It was that cigarette.
Supposedly she had thrown them all out. But she had held out on him — the proof was clamped between her teeth right now. And because she still had not noticed him standing in
the doorway, he allowed himself the pleasure of remembering the two nights which had assured him of his complete control over her.
I don't want you to smoke around me anymore, he told her as they headed home from a party in Lake Forest. October, that had been. I have to choke that shit down at parties and at the office, but I don't have to choke it down when I'm with you. You know what it's like? I'm going to tell you the truth — it's unpleasant but it's the truth. Ifs like having to eat someone else's snot.
He thought this would bring some faint spark of protest, but she had only looked at him in her shy, wanting-to-please way. Her voice had been low and meek and obedient. All tight, Tom.
Pitch it then.
She pitched it. Tom had been in a good humor for the rest of that night.
A few weeks later, coming out of a movie, she unthinkingly lit a cigarette in the lobby and puffed it as they walked across the parking lot to the car. It had been a bitter November night, the wind chopping like a maniac at any exposed square inch of flesh it could find. Tom remembered he had been able to smell the lake, as you sometimes could on cold nights — a flat smell that was both fishy and somehow empty. He let her smoke the cigarette. He even opened her door for her when they got to the car. He got in behind the wheel, closed his own door, and then said: Bev?
She took the cigarette out of her mouth, turned toward him, inquiring, and he unloaded on her pretty good, his hard open hand stroking across her cheek hard enough to make his palm tingle, hard enough to rock her head back against the headrest. Her eyes widened with surprise and pain . . . and something else as well. Her own hand flew to her cheek to investigate the warmth and tingling numbness there. She cried out Owww! Tom!
He looked at her, eyes narrowed, mouth smiling casually, completely alive, ready to see what would come next, how she would react. His cock was stiffening in his pants, but he barely noticed. That was for later. For now, school was in session. He replayed what had just happened. Her face. What had that third expression been, there for a bare instant and then gone? First the surprise. Then the pain. Then the
(nostalgia)
look of a memory . . . of some memory. It had only been for a moment. He didn't think she even knew it had been there, on her face or in her mind.
Now: now. It would all be in the first thing she didn't say. He knew that as well as his own name.
It wasn't You son of a bitch!
It wasn't See you later, Macho City.
It wasn't We're through, Tom.
She only looked at him with her wounded, brimming hazel eyes and said: Why did you do that? Then she tried to say something else and burst into tears instead.
Throw it out.
What? What, Tom? Her make-up was running down her face in muddy tracks. He didn't mind that. He kind of liked seeing her that way. It was messy, but there was something sexy about it, too. Slutty. Kind of exciting.
The cigarette. Throw it out.
Realization dawning. And with it, guilt.
I just forgot! she cried. That's all!
Throw it out, Bev, or you're going to get another shot.
She rolled the window down and pitched the cigarette. Then she turned back to him, her face pale and scared and somehow serene.
You can't . . . you aren't supposed to hit me. That's a bad basis for a . . . a . . . a lasting relationship. She was trying to find a tone, an adult rhythm of speech, and failing. He had regressed her. He was in this car with a child. Voluptuous and sexy as hell, but a child.
Can't and aren't are two different things, keed, he said. He kept his voice calm but inside he was jittering and jiving. And I'll be the one to decide what constitutes a lasting relationship and what doesn't. If you can live with that, fine. If you can't, you can take a walk. I won't stop you. I might kick you once in the ass as a going-away present, but I won't stop you. It's a free country. What more can I say?
Maybe you've already said enough, she whispered, and he hit her again, harder than the first time, because no broad was ever going to smart off to Tom Rogan. He would pop the Queen of England if she cracked smart to him.
Her cheek banged the padded dashboard. Her hand groped for the doorhandle and then fell away. She only crouched in the corner like a rabbit, one hand over her mouth, her eyes large and wet and frightened. Tom looked at her for a moment and then he got out and walked around the back of the car. He opened her door. His breath was smoke in the black, windy November air and the smell of the lake was very clear.
You want to get out, Bev? I saw you reaching for the doorhandle, so I guess you must want to get out. Okay. That's all right. I asked you to do something and you said you would. Then you didn't. So you want to get out? Come on. Get out. What the fuck, right? Get out. You want to get out?
No, she whispered.
What? I can't hear you.
No, I don't want to get out, she said a little louder.
What — those cigarettes giving you emphysema? If you can't talk, I'll get you a fucking megaphone. This is your last chance, Beverly. You speak up so I can hear you: do you want to get out of this car or do you want to come back with me?
Want to come back with you, she said, and clasped her hands on her skirt like a little girl. She wouldn't look at him. Tears slipped down her cheeks.
All right, he said. Fine. But first you say this for me, Bev. You say, 'I forgot about smoking in front of you, Tom.'
Now she looked at him, her eyes wounded, pleading, inarticulate. You can make me do this, her eyes said, but please don't. Don't, I love you, can't it be over?
No — it could not. Because that was not the bottom of her wanting, and both of them knew it.
Say it.
I forgot about smoking in front of you, Tom.
Good. Now say 'I'm sorry.'
I'm sorry, she repeated dully.
The cigarette lay smoking on the pavement like a cut piece of fuse. People leaving the theater glanced over at them, the man standing by the open passenger door of a late-model, fade-into-the –woodwork Vega, the woman sitting inside, her hands clasped primly in her lap, her head down, the domelight outlining the soft fall of her hair in gold.
He crushed the cigarette out. He smeared it against the blacktop.
Now say: I’ll never do it again without your permission.'
I'll never . . .
Her voice began to hitch.
. . . never . . . n-n-n —
Say it, Bev.
. . . never d-do it again. Without your p-permission.
So he had slammed the door and gone back around to the driver's seat. He got behind the wheel and drove them back to his downtown apartment. Neither of them said a word. Hah0 the relationship had been set in the parking lot; the second half was set forty minutes later, in Tom's bed.