Outside the Gates of Eden

by Lewis Shiner

  “Okay,” he said, and smiled at her. She put a hand on his cheek and fixed him with her serious look, the look that drove him crazy.

  “I need you to keep doing that,” she said, “and I need to know that you won’t get tired or bored or give up on me before I’m done.”

  He understood then what she was asking. “I promise,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I won’t stop unless you tell me.”

  “Right there,” she said, and sighed, and he felt the warmth of her breath on his mouth, getting him aroused again. He kissed her and said, “Is that okay?”

  “Yes.”

  He kissed her nipples.

  “Oh yes,” she said.

  She took a long time, long enough that he would have stopped if he hadn’t promised. Then again, it excited him to watch her eyes close, and her hips slowly begin to move, and her breathing grow ragged, until finally she stopped breathing altogether, and then she gasped, and he felt her contractions in his hand, and by that time he was out of his mind and had to be inside her again.

  At the end they were holding each other with all their strength. Madelyn’s legs were wrapped around his, and as they slowly rocked themselves to stillness, he felt tears stream down her face again. He understood that the tears came from gratitude and physical release and the helpless vulnerability of being so completely naked in front of someone you loved. The knowledge that having been utterly joined to one another, they were inevitably drifting back into the broken halves of their separate bodies.

  *

  Madelyn insisted on making breakfast. She was overflowing with love and needed new ways to say it. At 2:30 in the afternoon she piled the dining room table with bacon and scrambled eggs and toast and orange juice for the two of them.

  “How did you like the band?” Cole asked her.

  She kissed the top of his head on the way to her chair. “I liked your old drummer better.”

  “This one’s a lot easier to get along with.”

  “You’re very sexy on stage, you know.”

  “Am I?” He gave her a teasing look. “You didn’t seem to think so when you saw me before.”

  “Oh, I did.”

  “You didn’t come up to me and fling yourself at me.”

  “Actually I did go looking for you, only somebody got there first.”

  “Janet,” he said, and she sensed some unfinished business. “You really looked for me? So we almost met a year ago? We could have been together all this time.”

  She reached across the table and took his hand. He was so easily hurt. How had he survived this long? “We’re happy now. That’s all that matters. There’s no point in second-guessing the past.”

  He looked at his injured finger. “It’s practically all I do. But speaking of being happy in the present, we have to get you out of your dorm.”

  “We’ve been over this. They won’t refund the money, and my father can’t afford to lose it. We can’t both live in your little bedroom.”

  “We’ll find you a room close by and I’ll pay for it.”

  “With the money from playing frat parties?”

  “One or two more and I’ll be able to pay for the rest of the semester. I want to go to sleep with you, and wake up with you in the morning.”

  She pictured herself telling her father. He loved her; he would have to understand. “All right,” she said.

  The surprise on Cole’s face made her laugh out loud. “What?” he said. “Did you just say yes?”

  “Yes,” she said. She got up and walked around the table and got in his lap and kissed him. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

  *

  Madelyn took charge of their Thanksgiving schedule. Her parents would have Cole to Thanksgiving dinner; she would eat Friday at the Montoyas’. They drove up together on the Wednesday before, Madelyn, Cole, Alex, their suitcases, and two acoustic guitars all in Alex’s little car, Alex having lost the toss. Holiday traffic stretched what should have been a three-and-a-half-hour drive into more than five hours of excruciating stop and go, which Madelyn spent imagining the ways the dinner could go wrong.

  Madelyn picked Cole up at noon the next day in the family station wagon. Cole wore a blue checked shirt, khakis, blazer, and tie. And real shoes, for a change. As soon as they got in the car, Cole was all over her and she had to gently push him away. “I am far too nervous for this right now.”

  “Why?” Cole said. “What do you think is going to happen?”

  “That’s just it. I have no idea.”

  Compared to the Montoya mansion, her parents’ house was a shoebox, the neighborhood in decline, the yard a sump of unraked leaves. But Cole had not grown up in the Montoya house, and money would not be the issue. The problem was that no one could possibly live up to her father’s expectations for her. Because she’d moved out of the dorm, her father knew that she and Cole were sleeping together. All he’d said on the phone was, “I hope you’re being careful.”

  Her father reacted warily when she introduced him to Cole. He wore the baggy brown cardigan with the leather elbow patches that her mother hated, and under it he wore one of the identical white, no-iron, short-sleeved, button-down dress shirts that he wore seven days a week. He’d married late because of the very fastidiousness that she now feared he would deploy against Cole; his age showed in the curvature of his spine and his thinning hair. Her mother, plump, aproned, a sheen of sweat on her forehead, shook hands and retreated to the kitchen.

  For his part, Cole was relaxed, deferential, dropping sirs and ma’ams with no hint of artifice. He asked twice if he could help in the kitchen and twice her father refused him, herding him instead into the living room. Cole took one end of the sofa and Madelyn sat chastely in the middle, leaving a couple of feet of clearance. Cole immediately asked about the integrated circuits that her father had helped invent at Texas Instruments, and kept him talking for the 45 minutes until dinner was served.

  As soon as her mother told them to come to the table, her father said, “Go see what’s keeping your sister, will you?”

  Julia’s room was awash with perfume, and Julia was admiring herself in the mirror. She wore a perilously low-cut ivory cashmere sweater, belted tightly at the waist, and a miniskirt the approximate size of a paper cupcake liner. Her eyelashes were as long as butterfly wings, her lips as soft and shiny as a sateen pillowcase. She might as well have been wearing a Zsa Zsa Gabor Halloween costume.

  “Julia, what in God’s name…?”

  Julia turned on her with a smile as realistic as her makeup. “I wanted to look nice for your boyfriend.”

  No way to win this, Madelyn thought. Let Daddy deal with it. “Mother wants us at the table.”

  Julia made her entrance at the same time as the turkey. Cole stood up politely and Madelyn said, “Cole, this is Julia.” Then, unable to restrain herself, she said, “As you can see, she’s adopted.”

  “Madelyn!” her mother said. “You apologize to your sister.”

  “Sorry!” Madelyn said cheerfully. Cole gave her an inquiring look that might have meant, “Has your sister always been insane?” or “What’s the matter with you?” but probably represented the typical male reaction, “Why didn’t you tell me she was good-looking and easy?”

  “I understand,” her father said, as he began to carve the bird, “that you’re in a musical group.”

  Uh oh, Madelyn thought. Now it begins.

  “At the moment,” Cole said, “it’s strictly a commercial proposition. We play top-forty hits, rock, and soul music.”

  “I love soul music,” Julia said huskily.

  “However,” Cole said, “I’m about to make a change. The atmosphere at those fraternity parties is pretty… hedonistic. I don’t care for it. I’m looking for something where I can express myself more. Something more in the folk and blues sort of vein.”

  Cole had talked about the possibility of a new band; now he sounded like it was a fait accompli. She didn’t know whether to believe him or not.

  �
�Which would inherently be less commercial,” her father said.

  “In the short term, yes, sir. In the long term it would be more conducive to original material, a record contract, national exposure.”

  “Is that where you see yourself in ten years? Touring nationally?”

  Madelyn knew her father couldn’t help himself. Still she wished he sounded less like a cross-examination.

  “It’s hard to say, sir. It’s a fickle business. That’s why I’m in college, so I’ll have a Plan B.”

  Her father nodded and Madelyn saw that Cole had scored points: vocabulary, common sense, respectful demeanor. She wondered how much was conscious and how much was Cole’s need to make people like him. And she wondered if it was enough to overcome his deficits: long hair, musician, screwing his daughter.

  In turn they passed their plates to the head of the table for her father to serve them. Julia, sitting across from Cole, leaned forward unnecessarily to hand off her plate, causing her décolletage to swell like two pale pink water balloons. “Breast, please,” she said.

  Madelyn saw Cole struggle to keep from choking. “Julia!” Madelyn said.

  Julia’s innocence lacked all credibility. “What?”

  “It’s Thanksgiving,” her mother said. “Can’t you two be nice?”

  A year ago, her parents would not have allowed Julia at the table dressed for a Playboy cover shoot, would not have tolerated risqué remarks, would have taken Madelyn’s side against Julia’s outrages. Were they punishing her for leaving home? For sleeping with Cole?

  Cole must have seen how abandoned she felt. He covered her hand where it lay on the table and gave it a comforting squeeze. Madelyn looked up as her father saw the gesture, and his reaction was instantaneous and heartbreaking. She read their entire history in his face: him teaching her how to hold a violin at age 7, explaining Van Gogh to her at 12, standing outside Marat/Sade with her only the summer before last, all those moments now slipping through his fingers and into the hands of another man.

  “What’s everybody so glum about all of a sudden?” Julia said. “Are we going to open the wine or not?”

  *

  After dinner, Cole disappeared into the den with her father. Madelyn and her mother did the dishes and Julia camped out in the living room with the tv, perhaps hoping to ambush Cole when he emerged.

  “He seems like a very nice young man,” was all her mother offered. “Well spoken, nice manners. Tell me what your new dorm is like.”

  When Cole and her father finally came out, Madelyn saw no signs of violence. They all sat around the living room and fought off the soporific effects of the big meal for another hour or so, Julia unsuccessfully, and then Madelyn drove Cole home.

  “What did you two talk about in there?” Madelyn asked.

  “He wanted to know how many times a week we were having sex, whether we were doing anything kinky, and whether you were having orgasms.”

  “I hope you told him yes.”

  “Yes.” He knelt on the bench seat and pushed the hair away from her ear and began kissing her neck.

  “Cole, stop it, not while I’m driving.”

  “Can you pull over?”

  “No. Now about my father. Seriously.”

  “He started with some Haydn and Schubert quartets. Maybe he thought if I heard some of that stuff on a great stereo I would give up the evils of rock and roll. Then after that he played some Josh White and Odetta and The Weavers, and it was pretty cool, actually. And that really is an amazing stereo. Do you have any idea how hard it was to sit next to you all afternoon and not jump on you?”

  “Was it me that got you so worked up, or was it my sister?”

  “Wow, she’s a case, isn’t she? I’d hate to be her boyfriend.”

  Sincere or not, she was grateful for the words. Her shoulders eased a couple of inches downward. “You’re one of the few males in Dallas who feels that way.”

  “She’s your exact opposite. Lancaster on the outside, York inside.” They had turned onto the Montoyas’ street. “Speaking of which, park in front of the house next door. I want to show you something.”

  Cole led her across the neighbors’ lawn, down the Montoyas’ driveway, and into a cabana next to the pool. He was in secret agent mode, flattening himself along all vertical surfaces, and her pulse picked up despite her better judgment. The cabana held pool cleaning equipment, lounge chairs, plastic bags of chemicals. Louvered doors let in stripes of daylight and the air smelled faintly of chlorine. Cole began to kiss her heatedly.

  “Cole… what if somebody sees us?”

  “It’s November. Nobody even looks at the back yard in November.”

  He had her bra unfastened and was massaging her breasts. The sensation was not unpleasant, but she was entirely too self-conscious and her family was too much on her mind for her to feel sexy. The same clearly could not be said for Cole, who now had her stretched out on one of the lounge chairs, panties off, and was dutifully attempting to get her aroused.

  He had been wonderful with her parents and deserved a reward. “Sweetheart,” she whispered, “it’s not going to happen for me right now. You go ahead.”

  *

  Alex had been thinking of breaking it off with Denise after Thanksgiving, but Cole had been sneaking around putting it to Madelyn every chance he got all weekend long, and by the time they got to Austin on Sunday afternoon, Alex was in the mood for some easy action. Denise was up for it too. She now shared a room with Madelyn at the new co-op dorm, so it was no longer strictly necessary to get her home by ten, but she had Russian homework and was cool with an early night. When Alex got back from dropping her off, he saw the light was still on under Cole’s door.

  He knocked and stuck his head in. Cole had the new Albert King record on the stereo and was following along on guitar.

  “Madelyn’s not here?” Alex said.

  “Doing laundry in the basement.”

  Alex turned the stereo down a decibel or two and straddled the desk chair. “Denise said that Madelyn said that you said that you’re quitting the band.”

  “Thinking pretty hard about it. You?”

  “I’m ready. I’d say it’s no fun anymore, only it never was.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to come as a big surprise to Ron. Let’s talk to him tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  “You been thinking about what’s next?”

  “Yeah,” Alex said. “I have.”

  Cole pointed to the stereo. “Steve Cropper, Duck Dunn, they’re white guys, and they’re playing some serious-ass blues on this record. We could do that. Not fraternity-ready black pop songs, the real thing.”

  “You want to be in a blues band?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “I’m remembering all the shit you gave Gary when he wanted to do ‘My Girl Sloopy’ or the Joe Turner version of ‘Corrina.’”

  You could see that Cole was still pissed at Gary. He was about to come out with a lot of defensive bullshit, and then his better nature took hold. “Well, shit. Even assholes can be right some of the time. Seeing Muddy at the Fillmore, that really changed things for me. And hearing what Hendrix and Cream and those guys did with it. I almost wish Gary was here. He’d be perfect for the new band.”

  “Cole, we have to talk about that. I’m thinking I may take some time off.”

  Alex had hoped he could casually drop the news into some conversation or other and not make a big deal about it. Apparently not.

  “You mean… quit playing bass?”

  “Yeah, for a while, anyway. I’m a little burned out.” He saw Cole’s brain working, reading between the lines. “Look, man,” Alex said, “I just don’t need it the way you do. To be a star.”

  “That’s not it,” Cole said. “That’s not it at all. I don’t care about being famous and I sure as hell don’t care about the money. All I want is to be able to do this all day.” He held the guitar up off his stomach like Alex had any question about wha
t “this” was. “If I’m not playing music, I want to be listening to it. If I’m not listening to it, I want to be talking about it, or reading about it, or daydreaming about it. I don’t want to have to study or have a day job or tend bar or grow vegetables or do anything except play music until I die.”

  Alex turned his palms up. “I don’t feel it like that. And the music’s changing. When we started out it was Paul Revere and the Spoonful, ‘Daytripper’ and ‘Satisfaction.’ Now it’s weird stuff like the Doors and the Airplane, or virtuoso shit like Hendrix and Cream. Even Motown has wah-wahs now. It’s not about parties and girls anymore, it’s serious. I love to listen to it and dance to it, but playing it? I don’t want to have to work that hard. I don’t want to be onstage at the Fillmore, I want to be in the audience, tripping.”

  Cole looked devastated. “I just thought… you and me…”

  “What?”

  Cole shook his head. “What about El Mariachi Montoya?”

  “I will always be up for El Mariachi Montoya. Especially when there’s pussy involved.”

  Madelyn picked that moment to walk in with a plastic laundry basket full of neatly folded clothes. If she’d overheard him, she had too much class to show it.

  “Cole, can you run me home with these… oh, hey, Alex. Am I interrupting?”

  “No, it’s cool,” Alex said, getting up. “We’re done.”

  *

  Cole was relieved at how easily it went. Ron already had a list of substitute players—“including keyboard players” he made sure to point out—and he promised to start auditions right away. Nolan had a friend in the Longhorn Band who’d once offered them the band room for practices. Cole promised that he and Alex would fulfill their commitments until their replacements could take over. All very civilized.

  Within the week Ron had a new bass player and called for a series of crash rehearsals in the Castle basement to work him in. The new guy was six-two, with a big belly and a short beard. He played bass like Nolan played drums, without danger of attracting attention to himself, and he could do high harmony vocals. With his arrival, Cole lost any last pleasure he might have taken in the band. The new configuration played the next two weekends and then, just before Christmas break, Ron phoned to say they’d found a guitarist and they would be by at Cole’s convenience to pick up the gear.