The Complete Matt Jacob Series

by Klein, Zachary;

  We stayed coupled for tense, fiery moments: she drinking my erection, my eyes feasting on her stunning body. Maybe it was hours. I circled her back with my arms, pressing my hands on her buttocks. I closed my eyes, afraid I’d come if I kept them open.

  Leaning my face into her breast, I inhaled its softness. I recaptured her breast in my mouth and, at every taste, felt her vagina ripple. I squeezed the lower part of her ass, forcing her cunt tighter; she gasped, little sobs quickly following. I pushed my face heavily into her breasts, savoring them against my closed eyelids, my nose, my open mouth. She thrust wildly on my lap, both of us pushing toward orgasm. When she started to cry I groaned, exploded, then felt myself showered by my sperm and her wet.

  As I began to soften I could feel the walls of her vagina shudder. She put her arms around my head and buried her face, crying, in my chest. I lowered my head to kiss her neck.

  But something inside me shook when I heard her call for Peter. My trembling passed as my own tears for Chana loosened and fell.

  Mel wound up back on the couch, smaller, somehow, in her nakedness. “You feel disappointed with me, don’t you?” Her eyes a mask.

  The only thing I felt was stuck to the blue plastic. I half slid, half pulled myself upright and began to gather my clothes. By the time I finished putting on my underwear and pants, Melanie was in her skirt and blouse, sitting on the couch, staring at her curled toes. She had left her emerald outfit on the floor. I felt our leftover heat on the recliner when I sat back down. But our interlocking, my sense of bonding, was splintering. Something inside tried to hang on; it wasn’t often I felt whole, felt met.

  “Aren’t you going to say something?” Melanie demanded tightly.

  I felt the space between us widen. “I’m not sure I have anything to say.” I couldn’t understand how she could be angry with me now. It left me uncertain of what was to follow.

  “You heard me call for Peter, didn’t you?” This time she spoke in a harsh whisper. “Yes, but…”

  “You’re disgusted with me.” Louder now, louder and flat; it wasn’t a question.

  “Of course not.” A last hope of clinging to our mosaic urged me to continue. “We touch each other in ways that unlocks our past. When you called for Peter, I cried for Chana.” I choked back the naked ache that suddenly reappeared in my throat.

  Melanie pressed herself deeper into the couch. “You were married to Chana.”

  I searched her eyes for a place to meet while she sat very still, the only movement the curling and uncurling of her toes. With a heavy heart I finally realized I was back inside myself. “I don’t see the difference.”

  “For you it was pain that was unlocked, for me it wasn’t so pure.”

  I successfully fought the desire to block my face with my hands, but had no control over the tension in my chest and belly. Mel hesitated, and I grabbed for the cigarettes on the table. Let there be one familiar reminder of after-sex.

  She motioned and I tossed her the pack. She lit a cigarette and said softly, “I need to talk.” I rued her need, but nodded.

  A couple of long inhales later she said, “I once saw this film where a bunch of scientists fooled a baby goose into thinking a garbage can was its mother. The goose grew up with that can as its love object. When I grew up, my love object was Peter. Most of my life I’ve had fantasies about him.”

  Melanie’s jaw moved, as if to better loosen her words. “No one had to fool or manipulate me. I had no choice. My mother was too busy with her damn men.”

  She spat the last words, but her eyes had dulled; her voice immediately softened. “I can’t remember before Peter. He was all that was mine. He cared about me, took care of me my whole childhood. He was the only hope that life didn’t have to be as ugly as everyone made it.” She frowned, expecting an argument.

  There was no fight in me. Just the desire to flee.

  Melanie turned her head sideways. “I’ve always associated my sexuality with Peter. It never occurred to me that it was wrong. I loved him.”

  “Melanie,” I protested, “you don’t have to tell me any of this.” She turned back to me, and stared.

  “This is a hell of a first date,” I said weakly.

  A smile eased her mouth and we both laughed away some of the rawness. She stubbed her cigarette into the ashtray then lit another. “I’m used to Gaulois,” she said, almost matter-of-factly. “I started with these when I moved out.”

  She made it sound like yesterday. Despite the cardboard cartons I’d imagined her having left Jonathan some time ago.

  Mel continued to explain with words less terse, eyes less guarded. “Jonathan taught me to reach, but it was Peter who taught me to survive. When I was little I could hardly speak. Peter was very popular, and I got attention because of him. Eventually, I improved. When you knew me I was still very shy, but not completely withdrawn.”

  Melanie paused. “We had our talk, didn’t we?” The tension was back in her tone.

  I thought she meant we’d finished, but she was referring to something in the past. Her eyes were cold, but a small smile brushed her lips. “I didn’t think you remembered. I had an intense crush on you. I knew nothing would come of it, but I forced myself to talk with you about it.” She grinned without humor. “It was extremely difficult for me.”

  “Melanie, I’m sorry.” I wasn’t sure whether I was apologizing for her crush, my not remembering, or even tonight, but I desperately meant it.

  She looked over my shoulder but spoke evenly. “There’s no apology due. You were very kind. You took me seriously, talked about your relationship with Megan, your difficulty mixing work with personal relationships.” She smiled tightly. “When we finished the conversation, you kissed me. It was comforting to feel your concern and passion.”

  I remembered the couple of times attractions had developed between me and community people in The End. But the conversation and kiss with Melanie were a blank. “Melanie…”

  “There’s no need to explain, Matt,” she said sharply. “It’s reasuring to know that tonight wasn’t just the conclusion of some unfinished business.”

  She couldn’t know I was sick of that phrase. It reminded me of Boots at Charley’s, it reminded me of Megan now. But the thought of Megan helped me recognize my need to withdraw. I felt around on the floor for the bourbon, held the bottle to my lips and drank.

  Melanie reached, took the bottle, and followed suit. We exchanged small smiles and I said, “Tonight has nothing to do with history. It has its own set of complications.”

  She eyed me carefully. “You said that earlier.” “You have a good memory.”

  “I remember everything.” Her voice was quiet fire.

  I felt a chill meld with a rush of desire, and, instead, reached for the Camels. “Are you in a relationship?” she asked bluntly.

  A momentary picture of Boots and Hal lounging on some sun drenched island filled my head. “There’s someone I spend time with, but neither of us wants to be locked in.” The phrase “locked in” recalled my earlier emotions about Chana. Suddenly I felt overwhelmed by all my relationships, overwhelmed and unprotected. I needed distance.

  “Tell me the truth, Matt.” Her eyes searched my face. “If you are disgusted by me, say it.” “No, Melanie, not at all.”

  The next was a choice between truth or distance—the outcome unfortunate but guaranteed.

  I thought for a moment, then chose my lie. “The complications are similar to the old days. This case has loose ends. So right now it feels like the work and personal thing mixing again,” I added glumly, embarrassed by the untruth.

  “I thought you had no case. That you had quit.” Her voice steady, though strained.

  “I just want to satisfy my curiosity,” I waffled. “Sometimes it’s why I do this work.”

  “The Work,” she intoned sarcastically. “‘The more things change the more they stay the same.’” She finished being nasty with a small, mean smile.

  Having quoted t
he same phrase to Blackhead, I tried to tease us onto more comfortable ground. “How can you say that after what happened tonight? We did more than kiss.”

  I reached down for my shirt, slipped it on, and spent time on the buttons. I didn’t want to meet her eyes. She walked over, leaned down, and kissed me. The blue of her irises looked like freshly polished glass. I rose to my feet.

  “Will I have to wait another twenty years?” Her tacit understanding of my desire for distance reawakened my attraction. I held her face between my hands and met her lips.

  Echoes of Chana, Megan, and Boots began to surface. I pulled away.

  Melanie stared directly into my eyes. “You weren’t simple back then, and you aren’t now.”

  A part of me felt “pardoned.” Another part of me felt a pang of regret as she moved toward the door. I quietly finished dressing, looked around for forgettables, and reluctantly trailed after her. At the door I straightened my clothes and waited.

  Mel stood on her toes and we kissed again. “I won’t spend much time on those loose ends,” I said, unhappy with my lie. “We’ll see,” she answered, then kissed me goodbye.

  Alone in bed, neither Valium nor a joint the size of a torpedo kept my anxiety, shame, and raggedness at bay. Melanie had triggered memories from every period of my life. There wasn’t an emotional nerve ending that didn’t feel undressed. After a while my safety valve blew and I simply went numb.

  I ate another pill, slow-motioned into the living room, and sucked on bourbon. By the time I made it to the couch, I was dizzy, but didn’t know whether to blame it on the pills, the liquor, or an anxiety attack.

  I stayed on the couch and forced myself to watch television. Bouts of panic occasionally cracked my drunken, stoned stupor, but I trampled them until the numbness returned. A movie and a half later I prayed that sleep would win the race with sobriety. When the movie ended with my eyes still open, I fixed the result.

  Friday started as familiarly as a well-worn suit—hangover, drug-over, body aches, and depression. Not pretty, but right then an ally to help quell leftover shimmerings of vulnerability.

  I peered at the clock. It was too late for breakfast, too early for supper, and I rarely ate lunch. Home sweet home. I rubbed the sleep from my face. The bitterness was familiar too.

  I crawled off the couch, found my stash, and rolled a j. Familiar or not, the bitterness was hard to figure. The guilt I understood. I should feel compassionate toward Lou. Perhaps I should have waited to work through my differences with Boots before making love with Melanie. The guilt I understood.

  But bitterness, hostility? I no longer thought of Boots without Hal, or Lou without loss of breath. My attitude felt crass and ugly. The kind of ugly I’d felt when I lived with Megan.

  I finished the dope and spent the rest of the day moving from couch to bed and back. From sinkhole to sinkhole, picking up around the house in between. Whatever my mood, Lou was due tomorrow.

  Late that night, in drunken practice for the next day’s delivery, I answered the telephone and caught a reprieve. Lou wasn’t coming until Tuesday. Despite another round of shame at my relief, the upcoming pocket of isolation enticed me like a sauna in a house with busted radiators. I yanked the phone and turned the lights low or off. I didn’t need full power; it had been a long time since I’d read anything other than a magazine or newspaper. I used to gulp mystery novels. Now when I read them the enjoyment was replaced by competitiveness and envy. Lew Archer never worked a mall.

  During the next few days I had little life for anything other than television and drugs— seasoned with stampeding guilt, discomfort, and numbness. After a while, though, my depression wore thin, and I began to get angry. But that didn’t help much either.

  Despite my attempts to slow its arrival, Tuesday managed to arrive. Before I left my apartment, I silently thanked Gloria; I owed the ability to function at all to my many years in therapy. However, along with my ability to function came a two-hour wait at the airport.

  “Boychick.” Lou’s voice boomed across the terminal, shaking me from a glazed patience. I had no trouble locating the source. Always large and overweight, he had really blimped up since the funeral.

  “Looks like you enjoy your own cooking?”

  He stared at me with hangdog eyes. “Nice to see you too. I tried calling a few times in the last couple of days. Depressed again?”

  “Okay Boss, truce. You have any luggage?” “No. I travel light.”

  I tried to take the oversized overnight bag from his hand and wound up in a tug of war. I knew immediately my worst fears about the visit would be true. Still, as he pulled the bag, I felt another kind of familiar sneak up inside. A warm one. “Let me take that.”

  He shook his head. “Boychick, the day I let you carry my bag, my fat body will be in it.” I dropped the handle. “You’re calling me depressed?”

  He ignored me and lurched toward the exit. “What are you waiting for?” he called over his shoulder.

  I caught up and managed to open the door for him without inciting a riot. I led us to the parking spot where I saw the violation on my windshield. Once I’d gone into terminal wait, I had completely forgotten to stuff the meter. As I grabbed the ticket off the window, Lou said, “Don’t tear it up, Matty. If you can’t get it fixed, pay it. Otherwise it’ll just cost more.”

  I nodded and stuck it in my pocket. I’d add it to the rest of my collection. “What about Simon?” Lou asked. “Can’t he take care of it?”

  “I wouldn’t bother him for something like this,” I replied, neglecting to add that I hadn’t bothered him for anything in over a year. Lou had already guessed something was wrong, though; at least that’s how I understood his look and grunt. But knowing something and knowing what isn’t the same.

  “Do you want to stop somewhere to eat?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Ate on the plane. I told them beforehand I wanted a seafood plate.” “You mean kosher, right?”

  “What’s the matter with you? Kosher can taste just as bad as their regular chazerai. If you ask for a seafood plate they give you a meal from first class. It’s a little trick I picked up.”

  The idea amused me. Now, if I could just fly somewhere. Anywhere.

  We drove into the tunnel on reasonably good terms. I enjoyed his cheating the airlines; he seemed pleased by my approval. We were out of the tunnel and on the Expressway when I glanced in his direction. “So, nu, how are you doing?”

  “%u nothing,” he growled. “Watch the traffic, will you?” Lou looked at me wisely out of the corner of his eye. “You think I’ll tell you something different if you sound like a Jew?”

  My attention turned to driving as my back stiffened against the car seat. The visit was going to become the flip side of yesterday’s isolation. Detoxed from bourbon, hooked on Manischewitz in one round-trip to the airport.

  After a couple more minutes of silence Lou shifted in his seat and asked, “And everyone here?”

  “I haven’t spent much time with anyone recently. But last I looked everyone was okay.” “What about the girl?”

  “Girl?” I could feel a band around my head tighten. “Shoes. Are you still seeing her?”

  I couldn’t tell if he was teasing me. “Boots, not Shoes. Yeah, once in a while. She’s away so she can’t come to the Thanksgiving dinner.”

  The dinner perked him up. “So who is coming?”

  “I’m not sure. Mrs. Sullivan. Probably Charles and Richard. I haven’t checked.” “Why not?” He sounded indignant.

  My lips stretched against my teeth. “Mrs. S was taking care of it. I haven’t seen anyone,” I muttered.

  “Or answering the telephone.”

  I grunted and concentrated on the road. Finally we entered my home turf. I slowed the car and watched the passersby. It was a cold, clear day, and the sidewalks were checkered with black and white. The usual assortment of music students toted their misshapen cases, and a few same-sex couples held hands. At least some p
eople weren’t allergic to romance.

  I caught Lou holding his breath. His daughter used to have the same habit. “What are you pissed about?” I asked. “We’ll have people over for the holiday.”

  He shook his head angrily. “It’s not the damn dinner. I can’t understand your attitude. It’s not just toward the buildings, it’s toward me, and it seems, toward everyone else. ‘I see her once in a while.’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I nearly rammed the ass of a silver Taurus. “Maybe it means once in a while.”

  “I wish you were as simple as your words.” His voice was harsh. “I can’t ask you to do a single thing. You won’t even lift a finger to get a lousy dinner organized.”

  “I told Mrs. S!”

  “Listen to yourself. ‘I told Mrs. S.’ No one matters to you, Boychick.” I pulled the car into the alley and parked behind my apartment.

  “You won’t even drive in front of the buildings so I can look.”

  “Jesus, Lou, you’re paranoid. I planned to walk you through the damn place. You want to see it from the car, then we’ll see it from the car!”

  I shoved the stick into second, popped the clutch, and peeled out on the alley’s gravel, back wheels spewing stones in all directions. I whipped around the corner without bothering to pause, tore up the block to the front of the six-flats, then jerked to a stop.

  Lou sat next to me breathing heavily. “Enough already,” he said. “Fighting like this will get us killed. You were right; better to walk through the buildings.”

  I spun the car, wheeled back into the alley, and parked with a skid. Although the machine had done the work, I was exhausted. I turned my head and looked at Lou. He wore a small smile, but his eyes were grim. “I don’t know what you were trying to prove; I already know you are crazy.”

  “You don’t seem to think about much else.” I was still irritated. “Why don’t we talk inside?” he suggested mildly.