Allee would always come home with one other thing to read—a comic book. She was a total superhero fanatic. When she was little, she believed they could save the world. And save her. She was happy her name had double “L’s” because Superman, her favorite superhero, was only attracted to women with them… Like Lois Lane and Lana Lang. I reminded her that Madewell had double L’s too. She laughed. “Golden Boy, Superman is not gay.”
One balmy Saturday night, as we strolled hand in hand to the stand after having dinner with Duffy and Sam, Allee’s hand suddenly grew cold and clammy in mine. Marcus was trailing close behind us in the SUV.
“That’s him!” Her body shook.
“Who?”
“Sid!”
Every nerve in my body became a sharp electrical impulse. He was much smaller than I’d imagined. Pimply and greasy. He was wearing a Fedora that complemented his white linen suit. A cigarette dangled from his mouth.
I signaled Marcus, who came to a screeching halt beside us.
“Baby, get into the car!” I yanked open the passenger door and shoved her inside. In a heartbeat, Marcus was by my side.
My blood curdled. The mother fucker’s head was buried in a porn magazine. It was soon going to be buried in the cement. I looked at Marcus and jerked my head in Sid’s direction. Marcus read my mind and nodded. The expression on his face grew fierce.
He took two giant steps, grabbed Sid by the shoulders, and spun him around. The scumbag didn’t see it coming. Marcus punched him in the gut and then flipped him hard onto the pavement before he could say “Mommy.” His obnoxious hat went flying, as did his cigarette. Clutching his stomach, he moaned in pain.
“Let me finish the son-of-a-bitch.” With all I had, I kicked my shoe hard into his ugly face. He writhed and groaned as blood poured out of his slimy mouth. Spectators gathered, but I didn’t flinch.
His wretched eyes met mine. “If I you ever touch my wife again, you’ll be buried six feet under.” I gave him another hard, ruthless kick where it really hurt. In his balls. He screamed out in pain, cupping his groin.
Suffer, asswipe! I crushed his cigarette with the sole of my shoe and then pivoted away from him, proud of my handiwork. Marcus high-fived me and escorted me back into the car.
“What did you to do him?” Allee asked anxiously as the car pulled away.
“I gave it to him and then told him I’d kill him if he ever came near you again.”
Allee’s eyes widened. “You’d kill for me?”
“Baby, I’d die for you.”
“Oh, Madewell!”
A cheek-to-cheek smile spread across Allee’s beautiful face. I was expecting a grateful kiss or a hug, but instead I got a question.
“Did you remember to get our New York Times?”
I was going fast from being a hero to a zero. “Damn it, I forgot it.”
Allee gave me that maddening roll of her eyes and then tapped Marcus lightly on the shoulder. He gazed back at us through the rear view mirror.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. M.?” he asked, using her affectionate new name.
“Marcus, would you be kind enough to pull over and get us The Times. Mr. Madewell was too distracted.”
“Not a problem.” He quickly found a spot and hopped out of the car.
She was pissing me off. “Why did you ask Marcus to get the paper? I could have gotten it.”
A diabolical smile flicked across Allee’s face. “Because I want to properly thank you for being my hero.”
Before I could say a word, she zipped down my fly and lowered her head to my lap. My little tease! So, this was how she was going to thank me. So very Allee!
Holding my balls in her palms, she wrapped her velvety lips around my cock. It immediately swelled in her warm, moist mouth, the pleasure insane. She ran her mouth down the shaft until the tip of my dick could feel her tonsils. Didn’t she have a gag reflex? She came right back up and went right back down, repeating this movement until my cock was throbbing so badly I thought I’d pass out. For a moment, I forgot where I was. Arching my head against the headrest, I groaned loudly.
“My Superman,” she squeezed in during a brief moment of respite.
After flicking the tip with her tongue, she went back down on me, taking me to the hilt. I roared her name as my cock exploded, sending blasts of hot semen down her throat. She swallowed hard.
Holy Mother of Jesus! Right there, in the back seat of my SUV, Allee Adair Madewell had just given me the best head I’d ever had.
She came back up and licked her lips, which were shimmering with my cum. I crushed my lips against them, tasting my sweet salty release. I deepened the kiss with my tongue. Even the jolt of the front door, signaling Marcus’s return, didn’t stop me. Finally, when Marcus pulled up to our loft, I released her.
Allee breathed into my ear. “Now, my superhero, I want you to fuck my brains out.”
With that and the knowledge that Sid was out of our lives—forever—I couldn’t have been a happier man.
TWENTY-ONE
The only trouble with Allee was that she was working too hard. She loved her job and wanted to prove to the museum how capable and passionate she was. Often she worked long hours, coming home late at night. She sometimes skipped meals, and I noticed that she was fatigued and losing weight. I was worried about her.
At the beginning of June, Allee came down with the flu. She couldn’t shake it. I fed her chicken soup from the neighborhood Jewish deli and gave her baths, but she remained listless and feverish. She stayed home from work for a week, but on the following Monday, she crawled out of bed and got dressed. She looked wan and gaunt. Her former body-hugging dress hung loosely on her.
“Baby, you can’t go in,” I protested.
“I have to. The Modigliani retrospective is opening next week, and there’s so much to do.” Despite the weariness in her eyes, she gave me that diabolical look that said, “Don’t fuck with me.” I had no choice but to let her go.
After a sip of coffee, she grabbed her bag and shuffled to the elevator. As I was about to kiss her goodbye, her knees buckled. I caught her in my arms before she fell to the floor.
She was so light. So unexpectedly light. I carried her up to our luxurious bed and tucked her under the covers. “Baby, you’re not going anywhere.”
As she gazed up at me wordlessly, tears filled her feverish eyes. I stroked her hair and kissed her forehead.
While she was resting, I went back downstairs and immediately called Dr. Goulding. I deliberately didn’t tell Allee I was summoning him because I knew she’d get mad at me. Making her angry would wear her out more.
Dr. Goulding arrived within a half-hour. Carrying his medical bag, he followed me upstairs.
Allee made a face when she saw him, but remained on good behavior, which I knew was challenging for her.
“Let’s see what’s going on here,” said the good doctor, sidling up to the bed. He went through the motions of listening to her heartbeat and breathing, taking her pulse and temperature, looking into her throat, and gently fingering her neck. Allee was admirably cooperative throughout the examination.
My heart pounded in anticipation. “Well, Doctor?”
“Hmm. She has a low grade fever—nothing serious—and her glands are swollen.”
I inwardly breathed a sigh of relief.
“There’s been a strange flu going around, but just to play it safe, we should do a blood test.”
Allee’s deep brown eyes grew as round as saucers, and she bolted up from the bed. “Please, no. No blood test.” Her whole body was shaking.
“Don’t worry, my dear. It’ll only take a minute, and it won’t hurt.” When Dr. Goulding pulled out a long needle from his bag, Allee’s face blanched. I hadn’t seen her turn so pale since her encounter with my father at that dinner.
“NO, please!” she screamed out. She was obviously terrified of needles.
I stroked her tumbled hair, trying to calm her. “Hold my hand, baby,”
I urged, offering it to her. Looking the other way, she acquiesced and squeezed my fingers as Dr. Goulding swabbed her veiny inner arm and then inserted the sharp sliver of metal. It was over before Allee could blink an eye.
“See, that wasn’t too bad,” said the doctor as he placed a sealed tube of her blood into his medical bag. “I’ll try to have the results back to you tomorrow.”
Nothing could put a smile on Allee’s face.
“What should we do in the meantime?” I asked.
“Just rest and lots of liquids. My guess is that she’ll be as good as new by the end of the week.”
“I can’t go to work?” Allee asked despairingly.
“No, my dear, it’s out of the question.”
So was making love. I just wanted my baby to get better.
The next day, while Allee was napping, I got a call from Dr. Goulding, as I was about to make a sandwich for lunch.
“Ryan, can you and Allee come by my office this afternoon?” I couldn’t detect any emotion in his voice.
“Is there anything you can tell me on the phone?”
“We’ll talk about it when you get here.”
I ended the call, wondering what could be the matter with Allee. Dr. Goulding wanted to see both of us. A smile crossed my face as a remote thought popped into my head. Was Allee possibly pregnant?
Dr. Goulding’s office was located on upper Fifth Avenue, not far from my parents’ apartment. It was spacious yet homey, filled with a worn-out Chesterfield couch and several other unpretentious antiques. His degrees and numerous awards hung on the richly paneled walls.
Allee and I, holding hands, sat stiffly in two leather armchairs, facing him. Sitting behind his large antique desk, he lifted his glasses onto his balding head and gazed at us with forlorn eyes. While I had come to his office with optimism, I now braced myself for bad news. Allee’s icy hand squeezed mine.
“Doctor, don’t bullshit me. What’s the matter?” Allee braved. Her voice was direct, devoid of emotion.
“Allee, you’re sick.”
I squirmed in my chair. “You mean like she’s got Mono or that Epstein-Barr virus?”
The expression on his face was glum. “No, I’m sorry to have to tell you both this. She’s much sicker than that. It’s lymphoma.”
Allee didn’t say a word as my heart dropped to the floor. No, that wasn’t possible. My beautiful girl had never been sick until last week. Never! Not one day! It had to be a screw-up.
“Are you sure?” My voice was shaking.
“Yes, Ryan, I’m sure. We ran her blood work three times.”
Panic overtook me. “So, you’re going to cure her. Right, Doc?”
Dr. Goulding took a deep breath. “It’s a very aggressive type. I’m afraid there is no cure.”
My mind was in thick fog. It took me several long minutes to register his words. Nausea rose to my chest. The rest of me was paralyzed.
“How long do I have?” Allee asked stoically after several more long minutes of silence. Her face was as white as chalk.
Dr. Goulding pressed his lips into a thin, grim line. “We’ll have to schedule a biopsy and bone marrow test. It could be a few months.” He paused. “Or it could be a few weeks. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this.”
Reality speared into me. Allee had cancer. She was going to die.
Her head against my chest, Allee sat cradled in my arms in the back seat of the Escalade. Despite the mild summer-like weather, her body was as cold as ice. We were steeped in silence and sorrow. From the blank expressions on our faces, Marcus knew something was wrong but dared not to say a word.
I stroked Allee’s hair and kept my lips glued to her head. I couldn’t understand why my baby hadn’t shed a tear. Perhaps like me, the heart-breaking, gut-wrenching pain had made her numb. My eyes and ears shut out the world around me. The rush of midday traffic and sights of the city were just a blur. Why was this happening? Allee didn’t deserve this. Christ. She wasn’t even twenty-five yet—that birthday just a few weeks away. Why was God taking her away from me? Why did bad things happen to good people? Allee was good. Too good. Was the fault on her shoulders, something she’d done or not done? Or was it mine?
The doctor had explained to us that there was not much that could done at this late stage of the disease. Any therapy was purely palliative—it could relieve pain, but it couldn’t stop the progression. The end. It would be up to us—to her—what we wanted to do.
When we reached the loft, Allee broke away from me and barreled out of the elevator. I watched with wide-eyed shock as she bolted to the bookshelf where she kept all her treasured art books. One by one, she tore them out and madly hurled them across the room.
“Allee, what are you doing?” I cried out. I ran up to her and tried to stop her.
“Leave me alone!” she screamed back at me, twisting her arms free of my grip.
She yanked out the thick book of Musée D’Orsay paintings that I’d given her for Christmas. Expecting to see it go flying across the room, I was surprised when she held it to her heart and fell to her knees. The dam of tears she’d been holding back broke, and she began to sob uncontrollably.
“God dammit. I was supposed to be in remission.”
I instantly stooped down and wrapped my arms around her frail, trembling body. She was still clutching the oversized book like a pillow.
“Baby, what do you mean?”
Her tear-soaked eyes met mine. “Oh, my Superman,” she bawled. “I had lymphoma my junior year in college. They said they got it. They said I was cured. That it wouldn’t come back. The fucking liars!”
It hit me then why she couldn’t go to Paris that year. Why she was infertile and couldn’t conceive. And why she had to do that other job—to pay off medical bills in addition to her college loans.
“Oh, my baby. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought that—”
“Shh.” I put a finger to her lips, soaked and swollen from her runny nose and tears. “I don’t want to know.”
She gazed up me and sniffled, “Can you forgive me, Madewell?”
I brushed away her tears. “Baby, there’s nothing to forgive. I would have fallen in love with you and married you no matter what.” The truth. That’s how much I loved her.
“Tell me, you’re not bullshitting me, Madewell,” she stammered through her tears.
I framed her face in my hands and looked straight at her. “Allee Adair Madewell, I can’t bullshit you. You know that.” I was close to shedding tears of my own. So damn close it hurt. Don’t cry, Ryan. Madewells don’t cry.
Not letting go of my gaze, she slowly lowered the Musée D’Orsay book to the floor, setting it beside her. She wrapped her thin arms around my neck and buried her head against my chest. I just let her cry. For as hard and long as she needed. I stroked her tousled hair, relishing the silkiness of each strand. Finally, her sobbing let up a little, dissolving into hoarse, erratic whimpers.
“What do you want to do, Allee?” I asked softly.
She gazed up at me, tears streaming from her eyes. “I want to dance with you, Ryan Madewell IV.”
For the first time that day, a ghost of a smile crossed my face. It dawned on me that we had never danced together before. It was odd but true. Lifting her into my arms as I rose, I crossed the room to the coffee table between the leather couches. Reaching for a remote, I clicked a button, and “I Won’t Give Up,” our favorite song, filtered into the room. I tenderly set Allee down and pressed her close to me. She rested her head on my shoulder and let me lead the way. She followed me with ease—as if we had danced this way forever. We were again chest to chest, organ to organ, heart to heart. The mound of flesh between my legs wedged into her warm center while her breasts crushed against my pecs. We took small steps, swaying from side to side as if were sewn together. As if we were one.
Outside, thunder clapped, and rain began to pound on the skylight above us. We had weathered rough skies before and had gotten t
hrough. Now, our love was all we had to get us through the fatal storm we faced ahead.
She gazed up at me with those soulful espresso eyes. I warmed her lips with mine and closed my eyes with hers. The song played on. No, Allee Adair Madewell, I wasn’t about to give up on us.
That night, we never stopped making slow passionate love—our own form of palliative therapy. It was all we could do to keep the pain away. Maybe I couldn’t prolong her life, but I could prolong our love.
We were worth it.
TWENTY-TWO
The next morning I was up before the sun rose. After making myself a cup of coffee, I scoured the Internet and then made a couple of phone calls. In the middle of the night, while Allee had briefly fallen asleep in my arms, it came to me what we had to do. Maybe it wouldn’t cure her disease, but it would make it more bearable. For both of us. With Allee still sleeping, I stealthily left the loft.
When I returned a few hours later, Allee was awake. She was sitting at the dining table, nursing some tea. She actually looked a little better than she had in a while. There was a twinkle in her eyes, and color rose to her sallow cheeks.
“Pack your bags,” I told her.
She leaped up from the table. A mixture of terror and rage filled her eyes. “I’m not going to the hospital yet, Madewell!”
I didn’t expect her to have this reaction, and I immediately felt terrible. I ran over to her and cradled her in my arms. “No, no, baby, of course not.”
I pulled out an envelope from my back jeans pocket and slapped it onto the table. “Open it, baby.”
Perplexed, Allee reached for the envelope and lifted up the unsealed flap. She removed the contents and gasped.
Inside were two first-class, round-trip tickets to Paris.
Tears flooded her eyes. “Oh, Madewell, you shouldn’t have.”
Undying Love Page 13