by Lucy Finn
“You know, there are definitely some things worth staying in the twenty-first century for,” Gene announced as he grabbed a napkin and mopped up the grease and tomato sauce on his face.
“Like pizza?” I said, teasing.
“And buffalo wings and television,” he answered in all seriousness.
Mentally I pushed the Family Feud WRONG ANSWER buzzer and my good mood vanished. I pushed my plate away, folded my arms across my chest, and leaned back on the couch.
Gene looked at me, perplexed. “One slice, that’s it? Aren’t you hungry?”
“Not anymore,” I said.
“What did I do?” he asked.
“If you don’t know, I’m not about to tell you. Can we end this conversation? I’m trying to watch the movie.”
Brady must have felt my tension because he started fussing in his chair. I unstrapped him and picked him up. He held his arms out toward Gene. I felt even more pissed off.
I certainly didn’t hand him over. Instead, I positioned him on my hip. “I’m getting Brady a bottle. Hit the PAUSE button, will you?” I said and marched out of the room clearly trailing an attitude. “Why don’t you try making love to the pizza while I’m gone,” I added. I couldn’t help myself.
“Ravine?” Gene asked when Brady and I returned to the living room. “Are you mad because I didn’t say you were worth staying in this century for?”
“Oh nooo. I’d never presume that I could possibly mean more to you than pizza or television. Even though you did have sex with me,” I muttered under my breath as I got Brady settled in his seat with his bottle.
Gene came up behind me. “And I’d like to have sex with you again,” he whispered in my ear.
“Fat chance,” I said and stepped away. “Talk to your pizza about it.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” Gene said. “Can I have another chance?”
“It’s called a ‘do-over,’” I said, turning around to face him. “And no. In real life, you can’t have one. You only get a do-over when you’re playing a kid’s game.”
“This is no game,” Gene said and moved close enough for me to feel his breath on my face before his mouth touched where his breath had brushed my skin. He lightly kissed my cheeks and held my lips with his.
I turned my head away from him. “Then what is it? A diversion? A way to pass the time until I make my wish?”
“You don’t really believe that. You know I care about you. You’re excitable, and exciting. You’re pretty and smart and—”
“And living sixty years too late for us to be together, right?” I bent down to pick up Brady’s bottle off the floor where he had thrown it.
“We seem to be going around in circles. Can’t we just enjoy each other’s company and stop worrying about where this is going?”
I stood up and looked at Gene. “In one word. No.”
“Why, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I cannot believe you’re asking that. I really can’t.”
“Humor me. Tell me what you are thinking. I’m a genie, I can do magic, but I can’t read minds, especially women’s minds.”
I squared off my stance in front of him. My hands rested on my hips. “Okay. I’ll spell it out. I can’t stop worrying where this is going, because where you want it to go is pretty obvious. To bed, or to the couch, or to wherever, as long as we’re horizontal. And I can’t do that.”
“You already did, if I might state the obvious.”
“I can’t do it again. It’s not an option. Not as long as you intend to leave.”
“Why does that sound like extortion?” He stepped close to me again.
I took a step backward. “It is absolutely nothing like extortion. If you wanted a mistress and a no-strings-attached affair while you were granting her wishes, you should have popped out of your bottle with a different woman, that’s all.” I turned and looked at the television. It was still on PAUSE. I picked up the remote and pushed PLAY.
“Let’s watch the movie,” I said, feeling terribly hurt but determined not to show it.
“Okay,” Gene said, sounding more than a little grumpy. We didn’t talk for the next hour, but I was aware of every move Gene made. Sitting near him had the most disturbing effect on me.
By the time the movie ended, it was almost four.
“Teatime! Let me make us a cuppa,” Gene announced, and did his wink-bell thing. Petit fours and little sandwiches with the crusts cut off appeared, along with a darling chintz-patterned Sadler teapot that I had never seen before and two matching porcelain cups. A silver sugar bowl and creamer sat on a silver tray. For Brady there was juice, and melba toast on an Alice in Wonderland plate.
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “It looks ‘loverly.’ But I’m going to get fat eating this kind of food. Tomorrow I’ll have to start eating yogurt again.”
“You are absolutely daft. You don’t eat enough. Food is for pleasure, not simply sustenance. I’ll prove it to you.” He picked up a petit four and fed it to me. I took the little chocolate-covered cake from his fingers and then licked the chocolate from them. Gene made sounds of approval before he leaned forward and gave me a gentle kiss. I kissed him back, and we held the kiss while we shared the chocolate between our mouths, which turned out be a wonderful combination of sensual elements.
“If chocolate is the food of love, eat on, till I am sated,” Gene said, changing a line from Shakespeare to fit the circumstance as he fed me another petit four and we repeated the whole routine again.
After that, we drank tea and talked about the movie. Time slipped by. Snow fell steadily. I felt unaccountably happy. When Brady started to get restless, I put him in the Bouncy Bounce that hung in one doorway. He giggled and jumped, and Gene and I both got a kick out of watching him. Somehow I ended up inside Gene’s encircling arm. My feet were tucked up under me on the sofa. The afternoon faded away until the remaining daylight burned out like a spent candle.
When it was time for Brady’s dinner, I told Gene I would like to make it the old-fashioned way, with the contents of the refrigerator, not by genie magic. He countered that he’d fix something for us both. I suggested he stick with a salad; I wasn’t very hungry. But of course Gene had to show off. When I finished with Brady and handed him his bottle, I saw that two bowls of clear consommé sat on the table, along with a Caesar salad and fresh fruit. A bouquet of lilacs—lilacs in November!—graced the table. I looked at Gene with sparkling eyes.
“I know exactly what you like,” he whispered.
“How?” I breathed.
“I don’t know,” he said. “It doesn’t have anything to do with genie magic. It must be some other kind.”
Our gaze locked and held. I don’t remember eating; I only remember staring into Gene’s eyes.
I stood up to clear the table, but Gene winked and the dishes disappeared. Then suddenly, he moved up behind me. He lifted my hair and started kissing the back of my neck. Shivers were going up and down my spine. I started to tremble. Gene put his arms around me. “I can’t help but want you. I apologize for desiring you, but I can’t stop what you do to me.” His hands crept under my sweater.
“Oh my,” I said and leaned back into him. All my firm arguments about why I should keep my distance from Gene started to wobble. My thoughts flew by, telling me I was an adult, I could handle this, and after all Gene couldn’t go until I made my wish. I surely had time to figure everything out before then. Then I didn’t want to think at all because I was enjoying the contact of our bodies so much. My breath quickened. I thought I heard bells just as I decided to surrender to the desire that was fast turning into a raging flame inside me.
“Gene?” I breathed.
“Yes?” he answered in a barely audible voice.
“Oh,” I breathed as his fingers started playing across my skin. “Please—” Gene pressed his lips into my shoulder. “Oh please,” I sighed as my head bent back and his hands roamed my body. “Let’s not wait, let’s—”
&
nbsp; And at that minute the lights went out. We were plunged into total darkness.
“Hmmm, what perfect timing,” Gene said and worked his way up under my stretch bra. “And I didn’t even turn them out.”
Brady began to whimper. Cold water couldn’t have cooled off my amorous mood any quicker. I pulled out of Gene’s embrace. “We’ve had a power failure. The storm must be getting much worse. I need to get the coal stove going.”
Gene pulled me back into his arms. “Not now. Let’s do what we were about to do. I’ll take care of the lights after we—”
Somehow what he said didn’t sit right. I had been aroused. I had been willing, yet all of a sudden, I suspected that maybe I had been not only seduced, but helped along with a genie’s powers of enchantment. What had happened to my resolve to keep my distance?
Surrounded by darkness, I straightened my clothes and snapped at Gene, “I’m sure you can take care of the lights ‘after,’ but you know, I’ve had enough of you and your magic tonight. I can light the Coleman lanterns. The coal stove will provide plenty of heat. I can function quite nicely without you, Captain O’Neill, thank you very much. Please stay right here with Brady.”
I left the room, feeling my way along the wall, and did what I said I would. About then the emergency sirens started to wail, calling the volunteer EMTs and firefighters to the nearest firehouse. The sirens’ mournful sound always gave me chills. Everyone who lived in the country knew the sound meant terrible trouble for someone: a person struck ill, a home burning, a creek flooding, or most of the time, a car crashed with dead or injured inside. A feeling of foreboding passed over me. The sirens sounded again and faded away.
After I had found the Coleman lanterns in the storage closet by the basement stairs and started up the coal fire which was soon burning nicely, I started to return to the living room when I passed a window and realized I couldn’t see out. Snow had plastered it over with white. I could hear the wind though; it was whistling down the chimney and rattling the panes. Suddenly Gene was beside me, holding Brady. My annoyance of a few moments ago softened a little. We stood there together in the light of the Coleman lantern, the storm raging outside.
“Let’s put Brady to bed,” Gene said. “He’s tired.”
“I can do it,” I said and took my son into my arms.
“Then can I do it with you? I’d like that very much.” His voice was soft.
“As long as you behave yourself,” I said, and we went upstairs together.
Gene sat in the rocker in Brady’s room while I read some of Winni-the-Pooh out loud. Then I sang one of the lullabies Brady especially likes, the old English song “Lavender’s Blue.” I hadn’t thought much about the lyrics until they were coming out of my mouth, but when you come right down to it, they’re all about two people in love. Gene watched me closely while I sang.
Brady was fast asleep by the time I finished. Gene and I slipped quietly from the dark room. When we were in the hall, only a few steps from my bedroom, Gene put his hand on my shoulder. “Can I ask you something?”
“It depends,” I said.
“I told you about Laura. Will you tell me about Brady’s father?”
“No,” I answered.
“Why? Did he leave you? Didn’t he want Brady? Is that why you’re so hurt?”
“I am not hurt at all. I told you that Brady’s father and I didn’t have a relationship. It was merely something that happened one afternoon. He doesn’t even know about Brady.”
I felt Gene’s body stiffen. “What? You never told him you were pregnant?”
“I didn’t know where to find him, and quite frankly, I can’t imagine that he’d want to know.”
“A man would want to know he had a son,” Gene insisted. “What are you going to tell Brady someday? That you never told his father he existed?”
“I don’t know what I will tell him. I haven’t made up my mind. Can we change the subject?”
I was holding a lantern in my hand, and we stood in a circle of yellow light, with darkness all around us. Gene took hold of my other arm and faced me. “No changing the subject. Not before I say what I think. I think—in fact I know—that you need to contact Brady’s father. I ‘get it’ that you don’t want a relationship with him. I assume he ‘got it’ too, and that’s why he’s not here.”
“I don’t think you’d better assume anything, Gene,” I said, agitated. “Brady’s father is none, I repeat, none of your business.”
“Do you still care about him?” Gene’s voice now had a hard edge to it.
“I don’t know that I ever did, not in the way you mean. There was an attraction between us. I never stuck around to see if there could be anything more. We lived in different worlds. Physical attraction is simply not enough to maintain a relationship,” I said and started to move away.
Gene’s hands held me fast. “I think you underestimate physical attraction.”
“It’s chemistry. It’s not love, Gene.”
“Who says? What’s love? Isn’t it chemistry? It sure isn’t about living in the same worlds. I saw it all the time during the war. A guy and girl fall in love—he’s Aussie, she’s Javanese or Malaysian or Chinese. But all the differences in social class, religion, even skin color doesn’t stop them from wanting to get married. I saw guys fight all kinds of red tape and defy their families to get hitched. And you know what? The ones who didn’t fight—the guys who walked away—they got bitter. They never stopped regretting that they didn’t at least try.”
“That’s a different situation. It doesn’t apply to Brady’s father and me.”
“Okay, maybe it didn’t. Maybe you were afraid you could love Brady’s father, and he didn’t fit in the lawyer’s world you inhabited. Wasn’t he up to your standards? Wasn’t he good enough?” Gene’s hands had tightened on my arms.
I tried to move, but he held me fast as I replied. “No. Yes. I don’t know. Whatever happened, it’s finished.”
“But we’re not, Ravine. Not by a long shot.” Gene’s mouth descended and took possession of mine. He wasn’t gentle now. There was something like anger mixed with his passion and it made him more aggressive. Caught between his body and the wall, I could feel the length of him pressing against me. We fit together in every curve and angle. His harsh, grinding kisses soon took my breath away.
I felt my resolve weakening once more. I was swept away with passion. Had he carried me off right then, to the sofa, the floor, or my bed, I don’t think I could have resisted, but to my surprise Gene suddenly stopped and stepped away from me.
“Don’t go,” I whispered, and tried to pull him back.
“It’s time you looked at yourself, Ravine. And it’s time we both went to bed,” he said in a voice that was hard and sad at the same time. “As you made it clear, your bedroom is off-limits to me. We’re from different worlds too, remember? See you in the morning. Sweet dreams,” he said and vanished.
Chapter 11
I lay in bed, writhing in frustration. I had been left in a state of acute passion interruptus. There was nothing to stop me from getting up and going downstairs to find Gene—except my pride. My good sense might be exerting pressure on me as well. What was I doing? What did I really want? Ambivalence tormented me. Plus, Gene’s speech about my finding Jake had opened up, as the saying goes, a whole new can of worms.
I had spent many hours during my pregnancy thinking about Jake and analyzing every minute of our time together. I had come up with some conclusions. First off, we’d talked nonstop from the minute I climbed on the back of his motorcycle. During those conversations, Jake had referred to Freud, Jung, Camus, and Jack Kerouac, among others. He’d talked in philosophical terms about whether existence had meaning and if it did, how could we know what that meaning was? He extolled the virtues of life on the road and rebelling against society. We threw Shakespearean lines back and forth; both of us knew several sonnets by heart.
I never doubted for a moment that Jake was highly educated or had
a family who had raised him with care. He was neat and clean. He had manners. He used the king’s English. He didn’t exhibit sociopathic behavior at any time. In the bar where we had gone for a drink, Jake was well-known and well-liked. In fact, some of the people who spoke with him that day treated him with deference. One of them had called him “Doc.” I had spun many scenarios in my imagination about why he had become a Bandido and whether or not I could “save him” from himself.
After Brady was born, my sense of responsibility as a parent stopped any fantasies about riding off into the sunset with Jake on his Indian motorcycle. I had seen something very good in him, but as he readily admitted, his life as a member of a outlaw biker gang put him in a place I could never go.
Practicing as an attorney, even one sitting most of the time on the upper floor of a Philadelphia law firm, I had firsthand knowledge of the weak, deranged, criminal, and greedy side of the human race. After the first few years in the profession, I became more forgiving of human weakness and tried not to judge my clients, taking a page from psychiatrist Carl Rogers’s philosophy that his patients should have “unconditional positive regard.” I didn’t go quite that far, opting instead for unconditional neutral regard. But over time I became adamant that I didn’t want to deal with a life of problems, desperation, or criminality anywhere but in the office.
Jake lived that kind of dark and lawless existence. My gut instincts as well as my experience on the streets told me that, at heart, he was no criminal, but he chose to be part of a dangerous and violent world. I didn’t. I became convinced that was why he didn’t ask me to stay when I said I had to leave. I also held an unshakable conviction that he was running away from something—maybe himself—and that his choices were self-destructive.
My rational mind saw all that very clearly, and hindsight is always twenty-twenty. If I had regrets, I pushed them away. I had never reached out to Jake or tried to locate him, but I knew Gene had a point. On one level, Jake had a right to know about Brady. My son was his flesh and blood, and in fact Brady looked so much like him, I would never, as long as I lived, forget Jake’s face. On another level, did I want Brady to have an ongoing relationship of any kind with Jake the biker?