Flesh

by Richard Laymon

  “Great.” Alison took a deep breath, relishing the aromas that filled the apartment.

  “I’ll just be a minute. Make yourself comfortable.”

  He walked past the bookshelves that lined the wall, stepped around the table in the small eating area, and disappeared into the kitchen. The table had been cleared of the typewriter and pile of books and papers that usually covered it. Places had been set. In the center of the table stood a single red candle.

  Alison heard the blender whine.

  She stepped over to an armchair and sat down.

  The gulf between the chair and the sofa, in this small room, looked enormous.

  This is no way to start things fresh, she thought. Evan’s not contagious.

  So she moved to the sofa. On the seat of a folding chair straight ahead was an oscillating fan. It swept a mild warm breeze back and forth. The moving air felt good on her damp face. She leaned forward. The top button of her blouse pressed against her throat. She unfastened it. Arching her back, she reached around and plucked the clinging fabric away from her skin.

  It hadn’t been that hot outside, she thought.

  Nerves. Confronting Roland, then coming here.

  It can only get better, she told herself.

  What makes you so sure?

  It’s already better, she thought. I’m done with Roland, Evan seems all right, and the fan feels terrific.

  Alison looked around the room. She had been here so many times before. Nothing looked different, yet nothing seemed quite the same. This might have been a movie set cleverly made up to look like Evan’s apartment, and she was an actress in the role of Alison—a role she didn’t quite know how to play.

  Need a script, she thought. That’d certainly help.

  Evan came in with a margarita in one hand and a bowl of tortilla chips in the other. After placing them on the table in front of Alison, he returned to the kitchen. He came back with a bowl of red salsa and another margarita. He put them down, then sat on the sofa beside her.

  Beside her, but about two feet away. A good sign, Alison thought. He isn’t going to pretend that everything is like it used to be.

  They lifted their drinks. “To new beginnings,” Evan said. They clinked their glasses and drank.

  Alison asked how his dissertation was coming along. He spoke with enthusiasm about its progress, his hopes of developing his study of flight imagery in Finnigan’s Wake into a full book that could gain him recognition as a Joyce scholar and help ensure tenure a few years down the road. While he talked, Alison dipped chips in salsa, ate them, and drank. Occasionally, she made comments or asked questions.

  When Evan finally lapsed into silence, Alison asked if he had heard, yet, from any of the universities to which he had applied for teaching positions. He gave her a strange look. “You mean since Thursday?”

  “Seems like longer,” Alison said.

  “Seems like weeks. God, it’s good to have you back.”

  Not all the way back, she thought. Not yet. I’m here, but I’m not back.

  Evan took the empty glasses into the kitchen. While he was gone, Alison dipped another chip into the salsa, cupped her hand beneath it in case it dripped, and ate it.

  Better stop gobbling these things, she thought, and licked a smear of red sauce off her fingers.

  Evan came back with the glasses refilled.

  Alison was already feeling somewhat light-headed from the first margarita. Drink this one more slowly, she cautioned herself. Keep at it with the booze and chips, you’ll be bloated and drunk by dinnertime.

  “You build a mean margarita,” she said.

  “Wait’ll you try my enchiladas.” He sat down beside her.

  Beside her, and only about one foot away, this time. That’s okay, Alison thought. We are closer than we were when I got here.

  Still not like we used to be, but getting better.

  “What have you been doing with yourself?” he asked.

  “Not much.” She didn’t want to tell him that she had spent the past few days thinking about him, often with bitterness, sometimes with longing. “I went to Wally’s one night,” she said.

  “Any luck?” he asked.

  “I wasn’t there for that,” she said, and took a drink. “Saw this far-out video. A woman dancing with a snake. Have you seen that one?”

  “I’ve caught it on MTV. Blue Lady doing ‘Squirm on Me.’”

  “Pretty far-out,” Alison said again.

  “Erotic.”

  “Helen and I played Trivial Pursuit last night. I landed on the Arts and Literature spaces whenever I got the chance. I wiped the floor up with her.”

  “Sounds like your Saturday night was better than mine.”

  This keeps straying into areas I don’t like, she thought. “I must’ve gained five pounds. Between the two of us, we polished off a bag of potato chips and a bag of taco chips. Not to mention a six-pack. If I keep spending Saturday nights with Helen, I’ll start to look like her.”

  “Impossible. You could gain a hundred pounds, you’d still be beautiful.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Your momma could beat you with an ugly stick from now till doomsday, you’d never look like Helen.”

  Alison laughed, then shook her head. “Come on, she’s my best friend.”

  “I didn’t start it.”

  “She’s a great gal. It’s not her fault she looks the way she does.”

  “If she cared, she could fix herself up.”

  “Not by much,” Alison said, and immediately regretted it. “I mean, there’s only so much that a hairstyle and makeup and clothes can accomplish. Shit, I don’t mean it that way.”

  Evan was grinning, laughing softly. “No, of course not.”

  “Anyway, we had a great time. Then today, I took a long walk and I picked up a copy of the new Travis McGee and spent most of the afternoon with that. MacDonald’s great to read when you’re lying out in the sun.”

  “What were you wearing?”

  “My white bikini.”

  “Ah.”

  She took another drink. The second margarita was getting low. “I like all the MacDonalds,” she said. “MacDonald, John D.; Mcdonald, Gregory; Macdonald, Ross; McDonald, Ronald.”

  “I love how you look in the white bikini.”

  “Is dinner almost ready?”

  “Ah, I’ll check. Shall I get refills while I’m out?”

  “Not for me, thanks.”

  “No problem. Champagne with dinner. I promised champagne, remember?” Leaving his own empty glass on the table, he stood up. He walked slowly, as if being careful not to weave.

  Alison wondered how many drinks he’d had before she arrived.

  Don’t worry about it, she told herself. Just make sure youdon’t get looped.

  She settled back against the sofa and sighed.

  So far, so good, she told herself.

  She sighed again. It felt good to sigh. She felt pleasantly lazy and light. A great burden had been lifted from her. She was with Evan again, and it was working out fine.

  Pretty fine.

  He didn’t get my McDonald joke.

  Too busy thinking about me in my bikini.

  Who can blame him?

  She laughed softly and closed her eyes.

  “Hey, Sleeping Beauty.”

  She opened her eyes. The room was dark except for the glow of a single candle. The candle was on the table in the dining area. Food was on the table.

  Evan was standing above her. “I understand it is traditional,” he said, “to awaken the princess with a kiss. However, I showed remarkable restraint and took no advantage of your somnolent condition.”

  Alison sat up. “How long was I asleep?”

  “Oh, perhaps an hour.”

  “Jeez.” It didn’t seem possible. “I’m sorry.”

  “No need to apologize. You’re beautiful when you’re asleep. Or when you’re awake, for that matter.”

  “I hope dinner isn’t rui
ned.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine. In fact, it’s just now ready.”

  “Do I have time to use the john?”

  “Help yourself.”

  She made her way through the darkness and down a short hallway to the bathroom. Though she was embarrassed about falling asleep, the rest had left her feeling refreshed. She turned on the light. She used the toilet. At the sink, she cupped up cold water with her hand and took a few sips. She studied herself in the mirror. Her eyes looked a little pink. Her hair looked fine. The middle button of her blouse had come undone. She fastened it, then washed her hands and left the bathroom.

  The kitchen light was on. The enchiladas on her plate were steaming and looked wonderful. Evan pulled out the chair for her and she sat down. He filled her glass with champagne. Before taking his seat, he switched off the light.

  “Remember our spaghetti dinner?” he asked. “You were wearing your good white blouse and claimed you didn’t want to spill anything on it so you took it off?”

  “Evan.”

  “You were so lovely in the candlelight. Your golden glowing skin, your dusky nipples.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Sorry,” he muttered. He lowered his head, cut into an enchilada with his fork, and began to eat.

  Alison’s appetite was gone, but she took a bite. She had a hard time swallowing and washed the food down with champagne.

  For a while, they both remained silent.

  This is lousy, she thought. What was the real harm in what he’d said? They had a wonderful time, that night. It shouldn’t be a crime to remember it, to mention it.

  “Good grub,” she said.

  He looked up from his plate. “Try some sour cream on it.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” She spooned a large glob of sour cream onto her enchiladas. “It was a good thing, too,” she said, “that I took off my blouse. I slopped all over myself that night.”

  She saw Evan smile. “On purpose, I believe.”

  “Yeah. I’m not, after all, a slob.”

  “No, indeed.”

  They returned to eating. Now, the food tasted fine. The cool sour cream added a tangy flavor to the enchiladas. She drank more champagne, and Evan refilled her glass.

  “You’re really a terrific cook,” Alison said.

  “I have my specialties. One of them is chocolate mousse pie, but I think we should save it for later. Give us time to digest all this.”

  “Maybe we should take a walk when we’re done,” Alison suggested.

  He said, “Maybe.” He didn’t sound thrilled by the idea. “I’ve got a tape of To Have and Have Not I thought you might want to look at on the VCR. Hemingway. Bogart and Bacall. You know how to whistle, don’t you?”

  “I’d like that,” Alison said. “I haven’t seen it in years.”

  “I tought y’might like it, tweet-hot,” he said, flexing his upper lip.

  He would turn it on and sit with her on the sofa. Soon, his arms would be around her.

  We’ll be right back where we started before Thursday in Bennet Hall, before the ultimatum, before his date with Tracy Morgan, before the flowers and letter.

  And maybe that’s not such a bad thing, Alison thought. Why fight it? What’s the point?

  But what were the last three days all about if you give in tonight? You won’t have learned anything.

  Sure. You’ll have learned that, no matter what, it all comes down to fucking.

  It shouldn’t have to be that way, damn it.

  She pushed her fork under the small portion that remained of her dinner.

  Running out of time, kiddo.

  She chewed. She swallowed. She drank the rest of her champagne.

  Evan lifted the bottle. “Polish it off?”

  “No thanks.”

  He emptied the bottle into his glass and quickly drank the last of the champagne.

  “I could use some coffee, if you have some.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  Evan carried two mugs of coffee into the living room and set them on the table in front of the sofa. Then he crouched and slipped his tape of To Have and Have Not into the VCR on the shelf below his television. When he started to get up, he stumbled. He staggered a few steps, found his balance, and grinned over his shoulder at Alison. “I meant to do that,” he said.

  He’s pretty polluted, she thought.

  He walked carefully into the kitchen. While he was gone, Alison pushed herself off the sofa and turned on a lamp. As the lamp came on, the kitchen went dark.

  She was seated again by the time he wandered in. He had a loose-jointed, swaying walk. He had a bottle of whiskey in one hand, a can of whipped cream in the other. “How about Irish coffee?” he asked, and dropped heavily onto the sofa beside Alison.

  Beside Alison, no more than three inches away.

  “I think I’ll take my coffee straight,” she said.

  “Fine. Do not let it be said that I attempted to ply you with liquor. When all is written and the story told, let it not be reported that Evan attempted to cloud the fair lady’s mind with spirits, opiates, or scorcery.”

  “You’re bombed,” Alison said.

  “I’m…semibombed.” Talking out of a side of his mouth in a fairly good impression of W.C. Fields, he said, “She was a gorgeous, delectable blonde and she drove me to drink; it’s the only thing I’m grateful to her for.”

  Alison took a sip of her coffee. “Barf, and I’m on my way home.”

  “Barf and the world barfs with you.” But he left the whiskey on the table. He took a drink of coffee. Then he turned on the movie.

  Alison sat on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward, until her mug was empty. Then she settled back against the cushion. She slipped out of her shoes, propped her feet on the edge of the table, and stared between her knees at the television.

  She couldn’t follow the movie. Her mind was on Evan. She sensed that he was paying no attention to the movie, either.

  He was slumped beside her, his legs stretched out beneath the table, his left arm not quite touching Alison but so close that she thought she could feel the heat of it against her arm. His hand rested on his thigh.

  The lighted red numbers of the VGR’s digital clock showed 9:52.

  We’ve been sitting like mannequins, Alison thought, for almost twenty minutes.

  She had an urge to shift her position. But she didn’t move. A move might trigger something.

  This is crazy.

  She lowered her feet to the floor, sat up straight, and stretched, arching her back. She rolled her head to work the kinks out of her neck.

  Evan said, “Here.” He reached up with one hand and began to massage her neck.

  The fingers felt good plying her stiff muscles. Alison turned her back to Evan, sliding a leg onto the cushion.

  Now it starts, she thought.

  Both of Evan’s hands were on her shoulders and neck, rubbing, squeezing, caressing. They eased the tightness. Alison closed her eyes and let her head droop. The massaging hands made her feel weak and lazy.

  He worked on the bare sides of her neck, beneath her collar.

  Nice. Why not nicer?

  Alison unfastened a button. Evan’s hands moved outward from her neck, kneading her skin, widening the bare area. Alison felt something loosen and realized, vaguely, that her middle button had popped open on its own. Evan tried to spread the blouse more. It pulled at her. She tugged, untucking it, and the loose blouse rose and opened, exposing her shoulders.

  She swayed under the soothing motions of Evan’s strong hands. She felt powerless to lift her head or to open her eyes or to protest when, soon, he slipped the bra straps off her shoulders.

  His hands no longer massaged, but glided over her bare skin, caressing her from neck to shoulders.

  He stopped for a moment. The sofa cushion moved slightly under Alison and she guessed that Evan was changing his position. Getting onto his knees? Yes. From the sound of his breathing, he was higher now. He st
roked her shoulders, eased his hands under her blouse and inside the sleeves to caress her upper arms, then slid his hands out and down, down over her collarbones, down her chest, going away instead of touching her through the filmy fabric of her bra, and opening the last buttons.

  He slipped the blouse down her back. Alison’s wrists were trapped in the sleeves, but she made no effort to free them.

  For a while, his hands roamed her back and sides. Then they unfastened her bra. Evan kissed the side of her neck. He nibbled, making her squirm. Her heart quickened, desire pushing away the lazy weak feeling. He caressed her sides. His hands moved beneath her arms, slipped under her bra, and lightly cupped her breasts. Her nipples stiffened, pressing into his palms.

  Reaching back, she rubbed his thighs through the soft fabric of his pants.

  He squeezed her nipples.

  A hot tremor pulsed through Alison. She caught her breath. She reached higher, intending to caress his penis through his pants, but she found it rigid and bare. Her hand flew from it.

  He chuckled softly. “Surprise,” he whispered.

  How long had he been that way, his penis secretly exposed while he caressed her? It seemed wrong, deceitful, almost perverted.

  But he rubbed and squeezed her breasts and what did it matter if he’d jumped the gun a bit? He saved me the trouble, Alison thought. She reached up and stroked him.

  Then she turned around. Evan was on his knees. As he slid down his pants, Alison removed her hands from the sleeves of her blouse.

  She glanced down at herself. Her bra hung like a flimsy scarf above the tops of her breasts. She began to sweep its strap down her left arm and saw a smudge of red on the white, translucent fabric of one rumpled cup.

  She stared at the red stain. It looked like a smear of the salsa they’d been dipping their chips into before dinner.

  I must’ve spilled…

  It’s on my bra.

  In the bathroom after waking up, she had found the middle button of her blouse unfastened.

  After waking up.

  Evan, naked from waist to knees, lifted his knit shirt to pull it over his head. It was covering his face. Alison jabbed a fist into his belly. Air whooshed out of him. He folded at the waist. Alison flung herself off the sofa just in time to avoid being struck by his crumpling body.