Paddy couldn’t take his eyes off her breasts. They bounced when she laughed, and when she stopped they ended up pointing up. He thought of the girl he had seen in Playboy Magazine once; she had breasts that pointed up. Agnes had found the magazine and burned it. Paddy’s mind saw through the fabric and he could see molded pink flesh and sturdy nipples and he dropped his rake. He hoped he wouldn’t get a hard-on.
“I’ve been dying to meet you,” Gillian said. Her eyes turned brilliant and brindle like a feline in catnip and she planted a small lie. “I’ve wanted so much to meet you. You were always my hero.”
Paddy stopped gulping. He understood the word “hero.” There was a time—and the boys in any bar in Mineola would remember it—when he had been a hero. Paddy Madigan had been the pride of the gin mills, the man announcer Johnnie Addie always mentioned after the magic words: “And the stellar attraction.” Paddy Madigan had been the white image on the Thursday night fights televised from St. Aloysius Arena; the man who fought his way to a fight with the light-heavyweight champion of the world. He was the crinkly-haired left-handed fighter who carried almost all before him—until the desperation that worked so long failed when it had to fail.
Paddy preened. The muscles on his shoulders stiffened into chunks and he unconsciously drew in his stomach, drew up his buttocks and inhaled. Mentally, he whomped a left hook into a body bag.
“Don’t overdo it, honey,” Gillian said. “Don’t waste all that muscle until I get there, will you?”
She settled then on the direct approach. Subtlety, she knew, would be a waste. She scampered to the fence and, hurtling it, tripped. It was a sprawling fall and it carried her to Paddy’s feet. He looked down at her numbly and didn’t move.
“For Christ’s sake!” she exploded—then changed the snarl to smiling Arpège. “Please, hon, give me your hand.”
Paddy, at that moment, would have given her the loving cup from the mantel, the one that the President of Argentina handed to him when he won his division championship in the Pan-American Games. That was just before Paddy was old enough to vote. He gave her his hand and she took it. As he pulled Gillian to her feet, her free hand traveled lazily up his forearm and the skin there exploded in goosebumps.
“Are you hurt, missus?”
There was pain in Paddy’s voice as he asked the question. When she didn’t answer—when all she did was stroke his arm and smile, he asked the question again—the same words with precisely the same intonation.
“Good God, you’re strong,” she said. “Touching you gives me shocks.”
Her palms rubbed up his arms and over his shoulders and down his chest. Paddy looked over his shoulder at the house. He reminded himself that Agnes was at the hairdresser’s. Gillian was talking some more about Paddy’s muscles, but he couldn’t hear a word she said. What he heard was a gentle purring sound and the sound stirred him. He reached both hands behind Gillian, caught her by the globes of her rump and pulled her a foot off the ground. Then he kissed her hurriedly, catching only the last quarter of an inch of her lips on the right side. Gillian clenched her teeth and then, before opening her eyes, managed a smile.
“You certainly sweep a girl right off her feet,” she said.
“Oh, missus.…”
Paddy was gulping again. He wanted to tell her he was sorry but the words wouldn’t come. He stammered. And she cut off his misery with another smile and a light lingering touch that brushed over his chest and made a wide circular movement just above his belt buckle.
“Maybe it’s not right,” Gillian said—she tried spacing the words neatly between manufactured heavy breaths. “Maybe it’s not right but I could keep my hands on you all day.”
Oh you sexpot, she thought, you incorrigible sexpot. Her eyes closed and her head rolled against Paddy’s chest. Paddy was gulping hard when Gillian slumped and cried out a feeble “Oh!” Paddy grabbed her.
“Whatsamatta, missus?” he choked. “I do somethin’ to you?”
“My ankle”—Gillian tried her best Bette Davis look—“I think I’m going to faint. Maybe you had better … take me inside.”
Paddy hadn’t seen the movie. He tenderly gathered her up to him and minced his steps across the yard, up the back steps, through the kitchen and into the living room. He held her out in his arms and looked at her. She seemed in pain and there were tears in Paddy’s eyes. Then he knelt in front of the couch and deposited her carefully among Agnes’s doilies and antimacassars.
“Jesus, you’re strong,” Gillian said.
For the moment Bette Davis was forgotten. Paddy was squatting in front of her, and her hand roamed up his thigh. She hoped her eyes were properly glassy.
“I didn’t know you were so strong,” she said—trying to get a grip on his thigh. “I didn’t know.”
Paddy wanted to look at her and he fought against it. His eyes roamed over the room. There were the lamps that Agnes had bought when they were first married; the bookends her brother had given them at the same time; the prints, The Ruins of Pompeii and Blue Boy; the wallpaper with the violets on it—Paddy had found that wallpaper difficult to live with but Agnes told him it was “refined.” And on the opposite wall was the crucifix, four feet high, that Agnes had bought from the Sisters of the Poor. Behind him—he knew without looking—was the tinted picture of Agnes that she had been sold years ago in Kresge’s.
Paddy’s inattention annoyed Gillian. What was his hangup? She squirmed and went into her kitten stretch. When even this didn’t get his attention, she sighed. With the sigh she brought his hands together in front of her and allowed the knuckles to rest against her breasts. Paddy stopped thinking of the room.
“I can feel your strength going through me,” she said, pressing his hands harder against her breasts.
“Oh, missus, Agnes.…”
“More,” she said, unfolding his hands and placing the palms against her breasts. “More.”
His hands were gnarled and stumpy, hands that had been broken and repaired countless times. She rubbed her long fingers over the twisted hands, and Paddy gently rubbed his hands against her breasts. Finally. Gillian sat up.
“I have to feel free,” she said. “Undo me.”
She lifted the top of her jersey and pointed out the three clips that held the bra in place. Paddy loosened two of them, but the third was more than a match for fingers that had grown thick and suddenly clumsy. Finally he put his hand between her back and the elastic and gave a short tug. The bra was in his hand then and he looked at it wonderingly.
“Not too fast, honey,” Gillian said.
But the hands that had seemed so inexpressive a moment earlier were now strong and full of purpose. The protest died in her throat. Paddy lifted her. His left hand grabbed out, covered all of her right breast and part of the other and his right hand grabbed at the top of her beige slacks and ripped them down in one yank. He pulled them off and left them in a tired wad at the foot of the couch.
Then he lifted her up. He looked down at his possession for a moment, and Gillian assumed the glance was one of admiration. However, there were no words to reinforce her belief. Paddy carried her across the room and with his foot pushed open the bedroom door. This time there was no gentleness. He threw her body onto the large double bed. Gillian’s initial fear was being replaced by another emotion, an emotion that was becoming increasingly familiar to her. Anticipation of the inevitable. And now she felt a need to hurry it along, to help him get where he wanted to be. To her small surprise, she found herself more than ready for him, eager for him, eager for him to pack some of that muscle into her.
Gillian reached up to his belt and tried to undo it, but he slapped her hand away. Wild-eyed now, Paddy tore his clothes off and fell upon Gillian, hardly giving her time to raise her legs and receive him in comfort. Paddy snorted and gasped. His body strained and convulsed. Then, in seconds, he subsided and, as he subsided, he breathed a low groan from his diaphragm and fell prostrate upon her.
“Oh, come on lover, come
on.” Gillian could wait no longer. She felt she might climax before he even entered her if he delayed much longer. “Put it in. For Christ’s sake, put it in.”
Paddy was weeping.
“It was in,” he whimpered. “It’s all over. It’s … all over now.”
Gillian sat up and touched herself and discovered that Paddy was as good as his word. He had been in and, dammit, it was all over. She shook her head in disbelief.
“Let me look,” Gillian said. She grabbed at Paddy, at the shriveled remnant of his brief passion. She found it and held it firmly between her thumb and forefinger. Nothing in her past experience, even her recent past experience, had prepared her for the object which she now encountered. Her first reaction was near to awe.
“Someone short-changed you,” she said. “You’re muscle everywhere, everywhere but here.”
Paddy looked away then, and tears rolled down his face onto the embroidered coverlet. Gillian was in an experimental mood. She stretched the tiny member to its full length, and it seemed to shrink even more in embarrassment. She toyed with it, coaxed it, managed to extend it as much as it could be extended—and even then it would have fit nicely into a … what? A thimble, she decided.
The humor of the moment finally overcame her frustration. And she laughed. How could one hope to destroy a marriage that was held together by such a fragile link? She couldn’t control the laughter then, and she threw back her head and her body was heaving and her breasts were undulating with each round of laughter.
But Paddy was still crying.
“Please don’t laugh,” he said finally. “Don’t you laugh. Agnes was the only one, she never laughed. Agnes says that fucking is dirty and you shouldn’t do it but only once a month. Only when you have to. Fucking is the curse God gave us because of Mother Eve. Only Agnes never laughs.”
“I won’t laugh, honey,” Gillian said.
But composure was difficult, especially with Paddy going on about Agnes. Then he was telling her how his name was really Walter, Walter Madigan, and that Paddy was given to him by his manager. And how it somehow seemed to fit with Agnes because her name really was Bridget Murphy before they were married and that she had changed her name to Agnes because her cousins told her that Bridget was too old-fashioned and too Irish. Then he told her about being in the Seabees during World War II, just a kid, and when he heard his outfit was going to Guam, he began wetting his bed, even though Guam was secured.
His tiny penis had made him shy of girls, he told her. There was a slut in San Francisco who said he was the only guy she had ever met who drove a tack with a sledge hammer. He had beaten that girl black and blue, and his manager had to pay her a thousand dollars just to keep her big mouth shut. And there was a girl in the Bronx who said it was so small she couldn’t even bite it, and he had knocked out her two upper front teeth and that had cost $500.
Paddy began crying again.
Gillian’s hand stroked his shoulder and then once again the ludicrousness of the situation struck home. She tried to hold back the giggle, but most of it escaped.
Paddy reached up then and slapped her across the face. That did it. Gillian’s head made an arch to the pillow and she started to cry then. It was the first time she had ever been struck by a man. It wasn’t the humiliation, though, that prompted the tears. It was the pain. Paddy had caught her a good one.
“Please don’t cry,” he was saying. “Please don’t, missus.”
It was no use. His words were almost a prayer, but they ran together and they seemed to come from a great distance. Gillian tried to look up at Paddy but his face appeared blurred, the face seen through a window in a rainstorm.
“Please, please, please,” he was saying. “I’ll make it right.”
She felt him then, reaching under her and slowly massaging her buttocks. Wondering what the point of all this was, she didn’t resist. She allowed Paddy to spread her legs, and his fingers found the dampness there and he stroked and crooned and she spread the legs even farther. Then, with a last quick cry, Paddy’s face lowered itself into the darkness and Gillian crooned. She found herself holding onto the back of his head, guiding it, pressing it, and the tears went away.
It was nearly dark. Paddy felt as though he were waking from a long sleep but his eyes hadn’t closed once. The time had gone somewhere and he hadn’t been aware of its passing. Gillian had gone, too, and he hadn’t known that either.
His manager had known the truth about Paddy. Maybe he was the only one besides Paddy to discover it. They both knew that Paddy Madigan fought out of desperation alone. “He’s got a heart the size of a pea,” the manager had told Agnes after that last fight, “but he’s so scared that he fights like hell—that’s what he’s always had going for him.”
Agnes had accepted this truth without comment. Her one reaction was to purchase a small Japanese pistol for self-protection. Paddy thought of that pistol as he struggled from the bed and smoothed it with faltering fingers. He could feel his desperation come to life again. He stumbled into the living room and groped through the closet under the stairs where Agnes kept her pistol.
Paddy was shaking then, saying words that only he and his God could understand. He grabbed at a chair, then threw it away from him and knelt down before the crucifix. He stared at the image of Christ on the cross for more than a minute, and then he turned away from it and faced the tinted picture of Agnes. He blessed himself with the right hand, forgetting that the pistol was clasped within that hand.
“Bless me, Agnes, for I have sinned,” he began.
The wind, which bore only a tinge of its Canadian origin, had blown the loose leaves from the backyard toward the porch, and they swirled about the feet of Agnes Madigan as she climbed the back stairs. She had just put her key into the lock when she heard the shot. She told the police she couldn’t imagine why her husband killed himself. They had always been so happy.
EXCERPT FROM “THE BILLY & GILLY SHOW,” FEBRUARY 27TH
Gilly: Your back seems to be bothering you again today, Billy.
Billy: Yes, it’s that old sprain. It’s probably age creeping up on me.
Gilly: That’s a shame. And just a few weeks ago, we were talking about physical conditioning.
Billy: Right. No more squash and tennis for Billy Blake for a while.
Gilly: Well, you do have to be careful. You wouldn’t want your condition to be any worse.
Billy: Actually, I feel buffeted from all sides. Not only is my back acting up, but did you read this morning’s Times?
Gilly: You mean the radio column?
Billy: Yes. I’m afraid that man doesn’t like us, dear.
Gilly: Wasn’t it awful?
Billy: Pure vitriol.
Gilly: I’ll tell you, I’m not even going to dignify what he had to say by discussing it on the air. I think that the wonderful people who listen to us can judge our show for themselves. They certainly don’t need any nasty little man to tell them whether they like us or not.
Billy: I must say, darling, you’re especially beautiful when you’re angry.
Gilly: Thanks, sweetheart, I don’t know what I’d do without you.
Billy: And I don’t know what I’d do without you.
Gilly: I swear, Billy, you could pass for a southern gentleman, you’re so courtly.
Billy: And I’m not even southern.
Gilly: But you are courtly.
Billy: Seriously, that does seem to be a southern trait, doesn’t it?
Gilly: Oh, absolutely. To tell you the truth, I think southern men are quite sexy. You know, like the character Marlon Brando played in Sayonara.
Billy: What do you think it is—the accent?
Gilly: That’s probably part of it. But it’s their whole approach. They know how to make a woman feel like a queen.
Billy: Ah do declare, Miz Blake. Ah’ve nevah seen you-all look more lovely.
Gilly: Oh Billy, you’re too much.
TAYLOR HAWKES
FROM where h
e sat, looking out over Research and Accounting, Taylor Hawkes could see in all directions, except behind him. Behind him was wall, gun-metal gray wall, like the side of a battleship. Taylor Hawkes had wished for a long time that the wall was cyprus paneling, or leather, or maybe even burlap like some of the offices in the city, but he was a little uneasy about asking the Baron for that. Glass to his left and two secretaries; glass to his right and three secretaries; glass in front of him and the vast secretarial pool; long straight rows of girls with adding machines; rows of girls with typewriters; the alcoves housing two dozen account executives; the department switchboard girl with the fine round bottom.
Taylor Hawkes could see in all directions, all right, except behind him on this day, February 27th, at 4:20 in the afternoon, with four Beefeater martinis and three vodka and tonics under his belt. Taylor Hawkes was looking down, his sunglasses still on, looking down at his desk, picking through the papers and memos, picking at the spike with the yellow message forms, the forms that showed who had called while he was at lunch, the time of the call, the degree of urgency and, when possible, the message. Ringold (Research) 2:10 p.m.… “Screw him,” Taylor said out loud, “he didn’t think I’ve got to eat?” Leonard (The Smellwell Account) 3:20 p.m. “Screw him, too.” Mrs. Grace Belcher (a close friend of the Baron’s, wanting some free advertising advice for Planned Parenthood in Roslyn) 12:50 p.m., 2:15 p.m., 3:55 p.m. “Well, the hell with you, Mrs. Belcher,” Taylor said, wadding up the message form.
The message forms were the real pain in the ass, the worst thing when you just got back. Who was trouble? And who wasn’t trouble? At the sound of the buzzer on his desk, Taylor Hawkes picked up the phone. He looked as he always did, to his right, watching Emily, good lady, talk to him while he was listening to her voice on the phone.
“Taylor, there’s a Mrs. Gillian Blake in the lobby.”
“Bring her in, Emily.”
As he said it, Taylor swung the swivel chair around, looking out over Research and Accounting, and Emily must have looked, too. She didn’t buzz this time; instead, she came to the glass door of his office and opened it.
Naked Came the Stranger Page 15