Afterburn

by Colin Harrison

"Why?"

  "It didn't interest me enough."

  "What interested you?"

  "Flying."

  "Do you still fly?"

  "Only business class."

  "Not a little Cessna or something?"

  "There'd be no point."

  He wasn't giving her much to go on. I'm asking too many personal questions, she told herself. "You have a good marriage, I guess?"

  "Good enough."

  "What's that mean?"

  "It means it's fine."

  "Did she ever cheat?"

  "She might have, yes."

  "Did you mind?"

  "No."

  "Why?"

  "I can't explain it. Not after . . . When I was much younger, I might have cared." He looked out the window. "I was away for some long periods, and there was a lot of uncertainty. It would have been understandable. Generally I'm not a patient or forgiving person, but this was sort of okay."

  There was something he wasn't telling her or something she had not understood. "You ever ask?"

  He shook his head, as if at the insubstantiality of her question.

  "Why?"

  "I didn't need to."

  "How long were you gone?"

  "Couple of times six, seven months."

  "But this was a long time ago," said Christina, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  "Very long ago. Ancient history."

  "So you were in the Navy—"

  "Air Force, please."

  "Air Force, I mean, then you became a businessman?"

  "That's about right."

  "I'm young enough to be your daughter, which, I realize, I should probably not mention."

  He shifted in the seat uncomfortably. "You are younger than my daughter, Melissa."

  "You never told me about your back."

  "I had some operations."

  "How'd you hurt it?"

  He closed his eyes and took a breath. When he opened his eyes, he was looking away. "This is not something I discuss much."

  She thought, For all I know he has a terminal disease or something. "Charlie," she said in frustration, "is there some kind of problem? You don't want to talk?"

  "I'm sorry, Melissa." He stood up and paced. "It's about me, not you. You're terrific. I can tell that, I really can. My mood is not your fault, at all." He loosened his tie. "I want to be here with you, but I'm worried about wanting to be here with you. I've always played by the rules. But I seem to be in some—" He stopped. "It's not just you, it's other things."

  She moved over to him, could not help but take his hand and stroke the scar. Neither of them said anything. She found herself thinking he must have been a beautiful boy, and then studying him now, a businessman in a lovely suit, distinguished-looking, in fact, despite his limp. She could not explain it to herself, except that it felt right. She pulled at his coat. He was not helping her, but he was not resisting, either. She laid his jacket over the arm of the chair.

  "Okay?" she whispered. He said nothing. She undid his tie. Silk. She laid that on the jacket and then unbuttoned his shirt. She heard him breathing through his nose, his lips pressed tight, his eyes troubled. She unbuttoned the shirt and understood that she really did have to help with one shoulder. He had on a T-shirt and she urged him to lift his arms, and when he did, she sensed the salty musk of him, the man-smell, which she liked. He turned to her in the near-dark and she moved her hands over him. A large C-shaped scar and smaller incisions arced across his left shoulder. His spine carried three scars, one nearly a foot long, at the base.

  "Is that all?" she whispered.

  He closed his eyes.

  She knelt down and untied his shoes, pulling them off and setting them to one side, heel to heel. Then she stood and undid his belt matter-of-factly and unbuttoned his pants and let them fall. He stepped out of them slowly. She ran her hands along his leg and suddenly stopped, not believing what she was feeling. The smooth muscle of the thigh was cratered with an entry wound on one side and an exit wound on the other. A lot of it was just gone. She moved her hands down his calves to his socks. She slipped them off. His left foot was missing two small toes. She stood and faced him, laying her hands softly on his chest. She felt him breathe. His skin was warm. I want him, she thought, I do. She slipped her hands toward his underwear and pushed them down until they fell. His penis felt limp, normal. She put her hand underneath it. He had one testicle. Just one. She held it in her hand like an egg and looked at him. His eyes were closed, and he was shaking ever so slightly. She could feel scar tissue beneath the skin of his scrotum. She turned him. One of the surgical scars from his back continued down to his left buttock. Another scar traveled across both buttocks, cutting a groove in them.

  "You crashed?" she whispered.

  "Shot down."

  "Were you captured?"

  He nodded.

  "How long were you a prisoner?"

  He shook his head.

  "Where'd they put you?"

  He looked at her.

  She touched her finger to his mouth. "Just tell me."

  He closed his eyes.

  "Please tell me."

  His eyes stayed closed. No answer came from him.

  She pressed her lips against his chest. He was ruined. He was so beautiful. She felt the warmth of his skin. I love this man, she told herself, it's crazy but I do. She pressed him down to the bed.

  "I'm not sure I—"

  "What?" she asked gently.

  "I'm not a young man," he apologized. "It's partly the back, you see."

  She helped him with her mouth and she did not mind, especially because he did not expect her to do this. He twisted in the bed and became full in her.

  She slipped out of her clothes.

  "Do we have any birth control?" he asked anxiously.

  "It's okay. It's fine." She'd worry about that later. The odds were low. She was plenty wet, she realized as she straddled him. She used to have orgasms so easily during sex, but she wouldn't expect too much, she would just be close to him.

  "Not your full weight," he whispered. "Please."

  She squatted on her haunches instead of resting on her knees and sitting back. "Yes," she answered, moving up and down the length of him. The rhythm was good. She felt him up far inside of her, and this made her warm and start to shake. His big hands held her hipbones gently, and she took them and moved them up to her breasts, pressing his fingers against her nipples.

  "I want to roll over," she said after a few minutes.

  "I'm not sure how well I can," he said.

  "Let's try."

  She lifted herself off him and lay down on the sheet. He knelt between her thighs, and she kept a hand on him, keeping him hard—hard enough, at least. She guided him, and he lowered himself into her.

  "Oh," he said.

  "Hurt?" she whispered.

  "No, no. It's good."

  She wrapped her arms around him. The scars rolled under her fingers. She knew he wouldn't last long. "Come on," she whispered to him, "come on now." He started to move, and the motion wasn't smooth, had a hitch in it, went sideways a bit. She slipped one of her hands down so that her fingers pressed against him as he went in and out. "Please," he breathed in surprise, "keep doing that." She could feel the sweat come to his skin, his breathing quicken. "Come on now," she told him. "I want you to."

  He pressed into her more rapidly, and she could feel the broken motion of him, it must have been hurting terribly, because of the sweat, he was laboring against some kind of pain, but she had faith in him, and she let her hands travel up his knotty back until they were around his neck, and she lifted her head up to his and looked into his wide-open eyes, knowable as blue even in the dark, and thrust her tongue into his mouth as deeply as she could, because she did love him, she loved him right now, she would never know him, but she understood now what kind of man he was and she loved him for it, for you can tell so much about a person quickly if you let yourself, and she just pressed her tongue into him to tel
l him she loved him and that she understood a part of his being a prisoner, for of course that was what she had been, and they felt this sadness in each other, she was sure, and she wanted to give herself to him and help him to go past the pain, the wetness flowing out of her now everywhere, urging him to press, to push as hard as he wished, and now he seemed to understand that she would take whatever was necessary for him to get it done, and so she pulled at him and begged him to go as hard as he could and promised him and kissed him and then he went fast and hard, and suddenly she felt the crazy feeling come into her head, the tension rise inside her, rise on up and shake her as he pounded her in his pain. She clenched breathlessly and fell backward, flooded with release, at the same time feeling the quickening in him, the sweat coming off his ribs and knotted back, his body shaking with razor agony, and then he cried out in wretched urgency and thrust deeply into her and shook, his head back, eyes shut, teeth bared, absolutely still—frozen, rigid, hard. And then in the dark he tipped his head back down toward her, exhaled, and opened his eyes. She saw exactly what he had so carefully hidden from her and from everyone else for so long—she saw that this man had once been a killer.

  THEY LAY UNDER THE SHEETS for almost an hour. He said very little, and she worried that he was silent out of disappointment or remorse. She took his hand and kissed it, and he cupped one of his hands behind her neck and pulled her close to him. She licked at his nipple, bit it softly. Then he said, "I think you brought me back to life here."

  She was quite pleased by this but said, "You were plenty alive, believe me."

  He glanced at the clock. "I could lie here for three days, Melissa."

  "Do you have to leave?"

  "I have a long day and then a trip on Thursday."

  "China?"

  "Yes. I'm going to try to fix that factory problem."

  "Don't you have earnest young vice-presidents to do that for you?"

  He let out a gravelly sigh, as if this was not the first time he'd been asked the question. "Sure. But then they know about the problem, which means the whole world also knows."

  "Can I see you when you get back?"

  "Yes." He sat up and dropped his feet to the floor. "I think that's definitive."

  She pressed herself against his warm back. The sex had been pretty okay for the first time, but this wasn't just going to be about sex, she could see. More complicated than that. He made her feel safe, that was the thing. She'd have to tell him her real name, but later, after he cared for her enough. When she was ready. And maybe he can help me, Christina thought.

  WHILE HE SHOWERED, she looked through his coat pockets, not to steal but to find something, anything, that told her more about him. I can't help it, she thought. A pen, a paper clip, a piece of Hong Kong currency. Then her fingers found the folded paper he'd been reading in the hotel bar. She listened to the shower run and clicked on a light next to the bed.

  Industry group: Telecommunications

  Sub-industry category: Telecom component manufacturing

  Company: Teknetrix

  THE FOLLOWING STATEMENT IS A CONFIDENTIAL ANALYSIS PREPARED EXCLUSIVELY FOR MARVIN NOFF'S WEB SITE SUBSCRIBERS. PLEASE CALL OUR HOTLINE FOR DAILY UPDATES.

  A hostile takeover bid by MT of Teknetrix seems inevitable. The companies make virtually the same components, except that Teknetrix's quality is much higher: Signal clarity, component speed, and burn-through are significantly superior in their product line. But the telecom supplier industry has been forced toward cheaper components as manufacturers struggle to squeeze costs wherever they can. In this sense MT would be buying Teknetrix's brand loyalty and distribution networks as much as its manufacturing capacity.

  Teknetrix is rumored to have a new microprocessor, the Q4, in very rapid development, but the company is also said to be behind in the construction of its new factory in China. Management is perceived to be lean but too entrenched. The guesswork here is that the Teknetrix board, which doesn't own much stock, can be forced by shareholder pressure into a sale and that MT can digest Teknetrix within the next eighteen months, increasing both its market share and stock price considerably. Recommendation: Sell Teknetrix, accumulate MT.

  She didn't know what it meant exactly, just that it was not good. Maybe this accounted for his gloominess earlier. She heard him turn off the shower, and she slipped the paper back.

  When he came out of the bathroom, she helped dress him. Usually men acted triumphant after having sex with you for the first time. But he seemed moody again, and asked her if she minded if they left the hotel separately, just out of deference to the chance that he might run into someone he knew.

  She pretended not to be bothered. "That's fine, Charlie."

  He pulled on his suit jacket, tossed the room key onto the dresser.

  "I want to see you when you get back," she said.

  He nodded. "Six or seven days. Maybe sooner."

  "You mind if I check with your office?" she asked, realizing that he couldn't call her.

  "You can, but my secretary won't tell you when I'm returning."

  "Can you tell her to tell me?"

  He knotted his tie. "I can, but she'll find that unusual."

  "I might be a little hard to reach. That's why I'm asking."

  He considered this. "You never gave me a phone number."

  "No," she admitted.

  "I could just call you when I get back," he said.

  "Maybe it's better if I call you."

  He stared at her but didn't say anything. He's too smart to ask why, she thought.

  "Call my office in five days," said Charlie, "and tell my secretary, whose name is Karen, your name. I'll leave a particular message just for you."

  "Okay," she answered.

  "Okay-just okay, or okay-good?"

  "Okay-good." She hugged him. He made her feel safe, he really did.

  AFTER HE LEFT, she went to the window and wondered if she might see him outside. It would take a few minutes to get downstairs, and she waited until finally a tall figure that looked like Charlie crossed the street carefully, perhaps with pensiveness, and limped into the shadows under the trees. I kind of love him already, she thought, but I'm not going to let myself do that. She got up and walked to the bathroom and washed her face and reapplied her lipstick and put all of the soaps and shampoos and other miniature toiletries into her bag. She looked in the minibar and took a couple of the airplane bottles. Then she took the rest of them, plus a candy bar and a jar of cashews. She opened a whiskey and finished it in three swallows. Wow, she said. Then she brushed her hair again and sighed aloud and said okay into the mirror, trying to convince herself that she was ready to leave, that everything was fine. Why wouldn't it be?

  No one bothered her on the way out, no one looked at her as if she was a hooker or something. The doorman in the gray top hat and white gloves just nodded and asked if she needed a cab and she said yes, feeling a little dreamy. This was the way money worked. If there's money, people open the door for you. The cab pulled up. So, okay, it was an older-man thing. Fine. It wasn't going to be about sex, not really, but she'd been turned on, actually. Next time would be better. He'd liked her, she was sure. He'd taken a while but he'd responded. She felt good about it, even happy.

  The cab flew down Fifth Avenue, the lights of midtown pinwheeling past, and she could tell that the driver was surprised where she was going, considering where he'd picked her up. She asked him to stop at the corner of East Fourth Street, where she got out and picked up some groceries at the all-night deli. A minute later, inside her doorway, she found her key and then sleepily climbed the steps.

  She reached her floor carrying the groceries and glanced down the hallway—her door was open. She stopped. All the doors to the other rooms were shut; behind one she could hear reedy Indian music and maybe smell the drift of pot, but the hallway felt empty, desolate. No one had noticed she was standing there, just as apparently no one had noticed that someone had opened her locked door. Who was in there
?

  She took one more step. Maybe it would be better to go back to find the landlady. But Mrs. Sanders was an old woman with cat food in her ear. She took two more steps, heard nothing. If someone was waiting for her, he'd be standing silently. She pulled a glass jar of tomato sauce out of the bag to throw. She slipped off her shoes and slid down the hallway.

  All the lights in her room were on. She pushed at the door. Inside—her bed, her bureau. They'd poked around but not torn it up. The boxes of papers belonging to Melissa Williams were untouched.

  The bathroom—a sound. She screamed and threw the jar of tomato sauce. It broke against the wall, the sauce leaving a smear of red down the tiles.

  She waited.

  Nothing. She looked in the tub. How stupid she felt. It was simple. Maybe Mrs. Sanders had been through and had forgotten the lights and door. Maybe the electric meter needed to be read. Something like that.

  It was when she pressed her door shut to lock it safely that she saw the Polaroid taped at nose-height. At first she didn't understand. It was simple to understand, she knew, but she was not yet understanding. She wasn't ready to understand it. The fact of the photo, as well as the care with which it was placed, were confusing in and of themselves, but not as much as what it showed—a man with a trimmed beard looking right at her in fear. It was Rick, that was Rick's face, with some kind of swollen, bluish wound to his cheek, and he was holding up—something—he was looking right at the camera, face sweaty and afraid, and he was holding up his—now she saw it, saw the horror—they'd cut it off. His left arm, above the elbow, something clamped on it to stop the bleeding—they'd cut off his left arm just above the elbow, cut clean like a butcher cut a ham, and with his other arm he was lifting the stump up to her. Come forward, his eyes said, go back.

  She knew then, beyond her fear that Rick had been punished for her acts, that he had again turned her life against the direction she sought. She understood, without the how or the why, that he'd led them to her. All she wanted, had ever wanted, was to be free, to have some peace. She felt the return of a very old weight, a weight she'd first carried before she'd been arrested, when she knew she had to escape Rick and the others; it was huge, a pile of bricks, a weight that had achieved its most vicious unmovability in the days after she'd arrived in prison, when, looking at the walls and the razor wire and the deadened eyes of the women around her, she'd thought, If this is what has come of love, I will be careful in the future, I will think about how I love in a different way, because the old way has just about killed me. I will start new on love and not expect it to look or sound like it did before. And that was what happened with Mazy, who was so hollowed out by sorrow that she'd responded to the simplest of affections with parched appreciation. The weight had lessened then, as Christina decided that she'd live among the other women and not against them. It was not their fault she was there. Now, looking at the clean, wet cross section of Rick's muscular arm, and with Charlie's crisp business card in her purse and his semen between her legs, she felt the old weight return in its full measure, the heaviness like a pile of bricks the size of a church, and she thought again—not yet with bitterness or sudden fear but with an appalled sadness: This is what has come of my love.