“Why did you think I wanted to come down here?” She laughs. “Blow?”
Hunkering on her high heels, one hand on the sink, she puts me in her mouth.
“You like them circumcised, don’t you?” I look down at the top of her head. The only dark roots are in the center, the little round spot where the hair grows out in all directions, the same medium brown as her bush. She probably spends a thousand a month on her colorist uptown.
“That’s not a courtly question.” She glances up. Her unguarded smile is unusually warm and friendly. Her eyes seem to say, I love you. You are just like me. Don’t we have an exciting time together? “But, actually, yes, I do.”
She takes it deep in her throat. Her warm saliva feels heavenly.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I touch her shoulder. She draws slowly up, raises her head, and I fall back into myself.
Someone turns the door handle from the outside.
“Do you?” She licks her lips.
“I’m hard as a rock and you look so beautiful down there.”
She pushes me over to a little padded bench opposite the mirror. I slip off my linen blazer and spread it on the floor.
“Such a southern gentleman,” Betsy says as I sit down on the bench and lean back. She kneels on the jacket and parts my legs, unbuckles my Levi’s, and pulls them down to my knees.
“How pretty you are. Such a big boy.” Betsy cups my balls with one hand, leans forward. “Shame that Harper never named you.” She places her mouth on me, slides slowly up and down. “
Mmmmm
.”
“
Aaahh
.” I rest my head against the wall, letting the tension of making Laura come without coming myself—after an hour I simply couldn’t release—wash out of my neck down through my shoulders and chest into the head of my penis. I open my eyes and glance down at her cleavage, the breasts touching, swelling beneath her jacket. I wonder, as I have countless times, why the image excites me. Did I imprint on my mother’s so young that the image is embedded, deep and strong in my subconscious? The only tangible reason I can muster as proof of the existence of God is that some higher power must have created the beauty of the breast. Scientists describe tits as secondary sexual characteristics. A therapist told me that they are designed to resemble buttocks, which
Homo sapiens
are programmed to target for the perpetuation of the species. Breasts are butts. The little dimple on my chin is a little butt. That’s why Betsy likes it so much. A cross-species comparison is the bladder that a female camel blows out of her mouth and inflates, a big red balloon, to attract randy male camels. Secondary sexual characteristics.
I reach down and unbutton Betsy’s jacket, pull down her bra. Her breasts bulge out, pinched along the rims of the cups. I focus on her brown nipples and her white, untanned tits, pitching up and down, as the hot blood surges into my dick, lathered in her warm spit. The heat gathers as her breasts sway. I grasp one in my hand, compress it into a narrow ridgetop. Locked in the moment, the present instant, I stroke her hair, push her lips to my pubic hair. I don’t care what the professionals say, I like this. This is what I want to do. Am I a sex addict? Is there such a thing? Aren’t males programmed to disperse their seed through the gene pool?
Mmmm
, Betsy gurgles, taking me deeper. I almost dig my hand into her breast. She goes up and down faster. My body goes limp, the last of the life force sapped into my prick. I feel the advent, deep from the base, surging upward like molten mercury. “Aaaah,” I cry out, scalded. The heat pulsates into her mouth. Suddenly I am back in the world, with my pants at my knees and a nymphomaniac swallowing my seed. The rush is spent. I close my eyes and try to salvage the afterglow, stroking her back, clinging to the warm calm.
Someone tries the door.
What kind of girl likes to get down on her knees in bathrooms? The kind of girl I like to hang out with. Why? To degrade herself? Just to make me feel good? What made her that way? I wonder, buckling my pants. Did she come to confuse her father’s criticism and distance with love? Betsy stands up and rubs her knees. Was his degrading treatment her main form of interaction with him, his only expression of love, of the connection between them? So Betsy reenacts the emotional dynamic with her dead father on the floor of a toilet in Il Cantinori?
Someone rattles the doorknob louder. As I’m putting my coat on, Betsy opens the door.
A big black woman with strong facial features and an enormous Hydra of dreadlocks is waiting outside.
“Loved
Beloved
,” Betsy says, walking past the woman.
“Thank you,” the woman says.
I smile, following Bat Girl.
The woman’s eyes seem to look right through mine.
Going up the stairs, Betsy says, “That was Toni Morrison.”
“Who?”
“The novelist. Toni Morrison.”
“Oh, yeah. I heard of her. ”
“You ought to try reading a novel.”
“I’ve already read one.”
As we reach the table, the waiter delivers our salads. I spear a piece of Parmesan and ask, “Aren’t males programmed to scatter their seed? Or is that biological reductionism?”
“You fucked someone earlier, didn’t you?” Betsy dangles a baby leaf on the end of her fork.
“I won’t stoop to reply to those allegations.” I’m not sure why I don’t just admit it and describe the act in detail. Because she doesn’t really want to hear about it. “What makes you suggest such a thing?”
Betsy smiles. “Easy. Your obsession tonight with sex addiction.”
“There are two kinds of people. Those who are faithful, like my parents, and those who are not, like me and you.” I lift her left hand off the table, kiss her fingers. “We’re
hungry
.” I bite her thumb. “It’s easy for the faithful. They choose to be true. So they are.” Her hand against my cheek is hot in the icy air. “You and I need excitement, variety. We’re true to our nature, though we feel guilty about it.”
“The curse of the good-looking man.” Betsy pinches my face. “It’s easy for you to get in trouble.”
“Not as easy as for a sexy chick.”
Betsy laughs, pulls her hand away. “Are you in therapy?”
“Bat Girl, how little we know each other. Off and on for years.”
“Don’t worry, then. You’ll settle down.” Betsy’s eyes look almost misty.
“Hey,” I whisper kindly. “Harry wasn’t such a great catch. You’ll get a bigger fish.” Harry’s an English merchant banker who dated Betsy for six months, asked her to marry him down on one knee with a ring, then dumped her a couple of months later for her best friend, Carrie, another blonde bombshell, who had lived in Betsy’s summer house in Bridgehampton for years.
“I ran into Carrie an hour ago,” Betsy says.
“No shit. Where?”
“Outside APC in SoHo.”
“Did you speak?”
“She’s crazy. She called me a coke whore.”
“That’s terrible,” I say, thinking, You’re not a coke whore, Betsy. More of a blow nympho. There’s a distinct difference. You don’t fuck a guy for blow. You can afford your own. I frown compassionately, say aloud, “What did you say to her?”
Betsy widens her eyes. “I said, ‘Carrie. It won’t last. He won’t stay with you.’ She says, ‘Why?’ and I said, ‘’Cause you’re a dried-up old cunt.’”
I laugh. “What’d she say?”
“That’s when she called me a coke whore.”
“Catfight.” I whistle.
“What do you think I should do?”
“Well, as practicing Episcopalians, I advise you to pray for her soul.”
“You’re not a practicing Episcopalian. You just like to take a few tokes and belt out hymns.” Betsy laughs. “Want to go to church on Sunday?”
“Love to. I like the way you hang on my arm like we’re a young, pure married couple.” I smile, then shake my head. “But I’m off to San Francisco to find Cage.”
“Poor Cage,” Betsy says. “I pray about him.”
“Thousands of people pray for him—he’s on the prayer list at churches across the South.” I sigh. “Scientific studies show that prayer has a positive affect on illnesses, cancer patients in particular. They don’t know why. Probably mind over matter. The people believe in its efficacy, so it works. Doesn’t seem to be working with my brother.”
“Maybe it is,” Betsy says. “Otherwise he might be dead.”
1986
S
teele Boulevard in Baton Rouge was two yellow concrete streets divided by wide islands of Bermuda grass, boxes for giant live oaks. Hidden behind a tall wall of camellia hedges was a modest two-story Cajun-style cottage and a tennis court with a superb green clay surface and high-powered lights for night play, owned by the Patrick Company, on the books for corporate entertainment. Mostly it was used for Patrick family tennis. Nick had spent many afternoons playing doubles with the Patricks, and he and Rowan often brought their dates here for drinks after all the bars had closed. After Rowan and Nick finished college and stopped coming back in the summers, the house sat idle every night for more than two years, until Harper came of age and began to use the key, which stayed in the same place, stuck to the exterior central air-conditioning unit in a little magnetic box, for at least a decade.
After a party one spring night when he was sixteen and had just gotten his license, Harper took his girlfriend, Rebecca, back to the cottage, where they had been going on weekend nights for months. Rebecca possessed centerfold curves. Harper was in heaven. Drunk, they made love several times, though Rebecca came only during the penultimate coupling. Harper put the rubbers in a little pile on the carpet by the twin bed in one of two upstairs bedrooms. They fell asleep naked in one another’s arms.
About a quarter of a mile away, at five in the morning, Franklin rose without waking Margaret and put on a T-shirt and baggy running shorts. He boiled tea in the kitchen, double-tied the strings of his running shoes. Outside in the garden the purple dawn air was seventy degrees, scented by the blossoms of tall magnolias and squat banana trees. The fifty-five-year-old rector followed a series of push-ups, sit-ups, and hurdler stretches. After fifteen minutes he passed through a screen of slatted doors onto the drive and saw an empty space in the carport. Margaret’s Buick Century was missing.
Well, there was nothing to do about it now, Franklin thought, setting off jogging down the drive. This had happened a dozen times with Cage and once or twice with Nick. The boys always said that they had had too much to drink to drive safely, so they spent the night at their friends’ and retrieved the Century the next day. It was impossible to verify and they appeared to be behaving responsibly. What more could you possibly do? Take away the car and endure a long siege of resentment? You have done your best to instill values and good judgment. At adolescence, in the turmoil of hormones, instinctually driven to break away from us and everything we stand for, trying to become their own individual selves, they are going to push the limits of authority. All you can do is pray that they survive. It’s in God’s hands. You must have faith that Harper will come home eventually. Before his mother wakes up if he wants to escape the scorpion stinger of her righteous indignation.
Franklin laughed to himself, turning off Chatmoss onto Steele. He loved this shady boulevard of perpetually green oaks, the branches swooping down from fifty feet and swerving up again—the trees were nothing short of a testament to the beauty of God’s creation. The branches filled his mind, a latticework filtering out Harper missing in action, all the grieving of the congregation, its factional conflicts, endemic cash shortfalls, church and family, the long lists of tedious tasks in the week ahead . . . breathing deeply, his stride nearly as long as it was at the peak of his competitive days thirty-five years before, he ran up the yellow concrete road. In the half-light he jogged past the cottage, ran on another three miles, passed the cottage again in full light on the way home, and never saw the Century behind the tall camellia hedge.
Margaret woke as usual at six-thirty, when she heard the shower. She came into the bathroom and stuck her head in the curtains and Franklin leaned out of the spray and they kissed, then she went into the kitchen, put the kettle on, spooned freeze-dried coffee crystals in a mug, and looked out the window over the sink at the carport and saw that the Century was missing.
She retied the strap of her bathrobe and marched back to the bedroom, where Frank was pulling on a pair of boxers. Her mouth was set, her jaw held high. She said, “That boy.”
Franklin tried not to appear amused. He popped open a safety pin that kept his socks together in the wash. Harper was irresponsible, mainly for making his mother worry, but the sight of his compact little wife on the warpath struck a chord in his heart that made him smile. “He’ll come home.”
“Doesn’t he think about how I will be tormented until he comes home? Until I know that he’s safe? He could have the courtesy to call.” She put her hand to her forehead. “He was out with Rebecca last night.”
“He’ll be fine.” Franklin stepped into a pair of seersucker trousers.
“Not when I get my hands on him.” Margaret laughed.
“I wouldn’t want to be Harper when he gets home.”
“He’ll probably make me late for church.” Margaret clenched her hands into little fists.
“Leave him.” Franklin pulled on a white shirt, reached in a tall dresser for a collar. “That boy marches to the sound of his own drummer.”
“That’s letting him off too easy.”
“Mars.” Her martial nickname seemed appropriate at the moment. “Mars, don’t let it work you up. Why don’t you take a power walk?”
As Franklin set off for St. James, Margaret walked briskly down Chatmoss. She charged up Steele Boulevard, pumping her arms. The air was already eighty degrees. The camellia hedges of the cottage reminded her that years ago Pamela Patrick said that Rowan and Nick had used the cottage for necking with their girlfriends. She crossed the island and went down the drive. There was the missing Century, the big aquamarine box that Nick used to say looked like a landing craft that ferried soldiers to Normandy Beach. She shook her head. The side door of the house was unlocked. She called, “Harper?” She counted to ten, then walked inside.