by Nan
No words. They sighed, moaned softly, rolled back and forth, first one on top and then the other. And then, suddenly, they lay still, silent flesh on silent flesh, barely breathing until dangerous thoughts passed safely by.
They could not believe they were in bed together. Yet, holding tight to their disbelief, could not imagine themselves apart. Yin had discovered Yang. Black, White. Day, Night. And once discovered, each became more separate. Distant. Then closer. Almost redundantly, Birnbaum eased himself inside her. He groaned, his sound deep, a sonar growl that produced an image on her face, her expression denning his size and strength. It was as though he had seen himself for the first time.
Libby had anticipated no less than death. Her breasts disappeared within the grasp of his fingers, her stomach flattened against his, their legs, entwined, became a single limb. She felt vindicated, conquered, incandescent. He thrust forward and forward and forward, unwilling to move back from her. Libby cried out. He gasped. She murmured. They hummed. Still afraid to speak, they listened for something to happen. Something as deafening as a sigh. They listened so hard that they missed the sounds of their own pleasure. They fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Libby woke in the middle of the night to find him staring at her. “Birnbaum,” she whispered.
“Yes?”
“What the hell was that we did?”
He smiled. “Beats me.”
Libby put a finger to his mouth and circled his lips. “I was sure you’d have a name for it.”
Birnbaum nodded. “It’s called cheating.”
She sat up. “Oh, shit. Can’t you do anything like a normal person? You’re supposed to feel great.”
“I never cheated on my wife before.”
Libby tucked the sheet under her arms. “They’re right! God really does move in mysterious ways. I knew he was going to get me. He had to. He always does. But I never figured he’d get me this way.”
“Which way?”
Libby closed her eyes and screamed, “The Birnbaum way!”
He held her face tenderly in his hands. “I can’t tell you that I love you.”
“God two. Libby zero.”
“Did you think I would?”
“Birnbaum,” she said, taking his hands away, “I honestly don’t know if I expected you to tell me that you loved me. But I was hoping you might stop somewhere short of regret.”
“Regret? I never said regret.”
“I know. You wouldn’t have missed me for the world. But you still feel guilty. Which you also wouldn’t have missed for the world. By the way, did you know that Theda Bara was Jewish?”
“Listen, what happened here is not the same as what my wife did.”
“Of course not.”
“We were still living together when she slept with another man.”
Libby nodded. “And now you’re not living together and you didn’t sleep with another man.”
He was adamant. “This is a different kind of cheating!”
Libby put a hand to her forehead. “Birnbaum, it’s not your fault. It’s all my fault. I set you up. I knew what was going to happen when I came here. You didn’t stand a chance.”
“What the hell are you talking about? You want to think that, go right ahead. But don’t expect me to fall for a line like that. I wanted you from the moment I saw you.”
“You did?”
“You didn’t put anything over on me. I was out to get you. I wanted you. And I got you!”
Libby looked up and smiled. “Do everybody a favor, Birnbaum. Forgive yourself. I don’t mean anything to you.” She put a hand to his face and slowly brought him close. “Give me a kiss, Birnbaum. One really good kiss. I’ll prove it to you.” She closed her eyes. “Be honest with yourself. You’re not thinking of me.”
It was the sweetest kiss of Libby’s life. Mouths open, exchanging breath and tongues, they kissed a very loving kiss, a kiss that deserved thousands of votive candles. It was the Sistine Chapel of kisses.
After a moment, breathless, Birnbaum whispered, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. I thought of you.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“I kept telling myself it was empty and meaningless.”
“You got a real way with words.”
“I want to kiss you again.” He took her in his arms and nearly squeezed the breath out of her. His lips pressed tight against her teeth. He pulled back as though to rescue himself. “It’s only physical.”
“You’re a regular Browning.”
He drew her close again. “It’s not as though I loved you.”
“Let me not count the ways.”
“I loved her.”
“Love is like money,” Libby said. “It doesn’t buy happiness.”
“What the hell does it buy?”
“Time. Love buys you time to get over your mistakes. Time to realize how stupid you’ve been and to kiss and make up. If all you want is happy, you can be happy without love and without money. Most of the world is.”
“Except you.”
“You can’t go by me, Birnbaum. Nobody’s going to give you odds on the life of Libby Dennis. What are the chances that my pipsqueak senator would become President?”
He laughed. “You really think he was a pipsqueak?”
“No. He was really very cute.”
“Cute?”
“Preppy. His clothes didn’t wrinkle. He wore garters to hold up his socks. He put on a tie for breakfast.”
“Were you in love with him?”
“Birnbaum, if it’s any consolation, I put him through the same garbage you just put me through. Cal and I had separated. He’d gone off to LA for his first picture. I’d never slept with anyone else.”
“You were a virgin when you married Cal?”
“It was a long time ago, Birnbaum. It was an age when virgins still roamed the face of the earth.”
“He really put on a tie for breakfast?”
“Well, it wasn’t just any breakfast. I made my Apple Pie Omelette.”
Birnbaum pointed toward the kitchen. “That omelette?”
“Same one.”
He laughed. “Did he like it?”
“Oh, Birnbaum! Did he like it? What was he wearing? Why don’t you ask me what he was like in bed?”
“I was getting to that.”
Libby reached over and turned on the light. They both squinted from the glare. Somehow, Birnbaum looked younger. His hair was tousled, his eyes open wide in anticipation. “You’re asking me to tell you what he was like in bed?”
“He’s the President. Anybody would be curious.”
She wondered what he must be thinking of her. She had to look a hundred years old. Her makeup smudged, eyes red, hair all tangled and knotted. Those creases on her neck. Why hadn’t she let Loren get rid of them? “This hardly seems like the time or the place.”
Birnbaum reached over and turned off the light. “There is no time. There is no place.”
Libby stared up at the ceiling as though speaking to a cosmic inquisitor. “What do you want to know?”
“I want to know everything.”
She felt a hand on her shoulder. At first, she thought he was encouraging her. But the hand pulled her back as though the verdict had already been delivered. He pulled the sheet away from her. She felt unbearably naked. Libby put out her hand to touch his chest. “He didn’t have hair on his chest.”
Pause. “Oh.”
“And his nipples were enormous.”
“Go on.”
Libby thought it must be some sort of occupational neurosis. Perhaps just a bad case of hero worship. She reached for Birnbaum’s face in the dark, her finger outlining his lips. “I remember that lower lip of his. Such a strong line. A little fleshy but I liked it.” Birnbaum moved her hand aside. He began tracing the line of his lower lip.
“Oh, yes,” she said nervously. “He was an outsie.”
Birnbaum moved his hand to his stomach. He was breathing hard.
“And come to think of it, I never heard him breathe. No panting. No sweat.”
Birnbaum rolled onto his side and then hovered above Libby. “How did he make love to you?” He was expectant. Erect. “How?” he asked.
“Oh, it was wonderful,” she whispered, shutting her eyes tight. Libby was afraid to admit she didn’t remember anything. “I’ll never forget the moment. He kissed my neck, I kissed his ear.”
Birnbaum kissed her neck. He waited. “Go ahead. Kiss my ear.”
Libby was titillated by the prospect of creating her own post facto fantasy of how the President had made love to her. Like a dime-novel sex slave, Birnbaum did exactly what she told him to do. “Then, oh, yes, I’ll never forget this, he leaned over and whispered . . .” Libby stopped herself as she suddenly realized what was happening. “Oh, my God.”
“Oh, my God,” Birnbaum whispered.
“It’s not me you want!” she gasped.
Birnbaum was confused. “What? Who said that? You or him?”
“Me! Me! Me! I’m saying it! And I’m saying it now. It’s not me you want. It’s him!”
Birnbaum knew he’d been caught in the act.
“You son of a bitch,” she said, pulling away. Libby wrapped the blanket around her and sat up on the edge of the bed. “It wasn’t me, it was him!”
“Listen, lady . . .”
“Lady? Libby to Lady. Ashes to ashes.”
“Don’t you understand?” he shouted. “I’m supposed to die for him. I’ve been programmed to spread out and make myself as big a target as possible. Don’t you think I’d be curious?”
“Damn you, Birnbaum. I feel like the team whore.”
“You want to talk whores,” he said, covering himself with the sheet. “I didn’t even vote for him.”
“You must have put your wife through some hell, Birnbaum.”
He smiled. “I didn’t put her through anything. I never asked her anything.”
“Didn’t you want to know why she did it?”
“No. She did it! That’s all that mattered.”
“I don’t understand you, Birnbaum.”
“It’s very simple. I was a real jerk. I believed in my marriage.”
“But not in your wife.”
He took a chunk of plaster and hurled it against the wall, not saying a word until it fell to the floor. “I haven’t touched a thing since the day she left.”
“Why not?”
Birnbaum sat down next to Libby. “I want her back.”
“Does she want to come back?”
“Yes.”
“But you won’t let her.”
“I can’t stand knowing she was unfaithful.”
“You’re a real company man, Birnbaum.”
“The best there is.”
“You really believe in the presidency.”
“Yes, I do.”
“But not in the President,” she said. “You didn’t even vote for him. Just like you didn’t vote for your wife.” Libby reached over and touched his cheek. “I’ll tell you something, Birnbaum. I’m glad I’m not divorced from you.”
There was a long silence and then he asked, “What the hell happens now?”
“Well, for starters, I’d fire the cleaning lady and call in the National Guard.”
He sighed deeply. “They want to transfer me to the LA office.”
“Thank God.”
Birnbaum shrugged. “My wife hates LA.”
“If she loves you, she’ll go.”
“I guess.”
“It’s a good way to find out.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Don’t be afraid. Tell her.”
“I’d never tell her about you.”
“Of course you wouldn’t tell her about me. It’s not important to blab every little thing to the person you love. Telling Cal the truth wouldn’t have solved anything then. Or now. You know, Birnbaum, I don’t think I’m going to tell him about tonight either.”
“Strangers on a plane.”
She hugged Birnbaum. “North Pole.”
“South Pole,” he said, kissing her for a very long time. As Birnbaum held her in his arms he began to laugh. “Is he really an outsie?”
“Yes. And there aren’t too many of them around.”
“Maybe that’s why he’s President!”
They lay back on the bed. “No. I think it’s because of the way he held his coffee cup. I’d often think about the way he held that cup as the months dragged on. Not that I didn’t think about Cal, too.”
The room had suddenly become very still. Or perhaps it disappeared entirely. Libby spoke without Libby speaking. There was a pause in eternity, a blinding flash defenseless against itself, powerless against logic, blinded by its own incandescence. Libby held her greatest fear, Special Agent Birnbaum, in her arms.
“The day I found out I was pregnant, I hired a divorce lawyer. Even if the baby were Cal’s, I wanted him to finish the picture without a wife or kid to worry about. That was the way we had separated and I wanted to keep my end of the bargain.” She traced Birnbaum’s eyebrows with her finger. “I called the senator. Not that I had any intention of telling him I was pregnant. But I did want to see him again. I wanted to see him hold that coffee cup. Unimportant things suddenly became important because of the way he did them. I wanted to memorize all the mannerisms I knew were reproducing themselves inside me. We made a date for lunch. The old Willard Hotel. I took the train to Washington but I never left Union Station. I just sat on a bench and waited for the next train back.”
Libby covered Birnbaum gently with the blanket. “I didn’t want an abortion. There was always the chance it might have been Cal’s baby. Besides, I could never give Cal up entirely. I loved him too much. And I never took any money from Cal. Not a penny. I raised Steven on my own. But I thought it would be good for him to have a father. I owed him that.” Tears fell from the corners of her eyes. “I think I did okay for Steven in the father department. I think he would have chosen Cal over some dumb old President, don’t you?”
Libby waited for Birnbaum to say something. To comfort her. Reassure her that by trusting him, she had done the right thing. She would have nothing to fear.
Instead, she saw fury in his eyes.
Birnbaum hardly moved his lips as he whispered, “Why did you have to tell me?”
THURSDAY
“HE’S NOT HERE YET,” STU SHOUTED AS HE RUSHED into the kitchen.
Ursula snatched the dupe before Stu had finished tearing it from his order pad. She looked at it, and took a deep breath. “Ordering one shrimp pâté. One crabmeat cocktail.” Then, checking the other dupes, she yelled, “Fire the duck breast for 33!”
Louie slammed a frying pan on the stove. “You no order duck breast for 33! You order chicken liver!”
“Duck breast!” Ursula screamed.
Louie opened his mouth as though his teeth were a deadly weapon. “Chicken liver!”
Norm turned to Special Agent Mitchell. “Didn’t she say duck breast?”
Steely-eyed, one hand pressed to the minispeaker in his ear, Fred Mitchell was not about to be distracted by whether Ursula had said duck breast or not. Mitchell was senior man in the kitchen. He had five other agents posted around the room, near the grill, the cold station, the dishwasher, and two at the doors. His men wore round red pins with a horizontal white stripe. The two inspectors from the FDA, who stood on either side of the chef’s table, wore small white pins.
“Well, I heard her say duck breast,” Norm snarled.
“You hear only tips!” Louie shouted. “I cook good. You get tip.” Louie poked Special Agent Thompson who was stationed near the grill. Instinctively, Thompson reached for his gun and then pulled back. “You tell President when he come. No fair. Customer like food, customer tip me. No him.”
“Where the hell is my bluefish?”
“Fuck your bluefish. What about my chops?”
“Fuck your chops.”
Bud
pulled Louie back to the stove. “The bluefish, Louie.”
“Yes, boss. I got nice one here.”
“Hands off.” Bud took the plate away from him. “That’s mine.”
“You eat bluefish, boss?”
“It’s for the President.”
Louie leaned close to Bud and whispered. “Boss, you know what President order? I change my bet. We make big money.”
“Louie, the bluefish!” Bud walked up and down the aisle, checking his cooks. He pressed a finger on the chops as Ho took them from the grill. Then he crossed to the cold table, watching Liang cut a slice of shrimp and walnut pâté. Bud glanced up at Special Agent Keller, who was also watching Liang.
“You hungry?” Bud asked.
Keller shook his head no.
“Liang, more mayonnaise,” Bud shouted. He opened the reach-in fridge. “Save me your best oysters for the President.”
Liang nodded, translated for Gan, and then whispered to Bud, “You know President order oyster?”
Bud shook his head. “Forget about the goddamn pool! That’s for the waiters!”
Liang nodded and smiled. He repeated his question. “You know President order oyster?”
“No,” Bud shouted. “I don’t know President order oyster. I just want the best of everything for him.”
Keller looked at Mitchell. Mitchell nodded and motioned to Bud. “I don’t want anything put aside for him. Whatever the President orders, he gets the same as anybody else. No special portions.”
Bud showed him the bluefish. “But I hand-picked the best.”
“No special portions.”
“What do you think? I’m trying to kill him?”
“Please use up those portions now or we’ll have to throw them out.”
“What good would it do me to kill him? You think I want the President of the United States to die eating my lunch? That’s not exactly a rave review.”
Al pushed open the door. “Still not here,” he reported.
Ursula reached for his dupe. “Ordering one smoked tuna,” she shouted. “One salmon tartare.” She turned to Al. “I never figured Julie Andrews for smoked tuna.”
“You know what I never figured? How come she wasn’t in the movie of My Fair Lady?”
Stu groaned loudly. “How long you been working here? Did they give Mary Martin The Sound of Music? Don’t you know how the studios work? Christ! And you call yourself a waiter?”
