by Stan Rogal
“That was food. It was adequate. This is a feast. The wine could be, perhaps cooler.” Martin adds a few cubes from the ice bucket.
“You’d do that anyway, regardless. It’s what you do — ice cubes in white wine.”
“I like it freezie cold, brrr. What do you say? Too low brow?”
“You can give it a shot of liquid nitrogen if it makes you happy.” Maggie tops up her glass. “You mentioned a most incredible email.”
“Yes. Seems a former, uh, acquaintance of mine died six months ago …”
“By acquaintance, you mean …?”
“Lover. I told you about her, I’m sure. Connie Reeve. Former student of mine. Mature student, yes? No hanky-panky until after the course had ended. Very much according to Hoyle.”
“I seem to recall. Approached you on the final day. Said she’d had thoughts of sucking your cock while you were at the lectern. Said she was hot to fuck you. I may be paraphrasing. Words to that effect, at any rate.”
“That’s her.” He drops another cube into his glass. “A free spirit. Hippie-dippie bohemian type. Flower child of the seventies carried into the twenty-first century. Married to a whiz IT guy so able to take the odd university course here and there, you know: Philosophy, English, Theatre …”
“History.”
“History, yes. And never for credit towards a degree, no. Always audit. Strictly on a ‘knowledge for knowledge’s sake’ basis.”
“Plus the thrill of screwing a professor or two.”
“I never thought of it quite that way.” Martin gives his glass a swirl and stares across the room.
“Everyone needs a hobby.” Maggie’s lips twist a halfsmile.
“Mm.”
“Was it sudden?”
“Sudden?”
“Her demise.”
“Hit by a truck while riding a Vespa scooter, apparently. Died instantly.”
“Tragic. Can I say, at least she had something humming between her legs when she went? Can I say that?”
“I think she’d appreciate the humour. She was that type.”
“A hefty woman, you said. Plain looking. Gap-toothed. Glasses. Pointy nose. Mass of red hair. Freckles.”
“I’d been recently divorced after an agonizing separation period.”
“So, lonely, horny, desperate. And she made herself available.”
“I suppose.”
“Then that explains it. A winning combination. What else?”
“It lasted a few months. Then it ended … what? Over a dozen years ago. Water under the bridge. No more to tell.”
“I mean, the email.” Maggie cocks her chin and raises her eyebrows.
“From her daughters. Twins. Said they’re on a bit of a junket across the country in memory of their mother. Visiting her old haunts and so on. Speaking with people who knew her. A sort of metaphorical spreading of ashes. They’ll be arriving in Toronto tomorrow and wonder if we can put them up for the night. Nothing fancy, they simply want to meet, talk, share some memories. What do you think?”
“Why not? So long as the memories don’t get too graphic.”
“Fine. I also offered dinner. They’re vegetarian.”
“I’ll bring home Indian. Malai Kafta. Palak Paneer. Pakoras.”
“Hara Chana Masala. Curried chick peas. Naan. Fantastic!”
The girls arrive at the door carting the usual backpacks, cotton bags plus a large folded case with a handle. The two are identical twins, right down to hairstyle and clothing choices. Two peas in a pod and bearing a strong resemblance to their mother: the build, the hair, the freckles, the wild energy. Martin guesses they must be nineteen or twenty. Everyone says hi, hey, nice to meet ya, in a wave of voices and handshakes.
“Come in, come in,” Martin says. “You found the place? No problem?”
“Hi.” Maggie leans in around Martin. “I’m Maggie.”
“We’re Chelsea,” one twin says. “And Katie.” They flash a look at each other. Martin and Maggie nod, like, uh-huh, OK.
“Weird, right?” The girls laugh in unison. “Don’t worry if you get it wrong. We’re used to it. Even mom couldn’t tell us apart. The only way is a mole. See?” One twin snaps her blouse open to reveal a dark mole above one pale breast. “If mom wanted to chew one of us out or whatever, she’d say: all right you two, show me your boobs! It was the only way.” The girls find this hilarious.
“I see,” Maggie says. “And what’s that you’re lugging?”
“Portable massage table. We’re both studying massage therapy and nutrition. It’s our way of saying thanks during our travels. Sort of quid pro quo, right? We set one of you up in the bedroom, in this case …” The twin points a finger at Maggie.
“And you on the table down here.” The other twin grins at Martin.
The couple make the usual empty noises of no need, happy to help, no bother and so on while the twins refuse to take no for an answer.
Well, OK then, it’s settled. Martin shows the stairs leading to the second floor bathroom and bedrooms.
“You can go get settled and clean up before dinner. Meanwhile, can I offer you some wine?” Martin displays his glass. “We’re working on a very cheeky Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand.”
“Fantastic,” the twins squeal. “Are you having yours with ice?”
“Afraid so.”
“No, that’s great. I’ll have ice too.”
“Me too! I like it freezie cold. We’ll just use the bathroom and be right back down.” The twins clamour the stairs.
“End of the hall on the right. Bathroom next door,” Maggie says. She waits for the giggles to subside and turns to Martin. “Energetic pair.”
“I’ll say.” He goes off to pour drinks. “Not like we have to keep up, right? Looks like they’re pretty capable on their own.”
“They are that, no doubt.”
“Nice enough though, yes? Kind of fun? Visitors. Guests.”
“Yeah, fun. It’ll be fun.”
“And a mass-age.” He says the word in a pseudopretentious manner and waggles his fingers.
“That’s OK. I’m down for massage.”
“Down for massage — fantastic! Like I said.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll heat up the oven and pop the food in bowls, you set the table.”
“As you wish, madame.” Martin fills two glasses with ice and wine. His body sways to some tune inside his head. He mouths a silent single word: Fantastic!
The twins have healthy appetites and wipe their plates clean with the naan bread. Glasses remain topped with wine. The ice bucket is replenished as needed. There’s constant chatter back and forth across the table, though more so from the girls. Brazilian music plays over the stereo. It’s a party atmosphere.
“Where do you head tomorrow?” Maggie asks.
“A farm outside Stratford.” The twins weave their voices in and out, beginning their own line, finishing the other’s. Perfect harmony. “It used to be like a commune. Mom’s wild biker period. She lived there with a greasy rocker guitar player in one of those travelling club bands. You know, the bar scene. Hundred bucks a night and all the beer you can drink. Never really went beyond that. She sang backup and played some percussion and keyboard. Other musicians used to pull up in vans and motorcycles and they’d hang out and booze and jam and smoke pot and do drugs and go crazy and whatever. Now the guy’s a big name producer in the Canadian music industry. Still lives on the farm. Y’never know.”
“Yeah, that’s true. Tell me, how are you able to access all this information? I mean, a lot of this stuff was before you were born.”
“We found mom’s diaries. You know, she could come across as pretty spacey about a lot of things, but she was actually quite organized. Wrote everything down: names, places, dates, details. She saved menus and wine bottle labels and theatre programs and music concert ticket stubs and newspaper clippings and strands of hair and dried flowers and leaves and all sorts of shit. Glued or pressed or slipped between pages. Memor
abilia, right? Though she went further. Kept track of people she knew years later. Whatever she came across. Which is how, you know … Kenny the deadbeat guitar player now a freaking wheel in a suit and so on.” The twins shrug and roll their eyes.
“Wow,” Martin says. “Fantastic.”
“Wow is right. Who’d’ve thunk it, eh? You wonder how she found the time.”
“Internet,” Maggie, who’s been playing it quiet and quietly getting a warm and cozy white wine buzz on, says. “Makes it pretty easy. Maybe too easy.”
“It’s so true. It’s like there’s no such thing as privacy anymore. You teach Political Science at the university, right?”
“Yes, I do.”
“There you go. Just what you were saying.”
Maggie can’t seem to remember what she was saying and she gives her head a slight shake. “More wine, I think, is in order. Anyone joining me?”
“We hate to spoil the party, but it is getting late and we’ve had a long drive and we still have to keep up our end of the bargain. Why don’t you two fill your glasses, do whatever you need to do to get ready, we’ll clear up the dishes …?” Martin and Maggie raise their arms in a nono, wouldn’t think about letting you fashion and are cut off at the pass. “You have a dishwasher, yes? Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy, as mom used to say. We’ll load it up, grab a quick shower, gather our oils and meet you in fifteen. No arguments. Go!”
The couple does as told. Maggie staggers her glass and a half-full bottle of wine up to the bedroom. Martin drags a decanter of Cognac out of the cupboard and shakes it gently in front of the twins. They giggle and nod. He pours three shots, takes his into the bathroom and runs water in the sink. The twins clink glasses, throw back the contents, smack their lips, load the dishwasher and tear up the stairs.
Maggie sits on the side of the bed, wrapped in a housecoat, sipping her wine. She checks the clock as one of the twins enters.
“Fifteen minutes exactly. Excellent. Do I have the pleasure of the one with the mole or without?”
The girl wears a kimono tied with a belt of oils. She has rubber flip-flops on her feet. “Without,” she says, and parts the kimono slightly with two fingers so Maggie can take a peek. “Why don’t you remove the housecoat and stretch out on the bed with your arms at your side, head at the bottom.” Maggie does so. “I think we can undo this as well.” The girl unsnaps Maggie’s bra. “In fact, it would make it a whole lot easier and a whole lot more comfortable if we get rid of it altogether. If that’s OK with you?” She’s already manoeuvring the woman so as to slide the bra out from under. Maggie offers no resistance. “You have a terrific body.”
“You mean, for my age.”
“No, I mean you have a terrific body.” The girl squirts oil into her hands and applies it to Maggie’s shoulders and back. “Fit. Lean. Firm. Do you work out?”
“When you enjoy eating … and drinking … as much as I do, you have to work out. Aerobics’ class three mornings a week, a swim at lunch, or weights, or stair climbing. I belong to a running club, play some tennis — badly — play some golf — worse — ride a bike. The usual.”
“A healthy body and a healthy mind. Great for the sex life as well.”
“Ha! After all the time and effort it takes to stay fit, who has the energy for sex?”
“That can’t be true.” The girl feels Maggie shrug beneath her touch. “Uh-huh. How does this feel? Too deep? Not deep enough?”
“Feels great. You have great hands. Muscular, yet gentle. Hit all the right spots.”
“Well, you know what they say, no one knows a woman’s body as well as another woman.”
“They say that? What? At massage school?” Maggie waits for a reply. There’s nothing except the girl’s fingertips exploring the flesh of her lower back.
“Anyway, you’ll let me know, yes? What you need.” She slips her fingers under the elastic waist of Maggie’s panties. “I’m just going to lower these a smidge. Lift.” She rolls the material almost to the thighs and digs her knuckles into the round flesh. Maggie lies still, low moans issuing from her mouth. The girl squirts more oil and rubs up and down Maggie’s legs. “Terrific legs. Great ass.” The two share a laugh at this remark.
“Thanks,” Maggie says. “It’s sweet of you to say.”
“Do you mind?” the girl says.
“What?”
“Roll over.”
Martin lies on his back. There’s a white sheet folded between his hairy bare legs and across his crotch. His boxer shorts are hooked over a kitchen chair. His arms are at his sides and a Cognac balances on his plump belly, the glass rising and falling as he breathes. The girl leans over his face, rubbing his chest with her oiled hands. Her kimono is loosely open at the top and Martin wonders at the prospect of a young breast tumbling free. As it is, he can’t help but notice two nipples poking the thin fabric, suggesting the girl is braless.
“You have a solid chest. With very tense muscles. In fact, you’re solid all over. Tough to get in deep.”
“Not so solid here.” Martin laughs and grabs the flab at his waist.
“You mean the love handles,” the girl says, smiling.
“More like a spare tire off a semi.”
“I prefer love handles.” She skates her palms lower across his belly. Her breasts graze Martin’s cheeks. Her thumb hits the glass and spills the Cognac. “Oops,” she says, slipping quickly to one side and snatching the glass in mid-fall. She passes the glass to Martin and leans in to lap up the liquid. “Waste not, want not,” she whispers. She rubs the remaining mix of saliva, Cognac and oil into his flesh. She rests her chin on his solar plexus and stares into his eyes. “Martin …” she says.
“Yes?”
“Martin …”
“I’m not sure I understand what’s happening here.”
“Martin. You’ve been leaving your hand where I can rub my thigh against it. You’ve been trying to get a good look at my tits. And you can’t tell me the idea of fucking the daughter of an ex-lover doesn’t excite you.” She twists her head to check out his crotch. “Is that an erection I see before me?” She gently drags the sheet away and allows it to drift onto the floor.
“I didn’t bring … That is, I don’t have …”
The girl produces a condom from a pocket. She waves it at Martin and tears it open with her teeth. Martin shuts his eyes and grinds his head into the pillow.
Fantastic, he thinks.
Maggie’s panties are down around her ankles. The girl has the flat of her hand pressed against one of Maggie’s breasts and is gently rolling a nipple between her thumb and forefinger. Her other hand is situated on Maggie’s pubic mound, two fingers parting the labial lips, the middle finger exciting the clitoris. When Maggie orgasms, she moans in short sharp gasps, her entire body quivers, she clenches her teeth and folds into a foetal position. The girl waits for the tremors to subside.
“I’m sorry, I suddenly have to pee. All that wine. Be right back.” The girl hurries to the bedroom door.
“Go there,” Maggie says, gasping. “The en suite.”
“I know it sounds bizarre,” the girl says. “I can never pee with someone nearby. I don’t know what it is. I just sit there, needing to go, but not able.”
She exits the room and reaches the top of the stairs at the same time her sister arrives. The one peels the mole from her breast and sticks it on the other. The two take a few seconds to enjoy a little shared dance action to the low volume sound of a Stan Getz Samba before they split in opposite directions.
“I understand where you’re coming from, I think. When I visit friends or relatives or acquaintances or whatever, if I need to have a bowel movement, I’m uncomfortable, embarrassed even. It’s difficult. I always carry matches with me, just in case. Which is funny, ‘cause the smell of sulphur has to be, like, an even worse indicator of what’s happened, right? Anyway.” Martin’s working on another Cognac and is pretty bombed, overall. He’s naked and his shrunken penis has a damp pink
glow to it. The girl kicks off her flip-flops. “You OK? We good?”
“We’re pretty good,” the girl says. “I was just wondering, professor …” She holds a fresh condom in the air. “How many times does fifty-eight go into twenty?”
“Math was never my strong suit,” Martin says, feeling a slight sticky twitch against his inner thigh.
“Good. Mine neither.” She lets her kimono fall, skips across the hardwood and straddles Martin on the massage table. He takes a foggy look at the mole above one of her breasts. He blinks and looks again. He checks the other breast. His mouth hangs open as if to speak. The girl descends and drives her tongue between his lips, effectively silencing him.
“You’re up early.”
“Check the time. You’re up late. No aerobics this morning?”
“A bit hung over for that. You made coffee.” Maggie pours a cuppa. “How about you? Not hung over?”
“Totally. On my second mug and my third Tylenol.”
“And the girls?”
“Gone at first light. Maybe before first light. Left with nary a trace.” Martin pushes an envelope in Maggie’s direction. “They did leave a note of thanks.”
“Ah, youth!” Maggie ignores the envelope, pulls the lapels of her housecoat together and tightens the belt. She watches Martin tap computer keys.
“Anything interesting?”
“I’m hitting send. There!” He goes to the coffee pot. “Something interesting. I think it’s interesting. An email from Connie Reeve.”
“The dead ex-lover.”
“Not so dead, apparently.”
“Then what?”
“Don’t know. She wrote and said: my daughters may drop in. STOP. They discovered my diaries. STOP. All hell broke loose. STOP. If they do drop by, have them call me ASAP. STOP. I’ll explain later. FULL STOP.”
“That was it?”
“That was it. FULL STOP.”
“Sounds ominous. And you replied?”
“I replied. Said they were here, dinner and drinks, conversation, spent the night, et cetera, et cetera …”