30 Pieces of a Novel (64 page)

it on the bill. It all comes off the university. One of the perks of being the reading coordinator: I get to indulge my incipient alcoholism. I'm joking again,” and he said, “I don't know …” and she said, “Hey, Mr. Reader, I'm not going to twist your arm. No? Then no,” and he said, “Sure, one drink, a brandy or cognac if they got,” since he thought he had hurt her feelings and she was paying him a decent fee for coming out here and if he's cooperative for another hour she might invite him again in a couple of years. So they drank, sitting at the bar. TV was on above them; several men with the same kind of name tags on their jackets and shirts had taken up all the settees and most of the tables and chairs. He was the one who suggested sitting at the bar. He felt people drank faster there, and if she wanted a second drink—that would be his limit—they could get it quicker there than from a waitress at a table. He thought then: Did she have designs on him? He didn't think so. It could be she was a little lonely—the stuff about her sons indicated that, and it didn't seem she had a boyfriend—and visitors from outside were probably interesting company to her. She started talking about previous visitors—“Do you know Anya Malcolm?”—and he said he knew her work and had once been introduced to her at some function. “She was a bit full of herself, maybe because everyone but me was making a big to-do over her, but I guess she was all right. I have to admit I don't think much of her work, though,” and she said, “From all you've said since you got here, whose do you like? I bet nobody's,” and he said, “There are some, but if I tell you their names, you'll say, ‘But they're all dead,'” and she said, “Anyhow, Malcolm was wonderful, congenial, modest, contemplative, and as generous with her time to the students as you were. I think she bedded
down with one too—in this hotel
—or took his phone number, but that's her business. He trailed her like a puppy. Later I learned she also has that reputation, a quiet killer,” and he said, “That I didn't know. She's not married; she can do what she wants,” and she said, “I don't know if that argument holds. But one of our visitors—Malcolm was at least discreet about this student—but this fellow: a first-class character. We've had scholar characters too, I have to tell you, but none came near to doing what this one did—the males,” and she gave his name and he said, “I've heard of him, of course. You do get some big shots here, something I thought you said you couldn't afford, for you sure didn't get him for what you're paying me, though I'm definitely not complaining. I never read or met him. The reviews of his work didn't make it seem very interesting, and I don't trust awards. But what'd he do, if I may ask?” and she said, “What'd he didn't, know what I mean? Believe me, and I'm going to sound uncharacteristically vulgar now, but if there were a telephone pole with a hole in it shaped like a vagina, and it needn't be greased, he would have jumped it. And you don't have to ask; I'm telling you. That's what I in fact told this gigantic creep I'd do: tell everyone, not that it'd stop him from waylaying other reading coordinators and students or disenhance, can I say? his literary eminence. Mr. Pulitzer Prize was on me from the moment I picked him up at this hotel. In that fetid car of mine to the university auditorium he kept saying, ‘You have magnificent eyes, silky skin, the most swanlike shoulders and neck I've ever seen.' ‘Swans have shoulders?' I asked. They could, but I couldn't resist asking it. Anyway, malarkey. I know my eyes and shoulders and neck aren't like that, but he persisted. My ears, my arms, my fingertips especially. He wanted to suck on them. Just looking at them gripping the wheel, they made him swell, he said. That's the word he used. He wanted us to stop for a prereading drink, then after the reading we'd have predinner drinks, during-dinner wine, and finally at this bar postdinner drinks and nightcaps. It wasn't from him I got the word. Truth of it is that for weeks after I had to overcome thinking it was the most scrofulous I'd heard. When I wouldn't stop he took several swigs from a sterling silver hip flask, a gift from a reading coordinator in Minneapolis, he said, with an amorous-erotic inscription on it alluding to his legs and phallus and lips, even though I asked him not to read it. Then, while I'm driving, he tries grabbing my crotch and I said, ‘Hey, you nuts? Get your paws off or we'll crash.' When he realized I wasn't ever putting out for him—we were about to enter the auditorium and the room was packed; I'm sorry, but the guy really draws them—he said if I don't promise this instant to sleep with him after the reading, he's going to make a beeline for the exit now and blame it on me in a way where he'll get his full payment, even though he didn't show up, and I'll get canned. He'll cook up the most credible story too, he said. ‘I'll work on it for a day, put aside my other writing, and send it to your dean. Writers are the best liars when they put their minds to it,' he said. For a minute I was in a dither what to do. I thought should I consent and then go ahead with it? because I was sure if I did consent and then reneged after, he'd concoct an even worse believable lie against me. I was petrified. I have a year-to-year appointment, I don't earn much money, but I've been teaching here so long that my university pays half my kids' college tuition for four years.” “You didn't go through with it, did you?” “First I said, ‘I have to go to the ladies' room,' and he said, ‘You can pee later; tell me now.' I said I'd report these threats to his wife. He said she knows all about what he does on the road and gives her blessing, since they have an arrangement that when he's gone she gets to knock around too. I said he was lying, and he said, ‘Here's her number; call her,' and pulled out his cellular phone. ‘Then your department chairman,' I said, ‘or your provost or dean.' He said his school's lucky to have him. With his celebrity the last few years, besides his mobility, he could teach anywhere. ‘I want an answer in ten seconds,' he said, and I said, ‘Then the hell with my job. You're a greasy repulsive slob, and too skinny, and I loathe your guts.' ‘Good,' he said, ‘you called my bluff; I love it,' and kissed the top of my head, and we went in and he delivered a beautiful reading and had the audience enthralled and begging for more. Later he went partying with a few of the grad students and teachers, and I hear he was thoroughly charming and gracious, though I'm sure he secretly ended up with one of the girls.” “He sounds like a drip. It's what I always thought about most writers, and especially the rare ones whose work you like—meaning: you don't want to kill it? don't get to know them. But listen, I'm tired. I'll have to drink up and say good night.” “Fine, then, good night, and thank you for coming. Next time, if I can finesse it, I'll try to get you out here for a lot more money,” and he said, “Thanks, I'd love to come back; the students were terrific. And also thanks for having me here this time,” and she said, “And thank you for thanking me so plentifully, sir. Compared to the creep, you've been a hundred-percent gentleman,” and he said, “Thank you,” and went to the elevator. She tapped on his door about twenty minutes later. Tapped? Knocked? What's the difference? But what'd she do till then? He didn't ask. Maybe she got in her car and stayed parked or drove for a few minutes, even toward home, before deciding to turn around, or had another drink in the bar, since that's where he left her. Once he headed to the elevator she even could have known what she was going to do but wanted to give him a few minutes. He was stuffing his shoes and clothes he'd just worn into his day pack. “Who is it?”—thinking maybe someone from the hotel staff or a guest who had the wrong door or one of the name-tag men downstairs as a prank—and she said, “Sheila; may I come in?” He said, “What is it, you forgot or lost something?” though for the most part knowing why she was there, and she said, “Something like that; it's important. Open the door,” and he said, “I have to get some clothes on”—he was only in boxer shorts and socks—and then opened it. Then—it might have taken ten minutes—they were in bed. But how'd they get there? They started kissing and she was touching him through the pants and put his hand on her breast and his other on her buttock and unzipped his fly and put her hand inside. It seemed that was all she had to do. Jerked it around and then pulled him to the bed by it, got on her back first, got her arms around him and pulled him on top of her; then they had to separate to get their clothes off. “Your socks,” she said, “everything, since all of me's off too.” But why'd he let her in the room, even? Why didn't he say at the door after he opened it, and this was what he was feeling at the moment, “I'm sorry, but if it isn't something you lost or forgot, and since you were never up here, it couldn't be … if it isn't important, as you said it was, then you really have to leave because I got to get to sleep”? She walked in when he opened the door. He said, “Excuse me?” but in a way that clearly meant, Where do you think you're going? He didn't know if he should shut the door or leave it open. He shut it, since he didn't want anyone to see her in the room and he also may have to raise his voice to get her out. He thought he'll tell her to go; he knows what's on her mind and the same thing isn't on his; he's sorry. But first he'll ask her to be more explicit why she came here: maybe there is a legitimate reason. “Excuse me,” he said, “but it is pretty late. Truthfully, what's the reason you're here?” and she said, “I'm aware of the time—and it isn't that late—though I also realize you've had a long day and you're probably tired. But how can I explain it other than to be direct: all that talk about the voracious Mr. Slime didn't do anything titillating to me before, believe me. It's simply an involuntary and actually very pleasant attraction I've had to you almost since you got here, not to speak of equally enjoyable sensations, and instead of leaving it alone I thought I'd see where it went and if anything comparable was happening to you. I apologize for not coming out with it at dinner or in the bar, and because you were married—and happily, it seemed—and just natural reserve about something like that, I felt somewhat shy,” and he said, “Look, you have to understand I've never done anything like that, what you're suggesting, and I doubt I'm going to start now.” That's what he said, almost exactly that. What he should have said was: and I'm in no way going to start now and neither do I like the uncomfortable position you've put me in, since you know I gave you no signs I was interested. Whatever you were feeling, you just should have kept in. She nodded agreeingly to what he did say, seemed to think about it a few seconds, eyes off to the side, then came up to him and said, “You
doubt
you're going to start anything now but you're not sure, am I reading it right?” and put her arms around his waist, and he said, “No, you're wrong, I don't want to; I just don't have a firm way of saying things,” and tried pushing her hands off from in back. She was shorter than he by almost a foot and looked up and smiled softly but in no way cheaply or seductively or anything like that—saucily; it was a lovely smile—and pressed an ear against his chest and said, “I'm going to say something real dumb; I can feel your stomach pumping, what do you think it means?” and he said, “Sure you can. Come on, let's stop this,” or “end this,” “drop this,” “forget this,” and tried prying her hands apart from in back, but she had them locked. He didn't want to use more force and possibly hurt her. She might get excited, start lashing out at him, physically or with words. She does this screwy thing, coming up here and persisting, who knows? He had an erection because she was pressed into him there and all the talk and stuff, but so what? He gets them and they go. He should have gently pushed her away till her hands broke loose and, if they didn't, then maybe turned around and pulled them apart. His back to her like that would have been a good sign, and the two combined, his back and pulling her hands apart, might have done the trick. She said, arms still around him, “You really don't want to sleep with me? I'd like to with you, now even more than when I knocked on your door, which in answer to your question before is why I came here, but I won't beg.” Why didn't he just say no at that point, demonstrably, even angrily—“and thanks for your directness but it's not working on me and in fact is misplaced”—so also sarcastically, and tell her to leave, even say, “Listen, I mean it, get the hell out of here,” and go to the door and open it and say, “Now come on, out, out!”? They started kissing just around then, but what'd they do between that moment and when she said she wouldn't beg? How did they get so far, in fact, where they started kissing? She looked up at him—doe-eyed is the expression that was once commonly used—after she said that about not begging, raised herself on her toes a few inches, and he bent over—he can even see himself now bending down to her face after she raised hers closer to his—and kissed her, thinking, One kiss and that'll be it, and maybe even saying, “It's tempting, you kiss well, that was very nice but all there's going to be. We kissed and now you have to leave, I'm sorry, and my goddamn erection means nothing. I get them from all kinds of things, even wind.” But she was grabbing him through the pants now, and they kissed more and she put his hands on her and her hand went inside his fly, and then they were on the bed. He could have stopped it there perhaps, when he got off her to undress, but by then he was very excited and she almost never stopped jerking him, so it was just too late. After it was over—the second time; after the first, not that he put much into it, he dozed off—she said, “Excuse me, but how many years has it been since you did it with anyone but your wife?” and he said, “Why, my participation was sort of mechanical?” and she said, “I didn't say that,” and he said, “Anyway, without meaning to provoke you, it's none of your business,” and she said, “You're angry at me because you think I pushed you into it?” and he said, “Angry at myself. But I did it, enjoyed it the first time; the second time I was barely functioning, I was so sleepy, so whatever happened or didn't, I don't even know, but okay. But I'm asking you not to tell anyone about it. I know that's a difficult request—one has best friends, but best friends have big mouths—but please do what I ask,” and she said, “That means you're not going to tell your wife?” and he said, “That's for me to decide,” and she said, “I only said that to know how many people you intend to tell and if I should expect a letter or phone call from her. I'd rather not get one of those—I never have. All but one of the men I've been attached to since my last divorce weren't married at the time—so don't worry: I'll keep our little secret secret.” He wanted to say he didn't much like that remark, “our little secret,” but didn't want to antagonize her. Out of revenge, or more because if she lost any warm feelings she'd had for him she could spill everything to who knows whom, so best to get her out of here in a good mood. But to be on the safe side, he said, “I've definitely decided not to tell Sally, so please don't tell anyone yourself,” and she said, “I wasn't going to. I already said: it's between us.” Then she got dressed, mentioned breakfast and some other things, and left. After she was gone he thought, Why'd she want to have anything to do with him? He's got about twenty years on her. He's not good-looking anymore. She may have liked his mind but he doesn't see why, because he didn't show much intelligence or wit since he got here and was fairly unpleasant a lot of the time—cynical, acerbic, critical of others—and nobody goes to bed with you because of your writing. In comparison, she's bright and cheerful and articulate and reasonably pretty, with an athlete's body, almost—the physique of someone who runs or swims but works out every day—and with a nice fullness, and, for their one shot in bed, more sensual and uninhibited than he. He's in shape, but the shape he's in wouldn't appeal to a much younger woman. And he's not famous, he can't get her a job in his department, he can't do anything for her. Even a reference from him for a fellowship or teaching promotion or another teaching position or even to get into an art colony wouldn't do much, as he's not considered very highly in academic and literary circles, and he has no contacts at these places or other schools. If she did ask for a reference he'd give it and say very complimentary things, not just to keep her mouth shut but because they're the truth based on what he saw: an excellent mind, a fine teacher, a considerable knowledge and love of literature, and she's well-spoken and personable and has a rapport with her students that he found believable and unusual because they genuinely liked and respected her as a teacher and friend, and she didn't get these reactions from them by having to act younger and more “with it” or diminishing herself in any way. “I recommend her most highly and would put her in the top five percent of young teachers I've seen teach.” He's not being facetious here, he thought. This is what he'd say of her. So, she had her own reasons for coming on to him, that's all. He reminded her of someone, or she was particularly keyed up to have sex because of something physical or personal he was unaware of and he happened to be there and wasn't too unpleasant-looking to her or maybe not at all and hadn't acted obnoxiously or like an oddball; and that he didn't make a pass or show any attraction to her may have been to his credit, or the way she saw it, and so on, plus she must have assumed he wouldn't make a fuss after, calling her up and wanting to see her again when she might not want him to. He was mature while being slightly unconventional, she might have felt, and maybe that's mostly what it was, and also safe in a health way in that he's been married and faithful—though his monogamy she only could have guessed at earlier in the evening—for almost nineteen years straight. Oh, what's he going on about? he thought. He doesn't understand why she went for him the way she did, and so assiduously, and all the reasons he just thought of border on the ridiculous. In the car he thinks maybe he shouldn't get home before the kids. If he does, an hour before, let's say, his wife could say, “We have an hour before the kids come home and I've missed you; want to have some fun?” He already thought that; but could he refuse? She might get suspicious or perplexed. He's almost never refused. Maybe five times since they first slept together, or ten times then—twenty. Anyway, about twice a year, if that. And out of extreme fatigue or because he was sick or coming down with something and she didn't know this, and maybe he didn't either, when she suggested making love, or the rare time when he was depressed and didn't think sex would take him out of it. Because in bed he may feel so guilty that he can't perform: and that's the word for it, perform, for his mind would be on what he did last night. It's also possible that his sex drive will be slight because he did it twice with Sheila, and the second time only about twelve hours ago, and he was bushed while doing it, but he thinks that would only be a small part of his not being able to perform with his wife. She'd be sympathetic and tender and try some things to help him—“Leave it to me” or “Lie back and let me see what I can do,” she's said a number of times—and maybe these wouldn't work either. That's happened a few times too, though usually only when they tried doing it twice in a short time. And he might then just tell her, thinking now's better than later—since he feels he'll probably have to tell her sometime—when she sees, even in this way, what it's doing to him. “Now's probably as good a time to tell you as any,” he could say. “For certain I don't want you to find out from anyone but me. This is why I can't do anything now, I'm sure of it. I had sex with a woman last night, the reading coordinator, Sheila. She also teaches there. I didn't want to but I ended up doing it. She was a bit pushy but I could have resisted. She came to my hotel room after we shook hands and said good night downstairs in the bar. We only had a single drink and I didn't even want to do that; I wanted to say good night and goodbye to her in her car. Or I kissed her cheek goodbye, though we also might have shaken hands, when I left her, and she might have kissed mine. Anyway, nothing more than a friendly kiss on the cheek from us both. I didn't want to let her into my room but she sort of barged in when I opened the door. I know this sounds farfetched but it's the truth, I swear to you. I said through the door, after she knocked on it and identified herself, ‘What is it you want? It's late,' and she said, ‘It's important, open the door.' Because I thought it