Dean Ing - Silent Thunder

by Silent Thunder(lit)

  Once inside the echoing corridors of the stadium: Hey, I need to find the powder room, Pam announced, adding, I could use company, Laurie.

  Laurie went with her, still standoffish, but returned five minutes later chatting with Pam as if they were old friends. Ramsay caught Pam's wink as they filed into the lower tiers of the stadium, and wondered if a shared pissoir made sisters of them all. The woman knew her soccer, delighting Laurie with tales of the sport back at the University of New Mexico. As well as the day had begun, it seemed to keep getting better; the Bolivian gave a heady demonstration of his skills on the field.

  We can sure use him, Pam enthused later as they strolled toward the parking lot. Laurie, did you see how-what's wrong, Alan; forget something?

  Ramsay patted his pockets convincingly, with a slow turn as if to retrace his steps. If that brown Ford had been a rough tail, there might be a smooth one following them out of the stadium, but no one followed them. He shrugged off the feeling and said he'd found his keys after all, smiling down at his companions.

  Pam, suddenly: Laurie, do you get a crick in your neck from looking up at your dad?

  Sometimes. But I can jump up on him and you better not, Laurie said artlessly.

  No fear, Pam said, her laugh unfeigned and throaty. But I can wear heels and you better not, missy. That's my Honda, she pointed to a dusty red coupe. I'll go over and fix myself up. Why don't you two drive that yellow lightning bolt over and collect me?

  Walking hand-in-hand to the Genie, the two Ramsays spoke of food, of Bolivians, and only once of Pam. She says her company has the government for a client. What's a client?

  Somebody who gives you a job, but you don't work for them all the time, Ramsay said. Practically every company in Washington could say that, pudd'n.

  Like NBN?

  He chuckled and squeezed her hand. Not yet, but they're trying, he said. They're always trying. He did not expand on the idea, nor mention this Federal Media Council foolishness that most media were watching cautiously. Even if the council became law, he reflected, it probably would not exert any more power than the defunct Federal Communications Commission had.

  Laurie brought him back to the present with, She's pretty. But I like her, explaining volumes with the 'but.'

  As Ramsay pulled up beside the red Honda, Pam stowed something, perhaps an extra compact, in her glove box and exited the car with a flash of turquoise. Now she wore spaghetti-strap heels and a kerchief side-tied at her throat, all of a blue to complement the skirt and Pam's natural Latina color. Ramsay caught Laurie studying his face for reaction and hid his awe with, It's never too early to think of food. It was much too early, he added silently, to be ogling Pam Garza as if she were dessert.

  Then they argued, hilariously. Pam suggested La Nicoise.

  Ramsay, flicking his open collar: No tie, remember? And I deeply mistrust any meal served by a waiter on roller skates. He suggested Beowulf Pub.

  There's enough Beowulf in you already, Pam teased. How about Old Budapest?

  Laurie: Do they have cheeseburgers?

  Ramsay: Probably, with an unpronounceable name and seven surly gypsy fiddlers. Isn't it halfway to Dulles?

  Halfway to Dallas, Pam admitted, and pointed a finger at Laurie's nose. You, she accused, have probably never had a buffaloburger. Betcha. And you, sir, have never had a choice of two hundred beers.

  Not at one sitting, he hedged, but there's always a first time. So they drove nearly to Georgetown and ate at the Brickskellar, a family saloon with a game room that kept Laurie squandering half-dollars long after dinner.

  In that time he sketched some of his background for Pam, including his boyhood on a Nebraska farm and his entry into media as a sports announcer. He claimed the blame for his divorce, saying that Laurie made all his mistakes worthwhile.

  He learned in turn that the Garzas had sharecropped near Tucumcari, and that Pam's revolt against tradition had included leaving the Catholic Church. I'm not sure whether I'm a Methodist or a Baptist, she laughed. I've tried both.

  Working her way through school in Albuquerque, Pam said, she had then worked her way up the ladder of a local public relations firm and, offered a chance at similar work in the nation's capital, she had leaped at it. She also alluded to a youthful affair with an older man in Albuquerque an alliance that he soon broke off with the genuine mixed emotions of a family man. I was dumb, of course, she added, and he was dumber, but really a sweet man. I had no idea how important he'd-ah, well. No regrets, Alan. And adeptly, she changed the subject.

  Then Laurie was standing at their booth. Five more bucks, she promised, and I can beat the golem.

  You are the golem, he said. Isn't that a lot of shooting, kid? I thought it was against your principles.

  It's not real, Dad. She had always called him 'Daddy.' Was it possible that the girl was maturing before his very eyes? She cocked her head and looked at the adults in turn, then leaned like a bartender on the table. 'Course, I could play World Cup against Pam on your set at home, for nuthin'.

  Pam, mirth dancing across her high cheekbones, made her face deadpan: You train her to say these things?

  Absolutely. Start 'em early, sez I.

  She made her eyes huge, innocent, and whispered, Shameless. And then agreed, on condition that they detour to pick up her car at the stadium. As he was peeling off bills for the tab for honest-to-God buffalo steaks and classic Kulmbacher beer, Pam said, It just occurred to me: you big TV stars have to get up very early. Maybe we should do this another time?

  She was making it easy to disengage-and Jesus, what about Kathleen? Well, screw Kathleen, or rather unscrew her, unless Pam left early. There was no question in his mind about dalliance at his place, not with Laurie there, and he didn't give a damn because this delightful woman affected him like champagne. He wouldn't abandon the bubbles just yet, and as they squeezed into the Genie, he told her the evening was young. He promised himself that he would simply have to call Kathleen later.

  Laurie, to his surprise, wanted to ride with Pam. He let her, laughing to himself as he spotted the Honda following him to Hyattsville because now he had a tail who was really tail, if he wanted to be raunchy about it. And he did, and he didn't; Pam seemed the kind of forthright good woman who made a man ashamed of his own readiness, but ready nonetheless. Using hand signals, he directed Pam to park behind him at his garage and then walked them to his place, easing into their argument on Great Video Games I Have Known once inside the apartment.

  Laurie proved the more knowledgeable player, defeating her father and Pam in turn until Ramsay finally edged her at Pele. I'm sleepy, is all, she excused her loss. Okay if I crash, Dad?

  You were double-teamed, kid, he said, hugging her and grinning as Pam got a quick hug too. He poured skim milk for them all and took a razzing from Pam on the spartan contents of his refrigerator.

  Next time you raid that fridge, Laurie, she said as the girl headed for the study, once her own bedroom, grab a baseball bat for the attack of the mold monster in there.

  Weapons are un-American, Laurie recited seriously, and yawned off to bed.

  Now, there goes a well-rounded liberal, Pam said.

  Ten pounds too well-rounded, Ramsay responded. Pam assured him that Laurie would lose her chunkiness, watching him at his coffee making game, applauding softly as he managed it in forty-three seconds, closer to the record. You inspired me, he said. Maybe there's life after forty, at that.

  Think of years as seasoning. I do, she said. And kissed her fingertip and placed it against the tip of his nose.

  If Saturday had worn well, it only improved after late coffee. Pam showed him what happened when marshmallows were briefly microwaved, sprinkling walnuts on the grossly swollen puffs of sweet nothing, enmeshing her small fingers in strands of goo to feed him a bite. He found one edible strand stretching from her lips to his, and they vied for it, and the kiss began with shared merriment but quickly turned solemn. The kisses that followed were sweeter, he sa
id, than warm marshmallow.

  And a whole lot less caloric, she said, her smile faltering. I don't usually, uh-

  Fool around, he supplied. He was nuzzling her throat at the time.

  When a woman says that, no one believes it, she said, her hands in his hair, wriggling with pleasure. Especially when it's true. No, I was going to say I'm not usually one for the fast quip and toujours gai.

  I'm not sure I care. But why are you doing it, then?

  I-guess I didn't expect you to be so uh, compatible, dammit! It scares me a little. A lot. Here I am hiding behind repartee, because it's not as dangerous as honesty but it's not as satisfying, either. She thrust her fine breasts against his hands.

  Now he was stroking her nipples gently through her blouse, gazing into her face, their open mouths touching as they breathed in unison. He said, I want to do something with you that is very, very satisfying, if I can get my goddamn couch unfolded.

  So do I, so do I. She crooned it in bittersweet agony. But I will not do it tonight. Don't look at me like that, she pleaded. If you have any idea how possessive a young girl can be, you can imagine how Laurie would hate me if she walked in on us. I want her to like me, Alan!

  He had not removed his hands. This wouldn't bother her?

  With the pleading, a wicked smile. Kissing she might handle. Fondling, maybe. If we go onto that couch, Alan, I get a triple-X rating.

  He let his hands fall away, touched her hair which had fallen to a cascade over her shoulders. Bitch, he said fondly. You're right, sure, of course. I want her to like you, too. Shit, hell, damnation. I wanted you for breakfast tomorrow.

  I want you right now. For a midnight snack. And I promise-ah, you meant to have breakfast.

  You'll drive me berserk. Yeah, pancakes, bacon, all that domestic crap.

  She drew her hands slowly from his shoulders, letting her formidable nails rake gently down his pectorals, then took his hands in hers. Nothing could be simpler, but I've got to go now. For the sake of all three of us. I'll be back around mid-morning. For breakfast; the three of us. Okay?

  With mingled longing and anticipation, he agreed; helped her collect her things, enjoyed a head-swimmer of a kiss at his front door and listened to the tic-tac of her quick footfalls to the sidewalk. Then he steeled himself for a call to his ex-wife.

  Kathleen was an iced vitriol cocktail on the phone, but accepted his story that he'd been interviewing a woman and yes, Laurie had been with them constantly.

  He put down the kitchen phone extension, wondering if a bourbon-and-water would make him sleepy enough. The sooner he slept, the less time he would spend waiting for Pamela Garza. One helluva day, he decided, was Saturday. Could Sunday fail to be better?

  He seldom remembered, later, how well Sunday began, with Laurie setting the table and mixing batter while waiting for Pam's arrival; because it all turned to ashes when he began to scan the Sunday paper.

  'Georgetown Savant Succumbs' might have been anyone, but it was Broeck Wintoon. Found by housekeeper, blah, blah; apparent heart attack at his Chevy Chase house, blah, blah; history of heart trouble, survived by sons, and so on; for years a respected figure, decades of service, author of, et cetera. Stunned, Ramsay walked to his study like an automaton and tried every channel, cursing each sermon and commercial, then calling his own station.

  The paper had it all, evidently. Wintoon's seizure must have come on Friday evening, some hours after their meeting. Was there any chance that Ramsay's mad scenario could have brought it on? But hell, the old man had spoken of cocktails at his club, and a follow-up at leisure. Ramsay was calling an order for a wreath when Laurie answered the door buzzer. It was Pam Garza, with a bottle of crackling non-alcoholic cider.

  Pam glanced his way and, misreading his face, assumed guilt. I've brought some-oh, Alan, did we make a mistake?

  He finished the call, took the bottle from Pam, and hugged her while Laurie frowned at the mystery. When he showed them the paper and explained, Pam seemed relieved. If you'd like to talk, I'm a good listener, she said, starting to share the breakfast chores.

  He remained morose until halfway through the pancakes. I need to talk to somebody, he admitted then, but I don't want to involve you.

  Let me worry about that, Alan. I'm not a schoolgirl.

  Laurie, around a syrupy mouthful: What's wrong with schoolgirls?

  Not a thing, honey. But your dad's responsible for you, and I'm responsible for me. Never forget that, she said in Ramsay's direction.

  He nodded, realizing that Pam Garza was a woman of great pride and self-confidence. Then he told her of his long friendship with Broeck Wintoon.

  Later, while walking off their meal in a nearby park and watching Laurie pump great arcs on a child's swing, Pam remarked, I'm terribly sorry this man's death hit you so hard.

  It might not have, he sighed, if I didn't feel that I might've put some stress on him. I picked up an unsubstantiated rumor and asked him about it last Friday. Can't pass it on now. Sorry, but that's the way it is.

  Surely you can't blame yourself for an old man's heart attack!

  It was the kind of rumor that spreads guilt around, he said glumly.

  Not around you and me, she teased, then saw the long, level look he gave her. I see; maybe we should talk about something else.

  So they ambled back to Laurie and proposed a late lunch. Without spoken agreement, the two adults accepted that theirs was to be a conventional courtship, and that it had already begun. Laurie, to Ramsay's surprise, seemed to accept it without rancor.

  Pam left them after lunch and, when dropping Laurie off, Ramsay had a brief, defensive talk with Kathleen. He niced himself out in that exchange and did not recover his on-camera affability until shortly before the broadcast.

  Afterward, he sped home at a pace that risked a ticket, wondering if his answering machine would have a call from Pam. He found her parked at his garage, dozing, listening to music behind the wheel of the red Honda.

  Ushering her into his apartment he asked, Do you realize that I haven't even scrubbed off my makeup or taken off this stupid tie?

  I shouldn't be so predictable, she purred, and helped him with the tie. Good luck charm or not, she said, that tie had seen better days. But as it turned out, Alan Ramsay had never known a better night.

  It had been many years since a young woman had turned Ramsay's priorities upside down, but he could not deny the facts. He did not attend Wintoon's funeral, and begrudged the time spent on his profession. For a few days and nights he suffered the symptoms of a benign disease best known among the young: romantic love.

  Most of his waking moments, he felt feverish. He forgot appointments, changed his mouthwash, cleaned his refrigerator out, and bought new shorts. He changed his sheets every morning and Scotchgarded his couch. And every night he and Pam Garza soiled everything again after late, light dinners, playing out their mutual fantasies.

  Monday she became his 'casual' pickup in an Ethiopian restaurant in the Adams-Morgan district, but he failed the charade after she asked about Laurie. Tuesday they devoured seafood at the Pompano, later devouring each other on his couch. Wednesday she entered his apartment wearing savage spike heels and, he soon learned, a garter belt in deference to a kink he'd admitted. She wanted him submissive for once, or so she thought, but joyously abandoned the idea after five minutes of satiation with her fully clothed and him dutifully naked. Some victim you are, she said with a pretend pout. I don't think you care who's having who.

  He agreed, rolling her over. By the time they fell asleep Wednesday night, each knew virtually every sexual provocation that delighted the other, and they spoke fervently of love. Yet, while Pamela Garza could navigate his apartment in the dark, he still had never seen the Washington apartment she shared with another young career woman. He knew everything she wanted him to know, and nothing more.

  He did remember to call Laurie Wednesday evening. He would always treasure that call.

  Thursday morning at the
studios, he signed for a slender package brought by one of the private messenger services so popular in Washington. Those messengers were sometimes slow to deliver but they were very, very private, and they had not received the package in the mail until Tuesday.

  Inside the package was a microcassette from Broeck Wintoon. Ramsay locked his cubicle, stuffed the tiny cassette into his pocket memocomp with fingers that shook, and stuck the playback unit's earpiece in his ear before playing the tape.

  Over the faint background hiss, Wintoon's voice: Well, my lad, I just happened across someone who should know about, shall we say, the sinister machinations of Professor Henry Higgins. And I just happened to bring up your little zinger. Amazing what the old-boy net can do. Apparently the elders have heard the rumor, and we both know they have their own lackeys in trenchcoats.

  The rumor is without foundation-I'm almost sorry to say, the voice chuckled. But of course I'm relieved, really. Otherwise, all weekend I'd be cudgeling this old head over it, instead of enjoying my new Grumman canoe. More likely, I'll be swimming in Deep Creek Lake, depending on how well I remember how to handle a one-man rig.