Too Easy

by Bruce Deitrick Price

  “Doesn’t matter. Maybe he wants to own the New York Yankees. Same difference.”

  Louise makes her evil grin again. “He thinks you want him back. ‘Don’t let her kid you,’ he tells me. ‘Girl goes to sleep thinking about this,’ he says, grabbing you know what.”

  “What, Louise . . . his Harley?”

  “Yeah, right, Kathy.”

  “Give me a cigarette.”

  “Touch a nerve, sweetie?”

  Kathy lights up, takes a deep drag, then mostly plays with the cigarette. “Jesus, Louise, you are something. You think I’d let a low-life like Keith threaten what I’ve got going?”

  “And what is that, Kathy? I’d like to know.”

  “Don’t be so tough. I hope you’re not pissed because I’m trying to improve my life. Come on.”

  “I love you. No, I’m not pissed about that. But I’ll tell you. My brother comes home and says he’s born again, I’d want some particulars. Guy’s almost as bad as Keith, so you understand my point.”

  “I don’t like that, Louise. I’m not born again, okay? I moved to Manhattan, got a pretty good job, nice little apartment. Starting over, not born again.”

  “Now how’d this happen—exactly? You maybe fuck somebody?”

  “Louise, stop. I went to the paper in Bergen, got a job as a secretary, office admin. Boring bullshit job. But I figured—pretend I’m an adult, give it a chance. Suddenly they need somebody to help with some promotions. Slogans. I was in some meetings, pitched in my bit. And they say, now you’re doing it full time. Eight months later I see an ad for a job over here, doing the same stuff. I figure, let’s take a shot. I walked in like I owned the place. Smiled a lot. Looked everyone in the eye. Whatever they asked, I said, ‘No problem.’ Truth. That’s the way it’s been. No problem.”

  Louise shrugs in surrender, maybe get Kathy back to what matters here. “I’m sorry. . . . Congratulations.”

  “I think I’m on a roll. I feel good. Hell, I feel great.”

  “Rolled right into Mr. Right?”

  Kathy shrugs yes.

  “Uh, tingling all over?”

  “Louise. Maybe you had some bedside manner. Once.” They stare at each other, smiling. “Hey, you jealous?”

  Louise shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe.” Her expression softens. “Yeah, maybe. If it’s real, what you got.”

  “Oh, it’s real.”

  Louise smirks. “Oh, married guy?”

  “Would you stop? I told you, he’s not that married.” She smiles. “Less all the time.”

  “Oh? He’s leaving his wife for you.”

  “Hell,” Kathy says, “in his place, I would.”

  “Got to give it to you. You got good attitude.” She waits a few seconds, blows smoke up. “So you been fucking this guy. Like an hour ago. Which put the red in your cheeks.”

  Kathy thinking, Funny, a few years ago, I’d be telling her the size of the guy’s dick. Now it seems wrong. I live in Bronxville. We may fuck, but we do not talk so much.

  “That smile means what?” Louise peers hard at her.

  “He’s a fine man. Sorry, but I’m not telling you”—Kathy starts laughing—“how high he comes.”

  “What! Tell me. Seriously, you saw?”

  “A joke. Louise. Listen to me. About Keith. The reason he can’t find me is because I don’t want to be found. I do not want to see him again, not ever. And I am not afraid of him. Are you getting this?”

  “I think so.”

  “You think I’m telling the truth?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Don’t fucking guess, damn it. Believe it. Then convince him. Not such a big deal.”

  “Oh, yeah. . . . Suppose he shows up in your house? What do you do then?”

  “Whatever it takes, Louise. Whatever it takes.”

  Louise sits back. “Really? Hmmmph. Maybe I am convinced.”

  “Bet your last dollar, bitch.”

  “Wow. . . . Bitch, is it? I guess you’re buying.”

  “Louise . . . of course, I’m buying.”

  “This guy really a good lay? The married guy.”

  “He’s a wonderful man, Louise. He also happens to be six-one, a hundred and eighty-five or so. One does so appreciate a big man, don’t you find?”

  Louise shakes her head. “Kathy . . . Kathy . . . Kathy.”

  Chapter

  12

  • “Good, do it that way,” Robert tells the reporter. “Done. Next.”

  He sits stiffly, trying not show how agitated he feels. Wearing a striped shirt, the tie knot loose. He’s at the head of a large table, two reporters to his left, another two on his right. Only one woman. He’s grateful he doesn’t find her attractive. The state he’s in, he might gawk at her.

  “The aid package,” one of them says. “Alright, the money comes through, we say PRESIDENT TRIES TO BUY VOTES. The money’s not coming, we say UP YOURS, PRESIDENT TELLS BIG APPLE. Or words to that effect.”

  “Come on,” the woman says, “the President can’t win.”

  “Winning’s not his job,” Robert says, his voice quiet, carefully controlled. “His job’s selling papers.”

  “Here, here.”

  “How about PRESIDENT’S AID PACKAGE SAVES DEMOCRATIC MACHINE?”

  “Shit, that’s almost the truth. You can’t put stuff like that in the newspaper.”

  They all laugh. Energetic, restless, vaguely rumpled people. The kind of faces you see gambling in Atlantic City. Robert hopes they won’t notice what has happened to him. No, they have to notice. He’s coming apart in front of them, for Chrissake.

  A reporter says, “I want to do something new on the drug wars.”

  “Who cares?”

  “Right! They keep shooting kids, that’s the only story. They just kill each other, hell, you’re happy to hear—”

  “The city ought to regulate these jerks. You know, make ’em take shooting lessons.”

  They’re all laughing, arguing, interrupting each other. Robert likes it. People acting silly won’t notice him.

  “Look, the city regulates a business, they leave. Maybe it’s an angle.”

  “A Department of Drug Dealers. Yeah, it’ll work. A whole new bureaucracy for the mayor’s cronies. And finally the dealers move to the Sun Belt. Let’s put the paper behind it.”

  “Sweet. Genius.”

  “Hey, I got a serious idea. Why don’t we offer rewards, you know, for the baddest guys? Like those Old West wanted posters. Say $10,000. Information leading to arrest and conviction.”

  “That’s great. Better $25,000. Jesus, that’ll get the community behind the cops.”

  “I see it. We call it Dealer Lotto. Here’s the pitch. Don’t waste your dollars on those bogus gambling schemes, better chance of getting hit by lightning, et cetera. The New York News offers a real payout. Just rat on some fuck who should be doing ten to twenty anyway. . . . What do you think? Sure, it’s a promotional gimmick. But it’ll spin off a huge amount of copy for us, too. Human interest. Real news. It’s got everything.”

  “You’re serious?” Robert says, happy to be doubting somebody else’s sanity. Put the spotlight on this poor schmuck. Very gravely, Robert says again: “You’re really serious?”

  The guy looks around. “Yeah. What’s wrong? Hey, $50,000 makes it guaranteed. Really. We’d get great press all over the country. Think about the photo op. The mayor giving some guy with a bag over his head a big check. Then we do follow-up, see if the guy lives to spend the money. Dealer Lotto, get it?”

  A secretary Robert hardly knows comes in to relay a message to one of the reporters. She leans over to speak in the man’s ear. Robert glances down her blouse, sees the swell of her breasts. Lovely. She stands and smiles pleasantly. At him? Yeah, she’s saying, Use me, big guy. This is all yours. She turns to leave. A tight gray skirt. Robert studies the shadow marking the crack of her ass. Yeah, she wants him to follow her out into the hall, wrap her legs around him right there. His groin
jumps. He sees himself springing out of the chair.

  It’s so real. Too real.

  Robert drops his right hand, grips the front of the chair, hard. Steady, man. He feels like Dr. Strangelove, trying to hold his arm down. Or his dick. Or his life. His eyes jump to the ceiling and he shudders inwardly. Kathy! The woman’s made me a maniac. Is this what sexual dementia is like? You want to hump everything.

  All I do, I just call, leave a secret message. In an hour, maybe much sooner, we’re on the 26th floor, she looks so beautiful, we’re kissing, her hand’s in my pants, we’re doing anything I can think of. . . .

  No, no, hold it. We’re meeting at five. Got to hang on. No, what I have to do is call Anne, tell her I’ll be on the later train. Oh, God, Anne. . . . What excuse do I make this time?

  “Robert, hey. Robert. Boss!”

  One of the reporters is staring at him. A strange look on his face. See, they can tell. Robert’s sure he stinks of sex, like a man doused in some bad cologne.

  Robert sighs as if he’s been thinking over some deep problem of journalistic ethics. “Yeah, just running that around in my head. It’s a stunt. But why not talk to the legal department. It’s your idea, run with it.”

  They talk story ideas for another thirty minutes, then Robert walks back to his office. Feeling like this obscene pulsing thing, sure that people are staring at him. He wonders who he can ask about it. Notice any change? Horns? Goat’s feet? A tail? Hair sprouting everywhere? Damnit, there are huge tits in front of my face. You must have noticed. Are you blind?

  Robert can’t remember anything like this. He’s obsessed, filled toe to head with thoughts of sex, with thoughts of her.

  He slumps behind his desk. Tries to hold his head up, look intelligent. Oh, sure. A hard-on with an IQ of ten or twelve.

  Think about it. When I was a kid, say sixteen, was that like this? Yeah, horny, horny all the time. But it’s in the body. You jerk off and then you forget about it for a while. This is different. This is in my head, I think. Like a fever, a disease. I want Kathy all the time. I want something. . . .

  I’ve got to call Anne, tell her I’ll be late.

  He stares at the small color portrait of Anne on the right side of his desk and winces. She’s so nice. So trusting. The most decent person. . . . She deserves better than this. It’s just too nuts. It can’t go on.

  He studies her, the smart face, the soft smile. Why can’t they have what . . . what he and Kathy have? It hurts to think about it. They’re both waiting. Maybe that’s it. For the other one to do something, to take the lead, be aggressive. Is that it? Robert isn’t sure. They’re too well bred? They’re too timid? What the hell is it?

  For a few minutes the lust fades away. A rush of guilt takes its place. He feels sad . . . he feels like a failure. He can’t pick up the phone.

  No, I’ll call Kathy, meet her on 26, cancel, tell her it’s no good. Got to cool this down.

  I’ll explain it to her. Kathy, you are wonderful. Maybe the most wonderful woman in the world. But I am married and we really ought to keep our balance.

  He imagines what’ll happen. She’ll look at him with this slightly pitying expression. He knows he’ll feel like a weakling.

  She’ll say what she said once before: “Maybe, Robie, I’m basically a more serious person than you are. Women usually are, don’t you find? It’s never just fucking for us.”

  He’ll feel like a real jerk.

  Then she’ll smile and joke, “Of course, sex is nice, too. Stand closer and I’ll tell you what I thought up. You will love this. . . .”

  Then he’ll feel like an engorged penis, six-feet, one-inch long.

  He snatches up the phone.

  Be a man, he thinks. It’s the best sex imaginable. That’s good. I deserve this. A gift from God. I love Kathy. I really do.

  Damnit, man, call Anne, tell her you’ll be late. Anne, Anne, Anne. . . . We have to talk. . . . I’ll tell her the truth. Anne, this is bigger than I am. I can’t say no to this. . . .

  Or maybe I just jerk off in the bathroom, calm down, then I could talk to Kathy rationally. Kathy, please, let’s be reasonable about this.

  Maybe meet her on the street, so even if she gets to me, we can’t do anything. Yeah, what about that?

  Robert leans his elbows on desk, pressing his hands back through his long hair, rubbing his face. The skin feels hot.

  Chapter

  13

  • Anne comes back from a meeting with her immediate boss, a woman named Estelle. A woman who smiled and said, “Don’t worry, dear, your future at this company is assured.”

  Translation: No promotion for you, drone, now get back to work. And why is there no promotion? Because, Anne guesses, Estelle wants a man in the slot. Oh, yes, slot. Good word.

  Anne settles heavily at her desk, sighs, mutters, “Damn you, Estelle, I deserved that. . . . Oh, God, forgive me my trespasses as I forgive those . . .” She tries to go back to work.

  Instead she stares at a large framed photo on a side cabinet. Her and Robert, two years ago. Look at him. Isn’t he something? That big sincere face, the longish brown hair. A real man, or real enough for me, and yet a real person. They say women are slow to fall in love. Took me about two dates. And I thought, yes, if I can swing it, he’s the one. Then you spend a year trying to let it happen. Pretending you’re surprised by the discovery that I love you.

  And now what have I done? Am I losing him? Could such a thing happen? She stares at herself in the photo. She hardly comes up to his chin. She appears, she thinks, serious . . . contained . . . quiet . . . intelligent. Yes, all that. But pretty or glamorous or sexy? She stares. Not sure. Uncertain. Or have I driven him away because I’m so dull? Oh, dear God. A tax specialist. Well, what could be more boring?

  She thinks of him at the paper in Manhattan. A dynamic, exciting job with smart, offbeat people. The pulse of the city driving them all. She’s seen it, seen him in action. And here I am in dreary little White Plains, sinking in spread sheets. Numbers, numbers, numbers. Many of which have hardly any connection with reality.

  She laughs. Whatever that is.

  She works in a slow, distracted way, suddenly realizing it’s past twelve thirty and she hasn’t accomplished very much. She decides she doesn’t want company just now, that she’ll go out for lunch alone. She walks three blocks to a small coffee shop, not the kind of place that lawyers are likely to go to. The streets are wet and chilly. Everything seems gray and sullen.

  No, she decides, it’s just me; the streets look just like they always look on a damp day in March.

  She sits toward the back, orders the chicken-salad plate. A light lunch for a light appetite.

  I mustn’t be rash, she thinks. But I also don’t want to be a fool. . . . Be a fool or look foolish? Interesting distinction. Well, I don’t want either, now that I think about it, so the heck with that distinction.

  It all seems very complicated. Life, living, going on. . . .

  Well, there is one thing. . . . She can’t imagine herself confronting Robert. Asking him straight out. Hey, what’s going on? No, she cannot do this.

  She imagines the scene, just a bit, and it immediately becomes impossible. Flying off the roof of the house is more probable.

  If you ask, she thinks, everything could blow up in your face. Who knows what drastic action he might take? Or what hurt he might feel? A marriage could be wrecked, or at least poisoned. You could end up far worse than you started.

  Or he looks you in the eye and lies. And then where are you? He’ll be more on guard, more cunning. Life will be even tenser.

  Maybe it’s better to lie to myself, just seal off the door to this room. Is this what most wives do? I bet it is.

  Well, could she hint at her suspicions? Even that is difficult to imagine. Geee, dear, is that lipstick on your collar? Oh, wine? Of course it is.

  The thing is, she decides, I can’t get ahead of myself. Here I am with my miserable little suspicions, my damaged
little feelings. Thin air probably. My own fault, in any case. And what? I’m going to ruin a marriage with a single sentence? It’s crazy even to think about it. I don’t have any evidence at all. Not really.

  Anne pays for the lunch and goes back out to the street. She has some time. She decides to walk a few blocks, clear her head. It’s quite cold. Good, she thinks. I’ll take physical pain any time.

  Evidence—now there’s a friendly word. Not exactly friendly. In fact, ominous. But I know the word; I’ve used it a thousand times. I’m comfortable with it. Either there’s evidence, somewhere in the world, or there isn’t. What could be simpler than that? Well, not simple. But fundamental. Yes or no, on or off. The reason the computers work, the basis of all intellectual progress. Either something is or it isn’t.

  She finds this litany reassuring. She walks along unseeing, repeating the phrases. Evidence. There is some or there isn’t.

  Evidence.

  But how does she get this magical stuff? She’s up here in White Plains. They live in Bronxville. The evidence, if there is such a thing, is in Manhattan. Well, most likely.

  Anne walks six blocks up Dumont, turns over to Sullivan and then starts back along Granby toward work.

  She considers things she’s seen or read about. . . . Looking through his suits. For what? A matchbook? Hah! The man’s working in the city of Manhattan. He could have anything in his suits. He got good grades in college. What’s he going to do, carry around some girl’s name? Maybe a little note—I LOVE CINDY. Come on. Alright, what about his address book? His briefcase? His papers? Same difference. Robert’s a careful, organized man. He’s not going to keep the evidence handy, where any moron of a wife can find it.

  Well, alright, I’ll look!

  She laughs bitterly. This is being a fool or looking like a fool? One? Both? In any case, something dreadful. Something sneaky and devious and underhanded. Oh, God, and what if I find this evidence I’m talking about? Then the nightmare begins, right?

  The firm’s building is up ahead. Modern, solid, huge, oddly comforting. Never mind. The last thing she wants at the moment is to go back to work.