Judging by his voice, the one telephone conversation I had had with him, I supposed him to be a towering giant of a man. But while he was broad-shouldered and powerful looking, he was little taller than Manny.
“Glad to finally meet up with you, Britt, baby.” He beamed at me out of his broad, darkly Irish face. “What have you got under your arm there? One of Manny’s pizzas?”
“He has the complete manuscript of a pamphlet,” Manny said proudly. “And it’s darned good, too!”
“It is, huh? What d’ya say, Britt? Is she telling the truth or not?”
“Well...” I hesitated modestly. “I’m sure there’s room for improvement, but—”
“We’ll see, we’ll see,” he broke in, laughing. “You two grab a drink and come on.”
We followed him through the small crowd of guests, all polite and respectable-appearing, but perhaps a little on the watchful side. We went into the library, and Pat Aloe waved us to chairs, then sat down behind the desk, carefully removed my manuscript from its envelope, and began to read.
He read rapidly but intently, with no skimming or skipping. I could tell that by his occasional questions. In fact, he was so long in reading that Manny asked crossly if he was trying to memorize the script, adding that we didn’t have the whole goddamned evening to spend at his stupid house. Pat Aloe told her mildly to shut her goddamned mouth and went back to his reading.
I had long since become used to Manny’s occasionally salty talk and learned that I was not privileged to respond in kind. But Pat clearly was not taking orders from her. Despite his air of easygoing geniality, he was very much in command of Aloe activities. And, I was to find, he tolerated no violation of his authority.
When he had finished the last page of my manuscript, he put it with the others and returned them all to their envelope. Then he removed his reading glasses, thoughtfully massaged the bridge of his nose, and at last turned to me with a sober nod.
“You’re a good man, Britt. It’s a good job.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you, very much.”
Manny said words were cheap. How about a bonus for me? But Pat winked at her and waved her to silence.
“Y’know, Britt, I thought this deal would turn out the same kind of frammis that Manny’s husband pulled. Banging the bejesus out of her and pissing off on the work. But I’m glad to admit I was wrong. You’re A-OK, baby, and I’ll swear to it on a stack of Bibles!”
Fortunately, I didn’t have to acknowledge the compliment — such as it was — since Manny had begun cursing him luridly after his overripe appraisal of her late husband. Pat’s booming laugh drowned out her protest.
“Ain’t she a terror though, Britt? Just like the rest of her family, when she had a family. Her folks didn’t speak to mine for years, just because my pop married an Irisher.”
“Just don’t you forget that bonus,” Manny said. “You do and it’ll be your big red ass.”
“Hell, take care of it yourself,” Pat said. “Make her come across heavy, Britt, baby. Hear me?”
I mumbled that I would do it. Grinning stiffly, feeling awkward and embarrassed to a degree I had never known before. He walked out of the library between the two us, a hand on each of our shoulders. Then, when we were at the door and had said our goodnight, he laughingly roared that he expected me to collect heavy loot from Manny.
“Make her mind, Britt. ’S only kind of wife to have. Tell her you won’t marry her until she comes through with your bonus!”
Marry her?
Marry her!
Well, what did I expect?
I tottered out of the house with Manny clinging possessively to my arm. And there was a coldish lump in my throat, a numbing chill in my spine.
We got in the car, and I drove away. Manny looked at me speculatively and asked why I was so quiet. And I said I wasn’t being quiet, and then I said. What was wrong with being quiet? Did I have to talk every damned minute to keep her happy?
Ordinarily, popping off to her like that would have gotten me a chewing out or maybe a sharp slap. But tonight she said soothingly that of course I could be silent whenever I chose, because whatever I chose was also her choice.
“After all, we’re a team, darling. Not two people, but a couple. Maybe we have our little spats, but there can’t be any serious division between us.”
I groaned. I said, “Oh, my God, Manny! Oh, Mary and Jesus and his brother, James!”
“What’s the matter, Britt? Isn’t that the way you feel?”
What I felt was that I was about to do something wholly irrelevant and unconstructive. Like soiling my clothes. For I was being edged closer and closer to the impossible. I mumbled something indistinguishable — something noncommittally agreeable. Because I knew now that I had to keep talking. Only in talk, light talk, lay safety.
Luckily, Manny indirectly threw me a cue by pushing the stole back from her shoulders and stretching her legs out in front of her. An action that tantalizingly exhibited her gold lamé evening gown; very short, very low-cut, very tight-seeming on her small, ultrafull body.
“It looks like it was painted on you,” I said. “How in the world did you get into it?”
“Maybe you’ll find out” — giving me a look. “After all, you have to take it off of me.”
“We shall see,” I said, desperate for words. For any kind of light talk. “We shall certainly see about this.”
“Well, hurry up, for gosh sake! I’ve got to pee.”
“Oh, my God,” I said. “Why didn’t you go before we left the house?”
“Because I needed help with my dress, darn it!”
I got her to the place. The place that had become our place.
I got her up the room and out of her clothes and onto the sink.
With no time to spare, either.
She cut loose and continued to let go at length. Sighing happily with the simple pleasure of relieving herself. She was such an earthy little thing, and I suppose few things are as good as a good leak when one has held in to the bursting point.
Talking, talking. Even after we were in bed and she was pressed tightly against me in orgasmic surgings.
9
I was physically ill by the time I got home that night. Sick with fear that the subject of marriage would be raised again, that it would be tossed to me like a ball, and that I would not be allowed to bat it aside or let it drop.
Repeatedly, I staggered out of my bed and went to the bathroom. Over and over, I went down on my knees and vomited into the bowl. Gagging up the bile of fear, I shivered and sweated with its burning chill. I tried to blame it on an overactive imagination, but I couldn’t lie to myself. I’d lied once too often when I lied to Manny — about the one thing I should never have lied about. And the fact that the lie was one of omission, rather than commission, and that lying was more or less a way of life with me would not lift me off the hook a fraction of an inch. Not with Manuela Aloe. She would regard my lie as inexcusable — as, of course, it was.
In saying that I was unmarried on my PXA loan application, I hadn’t meant to harm anyone. (I have never meant to harm anyone with what I did and didn’t do.) It was just a way of avoiding troublesome questions re the status of my marriage: were my wife and I living together; and if not, why not; and so on.
But I knew that Manny depended on that application for her information about me. And I could have and should have set her straight. For I knew — must have known — that I was not being treated with such extravagant generosity to buy Manny a passing relationship. She wanted a husband. One with good looks, good breeding, and a good name — the kind not easily found in her world or any world. Then she had found me and oh so clearly demonstrated the advantages of marriage to her, and I, tacitly, had agreed to the marriage. She had been completely honest with me, and I had been just as completely dishonest with her. And, now, by God—!