High Risk

by Rick R. Reed

  Evanston’s Sheridan Road and its carefully tended million-dollar homes rolled by as Walter’s mother headed the car south, toward Beth’s house. Mrs. Douglas was doing a good job of pretending to be preoccupied with the radio, even reaching down and hitting the “seek” button every so often, just for good measure.

  But Beth could see her checking out the two of them in the rearview mirror, keeping a close watch on what was going on.

  What did she think? That Beth was going to ambush her son? Was she on the watch for errant tongues, for hands that wandered where they weren’t supposed to go? If she only knew how afraid Beth was, of how Walter’s knee bumping against her own sent a shiver through her, made her face hot. If she only knew that to do something as bold as touch Walter’s flat chest, beneath the starched white cotton of his shirt, would take a well of courage she wasn’t sure she possessed. If the woman only knew that a kiss might cause Beth to actually lose her breath and that she just might die from the pressure of Walter’s lips. If she only knew…she could keep her eyes on the road.

  The dance had been more than she had hoped for. Red and blue lights, warm and cold, were set dimly enough to not even penetrate the shadows in the corners of a gymnasium festooned with balloons and crepe paper. In the semi-darkness, the gym became magical, its wooden floor becoming…what?…marble. The basketball backboards and high, barred windows vanished.

  They had danced, although not much. Walter, Beth guessed, had been thinking about asking her most of the evening, when they sat on the sidelines in folding chairs, watching everyone else. She saw the way he swung his leg back and forth, the cautious glances at her out of the corner of his eye. Finally, too close to when the event was set to end, he turned to her and quickly said, “We should dance.”

  He took her hand—she knew that even the small gesture took a lot of his nerve—and led her onto the dance floor, where the other couples had their arms around each other, moving slowly to a song she’d already forgotten. At first, they were awkward, Beth feeling as though everyone was looking at them, but then the heat of their bodies pressed together, the soft lights and the ballad made them bolder, forgetful of their classmates. She felt Walter’s heart beating as he swirled her around the dance floor, could smell the cologne he must have dabbed behind his ears (his father’s?) before setting out. His breath warmed her neck. She had closed her eyes, and for a while, they were alone.

  It seemed all too soon that Mrs. Douglas pulled the BMW to the curb in front of Beth’s house on Lee Street. Walter gripped her shoulder, then hopped out of the car to hurry to the other side, so he could open Beth’s door. “Be right back, Mom.”

  Beth stepped from the car. The air was crisp and cold, the stars shimmering in the black sky. A crescent moon cast a wan silver glow on the bricked path leading to her front door. Two blocks away, the pounding winter surf of Lake Michigan created a dull roar in her ears and made her want to draw closer to Walter.

  He put his arm around her. She thought for a moment of what it might be like if Mrs. Douglas wasn’t waiting in an idling car, watching their every move. She thought what it would be like to lead Walter down Lee Street, to the beach at the end of it, to sit with him on the cold sand, their arms around each other, heads tipped close. They would watch the waves, white-capped, roll in. And he would kiss her.

  But they were already at her front door; the porch light seemed too bright and Beth considered, for a moment, using her mittened hand to unscrew the bulb from its socket.

  She looked at Walter, at his straight corn-silk hair, the down on his upper lip, the way his broad shoulders pulled his coat tight. He returned her gaze, then looked at the floor.

  She knew he wanted to kiss her and wondered if she should help him along.

  Walter glanced at the BMW. He swallowed. Beth watched his Adam’s apple bob. Somebody needed to say something. “I had a great time tonight, Walter. Thanks for asking me.”

  “Sure.” He moved his toe back and forth, then looked up. “Maybe we could go see a movie or somethin’…check out the mall sometime. What do you think?”

  “That’d be cool. I’d be up for that.”

  The two stood in silence. February wind whispered across the walk of the front of Beth’s house, chilling, making her think about pulling Walter close. But his mother still watched from the car. And even if she hadn’t been, Beth wasn’t sure she had the courage.

  The porch light seemed brighter than usual.

  Walter slipped his hands in his coat pockets. “Well, I should probably get going.” He gave a sheepish little grin. “My mom.” He gestured toward the street.

  Beth nodded. She breathed in the cold air and touched his shoulder. “Thanks again.”

  “Sure.” Walter started away, a heavy shadow moving down the front walk.

  Why hadn’t he kissed her? Was the stuff about the movie just something he thought he needed to say?

  Beth fumbled in her coat pocket for her keys, the spell suddenly broken. Of course, he didn’t really like her. What was to like? She was ungainly, too tall. Her mouth was too big. And had she said one intelligent thing the whole evening?

  She fitted the key in the door’s lock, thinking of just getting out of the dress, the bra, and lying across her bed. Maybe it would snow. It would give her something to watch from her bedroom window.

  And then his hand was on her shoulder. She turned.

  “I forgot something.”

  “What?”

  “This.” He leaned in and kissed her, just a whisper of his lips across hers.

  And then he hurried down the walk, not looking back.

  Beth went inside and leaned against the door. The flickering light of the TV in the living room made the foyer alternately light, then dark. Beth heard the artificial gravity of a news anchor.

  He kissed me.

  She wondered if Mother was still up. Beth crossed the foyer and peeked into the living room to find her mother asleep, nose pressed close to the back of the couch. The Tribune lay on the floor beside her. One leg dangled off the edge of the sofa and a fuzzy slipper lay overturned beneath it.

  She wanted to tell her mother about the evening, but decided it could wait until morning. The memories, Beth was sure, would still be as vivid.

  She tiptoed upstairs, heading into the shadows. At the top of the staircase, her father waited. Beth tried to edge by him, giving him a quick smile and glance, but he wouldn’t move.

  She hated to admit it, even to herself, but she didn’t like her father very much.

  And she didn’t like the way he was looking at her. He moved so that he blocked the doorway to her bedroom. Tall and lanky, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair, he was so much older than the fathers of most of her classmates. He had just passed fifty last May. He peered at her through his rimless pince nez glasses.

  She didn’t like the way he stared, or the weird little smile that played about the corners of his mouth.

  “Just need to brush my teeth and crawl into bed, Dad.” Her voice came out weaker than she’d intended. She aimed for smile and got grimace.

  He still wore the same clothes from his day at Chicago’s Mercantile Exchange, where he worked as a trader: starched white shirt, red and gray silk rep tie, barely loosened from his neck, and a charcoal pinstriped suit. He hadn’t even removed his wing tips. He didn’t even own a pair of jeans. On weekends, he might dress down by donning a pair of pressed khakis and a button-down Oxford cloth shirt; if he was feeling wild, perhaps in pink or blue.

  The grin continued. It made Beth queasy.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me about the dance?”

  She twisted the strand of pearls her mother had loaned her. “I’m beat. I’ll tell you and Mom all about it in the morning.” One again, she tried to edge around her father, but he continued to block passage into her room.

  He lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “My little girl has her first date and all I get is a promise to hear about it later?”

 
; “It was great, Daddy.” Beth moved her head so that his hand dropped from her chin. “Walter and I had a wonderful time. We might do something next weekend…hang out at the mall, or see a movie, or something.”

  Her father cocked his head, steel blue eyes intent on her. Like he was thinking. Just when the silence had seemed to grow too long and Beth thought she might be able to get into her bedroom and close the door, he asked, in a soft voice, “Did he try anything?”

  The question made Beth’s stomach turn. “What? What do you mean?”

  “Tsk. Didn’t he try anything, Beth? Did he try to feel your breasts, grab your bottom, something like that. I was a boy his age once. I know what they’re like.”

  Beth felt a hot warmth at the corners of her eyes; her breath quickened. Her face felt hot. She stared at the floor. “No,” she whispered. “Walter isn’t like that.”

  Her father snorted. “Fourteen-year-old boys are all like that….dear. It’s the testosterone.” He laughed. “Raging out of control. Makes them little beasts.”

  Beth bit her lip. She would not let herself cry in front of him. “Well, Walter is a gentleman.”

  “It has nothing to do with being a gentleman, you twit. It’s just nature.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “If this Walter felt any attraction for you, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from putting his hands on you.”

  “He kissed me,” Beth offered. “And…and he held my hand…in the…you know…the car.” She kept gasping, trying to hold back the tears and wondering why she had offered even that little information.

  “You mean he showed some mercy.”

  A tear ran down her face, scalding. Couldn’t he see he was hurting her? She pushed it away with the back of her hand and turned toward her bedroom. Her father grabbed her arm, not roughly, but he held it fast, at least until she surrendered and made it clear she was staying put.

  He scratched his throat and smiled. “He danced with you, didn’t he?”

  “Sure. It was a dance.”

  “Slow dance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he get an erection?”

  Beth started to make a break for her room. Again, he grabbed her.

  She turned to face him. He continued to smile. “I asked you a question.”

  “I don’t know, Daddy. Can I just go to sleep? I’m tired.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? Usually if a young man is pressed up against a young woman and his penis is engorged, she can feel it.” He paused. “It’s a compliment. So, I’ll ask again….did he get an erection?”

  “Not that I know of,” she whispered, nauseous, staring at the hardwood floor.

  “Oh come on, Beth. Think. Did you feel something solid pressing against you when he held you next to him? Don’t deny me this: a father’s big moment when his daughter has her first experience with another male.”

  Beth swallowed hard. A golf ball-sized lump had formed in her throat. “Why does this matter to you?”

  “Because I want to know if I’m right. Honestly, I don’t believe the young man did get an erection. Even though, for boys his age, pressing up against a fence post would give them one. What I’d really like for you is to prove me wrong. To show that someone out there could find my little girl attractive. I’d like some proof that my own little girl isn’t as awkward as she seems. Ungainly.”

  Beth said nothing. The kiss, the soft lights in the gym, the close ride home all seemed to disappear under her father’s cold stare.

  He shook his head, eyes boring into her. “You know, that’s a really beautiful dress.”

  Beth pushed by him, wanting to slam the door behind her. Instead, she closed it softly, not wanted to wake her mother. She leaned against the door, breathing hard, until she heard her father padding away. Then she ripped the green velvet dress from herself, tearing the zipper from the fabric in her haste.

  She stuffed it into a wastebasket.

  In the darkness, she let herself cry. After a few minutes, she stood, unscrewed the top of the post from the headboard of the bed, and with it, brought herself to a silent orgasm, crying all the while.

  * * * *

  Now, Beth shook her head, trying to dislodge the memory. What good did remembering such things do? Help her understand the affairs so she could stop them? Long ago, she had thought that much was true, but had seen the theory proved wrong more than once. More than twice. A hundred times, maybe.

  So many times, logical endings to the encounters presented themselves. Perfectly logical: take a job, have a baby, fill her days so there was no time to go out and hunt for men. She would think how, really, it should be easy to want no man other than Mark. After all, he was handsome, masculine, sexy, a good lover. In fact, the sex they had was often better than the sex she had with a stranger in a motel room, walk-up apartment, or sometimes, a public place. Logically: why should she pine for more?

  Why, indeed? She lifted the glass of wine to her lips.

  Would she be able to extricate herself from this mess without exposure? She pictured Abbott, sitting across from them in the restaurant, lifting his glass to her, the leer subtle on his handsome face. The image made her tremble.

  She set down the wine, then stood and looked out the window. Outside, the trees had lost their leaves and the branches reached up, naked and beseeching. The pavement was wet. Cold. The street, for the moment, lay empty. Across from her stood other graystones, “vintage” buildings with facades, all similar to hers. Yet lights in their windows glowed yellow, warm. Were the people in those apartments as troubled as she? Or were they leading normal lives, eating dinner, watching TV, fighting over in-laws, making love with the same person year in and year out? Was that real?

  And what did “making love” mean anyway? Did it really have anything to do with sex?

  Beth crossed the room, stooped and turned up the volume of the music to almost deafening, making the speakers vibrate, trying to drown out any thoughts.

  * * * *

  Abbott carefully dried each wineglass and replaced them in the rack above his head. It was still early, only nine o’clock, and Bennie’s hadn’t started filling in yet. There was only one guy in a rumpled suit at one end of the bar, his tie twisted loosely and crookedly around his neck, a beer and an empty shot glass in front of him. Midway up the bar also sat a middle-aged woman, although trying pathetically to look younger. Her hair was red (dyed? Most likely!) and she wore too much make-up. Abbott thought she was trying to look like that actress. What was her name? Didn’t matter. The one who replaced Jodie Foster in that Silence of the Lambs sequel. Good luck, sweetheart. You’ve got on a long road ahead of you. Perhaps the woman would look younger if not for the pack of Marlboro Lights on the bar in front of her, and the blue-gray haze that had settled around her like a cloud as she smoked one cigarette after the other. That, and her fondness for Margaritas, of which she’d had three since she came in a half-hour ago.

  She had tried to flirt with Abbott, staring at him, attempting to hold eye contact. Her first tip was too large, half the cost of the drink. When Abbott kept things on a business level with her, the tips decreased. He knew other bartenders would have warmed right up to her (for the money), calling her “gorgeous” and shit like that. But Abbott wasn’t one of them. There are names for people who curry their favors in exchange for cash.

  Still, she continued to stare at him through the smoke, watching like some cat in heat, ready to pounce. He wondered when she would make her move, when she would shove a matchbook with her number scrawled on the cover toward him with her payment, or when she would ask him, her voice leering appropriately, what time he “got off.” If he had some rat poison, he wondered if he could resist the temptation to slip it into the blender with her next drink.

  He snorted. The world wouldn’t miss her.

  Abbott wiped the bar, wondering when the real crowd would begin to filter in: the guys in $1200 leather jackets and jeans, no more casual, really, than a Brooks Brothers suit. And the w
omen: short skirts, tight sweaters, silky blouses, spike heels, and perfectly straightened hair, cut sloppily in some over-priced Michigan Avenue salon so it covered their eyes and softened all the raccoon shit they spread around them. Didn’t they know how stupid they looked?

  “Hey, handsome…I could use another one of these.” The redhead shoved her Margarita glass in front of her. She still had salt sticking to the corner of her mouth. He wouldn’t tell her. It would just give her a chance to lick her lips while staring at him. He’d seen that routine before.

  He took the dirty glass and dumped it in the sink. After reaching up for a clean one, he began to assemble what he needed to make the drink.

  To give her a twinge, he said, “Coming right up, ma’am.”

  And sure enough, she whispered to herself, “Ma’am. He calls me ‘ma’am.’”

  Had he heard sadness in her voice? Abbott didn’t give a fuck.

  * * * *

  There she was, reflected in the mirror. Beth had pulled back her hair and secured it with a black velvet headband. She wore an emerald green cotton sweater V-neck, no bra, and a pair of faded Levis with the knees worn out. A pair of heeled suede boots completed her ensemble. Just a hint of make-up: foundation to cover the freckles across the bridge of her nose, blush, some cinnamon lipstick, and a little mascara to bring out the green in her eyes.

  Mark was gone…overnight. He would be taking care of a deposition in Door County, Wisconsin, tomorrow morning. Easier to spend the night than to try to get all the way there at the crack of dawn.

  Beth’s stomach churned with guilt, with remorse…with nervous anticipation. The questions, familiar, taunted her. What if Mark called during the night and she wasn’t there?

  “I must have been in the shower, honey. I didn’t hear the phone ring.”

  What if someone saw her out? How many times had she done this, and how many times had someone seen her? Not once. Chicago was a big city. And did the fact that she went out for a drink on her own mean she was cheating on her husband? It might have looked suspicious, but not, as Mark might say, had he chosen a different branch of law, not suspicious beyond a reasonable doubt.