As for Melissa Williams? Was she an aberration or a trend? A celebration of life or an early shovelful of dirt on his marriage? More R&D needed. He couldn’t pull out of this particular dive just yet. Not close enough to disaster yet, Charlie-boy; when it gets close you’ll pull out, in more ways than one, ha-ha, not so funny, and get yourself on home. Just one more time, he thought. I’ll do a better job this time; I can tell. Like going from the T-37 trainer to the F-101 in 1963. You couldn’t get it right the first time. You didn’t understand the plane’s speed, the way it moved. Second time, better. He’d had Karen reserve Suite 840 at the Pierre, the one Teknetrix used regularly. They were due to see each other that night. Ellie had wanted to have sex the night before, but he had begged off, said he was exhausted from the plane, in order to save his shot. Conserve ordnance. He’d be completely hard; he could just tell. His back felt so good that he had not minded, had not been existentially insulted, when, after Karen mentioned a message from the fertility clinic doctor, he’d returned the call and been told that his sperm sample was no good. “Motility average, sperm count insufficient,” the doctor told him. “Which means not that you couldn’t get someone pregnant, but that we need a better deposit if we are going to use technology to avoid a poor outcome.”
But perhaps a poor outcome was good news, of a sort. Perhaps he had an easy chance to forget the whole hire-a-mom thing, no harm done. A little money and time wasted, nothing more. You could look at it that way. Or you could say you still wanted a child, Charlie-boy. Maybe more so, now that Ellie would be packed away in Vista del Muerte. The logistics might be easier. Maybe visit a child from time to time. Just stop by for an hour. Don’t need to be involved, just pop in, say, Hi—gee, he’s getting heavy. A warm bottle. Fingers and toes. Goodnight moon. And maybe this was where Melissa Williams came in. He’d thought about her, he’d thought about her all too much. In the baby way and in the other kind of way. She’d been so sweet, so generous. He could tell that for a young woman she had a lot of sexual experience, which presented itself as kindness and patience. Women always talked about men being considerate lovers, expecting that men didn’t really care how the woman acted, so long as she opened her legs and didn’t watch television at the same time, but that was not the case. Certain women put men at ease; they had the gift of sexual generosity, and this you could say about Melissa Williams. He’d had his doubts and anxieties just afterward, but the more he’d thought about her, sitting in the Peace Hotel on his last morning in Shanghai and watching the coal barges move along the muddy flat river outside, the more he’d remembered their night in the Pierre and wanted to repeat it. Clearly he could not get anyone pregnant easily, and clearly she was the kind of girl who didn’t pick up diseases and viruses and all the other things running through the population. Towers had told him as much, with the report on her blood donation. So that minor anxiety, that flicker of doubt, had eased, too. She wanted to see him, he wanted to see her. Maybe they’d meet a few more times and he’d raise the question of a baby. Or maybe they would have a sad little talk that night and then go their separate ways forever. He’d apologize for whatever confusion or hurt he’d caused. He didn’t know and he didn’t mind not knowing. He’d simply leave about four, take the New Jersey Turnpike into the city, park the car, take a shower, call Ellie to say he’d arrived safely, then walk over to the Pierre at seven. There’s a Miss Williams staying here, has she arrived? He really did want to see her again. Certainly all that Towers had told him suggested she was the right sort of young woman. Good background, good values.
“What’re you thinking?” Ellie asked suddenly, her voice perky, eyes bright. “You’ve been quiet for five minutes.”
“Values,” Charlie said. “Good values.”
“You think this place has it?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
She looked at him sweetly. “It is the right thing, Charlie.”
“Again, absolutely.”
“I wish you could stay a second night.”
“I do, too.”
“Couldn’t Karen send down all the papers and stuff?”
“I need to meet with people, get some things started,” Charlie said, watching the road ahead of him even though he was going eleven miles an hour. “Tomorrow is a long day, too.”
“These new pills knock me out around nine.”
“I’ll call when I get in, and then in the morning,” he told Ellie.
“That’s fine. You’re leaving around four?”
“I thought I might.”
“There’s just one more thing I want to show you,” she said happily, “and I’m pretty sure you’ll indulge me.”
“What is it?”
“The bird feeder in the backyard. I’m surprised you didn’t notice it. Up on a big pole near the spruce? Has room for thirty-six purple martins.” She smiled at him. “Like a sweet little hotel for birds.”
“Yes.” He stretched out his arm and took her hand—palm and fingers and wedding ring. “This is all good. We’re going to spend a lot of nice time here,” he said.
“Oh, Charlie.” Ellie beamed, blinking wetly in happiness, cheeks flushed, her eyes clear and large and in love with him all over again, father of her children, her old flyboy.
HE KNOCKED SOFTLY at the door of Suite 840, his hair moist, fingernails trimmed, underwear fresh.
The door opened and there was Melissa, in a rather lovely black dress, looking up at him, looking young, and she took his hand and pulled him inside. “I’ve been waiting,” she complained, smiling devilishly. “Just so you know.”
“Hey, I came halfway around the world to see you.”
She put her cheek against his chest, and seemed to sigh or catch her breath. He felt the warmth of her along his body, her hand in the small of his back, her head touching his chin. She patted the side of his jacket. “You have a phone in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?”
“You okay?” he asked, realizing she’d had a drink.
“I’m fine. I was just waiting, that’s all.”
She seemed preoccupied. Her eyes looked a little bloodshot, her face tired. But it was a twenty-seven-year-old face—how tired could it be? “Anything you want to talk about?” he asked gently.
She shook her head. “Not now.”
“Okay.” He held her the way he used to hold Julia when she was a girl and upset about something, his hand behind her neck.
“I’ve been lonely. Missed my mother a lot.”
The comment made him feel old, but he realized that she hadn’t meant it that way. “Do you want to call your parents?”
“No, I—” She stopped. “I will later.”
“If you want to, just call from here,” he said.
She hugged him. “No, no, it’s fine.”
He ran a finger down her spine. “Do you ever go out there?”
“Out where?”
“Seattle.”
“Oh,” she said distractedly, “no.”
He rubbed her neck at the hairline and felt her melt against him. “You talk to your father much?”
“No, not really,” she said into his chest, nibbling at his tie.
“Is he very busy?”
She considered the question. “No.”
“Not busy?”
She looked up again, her face vulnerable, wanting to forget something. “Charlie?”
“Mmm?”
“You know.”
He did. She turned off the lights and pulled down the blanket. He adjusted the air conditioner, and when he turned, she was naked. Her breasts looked larger when she was naked. Some women were like that. He started to unknot his tie.
“No,” she insisted. “I’m doing all of it.”
Again she undressed him, her hands moving familiarly, and she knelt on the floor and pulled his underwear off last, and as soon as he had stepped out of them, she looked up at him from her kneeling position and took him into her mouth, eyes staying on his. I may be a fool, he thought, but I am a
pleasured fool.
She pulled back, keeping her hand moving affectionately. “You’re more …” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Eager?”
Chinese medicine. “My back’s been feeling pretty good.”
She followed him into bed and he held her, sensing she wanted this. “Okay,” she whispered after a time.
“Uptown or downtown?” he asked. “If you know what I mean.”
“I do,” she sighed, but held him by the ears when he started to move downward.
“No?”
“Just insert the tab in the slot like the directions specify.”
“You got it.”
“No, I think you do, Charlie.”
It was all flattery, but he’d take it. He set himself above her and she spit into her hands and helped him. She was rather wet, and he went in quickly. So young, he thought, looking into her face. I’m going to count strokes. I don’t think she quite came the last time; I was too fast, both of us too nervous. Her eyes were closed and she was biting her upper lip. He took a breath, watching her go into herself. She was in a peaceful, private place. I’m going to concentrate, he thought. He made it to fifty and past it, then, at sixty-two, she convulsed beneath him, her stomach a mound of muscle that rippled and gathered up. He continued, holding her hands loosely above her head. He felt good. Ninety-six. Then she suddenly rose up again, convulsing and whimpering sweetly, the alcohol perfuming her sighs. Then again. One twenty-one. Such fast orgasms, he thought, sort of amazing. She caught her breath easily and glared up at him, eyes fierce now, sweetness gone, ready again, desire merely unfolding. One thirty-two, he counted. She wants more, I can feel it, I’m a fucking old man. Old man fucking. He stopped, breathed deeply, then resumed. His lungs burned a little. I’m so out of shape, he thought. But here we are. He kept on and she kept on, shaking and shuddering every half minute or so, her arms around his neck, five orgasms, six … seven, and he had to pause to keep himself back, holding his breath and squeezing his asshole, and as he slowed she sighed and caressed his cheeks and ears and eyes, and then he started again and she started again, too, right away. Ten more strokes, hard, and she came again, shivering violently. His neck was hot, back sweaty, but none of it hurt anymore, as if the adhesions and cross-stitched nerves had melted away. Twenty more fast strokes and she almost came, but he held off to save himself, and then eighteen more, with a bit of side-to-side grinding—Ellie used to love that before she started to get too dry in her late forties—and she came again, digging her nails into his shoulders, right into the knotty scar tissue, but he barely felt it. He was aware of her great sexual hunger opening up beneath him, taking him in, the tense expectancy of her breathing. She was beginning. He’d barely touched her so far. A few handfuls of rainwater scooped from a full barrel. They’d been at it maybe ten minutes—almost no time at all. She could go on and on, he knew, and he could not. She licked his neck from below, waiting for more. Never seen anything like this, Charlie thought, not with any of the girls before Ellie, not with Ellie when she was young.
“Please,” she asked. “Let me get. Knees.”
She presented herself. Slow, he told himself, go slow. It’s your only chance. She had her face in her hands, as if kneeling in deep prayer, and his long fingers circled her waist. He slipped himself into her, his bony hips pressing the flesh of her ass. She groaned, almost angrily. Again he felt her stomach muscle gather into a rippling knot. Almost doing nothing. He slowed but did not stop, counting to thirty, and her hands flew forward to grasp the headboard. He stopped moving, just rested on his knees behind her. His head felt hot, thighs tiring already. He was not a young man anymore. He started again, best he could, chest a little tight. She was within herself, he could see, far within herself, no talk necessary. He was just something she was using right now, something that went in and out, and that was fine. Her back was covered with sweet-smelling sweat, and now she spread her hands out to either side across the mattress. He reached down and moved her legs closer together. He’d lost his count, would start again. She kicked her foot against the sheet in impatience. I can’t go yet, he thought. Well, maybe in and out ever so little. An inch in each direction. One and two. All right. He silently counted to forty-one, glancing out the window toward the shadows across the street. She convulsed again, slapping her hands against the sheet.
“Don’t stop,” she commanded. He didn’t stop and she moaned and kicked her legs against the sheet, growling, sweeping her hand across the bed until she found a pillow that she tossed away for no reason. “Oh, goddamn it,” she said.
He kept going. Not too fast, just fast enough that she wanted it faster. A great wetness was emptying itself against his penis, like a stream receiving a fish, except the stream gripped and released him, gripped and released as she shuddered and cried out. This is definitely her, not me, Charlie smiled wickedly to himself in the darkness, I’m not this good, nowhere close, I’m an old man who happens to have a hard dick tonight. But that’s all. He stopped and breathed, funny pains crawling across his chest. Have the heart attack now, he commanded heaven, it’s as good a time as any. But he didn’t. No, sir. He was kneeling behind her, kneeling in a very funny dark church. Devil take the hindmost. Ha-ha, Charlie, you demented fucking fuck. How can you be doing this? Because you must and you will. Her ass was shaking and he spread his hands back and forth across it, calming her. Maybe she needed to stop now.
He sat back on his haunches and she rolled over. She needs to rest, he thought. But she lifted up her legs, hooking them over his shoulders. He could tell she’d shaved her shins and calves very recently, smoothed soft with cream. Then one of her hands lightly slapped his thigh. He didn’t move. She slapped his thigh harder. He eased forward and she pulled his penis—hard—and pressed him into her. Tough girl, he thought, a surprisingly tough girl who—And in that moment the disparate, nearly invisible strands of the discrepancy wove together: the absence of a phone number or business card, no eyeglasses or contact lenses in contrast to Towers’s information about her driver’s license, no talk about her work, her aggressiveness, her vague recognition of his question about Seattle.
A coldness passed into him. “You’re not Melissa Williams, are you?” he said.
She opened her eyes. “What?”
“You’re not Melissa Williams.”
She blinked rapidly and laughed. Nervously, he thought. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you are not Melissa Williams. You’re someone else.”
She waited while she considered her answer, and while she waited she made sure that he kept moving in and out. So wet, so good. Best in years, best ever, maybe.
“Who do you want me to be?” she finally whispered.
He stared into her face—darkness in the darkness. He was jammed up inside some unknown, strangely orgasmic woman in her late twenties, some woman tough-minded enough that she could pretend to be someone else, pretend to fuck as someone else. She was not Melissa Williams, she was anybody but Melissa Williams. Not a good girl from Seattle but some kind of clever hustler who talked a fast game, sounded educated, and had found her way into the bar of the Pierre Hotel looking for a soft touch, a lonely, self-important jerk-weed like Charlie. This thought made him mad and it made him keep moving. He knew he should stop and pull out and probably stick his dick into a jar of rubbing alcohol or insecticide or something and ask her what the hell was going on, but he was not going to. No. Just the opposite. If he pulled out now, then she’d stolen something from him, and his anger would not allow that. He pushed harder and realized that she liked this, liked him pushing, struggling with him a little violently now; she liked the fact that he did not know who she was, found power in his powerlessness. Something had equalized suddenly, her mystery and youth reversing against his status and age. But if you fuck with me, then I will fuck with you, he told himself, and he pressed down on her, damn the back, damn Ellie, damn Teknetrix, damn Mr. Lo and Vista del Muerte and all of it, and stroked thro
ugh her with a vicious, teeth-clenched effortlessness he’d not known for almost thirty years, his cock swollen into stone, the Chinese medicine releasing him to press the question over and over, Who are you who are you, mouthing it even, feeling her rise and shake again and again, her orgasms clustering one against another in a kind of angry hallucinatory chaos as she shook her fists in the air and growled almost bitterly, seeming to birth something awful, tearing time out of herself, curled and shaking, and when the moment came he pressed his hot forehead heavily down upon hers, and delivered himself fully into her—the bomb, the hatred, the roar; the joy, the sadness, the dream.
AFTER THE BATHROOM she sat in the window well, naked in the shadows. “Are you mad?” came her voice.
“Yes.”
“How did you know?”
“I had someone check a few things about Melissa Williams. Her father is a prominent, busy lawyer in Seattle. She wears glasses or contact lenses.”
She shifted to the other side of the window. “Why did you bother?”
“Because I wanted to find out who the hell you were. Or were not, as the case may be.”
“Why?” she asked coyly. “I’m probably just some girl who liked your tie.”
She’s scared, he thought. “How do you know Melissa Williams?”
She shook her head. “Oh, she’s just a box of papers that I found in my closet when I moved into my room. Never met the girl.”
She slid off the window well toward him. Something about the way she walked, slowly and naked and I know you’re looking at me, reminded him of Ellie a generation ago—before Teknetrix, before his father’s death, before Ben, before Vietnam. Ellie was no longer confident of her nakedness, kept it to herself now, and it was just as well, in fact. He didn’t want to see her anymore.
Afterburn: A Novel Page 42