. And a jug of chilled Rhine wine. Informal meal. Informal dress. They are both wearing jeans. Sally with one of Harry’s old shirts. Tails knotted. Showing tanned midriff.

  “Ooh, that was good,” she says. Sitting back. “You can cook for me any day.”

  “What cooking? It was all cold. Except for the garlic toast, and I just heated that up in the oven. What would you like to do—take a walk on the beach?”