She studied me; touched my face with a finger. Examining me. Like I was an old tree, cut in half, whose rings you could count.
Finally, over the sound of a crackling fireplace, she asked, “Vietnam? Are you that old? You couldn’t be that old.”
“But I am.”
“How is that possible?”
I shrugged. “I was a baby when I went in.”
She nodded wisely. “But not when you came out.”
“…I was stupid.”
Her brow tensed. “ ‘Stupid,’ how?”
I shook my head. “ Real stupid. Married a girl on leave, in San Diego? When I got home, she was fucking this guy.”
“Oh dear,” she said, as if reacting to my harsh language, which in part maybe she was. Her fingertips came to her lips, a dainty gesture for a girl who’d had my cock in her mouth not long ago. “I’m so sorry…What did you do?”
I shrugged again. “I went over to talk to him. Just reason with him. He was working under his car.”
Her brow tightened further. “What did you do?”
“Kicked the jack out.”
She didn’t draw away or anything. Didn’t even blink. Just asked, “…You got in trouble?”
One more shrug. “I didn’t do much time. But I was a kid, and didn’t understand.”
Nodding, Janet said, “You mean, how your wife could do that to you?”
“I mean, why killing people I didn’t know, in some other country, people who didn’t deserve it particularly, was cool. But kill one jackass back home who earned it, and I get shit.”
Her look of compassion, of sympathy, was so sincere, I could barely stand it.
She said, “I’m so sorry…You don’t have to talk about it.”
Surprised, I said, “I almost never do.”
I had opened up to her as I had my Vietnam pal Gary, who was the only other human about whom that could be said; even my late wife, the second one-the nice, stupid one-I’d never shared it with. Why the fuck had I tonight? Couldn’t be the little head controlling me, because it was all tuckered out down there.
Or anyway I thought it was.
Because all of a sudden Janet was crawling up on top of me, kissing me on the chest and the neck and then on the face, and the view of her, all that pale flesh, those breasts hanging down so full and beautifully shaped and gently swaying with those long tips sticking out at me accusingly, well, it woke the little head up, all right.
This time, however, having climbed on top, she stayed there. She was ready to take a little control.
And I was ready for somebody to take it.
Ten
Having been up and dressed a while, I was in the kitchen, at the stove scrambling eggs (bacon already made), when she drifted in in the blue terrycloth robe, hair looking nicely tousled.
Sleepily sexy, she paused to lean in the doorway and sniff the cooking smells approvingly.
“Wow,” she said. “You’re a surprise.”
“Coffee’s ready,” I said.
She made her way over to the counter where the Cuisinart coffee-maker dripped and helped herself to a cup.
The dog was penned up, and-despite the cooking smells-sleeping in its bed.
“What did you do?” she asked, nodding toward the dog, the mug of coffee in both hands, blowing at it a little. “Drug the mutt?”
“No. Just fed it. All it wanted.”
She laughed and risked a sip.
“Been walked, too,” I said. “But I draw the line at that pooper-scooper crap.”
“Even so,” she said, “you definitely pass the audition.” She settled on a stool at the counter as I served her up eggs and bacon and toasted, buttered English muffins.
“Eggs are good,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said, serving myself, then joining her. “Everybody has to learn something from their mother.”
We ate a while, then between bites she asked, “How long you been awake?”
I shrugged. “Two, three hours.”
She blinked at me; her eyes were puffy-but on her, it looked good. “It’s only seven-something now.”
“Went for groceries. Had a swim.”
She gave me a sideways look. “You really like to swim…Helps you think?”
“Helps me not to think.”
We ate in silence for a while, and somehow it became a little awkward or maybe pregnant. Which served me right, not using a rubber last night…
Finally, she pushed her almost-cleaned plate away, and got up and got herself some more coffee and refilled my cup, saying, “I, uh…really don’t do this kind of thing.”
“Wait on men?”
She laughed a little. “No…you know.” She sat next to me again, sipped the coffee, raised an eyebrow. “I mean, I hardly know you. I just don’t usually…”
“Kiss on the first date?”
She smiled over the coffee cup’s lip. “Kiss on the first date.”
I pushed my plate away. Sipped coffee. Said, “I live alone, too.”
Her brow tensed. “Sorry. I…I don’t follow you.”
“Sometimes you just…need something.”
She thought about that, and nodded. It was a sort of admission.
“There really haven’t been a lot of ‘Ricks,’ ” she said. “Some. But mostly, the last eight, ten years…I’ve kept to myself.”
“Safer that way,” I said.
“You, too?”
“…It’s the easiest way to get hurt.”
“Also the most painful,” she said quickly. “When I was younger, I went with older guys…?”
I hiked an eyebrow. “And things have changed?”
“Well, you’re the first…‘older guy’…in some time. A shrink once told me I have some kind of ‘daddy’ complex.”
I shifted in my seat.
I shrugged. “Every little girl wants to fuck her daddy. And lots of daddies want to fuck their little girls. It only counts against you when you go through with it.”
She thought about that, then said, “You…scare me a little.”
I gave her half a smile. “Just a little?”
She studied me and something devilish got into her eyes. “You might not be so scary, naked.”
“You’ve seen me naked.”
She shook her head. “Oh no, I haven’t…”
Soon we were seated on the edge of the pool in our borrowed swimsuits, the place muggy as hell, a virtual steamroom, and she was about to apply a straight razor to my well-lathered beard.
“Be gentle,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” she said, and kept her word, starting to shave me gently, tenderly, sliding, gliding the blade, taking whiskers, leaving smooth flesh. Occasionally she would dip the razor in the pool, getting rid of whiskery lather.
It took a while, my beard not terribly long but full, and it felt good, being the object of such care and attention; but when the blade pressed against my throat, I caught her wrist, stopping her.
For all the heat, we froze, my eyes locked with hers, and I wasn’t smiling as I stared at her-she seemed quietly amused, if a bit taken aback by the clutch of my hand.
“What’s wrong, Jack?” She seemed wholly serious, but for a pixie gleam in the eyes. “Don’t you trust me?”
Now I studied her, tried to look inside- did she know why I was here? — and her amusement faded to concern.
I said, “Little tender there. Let me.”
“Sure.”
She gave me the razor.
As I finished the shave, she sat next to me, slightly shaken, holding her arms to herself as if feeling a sudden chill.
We did not make love again. Janet had to work today-it was Sunday, but the Homewood Library was open from eleven till four-and she needed to go to her apartment to shower and change. I dropped her in front of the beauty shop she lived over, and-before she got out-she said, “I’ll never forget last night, Jack.”
“Good,” I said, and managed to smile.
Her eyes stayed on me a beat too long before she got out of the car. I thought I detected something hurt in the expression, but wasn’t sure.
Maybe I decided to take Sunday off. Maybe that was it. But that afternoon, as Janet no doubt did routine work at the library and maybe did her story-hour shtick with another third-grade audience, I wasn’t around to see it.
I was in my motel room, feeling bare with my freshly shaved face, on my back on the bed, elbows winged out, staring at the ceiling, lights off, sun filtering in a little through closed drapes. Janet’s picture on the nightstand, face down. Nine millimeter on the nightstand.