The Wisdom of Perversity

by Rafael Yglesias

  At first, Gary was delighted. Then his exasperation and anxiety worsened when she explained that their conversation had been interrupted; and he wasn’t reassured that Jeff had promised to call back after he landed. “For chrissakes, he flies in a private plane. He didn’t have to hang up. They make schmucks like me turn off their cells, not Jeff Mark in his very own plane! He was stalling you.”

  “Stalling me about what?” she argued. “I never got around to explaining why I was calling.”

  “Oh.” That gave Gary pause. Not for long. “Well, my point is he can talk while on the plane. Even if they didn’t let him use his cell during the flight, his private plane must have a goddamn phone. Call his office. Say you can’t wait until he lands, you have to speak to him in flight.”

  “Okay,” she stalled. “I’ll take a shower and call him.” She moved to push past him.

  He took her arm and bussed her. “I love you,” he apologized.

  He loved her but didn’t trust her to place the call to Jeff’s assistant. After her shower, while she dressed in the closet, he stood a few feet away, focused on his iPhone. He said, “Here’s the number,” twice, to prod her. She dialed on their landline while he mouthed suggestions of what to say to convince the director’s gatekeeper to let her, a nobody relative whom Jeff hadn’t talked to in years, through immediately. Hopeless. No concession other than “I will give Mr. Mark your message.”

  Even Gary gave up, leaving for the Hamptons. After he was settled at the motel, he texted her twice asking if Jeff had called, before her cousin finally did call back, six hours after their first contact.

  Julie was mindful that everything he said was more or less a lie. Her father used to say about Jeff, after the famous quarrel when he learned that Harriet wasn’t dying of anything except the acute desire not to have Saul repay him, “Lying’s in Jeff’s genes. Harriet was the biggest liar on earth, so you can’t blame the poor kid. He can’t help himself.”

  Jeff lied, “Julie, that was the worst flight I’ve ever been on. It was a total nightmare—” He interrupted himself to interject to the caravan around him, “No way that was turbulence. An engine must’ve fallen off the fucking plane.” His voice returned to speak to her—deeper than when he was a boy, to be sure, yet still imbued with a kid’s energy and lack of reserve. “Julie, believe me, that was the worst experience of my life. I’ve got to get out of this business. Too much fucking flying. Nothing is worth being that scared. Do you like to fly?” he asked before supplying her answer. “Of course you do. Everybody loves to fly except for me. Or at least everybody says they love it. Yeah, they do!” he squawked to the murmur of a female voice in the background. “Everybody says they don’t think about it. Lies. All lies. As soon as the plane hits a little bump, everybody’s praying to God. What’s the line about foxholes?” A female voice mumbled something. Jeff shouted, “Right! Well, it’s true of jets. There are no atheists during takeoff. SO . . .” Julie moved the phone a few inches from her ear. He had returned to speaking directly to her. That, and some other improvement in his cell phone’s broadcast amplified his voice into a shout. “YOU HAVE A TEENAGE SON. I CAN’T BELIEVE IT. HOW OLD—?” Abruptly there was a bomb of static and Jeff was gone.

  By the time he called back, she had moved to the maid’s room, settling at the little desk in the pantry/office. She didn’t turn on a light, intently watching a window directly across the wide courtyard of their prewar apartment building. That apartment’s kitchen and maid’s room had been renovated to make one large eat-in kitchen. It looked very clean and new: recessed halogen lights, granite counters, super-high-tech appliances with glowing LED lights. A handsome young man—late twenties, she guessed—dressed in a conservative gray suit stood at a black laminate round table under a brilliant spotlight, unloading take-out food from the new Thai restaurant around the corner on Broadway.

  “Julie! Sorry.” Jeff spoke without a hello. “Cell phone networks in America are like a third-world county. So . . . what’s your boy into?”

  “What’s he what?” she asked, watching the young man open a bottle of beer and sit down to deal with a pair of tin foil containers. He seemed to have big hands. Or long fingers anyway, since they wrapped around the bottle with room to spare. His head of black hair was thick. She couldn’t really see his features but they were strong. From this distance he vaguely resembled the actor who played Don Draper in Mad Men. He removed his jacket, tossing it with a boy’s sloppiness over a chair. There wasn’t a hint of a bulge at his belly. The shirt was flush, disappearing seamlessly into narrow gray pants. He was too handsome to be alone. Since he moved in a year ago, she had never spotted a girl guest, or a boy for that matter. But she couldn’t see into the window of his bedroom; that faced away, toward West End Avenue. Probably his guests had better things to do than eat. Still, a solo dinner seemed a lonely activity for such a looker.

  “Your son. What’s he interested in?”

  “Acting,” she admitted reluctantly.

  “Acting! Shoot him. Take him to the pound. Put him down. Don’t even think twice. Best thing for him. Merciful thing to do.” There was a collection of laughs in the background—a screechy one, a giggly one, and a male snorting. It was as if Jeff were performing in front of a studio audience or had installed a laugh track on his cell phone. “Just kidding, Jules. Really. Just kidding.” She heard another round of screech, giggle and snort; she presumed he’d made a face to his entourage.

  “He’s fifteen. Just a kid with foolish dreams,” Julie said, regretting she’d mentioned Zack at all. She had raised a creep; she had to give up speaking or thinking about him. She watched the lovely young man remove chopsticks from the take-out bag, snap them apart with a flick of thumb and index finger. He did everything with the physical confidence of an athlete.

  “Sure, sure. He’ll grow up to be a doctor. Like his father.”

  “A lawyer,” Julie corrected.

  “Oh, right. Guess I was thinking of your daddy. But what am I talking about? Uncle Harry was a dentist. Of course dentists are doctors.” Another snorting laugh in the background. Jeff must have rolled his eyes. Julie was taken aback by Jeff’s mockery. If he wasn’t at least a little scared of her, why had he returned her call? “They are doctors!” Jeff insisted, then couldn’t stop himself from laughing. He tried again to be sober: “Jules. Listen, I’m almost at my editing room. And speaking of editing, I have to cut to the chase. Why did you call?”

  He seemed to take it for granted everyone would do his bidding and on his schedule. Because he’s famous and rich? Maybe I’m just being irritable. She hadn’t had a cigarette for four hours, maintaining her postcoital promise. “Your cousin. I’m calling because they’re going to indict him.”

  Jeff vanished. The background sound of traffic, electronic whoosh, mumbled voices, and Jeff’s cackle—all gone.

  “Jeff?” she asked dead air but knew better. Quite an advantage talking on a cell. Plausible deniability about hanging up. Her eyes drifted across the dark courtyard, to the brilliantly lit tableaux of a vigorous young man in shirtsleeves, chopsticks funneling food into his hungry mouth. Only hours ago she’d had the first orgasm she’d allowed herself in three months—and with Gary no less! It had been lovely, a wonderful surprise, but what good had it done? She just wanted another.

  For a long minute, she felt utterly alone. She hadn’t felt so alone in this way since the weeks after her mother’s death. And it was same kind of loneliness: feeling herself small, standing solo on the skin of the earth, with no soul on the horizon approaching to comfort her.

  She had to get rid of this miserable feeling. She walked into the hall to see if Zack’s lights were on. They were.

  She turned out the living-room lamps, retired to her bedroom, undressed, took a long bath, brushed her teeth, washed her face, and slowly rubbed Ponds moisturizer into her pores. Although it was February, she chose her thin white cotton robe. She left her bedroom walking noiselessly in bare feet. En route to the k
itchen, she saw Zack’s lights were out. She didn’t bother with the extra precaution of putting the chain on the front door, in case Gary came home unexpectedly. Hearing him unlock the doors had always provided sufficient warning for her to draw her robe close, shake off a glazed look, turn on a burner under the stainless-steel kettle, pretending to brew a soothing cup of chamomile tea.

  At her desk, she turned the chair to face the window squarely, sat, and straddled the sill with her feet apart. A thin line of air, entering through a crack, striped her arches, a pleasant, tickling sensation. She was glad to see the young man’s kitchen lights were still on. She could anticipate an appearance. He might come in for dessert or another bottle of beer. At the very least he would have to turn the lights off before he went to bed. She spread her legs, which opened the lower half of her robe, and idly stroked her tummy with the bath-softened fingers of her right hand, as if she were soothing a child’s upset stomach.

  She scanned the other floors across the courtyard. She saw a light in the penthouse, but its residents wouldn’t have a good viewing angle to see her unless they turned out their own light, moved close to their window, and deliberately scanned down. And who would do that? She had long ago calculated the risks. The windows to the right, the dining rooms of the C line, might have a view of her legs, but that angle was too severe to see more. The line of window to the left were the bathrooms of the A line, all made of frosted glass to provide their own privacy. The kitchen line of windows across the courtyard were in the best position, especially those four floors above and below her own, but his, the handsome young man’s, had the best vantage, being level. Eyes naturally sought illumination directly across the way, as had hers a year ago when he entered, removing a pin-striped jacket from his broad shoulders, with the slow grace of a bullfighter unfurling a cape, then rolling up the white sleeves of his shirt to unpack bachelor’s groceries—beer, chips, a small orange juice, a box of cereal, and a can of shaving cream. Remembering her virgin sighting, her hand dropped, fingers netting across her right thigh, a quivering web of warmth on cool skin.

  She was in the dark. The shadows would protect her from her recklessness. She was not absolutely sure what he could see, just as she had never known what his predecessor, a much less attractive middle-aged married man, might have been able to see. For her to judge, neighbors across the courtyard would have to sit in a dark kitchen while she watched them and they had never sat in the dark. Why would they? Why would anyone? Which was why for twenty years no neighbor had ever given her unilluminated window more than a glance. She was exposed, not visible. Besides, it was the threat that she liked, the possibility that he might glance up and see a naked female form in the shadows, the restless movement of her hand, and the finale, her head thrown back, mouth open in choked ecstasy.

  He entered the kitchen! It was the only lucky event of her day. She had begun, resigned to a fantasy of his presence when the reality showed on cue. And there was a bonus. He was wearing only his red and white striped boxers. His tall body had definition, the lines of classic sculpture, a dream lover, and he presented a 360-degree view while making himself an eccentric dessert of cereal. He reached for a bowl from an upper cabinet, then from another fetched a box of what appeared to be Raisin Bran, and while bending over to fetch a quart of milk from the refrigerator side door showed off globes worthy of a male underwear model. He poured cereal and milk into a white bowl and sat. She was thrilled. She didn’t have to hurry. He was going to eat at the table virtually nude, while her robe fell open and her thighs sighed apart, longing for him, displayed for him.

  He settled at his round table with the bowl, broad shoulders slightly hunched, muscles in his right arm rippling while, in a thoughtful steady pace, he opened his mouth to engulf a brimming spoonful. Her keen reaction, like the surprise of Gary’s smoking-inspired lust, was a reminder of her first orgasm: quick and delirious. She didn’t want to climax that fast, expending pleasure without savor. She paused the motion of her hand, but soon her body yearned for more and she resumed, the ache quickly reaching an unsustainable intensity. She gave up fighting its urgent need to release, felt the waves rising, about to engulf and crash her on the shore. The roar of their approach got loud in her head, too loud to hear a warning noise of movement if Gary or Zack approached. This was her true climax, of abandon, pleasure overwhelming shame, so that if someone glanced out a window and could penetrate the dark to see her naked and writhing in her spotless kitchen, she wouldn’t stop and cover herself. At last she was reckless, wanting to be seen by the beautiful man if now, right now, he lifted his eyes. It was thrilling to ride the cresting wave without fear.

  But she never reached shore. As if she had missed her train, she was stranded on a platform of anticipation. Nothing she did, not imagining lightly pressing her lips on his washboard stomach, no alteration of speed below or a hard pinch of nipple, nothing pushed her over the edge; she remained expectant, unable to ride the wave of oblivion to the relief of shore.

  She was furious at herself, as irritated as she would be with any incompetent lover. The self-absorbed young buck remained at the table, methodically spoon-feeding himself. The promise of joy receded, the ocean a glassy pond. Finally she dropped her hand, allowing her feet to slide off the sill and trail down the wall, skin squeaking as they descended. Her muscles remained clenched, running a phantom race. Her body was covered with a fine sheen of sweat, nipples tingling, every inch of skin independently touched by air—she was all nerve endings, no central control, body painfully alive, head numbed. Look at that stupid man feeding himself, indifferent and young. Stupid and young.

  She reached back for the light switch and flipped it up. The ceiling globe drenched the room with light. Her eyes winced. She shrugged off her robe and stood at the window naked head to toe. Look at me, she demanded, eyes boring at him. Look at me, her eyes screamed.

  He must have heard the shout of her stare. He raised his head and, because he was facing the window, looked right at her. He appeared to accept her presence as unremarkable. Seen at last, she expected to be mortified. She had always assumed that when this day came, after thirty-odd years of remaining in shadows, she would bolt or at least shut off the light. If she moved quickly, the incident might still seem innocent: a woman wandering late at night in her kitchen for a snack, not anticipating she might be seen, hurrying to recover modesty as soon as possible. Perhaps her neighbor would presume he was the naughty voyeur, instead of she the exhibitionist.

  She was not mortified. She did not bolt. She reached below and rubbed, just as she had in her head so many times. She acted out the madness.

  At first he didn’t react. Then the dark-haired young man seemed to wake up. His head tilted to one side. He dropped the spoon. He sat up straight. He craned forward. He squinted.

  Again she had a chance to take it all back. Shut off the light, dive for her robe, run from the kitchen. She didn’t move.

  She rubbed and felt nothing. Her limbs ached, with tension, not pleasure. She was drying out, the numbness in her head anesthetizing all of her. She persisted, although it began to hurt. She had committed to being discovered—at least she wanted that to be a success.

  He squinted as hard as he could, narrowing his eyes to slits.

  He can’t see me, she wondered with horror. She’d never noticed that he wore glasses, but what if he wore contacts, took them out before bed, and had come for his late snack in the full glory of his nearsightedness and she was nothing but a pink blur?

  She stopped molesting herself. She stood at the window, a naked sentinel, and waited for him to figure it out.

  He squinted so hard he made a pig’s face, a hand coming up to shade his eyes, forehead pressing against the glass, a lookout trying to spot a distant vessel.

  He can’t see me, she confirmed in a rage, disgusted. She turned off the light. She put on her robe, went to the sink, washed her hands, and only then returned to her desk, straightening the chair and opening her computer.
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  The disappointing young man was gone and his kitchen lights were out. At least now her head was calm, all the unsettled questions floating peacefully through her thoughts, easy to contemplate without the anxious feeling that she needed to do something, anything, right away. What finally roused her from this meditative state of mind was the image of another dark-haired male, a boy from long ago.

  What did he make of all this?

  She typed Brian Moran into Google and found his Wikipedia entry, which included the information that he lived in the West Village. She typed Brian Moran, West Village into WhitePages.com and found him on West Ninth Street with a 212 number. She was about to dial it when her phone rang. Caller ID read: “Private Number.”

  “Hey, Julie, it’s Jeff.” His voice was low but transmitted very clearly. He had forsaken cell for landline. Was he home? “We got cut off again. Sorry. Why did you say you were calling me? What’s up?”

  Can’t help it. Raised to be a liar. “I was calling about your cousin and his boyfriend, Sam. I assume he was his boyfriend—but that’s wrong of me, isn’t it? Sam was about to go to college, so he was, what, seventeen? Still just a minor. So not a boyfriend. He was being molested by your cousin.” She heard Jeff breathing hard through his mouth, like he was running too fast. “And that’s going to come out. Or—I mean, not that, not what he did to Sam. Gary, my husband, says they’re close to indicting your cousin for molesting children at his school and at that Huck Finn camp.”

  “Really?” he said finally. And so lamely.

  “He molested you too, right? I mean, when we were all little.”

  “No,” he said much too quickly.

  “You can admit it to me, Jeff. I’m not going to tell anybody.”

  “Julie, I really don’t have time for this!” he complained. Without an audience all his comedy had vanished. “I’ve been making this fucking monster of a movie. You don’t know what that’s like. When you’re directing a picture you don’t have time to take a shit. I haven’t spoken to or seen Cousin Richard since 1988. That’s twenty years. And I don’t know Sam Rydel. I didn’t even know he was alive or running anything. I haven’t been following the case. I probably know less about all this than you.”