by Stan Hayes
“Oh, yeah. And the Staten Island ferry was cool.”
“Between the ferry and your sail around the island, this has been a pretty nautical visit for you. I hope I’ll be able to find a couple of things for us to do that are as interesting as the things you’ve done with Mose.”
“That shouldn’t be too much of a problem,” said Moses. “New York has an incredible amount to offer.”
Yes, thought Jack. Yes, it has.
The gangplank’s squeak announced his arrival. “Jack?” Her voice floated up from somewhere below him.
“Hey,” he answered.
“I’m in the galley. C’mon down.”
Moving to the hatchway, he looked down at her through its narrow opening. She was peering into a drawer underneath the stove, her back to him. Above the bright white of her shorts, three vertebra bisected the golden tan of her back before her faded blue denim shirt took over. The galley’s yellow light highlighted her hair with the sheen of new copper. “Whatcha doin”?
“Just getting us a little dinner together. Get your butt down here and give me a kiss.”
His breath gave out first. “Hi,” he said, looking down into her eyes.
“Hi yourself, big boy. What’re you drinking?”
“How about a scotch.”
“Hm. That’s a switch. Didn’t know you liked hard liquor.”
“I think it’s time I learned what it’s all about. D’you mind?”
“I guess not, if we keep it between us. Water or soda?”
“I don’t know. What’re you having?”
“Water,” she said, dropping ice into his glass.
They sat in the cockpit, she with her legs stretched out along the portside seat, leaning against him. “How long have you known Mose?” she asked him.
“Since I was nine. He checked into the hotel when his car broke down.”
“You’ve known him longer than I did at your age. I was fourteen when my mom and I met him. At the movie in our neighborhood.”
“Did he own it, too?”
“No. He was just running the projector when we met him. He took over as manager later on.”
“He wasn’t in town a month before he bought the Ritz. He’s a good businessman.”
“He’s a good man, Jack. He put me through college.”
Jack sat up in surprise. “Really! And you never-”
“He’s never asked me, or showed any interest. He was in love with my mom. I think.”
He shifted his gaze to the deck’s gray teak planking. “I think he’s in love with mine, too.”
It was her turn to sit up. “Are they getting married?”
“No. She’s still married to my dad. Besides, she doesn’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“She wants to come back here and be a big-time artist.”
“What does she do?”
“Sculpture.”
“Any good?”
“Yeah, I think so. She just sold a piece for two thousand dollars.”
Linda leaned back against the cushions. “Well, at least she’s passing him up for a better reason than my mom did.”
“What was her reason?”
“Booze.”
“Oh.”
His solitary drive back home seemed much longer than the drive up with Jack had been. Moses rolled into Bisque a little after five, in the thick of the town’s Saturday afternoon shopping traffic. He listened to Lee Webster’s version, the latest in a succession of radio accounts that he’d heard that day, of last night’s execution of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg. After two years on death row, they had each sat briefly in Sing Sing’s electric chair, he first, then she. Lee was reading Bob Considine’s eyewitness report of the execution:
“ ‘They died differently, gave off different sounds, different grotesque manners. He died quickly, there didn’t seem to be too much life left in him when he entered behind the rabbi. He seemed to be walking in a cadence of steps of just keeping in time with the muttering of the Twenty-third Psalm. Never said a word. Never looked like he wanted to say a word. She died a lot harder. When it appeared that she had received enough electricity to kill an ordinary person and had received the exact amount that had killed her husband, the doctors went over and placed the stethoscope to her and looked at each other rather dumbfounded and seemed surprised that she was not dead. And she was given more electricity which started again the kind of a ghastly plume of smoke that rose from her head. After two more little jolts, Ethel Rosenberg was dead. She has gone to meet her Maker, and she’ll have a lot of explaining to do.’ That’s reporter Bob Considine’s impression, folks; the end of life for two convicted atom spies. This is Lee Webster, and that’s the news on a Saturday afternoon. Hope your weekend’s going well, and that goes double for a certain lady of my acquaintance. See you soon, Robbie.”
Moses smiled to himself, thinking of the way things had worked out between Webster and Roberta, but his mind swung back to the Rosenbergs. Conspiring with a motley assortment of players to get information on atom bomb construction into Soviet hands, they were the only ones who were sentenced to death. Their two small sons were now orphans. Dying for what you believe in is one thing, he thought, but putting those kids in jeopardy’s something else again. God, when I think of having to leave Jack like that. They’re not that different from me, or lots of others. They pieced together a philosophy from what they heard from people they were around as they grew up. A little here, a little there, along comes some half-baked “opportunity” and before you know it you’re a goddamn spy. A little myopia goes a long way in the making of a spy. Then you slip up, you’re sitting in the hot seat, and your kids pay the tab, for the rest of their lives.
He turned left off Main into the alley by the hotel, parking just past the corner of the building. Driving the last couple of hundred miles non-stop had thoroughly kinked up his body. He stood by the car for a minute, arching his back and stretching his hands in front of him, fingers interlocked. Swiveling his head from side to side, he walked around the corner and into the lobby. Jerry McClain, presiding over the deserted lobby from the registration desk, greeted him with his usual faint smile, which to Moses always seemed to carry the seeds of a secret embarrassment within it. “Hi, Jerry,” he said. “Miz Mason on board?”
“Yes, she is, Mose. Let me call upstairs and tell her you’re here. Just get back?”
“Sure did.”
Jerry spoke briefly into the phone. “She says come right up,” he said to Mose as he hung up. “Jack doin’ all right?”
“Yeah, just fine.” He walked into the elevator, which had been converted to self-service earlier in the year, and pressed the 5 button. He still took great pleasure in not having to look at the back of “Cat” Dander’s dandruff-besieged head as part of the ride. Guess they’ve found enough other things to keep that old bastard busy, he thought. He knocked on the door of Suite 600, which opened immediately.
“Hey,” she said, stepping back from the doorway and opening her arms for a hug. Still dressed for business, she wore a sleeveless, burnt orange linen dress that subtlely suggested the tenacious near-perfection of her body.
“Hey yourself,” he said, feeling the start of an erection building as he hugged her to him.
“How’s my boy?” she asked, smiling at him and her perception of his arousal.
“I’m fine,” he said, still holding her close.
She laughed as she pushed him back, slapping the front of his shoulder. “Not you, you horny bastard. Jack.”
“Oh. He’s fine too. You didn’t talk to him today?”
“He called when I was out. I’ll call him back in a little while.”
“Say hey for me. I miss the little rascal already.”
“I will. To Larry, too, if I talk to him. He thinks you’re OK, you know. Puts you in a rather small fraction of the world’s population. Come sit down,” she said, walking over to the couch. “Want a beer?”
“Yeah; thanks. I like him, t
oo; what I saw of him, at least. He’s a pretty igood dad to Jack, under the circumstances.”
“He is,” she said. “We’re lucky to’ve been able to keep their connection as close as we have while he’s grown up.”
“Yeah; you could’ve picked a worse guy to father your child.”
“No question about that,” she said, handing him a Red Cap. They clinked frosty bottles in a toast. He’s a good man. Too bad he drove me nuts.”
“Funny. That’s what he said.”
“Bullshit.”
Moses grinned. “Ain’t it? He wadn’t about to talk to me about you.”
“…and you probably think that I shouldn’t be talking to you about him.”
“No. I always wished that you would, but I wadn’t about to ask. See how well I’ve gotten to know you?”
“It wouldn’tve made much sense unless you knew him. Now that you have, maybe you can see what I was up against. The nicest man in the world, whose only passion is nuclear physics.”
“Yeah. You wouldn’t have any interest in second place.”
She looked sharply at him. “And why the hell should I? As I recall, the vow says ‘…forsaking all others.’ That certainly included Robert fucking Oppenheimer, as far as I was concerned.”
Contrary to her parents' oft-repeated instructions, Terry and Jack were in the Marshes’ fallout shelter, “making out” on one of its four Army cots, each covered with identical flowery linen spreads. It was his first day back from New York, and Jack, still assimilating his experiences with Linda, was a little less horny then his girlfriend. Her mother was helping out at the store today, and Terry had obviously spent some time thinking about her strategy; she'd told Jack to park the Harley behind the house, so that any chance visitors would assume that no one was home.
Within minutes of closing the shelter’s heavy door, they were both stripped to the waist, kissing and fondling as if the end of the world were actually underway. “I've missed you so much, sweetie,” Terry said in a gushing exhale. “You were gone way too long.”
“Yes, yes I was, baby,” Jack breathed into her ear, tasting the sour sharpness of its wax as he spoke, the fingers of his left hand working to open the buttons of her shorts, kissing her nonstop as his right hand kneaded the puckered nipple of her right breast. She breathed in and out, sharply, as his hand slipped past the waist of her panties to touch the skin of her belly and graze the fringe of her hair.
His middle finger had barely touched labia when she stiffened just slightly, saying “Jack; we said we wouldn't, remember?”
“Yes, baby, I know, “ he said, kissing her again and easing his hand away from her crotch and toward his own. “I know we did.” He pulled her toward him with one arm as he used the other to lift her legs onto the cot. He lay down beside her, jade-green eyes looking into hers. He kissed her eyelids, one at a time, relaxing beside her and feeling her relaxation in response. “You feel so good, baby, I get carried away so quick. As much as I’d like to, I know I shouldn't be inside you. You shouldn't be havin’ any babies for a long time.”
“You know how much I want us to do it, Jackie. But you're right, it's just way too risky.”
“It is; but this ol’ boy don't listen.” His pants unbuttoned now, he held his erect dick loosely at the base. Shaking it playfully, he said, “He's only got one thing on his mind.”
“I can see that,” she giggled. “he wants it so bad he's droolin’. ”
“He sure is.” He took her hand, bringing her fingertips to the tip. “Feel.”
“Eeeewww,” she squealed, but didn't pull her hand away. “It's slip’ry.”
“It sure is,” he said, moving her fingers back and forth across the tip. “So it's easy to slide into your sweet little thing. Looks good all shiny like that, dudn't it?”
“Umm-hm.”
“This craziness will go away just as soon as I come. You're always so sweet to help me; how would you feel about doing something new for me as a welcome home present?”
“What?” she asked, her voice querulous.
“Oh, nothin’ much,” he assured her. “Just give it a little kiss while I play with your sweet titties.” It sure won't be much, he thought as he remembered Linda taking him to her mouth until he could feel the tip of it deep in her throat. But we've gotta start somewhere.
“Jack ...” she said; the look in her eyes said she’d do it, but needed just a touch more encouragement. He took a drop of the juice on his forefinger, smiling as he twirled it in midair, and put it on her nipple. He rubbed it in with his thumb and forefinger as he turned on the bed to reduce the distance she’d have to cover to reach the swollen red penis. She covered it quickly, kissed and pulled back with an involuntary flick of her tongue over her lips as she sat up.
“Oh, baby; again. Please.”
“Well,” Terry said as she adjusted the speaker’s volume knob in mild exasperation, “at least this one works.” They had tried two other spaces in the Osiris Drive-In Theatre’s gravel-surfaced lot before finding one that did.
“Leave that window down as far as you can,” said Jack. “Maybe a breeze’ll come up.”
“You wanta sit on this side?” she asked him. They were in the Marsh’s newish ’53 Mercury Monterey hardtop, a minor miracle in itself as it was Mr. Marsh’s pride and joy. He had been, however, in the generous mood that Gilbey’s gin and tonic visited on him from time to time, and offered the Monterey, fake hood scoop and all, as an alternative ride to the “movie”. Her parents assumed that their destination was the Winston, where the current attraction, Lone Hand, starred one of jeweler Marsh’s personal favorites, Joel McCrea. Neither Terry nor Jack corrected the assumption.
“No, thanks. I kinda like this side for a change. Hope your dad likes drivin’ the rod.”
“Jack! He was just bein’ niice, sayin’ all those things about that ol’ Ford. He wouldn’t be seen in that noisy ol’ thing if his liife depended on it.”
“Yeah, maybe he asked me for th’ keys just so he could move it if ya’ll’s house caught on fire. You saw ’im lookin’ at that engine. He’d never seen one with three carburetors on it before, I know that. Hell, neither had I ’til Smoky told me about Skeeter pullin’ this manifold off a wreck. Anyway, it’s all right with me, ’cause this front seat’s way better than mine for th’ drive-in. Slide on over here, why doncha?”
“OK, but no more New York funny stuff, mister. I wanta see this movie. Mama wouldn’t let me go when it first came out. Said I was too young. But Tyrone Power was my favorite way back then. And I can’t stand that stiff ol’ Joel McCrea.”
“Nightmare Alley. I don’t remember it at all. What’s it about?” He draped an arm casually about her shoulders, his mind going back to New York in spite of Terry’s sweet-smelling proximity. It served primarily to call Linda’s breath to mind; almost always with an undertone of Scotch, mixed with the gamy overtone of his juice. She’d only sucked him twice, but if twice could breed a habit, he thought, by God I’ve got one.
“They’re all in this carnival, doin’ wild things; sump’m about mind-readin’. I really didn’t remember from before, and that’s about all you can tell from th’ ad in th’ Bugle; I just know I liike ’at Tyrone.”
“Well, play like I’m ol’ Ty for a minute before I go get us some popcorn,” he said, putting two fingers under her chin to turn her face up to him. Temporarily, the fresh taste of teenage tonsils banished Linda from his conscious mind. They kissed for a long minute. “Mm-mm,” he said, “that’s good.”
“It must feel real good. Look what happened,” Terry giggled. Your thing’s about to poke riit through those Palm Beach pants.”
“I know.”
“Well, you can’t go get popcorn lookin’ liike that. You be sweet-” southern girls have a special way of saying it- “bay swaight-” when they were fending off passion- “and let’s watch these previews ’til you simmer down.”
“OK, but I can’t promise anything, bein’ away from you a
ll this tiime. Specially after yesterday.” He sat back, his arms draped along the back of the seat, his dick creating an eggshell-colored wigwam in the middle of Palm Beach. He watched its effect on Terry, feigning interest in the coming attractions while he willed the wigwam to stand tall.
“Good gracious, that thing’s not goin’ down,” Terry said, her eyes riveted on the cone of fabric.”
“I told you, baby; I really missed you.”
“I missed you too, honey.” She leaned over the wigwam to kiss him.”
“Ooh, you know what I wish?”
“Yes, I think so. Too bad it can’t happen ’til we’re married.”
“Oh, no, sweetie, I know we agreed on that. We don’t want you gettin’ pregnant. What I was gonna say was I wish I could put it between your sweet little titties, and you kiss it for me again.”
“Jack!”
“I just said ‘I wish.’ ”
“You go off to New York and come back with ideas like that, you just better stay up there,” she said, her tone far too gentle to match the verbal rejection. She laid her hand ever so lightly on the wigwam’s apex. “Bad boy.” She kissed him again, leaving her hand there.
“Ooh, baby. I’m gonna make a mess in a minute.”
“No! Not in this car. Can’t you make it to the bathroom?”
“You know I can’t. It’s still stickin’ out a mile.”
“What can we do?” she asked, solemn as Circe on Sunday.
“I’ll get in th’ back seat and let it go in my handkerchief.” Opening the door, he slid onto the back seat as he withdrew his handkerchief from his hip pocket.
“I’m not lookin!” Terry called, facing front with an eye on the rear-view mirror.
The meat cooled a few degrees as it hit the open air, giving Jack a little breathing time as he’d anticipated. “It’s OK to look if you want to. Might as well enjoy what we can’t help.” He gripped his dick, firmly but gently, and lay back, his handerchief spread over his lap. “See?”
