When they lip-locked over Van Cortland Avenue, when they squeezed hands past the shadow of Shea, when they nuzzled on the exit ramp to the Grand Central Parkway—he was willing to wager that no one had felt exactly like this before, even though he knew it was a lie. The number one sin of the hopeless addict: denial. And he was addicted, wasn’t he? It seemed as if he couldn’t go two exits without kissing her. That he couldn’t make it through three songs on the radio — 101.6 FM, Music to Make Out By — without running his hands up and down her body.
“Slow down,” she said once they made it off Exit 8E of the Meadowbrook Parkway — no meadow, no brook, just parkway. She was saying it to the driver, but she might as well have been talking to him, because if he didn’t slow down, it was possible that he would overheat — one of those unfortunate victims you see littering the highway on their way to somewhere important.
“I don’t want you to drop me in front of the house,” she said. “My husband’s home.”
“Whereis your house?”
“A few blocks up. Over here is fine.”
They stopped at the corner of Euclid Avenue — the name of a tree that no longer exists on Long Island.
And Lucinda said: “Meet me on the train tomorrow.”
NINE
It was called the Fairfax Hotel. The kind of hotel that had fallen into disrepair and anonymity. The kind of hotel most people would choose to bypass for something better.
But not Charles, and not now.
He was on his way there to spend the morning with Lucinda.
He’d finally screwed up the courage to ask.
They’d had two more dinners and two more car rides where they’d made out like overly hormonal high school kids. They’d kissed and petted and snuggled, and now it was time to take the relationship further. He’d actually used those words. Surprised they’d actually made it out of his mouth and eternally grateful she hadn’t laughed at him. Even more grateful for her response, which after several moments of silence had been: Sure, why not.
He’d asked her this over two cups of coffee in Penn Station, and then they’d walked out onto Seventh Avenue arm in arm and shared a taxi, even though he’d be going approximately seventy blocks out of his way to drop her off—but then that was seventy more blocks of her company—embracing and clinging to this new idea of them. And she’d said, Where? Good question, too. Where exactly were they going to consummate things? And they’d passed one hotel in the taxi — No, she said, too close to Penn; and then another — too stuffy looking; and then one more when they’d made it all the way downtown.
The Fairfax Hotel.
Flanked by a Korean deli on one side and a woman’s health center on the other. Kind of dingy, yes, but wasn’t that the kind of hotel made for these things?
And she’d said, Fine, yes, that one looks fine.
And they’d made a date.
The train ride into Penn Station.
Both of them were surprisingly quiet, he thought, like boxers before the biggest bout of their lives.
He spent most of the time counting the minutes between stations: Merrick to Freeport to Baldwin to Rockville Centre. Under the darkness of the East River, she grabbed for his hand and locked fingers. They felt ice cold, as if all the blood had rushed out of them, frozen with. . . what? Guilt? Shame? Fear?
There was something nonspontaneous about all of this. Before, they’d been sort of fumbling around in the dark, but now it was all coolly premeditated. On the walk to the taxi stand, she leaned against him not so much from desire as from inertia, he thought. As if he were dragging her there — lugging dead weight up the escalator and through the entranceway.
He understood. It was one thing to make out in a car and another thing to check into a hotel with the intention of having sex.
The inside of the Fairfax Hotel looked pretty much the way the outside looked — shabby and faded and just this side of destitute. The lobby smelled of camphor.
When they walked up to the desk, he could feel Lucinda’s white-knuckled grip somewhere up by his throat. He told the deskman that he’d be paying in cash and was given a key to room 1207.
They rode the elevator up in silence.
When the doors opened on twelve, he said, “Ladies first.”
And Lucinda said, “Age before beauty.”
So they walked out together. The floor was in need of a few more light bulbs, he thought, since the only light seemed to be coming from a half-draped window to the left of the elevator. The carpet smelled of mildew and tobacco.
Room 1207 was way down at the end of the hall where it was darkest, and Charles needed to squint just to make out the numbers on the door.
This is what they got for ninety-five dollars in New York City: a room smelling of disinfectant, with one queen-size bed, one lopsided table lamp, and one table, all pretty much within two feet of one another.
A room that was virtually equatorial — with no discernible thermostat to help.
There was a white paper sash encircling the toilet lid. Charles did the honors; he had to go the moment he entered the room. Nerves.
When he came out of the bathroom, Lucinda was sitting on the bed, playing with the TV clicker. Nothing was actually appearing on the TV screen.
“I think you have to pay extra,” she said.
“Do you want to . . . ?”
“No.”
There was an awkward politeness to their mannerisms, he thought, as if they were a couple on a blind date. Jitters masked as solicitude.
“Why don’t you sit down, Charles?” she said.
“Fine.” He sat in the chair.
“I meant here. ”
“Oh. Right.” He slipped off his coat and hung it up in the closet next to hers. Then he walked over to the bed — a very short walk given the dimensions of the room — and sat down.
I shouldn’t be here. I should get up and leave. I should . . .
But she laid her head on his shoulder and said: “So. We’re here.”
“Yes.” He was sweating right through his shirt.
“Okay.” She sighed. “Do you want to stay, or do you want to go?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?Which is it?”
“Stay. Or go. What do you want to do?”
“Fuck you,” she said. “I think I want to fuck you.”
It happened when they were ready to leave.
They’d dressed quietly, and Charles had searched the room to make sure they hadn’t left anything.
Then they’d walked to the door.
He opened it to usher her out. She moved past him, and he could smell the perfume she’d just dabbed on in the bathroom. Then he smelled something else.
There were two of them standing there — Lucinda and him, and then suddenly there were three.
He was knocked backward onto the floor.
He was kicked in the ribs, then kicked in the stomach as the air was forced out of him. Lucinda was thrown on top of him, then not on top of him, then she was lying there beside him.