She began by sticking her head in my office and asking, “Got a minute?”
Which is when I went on high alert, because in my book Got a minute ranked second only to Got something to tell you as a harbinger of unpleasantness. But since I did have a minute, and since snubbing Ellen might lengthen the distance between us, I said, “Sure, c’mon in.”
She came in on ten-inch heels wearing a figure-hugging dress, so I was in trouble before even knowing her visit’s purpose.
I motioned her to a chair and after settling in she said, “I gather you’ve decided not to ask me out again. Correct?”
I found her directness as disconcerting as her attire so the best I could do was, “Um, uh …”
Somehow that failed to satisfy her.
“Huh?” was her reply.
So I clarified. “Well … the thing is … I mean …”
Ellen shook her head, for which I couldn’t blame her. “Look, I get it. I do. You want to … you know. Most men do, and they can’t wait until marriage. That’s their business but my virginity is mine.”
“Here’s the thing …” I said.
Naturally I had no idea what the thing was, but Ellen saved me the trouble of specifying.
“I’m good with it, really,” she said. “But I’d at least like us to be friends. Do you think that’s possible?”
Of course I didn’t think that was possible. Any severely horny man and staunchly chaste—and stunning—woman would have difficulty being friends, or at least he would. But to say this outright might further strain our relationship, or whatever you called what we had. So I lied.
“Sure.”
“Good,” Ellen said, following up with a smile. “Then it’s out of friendship that I invite you to a speech.”
A speech? That was my reward for sparing her the truth? Okay, forget rewards. That’s what friends were for, going to speeches together?
“What kind of speech?” I asked, though it really didn’t matter. I’d never heard a speech worth listening to, meaning that made a speck of difference in my life. As I recall, Aaron Skolnick’s came close but I’d practically forgotten it by now.
“Political, I guess you could say,” Ellen answered.
Terrific.
Political speeches were the worst, as dreary and phony as a rabbi’s funeral spiel.
I tried sounding interested before rejecting her offer. “Who’s the speaker?”
“Ann McCory. Maybe you remember her.”
Maybe.
Hell, I couldn’t forget Ann McCory even if I wanted to. She’d become a national figure—a popular lecturer, frequent guest on late-night television and author of several bestsellers, including her latest, Faith, Freedom and Our Fabulous Forefathers. I’d never read her books but I’d seen her on Carson a few times, going on about—what else?—the growing communist menace.
My fondness for political speeches, by Ann McCory or anyone else, must have showed.
“Don’t worry,” Ellen said. “Ann is never boring. Not ever.”
Right.
“Look, I’ve heard it all before,” I said. “God, country, party and all that junk.”
Belatedly I realized Ellen might take that the wrong way, but since I couldn’t repeal my words I just sat there while her eyes impaled me.
“Ann McCory is stimulating and inspiring,” she said, sounding a bit grumpy. “But forget that and think about this. You knew her when. How many celebrities have you known before they became famous? And how many of those have you seen in person? Now you can see Ann! Isn’t that exciting?”
It was something, but “exciting” isn’t the word I’d choose to describe it.
“C’mon, I know you liked her,” Ellen said.
What? Or should I say, What?
To her I said, “What makes you say that?”
“The way you looked at her and talked to her over the phone, like a schoolboy with a crush.”
“I was a schoolboy.”
“You know what I mean.”
“And I did not have a crush.”
Instead of questioning my veracity, Ellen said, “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” And after a pause, “I was jealous of Ann.”
My head began spinning. When it stopped, which took a while, I said, “I beg your pardon.”
“I had kind of a crush on you,” Ellen confessed. “Why do you think I treated you so badly? Sure, I was nasty to everyone, but with you the reason was different. I rejected you before you could reject me. See?”
I saw nothing. I was so disoriented I couldn’t see Ellen Drury and she was sitting right in front of me. I could hear her though.
“Anyway,” she said, “I thought this might be a good thing for us to do as friends.”
Desperate, I made one last effort to wriggle off the hook. “I’ve got plans for the weekend. When—”
“Next Saturday, a week from tomorrow.”
Shit.
On the other hand, I admit to being mildly curious about Ann McCory, the celebrity. What exactly was her appeal? On Carson, she seemed like good old Ann, certain that God was in his heaven and all commies were in hell. She spoke with passion, but was that enough to gain fame, fortune and a legion of followers? It couldn’t be the figure she cut that appealed to people, because the last time I looked her face was still horsy and she’d gained a fair amount of weight. So what was the magnet that drew all those fans?
Perhaps of lesser importance, were Ann McCory and Tim Byersmith married now, or had her fame driven them apart? Such things were known to happen.
“Okay, I’ll go,” I said. “Next Saturday. I’ll mark it on my social calendar.”
Chapter 63
I pulled into the driveway of Jane Bartolo’s Dix Street home, parked behind her dark-green Beetle, and under the light of a silvery half-moon checked the premises. A stately sycamore stood watch in the middle of the front lawn, while five-foot hedges lined three of the yard’s sides. Constituting its fourth flank was a row of rose bushes posing prettily beneath the large front windows of Jane’s sprawling ranch house.
After exiting the Falcon I stopped to smell the roses, perhaps taking my cue from Ellen Drury. Sated with their fragrance, I strolled to her front door and rang the bell. The hostess appeared wearing a smile and a dress that covered more territory than her work outfit but hardly qualified as a nun’s habit. Made of gossamer or something similar, the garment was almost transparent.
I only hoped my thoughts weren’t.
After leading the way into the living room, Jane directed me to a rust-colored sofa. “Can I get you something to drink? Scratch that. What would you like to drink?”
A vat of beer and a tub of whiskey.
“Beer … I mean, if you’ve got it.”
Her expression said you’ve gotta be kidding.
I was admiring Jane’s backside as she headed for the kitchen when a tousled urchin appeared wearing Batman pajamas, tasseled slippers and a quizzical expression.
“Who’re you?” he asked. Before I could decide, the imp—age five or six was my guess—moved on. “Where’s mommy?”
“Kitchen.”
Firm in the knowledge of his mother’s whereabouts, he returned to his previous question. “Who’re you?”
“I’m Nate,” I decided.
“Nate? What’s a Nate? Is that like a nut?”
I was about to answer in the affirmative when he shot several other questions my way, all of which I hedged. This was especially difficult when he asked if I liked children.
“Depends on the child,” I said.
He was preparing to call me on my shifty response, or so I inferred from his resolute gaze, when Jane returned carrying a wooden tray laden with two bottles of Budweiser, two glasses, and a platter of cheese and crackers. She set the tray on the coffee table in front of the sofa.
“Sweetie, you’re supposed to be in bed,” she said to the mischief-maker. To me she whispered, “Sorry. I was going to tell you over dinner.”
Sweetie knuckled an eye. “I can’t sleep.”
“Sure you can. It’s past your bedtime.”
“No, Mommy, I can’t.” He shook his head for emphasis.
Jane apologized to me with her eyes and said to Sweetie, “Would it help if I read you a story?”
A succession of nods said it would.
“Okay, but first I want you to meet my friend Nate.” She gestured toward me while pulling Sweetie to her side. “Nate, this is my son Tony.”
“What’s a Nate?” he asked.
Persistent little fellow, maybe a reporter in the making.
“A Nate is a very nice man,” his mother said, “and I’m sure you’ll learn to like him as much as I do.”
Before I could infer anything from that, she whispered to me, “He’ll be asleep in no time.”
Jane grabbed Tony’s hand and led him down a long hallway parallel to the kitchen. He glanced back once, probably to make sure I wasn’t up to something. What he saw must have reassured him, as I was merely sitting there going over his mother’s words.
I’m sure you’ll learn to like him as much as I do.
This implied Jane had something more than a one-night dinner in mind. That was okay with me as long as the more included sex. Speaking of which, was it even possible to have sex with a kid around?
I put the question on hold and surveyed my surroundings. Directly across from me was a mantel, which, if I’d checked it earlier, might have warned me that a kid was around, since framed photographs of Tony were on prominent display. In my favorite, he wore a pirate’s garb, complete with eye patch and buccaneer hat. His mouth was wide open and I could almost hear him har-har-harring. Mother and son occupied a couple photos, but men were conspicuously absent from all of them.
Jane reentered the room with a surprised expression on her face, obviously amplified for effect.
“You’re still here!” she said, then sat next to me on the sofa and began filling our glasses. “The reason I seem surprised is that most men amscray when they discover I have a son. I keep hoping one of them will stick around, but so far no luck. Tony’s a great kid, so it’s their loss, not mine.” She placed a square of cheddar cheese on a cracker, handed it to me and served herself. We both bit into our appetizers.
“So whaduhyuh think?” Jane asked.
“Good. I like cheese and crackers.”
A buzzer sounded. Wrong answer, dummy.
“Sorry, you’re right.” Jane brushed some crumbs from her dress. “We’re here to celebrate, not talk about my son or my problems with men. I’m being a lousy hostess.”
“No you’re not. I want to get to know you better, so you can tell me anything you like, including about Tony and the men in your life.”
I meant the part about getting to know her better, and I wouldn’t have minded hearing about Tony. But as for the rest, draw your own conclusion.
Jane rose from the sofa. “Let’s talk over dinner. It’s been in the oven awhile so by the time we set the table it should be ready.”
She headed for the kitchen and I followed. A few minutes later we were seated across from each other at a small mahogany table in the dining room. Between us stood a small vase containing one red rose, presumably home-grown. Next to the vase was a bottle of Chianti, my one contribution to the dinner and the only Italian wine with which I was familiar.
I didn’t know much about food either, but I could recognize a five-star meal when I saw one, and what followed qualified. Antipasto salad, minestrone soup, veal parmigiana with a side of gnocchi, thick slices of garlic bread, and finally cannoli with a touch of chocolate syrup on top.
For once I ate like my mother.
Just as rare, I helped clear the table. Living with my parents, I’d viewed this chore as a spectator sport, but tonight I was inclined to pitch in—perhaps to impress the lady of the house, a ploy I wouldn’t put past me. We placed the dishes and silverware on the kitchen counter, after which I stood in the doorway while Jane rinsed the dishes and piled them in the sink.
“I guess we were too busy eating to talk much,” she said. “I’ll tell you my life story over coffee, okay?”
“Sure. After that dinner, a low-calorie drink wouldn’t hurt.”
“Right, like you have a problem. I, on the other hand …” She patted the rump I so greatly admired.
High on my Mysterious Things About Women list was this obsession with their fannies, which nearly always fell short of some arbitrary standard by which they judged them.
Naturally I pushed the rock uphill. “You don’t have a weight problem either. And that includes back there.”
“Well, aren’t you sweet.” She craned her neck to see for herself. “But you’re full of shit.”
Dishes stacked, we returned to the dining room, Jane with a carafe of coffee, I with cups and saucers. She made a separate trip for cream and sugar and upon returning poured us each a cup of joe. I doctored mine while she left hers intact. For her tush’s sake, no doubt.
Jane took a sip, then gave me an abridged version of her story.
She’d been attending night classes in the culinary arts at Wayne State when she began cooking up a storm with the instructor. A year later they were married, and a year after that divorced. With a bun in the oven, she’d discovered he didn’t like children. Jane won child support and the house, on which the court forced Le Chef to make mortgage payments in lieu of alimony. With a little babysitting help from her mother, Jane attended bartending school at night and after graduation landed the gig at Mario’s. The job had its pros and cons, the latter of which included the bullshit she’d mentioned.
“It’s not easy working in a bar, you know?” She sipped more coffee. “You wouldn’t believe how crude some men can be.”
After four years in the Navy, I couldn’t imagine.
All in all, though, the job’s advantages outweighed its liabilities. “Some men, including the owner, may be ass-grabbers,” Jane said, “but Mario pays well and the tips are awesome.”
I believed it. Even penurious me left her substantial displays of gratitude.
Jane set her cup down and suggested we adjourn to the living room. Once we’d settled on the sofa she leaned sideways and rested her head on my shoulder, sending my motor into overdrive.
“I guess I don’t understand men,” she said, picking up where she’d left off. “But I like you, in case you hadn’t noticed. You’re such a gentleman, even if you drink too much sometimes.”
I ignored the last part while wondering if a gentleman could put his arm around a woman whose attractive head now perched on his shoulder. I decided he could.
“Mmm,” Jane said. “I like to be held. Feels good.”
She raised her head and parted her lips. Naturally I wondered if she liked to be kissed. During my effort to find out she moaned low and placed a hand at the back of my head, urging me onward.
I was about to make better use of my free hand when she withdrew and pressed her lips lightly against my neck. “Do you like to dance?”
Of course. What ungainly guy with no sense of rhythm didn’t?
“Sure,” I said.
“I’m so glad. A lot of men don’t, believe it or not.”
At least I had company.
Jane got up and opened a polished wood cabinet next to the mantel, exposing a phonograph and a row of 33 1/3s. She took her time selecting an album and my pecker relaxed a bit. Finally she placed a record on the turntable and I was surprised to hear Shearing’s “A Nightingale Sang” rather than some bleating British import, the pop music du jour. Jane returned and offered her hand. I got to my feet, she slid into my arms and I improvised steps that closely resembled walking. She seemed satisfied with the fakery, resting her head on my shoulder again and holding me a bit more intimately than I expected. Being a gentleman, I didn’t complain.
“Should I flip it?” she asked when the side ended.
“By all means.”
“Or would you like to do somet
hing else?”
I was about to ask what else but stifled my stupidity for once.
I smiled stupidly instead. “Something else.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Jane led me toward the hallway but after a few steps I stopped short. She seemed baffled, for which I couldn’t blame her.
“What about, uh,Tony?” I asked.
“You see! That’s what I mean. You care about such things. But not to worry. Once my son’s asleep he’s dead to the world. And he never gets up in the middle of the night, a mother’s dream come true. Plus, my bedroom’s at the far end of the hall. Okay?”
In answer I steered her toward the far end of the hall.
Halfway there, she braked. “And just for the record, I don’t, you know, usually do this on a first date. Except this isn’t our first date … not to me anyway. It may sound silly, but whenever you’re in Mario’s I feel like I’m on a date.”
I made a note to get my ears checked because I couldn’t have heard right. But then I realized Jane had merely confirmed what I’d come to suspect. I was more to her than just another customer
I started to reply without knowing where I was going when she added, “By the way … just so you know? … I’d been waiting and waiting for you to ask me out, but you wouldn’t, even with all the hints I dropped, and since I’m an old-fashioned girl I just continued to wait. I was about to give up when you did that stupid thing, that sky-jumping or whatever it’s called, and … well … here we are at last. And since we are here, I want you to know that even though you’re clueless sometimes, I care for you a great deal. And I hope that’s not crossing a line.”
My response was to place one hand at her back and the other on her (allegedly) oversized fanny and then both lips on hers, pressing hard in all three instances.
“I guess not,” she said when we came up for air.
What transpired after that had to be a dream, because this sort of thing didn’t happen to me except during REM sleep. Still, it was a dream I’d not soon forget.
The first thing Jane did after we entered her bedroom was light candles already placed on her bureau, dresser and bedside table. Then she closed the door, leaving us in an unearthly glow, and came to me as I stood at the foot of the queen-sized bed. We kissed again, harder and fiercer than last time, after which Jane turned her back. Now attentive to every breadcrumb, I unbuttoned her dress and drew it downward, slowly, over her shoulders, hips and seemingly endless legs. She stepped out of it, kicked off her heels and glided to the side of the bed, where I quickly joined her. Clad only in bra, panties and nylons, Jane held her arms out and I eased into them, kissed her again and, while I was at it, ran my hands over every inch of her body, winding up at the entrance to paradise. Hearing her moan, I lost what little restraint I had and began urging her into bed. Inexplicably, she stood firm. Now wearing a mischievous grin in addition to her undergarments, Jane held up a hand indicating I should remain in place. She turned and climbed into bed, then sat back against the headboard and slowly unhooked her stockings and even more slowly removed them. Next she bent forward, reached behind her and unfastened her bra. After tossing it aside she hooked her thumbs in her panties.
Nathan in Spite of Himself Page 31
