82 Desire (23 page)

Ray nodded to himself, not even realizing he had done it. She had a right to know, and he knew she could take it. He told her.

She said, “Oh, honey! Oh, honey, we can’t even say, ‘You don’t have to steal. If you need shirts, just ask us,’ like normal parents would.” She started to cry.

“Yeah.” That was the part that got him, too.

“Those bastards have done this to us, Ray.”

He only nodded.

“They don’t know who they’re fooling with. They really have no idea what’s coming at them.” It was scary how much alike they thought.

Twenty-one

RUSSELL HAD NEVER been all that fond of Fort Lauderdale, and now he was growing to hate it. The good things were the beach and the old marina, straight out of John D. MacDonald. But the bad things were myriad. There were the wall-to-wall condos, the acres of low-ceilinged ‘50s houses, the dumb bars where they had hot-bod contests and wet T-shirt contests and raw oyster-eating contests and, unwittingly, dumb-joke, dumb-line, dumb-talk contests. And there were the horrible restaurants. He’d found a good place for sushi, and one where they had nice Asian dishes, but mostly it was suburb cuisine—plenty of salt, not much style. This might not mean much to most people, but it was the kind of thing a person from New Orleans noticed.

He’d only gone there to get the Pearson, and make plans for what to do next, but so far he had only one plan—lose Dean Woolverton. Dean was like an albatross around his neck—he wished he’d never heard of the man—but he owed him. He owed him because it was his stupid name that had caught Dina Wolf’s attention.

Dina Wolf was certainly the most interesting thing about Fort Lauderdale, by far its most unique property. Plenty of towns had beaches, but few had wild, wriggling aliens with animal names.

He was established here as Dean Woolverton (meaning he had a phone, a leased car, a boat, and a slip for it), which made it tempting to stay a little bit, except that he was so restless. What he really needed were some papers—a driver’s license, passport, maybe even a credit card, though how an imaginary person got credit, he wasn’t sure. But he figured with the amount of dope traffic in Miami, South Florida was the counterfeit-papers capital of the universe. It was just a matter of getting to know the right people. And figuring out who he wanted to be.

Dean Woolverton was three things and three things only, it seemed to him: blond hair, an earring, and a name. He’d already dumped the earring and started growing a beard. Now all he had to do was figure out how to change his hair color and name without arousing the suspicion of the only person he knew. He could, of course, simply set sail for somewhere else—even somewhere close, Delray, say—and that would be that. But, aside from the Pearson, Dina Wolf was all he had. Literally all he had—the only person he had to talk to, the only distraction from a life of solitary afternoon movies. He was desperate to buy golf clubs, but he had no idea how much the fake papers were going to cost, or how much he’d need for other expenses. He had treated himself to a tennis racket, and occasionally took out his aggressions on yellow balls.

He still had hopes for the vagabond life, once he started actually living it. He could just sail to the Bahamas and gunkhole around, living on the boat and buying groceries now and then, occasionally consuming a beer at a bar in some lonely port, so as to keep in touch with the human race. That was all he really needed.

But in the meantime, he was uncomfortably dependent on Dina Wolf. She was just so damn fascinating to try and figure out. Plus great in bed.

He’d taken to calling her so much she had said, “Don’t you think we’re moving too fast?”

It stopped him cold. It really hadn’t occurred to him they were moving anywhere at all. He was so taken aback he could only stammer. “I didn’t … I mean I don’t…”

She nodded. “Right. And that’s how men and women are different. Look, you’re recently out of a marriage, or maybe still in one, I can’t tell, and you’re not used to being alone. I, on the other hand, have a life, such as it is. I don’t want you messing it up.”

“Messing it up. You mean it’s messy having me phoning when maybe you’re entertaining someone else? Or… you mean you’re spending too much time with me and not getting enough sleep?”

He was trying to think of other explanations when she said, “Are you being deliberately obtuse, or are you really that innocent?”

Russell felt like some bumbling professor in a Jimmy Stewart movie. What was it with this girl?

She said, “Listen, let’s understand each other. You’re just looking to pass the time, but you’re taking all
my
time. This is usually considered a sign of serious intentions.”

Though they were only talking on the phone, he was blushing. “Dina, listen, I’m sorry. I never for a minute meant to give you that impression.”

“I know that. Dean, and you didn’t.” She sounded angry. “What I’m saying is, you’re breaking the rules—you can’t have your cake and eat it, too.”

He was hugely embarrassed. His mother had taught him better than this—or at least he knew that was how one behaved when dealing with women like Bebe. He had somehow thought that women one met in places like the Bootlegger played by different rules. He simply did not know how to deal with this woman. What the hell was he supposed to say now?

But she saved him. “Look. Think about it and call me back when you feel like it, okay?”

She hung up, leaving him exhausted.

What the hell to do? He put his hands behind his head and lay back on his bunk, feeling about as depressed as he’d ever been in his life.

And then slowly, a plan began to form, a plan born out of the outrageousness that had spawned the Skinners—a plan that made him laugh.

He called her back, held his nose, and pitched his voice a couple of octaves higher than normal: “This is Western Union, we have a telegram for Miss Dina Wolf, please do not interrupt—our time is of the utmost essence. Is Miss Wolf available, please?”

“This is…”

“Please do not interrupt. Mr. Dean Woolverton requests the pleasure of Miss Wolf’s company at dinner Wednesday night and dancing afterward. If such an arrangement meets with Miss Wolf’s approval, Mr. Woolverton will call for Miss Wolf at seven-thirty o’clock. Dress is, of course, optional. It will not be necessary for Miss Wolf to bring her own bottle.”

She chuckled. “A for effort, Dean. But not A-plus, since Wednesday’s tomorrow night. And by the way, it’s Mrs. Wolf. As it happens, I’m free.”

A dial tone buzzed in his ear, and he felt suddenly bereft. He hadn’t realized how much he enjoyed their time together, or how callously he’d seen her merely as a way to pass the time. That “Mrs. Wolf” bit hurt—she evidently meant he’d never even asked her if she’d been married, but surely he must have. He wasn’t that self-involved.

He wondered what she did on nights home alone by herself. He hadn’t heard a television. Maybe she read. What? he wondered. Romances? The classics? Self-help books, maybe—
Women Who Love Men Who Are Truly Buttholes
. Maybe that was what the lecture was all about.

He grabbed the copy of
Sailing
magazine he’d picked up at Eckerd, and then thought twice about stereotypes. But there was nothing else on the boat except a Travis McGee novel he’d bought for the local color. He fell asleep reading it.

In the morning he awoke feeling excited for the first time since buying the sloop. He had preparations to make.

First, he went to a hairdresser—an actual salon instead of a barber shop—and said, “Do something. I hate this hair.”

“What’s the matter? Blonds don’t have more fun?” The guy obviously took him for gay.

“My wife won’t sleep with me anymore.”

“Well, honey, maybe you should try Viagra.”

Russell got up and flung off his smock, but the guy smoothed him down. “Take it easy, take it easy. Teeny little joke, that’s all.” And then he was all business. “Okay, what shall we do? How about something sandy—like mine—with a few highlights to make the transition?” He cocked his head, assessing. “And maybe a little more contemporary cut.”

When he left there, Russell felt human again. Of course, he now looked a little like a straight man trying to pass for gay, but that was better than looking like himself or Dean. In fact, the effect took ten years off his age, in his own humble opinion. Even the three-day beard wasn’t that scruffy.

Next he went and bought a pair of khakis (God, it felt good to wear them again!) and some kind of unconstructed linen jacket. After that, a dozen red roses, and he was Mr. Smooth Swain.

Dina had gone to trouble as well. She had on a black dress with halter top and little swing skirt, the old Marilyn Monroe style, and her short hair had somehow been persuaded into curls and waves and things. She held out her hands for the roses. “Why, Mr. Woolverton,” she said. “How very kind of you.”

He bowed. “My pleasure, Mrs. Wolf.”

After that, things got a little more informal. In fact, they went so well he had to congratulate himself on combining his makeover with his lady friend’s tiny request. And indeed it did seem tiny when you considered how genuinely pleased she seemed to be. After dinner, she said, “Let’s don’t go dancing. Let’s find a motorcycle to ride.”

He certainly wasn’t stealing one, if that was what she meant. But apparently she didn’t mean anything. “Or maybe a horse,” she said.

“No, let’s just walk.” He pulled into a beachfront parking lot. “And you tell me about Mr. Wolf.”

She kicked off her shoes, slithered out of her pantyhose, and slid out of the car, chattering like a little girl. “Well, his name’s Akela and he hangs with Kaa, the snake, and Bagheera, the panther. They don’t like tigers much.”

“You want to go over that again?”

“You never read Kipling when you were a kid? ‘Now this is the Law of the Jungle—as old and true as the sky. And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, and the Wolf that shall break it must die.’ “ She sighed. “It’s the hardest thing in the world to find someone with the same frame of reference. Don’t you think? Bet you read Sailing magazine, and that’s about it, right?”

He was speechless.

“Why are you looking so surprised? Caught you, didn’t I?”

You don’t know the half of it,
he thought. He said, “You are one surprising babe.”

“You know what? Just ‘cause you brought me roses, I’m going to let you call me babe. You know, I really like your hair that way—the blond thing just wasn’t you.”

“Are you going to tell me about your ex-husband or aren’t you? I’m really sorry I never asked you about him.”

“Well…” She seemed to get shy all of a sudden. “He was my high school boyfriend, and then he was a rep for a printer—I got him the job. And then he was pretty much of nothing.” She gave Russell a strained smile, the sort he thought of as “brave.” “Mr. Wolf liked his toddy,” she said. “Hey, want to go swimming? You know what? It’s a gorgeous night. We could skinny-dip.” But she didn’t. She simply waded into the surf fancy dress and all, holding the skirt up so that the wind caught it and came under it, and made it a black mushroom floating on the water. “Come on in,” she shouted.

But he hadn’t left his old life so far behind that he could just wade in. He first removed his jacket, shoes, and pants, and then he ran in, feeling the water like a healing spring around him. He caught her and held her, thinking they could make love right there, right in the water, but in the end he didn’t want to, only wanted to hold her and be comforted by her. As he held her in the softness of the night, and the gentleness of the water, a tenderness came over him, part of it simple joy in her presence, and part of it a great longing, something tinged with sadness.

He thought,
My God, I feel something for this woman
, and the thought so surprised him that he lost his balance, tipping toward her and nearly knocking her over. He managed to right himself before they were both underwater, and she said, “Whoops. Time to go in.”

He dressed quickly while she scampered to the car. When he got in, she moved over to kiss his cheek. He smiled and touched hers with the backs of his fingers, and all the way home, she rubbed his thigh. He parked in front of her building and reached for her, the feeling nagging at him that he shouldn’t be doing this. They necked like teenagers, her perfume—Opium, he was pretty sure—living up to its name. The more he held her and kissed her, the more he felt his judgment slipping. He was aware of behaving like a robot, yet unable to find the “off” button, until she spoke.

“Let’s go in,” she whispered, her breath a feather on his neck.

He pulled away and looked at her. Her eyes were wide and soft, and he thought,
I can’t hurt this woman.

He was trying to think what to do when she said, “You okay?”

“That’s a good question.” At times like this he wished he smoked.

“Uh-oh.” She turned from him, staring straight ahead. “Here comes the let’s-be-friends speech.”

He had to chuckle. “Uh, no. That’s the last thing on my mind. I’m just a little…”

“Confused? It’s the I’m-a-little-confused speech.” He could swear there was a wet track on her face.

This was a woman who was obviously a veteran of a lot of things Russell was not. He wanted to protect her from the assholes who’d dumped her with stock phrases, and at the same time, it made him mad that she lumped him with them. (Though, in fact, he had been about to say he was a little confused.)

He said, “You know what your problem is, Ms. Wolf?”

She whirled toward him, fire in her eyes. “I’m a castrating bitch?”

“Your problem is that you have obviously come in contact with some pathetic specimens of masculinity. I, Dean Woolverton, have taken a special vow to restore your faith in the existence of that elusive species known as the ‘gentleman.’”

“Oh, yeah? How? By sleeping with me a few times and then saying you don’t want to hurt me? That makes you a real terrific guy, Dean.” She slammed out of the car and clicked into the building.

Dean Woolverton, you asshole! Russell Fortier just wouldn’t be in this situation.
He bought a fifth of Scotch on the way back to the boat and poured himself a double. He took the bottle and went up to the cockpit, downing his drink by the time he sat down.

The night was as beautiful as it had been when he and Dina were wading, and yet the vastness of the water, the softness of the air, failed to work their invariable calming magic. A deep, thick, murky sadness had descended on him, or perhaps had burrowed out of him, chewing and biting its way to the surface like some trapped parasite.

He had an almost overwhelming urge to talk to his wife.

But that couldn’t be. He didn’t even want to think of the consequences of that one.