Impersonal Attractions

by Sarah Shankman

  She reached for the cards.

  “Good,” he said. “I’ve got to pay for these new threads somehow.”

  Fat chance. As if she ever intended to pay off her gin debt.

  She watched him as they played. She still couldn’t get over the change in his appearance. He really did look wonderful.

  She picked up her cards, brushing his hand.

  What was that?

  That was Tom, stupid. Comfortable old Tom. Old-shoe Tom. Sitting on your sofa, beating your fanny at gin rummy, drinking your cognac. As always.

  What was she thinking about?

  About screwing up one of the best friendships she’d ever had?

  “Hey, hey, hey. Where’s your mind tonight? I like taking your money, but this is ridiculous.”

  “Sorry.”

  She smiled. He smiled back. Their gaze held.

  What did that mean?

  What was he thinking about?

  “My mind’s on the book. Sorry, I guess I am a little distracted,” she said.

  “Do I get to read some more tonight?”

  “Sure. Let’s play a few more hands and give me a chance to get even.”

  “Honey, we don’t have enough years for you to get even.”

  He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

  Her face burned.

  He never did things like that. Or if he did, they didn’t feel like this. Was she crazy, or was he different? And what was she feeling? What was going on here?

  Three more hands. Tom poured more cognac for them both. They were drinking a little more than usual.

  Annie ginned on the third hand, put down her cards, and yawned. But she wasn’t tired. Actually, she was very nervous. Was he bluffing? Was she?

  “It’s getting late,” she said, stretching elaborately. Was she showing him she was sleepy or was she showing off?

  “You’re right.” He watched her long arms, her body in full extension. Then he looked at his watch. “What time is it?”

  “It’s midnight. Awfully late for you to drive all that way.”

  What if she had misread this? Was he going to laugh at her? Would it become part of the mythology of their friendship—the night Annie put the make on him?

  “Do you want to spend the night?”

  “Sure.” Tom nodded. He didn’t look her in the eye, but stood and headed for the john.

  Maybe he thinks I mean for him to sleep on the sofa, she thought as she poured him another cognac. Had he ever done that before? She couldn’t remember.

  He read the chapter she had waiting for him on the coffee table in two minutes flat.

  “I love it.”

  “Do you want to read some more?”

  “Not now, Annie.” He turned and cupped her face in his hands and looked her straight in the eye. “Right now I want to go to bed with you.”

  Well, of course. Didn’t they do this every night?

  She led him by the hand into her bedroom, chattering away about nothing. She started unbuttoning casually, trying to hide her nervousness, still talking all the while.

  “Stop,” he said, taking her hand away from her blouse. “And shut up.”

  Oh, Jesus, this is going to be awful, she thought. I’ve always loved this man, but he never made my blood sing. He’s my friend, not my lover.

  For a big man, Tom’s touch was like a baby’s breath as he gathered her to him.

  “Relax,” he whispered into her hair. “I know what I’m doing, lady.”

  “Ladies don’t do this.” She giggled.

  “They most certainly do,” he said, slowly running his tongue down the side of her neck.

  She felt the long, strong muscles in his shoulders, his back.

  He slipped her blouse off her shoulders.

  “How do you know they’re ladies?”

  She unbuckled his belt.

  “They leave a tip.”

  They fell laughing to her bed, half dressed, half drunk.

  Tom was right, as he was right about most things. He did, indeed, know what he was doing.

  *

  Sometimes when she made love, when it was very, very good, as this was, Annie saw visions. It was as if she had a little videotape machine in her head, flashing pictures.

  This time it was a rerun of her dreams. She was running down a hill in a sheer dress, carrying a big, floppy hat. He was beside her, the faceless, big-shouldered man, laughing as they tumbled down, down through the grass. But this time she could see his face. The face of her beloved. She’d known him all along.

  Afterward Tom slept soundly, but she was too excited to close her eyes, running and rerunning the lovemaking in her mind. Then the gremlins crept in.

  It will be different in the morning. It always is. He’ll wake up and wonder what the hell that was all about, if he remembers it at all, and then he’ll pull on his clothes and go home.

  She kissed his shoulder, savoring the sweetness while she had it. He stirred and rolled over.

  “Annie,” he murmured, “you’re still here.”

  He gathered her to him, into his warm, snuggly cave in the bed, as if he were trying to squeeze them both into the borders of one cookie cutter. He kissed her fingertips and nose.

  “Didn’t you know that I’ve always loved you?” His voice was middle-of-the-night hoarse.

  “Yes, but…”

  “But not this way, right? Well, now you know.”

  “I’m…” She hesitated. Was it stupid to admit it?

  “What?”

  “I’m scared.”

  “I know you are. But don’t be. Trust me.”

  With that, he pounced on her and they rolled and giggled and wrestled, eventually falling off the bed. Finally Bunny, on the other side of the wall, got her chance to bang with righteous indignation.

  Annie laughed and shushed Tom. It was about time.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Sam frantically punched the story into her terminal. She’d never get used to the thing glowing at her and breaking down. Her old Smith-Corona never failed her, especially at times like this.

  Another light flashed—her phone.

  “Samantha Storey here. Lunch? Christ, Annie, didn’t you read the paper this morning? No, nothing major. Headlines and most of page one, that’s all. The real Mt. Diablo killer, that’s what. The genuine article. Yes, sure, but I can’t talk now. Is it important? Okay, meet me at John’s at noon and we’ll grab a bite. I’m going to be here all night. Good. Great. In the meantime, Annie, read the paper. It’s the all-time Samantha Storey special.”

  *

  It was big, all right. The headlines screamed at her. Big and grisly, terrifying, shocking, sad. And depressing. Annie slumped onto her elbows on the dining-room table.

  The killer’s whole story was there. His lonely childhood, his problems in connecting with people, his frustration, and then the release that he found—in rape and murder. The pattern, over and over. Twice convicted and jailed for rape, attempted murder. She looked closely at the photos. She wanted him to look like a monster. He looked like a nerd.

  These guys never looked the way they did in movies or in nightmares. They didn’t breathe fire or sprout bristles out of their noses and ears. They didn’t shout in hideous voices or wave machetes. Most of them were quiet, sad, little men. Wimps. Nerds.

  Annie threw down the paper in disgust. She hated to think she was becoming an over-thirty law-and-order fanatic. But when it came to violence maybe she was. How many women does a nerd have to rape, ravage, kill, before they throw away the key?

  How many women like Lola? She stopped for a minute, picked up the paper again. Was there any connection? She scanned the pages. There was a sidebar quoting Sean, spokesman for the department. The official word was no. No connection. One down, one to go. He was still out there.

  *

  Samantha ordered coffee for them both.

  “I wonder how many cups I’m going to drink before this story’s finished?” she asked Annie, who h
ad pumped her all through lunch for every detail. “But I’m up to here”—she gestured at her brow—“with murder. Your turn. Give me the good news. Tell me a love story.”

  “I’m not sure that it is good news,” Annie said.

  “Are you kidding? You sit there looking like Hudson with cream on his whiskers and say this isn’t good news?”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “Yeah, but you’re scared. We’re all scared. So what?”

  “God, Sam. You sound more and more like my Aunt Essie every day.”

  But she told it, from the top. When she finished she added, “He called me this morning from the office. Between meetings, crazy, rushed like he always is. Out of breath.”

  “What did he say?” Sam raised her voice with the frustration of waiting for Annie to get to the punch line. Heads turned. She blushed.

  Annie almost whispered. “He said, ‘I know that it seems like a dream today. But it’s not. It was real and it is real and I love you.’ And then he had to run.”

  Samantha sighed. “Just like in the movies.”

  “There’s more. An hour later the buzzer rang and it was a delivery boy with…Sam! What is it?” Annie started at Sam’s sudden gasp.

  And then it dawned on her. “Oh, God, I didn’t even think about that. Jesus! And they were in a long white box. But it’s okay.” Annie smiled across the table at Samantha. “They were from Tom, bushels of Peruvian lilies.”

  They both took a deep breath.

  “So why isn’t this good news?” Sam asked.

  Annie wrinkled her nose. “Why should this time be different from any other, this man different from any other man?”

  “He is different. He’s Tom. He’s not some bozo you flirted with at the post office. He’s your friend.”

  “Yeah. But I never knew him this way before. And it’s this way that I always screw up. If I don’t get bored in two weeks, he gets bored. Or I get scared or he gets scared. Or I don’t like the way he chews. Aaaaargh. Anyway, I always end up alone eating heart sandwiches.”

  “Your pessimism at the outcome of your romances is only exceeded by your optimism that there will be another one around the next corner.”

  “Like my mammy always said, ‘Men are like streetcars. If you wait long enough, there’ll always be another one coming along.’”

  “But what about the one who’s at your door right this very minute? He’s perfectly fine, Annie. Tom is a wonderful man. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with him. At least nothing I’ve ever seen. So why not just enjoy?”

  “Because I’m scared.”

  “Scared that it won’t work out or scared that it will?”

  “Both.”

  “It’s okay. You’re just a little crazy—it’s called being happy. You’ll get used to it. I’ve got to run. Now remember that you’re going to call Sean to see if there’s anything new on the Strangler. He seems to be telling you more than me these days.”

  They hugged good-bye at the restaurant door. “By the way,” Annie added, “I’m going to the flower market in the morning. Going to fill my whole apartment with tulips. Can I get you anything?”

  “Sure. Grab me two dozen of anything pretty. And wholesale.”

  *

  Annie called Sean.

  “No, thanks but no thanks, we’re doing just fine without you two.”

  “There’s nothing we can do?”

  “Well,” he hesitated.

  “What? Tell me.”

  “You could take Samantha to the movies for me.”

  She slammed down the receiver. One of these days she was going to slap that man.

  And then she thought about it. She hated to admit that he was right, even a little right. Maybe she and Sam were on to something, and maybe with a lot of luck they’d have found it. But maybe they wouldn’t have wanted to when they did.

  Was this what having a new/old lover was doing for her? Turning her into a chicken?

  She jumped at the ring of the phone. Was it Tom?

  No. It was Slim. She’d almost forgotten him.

  “Hey, Miss Annie. What’s happening, baby?”

  How could she forget that snaky dark voice trying to slither into her ear?

  “Everything’s happening, Slim. Everything’s cool.”

  “Why that’s great, baby. Just great.” She could hear the drugs on his tongue.

  “That’s right, I’ve found a man.”

  “You getting married?”

  “Just might. If I do, I’ll send you an invitation to the wedding.”

  “Right on. You do that, y’hear. You be happy. Just keep on being happy. I’ll catch you later.”

  And then he was gone. How easy that was. She’d done it before.… “Sorry, I’d love to, but I’ve become engaged since the last time I spoke to you. Yes”—meaningful pause—“he is a lucky man.”

  So why hadn’t she thought of it before now? Maybe she’d gotten religion. Maybe the lie had to have a kernel of truth in it for her to pull it off. Did this one?

  Did it, old jump-the-gun Annie? Out of the gate before the shot has sounded? Why will your heart not be still? Because the man made you feel loved in bed? That’s an easy trick. Because he said he loved you? You’ve heard that before. Because you love him? Yes, you love him. You’ve always loved him. But love him?

  She carried Tom’s lilies and the phone into her bedroom. He had said something about a meeting with his partner. This late?

  Annie, Annie, she caught herself. What are you doing? Already you’re making yourself crazy. You are crazy. First you go to bed with an old friend. He calls you the next morning and tells you he loves you. He sends you flowers. And now you’re anxious because he hasn’t called in eight hours. Nuts, absolutely nuts.”

  *

  Hi, it’s me.” Tom sounded as if he had smoked two packs of cigarettes since noon. “Can I come over?”

  “You’re forty minutes away. You have to go to work in the morning. But I’d love to see you.”

  “I’m not forty minutes away. I jumped in the car as soon as I was finished and just drove. I’d parked when it dawned on me that this might not be cool.”

  “Where are you?”

  “A block away, on Fillmore. Outside the liquor store. Shall I bring some Jack Daniel’s? Or Southern Comfort?”

  Southern Comfort. She’d forgotten how much she loved it.

  She ordered the Southern Comfort. “And step on it.”

  “Consider me there.”

  *

  Five minutes later she did consider him. There as he untied the little bows of the straps of her thin, white, cotton nightgown, touched with tucks and lace. She’d quickly slipped it over her head after his call. He slipped it off again.

  “What about my drink? My Southern Comfort?” she murmured, teasing.

  “You’re it, dear. My long-legged southern belle.” He kissed the tender places behind her knees as he slowly turned her over.

  “Do you think it’s just sex?”

  “Well, it certainly is sex.” He laughed. “But if you think I’m simply after your body, I can stop.” His tongue was in the spaces where her fingers met.

  “No,” she said, reaching up for him. “I’ll take your word for it.” She closed his mouth with hers and mumbled, “Now, hush.”

  When she awoke he was sitting on the edge of her bed, smelling of shaving cream and soap. He was holding her blue mug.

  “Ready for some coffee?”

  She smiled, stretched, yawned, and reached for his hand. I am going to go blind or get hit by a truck, she thought. God is not going to let me be this happy.

  “I’ve got to go play architect,” he said. “And you need to get up, lazybones. Your typewriter is waiting for you.”

  She glanced at the clock: six-thirty. Why wasn’t she tired?

  “I’ll get to it, when I get back from exercise.”

  He smiled down at her body, and her eyes followed and then met his. She could read in them the memory of thei
r communion a few hours before. There was that electric message that says: I know you naked. I know your secret places. I remember the things you whispered in my ear.

  She had to look away.

  “I’m going while I can,” he said. “Dinner tonight?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll be here at seven. Work well.”

  He was gone.

  But he was coming back.

  She found a note taped to her coffeepot.

  “I’ve always loved you. I always will.”

  Now that’s the way to start a day, she thought. Damned sight better than a garbage truck.

  THIRTY-NINE

  She bounded through exercise class. Her teacher Mimi raised an eyebrow.

  “New vitamins or a new man?”

  “Old man. New love.” Annie grinned. “Let’s have lunch this week and I’ll tell you all about him.”

  Throwing her bright yellow sweatshirt and pants over her pink leotard, she ran across the street to the Marina Safeway. Shopping went a lot faster when she was concentrating on it, rather than on the other customers. Marina Safeway post-Tom, no cruising—would anything ever be the same?

  She drove Agatha southward and made a left on Golden Gate, across Market, where bums were still asleep on the sidewalk.

  Did bums ever get flowers? Don’t think about it. Anybody who can’t enjoy the circus because she feels sorry for the elephants shouldn’t think about bums on her way to buy tulips. She’d think about Tom, and remember to buy something for Sam and a surprise for Quynh and Hudson. Hudson loved tulips. After pig they were his favorite breakfast food.

  The California Flower Market was wholesale, not open to the public. Unless, like Annie, the public had found a friendly dealer named Nick. Every time she went to his shop, one of a number of single-story shops bursting with blooms, he asked her her resale number and wrote something down on her order when she looked at him blankly. He seemed to take as much delight as she did in the mountains of tulips, dahlias, lilacs, and sweet peas she carried away in her arms.

  Today his tulips were seven dollars for ten dozen. Even sharing them with Sam, Quynh, and Hudson, they were enough to fill her entire apartment. Tom would think he’d walked into a bower tonight.

  She smiled, remembering him a few years earlier as a grandly foolish Bottom in a little theater production of Midsummer Night’s Dream. He had talked her into it and she had a two-minute role: Snout and the Wall. They had all become celebrants of the moonlit magic of nosegays, cowslips, and love-in-idleness, that purple flower whose juice made its subject dote madly on the next live creature he or she saw.