The Celestial Bed

by Irving Wallace

  "Meaning you can't get in the sack with me tonight and do what any normal woman does?"

  "I can't help it, Tony. I have to wait until I'm cured. I'll ask the doctor—"

  "No, you won't," Zecca interrupted. "Me, I am the one who's going to ask this doctor of yours why he's fucking me around, and how long he thinks he can keep crapping me. When you take off to see this doc of yours tomorrow, I'm driving you. I'm going in with you to find out what that cocksucker is up to. What time you going in?"

  Caught off balance, she spoke the first thing that came to her head. "Ten . . . I have an appointment at ten tomorrow morning. Tony, please don't embarrass me. I mean, your coming in with me . . . This is a woman's doctor for female complaints—maybe sometimes he sees a man and wife, but we're not married; you're not my husband . . ."

  "How the hell will he know?"

  "I—I told him when I started. It's on my application. I'm single."

  Zecca was on his feet. "Not tomorrow, you're not. Tomorrow you got your boyfriend with you. I'll see you at breakfast, and we'll go in to see your fucking cooze-loving doctor together. Now, no more ifs and buts. Get your ass to bed and get some rest. I'll let you off the hook tonight because I'm saving myself for tomorrow night. Because tomorrow night I'm going to fuck you until your ears bleed."

  After he left the table, Nan pushed her unfinished food aside and sat shivering, wondering what she could do.

  Only when she had trudged into her dressing room, and changed into her nightgown, did the answer come to her.

  He was already in bed when she reached her side. She crawled under the blanket and lay there, trying to think it out. Once he fell asleep, he would sleep like a log and not awaken until daybreak. She lay very still, waiting for him to sleep.

  In ten minutes, fifteen, whatever time had passed, she heard rasping sounds beside her and knew that he was snoring and would not awaken until it was light.

  But just in case, she must do what was to be done silently and quickly. Almost without making a sound, she turned back the corner of her blanket and slipped out of bed. Ignoring even her slippers, she padded softly on her bare feet to the bathroom, shut the door, left the light off, and made her way to her dressing room beyond, where she turned on a green-shaded dim lamp.

  She found her suitcase, unlatched it, and set it open on her dressing table bench.

  With determination and haste, she dressed, then began to gather together her sparse collection of clothes—the few blouses, skirts, dresses, belts, hose, shoes, undergarments—and packed them into the single suitcase. Inside one pair of shoes, she checked to see if the money was still there, her small savings from her cashier's job and from what she had been able to save from her household shopping allowance. The total sum hoarded would not carry her far, or for any length of time, but it was enough to survive until she found another job. Then she closed the suitcase.

  One act left. Tearing a sheet of paper from her scratch pad, she scribbled a hasty note to Tony, thanking him for all he had done for her but insisting that she had to leave to pursue her life on her own. Tony's determination to interfere with her visits to her physician had been the last straw, an invasion of privacy that she could not accept. She wished him well, told him she was sorry it had come to this, and said good-bye.

  With a piece of Scotch tape, she affixed her note to her boudoir mirror.

  Back at the bathroom door, her ear against it, she could clearly hear Tony's uninterrupted snoring.

  So far, so good.

  Taking up her car keys and suitcase, she crept out of his house.

  Once outside, she found that the night was chilly but somehow more hospitable than the house.

  Inside her secondhand Volvo, she started it, worrying about the noisy engine, and backed out of the garage and into the street.

  Quickly, she drove away. Fast.

  She was free, at last. She hoped. Freedom was frightening, but at least there was someone else who cared about her. She hoped.

  In the kitchen of her small house, Gayle Miller finished preparations for her intimate dinner with Paul Brandon.

  She was of two minds about the evening ahead. On the one hand, she felt too pressured by haste and would have preferred a more leisurely meeting. Seeing both Demski and Hunter in a single afternoon had been exhausting, although the progress made in both cases had been gratifying. After that, dictating two reports for Dr. Freeberg had been time-consuming. She had rushed to a nearby supermarket to do her shopping for dinner and then had busied herself preparing a meal she wished could be more sophisticated.

  With her preparations for dinner done, she glanced at the kitchen wall clock. He wasn't due for twenty minutes. Time enough to ready herself for him.

  In her bedroom, she dressed with care. As a surrogate, she always underplayed the attire she wore for patients. It was her policy never to wear anything sexually provocative, lest the garments threatened her patients into believing demands were being made on them and they had to perform successfully.

  But Paul Brandon was anything but a patient. He was an integrated human being, a man who functioned, a man she wanted to impress and excite, a man she desired very, very much. Therefore, for a private and personal date, she could behave as a female who might be in love.

  Dress sexily, she told herself, and she did. A white low-cut silk blouse that partially revealed her breasts not covered by her half bra. To this she added a short tangerine-colored skirt, ultrasheer hose because her shapely legs were flawless, and high-heeled brown pumps. She went easy on the cosmetics, maybe a bit more lipstick than usual. By the time she was completely groomed, the doorbell rang.

  Paul Brandon arrived carrying a dozen long-stemmed red roses for her.

  Thrilled and pleased, she accepted the bouquet, hugged him with one arm, thanking and welcoming him with a soft, warm kiss. Leading him to a chair, Gayle had almost forgotten how truly attractive he was. He had the gaunt good looks of one of those strong silent movie stars who had won the West. He was wearing a gray cord sport jacket, a tieless maroon sport shirt, and well-tailored charcoal slacks.

  "Let me put these in a vase," she said, indicating the roses. "Then I'll get us something to drink. What'll you have?"

  "Whatever you're having," he said.

  "I'm having Scotch on the rocks."

  "Make that two."

  After she served him his drink, and held her own, she sank on the sofa near him.

  "You know, Paul," she said, "I feel we're practically strangers. We've dined together twice and yet I've learned next to nothing about you."

  "We didn't exactly dine twice, Gayle. We had coffee and whatever in a fast-food place. Hardly conducive to any conversation in depth."

  "You're right. Well, at least tonight we're alone."

  Brandon sipped his Scotch. "Tell me about yourself. Do you have any family?"

  Gayle shook her head. "Not really. My father died when I was little. My mother is alive, but she's in a nursing home and prematurely senile. I see her once a month to make sure she's being taken care of properly. Then I have an older brother in Toronto. He's a computer whiz."

  "Does he know what you do?"

  "Oh, we're very open with each other in our correspondence and occasional phone calls. He knows and understands and sees nothing wrong with it. Because he knows what motivated me to become a surrogate. I told you about that before, about how the fellow I was going with suffered from sexual dysfunction and eventually committed suicide."

  "I remember," said Brandon.

  "I've remained single. What about you?"

  "Me . . . I'm very single, too—deliberately so. I was married once . . ."

  "You were? What happened?"

  Brandon shrugged. "A young actress in L.A., originally from Oregon. Need I tell you more? Her real love affair was with herself, and her future. I'll spare you the bleak details. Suffice it to say, she didn't like sex in general, and I didn't like it with her in particular."

  "So you divo
rced?"

  "After a year," said Brandon. "But I remained haunted by a kind of guilt. Let's say an uncertainty. I'd had affairs. She'd had affairs. But somehow we couldn't make it good together. I was the one who was dysfunctional. But, in a sense, so was she. Anyway, I read about a sex encounter group that had a program run by two psychologists down in La Jolla. So I enrolled. Actually, very enlightening. I found out my case wasn't so unusual. Deep down I didn't like the lady I was married to. I wanted to get away from her, and my body got the message before my head did. The experience stimulated my interest in sex education once more, and I returned to Oregon to resume teaching. When I heard Dr. Freeberg was looking for a male surrogate, I applied. Here I am."

  "Are you interested in it only as a way to make a living?"

  "Truthfully, I don't know yet. I guess I feel now there's more to it than that."

  "I'm glad," said Gayle, relieved. "Do you have a family?"

  "No brother, no sister. In a sense, no parents. I have parents, but they divorced maybe ten years ago, and since then each has remarried, and mostly we're out of touch."

  He appraised Gayle. "You can say I'm a loner like yourself. Not that I want to be. Obviously, that's why I'm here." She met his gaze. "Why are you here?"

  "Because I don't like being without you."

  She smiled. "Well spoken." She set down her empty glass and stood up, reaching for his hand. "Let's have dinner."

  Brandon came to his feet. But instead of letting her take him into the dining room, he pulled her firmly to him. She did not resist.

  "Dinner can wait, can't it?" he whispered into her ear.

  "Do you—do you have something better in mind?" she said weakly.

  "This." He brought his face down to her and pressed his lips to hers, then kissed her hard. "I'm trying to tell you I love you," he said.

  Momentarily, she drew back. "Paul, I love you, too. Let's stop wasting time . . ."

  "I was hoping you'd—"

  "—go on from here? I can't wait." She linked an arm in his. "My bedroom's off the hall."

  He followed her into a small but pretty room, with flowered chintz chairs and curtains, a pair of lamp shades in pink, and a queen-size bed, ready for occupancy.

  Gayle stood silently as he undressed her, then himself. She watched him stiffen and felt herself grow damp.

  He grabbed her, smothering her mouth with kisses, and slowly moved his mouth down to her breasts, tonguing and kissing each until the brown nipples were enlarged and firm.

  She took him by the arm and led him to the bed. "I've been dreaming of this all day," she said breathlessly, "even while I was working."

  As she dropped down on the bed, he said, "Working? Working with whom?"

  "First, with the impotent patient from Chicago. It was very successful. I came."

  "You came?" Brandon lowered himself on the bed, his eyes on her. "How did it affect him?"

  "He got his first hard-on. I mean, that's the point, you know, no pun intended."

  Brandon frowned. "Then what did you do?"

  "I congratulated him. Wouldn't you?" Touching Brandon, Gayle said, "There's just one thing, Paul. If I'm a little slow tonight, just have patience."

  "Why? Did you also see your second patient today?"

  "The premature ejaculator? Yes, he's on intensive."

  "What did you do with him?"

  "The usual. I introduced him to the squeezing technique."

  "How?"

  "Paul, for God's sake, by squeezing his penis before he came, of course. It worked."

  Brandon remained very still. "You don't have to be so graphic."

  She was staring at his deflating penis. "I'm sorry, darling. Let me help you. Come here." She patted the bed beside her.

  Shaken, Brandon obeyed her. "What do you intend to do?"

  "Relax you. Let me give you a facial caress, maybe a back caress, some pleasuring—"

  "Hold on there. I thought this was purely social, not business as usual."

  Gayle was confused. "But it is. I only wanted to—"

  "No, none of those damn exercises. I don't want them tonight."

  "Well, let me do something else." She sat up, taking his limp penis in her hand. She leaned down and began to bend her head toward it.

  "Hey, what are you doing?"

  "I'm going to kiss you there. I'm sure that'll work."

  Brandon grabbed her hair and pulled her head back. "Kiss me there? Listen to me, I wouldn't mind that ordinarily, but I just have a feeling this is something you do with your patients. Do you go down on them?"

  She faltered. "I've never had to. Not once." She met his eyes frankly. "But if I had to, I suppose I might do it if it were necessary."

  He shook his head with disgust. "Shit, you are something, you really are." He rolled sideways and left the bed. "You're on a power trip, that's all. You don't give a damn about love. You just want to show how great you are, how you can dominate any man. I think that's shit."

  Gayle was aghast. "Paul, are you crazy?"

  He yanked on his jock shorts and was pulling on his trousers. "Crazy to be here, to believe that a sex surrogate could be a real woman." He stuck his bare feet into his shoes, then swept up his socks and shirt and jacket. "No way. You go down on your patients . . . or do anything you like with them—but not with me. I should have known. With two sex surrogates—zilch—never the twain shall meet. Sorry, Gayle, my young pro. It won't work. Good night!"

  By the time she had pulled on her robe and chased into the living room to explain it all better, to persuade him to calm down, it was too late.

  The front door had just slammed. The living room was empty.

  Chapter VII

  When Tony Zecca awakened in the morning, he was surprised to find that Nan was not in the bed beside him. This was unlike her, since she was usually asleep when he left for the restaurant. Although, several times, he remembered, she had risen before him to do some shopping for the house.

  Zecca dressed hastily, without further concern about her absence, because he had arranged to be at his office early to interview two more applicants for the temporary job as cashier. Then he would return in time to take Nan to her doctor and have it out with the bastard.

  Once dressed, Zecca had gone into the dining room, calling out to his housekeeper in the kitchen that he was ready for his breakfast.

  Sitting down at his place mat, he folded the morning paper to the sports section while Hilda appeared with his orange juice and hot coffee. He was finishing his orange juice and reading the box scores when Hilda reappeared with his eggs, bacon, and toast.

  Attacking the eggs and bacon, concentrating on the sports results, he asked Hilda absently, "What time did my lady friend have her breakfast?"

  "She didn't," said Hilda, disappearing into the kitchen.

  Zecca banged down his fork, then twisted in his chair. "Hilda, goddammit, come back here!" He waited for his overweight German housekeeper to return. Seeing her materialize in the kitchen doorway, he barked, "What in the hell do you mean, she didn't have breakfast? She never goes out with no breakfast."

  "Who says she went out? I didn't see her go out. She must be around somewhere."

  "Yeah, that's it," agreed Zecca. He shoved what remained of his eggs into his mouth, pushed away the sports section, and left his chair. He meant to head straight for the restaurant, but then he remembered he had planned to return to the house to pick up Nan and drive her to her phony doctor for a showdown. He'd give that phony doctor a piece of his mind, and then some, and once and for all make him stop stalling Nan along and interfering with their normal love life. He didn't know the time he was supposed to meet Nan for her appointment, and he decided he'd better find that out before he went to work.

  Nan's bathroom door was closed. Zecca yanked it open and barged inside. No one there. Then for sure the bitch was in her dressing room. Why those fucking women always took so much time dressing up he didn't know, when all you wanted with them was to hav
e them bare ass.

  Zecca jerked open the door to the dressing room, shouting out, "Nan, goddammit!"

  No answer. The dressing room was empty.

  Zecca spun around. Something fishy. Her clothes rack was empty. He pivoted all round, and his eyes fell on the note Scotch-taped to her mirror.

  He strode to the mirror, tore off the note, and tried to make out her shaky handwriting. Something real crazy about leaving him. Leaving him! He held the note closer and read each word carefully. He had it now. She'd walked. The bitch had walked out on him, something no woman since Crystal had ever done or even dared think about.

  In a fury, Zecca crumpled her note, balled it up, and crushed it in his huge fist.

  Anger wrestled with bewilderment. Why would she have done a cuckoo thing like that? He'd been good to her, given the homeless nobody a home and a job, yet she'd walked off. How come? She had nowhere to go, nowhere on earth. She knew no one else, far as he knew, except . . .

  Except the fucking doctor she'd been seeing almost every day.

  That knowledge and the recollection of their talk yesterday when she so desperately tried to keep him from seeing her doctor fitted together and told him the whole story.

  Nan had thrown him over, left him to shack up with her doctor, who'd probably been screwing her regularly from the first day.

  Well, goddammit, Zecca told himself, neither of them would get away with it. He'd find that hot-nuts doctor and punch him out so he'd never forget not to fool around with anyone else's woman. Then he'd get his mitts on Nan and drag her back where she belonged. That was it. His course was clear.

  Only one roadblock.

  Who in the fuck was her fucking doctor? He had to know who deserved a beating before going to wherever they were shacked up and dragging her back with him.

  Who in the fuck was her doctor, dammit?

  She'd never told him, clever bitch, as far as he could remember. And he could kick himself in the ass for never having bothered to ask her. He just hadn't bothered, and now his fury mounted once more at her cheating on him.