Going For a Beer

by Robert Coover

  He slips the coin in. There’s a metallic fall and a sharp click as the dial tone begins. “I hope the Tuckers have gone,” he says. “Don’t worry, they’re at our place,” Mark says. “They’re always the first ones to come and the last ones to go home. My old man’s always bitching about them.” Jack laughs nervously and dials the number. “Tell her we’re coming over to protect her from getting raped,” Mark suggests, and lights a cigarette. Jack grins, leaning casually against the door jamb of the phonebooth, chewing gum, one hand in his pocket. He’s really pretty uneasy, though. He has the feeling he’s somehow messing up a good thing.

  Bitsy runs naked into the livingroom, keeping a hassock between herself and the babysitter. “Bitsy . . . !” the babysitter threatens. Artificial reds and greens and purples flicker over the child’s wet body, as hooves clatter, guns crackle, and stagecoach wheels thunder over rutted terrain. “Get outa the way, Bitsy!” the boy complains. “I can’t see!” Bitsy streaks past and the babysitter chases, cornering the girl in the back bedroom. Bitsy throws something that hits her softly in the face: a pair of men’s undershorts. She grabs the girl scampering by, carries her struggling to the bathroom, and with a smart crack on her glistening bottom, pops her back into the tub. In spite, Bitsy peepees in the bathwater.

  Mr. Tucker stirs a little water into his bourbon and kids with his host and another man, just arrived, about their golf games. They set up a match for the weekend, a threesome looking for a fourth. Holding his drink in his right hand, Mr. Tucker swings his left through the motion of a tee-shot. “You’ll have to give me a stroke a hole,” he says. “I’ll give you a stroke!” says his host: “Bend over!” Laughing, the other man asks: “Where’s your boy Mark tonight?” “I don’t know,” replies the host, gathering up a trayful of drinks. Then he adds in a low growl: “Out chasing tail probably.” They chuckle loosely at that, then shrug in commiseration and return to the livingroom to join their women.

  Shades pulled. Door locked. Watching the TV. Under a blanket maybe. Yes, that’s right, under a blanket. Her eyes close when he kisses her. Her breasts, under both their hands, are soft and yielding.

  A hard blow to the belly. The face. The dark beardy one staggers. The lean-jawed sheriff moves in, but gets a spurred boot in his face. The dark one hurls himself forward, drives his shoulder into the sheriff’s hard midriff, her own tummy tightens, withstands, as the sheriff smashes the dark man’s nose, slams him up against a wall, slugs him again! and again! The dark man grunts rhythmically, backs off, then plunges suicidally forward—her own knees draw up protectively—the sheriff staggers! caught low! but instead of following through, the other man steps back—a pistol! the dark one has a pistol! the sheriff draws! shoots from the hip! explosions! She clutches her hands between her thighs—no! the sheriff spins! wounded! The dark man hesitates, aims, her legs stiffen toward the set, the sheriff rolls desperately in the straw, fires: dead! the dark man is dead! groans, crumples, his pistol drooping in his collapsing hand, dropping, he drops. The sheriff, spent, nicked, watches weakly from the floor where he lies. Oh, to be whole! to be good and strong and right! To embrace and be embraced by harmony and wholeness! The sheriff, drawing himself painfully up on one elbow, rubs his bruised mouth with the back of his other hand.

  “Well, we just sorta thought we’d drop over,” he says, and winks broadly at Mark. “Who’s we?” “Oh, me and Mark here.” “Tell her, good thing like her, gotta pass it around,” whispers Mark, dragging on his smoke, then flicking the butt over under the pinball machine. “What’s that?” she asks. “Oh Mark and I were just saying, like two’s company, three’s an orgy,” Jack says, and winks again. She giggles. “Oh, Jack!” Behind her, he can hear shouts and gunfire. “Well, okay, for just a little while, if you’ll both be good.” Way to go, man.

  Probably some damn kid over there right now. Wrestling around on the couch in front of his TV. Maybe he should drop back to the house. Just to check. None of that stuff, she was there to do a job! Park the car a couple doors down, slip in the front door before she knows it. He sees the disarray of clothing, the young thighs exposed to the flickering television light, hears his baby crying. “Hey, what’s going on here! Get outa here, son, before I call the police!” Of course, they haven’t really been doing anything. They probably don’t even know how. He stares benignly down upon the girl, her skirt rumpled loosely around her thighs. Flushed, frightened, yet excited, she stares back at him. He smiles. His finger touches a knee, approaches the hem. Another couple arrives. Filling up here with people. He wouldn’t be missed. Just slip out, stop back casually to pick up something or other he forgot, never mind what. He remembers that the other time they had this babysitter, she took a bath in their house. She had a date afterwards, and she’d just come from cheerleading practice or something. Aspirin maybe. Just drop quietly and casually into the bathroom to pick up some aspirin. “Oh, excuse me, dear! I only . . . !” She gazes back at him, astonished, yet strangely moved. Her soft wet breasts rise and fall in the water, and her tummy looks pale and ripply. He recalls that her pubic hairs, left in the tub, were brown. Light brown.

  She’s no more than stepped into the tub for a quick bath, when Jimmy announces from outside the door that he has to go to the bathroom. She sighs: just an excuse, she knows. “You’ll have to wait.” The little nuisance. “I can’t wait.” “Okay, then come ahead, I’m taking a bath.” She supposes that will stop him, but it doesn’t. In he comes. She slides down into the suds until she’s eye-level with the edge of the tub. He hesitates. “Go ahead, if you have to,” she says, a little awkwardly, “but I’m not getting out.” “Don’t look,” he says. She: “I will if I want to.”

  She’s crying. Mark is rubbing his jaw where he’s just slugged him. A lamp lies shattered. “Enough’s enough, Mark! Now get outa here!” Her skirt is ripped to the waist, her bare hip bruised. Her panties lie on the floor like a broken balloon. Later, he’ll wash her wounds, help her dress, he’ll take care of her. Pity washes through him, giving him a sudden hard-on. Mark laughs at it, pointing. Jack crouches, waiting, ready for anything.

  Laughing, they roll and tumble. Their little hands are all over her, digging and pinching. She struggles to her hands and knees, but Bitsy leaps astride her neck, bowing her head to the carpet. “Spank her, Jimmy!” His swats sting: is her skirt up? The phone rings. “The cavalry to the rescue!” she laughs, and throws them off to go answer.

  Kissing Mark, her eyes closed, her hips nudge toward Jack. He stares at the TV screen, unsure of himself, one hand slipping cautiously under her skirt. Her hand touches his arm as though to resist, then brushes on by to rub his leg. This blanket they’re under was a good idea. “Hi! This is Jack!”

  Bitsy’s out and the water’s running. “Come on, Jimmy, your turn!” Last time, he told her he took his own baths, but she came in anyway. “I’m not gonna take a bath,” he announces, eyes glued on the set. He readies for the struggle. “But I’ve already run your water. Come on, Jimmy, please!” He shakes his head. She can’t make him, he’s sure he’s as strong as she is. She sighs. “Well, it’s up to you. I’ll use the water myself then,” she says. He waits until he’s pretty sure she’s not going to change her mind, then sneaks in and peeks through the keyhole in the bathroom door: just in time to see her big bottom as she bends over to stir in the bubblebath. Then she disappears. Trying to see as far down as the keyhole will allow, he bumps his head on the knob. “Jimmy, is that you?” “I—I have to go to the bathroom!” he stammers.

  Not actually in the tub, just getting in. One foot on the mat, the other in the water. Bent over slightly, buttocks flexed, teats swaying, holding on to the edge of the tub. “Oh, excuse me! I only wanted . . . !” He passes over her astonishment, the awkward excuses, moves quickly to the part where he reaches out to—“What on earth are you doing, Harry?” his wife asks, staring at his hand. His host, passing, laughs. “He’s practicing his swing for Sunday, Dolly, but it’s not going to do him a damn bit of
good!” Mr. Tucker laughs, sweeps his right hand on through the air as though lifting a seven-iron shot onto the green. He makes a dok! sound with his tongue. “In there!”

  “No, Jack, I don’t think you’d better.” “Well, we just called, we just, uh, thought we’d, you know, stop by for a minute, watch television for thirty minutes, or, or something.” “Who’s we?” “Well, Mark’s here, I’m with him, and he said he’d like to, you know, like if it’s all right, just—” “Well, it’s not all right. The Tuckers said no.” “Yeah, but if we only—” “And they seemed awfully suspicious about last time.” “Why? We didn’t—I mean, I just thought—” “No, Jack, and that’s period.” She hangs up. She returns to the TV, but the commercial is on. Anyway, she’s missed most of the show. She decides maybe she’ll take a quick bath. Jack might come by anyway, it’d make her mad, that’d be the end as far as he was concerned, but if he should, she doesn’t want to be all sweaty. And besides, she likes the big tub the Tuckers have.

  He is self-conscious and stands with his back to her, his little neck flushed. It takes him forever to get started, and when it finally does come, it’s just a tiny trickle. “See, it was just an excuse,” she scolds, but she’s giggling inwardly at the boy’s embarrassment. “You’re just a nuisance, Jimmy.” At the door, his hand on the knob, he hesitates, staring timidly down on his shoes. “Jimmy?” She peeks at him over the edge of the tub, trying to keep a straight face, as he sneaks a nervous glance back over his shoulder. “As long as you bothered me,” she says, “you might as well soap my back.”

  “The aspirin . . .” They embrace. She huddles in his arms like a child. Lovingly, paternally, knowledgeably, he wraps her nakedness. How compact, how tight and small her body is! Kissing her ear, he stares down past her rump at the still clear water. “I’ll join you,” he whispers hoarsely.

  She picks up the shorts Bitsy threw at her. Men’s underwear. She holds them in front of her, looks at herself in the bedroom mirror. About twenty sizes too big for her, of course. She runs her hand inside the opening in front, pulls out her thumb. How funny it must feel!

  “Well, man, I say we just go rape her,” Mark says flatly, and swings his weight against the pinball machine. “Uff! Ahh! Get in there, you mother! Look at that! Hah! Man, I’m gonna turn this baby over!” Jack is embarrassed about the phone conversation. Mark just snorted in disgust when he hung up. He cracks down hard on his gum, angry that he’s such a chicken. “Well, I’m game if you are,” he says coldly.

  8:30. “Okay, come on, Jimmy, it’s time.” He ignores her. The western gives way to a spy show. Bitsy, in pajamas, pads into the livingroom. “No, Bitsy, it’s time to go to bed.” “You said I could watch!” the girl whines, and starts to throw another tantrum. “But you were too slow and it’s late. Jimmy, you get in that bathroom, and right now!” Jimmy stares sullenly at the set, unmoving. The babysitter tries to catch the opening scene of the television program so she can follow it later, since Jimmy gives himself his own baths. When the commercial interrupts, she turns off the sound, stands in front of the screen. “Okay, into the tub, Jimmy Tucker, or I’ll take you in there and give you your bath myself!” “Just try it,” he says, “and see what happens.”

  They stand outside, in the dark, crouched in the bushes, peeking in. She’s on the floor, playing with the kids. Too early. They seem to be tickling her. She gets to her hands and knees, but the little girl leaps on her head, pressing her face to the floor. There’s an obvious target, and the little boy proceeds to beat on it. “Hey, look at the kid go!” whispers Mark, laughing and snapping his fingers softly. Jack feels uneasy out here. Too many neighbors, too many cars going by, too many people in the world. That little boy in there is one up on him, though: he’s never thought about tickling her as a starter.

  His little hand, clutching the bar of soap, lathers shyly a narrow space between her shoulderblades. She is doubled forward against her knees, buried in rich suds, peeking at him over the edge of her shoulder. The soap slithers out of his grip and plunks into the water. “I . . . I dropped the soap,” he whispers. She: “Find it.”

  “I dream of Jeannie with the light brown pubic hair!” “Harry! Stop that! You’re drunk!” But they’re laughing, they’re all laughing, damn! he’s feeling pretty goddamn good at that, and now he just knows he needs that aspirin. Watching her there, her thighs spread for him, on the couch, in the tub, hell, on the kitchen table for that matter, he tees off on Number Nine, and—whap!—swats his host’s wife on the bottom. “Hole in one!” he shouts. “Harry!” Why can’t his goddamn wife Dolly ever get happy-drunk instead of sour-drunk all the time? “Gonna be tough Sunday, old buddy!” “You’re pretty tough right now, Harry,” says his host.

  The babysitter lunges forward, grabs the boy by the arms and hauls him off the couch, pulling two cushions with him, and drags him toward the bathroom. He lashes out, knocking over an endtable full of magazines and ashtrays. “You leave my brother alone!” Bitsy cries and grabs the sitter around the waist. Jimmy jumps on her and down they all go. On the silent screen, there’s a fade-in to a dark passageway in an old apartment building in some foreign country. She kicks out and somebody falls between her legs. Somebody else is sitting on her face. “Jimmy! Stop that!” the babysitter laughs, her voice muffled.

  She’s watching television. All alone. It seems like a good time to go in. Just remember: really, no matter what she says, she wants it. They’re standing in the bushes, trying to get up the nerve. “We’ll tell her to be good,” Mark whispers, “and if she’s not good, we’ll spank her.” Jack giggles softly, but his knees are weak. She stands. They freeze. She looks right at them. “She can’t see us,” Mark whispers tensely. “Is she coming out?” “No,” says Mark, “she’s going into—that must be the bathroom!” Jack takes a deep breath, his heart pounding. “Hey, is there a window back there?” Mark asks.

  The phone rings. She leaves the tub, wrapped in a towel. Bitsy gives a tug on the towel. “Hey, Jimmy, get the towel!” she squeals. “Now stop that, Bitsy!” the babysitter hisses, but too late: with one hand on the phone, the other isn’t enough to hang on to the towel. Her sudden nakedness awes them and it takes them a moment to remember about tickling her. By then, she’s in the towel again. “I hope you got a good look,” she says angrily. She feels chilled and oddly a little frightened. “Hello?” No answer. She glances at the window—is somebody out there? Something, she saw something, and a rustling—footsteps?

  “Okay, I don’t care, Jimmy, don’t take a bath,” she says irritably. Her blouse is pulled out and wrinkled, her hair is all mussed, and she feels sweaty. There’s about a million things she’d rather be doing than babysitting with these two. Three: at least the baby’s sleeping. She knocks on the overturned endtable for luck, rights it, replaces the magazines and ashtrays. The one thing that really makes her sick is a dirty diaper. “Just go on to bed.” “I don’t have to go to bed until nine,” he reminds her. Really, she couldn’t care less. She turns up the volume on the TV, settles down on the couch, poking her blouse back into her skirt, pushing her hair out of her eyes. Jimmy and Bitsy watch from the floor. Maybe, once they’re in bed, she’ll take a quick bath. She wishes Jack would come by. The man, no doubt the spy, is following a woman, but she doesn’t know why. The woman passes another man. Something seems to happen, but it’s not clear what. She’s probably already missed too much. The phone rings.

  Mark is kissing her. Jack is under the blanket, easing her panties down over her squirming hips. Her hand is in his pants, pulling it out, pulling it toward her, pulling it hard. She knew just where it was! Mark is stripping, too. God, it’s really happening! he thinks with a kind of pious joy, and notices the open door. “Hey! What’s going on here?”

  He soaps her back, smooth and slippery under his hand. She is doubled over, against her knees, between his legs. Her light brown hair, reaching to her gleaming shoulders, is wet at the edges. The soap slips, falls between his legs. He fishes for it, finds
it, slips it behind him. “Help me find it,” he whispers in her ear. “Sure, Harry,” says his host, going around behind him. “What’d you lose?”

  Soon be nine, time to pack the kids off to bed. She clears the table, dumps paper plates and leftover hamburgers into the garbage, puts glasses and silverware into the sink, and the mayonnaise, mustard, and ketchup in the refrigerator. Neither child has eaten much supper finally, mostly potato chips and ice cream, but it’s really not her problem. She glances at the books on the refrigerator. Not much chance she’ll get to them, she’s already pretty worn out. Maybe she’d feel better if she had a quick bath. She runs water into the tub, tosses in bubblebath salts, undresses. Before pushing down her panties, she stares for a moment at the smooth silken panel across her tummy, fingers the place where the opening would be if there were one. Then she steps quickly out of them, feeling somehow ashamed, unhooks her brassiere. She weighs her breasts in the palms of her hands, watching herself in the bathroom mirror, where, in the open window behind her, she sees a face. She screams.

  She screams: “Jimmy! Give me that!” “What’s the matter?” asks Jack on the other end. “Jimmy! Give me my towel! Right now!” “Hello? Hey, are you still there?” “I’m sorry, Jack,” she says, panting. “You caught me in the tub. I’m just wrapped in a towel and these silly kids grabbed it away!” “Gee, I wish I’d been there!” “Jack—!” “To protect you, I mean.” “Oh, sure,” she says, giggling. “Well, what do you think, can I come over and watch TV with you?” “Well, not right this minute,” she says. He laughs lightly. He feels very cool. “Jack?” “Yeah?” “Jack, I . . . I think there’s somebody outside the window!”