“Hi,” she said. “Do I look funny or something?”
“Huh? Oh, no, I was . . . just thinking of something.”
“This is Paulo.”
A tall, lanky man stepped from behind him. He hadn’t noticed him when he stepped off the elevator, despite the fact he was over six feet. His skin was a deep, roast coffee color.
“Paulo’s going to take some measurements.”
“Oh, of course.” He shook the man’s hand but felt vaguely annoyed at his presence.
“So,” Lauren said. “Lead the way.”
“Yes, come with me.”
He led them through a door and a narrow corridor that ended with another door. He fumbled for a key, then tried to push it into the lock, which stubbornly refused to be penetrated. Lauren’s companion tapped his shoulder and then produced a small can of WD-40 seemingly out of thin air. He took the key from Arnold and sprayed it, then sprayed the lock. He nodded as if to suggest he try it again.
Arnold slid the key in with no difficulty. “These doors are not used often. No reason to.”
They stepped into harsh sunlight that reflected off a rectangular expanse of concrete.
“Ouch, this sure is ugly.” Lauren squinted. “Any access for vehicles?”
“There is a driveway.” He pointed toward an arch.
“Might be just high enough to get our equipment in here. Eventually we’ll need a crane, though.”
“A crane?”
“For the trees,” she said.
Paulo went about measuring the area with a simple tape. As he did sounds jumbled from his lips.
“What’s he saying?”
“I dunno, I don’t speak Portuguese.”
It took him no more than five minutes, then Lauren punched a button on her cell phone and handed it to him. Another rush of Portuguese, then he handed the phone back to Lauren.
“Hi, Rita. Yeah . . . yeah . . . okay.”
Lauren put the phone away and took a block of note paper from a pocket in her shorts. She wrote a figure on it and handed it to Arnold. “Still want to do it?”
“How soon can you start?”
“You’re sure? That’s a pretty hefty figure. In fact, I think it’s more than I ever estimated for a single job.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Okay, you got a deal.”
“I’ll put that figure in the contract. You can fill out the details. I’ll have already signed it.”
The worry warts had already gathered when he led them back through the lobby. Ricker was holding center court as usual.
“It’s a damned trick. We can’t believe what’s in these letters. I ain’t signing mine.”
“Well, I’m signing mine,” Mrs Ginty said. “They cut my rent by $400 and they said I could keep my cat. How did they know I have a cat?”
“Me, too,” Pekins added. “I mean, about the rent. And it says I can live here with no increase for as long as I want.”
“I think it’s wonderful,” said Mrs Califani. “And I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.”
Arnold could hear the grumble in old Ricker’s gut. He had nothing to say. He’d been shut up.
Arnold grinned; so did Lauren.
“Gee, no remarks about your call girl this time. I’m disappointed.”
Paulo had already exited. Arnold held the door for Lauren. “See you tomorrow.”
“The jackhammers will start at 8. You better warn the folks.”
Arnold returned to his apartment, relit the flame beneath the percolator, and pondered how to fill the rest of his day. Perhaps a visit to the Museum of Fine Arts, or the Gardner. He poured a cup of coffee and sat in his favorite chair, idly stirring the brew.
His mind wandered, and then he envisaged Lauren. She stood with her back to him, then slowly, sensuously, she slid her shorts off her hips. Her behind was a pair of pale globes, but her legs and back were tanned to a nut brown. She crossed her arms in front of her and lifted her top over her head.
Arnold shook the vision from his head. “Damn! What the hell is the matter with you? She’s . . . she’s young enough to be your . . . granddaughter.”
But the vision had changed. Instead of Lauren’s tanned skin, he saw – felt – a pale, peaches-and-cream back and derrière. His hands slid around her waist then up to caress two small breasts. He sat like that a moment, clutching thin air.
Then he did something he hadn’t done in a long time. He unzipped his pants and closed his hand around his cock.
She stood naked for him, just behind his eyelids, up to her knees in the pond. He began to stroke himself slowly; he wanted it to last.
All the sensations of loving her came back in a rush. When the euphoria passed and he came back to reality, come oozed over his fist, and a tear trickled from his eye.
That evening he posted notices throughout the building about the construction. In the morning the building sounded like a war zone replete with automatic weapons fire. The jackhammers pulverized the concrete relentlessly throughout the morning. Finally the workers broke for lunch. The silence was palpable.
He peeked into the area and saw Lauren inspecting the chunks of concrete scattered about like a bomb had been dropped dead center. She wore green shorts, cut very close to her groin and a bright pink tank. No sign of a bra. Arnold took note of the workers’ smiles and leers as they devoured their boss with their eyes. If Lauren was aware of their lascivious looks, she didn’t appear to care.
Just as the men returned to their work, she bent over and took a can of soda from a cooler. She lifted it under her tank and rubbed it over her belly and then her breasts. The men’s jaws dropped all at once, so did Arnold’s.
Finally she touched the can to her cheeks, let her head fall back and took a long, slow swig.
Once Arnold shook off his reverie it occurred to him that a piano could have fallen off the roof and neither he nor the workmen would have noticed.
Lauren turned to her men. “Hey, what’s everyone standing around for? Am I paying you guys, or what?”
It was a gentle, playful admonition and the men responded in kind with grins and chuckles before resuming their work.
Well, she knows how to handle men, he thought. But how can they keep their minds on their work?
He smiled, shaking his head, and then headed back to the lobby.
The tenants had gathered again, animated, talking. But Ricker stood off from the others, his head down holding a paper in his hands. Arnold walked past him toward the elevator.
“I don’t get it,” he heard Ricker say, as if to no one in particular.
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t get it. Says here my rent has been reduced.”
“Well, Sir, rather than wonder why, why not just accept the bit of good fortune that’s come your way.” Arnold turned and pressed the button to call the elevator.
“No one’s ever done anything for me, never got any kind of break. When my wife got sick, why couldn’t someone come along then and pay for the treatment she needed? Medicare didn’t cover it; the lousy insurance I got when I retired didn’t cover it. She died because I couldn’t pay to keep her alive. Why the hell didn’t someone come along then and say, ‘Hey, Ricker, tell you what, we’ll pick up the tab, and you won’t have to lose your wife’? I don’t need a break on my rent, I need my wife back.”
The old man’s chin trembled. “I guess they got no use for me, now,” he said, gesturing to the others. “They all think I’m full of shit.”
Arnold had an urge to put his arm around the old crab. “I . . . I’m sorry about your wife, Mr Ricker. I guess we all get bad breaks . . . nothing we can do about that. But, maybe we should take the ones we do get and make the most of them.”
He gave in and gave the old man a gentle pat on the shoulder. Ricker nodded; he even managed a smile.
His surge of sympathy for Ricker surprised Arnold. Perhaps it was the old man’s lament that good fortune meant little if the timing was off. Arnold
had pondered that conundrum himself. By any measure he had led a successful life, with a long career that provided him wealth beyond his needs. But he was bereft without her. Finality has no remedy.
Inside his apartment he tried to put his mind to work. After Lauren and her crew departed another contractor would clean and sandblast the façade and repair the copper cornice and gutters. If only she could see it, his tribute to her.
A soft knock on his door became more urgent. He opened it to find Lauren in the hall.
“Hi, could I ask you a favor – I’m really sorry to impose, but . . .”
“Anything.”
“A shower?”
“A . . . shower?”
“I have a date in a couple of hours; I’ll never make it if I go home. I brought a change of clothes,” she said and held up a fabric gym bag.
The word date struck him with a shallow thud. “Well, I suppose . . . sure.”
“Thanks,” she said and walked past him. “Where . . .?
“End of the hall.”
“I really appreciate this. Damned concrete dust gets in my hair, and everywhere else.”
“You’ll find plenty of towels, help yourself.”
“Okay . . . I should make it on time – gonna take my Dad for a steak dinner.”
“Your Dad?”
“Yeah, he lives in one of those assisted living places in Brighton. Likes to get away from the old folks once in a while.” She giggled, then disappeared into his bathroom.
She hadn’t closed the door. “Wow, great old tub. Wish I could take a bath.”
He smiled and sat back down at the table with his building plans, but he could not concentrate on them. Instead he listened to the water splash and Lauren hum a tune he didn’t recognize.
The water stopped and the quiet became disquieting. Then Lauren stepped into the room holding the corner of a bath towel just above her breasts with one hand, and rubbing the wet out of her hair with a smaller towel in the other.
Arnold froze. The towel draped haphazardly over her barely shielding breasts, its opposite end trailed along the floor. Her hips were exposed and remained so even after she casually flopped into a chair. Still patting the moisture from her hair she said, “God, that feels good. Hope I didn’t clog the pipes with all the grit.”
When she looked at him their eyes locked. Self-consciously, now, she arranged the towel so it covered more of her.
“Oh, gosh. What you must be thinking.”
Arnold shared her momentary embarrassment. “Um . . . what would I be thinking?”
She shrugged. “I’m used to going home and peeling everything off; I usually spend the rest of the night in the buff. Well, I might pull on a pair of fluffy socks. But, you see, I’m not much for wearing clothes.”
“Oh,” he nodded.
“Yeah, even when I was a little kid. I remember, dead of winter, and we’d get a snowstorm, and I must have been about five years old and I ran out in my all-togethers and made snow angels in the yard. It felt wonderful. Drove my mom nuts though, especially since I was still doing it when I was 14.”
“I noticed you are rather . . . nonchalant, about exposing . . . um . . . skin. Your men . . . I don’t suppose . . . um . . .”
She looked down at her knees and her voice became soft. “I know they look at me. But, hey, I figure it’s just another perk for working for P. L. Darby.”
He chuckled.
“Hey,” she looked up, her grin flashing across her face. “I like my body. I don’t have many what you’d call girlfriends, cause I get tired of hearing women piss and moan about their ass or their tits, or whatever. I like my body; it’s a great body. I mean . . .”
She stood up. “Look at these legs, and I got a great ass and my boobs are really cute. So why should I worry about showing them off? I know I’m not the prettiest girl.”
“Excuse me?”
She plopped back down in her chair. The towel poured off her thighs, but shielded her sex.
“Well, look at my nose,” she said, tapping it with one finger.
“What about it?”
“Can’t you see? It’s crooked. It veers to the left. And my eyes . . .”
He strained to make out the defect.
“Oh, c’mon, can’t you see? One’s lower than the other. I swear, someone stepped on my face when I was a baby.”
He shook his head and laughed. A clock chimed behind him.
“Oh, nuts,” she said. “I’m wasting time. I need to dress.”
“My bedroom . . . on the right. Feel free to close the door.”
She stood and winked. “I don’t think I need to. You’re a gentleman, Ben . . . a real, old-styled gentleman – you won’t peek.”
“Old-styled, huh?”
“Oh, you know what I mean.” She picked up her bag and retreated down the hall.
He exhaled a long sigh. What was he thinking when she said she had a date? Did he actually feel a pang of jealousy?
“What the hell were you thinking?” he whispered to himself.
She appeared again, a little black dress poured over her figure. She shook her still moist hair out, but she didn’t seem to have put on any makeup. She didn’t need it, he decided.
“Hey, Ben?”
No one had ever called him Ben. It made him smile. “Yes, Phoebe?”
“Cut that out. I was wondering, that picture on your dresser, the handsome guy leaning against the old Pontiac convertible – that’s you, isn’t it?”
“A lot of years ago.”
“Hey, you’re still handsome. Who’s the girl? She’s pretty.”
He worked to keep the smile on his face, but he already sensed himself slipping into the shadow.
“Well, c’mon, she’s a girlfriend, right? Did you two ever . . .”
“No!” he said abruptly.
“Well, she had a name, didn’t she?”
He saw the darkness in his own features reflected in her eyes.
“Oh, Christ . . . Ben, I’m sorry, I’m just being nosy. I didn’t mean . . .”
Something emerged from deep in his soul; he pushed the darkness away. “It’s okay . . . really.”
“I’m really sorry.” Her voice was soft again, and tentative as a timid child’s.
“It’s just . . . she died.”
“I’m sorry. She was . . . very special, wasn’t she?”
“Yes . . . yes, she was.”
“I didn’t mean to pry, please . . .”
“And her name was . . . Anstis.”
There was something in her eyes – a benediction. It dissolved the darkness.
“This building – what you’re doing for the people who live here – it’s for her.”
“A poor tribute, but yes.”
“You’re a good man, Ben.”
He tried to swallow down the thickness in his throat.
“Young lady, there’s a very lucky gentleman awaiting your company.”
“Yup.” She stood and turned toward the door.
He stepped around her and opened it for her. Then he took her hand and kissed it behind her knuckles. “Lauren, I think you are very . . . very pretty.”
“Oh, you are smooth. Thank you, Ben.”
“I hope you find your father well. Have a good evening.”
She winked and stepped into the hall.
He spent much of the rest of the evening looking out his window over the avenue toward the Fenway, enjoying a peace he hadn’t felt in a long time.
* * *
Spring yielded to impatient summer. The days grew warmer and Lauren matched the rising temperature with her scant work attire. The courtyard was just a crater now as teams of men worked to install piping in the pit.
Lauren continued to wear shorts cut close to her groin – boy shorts, she had called them, but Arnold decided there was nothing boyish about them. She had taken to wrapping her breasts in little more than a kerchief, and her body turned a deep brown as the days and the work went on.
&n
bsp; The tenants had become curious and frequently wandered into the worksite. Lauren would gently shoo them away for their own safety, but not before she’d exchanged pleasantries. They had become quite fond of her, though mildly disapproving at her lack of coverage.
The building would become eerily quiet whenever the crews broke for lunch. Arnold would inspect the progress then. Frequently he would find Lauren with one or more of the tenants chatting and enthusiastically explaining the job.
Then there was the Monday afternoon he found Mrs Califani smoothing sun block over Lauren’s back.
“A tan is fine, young lady, but you don’t want your skin to look like shoe leather before you’re even 30, do you?”
“No, ma’am,” Lauren answered like an obedient school girl.
“And you really shouldn’t be teasing these boys like you do.”
“Teasing, ma’am?”
“In my day, ladies didn’t show so much . . . well, so much of themselves.”
“But, ma’am, it gets so hot . . .”
“Hot’s the word. Now, if you were my daughter . . .”
“I’d be a very lucky girl.”
Mrs Califani stopped smoothing the lotion over Lauren’s shoulders. Her hand went to her throat, and Arnold thought he saw her chin tremble.
“Why . . . thank you, dear.” She took Lauren’s face between her hands and kissed her forehead. “Well, I better go see about my pasta sauce . . . I left it simmering.”
The old woman nodded to Arnold as she hurried past, her eyes wet, but a smile spreading over her face.
Lauren’s eyes met Arnold’s. “She’s a nice lady.”
“She’s certainly taken a shine to you,” he offered.
“Wish my mom was as nice as Mrs Califani.” Lauren stood and stretched, sunlight glaring off her newly lotioned skin.
“How’s the work going?”
“The piping will be completed today.”
“For the fountain?”
“The pond.”
“No fountain?”
“I was thinking more of a waterfall. Hey, you told me not to show you the plans; you wanted it to be a surprise. You still trust me, don’t you?”
“Implicitly. A waterfall, huh?”
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7 Page 22
