by Dan Pope
“I’m happy to visit. Gives me something to do with myself.”
After Benjamin left, Leonard closed his eyes. But it would be rude to fall asleep with the woman visiting him. “I’m awake,” he said.
“Go ahead, nap if you want. You got an hour before dinner. I’m happy to see you back to your old self. You’re not all glazed over like before. The same thing happened with Dick Senior after his stroke. One afternoon he got out of his armchair, wiped the drool off his mouth, and said, ‘Terri, where am I?’”
“Who’s Terri?”
“What was that, Len? Say again.”
He sighed and closed his eyes. The clicking of the knitting needles, like Morse code.
* * *
WHEN HE OPENED his eyes again, it was dark, the curtains were drawn. The TV flashed without sound. In the corner the woman was sprawled in the chair, head back, mouth open, her chest rising and falling. Her blouse had come untucked and he could see some of her stomach, pale and rippled, spilling over her hip. As he raised himself up in bed, Leonard grabbed at his right leg, yelping in pain. Terri Funkhouser stirred and picked her glasses off her chest, attached to a thin gold chain that went around her neck. “What’s wrong, Len? You’re not having another stroke, are you?”
“Cramps,” said Leonard.
“That’s the paralysis,” she said, rising heavily from the chair. “A little rubdown will do you wonders.”
She pulled the blankets away, exposing his legs in the tight hospital stockings. Her hands, warm and strong, gripped his right thigh and squeezed.
“Too hard.”
“Don’t be a baby, Len. We gotta get the blood flowing. You can’t just lie in bed all the time like a cripple. You don’t want to get bedsores. Dick Senior used to beg for massages. He would pay me by the hour, like a hooker. Said I had million-dollar hands.”
Leonard pulled his gown over his groin, trying to cover the diaper and his hairless thighs. Myra had once complained that, as he’d gotten older, he’d grown as smooth as a baby while she’d gotten hairy.
“Don’t be shy,” Terri said. “You’ve got nothing down there I haven’t seen before.” Her hands moved toward his stomach, making him laugh involuntarily. “My son Dickie’s been hell to get along with lately.”
“Dickie’s a good boy,” Len managed.
“He never had a head for business, but after Dick Senior died, he just went to pot. He lost the dry-cleaner business on bum stocks, thousands and thousands of shares, and the whole thing went poof overnight, like throwing money into the wind. His wife left him when they foreclosed on their house. Now he’s back living with me, a fifty-year-old man. He’s got a shiksa girlfriend and they want to sell my house out from under me and take the money and go to Florida. I hear them scheming in the next room, as if I were already dead. They even had the house appraised. After all I’ve done for him, this is the way he treats me, my only son.”
“Oww.” Her hands were digging into his kidneys, making him wriggle.
“Dickie’s dead broke, and that shiksa twists his head all around. ‘Wouldn’t you be happier in a nice little condo in Sarasota, Terri? It would be so much easier for you at your age.’ This she says to my face. ‘You’re sitting on a gold mine. The Realtor told us it’s worth four fifty, maybe more. Think of what you could do with all that money in Florida!’ You can practically see the dollar signs in her eyes. Stefanie is her name. ‘Stefanie with an f,’ she likes to say, as if anyone cares. Voice like a chipmunk. How does that feel, Len? Good?”
“Stop.” He tried to turn away, but she pushed him back, her hands gripping his ribs.
“Don’t get me wrong. I don’t like living in that big house all alone. I’m glad to have the company. And I like Florida as much as the next person, but who wants to live there all year round in some concrete tower built in the sand? Who wants to get pushed out by some shiksa with a boob job? Well, I shouldn’t mention the boob job because she had a mastectomy due to cancer and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, so forget I said that. Dickie never knew how to handle the ladies, and this one has her claws into him deep and she’s not going to let go. I never begrudged Dickie anything. I spoiled him rotten. I’d give him the deed to the house tomorrow if he asked. I just don’t like her asking. What’s wrong, Len?”
“Hurts.”
“There. Done.”
Her face appeared just inches above him, peering down through her spectacles. Leonard felt his lungs clog with her perfume, pungent and stupefying.
“Can’t breathe,” he said.
She tucked the blankets around him like a straitjacket. “Dickie met her at the post office. She runs some sort of half-assed business out of her apartment, selling calligraphy—personalized invitations, wedding announcements, that sort of crap. Every day she schleps her packages to the PO. No wonder she’s got her meat hooks into poor Dickie. Anything looks good compared to that type of life.”
She went back to her chair and picked up her knitting needles. Her voice went on, but he tuned out the words, feeling a calm come over him. Myra would do the same thing—talk and talk, the words turning into a sort of music. He closed his eyes and let the voice draw him into a comfortable oblivion.
* * *
ON THE DRIVE home from the hospital that night Benjamin couldn’t stop thinking about her. Her taut body, that lovely ass, raised for him. A silly refrain had gone through his mind for the first few minutes—I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I’m fucking Audrey Martin—as if he were his sixteen-year-old self, amazed at his good fortune.
For the past two days he’d wanted to call her, but—she was married. Better to let her make the next move, he figured. But now he couldn’t stop himself. He got out his cell and dialed. “I was just thinking about you,” he told her.
“That’s nice,” she said.
Her voice sounded flat, so he tried to bring her out. The direct route, always the best. “I enjoyed our little adventure the other night,” he said, “in case you couldn’t tell.”
“Me too,” she offered.
He checked the time: a few minutes past 6:00 P.M. on a Saturday evening. “I’ve got another bottle of wine, if you’re interested.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“It is.”
“Hmmm,” she said, drawing out the word in a teasing tone, which made his heart race. Teasing was good. Teasing meant it wasn’t a one-time thing. She said, finally, “May I bring the dog? She hasn’t had her walk yet and she’s getting excited.”
“That makes two of us.”
They arranged to meet at his house in a half hour.
At home, he changed into a pair of jeans and a fresh pair of boxer briefs. He piled some kindling and a few logs in the fireplace and lit the newspaper to get it going. What woman could resist a fire? He opened the bottle of wine and readied the glasses. He got a blanket from his father’s closet. What else? Condoms, of course. The half hour passed, then another ten minutes. He paced from the den to the kitchen, Yukon following him. Every few minutes he pushed aside the drapes and peered out at the dark street. What was keeping her? Had she changed her mind? Had her husband gotten in the way?
Finally, the doorbell rang. When he opened the door, her malamute raced past him, the leash slipping from her hand. Yukon pounced, and both dogs charged into the kitchen and began barking.
“The rain started,” said Audrey. “I’m soaked.”
“Come into the den. Warm up.”
She stood before the fireplace in sweatpants and a sweatshirt. She pulled off the hood and let her hair down, shaking it out.
“You look terrific,” he said.
“You haven’t seen what I’m wearing yet.”
“I haven’t?”
She shook her head. “Turn around.”
He did as she asked, staring into the darkness in the backyard. In the windo
w he followed her reflection. She shimmied out of her clothes and bent to retrieve something out of her bag. Outside the window, the bushes trembled in the night breeze.
“Okay,” she said. “You can look.”
He turned to her. She was wearing black mesh panties, a pair of high heels, nothing else.
“Well? What do you think?”
“I’m speechless,” he said.
* * *
AFTERWARD his cell phone buzzed. He fished it out of his pants and checked the caller ID.
“It’s my son,” he explained. “I’ll call him later.”
He turned off the ringer. He felt bad, but David had picked a lousy time to return his calls. Benjamin had been trying to reach him for a few days. He wanted to talk to him about Thanksgiving, just a few weeks away. Maybe his son could convince Judy to allow him to come to the house for dinner. He had called Judy three or four times since their last talk, but she wouldn’t answer or respond to his messages. He still hadn’t told her about Leonard’s stroke. But now that his dad looked so much better, it didn’t seem as urgent.
He tried to sweep his wife out of his mind as he rubbed Audrey’s back. They were naked, lying side by side on the rug, on top of Leonard’s Hudson’s Bay wool blanket. Her dark red hair fell across her shoulders.
“You’re good at that,” she said, her voice raspy. She cleared her throat. “Really good.”
“Thanks.” He grinned. He had to admit, he’d been on his game. He hadn’t rushed it. He’d taken his time, the way Judy always told him to, particularly at the start. Audrey had a beautiful body. It was blissful to run his hands over her soft skin, her breasts, the insides of her thighs. She was forty-five, but she looked a decade younger, easily, and he saw only the high school girl of his past. After some time with her on top of him, he’d switched positions, fucking her from behind, squeezing and slapping and caressing her ass, the way he’d always wanted to. He’d picked up speed as he went along, and her voice had gone hoarse with her cries of pleasure.
“Have you done this before?” he asked.
“What, had sex in someone’s father’s den?”
He laughed. “You know what I mean.”
“This is a first.”
“I’m your first affair?”
“Yes, Benjamin.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re irresistible. Now stop fishing for compliments and let me enjoy the glow.”
He laughed. “So you weren’t faking?”
“Very funny, mister.”
After a minute or two, with the logs cracking and hissing, he grew uncomfortable with the silence. “So what are your plans for Thanksgiving?” he asked, making his salesman’s small talk.
“We’re staying put this year,” she answered. “We usually go to Andrew’s parents’ house in Longmeadow, but they already canceled. His father’s not feeling well, apparently. It would have been awkward anyway.”
“Why? Your husband still acting weird?”
“There’s that. But I’ve got other trouble now: my daughter. She’s giving me the silent treatment.”
“What happened?”
She sighed. “Yesterday she disappeared after school. She didn’t even bother to call to say where she was. I waited up all night. She showed up in a taxi at six o’clock this morning, stoned out of her mind. This afternoon I found a stash of prescription pills in her closet. God knows where she gets them.”
“What did you do?”
“I flushed the pills down the toilet. That’s why she’s mad at me, if you can believe it. I invaded her privacy, she says. I don’t know what to do with her.”
“Try grounding her. That always worked with mine. She hated being trapped in the house.”
“What would she want with OxyContin?”
“We smoked grass. Nowadays kids like the designer stuff.”
“I never should have let her go to school in New York City. She always had a wild streak and that certainly didn’t help. All those years, all those lessons—and she gets away from home for ten minutes and forgets everything.”
He shrugged. “They have to learn it for themselves. Otherwise, it’s like doing their homework for them. It just doesn’t sink in.”
“How old is your son?”
“David? He’s twenty.”
“Tell me about him,” she said, her gaze lost in the fire.
“He’s a great kid. Athletic, smart. He looks a lot like me, actually. He and I haven’t talked much lately either, ever since Judy and I announced the divorce. But that’s normal for David. He’s always been quiet. When something’s bothering him, he keeps it bottled up.”
She was silent.
“You’re not falling asleep, are you?”
She shook her head. A moment later, he felt her body trembling.
“Is something wrong?”
The tears flowed down her cheeks.
“Hey. What is it?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Was it something I said?”
“It has nothing to do with you.”
“What, then?”
Between sobs, she said, “Just leave it alone.”
He raised up on his elbow. “No, tell me. I want to know.”
He felt her body tense. Finally she said, “Something bad happened, a year and a half ago. I’m not over it. I’ll never be over it.”
“Were you . . . raped?”
She wiped her eyes. “No, nothing like that,” she said, her voice changing. “Why would you think that?”
“I was just asking—”
“This isn’t Twenty Questions, okay?” She exhaled derisively. “Jesus, Benjamin. Were you raped?”
She got up suddenly and began searching for her clothes.
“I’m sorry if I said the wrong thing.”
She shook her head. “I told you, I don’t want to talk about it. I can’t talk about it. So please don’t ask stupid questions. Don’t try to find out—” She pulled on her sweatpants and stuffed her bra and underwear into the pockets. She whirled around, looking for her sweatshirt. “I was raped in college, if you must know. I know what that feels like, okay? And I wish—I wish—that was it. I’d take that any day. I would pray for that.”
She called for her dog. The malamute appeared almost immediately, pulling the leash after her. “I’m happy to talk about that. I can tell you all about the senior guy who got me drunk and locked me in his dorm room. There’s a story for you. Very original, right? We can have coffee and I’ll tell you what it felt like.”
She turned, and he said, “Audrey.”
“What!”
“Don’t go.”
She stopped in the doorway, her back to him. She rubbed her brow for a few long seconds and finally turned. “It’s past eight. I have to go. I have to get back to my family.”
“Okay. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Being with you, fucking you, that’s all I want, okay? That’s what I want from you. I don’t want a fucking therapist, okay? Are you good with that?”
“Yes. Fine.”
“Fine then.”
She went out the front door, the dog trailing her. After she left he stared at the fire in a sort of daze.
* * *
HIS SON called back later that night. Benjamin roused himself off the couch, where he’d fallen asleep. The fire had gone out; a few embers were glowing a faint pink.
Yukon raised his head off the rug and gave Benjamin a look that seemed to say, Why are you disturbing me? The dog was not accustomed to being awake so late at night, and neither was Benjamin. He shifted on the couch, wincing. His groin felt sore; he hadn’t used those muscles in a while.
“Hi, David.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No,” Benjamin sa
id. This didn’t seem like the right time to tell him about Leonard’s stroke. “Why do you ask?”
“You called so many times.”
“You’re not very easy to get ahold of.” On the other end of the phone, Benjamin heard car horns, loud voices. “Where are you?”
“Heading back to the dorm.”
This was his son’s habit, when he did deign to call—to talk during his walk across campus between classes or, like now, after leaving some party late at night. Their conversations lasted the time it took David to reach his destination, usually no more than a few minutes.
“Has your mother mentioned anything about Thanksgiving?”
His son didn’t answer. The silence went on for so long that Benjamin thought he’d lost the connection. “Are you there, David?”
“Look, I don’t want to be referee between you and Mom anymore. I’d rather stay down here in the dorm over Thanksgiving if it’s going to be like that. The weather’s better anyway. I don’t need this shit.”
“Whoa. Where did that come from?” Benjamin had assumed his son had accepted his and Judy’s separation with his usual apathy toward all things parental. It’s fine, Dad. Whatever. “What’s your mother been telling you?”
“God, Dad. Did you hear what I just said? I don’t want to be the fucking Ping-Pong ball.”
“Watch your language.”
“Listen to me for a change and maybe I will.”
“I’d like to see you kids over Thanksgiving, like a family.”
“A family. That’s a joke. We’re not a family. You took care of that.”
“I did? Did your mother say that? That I was the one who asked for a divorce? Well, that’s a lie—”
“Will you stop already? Are you even halfway listening?”
His son slurred the last few words, and Benjamin realized he must be drunk. “Look, David. I know it must be rough on you and Sarah—”
“Yeah, thanks for thinking of us. That’s really awesome of you.”
“I’d like to talk to you about this stuff in person. You are coming home for Thanksgiving, right?”
“Yeah, sure. Can’t wait.”
“Good. We’ll—” he began, but his son had hung up.
