by Ann Bauer
“Yes,” I said. “But I need to tell you something first.” I held her chin and tipped her face up toward mine. “I did not have sex of any kind with Jem. I could never move from one woman to another like that. You are the first in …” She put her fingers to my lips and gently pressed them closed.
“Let’s go to bed,” she said.
But it was I who led her back through the darkness and laid her gently on the vast, king-size expanse. It was like an altar where she began untying and unlocking the mysteries of her dress. Moonlight spilled through the window, and I backed away from the bed, breathless with awe. Then Madeline watched from the glow as I removed my own clothes, dropping them to the floor piece by piece. I walked toward her, and she stretched one hand toward my pounding heart.
“Oh, Gabe,” she said, tracing the tattoo on my chest with her fingers. I could feel her make the sign of the cross then touch three times, anointing each drop of blood.
“Should I go?” I asked, confused suddenly by the intersection of Madeline and Aidan, worried that the past would rise up and swallow this moment, as it had so much of my intervening life.
But Madeline shook her head and drew her to me murmuring, “No, no, no, come.” When our bodies met, the mark of my guilt touched her soft skin, and I sank into her, wild with desire and relief.
From: Jill Everson
To: [email protected]
Subject: RE: I’m going to get fired!!!!!!
Hi honey—
Your father and I went out late with the Larsens last night. So I was still up brushing my teeth when your message pinged in on my phone. I read it. Your dad read it. Then we stayed up most of the night talking. So on very little sleep, here’s what I have to say.
Kitten, I think I’ve done a disservice to you all these years, letting you destroy or walk away from anything that bored or irritated or just plain didn’t suit you. Remember that field trip to the Como Park Conservatory when you were 12? You asked to go to the restroom and called me from the cell phone you weren’t supposed to have (that we allowed you to have, I know; but that was for emergencies). You begged me to pick you up and said you didn’t feel well, but the minute you got in the car you were laughing and telling me about how “lame” the whole thing was and hinting that you were hungry. Next thing I knew I was taking you to Pazzaluna for lunch, and we were ordering those silly pink drinks and personal pizzas … I knew that was the wrong thing to do, but I did it anyway, because you were such fun.
Oh, you were. So bright and cute and sure of yourself. I didn’t want to break your spirit. But also, it was selfish. Your dad and I agreed to have only one child, and I always felt like I’d won the lottery. I got this great kid who never even went through an awkward period, and I just wanted to enjoy every minute. As you got older, that meant doing the things you liked to do. I never told you this, but your dad and I fought over those all-day shopping trips you and I took to the Mall of America, He’d ask me: “Why are we buying $200 shoes for a 15-year-old?” And I’d make excuses and insist that good leather shoes would last for 10 years. Eventually, I’d just shut him up with sex because—let’s face it—that never fails to stop a conversation with a man. And somehow, even though we never discussed it, I think I taught you to use sex that way, too.
Since you’ve been living on your own, your dad and I have had a lot of time alone together. I’ll admit, I didn’t like it much at first. When you went away to college I felt like my life was over. But the last few years have been eye-opening, and one of the things we’ve discovered is that we’re more than just your parents. There, I said it. (You have no idea what a huge step I’ve made! My therapist and I have been working on that single sentence for a long time.) And we’ve entered a whole new phase of our life. Your dad is working a little less. We eat when we’re hungry. We started taking couples yoga. And we’re planning to travel more! Next month, for instance, we’re going to Hawaii. And in the fall: Reykjavik! It’s the new destination city. All our friends have been.
Joy, I love you, but it’s time for you to live your own life. (My therapist and I have been working on that one even longer …) You’ll have to figure out your credit cards and rent situation. But really, honey? $3,200 a month??? Our mortgage is two-thirds of that, and we have five bedrooms.
As for your problems at work, that’s what has your father most upset. He thinks you may be guilty of libel or in violation of some contract you signed at the agency. It was almost 4 a.m. by the time we talked about this, and I’m a little fuzzy on the details. But anyway, here’s what we’re offering: If you get sued, your father will represent you free of charge. We want you to learn to stand on your own two feet, but not from federal prison. Sometimes, honey, you jump into things without thinking them through.
Now the final thing I have to say is woman to woman. It has nothing to do with your father, or even my therapist. I don’t know what your problem is with this woman Madeline, but from what I read she didn’t do anything wrong. She was kissing an ex-priest, right? Neither of them is married (which, I’m sorry to be blunt, is more than we can say for your recent relationship). And you were angry because … why?
Well, I have an idea. You have never liked it when another girl was getting noticed. I was always a little anxious when I sent you out the door to prom or Spring Fling, because I knew chances were good you’d come home slamming doors and crying. We never talked specifically about the reason, and I’d tell myself it was because those nights were so emotionally weighted, which was unfair to teenagers. But I knew the real reason. And I wish I’d said it then: “Get over yourself, Joy. You can’t always be the center of attention.” Maybe if I had, you wouldn’t be in this situation today. Forgive me, kitten. I wasn’t tough enough for so many years. But I promise to make it up to you now.
I am giving you the gift of my total support and my faith that you will figure this whole thing out. Remember that your dad is available to help you with any legal problems that arise (as long as you can avoid May 5–21, because we’ll be in Maui!). Now it’s not even noon, and I’m so tired I think I’m going to take a Klonopin and try to get a nap in. Call tonight if you want to talk.
Love,
Mom
XIII
FOR THAT MOMENT BEFORE WAKING, I THOUGHT I WAS BACK IN MY mother’s house in Boston. The phone was ringing and I could see it—a beige pushbutton that fit together like a clam trailing a thick, coiled cord—but I could not reach it. It rang again, a shrill sound, and I woke abruptly in Madeline’s bedroom. Through the window came the muddy, glowing lights of dawn.
I raised myself. She was gone, the side of the bed where she’d been as blank-looking as if I’d imagined last night. But then Madeline darted into the room, wearing a short red robe. She looked as if she’d been awake for some time: Her hair was gathered loosely on top of her head; her cheeks were scrubbed clean and flushed. She was carrying a huge cup.
With a quick nod to acknowledge me watching from my spot, she snatched her phone up from the bedside table, pressed something and said—in the voice of midafternoon—“Hello, this is Madeline Murray.” I lay back down and stole a glance at my own naked body before pulling the covers to my chest.
“Yes,” she said, lowering to sit on the edge, her back to me. “Go ahead.” I debated touching her gently. Was this right? What was customary after a night like ours? Were there special rules for when a woman was on the phone?
“I’m going to need a couple hours.” She was the terse CEO Madeline. I drew my hand back. “Give me ’til noon, and I’ll get back to you with my response.”
She set the phone down and turned to place her back against the massive mahogany headboard. Everything in Madeline’s apartment was oversized, as if built for Vikings, and this gave her the appearance of being even smaller than she was.
“Can you make my phone sound like that?” I regretted the question the minute it was out. What a stupidly unsexy thing to say.
“Like what?” she took a drink f
rom her enormous cup, and the smell of coffee wafted over.
“That old-fashioned ring.” I moved closer, and Madeline handed me her coffee, motioning that I should drink from it. I had put my mouth on every inch of her body last night. Yet, raising her cup to my lips felt like the most intimate thing I had ever done. “Isaac set my phone so it sounds like a cricket. Or a bird. I’m not sure …”
“Gabe?” Madeline was staring out the window, into the glowing dawn. “That was a reporter from the Chronicle. Someone leaked the story about our business. Probably Joy. I should have …” She stopped and rubbed her face, which looked younger and far more beautiful without makeup. I made a mental note to tell her that someday.
“They’re going to publish something on it tomorrow, and at this point, there’s nothing we can do. But he asked if I knew about your, ah, past.” She shifted and her robe fell open a crucial inch, the breasts I’d touched and licked just hours before nearly visible. My penis stiffened, and I was seized with two urges, simultaneously. To remove Madeline’s robe and splay her against the colossal headboard, pressing my cheek against hers as I re-entered the temple of her body. Also, to urinate. Before anything else happened, there was no question, I had to pee.
“Madeline, I’m sorry, do you mind if I …?” Like a bashful third grader, I gestured toward the open bathroom door.
She nodded. “Go ahead.”
I rose from the bed aware that Madeline would see my nakedness, including my large and perpendicular erection. This seemed both unclerical and just plain awkward given our professional relationship. But there was no other option, so I moved like someone walking a diving board: apprehensive but determined. Once inside the bathroom I stood, one palm flat against the wall, and winced as the river inside me tried to push its way down a swollen path. The pain actually helped, causing me to wilt. A trickle began, and I aimed at the water. Finally, I sighed and let loose.
After this was done, I washed my hands slowly and rooted through Madeline’s cabinetry until I came up with a small bottle of mouthwash. I took a swig that stung the insides of my cheeks, so I checked the label to be sure I hadn’t accidentally used perfume or glass cleaner. But it clearly said “mouth rinse” and “prevents gum disease.” I spit and made a cup of my hands to catch cold water then drank from them. When I straightened, my scruffy face appeared in the mirror, droplets trailing from the corners of my mouth like blood.
I turned so my back faced the mirror and craned my neck to see what the view looked like to Madeline as I left her in bed. Not bad. I hadn’t begun to sag, the way my father had at my age. Saturdays, when we’d played basketball at the Y, I’d watch with enchanted horror as he stripped in the locker room and leaned to pick up his shorts, his testicles in their wrinkled purple sacs hanging halfway to his knees. They’d been stretched, perhaps by years of use: the production of five pregnancies—resulting in two miscarriages and the births of me and my two brothers—as well as twenty-five years of hunching under other people’s sinks in his ill-fitting plumber’s pants.
Three years out of seminary I’d officiated at my father’s funeral, which had appeared to comfort my mother as profoundly as if Jesus Christ had descended to deliver the eulogy himself. The casket had been open. At fifty-nine, my father had had the grizzle and jowls of an eighty-year-old man. Yet, when we’d stood side by side looking down, my mother had smoothed his waxy cheek and remarked what a handsome man he still was.
“You look just like him, Gabriel,” she’d said. “It’s wasted on you, I suppose. But you’re the one of you boys who takes most after his side.”
I turned now to face the mirror and saw what she meant. My father’s gray eyes, the color of ocean surf in a storm, assessed me unblinkingly. I had his broad chest matted with silver and black, and underneath it the belly that rounded like it held a small animal. His had been raccoon-sized, whereas mine looked like it contained only a possum. I turned to the left and sucked it in. A chipmunk, if I tried.
When I went back to the bedroom Madeline was exactly where I’d left her, but there was a second cup of coffee steaming on my side of the bed.
“Thanks,” I said, picking it up to take a sip, brazenly naked for a few seconds before slipping back beneath the sheets.
“Gabe?” Madeline asked, as if uncertain who I was. “That reporter who called? He said something about you …” She laughed and shook her head. “Were you stoned last night? I know that’s a crazy question, but I thought I smelled …”
She looked at me with wide, disbelieving eyes, and I thought that maybe I loved her. Right in that moment. “Pot,” I said. “Yes. Scott and I smoked a joint in his truck.”
“Wow. Okay. Well, I’m not complaining. The effect was, uh, magnificent. I guess.” She laughed, and I blushed, which made her laugh even harder. Coffee sloshed crazily in her cup, and I saw the wisdom in her velvety black sheets.
“I didn’t plan to do it,” I said when she’d quieted. “I hadn’t in a very long time. But then Scott asked and I thought … Well, I don’t know what I thought.”
“Gabe?” She was abruptly serious now. “This may sound insane. But were you ever arrested for selling drugs?”
I sighed deeply, letting out a breath I’d been holding for two decades. “Yes,” I said and sat very still, frightened but also exhilarated. There was a gentle rush in my head and my veins. But everything felt orderly and right, even preordained. It was as if I’d been waiting all those years for this moment—and for Madeline—to speak the truth.
We had only a few minutes, so I couldn’t tell her everything. But I described my life back then, when I was arrogant and reckless, as honestly as I could. Madeline only listened. And when I was done, she put her hand on mine and told me, gently, that we needed to hurry. She showered and dressed while I finished my coffee, then left discreetly so I could scratch and put on yesterday’s clothes and use the bathroom alone.
Heading out of her room, I heard voices and assumed she had turned on a television. It would have been believable that Madeline checked the stock reports first thing. It wasn’t until I rounded the doorway into the kitchen that I saw Isaac. He was wearing what looked like a wrestling singlet and black shorts that clung to his groin like Saran Wrap, drinking from a bottle of something iridescent blue.
“Father,” he said very slowly. I stopped, my heart racing like a teenager who’s been caught. I had completely forgotten he was staying with Madeline, if I ever really knew.
“More coffee, Gabe?” Madeline asked, holding up the half-full carafe. The woman was good, not a crack in her cool.
“Uh, sure. But I left my cup back in the …” I glanced in the direction of the bedroom and felt my entire face, including my ears, flush hot and red.
Isaac guffawed. “Christ. You two are soooo Dawson’s Creek. I feel like we’ve all been waiting for you to stop tiptoeing around and just do the fucking deed. What do you say? Now that you’ve made your holy two-headed beast, can we just get on with business?”
I glanced at Madeline, who looked like she was about to cry. Or laugh. This seemed like a test. Rolling my shoulders the way I used to before a big score that might be a narc’s trap, I straightened and faced Isaac.
“What we do behind closed doors is no one’s business,” I told him. “Not Joy’s. And not yours.”
We squared off against each other for a few seconds. “Yeah, well.” Isaac put down his blue bottle and held out his hand. I took it and he clenched mine, knuckles up, the way street kids do. “No offense intended, Father. You know I’m on your side. Hell, maybe I’m a little jealous because I haven’t had sex in …” he paused and gazed up at the ceiling, calculating, “twenty-two days. Anyway, it sounds like we have a situation?”
“We’re going to need to address it by lunch,” Madeline said. That’s what I told the guy at the Chronicle.”
“Go get him fixed up,” Isaac said, dropping my hand and starting toward the hall. “I’m going to shower and think about how to deal with this.�
� He turned. “We’ll talk, Father? I’m going to need to know all about your arrest.”
I nodded.
“Okay, I’ll see you kids in the office,” Isaac called, raising an arm to expose one hairy armpit and wave as he loped in the direction of what I assume was his room.
Madeline drove me to my apartment and waited in the tiny living room, sitting on my shabby plaid Goodwill couch while I showered and hunted for clean clothes.
When I came out in fresh jeans and a hippie-style linen shirt I’d bought along with the couch, she was on the phone. “Check the years 1989, ’90, and ’91,” she was saying. “Cross search with ‘McKenna,’ ‘Boston,’ and ‘narcotics.’ Print out anything you find. Thanks, Abel.”
I was barefoot, and Madeline eyed me as she slipped her phone back into her purse. Her hair was gathered on top of her head, large, studded sunglasses propped on top of the mass. I remembered the day she’d come into the bookstore and put on those same sunglasses, as if preparing for a burst of light. It had been only three weeks. Maybe all this was that flash unfolding, the one she’d sensed.
“You going to wear sandals with that outfit?” she asked with a squint.
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I said.
“Do it.” She rose and twitched her skirt, as if sloughing off the bad upholstery. “And don’t shave. You’ll look like Jesus, sort of. That can’t hurt.”
I found a pair of rubber flip-flops that I’d purchased at CVS for some long-ago trip to the beach with the after-school kids from St. John’s. “These?” I asked, holding them up. “It’s a little cold out.”
“Give them to me.” Madeline stowed my dime-store shoes in her enormous bag. “You can wear boots and change at the office. But hurry. We’re running out of time.”
We had driven this stretch from my apartment to Mason & Zeus, the two of us, half a dozen times. Never before had this meant that Madeline spent a portion of the previous night kneeling between my legs, delivering the first slow, wet, dreamlike blowjob of my more than four decades on earth. I wondered if her employees would sense something different, if they would be able to see that I had been reborn into my body at the hands of their boss.