by Greg Johnson
He stared down at her, eyes clouded by disappointment, his mouth twisted to one side in what she considered one of his cynical, British mannerisms.
“That doesn’t mean you can’t cancel. They’ll have a fine time without you, I’m sure.”
“But Valerie’s going, too. We’re staying in one hotel, like roommates, and the guys in another. It would be too awkward to back out.”
“Not even if…it means so much to me?”
She tried not to smile, for his feelings were easily hurt; more than once, when she’d shown the barest sign of amusement, he claimed that she’d “laughed” at him. But his frowning look of disapproval did amuse her, for he stood there beside the night table holding a square of torn foil in one hand, an unspooled condom in the other. He’d lain alongside her for several minutes; they’d been kissing and murmuring and taking their time, but instead of reaching aside to slip the foil packet out of the drawer he’d drawn away and stood, taking his time with the condom while she lay there, waiting. She knew something was on his mind, but she thought he’d made peace with her trip to Key West. Several minutes had passed and his erection had drooped and he held the condom and wrapper as if no longer aware what was in his hands. He did look comical but no, she didn’t want to wound him.
She raised on one elbow, patting the bed. “Come on.”
He looked sulky, but he obeyed. He dropped the piece of foil into the drawer but held onto the condom with thumb and forefinger, then lay down beside her. Relieved, she began stroking his hip, and at once his eyes closed, and so she stroked the inside of his thighs, watching as he became aroused, his warm solid body edging toward hers and his stiffened penis grazing her thigh as if flirting, with a cleverness and will of its own. Despite her knowledge of him, despite their many passionate weeks together, she was surprised at the swiftness of his desire. Seconds later he had donned the condom and was probing her, his heated breath along her throat, her shoulders, her own breath coming fast, ragged. Often they made love for half an hour or longer, much longer, their memorized rhythm slow but rapt in a gathering intensity unlike anything Abby had imagined before, even in her teenage fantasies. But today he seemed fiercer, wilder, and once or twice she’d almost cried out in pain, but a pain so alloyed with pleasure that she bit her lip and stayed quiet so that when he finished with a few jamming lunges and quickly withdrew, dragging his damp limbs off to one side, a wounded animal, she felt torn and exposed and imagined she might be bleeding.
She glanced down the length of her own damp body, but no. Her fingers itched to pull the sheet back up, but she resisted; Philip would make a tsk-ing sound if she did that. He lay beside her, his breath easing as the moments ticked past.
“I really don’t want you to go,” he said.
His tone angered her; the assumption, perhaps, that what he wanted should be her first concern. Since they’d met, Philip had shown little interest in her family, though she often mentioned Thom; whenever she suggested introducing them, Philip insisted he wasn’t “ready for that.” Abby assumed her lover had felt the heterosexual male’s discomfort with gay men, though surely in the theatre world Philip knew well, he must encounter gay men all the time. More recently, he’d confessed that what he really wasn’t ready for was an encounter with someone else Abby loved.
“I do have a jealous streak,” he’d admitted. “You two have such a long history together, and I—I’d feel like the odd man out. OK?”
No, it wasn’t OK; it was absurd.
“But he’s my brother,” Abby had said. “You’ll have to meet him eventually, and you’ll like him, Phil. Everybody does.”
“I know he’s your brother, but I’m just not ready, all right? Please don’t force the issue.”
She’d had no choice but to let it drop. His possessiveness was flattering, she decided, and after a while she’d consciously avoided mentioning Thom, feeling drawn more deeply into Philip’s hermetic, slightly paranoid world. (Yes, she thought, “paranoid” but somehow not off-putting; even sympathetic, in a way. After all, he’d admitted her.) Oddly his vulnerability only fueled her passion, her need to protect the boyish, wounded soul peering out from his lovely dark eyes.
She took a deep breath. She waited for the surge of annoyance to pass.
I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable,” she said. “But I have to go.”
He sat up, hurling his legs over the bed. She stared at his back, waiting.
“What am I supposed to do, then? For four days?”
She allowed herself an audible expulsion of breath. “Come on, be fair. You went out of town last month, didn’t you? For a week?”
“That was different. My aunt was sick, and she doesn’t have anybody else. I told you that. You can’t compare that with a vacation in Florida. In fucking Key West.”
Now she did jerk the sheet toward her throat; she was aware that her hands were shaking. Ten minutes ago they were toiling in frantic, white-hot passion, and now this…this tawdry argument. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so angry.
“Well, I’m going,” she said. “There’s no point in arguing about it. I don’t understand why—”
He stood, banged shut the nightstand drawer, stalked toward the bathroom.
“Get dressed,” he said. “I want you to leave.”
He slammed the door behind him and left her there, gaping. She felt the blood drain from her face.
She waited a few seconds, assuming he’d slip back out the door to apologize. But then she heard the familiar sound of the shower, the glass door clicking shut. She stood and got dressed, still trembling with anger. It was over.
It wasn’t over. The next morning at eight-thirty, Abby stood with her suitcase opened on the bed, trying to decide between two pairs of walking shorts—a pretty, pleated white linen, a less pretty but more practical white cotton—when the phone rang. She started toward the phone, then stopped. Two rings. Three. Not long ago Valerie had expressed surprise that she didn’t have caller ID, but Abby didn’t see the point. There were only four people who called, for the most part: Philip, Thom, and Val—and Abby’s mother. Sometimes it was Connie, a pleasant surprise, since lately she’d heard less from him. Now she stared at the ringing phone and wished she hadn’t turned off the answering machine; she and Thom were leaving for the airport in half an hour. She decided the caller must be her brother, and she snatched up the phone on the sixth or seventh ring and of course it was Philip.
“I’m so glad I caught you,” he said. He sounded panicked, out of breath. “I was afraid you’d already left.”
She didn’t know what to say. This morning it had crossed her mind that he might call and apologize, but she wasn’t sure if she would accept the apology or not. After she’d returned home yesterday, straitjacketed by anger, Abby had decided it really was over. She’d thought she loved this man, but maybe that had been a romance-novel delusion. She’d lain awake with dry eyes gazing upward into darkness, wondering if she’d become temporarily deranged by her sudden lust, her shed repressions—the prim schoolmarm Abigail Sadler transformed into the naked Abby with her sweaty limbs and burning eyes. But it wasn’t just that. Her heart had burned as well. Last night it had become a sore lump in her chest, bruised by longing and by the fear it was no longer needed. She did not know if she loved Phil DeMunn or not. Did that mean she did not, or was that idea the kind of psychobabble she and her mother had heard on talk shows? Weren’t there borderline states? Wasn’t there a period of transition when you might drift in and out of love from one day to the next? One hour to the next? She didn’t know. She was glad to be going away for a few days to sort her thoughts. She was not glad to hear from Philip this morning.
“No, not yet,” she said cautiously. She tried to sound neither distant nor encouraging. “I’ve still got some packing to do.”
“I know, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry and that—well, I’ll be counting the days until you get back. Your return flight is on Monday, right?”
>
“Monday, yes.”
“In the afternoon? Evening?”
They returned to Atlanta at 2:40 P.M. on Monday but she said vaguely, “I’m not sure. Thom took care of the tickets.”
He paused. “I don’t blame you for being angry.”
“You said some hurtful things. I’m not sure what I feel.”
“But I hope you can understand,” he said quickly. His voice lowered to a whisper. “It hurts me, you know, that you’re going off like this.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said. Her hand gripping the receiver felt oddly numb and she resisted the urge to hang up.
“It’s not too late, is it?” he asked, timidly. “To back out?”
The nice girl Abby Sadler wanted to apologize, she was afraid it was too late, she couldn’t disappoint the others, but instead she said, truthfully, “I don’t want to back out. I’m looking forward to this trip.”
Another pause. Maybe Philip would be the one to hang up, and that would be that. She longed for this to happen.
No, she dreaded it. She waited.
But he said, “What time are you leaving for the airport? Let’s see, it’s quarter till nine…”
Her mind worked quickly, deftly. “Not until one o’clock,” she said, “but I have a lot of packing to do.”
She felt slightly breathless. Again she’d lied baldly to her lover.
“Oh, one o’clock,” he said, relieved. “I thought—well, I’ll let you finish packing, then.” She couldn’t quite read his tone of voice. “But will you do something for me?”
“What’s that?” She sounded more agreeable, more pliable than she intended.
“Will you call right before you leave? To say goodbye?”
“All right. I will.”
Did lying get easier each time, like murder?
They hung up. Though she was already taking too many clothes, she jammed both pairs of shorts onto the pile and with a grunt of effort closed and latched the suitcase. You couldn’t have too many pairs of white shorts in Key West, could you?
When they stepped off the small plane they’d boarded in Miami, Connie declared the weather was a good omen. In Atlanta the day had been overcast, the temperature in the fifties; here in Key West the sky was a crisp, cloudless blue, the air at least twenty degrees warmer and not nearly as humid as she’d feared. As they hobbled along tourist-like, lugging their carry-ons from the plane to the little airport terminal, Abby tried not to think of her silent bedroom and her telephone ringing, ringing. It was just now one o’clock.
An hour later Thom and Connie had checked into the Brass Key and walked back to the Pier House, where Abby was sharing a room with Valerie, and the four of them left together and drifted onto Duval Street. They found a large cafe called Mangoes where, though it was past two o’clock, the outdoor eating area facing Duval still hummed with a lunchtime crowd. Once they were seated Abby marveled at her buoyed emotions: she’d rarely felt so elated, so free. Leaving Atlanta and Philip, she felt she had averted some unnamed but potent danger. In only a few hours, it had become clear that she did not love him. It had been an intense affair; in most respects it had been good for her, but it was over. There would be a few awkward phone conversations; perhaps she would have to hang up on him, finally. Yes, it was over. The bright, expectant faces of Connie, Valerie, and her dear brother Thom had never looked so appealing.
“I’m so glad we’re here!” Abby exclaimed gratefully.
The others smiled back at her, surprised.
“And we’re glad you’re here,” Thom said.
“Yes, you’re looking really beautiful,” Connie said, giving her a silly, infatuated stare. “Is that a new blouse? I think pink is your best color, honey. Have I told you that? Is it silk?”
These past few days Abby had gone shopping, a bit recklessly. She still had plenty of money saved, but until next fall, when her teaching fellowship began, she would have no income. She’d had no business buying new spring clothes but the thought of bringing to Key West the same ordinary cotton blouses she’d worn the past few summers had depressed her. She wanted bright colors, clingy fabrics; in the past few months she’d managed to gain ten pounds, and everyone marveled at how she’d “filled out” (as Philip had put it, running one hand along the curve of her hips, her thighs); she’d even visited a tanning salon, amazed at the improvement in her looks after a few sessions. No longer the pale schoolmarm, she had become prettier and more sensuous-looking, especially since she’d gotten her shorter haircut and experimented with a darker lipstick, a glossy mascara. Men noticed as she walked through the mall or along the campus sidewalks. She’d enjoyed moments of gratified vanity and pleasure in her physical being that she hadn’t felt since high school.
Valerie touched her forearm. “See? I told you.”
Abby smiled. “My big sister has been helping me,” she said.
Often she and Valerie went shopping together; they were in similar situations, since Valerie had renewed her relationship (a fairly passionate one, Abby gathered) with her husband, but like Abby had no job and really should have been avoiding the malls entirely. The sense of daring, of the forbidden, had made their expeditions that much more enjoyable. The other day they’d spent a couple of hours in Nordstrom’s, trying on swimsuits one after another, giggling like teenage girls. Both had spent more on their suits than Abby normally paid for an entire outfit.
“Wait till you see her bikini,” Valerie said, as though reading her mind.
“I can’t wait!” Connie cried.
“Oh, it’s not a bikini,” Abby said in mock reproof. “Just a two-piece.”
“A bikini,” Valerie insisted. “Abby has gorgeous legs, so long and sleek and tanned. Not doughy white and dimpled with cellulite, like mine.”
The others made vague, demurring noises. Their champagne had arrived, and Valerie laughed giddily. All four lifted their flutes for the toast.
“To our first day in Key West!” Connie proclaimed.
“And to us,” Abby added.
“To my three wonderful new friends!” Valerie cried.
They all looked at Thom, who hadn’t said much since they sat down but who looked happy despite his evident tiredness, his pale, somewhat sunken cheeks. Since his accident, he hadn’t quite been the same, though his injuries had been minor enough: one eye swollen for a week, an ugly bruise on his upper arm. Yet he looked unwell. Underfed. When had his cheekbones become so prominent? The other day he’d mentioned losing weight: he’d dropped to 150, he said, less than he’d weighed since high school.
Now Thom raised his glass, giving his tilted smile as he looked at Valerie, then Connie. Then his pleasant blue gaze settled on Abby.
“To friendship,” he said quietly.
As if pulled by strings, the others’ flutes rose to their lips; they drank.
A vacation in Key West, Connie and Thom had instructed her, should be haphazard and formless, strictly void of ambition, planning, or energy. The next afternoon, as they lounged beside the Pier House pool drinking mimosas, the men poked fun at Abby when she opened her “guidebook” to the city. She’d never been here before, she told them, and had thought to visit the Hemingway house, maybe, or the Lighthouse Museum. Connie stared at her the way he might regard a dim-witted child.
“Honey, I hope you don’t think we’re going to do things while we’re here. That’s really not the point.”
He’d been thumbing through some magazines he bought at the airport—a Southern Living, a People with Monica Lewinsky on the cover. He seemed only to be glancing at the photographs, not reading anything.
“That’s fine with me,” Valerie said, her face tilted back to face the sun. She wore overlarge Jackie Onassis-style glasses and a short white sundress—or was it a tennis dress?—with blue piping; the others had sneaked glances at her legs, which were indeed pasty-white and plump, but not really fat. For a woman of forty-six, she was quite attractive and well-preserved, Abby thought. Her hair a
nd makeup were perfectly done, as always. Her toenails were painted the same blaring fuchsia as her lipstick.
She added, “All I want to do is laze around, and pretend that I’m not married.”
Connie laughed. “That’s naughty,” he said. “I like naughty.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I love Marty to death. I’m just sort of glad he’s not here. He isn’t good at relaxing.”
“Then I’m glad he’s not here, too,” Connie said. He added, smartly, “And it’s fine with me that Warren backed out. He can’t stand it when I have fun.”
Thom glanced over, frowning, but said nothing.
Since they’d sat down, Abby had felt her gaze settling frequently on Connie, who looked remarkably tanned and fit. He’d mentioned visiting a tanning salon, too, but somehow she’d guessed that under his expensive tailored clothes there might lurk an imperfect middle-aged body going to fat. A few minutes ago, complaining of the heat, he’d removed his lime-green Nautica T-shirt to reveal a hairless, well-toned chest, muscular shoulders and biceps, long shapely legs. His voice and manner might seem effeminate at times, but his body was a man’s body.
She told him, “You’re looking well, Connie.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said. “You know what they say—better to look good than to feel good.”
He struck a fashion model’s pose, his glittering blue-green eyes as fixed as a mannequin’s.
Thom gave a brief, weary laugh. He’d put on sunglasses too, and now he glanced away. “Please, Connie,” he said.
Connie’s hand flew to his mouth. “Remember a few years ago, when we came with Warren and Pace? When I’d just had my lipo and had to sit around wearing those big, loose-fitting Hawaiian shirts? I was such a grouch.”
“But they were such lovely shirts, Connie,” Thom said, deadpan.
Connie considered this. “Yes, that’s true. They were some gorgeous Tommy Bahamas I’d bought that time Warren and I went to St. Croix.”