At about nine o’clock Stuart’s advancing north on Columbus Avenue’s west side, approaching Lincoln Center, when he sees a limousine recklessly dart across the avenue and come to an abrupt stop at the curb ahead of him. No sooner does the limousine stop than its back door is flung open so roughly it rebounds on its hinges and slams shut again. He’s about a dozen yards away when the back door opens for the second time and a tall woman in an ankle-length mink coat emerges, annoyance evident in the hard tone of her stride and gesticulations. A knee, obviously belonging to the person who’s annoyed her, appears at the door and Stuart hears the woman shout, “Don’t come out, creep! I don’t want your filthy hands anywhere near me! You stay put or you’ll regret it big time!” as she kicks at the door. Having struck the door at an angle, instead of straight on, and failed to close it, the woman raises her foot to kick it again but changes her mind, electing instead to remove the mink coat, gather it in both hands, and shake it in the direction of the person in the backseat. “This is what I think of your pathetic bribes, creep!” she shrieks before walking to the front of the limousine, dropping the mink in the gutter, and stomping on it.
It’s at this moment that the identity of the woman, illuminated by the limousine’s headlights, becomes crystal clear to Stuart and his chest all but leaps into his throat: the woman is Penelope! Instantly he’s racing forward to shield her from whatever unpleasantries the individual in the limousine might resort to; but she, unaware of his presence, takes care of that herself. “Get out of here before I tear your eyes out!” she yells as she returns to the open door, raking her fingers, spread and arched like an attacking cat’s claws, through the air; then, placing her foot squarely against the door, she slams it shut with her leg. The limousine jerks forward, pauses, jerks forward again, pauses again. “Get out of here!” Penelope repeats, marching towards the limousine while scanning the sidewalk, apparently searching for something to throw at it. “Get out of here while you still can! You don’t want to find out how crazy I can get! I will knock you down and tear you to pieces!” The limousine accelerates and is soon lost in traffic.
Stuart’s at Penelope’s side by this time, grasping one of her hands with both of his, rapidly saying, “Penelope, it’s me...whatever I can do...how can I help?” She’s too absorbed in her state of excitement to recognize him at first: her eyes are glazed and glassy; she’s breathing so quickly it sounds like a hiss; an aura of antagonism envelopes her from head to toe; she keeps twisting her head every which way, wildly glancing about, as if expecting the limousine to return. Stuart’s never seen Penelope in such a state—never imagined her capable of losing her composure to this degree: he’s appalled, amazed, fearful, and also—curiously enough—vaguely pleased. “Penelope, it’s me,” he repeats. “Your friend...Stuart! Anything I can do, I’ll take you to your door. Do you want to go home?”
“Stuart!” Penelope exclaims, taken aback, seemingly almost frightened, at the sight of him—instantly flinging her eyes at the pavement and flushing, the antagonism departing from her body language. “Dear friend, I’d give anything for you not to see me like this…hardly my finest moment, being so worked up…not looking like I should, dolled up like a slut,” she says quietly, raising apologetic eyes to him. “But yes, I’d appreciate it, sweet of you…always the gentleman, kinder than I deserve, so considerate…I’d like to go home and get out of this stuff.” It’s only now that Stuart becomes consciously aware Penelope’s dressed in a manner that’s the opposite of reserved, with no resemblance to anything he’s seen her wearing before: interesting how he, so to speak, doesn’t allow himself to notice until she alludes to it. She’s attired in a backless and sleeveless skin-tight lavender one-piece, with a hemline above mid-thigh and a neckline almost at mid-breast, so that the tops of the cups of her black lace brassiere are visible. Open-toed heels, a chiffon scarf, and her eyeliner match the color of her dress; her legs are sheathed in seamed black stockings, scarlet lipstick’s upon her lips, an abundance of pearl-adorned silver bangles are upon her wrists. But what’s most extraordinary is that her hair isn’t confined in its familiar bun: a magnificent cascade of black curls is tumbling nearly to her waist, swishing in the breeze.
The urgency of the situation doesn’t allow Stuart enough emotional space to be more than fleetingly astonished at, much less dwell upon, the complete reversal in Penelope’s style of dress: his mindset’s that of someone rendering assistance at the scene of an accident and he doesn’t hesitate to remove his down jacket and hold it out to her. “No, Stuart,” she half-whispers, her voice quavering. “It’s my fault I’m in this ridiculous…this unbecoming and stupid fix…my fault, not yours. I don’t want you uncomfortable because of me, my bad judgment…don’t want you chilled because I’m a silly woman tonight, tramping around in this stuff. I have no business…any business involving you in my doings, bad misdirection. Keep your coat, Stuart. Please put it on.”
But Stuart isn’t taking no for an answer: without a word he steps behind Penelope, opens his jacket, coaxes her arms into the sleeves, and lifts it onto her, gently pulling the entrapped portions of her hair from under it once it’s in place. As her hair crackles in his fingers—as he releases it, watches it unfurl and writhe in the breeze—he’s aware of flushing with pleasure, sparkling inside; but, again on account of the urgency of the situation, he willfully brushes the sensation aside, not allowing himself to appreciate it. Moments later he’s hailing a cab, assisting Penelope inside it, sitting beside her, and providing the driver with her Upper East Side address. For most of the journey Penelope silently stares straight ahead, not moving her head an inch; at the same time she clasps Stuart’s forearm with both hands, unintentionally digging with her nails as she alternately squeezes tight and releases according to the ebb and flow of her agitation. At one point, though, she suddenly folds herself into a ball—raises her knees to her chin, places her feet on the edge of the seat; then, slapping at her shoes and gazing at them with hatred—and also, strange to tell, in fear—she mutters, “Ghastly things.” and slams her feet back onto the floor. Then, just as swiftly, she returns to unseeingly gazing into the air. Her head, though, is now plainly twitching: Stuart can sense knots of tension winding tighter and tighter inside her—sense she’s shuddering, fighting to suppress her emotions. As for the shoes, they’re very sleek, stylish, and expensive and Stuart has an idea why Penelope dislikes them to the degree they’ve exacerbated her disquietude: they must be another “bribe,” like the discarded mink coat.
Once the cab arrives at Penelope’s building, though, she appears to regain her composure: as soon as they’re on the sidewalk she faces Stuart with a smile and warmly, without a trace of a waver in her glance or quiver in her fingers, grasps his hand. “Thank you, Stuart,” she says in an even voice, the familiar sisterly affection in her tone. “I’m so glad we’re friends and you understand dates don’t always go as planned. We all have our fiascoes, don’t we? I’ve had a doozy, but the bad feelings are going away—I’m breathing easier now.”
“Unfortunately fiascoes can’t be avoided,” Stuart responds. “God knows, getting involved with strangers is never without risk. Of course I understand, I have more fiascoes under my belt than I care to recall, so don’t worry, I don’t think it’s weird but par for the course. I only hope you realize it’s not always possible to size people up before committing to a date and it’s not your fault if they turn out to be unpleasant. The important thing is you’re feeling better. The shock’s wearing off and will soon be gone, no more substantial than the incidental ghost-feelings bad dreams can stir up.” While speaking these words Stuart’s marveling at how quickly, considering the magnitude of her distress minutes ago, Penelope’s recovered her customary self. Aside from her uncharacteristic attire, she’s the familiar Penelope of equanimity of demeanor: the unflappably good-humored and gracious Penelope, always ensconced in her impeccable manners, elusive by virtue of her very politeness—always separated from him by an invisible wa
ll. But he also can’t help but wonder if she’s putting on an act to prevent him from gaining further access to her secret life: the life he’s always sensed behind the facade of her reserve and has finally confirmed the reality of—caught an unforgettable glimpse of.
“Yes, I’m all right,” Penelope assures him, releasing his hand. “Some bad moments, but they’re over. Sorry you had to see them.” Stuart’s about to tell her an apology’s unnecessary when she, obviously disinclined to dwell upon her misadventure any further, quickly adds, “I believe this is yours, kind Sir!” and removes his jacket in about two seconds, circling around him to slip it up his arms and onto his shoulders, as he did with her. Then, as if fearful of lingering in his presence, she swiftly embraces him, cheek-pecks him goodnight, and turns towards her building. As she approaches the entrance at a hurried pace she smilingly calls over her shoulder, “Don’t forget we might be working tomorrow!”
“Am ready for it,” Stuart responds in an involuntarily crestfallen tone, his voice likely dying in the wind before reaching Penelope’s ears. As he watches her step through the sliding glass doors into the lobby of her building he catches himself feeling disappointed she’s become calm so quickly. He’d intended to accompany her to her apartment and do whatever he could to ease her from her unsettled state and, needless to say, a part of his good intentions is that he’d at last be in a position to be fully apprised of her unadvertised activities, solve her riddle. From concern for Penelope’s well-being, heartfelt as it is, he passes to regretting the loss of an opportunity to gain admittance, in whatever capacity, to her secret life. What does it matter if he’s been more than confirmed in the accuracy of his instincts regarding her life outside the office—if it’s obvious she’s leading a double life to an extent exceeding his suspicions—if she’s going to revert to her reserve and act as if tonight never happened?—if she’s going to reimpose the tyranny of the invisible wall, see to it he remains on his side of it?
In short, Stuart feels short-changed and is reluctant to leave. As he watches Penelope advance to the elevators in the back of the lobby, push the button, and wait for one to arrive he yearns to go after her, and... And what? Admit he’s been wishing to get to know her outside of work, explore the possibilities of a relationship, since first setting eyes on her? Make a forthright declaration of affection? Highly inappropriate, given the situation: approaching her concerning matters of the heart after she’s been disorientated by a date gone sour, when she might be incapable of acting according to her habitual inclinations—disposed to grasp at straws she’d ordinarily avoid—would be tantamount to taking advantage of a woman who’s overindulged in drink. But at the same time as Stuart’s pursuing this train of thought he finds himself admiring the rhythm of Penelope’s hips, fluid and active muscles of her legs, as she restively shifts her weight from one foot to the other, obviously impatient for an elevator to arrive. He’s never seen her in revealing clothes before and is now, for the first time tonight, allowing himself to be overtly cognizant of the fact—savoring the sight of her, deliberately imprinting her attributes upon his mind’s eye, making a lasting memory: it’s of little consequence that she has her back to him most of the time, only occasionally turning slightly to the left or right. How gorgeous she is—a veritable hallucination of loveliness, vision stolen from a dizzying dream, as earthy as she is ethereal; electric sensuality glides about the symmetry of her curves, innate spirituality—the suggestion of familiarity with fervor approaching delirium, trancelike states—radiates from the tone of her stance and gestures; the very light in the lobby collects about her, as if delighting in her at once svelte and voluptuous figure, the angelic grace of her movements, otherworldly aspect of her charm. Stuart’s under the impression Penelope’s energy is whipping through the air, crossing the lobby to the sidewalk, slipping into and stirring and electrifying his bloodstream—imparting a sensation of weightlessness, causing him to relish gasping for breath: when he arches his back, tightens the muscles of his legs and shoulders and chest, such delicious waves of tingles course throughout him it’s as if he’s uniting with her energy, embracing her in the subsurface realms, being swept outside the reach of every bothersome care he’s ever had. Penelope’s hair alone, at last liberated from the bun, is a miracle of abundance—raven black satin-softness flowing and curling loose and wild, longer than expected, swishing just short of her waist, catching the light and bending it into restless silver streamlets. And the upward thrust of her shoulders, firm curvature of her hips, length of her legs, and radiance of her flawless skin! It suddenly occurs to Stuart he’s never seen Penelope’s naked skin before, apart from that of her face and throat and hands; it also occurs to him he’s never plainly seen her proportions from head to toe before—both incredible circumstances, which aptly sum up the amount of frustration he’s endured. Now he’s a starving man seated before a sumptuous feast, so overwhelmed with his good fortune he’s unsure where to begin—repeatedly glancing up and down her arms and all about her back and up and down her legs, as made possible by her sleeveless and backless dress and its high-hemline, unable to bring his gaze to a standstill, stop seeking to take all of her in at once; and, again, while understanding how preposterous it is that she’s literally kept herself concealed for so long, not so much as allowed one of her magnificent arms to bask in the light of day, for a reason he isn’t close to comprehending. And then it hits him: he must speak to Penelope now—he needs to speak to her now—he no longer has a choice! He must seize this opportunity to exploit her vulnerability, before she has time to fully settle down and revert to inaccessibility—reimpose the tyranny of the invisible wall! He’s waited over two months for such an opportunity and who knows when one will materialize again, if ever?
No sooner does Stuart realize he can’t allow Penelope to step within an elevator and vanish before speaking to her—realize he’ll assuredly endure hell on earth if he doesn’t speak to her—than he suddenly feels he’s able to read something of her frame of mind. As in: is it true she can feel his eyes admiring her from behind, as women often can, and is warming to the fact?—that, although some uneasiness is accompanying her interest, the latter’s gained the upper hand?—that her body language is losing its air of hurriedness, communicating curiosity and hope, becoming compliant? Has she ceased to shift her weight from foot to foot, become stock still, on his account? Is she tensing with anticipation, radiating an invitation, smiling inside? When she adjusted her hair just now, flicked it away from the side of her face that was briefly half-turned towards him, was that a flirtatious gesture—a come-hither gesture? Does she likewise wish to prolong this chance meeting, spend more time together tonight? Does she likewise feel it would be a shame for matters to revert to how they were before and continue to never see each other outside the office, avoid touching upon the possibility of intimacy? Does she likewise desire to do away with the invisible wall? Or is he merely perceiving what he wants to perceive, dreaming up an encouraging fictional situation, so he’ll be more relaxed—better able to say the right things and place Penelope at ease, dispose her to wanting him to accompany her upstairs? Stuart’s well aware of not having clear answers to any of these questions! At any rate, this interval of uncertainty, teasing and tantalizing, whisks by in the amount of time it takes him to approach the sliding glass doors of the lobby and stroll through them. Because there’s one thing of which Stuart’s very certain: he’s no more able to stop himself from speaking to Penelope than he is to stop himself from breathing.
No sooner is Stuart about three yards from Penelope than she, alerted by his advancing reflection on the brass doors of the elevators, abruptly spins about and faces him. Despite the swiftness and determination, unmistakable air of challenge, of the movement her expression’s startled, as if scampering to hide under the skin of her face. Her cheeks are drawn, trembling, ashen; her eyes are unfocused and worried, infused with wobbly silver flecks, as if recoiling from threats only they can perceive; she’s glancing at th
e floor, at the ceiling, to the sides, into the air—at everything except him. She seems to want to turn away from him and bolt—her body’s half-straining in the direction of flight—while being too paralyzed to do so. Stuart barely has enough time to register alarm and stop dead in his tracks before Penelope lunges forward with a smothered cry, casts herself into his arms, and grips him tight; then, shaking profusely and shifting her weight to counter it, she whimpers in a quavering voice, “I can’t take it anymore—I’m going to go mad!” Pausing for a couple seconds, widening her eyes and whipping her glance about the lobby as if to confirm no one else is nearby, she lowers her voice to a whisper he can barely hear and continues, “I feel like I’m splitting down the middle—like there are two of me, each fighting and trying to destroy the other! I feel like things...” Trailing off, she lifts her eyes to his imploringly, clutches him tighter, and emits a tortured moan.
“Fighting with yourself, Penelope?” Stuart asks very softly and tenderly, steadying her in his arms, utterly losing awareness of his surroundings, feeling as if the two of them are the only people in all of existence. “But why? You’re such a strong person, the most centered person I’ve ever known. I understand tonight didn’t go as planned, that you were caught by surprise by a man who isn’t a man, but that’s not a reason to blame yourself or war with yourself, doubt your strength. It’ll pass, Penelope, believe me, and… I’m here to help, I’ll do whatever I can…anything, just tell me what you need. Please trust me.” All thoughts of gaining admittance to Penelope’s secret life have been chased from the forefront of Stuart’s awareness: he’s a brother helping his troubled sister, a friend helping a friend—dispelling her distress is all that matters. Obviously, she’s very troubled by her date-gone-sour, far more than she cared to admit at first. It’s been a harrowing experience for her, enough that she’s temporarily lost her balance, and it’s his responsibility to assist her with restoring her balance. At the same time, though, he can’t help but be aware of highly appealing sensations in the background of his alarm and concern: every quiver of Penelope’s bothered body as she clings to him, not to mention that he’s grasping the silk-soft and very warm skin of her shoulders and back, is registering in his sinews and nerves, reminding him of what he’s hungered after for so long. This is their first embrace, after all, so how can he not be affected, in a very physical way? It’s not how he imagined their first embrace would be—it’s a far cry from an embrace brought about by affection and desire—but there’s no escaping the fact she’s clinging to him; that, in a convoluted way, his dreams are coming true. But, again, he can’t allow the sensations engendered by their embrace to gain the upper hand: Penelope’s suffering and he must exert himself to bring an end to it as soon as possible. At some point in the future perhaps she’ll embrace him in clarity and serenity of mind, solely out of affection and delight, but that time isn’t now. He must stay strong and steady for her, without allowing himself to be distracted. He must will himself to disregard the touch of her, as difficult as that is.
Penelope Prim Page 3
