“Jane, I love you, no shit. But I don't want you to become a warden.”
“Let's go home.”
The doorman told her that a man had been waiting around all day to see her, and had offered him five dollars to gain access to her apartment.
“Who could it be?” Sonny asked.
“No idea.”
She had a vision of Luckmunn, the corrupter of doormen, sniffing around. She'd mentioned her address in front of him. He was the sort of man who had a nose for the waning fortunes, the bad times of others, and quick as a mole he'd burrow in. She knew he was tenacious and obviously strong. He'd taken everything she could give without flinching, suppressing his natural instincts to strike back. She didn't underestimate him. In a fight he'd eat a dozen like her father. In fact his strength, ill-concealed because he was vain, worried her. If he'd been unscrupulous enough to take Nancy as a mistress, then drop her when it suited him, what might he try on her? He had the gall to go back for his clothes. Unbelievable. She'd been tempted to confront him with her knowledge, but it would be purposeless, merely self-serving. He'd simply laugh in her face, list a bill of complaints against Nancy which would have the awful merit of truth. She'd find herself agreeing with him, a party to Nancy's humiliation. A spy. It went beyond her natural limits of tolerance. If her mother fell of her accord, it was none of her business. There was no satisfaction in conspiring to defeat the defeated.
* * * *
At two o'clock in the morning, she and Sonny heard someone knocking softly but insistently on the door, and she cringed under the blankets, with the vain hope that whoever it was would get tired and move off.
“Should I get it?” Sonny asked. He slipped out of bed. “Great having carpet by the bed,” he observed. “I think I'll try it some day.”
“You know I'm not twenty-one yet,” she said, fearing obscure provisions in the criminal code which might make Sonny indictable. “I've still got a year to go.”
“What's that got to do with anything?”
“I don't know ... couldn't you get in trouble?”
“Eighteen's the statutory age in New York.” The tapping continued. It sounded like a pen, or a rat's dull incisor tooth. “Nothing to be afraid of.”
He moved back to the bed, and reached underneath the blanket with the palm of his hand.
“How's Mount Baldy, my old friend?”
The climate was still equatorial.
“That feels good, Sonny.”
She'd come so many times that she was subtracting from a dozen instead of counting.
“I'll be right back, so keep the store open.”
Hairless, except for an incipient needle fuzz, she had ruefully explained to the suspicious Sonny that this was a form of domestic tonsuring inflicted on her as a child by her mother in the godlike name of personal hygiene. He believed it, but pleaded a case for curly locks, calling up with surprising astuteness society's madness for hair. He extracted a promise of future growth from her and explained that he liked the way hair tickled the head of his member, a fact not lightly dismissible and certainly one that had never occurred to her. They'd gone a whole game without a time out. Orgasm led to orgasm. Every run a touchdown. He himself had come three times, but rather than diminishing the tension, he was back in business minutes later with a rod of steel and new zeal. At the doorway now, Sonny did an about-face, closed the door on the insistent tapping, and returned to the welter of crumpled sticky linen.
“Can't hear it now, can you?”
“You're brilliant, Sonny. Why didn't I think of closing the door?”
He placed his hands around her hips, arched her on her knees, and slipped in. She made little gurgling sounds and many new syllables out of his name.
“It's in so deep.”
“Meant to be. Now keep quiet. I can't fuck and talk at the same time.”
Mastered, she kept her mouth shut but long agonized groans escaped, and she hoped they'd be allowed. He had a remarkable degree of dexterity and succeeded in turning her over without coming out, so that she was on top. Deft, practiced lunges continued with no slackening, while he busied himself with her breasts, moving them in time to his own melody. A true werewolf howl accompanied the latest in a series of comes, and she pleaded for a momentary abatement. He was still, to her wonderment, hard as a rock, a minimuscle flexed to maximum size.
“Let me finish you my way,” she implored him.
She also had a supply of pillows and she propped up a pair, gathered his knees under her arms and arranged his flaming member in the Grand Canyon of her breasts, pushed her head forward, and with perfect calisthenic count got her mouth down on him and swallowed him in a pit of teeming saliva. The position was awkward but Sonny bore it with dignity.
“With an act like this we could get ourselves a shot on Ed Sullivan's program,” he said, in a fruitless effort to break the concentration of passion.
Useless; he arrived, and his body shook like a nerve exposed to acupuncture. He pleaded softly for the return of himself and at last with the onset of buckling knees, he emerged from her glorious cleavage, exhausted but no wiser in the ways of mystery.
“On my death bed this should happen to me ... that's what I wish myself.”
“There's no sweeter taste than Sonny Jackson.”
He wanted to ask her how he tasted, but good form took precedence over scientific inquiry.
“Jane, I love you. This is even better than when I made the AP's All-American team.”
The bathroom was not en suite but located in the corridor outside, and they both made for it as if by reservation.
“One thing I never did, Jane, was to take a leak with a girl watchin’ me.” His head shrank into his shoulders. “I always get chills when I do that, and it embarrasses me.”
“I like being with you even here.”
“Not after Yankee bean soup, you wouldn't.”
She began to laugh, deep from the belly, and wrapped her arms around the large blocklike shoulders. The tapping on the front door resumed, and Sonny found a sunflower-print dressing robe and decided to investigate.
He opened the door fractionally and unexpectedly was knocked to the ground as a male intruder thrust in shouting:
“Jane, Jane, where the hell are you?”
She came out of the bathroom, blinking from the light, and froze panicky to the spot.
Sonny was on his feet quickly and grabbed the man around the throat in a cobra stranglehold which promised immediate destruction.
“Alan? What are you doing here?” Jane demanded.
“You know this lob?” Sonny asked, still maintaining his grip.
“He's my philosophy professor.”
“Cover yourself, Jane, will you, for Christ sake.”
Released, Alan considered the existential possibilities of the situation, and gloomily realized that he might not live long enough to enjoy or explore them. Sonny had gone to a hammerlock with a bar, causing Alan further grief.
Robed, Jane instructed Sonny to release the prisoner.
“Now I know why you left that fuckin’ school,” Sonny said, his sensibilities outraged.
Alan slumped to his knees, his right arm still braced behind his back.
“I think it's broken.”
“Listen, asshole, if I'd wanted to break it, you'd be screaming loud enough to wake up the state of New Jersey.”
“Who let you in?” Jane demanded.
“I waited for the doorman to doze off.”
“So it was you.” Breaking and entering, she realized, wouldn't be Luckmunn's style.
He rested on all fours now for balance and in the light caught a fleeting glimpse of the bald eagle twitching through her flimsy wrapper. Having studied with great perseverance every acute angle of her body, he grew pensive, stifled his erection, which like Iowa corn could blossom in adversity, and wondered how he'd failed to arouse the latent perversities of his goddess student. That lovely animal smell of active human bodies tickled his nose.
“Oh, get up, Alan. You look so stupid on the floor.”
“Do I have this gentleman's permission?”
“He won't touch you.”
“Who said I wouldn't?” Sonny said, but he backed off.
Alan rose unsteadily, regarded his adversary out of the corner of his eye, and decided against physical combat, since he wanted to live to be a full professor.
“Jane, can I ask you something?” he said with uncharacteristic vagueness.
Blood might be shed, and Sonny's hostile suspicions aroused again, if she didn't allow him the question. She studied both lovers for a reaction, taking into consideration the classic struggle implicit in the situation.
“Go on and ask, but for Christ's sake, make it fast.”
“Could you make some coffee?”
“I'll kick your fuckin’ head in,” Sonny said, pouncing suddenly.
“Go ahead.”
“Jane, is this for real?” Sonny demanded hopelessly.
“By the way, Jane”—Alan boldly adjusted the creases of his trousers and hiked them over his ankles as he rested on an ottoman—“I have no place to stay. It's impossible to check into a hotel at this time of night. The Americana has a convention of Knights of Pythias. I called there earlier.”
“You want to stay here?” Her robe swished open, unseen by the shocked Sonny, but noted by Alan who recalled with undiminished pleasure his own explorations. He restrained himself from leaping at her, for the prospect of his body hacked to pieces and set in trash cans around the city was a possibility not to ignore.
“The sofa will do me fine. I'll catch the nine-o'clock plane to Saranac and by then I'll have a clear picture of why you wanted to leave.”
“He's also my faculty adviser,” Jane said quickly to Sonny who was inching up on the ottoman. “Did you get my address from Conlon?”
“With difficulty, I might say.” She'd begun to lie, and Alan was slowly easing her over a barrel.
“You two are friends?” Sonny inquired, innocently. There were too many threads to gather. “Lookit, maybe you should make some coffee, so we can talk.”
She turned to the kitchen, aware that disaster was right over her shoulder, and numbly searched for a plan to disarm Sonny and remove Alan from her premises. Piping-hot Maxim and Sara Lee banana cake appeared on the coffee table.
“I think we can work something out,” Alan said brightly. With sinking heart, Jane watched them shake hands.
“What I've got in mind is really straightforward....”
“Since when have you become straightforward?” Sonny's ears perked up, and he leaned forward waiting for a revelation. “It's the old academic hard line, Sonny.”
“Familiar with it, Jane.”
Alan sipped his coffee reflectively. “The thing is, Mr. Jackson, no one's looking to trick Jane into anything. If she wants to quit, she can, of course, or take a leave of absence. I'm only an emissary from the dean who simply wants her to do it properly. Clarify the situation. Get the university off the book, in a manner of speaking.”
“Sounds reasonable to me,” Sonny said.
“Not to me, it doesn't.”
“He's bein’ reasonable, Jane, and you aren't.”
“Sonny, it's my life, my way of doing things, so don't interfere.”
“That the way you feel, I'm rackin’ in.”
He lifted his banana cake from the plate and moved as daintily as two hundred and ten pounds and a flowered peignoir would allow, toward the bedroom.
“You stay here on the couch,” he said. “Jane gives you any trouble, you can use my place.”
“Thanks very much, Mr. Jackson. I can see that Jane has found a rational adult to guide her.”
“Don't mention it.”
Sonny closed the door.
“It wasn't too hard to persuade him to leave,” Alan said.
She wondered if there weren't something to the remark. Had Sonny made an effort to misunderstand their relationship? It irritated her, this habit of his, choosing to ignore whatever appeared complicated and could not be settled by force. He resisted any attempt to get under the surface.
“That's some animal you've got for yourself.”
“And you've got a goddamn nerve breaking in here.”
“Can we moderate our voices, or else we'll have your friend back. And you don't want that, either.”
“Alan, what made you come? It's all over.”
“I wanted to hear it from you.”
She didn't like the way he confused her, made her apply to herself feelings of guilt that didn't rightly belong to him.
“Look, I'm tired.” He didn't budge, opened his briefcase, and brought out a water pipe and block of hash.
“Want to smoke some?”
“You're really crazy.”
“Despondent is more like it. I've been in the men's room at Grand Central station and smoking there isn't as simple as you might think.”
“I don't want you to smoke here.”
“Why didn't you have the decency to tell me you were going....?”
“I didn't think you rated it.”
“Nice to know where I stand. I still want you back.”
“Alan, you're repeating yourself.”
“Didn't I make you happy at all ... even once?” She didn't like his pleading tone and was suspicious of it. “I love you, Jane.”
“Have you found out about my money?”
“I knew about it before I met you.”
“Alan, you're a user. Most people are, but you're so obvious about it.”
“You've got a fucking nerve saying that to me.” He got up and she thought he was going to strike her and she flinched. “Sitting there with your cunt shaved. Was that for the abortion? You know I had something to say about it!”
“I didn't want it.”
“Because it was mine?”
He was close to tears, and she had a vague sense of regret.
“Partly, I guess. It's three in the morning and I'm tired.”
“Your friend give you a workout. Don't you ever stop fucking?”
“You and I fucked, he and I make love.”
“That's a nice tidy distinction coming from you. You wouldn't really know the difference. Look, I put myself and my job on the line for you.”
“Always a convincing argument. You were horny and I was available. Maybe a better lay than most, maybe not.”
“You were great, Jane. The best, a straight A. Is it just a case of being promiscuous?”
She lit a cigarette, rubbed the corners of her eyes and hoped he'd disappear. But he loomed ahead, making small concentric circles in front of Mrs. Burke's fireplace. A lot of people had probably done the same thing in the sad little apartment.
“I want to live my life without accounting to anyone.”
“Don't you start that kind of editorializing shit with me.”
“Your jacket sleeve's torn.”
“Well, why doesn't little Miss Fixit get her sewing basket out?”
“Listen, Alan this isn't getting us anywhere.”
“No, it's not,” he admitted, then held her face in his hands. “Jane, does he make you come?”
“Everyone does.”
His hands fell to his sides and he took a deep breath to control his shaking.
“You've always been horribly candid. So, I guess it's true,” he said wearily. “Want to give me a fast blow job to remember you by and send me merrily on my way?”
He reached toward her, and she suddenly felt disgusted, and angrier than she'd ever been. As he touched her hand, she picked up a large ashtray and hit him across the side of his face. He took the blow silently, and small drops of blood dripped from his earlobe. He made no attempt to staunch the bleeding but walked past her, rapped on the bedroom door, and brought Sonny wrapped in a blanket to his feet.
“What's the matter, Professor? She won't listen? I'll have a talk with her.”
“I've decided to leave now, so I won't have t
he pleasure of seeing you tomorrow.”
“You can stay here or my joint,” Sonny said.
“Thanks anyway.”
Jane, shaking and close to tears, waited for him to come out. She took hold of his sleeve, but he ignored her.
“That was the first manly thing you've done since I've known you,” she said.
“What was that?”
“Keeping your mouth shut.”
“Not everyone wants to hurt you.”
“I've never felt closer to you, Alan. I'm really sorry.”
“As far as I'm concerned you've taken a leave of absence. I didn't mean to say...”
She went back to the bedroom, and a wave of exhaustion came over her like a chill on a summer afternoon after a sweat from playing tennis. She'd go into the tennis hut with her mother to towel off and have a Coke while Nancy began the ritual of mixing cocktails. James Harmon Siddley would saunter down the large green expanse of never-ending lawn, playfully swinging a wedge in his right hand, and join the two girls for a drink, mop Jane's brow with a cool towel, and smile sweetly at the sun in the perfectly ordered universe of their lives. Had she dreamed it all?
Sonny bit the small nub of a pencil as he handicapped horses for the next day. A shark's fin of black-gray light came through the window, and Jane swung her legs under the rumpled sheets.
“I stopped believing in my parents when I was fourteen,” she said.
“Really? Well, Jane, when I was fourteen my old man was a numbers runner in Sarasota and my mother was workin’ at a dance studio in Miami, givin’ old guys with false teeth mambo lessons and screwin’ anything that'd pay her ten bucks. So you got an edge. When I played in the Sugar Bowl I got her a dozen tickets that I scrounged from anybody I could and she sold them outside the stadium like a scalper and got herself a suite at the Roosevelt Hotel, a case of Wild Turkey, and bent her ass for any guy the bellhop could find that wanted a piece.”
“Good night, Sonny.”
“It's been the happiest Sunday of my life, even when I was playin'.”
The pure ecstasy of chaos engulfed her and she fell asleep immediately.
Here Comes the Sun King
Making Love Page 15