Addled

by JoeAnn Hart

  “Here, Olson,” Charles whispered. The turkey gobbled softly and let himself be picked up. Charles groaned under the weight. “Let’s get back home, big boy.” He buried his head in the feathery folds of Olson’s broad back, which made the wattles on the bird’s head and under his beak turn electric blue and erect. He was a magnificent specimen, so very male, so exceedingly virile. Charles understood how his own vulnerable species might wish to borrow some of this vitality by eating its flesh and wearing its skins.

  It took some adjusting to get Olson comfortably cradled in his arms before heading back to the pen. The other turkey, Tribble, stood forlornly at the fence, waiting for her husband’s return. As they brushed up against some foundation plantings, Charles heard the clinking of chain.

  “Can it be?” It was—all forty feet of his chain, lying on top of the rhododendron. He looked up. It was directly below Phoebe’s open window, three flights up—she must have borrowed it for one of her protests.

  Kids. But she wasn’t a kid anymore, was she? Where had the time gone? What had he done with it?

  He shook his head, and the turkey warbled in sympathy. Considering Phoebe’s communal attitudes about property, he was probably lucky to get the chain back at all—but he would have to have a talk with her. She had to ask permission to borrow other people’s things, and then she had to put them back where they belonged. Toss his chain out her window! He nuzzled his nose into the bird’s back again. It could have landed on Olson.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The Gimme

  THE SUN cast no afterglow. It had turned dark abruptly, and no moon was rising. Madeline brushed mosquitoes from her leg as she walked, and realized she’d forgotten her bag in the library. But she wasn’t going back. She couldn’t. Last week she had collapsed at the pool; now she had cried on the terrace. There was no hope. Arietta had tried to help, grasping her by the arm to drag her to the safety of the shadows, but she shook her off. She was not so sure she wanted to be saved.

  In her rush to escape, she’d run down the fieldstone steps and turned into unfamiliar territory around the side of the Club, hoping to shortcut to the golf-cart path that would lead her home. She could not have made a worse move. A delivery door opened and out stepped Humpy, like some unearthly specter. A yellow bulb lit his face in profile; it sagged in pain. They stood facing each other for a moment. He seemed to be waiting for a word from her, but what could she say that he didn’t, by now, already know? The word was guilty. He turned away without speaking, in the direction of the employee parking lot. He moved with extreme care, as if he’d suddenly, and atrociously, aged.

  She waited for him to get a head start, but she was fidgety. This was not a part of the Club she was familiar with. From what she could tell, it was more of a service area, with some overgrown courtyard farther on. At her feet, piles of cigarette butts lay like animal droppings on the ground, which meant that this was where workers came to smoke. The last thing she wanted was to be caught by any of them, but neither did she want to follow closely on Humpy’s heels. The thing to do was forget the cart path and cut across the turf, taking the long way home.

  On an impulse, she removed her sandals to feel the grass wet and alive between her toes as she put distance between herself and the club-house, with the tent butted up against it, unlit from within, a dead space. The terrace, however, was bathed in a golden circle of light, highlighting the few stragglers who had not yet gone in or out to dinner. Not many on this holiday weekend would be going home so early, like her.

  Home to what? As she walked, she contemplated life as a divorced woman. It might not be so bad. She’d seen with what enthusiasm women arranged dates for the newly single, quickly getting them coupled again, like they all lived on the Ark. She wondered what it would be like to be with another man after all these years, and thought of Charles’s indifference to her. Was the unexamined wife not worth living? She laughed out loud at her little joke, which made her realize she was more than just tipsy. She closed her eyes for the drunk test and the world spun around her. Good thing she had walked to the Club that afternoon, because she couldn’t possibly drive home in this condition. She breathed in through her nose, but there was no fragrance in the air. It was not that time of year. The heavy foliage all around her had no blooms, and even the leaves had stopped growing, just gathering dust, waiting for the season’s end.

  She looked longingly at the pool across the fairway. She could go for a quick dip, couldn’t she? She wasn’t ready to go home. She didn’t know if she’d ever be ready. She turned so sharply she almost fell, but quickly uprighted herself with what she considered to be grace. As Neddy said back at the lounge, it didn’t matter what happened out on the course, it was how you handled it that counted. Or something like that. The point was, she had to handle her life better. There was no reason to be so unhappy. Or hot. She listened to the birds whistling to sleep in the trees and the crickets making music in the grass. A firefly blinked brightly. She might have lost her old life, such as it was, but the future could be sweet, really, if only she would let it.

  The pool house had a security light on but was otherwise deserted. She unlatched the wooden gate to the pool area with great care, so as not to make a noise, and hung her sandals on the picket fence so she could find them later. In the shadows, she struggled with her dress as she struggled with her conscience. What about the bra and underpants? The throbbing of the water pump seemed to get louder. Dare she? She remembered skinny-dipping here long ago, with Charles, before they were married. They had snuck away from their engagement party and swum together like two happy sea mammals, one with the water and each other. The moon had been out then, casting a silver glow on the scene, and afterward Charles had carried her home piggyback.

  She groaned. What made them think they were ready for marriage? She’d been younger than Phoebe was now; Phoebe, who for all her outrageous behavior was more sensible in many ways. Marriage was still a long way off for her, while she and Charles had been mere children. She shook the memory from her head, then shook her panties down to the cobblestones. With a single flourish she removed her Maidenform.

  At the sharp sound of laughter from up the hill, she instinctively covered her crotch with her hands, but the Club was very far away. And those members weren’t going anywhere. She turned to the water, clear as vodka and glimmering with underwater lights. With no more self-consciousness than an otter, she walked to the deep end and dove in.

  The water, warm from the day’s heat, enveloped her. She held her breath and moved effortlessly through this other reality, a refuge where change could begin. Even love. How easily that had happened with Charles. Perhaps Arietta was right, maybe it was biology, but it was magic too. She came up for air, then went back under, all the way to the bottom, feeling her way with her fingers. When she finally let herself float to the surface, she rolled on her back in a dreamy trance. She wanted more of this. She wanted more, period.

  Distant hoots and guffaws echoed from the Club. It was time to get out. One never knew, after all, who might have the same unlikely idea, although drunken leaps into the pool were generally unknown before midnight. She stroked gracefully to the ladder. Climbing up the metal steps, with her hair clinging to her shoulders and water dripping off her naked body, she felt refreshed, renewed, and ritually cleansed.

  But then her throat tightened when she heard a quiet cough by the pool house door. A male figure. She slipped back into the water, terrified.

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Lambert. It’s just me, um, Scott.”

  A woozy wave of anger rushed over her. “You might have said something sooner,” she said, trying to keep her voice flatly matter-of-fact and sober. “I thought I was alone.” She peered through the dark, trying to determine how far away her clothes were.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Lambert.” Scott was still in his bathing trunks, over which he wore a long-sleeved shirt, open in the front. He moved forward slowly, tentatively holding out a Lion King towel in front o
f him. “You looked so peaceful, I didn’t, like, want to disturb you.”

  Or disturb his free peep show, she wanted to add, but that would be acknowledging that there was something to peep at. She backed down the ladder a step to hide her breasts under the surface, but they bobbed up, glowing white in the watery dark. “That’s okay, Scott. I shouldn’t be out here. I’m making your job harder.”

  There was a brief pause as she choked down a laugh.

  Scott smiled. “I brought you a towel. I thought, maybe, you hadn’t thought ahead.”

  He draped it on the railing, then politely looked up at the sky as she climbed out and grabbed for her cover. She was, thankfully, too drunk to die of embarrassment. A sober Madeline would have drowned rather than come out. She sometimes felt she had no survival skills whatsoever. She wrapped the warm towel around her and relaxed into it. When Scott turned, she studied the sweetness and newness of his mouth, his face so smoothly symmetrical and unlined by anguish. All summer, her eyes had been drawn to the boyishness of him, his perfect legs, his muscular arms. But that had been from an indifferent perspective, sizing him up only as a specimen, not as a partner. Or had she known all along this moment was at hand? Was he to be the instrument of her transformation?

  “I was getting ready to split when I heard you dive in,” he said. “I stayed around to make sure you were okay. You know, after last week.”

  Yes. He’d been so kind, helping her to the pool house without a scene, caring without prying. Leading her by the hand.

  She reined in her thoughts and opened her mouth to say she was fine now, then decided against it. She was going to tell the truth. After all, here he was again, appearing like an angel so soon after her scene on the terrace. If that wasn’t fate, what was it? “I wish I could say I was better,” she said, tightening the plush fabric under her arms. “But things are a little uncertain for me right now.” Her voice weakened.

  He reached out his hand and brushed a fingertip against her bare arm, fleetingly, like a moth. “Is it, um, Mr. Lambert?”

  Madeline nodded, barely moving her head. A trickle of water ran from her hair down her nose. “I’m not sure what’s going to happen.” No, that wasn’t true. She did know. “I expect we’ll divorce.”

  His hand reached out to brush her arm again, resting longer this time, long enough for her skin to heat up beneath his fingers. “That just blows,” he said. “He’s a pretty dumb dude to leave a beautiful woman like you, Mrs. Lambert.”

  Huh. She was not mistaken about his intentions, then. “It could be for the best,” she mused. Another trickle of water ran from her hair and down her cheek, and Scott wiped it away with the palm of his hand. He stood very close to her now, his breath smelling faintly of butterscotch.

  “Mrs. Lambert,” he said slowly, drawing her name out. “Want to, you know, come with me to the Lost and Found and get a towel for your hair?”

  Her eyes darted to the pool house. If she went with him through those doors, she would come out a different person. That’s what she wanted, wasn’t it? She stared at Scott’s face, lit only by the reflection of the water. He had a sweet mole by his lips, and his lids draped heavily over dark blue eyes, looking not quite awake. He had the long lashes of a calf, and he looked at her with nothing less than adoration.

  This was it, she thought. Here was someone who admired her and desired her. She was wanted, here and now.

  A breeze picked up, chilling her wet skin.

  “Let’s go, Scotty,” she whispered, her voice watery. She touched his mouth with her finger. Let’s get on with it.

  The dressing room was dark and cool. It was spacious enough for the pampered horse for whom it was built so long ago, and more than enough for a half dozen women, but of course, it was meant for just one at a time. The original oak paneling had been carefully restored and maintained over the years, but the thick varnish failed to hide the ancient hoof marks of horses fighting captivity. The room had been lavishly fitted out with a bench, brass hooks, and indoor-outdoor Oriental carpeting. Cream curtains hung on the inside of the barred windows of the doors, which opened and closed on oiled rollers. As many as twenty horses in as many stalls once poked their noses out between the bars, watching for the stable boys.

  Madeline reached for the chain, turning on the overhead light, and for a moment she felt herself fully in the role of the Older Woman, initiating a young man into the pleasures of the flesh. It made her feel slightly eroticized, until she turned and saw the drenched stranger in the full-length mirror. She yanked the chain again, returning to darkness. She pushed apart the curtains a crack to let some light in from the hall and to hear if the outer door opened. Scott hurried from the office with an armful of towels from the Lost & Found. He kissed her on the neck, letting his tongue stud flicker against her skin, before spreading the towels on the wide wooden bench.

  “So many towels,” said Madeline, clutching her own tightly with one hand. She slid the heavy door closed with her bare foot, and the metal latch fell into place. “Doesn’t anyone even try to find what they’ve lost?”

  Scott sat down, hesitated, then took her by the hands and pulled her to the bench. She went slowly, but with no resistance. Did she go along because of desire, or because she just always went along? She sat on a pile of towels, like a princess. He brushed her wet hair from her face with both hands and kissed her on the mouth, and she promptly forgot how to breathe through her nose. When they separated, she was gasping.

  “You’re so hot, Mrs. Lambert.” He loosened the tight tuck at her sternum, looking at her to make sure it was okay, and, when she didn’t say anything, helped the towel drop to her waist. She was afraid, but only for a moment. She was tired of being ruled by caution. She wanted to be her free, youthful self again, who didn’t think twice about having a little fun with men.

  The light through the parted curtains landed on her breasts like a beacon, and Scott leaned back to admire them. With a soft purr, he bent down and gently kissed each one.

  “If you had a ring right here,” he said, putting his finger on her nipple, “it would give us something to play with.”

  She laughed uncomfortably. Wasn’t there too much to play with as it was? She cautiously slipped her hand into his open shirt and felt his heart pumping under his hairless chest. Tentatively, she felt for his nipple ring, but he’d not put it back in yet. She wondered if he was still on duty.

  He put his hand over hers and tried to guide it lower, but she pulled back. Things were progressing too rapidly. She moved the action farther up, caressing his face, so untouched by life, then mussed his hair. It felt like straw from a summer under the sun. “You used to have long hair when you worked at the snack bar, didn’t you? You kept it pinned up on top of your head.”

  He pulled her close and nestled his chin on her shoulder. “Gerard made me cut it all off to become a lifeguard. I missed it at first, but I don’t know. Now that the season’s over, I might even keep it like this. Sarah says she likes it short.”

  Madeline stiffened. “You’re still dating Sarah Quilpe?”

  Scott looked unperturbed. “You know her mom, I bet, but don’t tell her or anything. Gerard will have my head.” He took one of her breasts in his hand. “You and me, though, it’s cool. Sarah and I have this understanding.”

  Understanding? What kind of relationship was that? “I like it longer,” she said, with some petulance, even though she didn’t.

  Scott wrapped his arms around her. Her lips were still pursed from pouting, so he kissed them, and she warmed toward him against her will. “I’m so psyched, Mrs. Lambert. I just knew you and me were meant to hook up.”

  “You don’t have to call me Mrs. Lambert,” she whispered.

  “What do I call you?” He smiled and ran both hands down her ribs, all the way to the towel bunched up around her bottom. “What Dr. Nicastro calls you? Pet?”

  He said the word in his slow way, making every letter a syllable, and she got a bad conscience thinking of
how she’d driven Frank away. This uneasy feeling grew, and she considered leaving while she still had her virtue, more or less, but when Scott bent down to kiss a breast, she decided to think about it a little more.

  “What’s this?” he asked. He ran a finger along the raised scar on her left breast.

  “It was a false alarm,” she said. “It’s over now.”

  “Lucky. Here,” he whispered, “I’ll make it better.” He kissed the scar with great care. Charles had avoided even talking about the whole thing, and here was this stranger putting his mouth right on it. Scott was right. She was lucky. Of all the outcomes that might have resulted from that procedure, it had been nothing more than a scare. She was so easily frightened. Well, no more of that.

  She reached down in the darkness and awkwardly, with only a thin layer of fabric between her hand and his body, caressed the swelling between his legs. He arched against her with a certain, persistent rhythm that alarmed her. She pulled away, and he laughed. “Don’t be afraid, Mrs. Lambert. I won’t bite.” He leaned toward her and rubbed her nose with his. “I’ve got to turn on the light for a minute,” he said quietly, and pulled the chain over their heads. She shielded her eyes, but when she got used to the glare, she peeped to see what he was doing. When he reached for his shirt pocket, she steeled herself for the sight of a condom, but instead he pulled out a gold loop and clipped it to his earlobe. He saw her looking at him and smiled. “Help me,” he said.