Hardly Working (26 page)

Later, after we'd all eaten, there was a general sagging of the atmosphere. Joey had brought over videos of some of the TV shows in which he'd appeared and forced us all to watch them. After that, Simon went off to read a mountaineering magazine and I, not knowing what to do with all my half-sober energy, decided to tackle the dishes. And then Cleo wanted to dance. She was cross-legged down on the floor going through her CD collection, discarding names. “Joe Cocker, no, Barry White, no, how about Johnny Clegg and Savuka?”

“You can't dance to Johnny Clegg,” I said.

“Yes, you can. Simon and I have done it. Simon? Where is he? Simon? We want your expert opinion on something.” Cleo got up and went to look for him. I sat back and listened to Morrissey.

Cleo's voice shrilled from the other room. “I can't believe you're doing this. How could you, Simon? With Joey? I don't believe it.”

I heard the low rumble of male voices. Cleo's rose above theirs. “No. I don't care what you thought…. Get out. Both of you, get out of here.”

The problem was that now, Simon had nowhere to go and Joey had no car, so they both had to come home with me, leaving Cleo to stew and be upset on her own. It wasn't fair. I would rather have stayed behind with her to bitch about men, but it was also important that I get the two of them out of her sight before she started throwing things. Cleo likes to throw things from time to time. Just to stay in shape.

But at least I no longer had the problem of Finking Etiquette. Not for personal issues, at any rate.

By five o'clock, I had all Simon's equipment and clothes and both Simon and Joey crammed into the back of my car looking like a pair of guilty schoolboys.

I said to Cleo, “I'll phone you. We need to talk anyway.” But I knew her. She would smash a few plates, then take to the clubs. That was what she did when her pride was suffering.

 

I helped Simon carry all his things into Joey's place.

“Where would you like to sleep?” asked Joey. “Bedroom or living room couch.”

Simon's bags and climbing equipment were piled all around Joey's living room. “Couch is great. I'm beat. I haven't been getting much sleep lately.”

I'll bet you haven't.

Both of them seemed a little edgy.

Simon said, “I think I'll pack it in early, Di. Just drop down where I fall. See you tomorrow then, eh?”

“Yeah, me too,” said Joey, looking a bit sheepish.

“Okay, good night then to the two of you.”

Except that it was barely nighttime. What was I going to do? It was five-thirty and I was frighteningly sober. I went back to my place and opened my fridge. It was nearly empty
except for some nacho chips and a bottle of Diet Pepsi. Maybe quitting drinking wasn't such a good idea after all. I took a bottle of Barking Dog wine from the case, popped the cork, and poured myself a slug. Then I went over to the stereo and put on a new tango CD that I'd given to myself as a Christmas present. I flopped down on the couch and listened, imagining myself in some crowded distant
milonga.

I left the lights off and let the music slither under my skin. A few beams of streetlight lit the living room but it was dark. I closed my eyes and stood up. With my eyes shut, I danced around my living room and down to the kitchen, groped my way to the kitchen door, grabbed the bottle of wine and then went out onto the porch.

It was much too warm for Christmas. I sank down onto the top step of the stairs to enjoy the damp air and the city smell of exhaust, curries and fried food, smoke fires and evergreen. Colored house lights made cheerful suspended islands and miniature coastlines along the alley and into the distance. And just when I was thinking that my Christmas Day had been a bit of a downer but could have been worse, Jonathan Ballam's brown Honda SUV pulled into the garage at the back of his house.

I
watched him from above as he hauled his bag out of the back of the vehicle and walked confidently up to the kitchen door of his house. Just before he got his key into the lock, I called down to him, “Merry Christmas, Jon.”

He looked up and squinted. “Dinah, is that you? It
is
you. What are you doing out there all by yourself? It's Christmas. Come down and have a drink.”

I raised the bottle and grinned.

“Well then come down and have another…in a proper glass.”

“But you haven't even arrived. You probably have a lot to do. You'll want to unpack and shower…”

“Dinah Nichols, come down here this minute.”

“Right away.” I tucked the wine bottle aside and raced down the stairs.

He met me at the back gate, not quite smiling, his wide face perturbed. He looked me in the eye and then interro
gated me. “Why aren't you somewhere else? With your family? At your ancestral castle? Christmas is when you're supposed to get together with people.”

“My mother's in Mexico. And you're a fine one to talk, Jon. What are you doing here? Coming back on Christmas Day? Don't you have people to be with? Where's Kevin?”

“Kevin had other plans. He won't be back tonight. And in case you haven't forgotten, cows don't respect statutory holidays and neither do vets.”

“I haven't forgotten.”

“After you.” He ushered me inside and began to switch on the kitchen lights.

“I'm really glad you're here,” I said. “I badly need someone to talk to.”

“Well then, I'm glad I found you perishing on your steps.”

“I wasn't perishing. I was listening to tango music.”

“Aha.”

“Aha?”

“Yes, aha. I'll pour the drinks. How about something fancy?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good.”

Soon he was pouring various kinds of high-octane alcohol into a stainless steel shaker.

“A good shake.” He poured the liquid into two martini glasses and handed me one. “Hang on a sec. Low blood sugar. Need a fix. Let me throw some stuff onto a tray. Now how about some music?”

“Sure.”

“Then take these and follow me, miss.”

He held up the tray with bread, honey, and the cocktail shaker and went into the living room. I followed.

He set the tray down on the long low coffee table. “Now, don't argue. I'm the doctor around here and I know what's good for you.”

“Yes, sir. But you're an animal doctor, sir. But I guess the big question is, are you an animal of a doctor?”

Jon grinned sadistically. “Fortunately, my patients can't talk so we'll never know, will we? Now come and sit down and tell the nice animal doctor all about whatever it was that so badly needed talking about.”

He patted the brown leather couch cushion next to him. I sat down, sighed heavily and said, “A bunch of people at Green World International are about to become redundant. But it's okay because we're studying up on how to turn his hair green and ruin the leather seats in his Ferrari.”

He laughed. “Nice practical solution.”

“Yep. It's the same guy who's about to do it. It's his fault. The CEO. The one who dumped me. Or did I dump him? I can't remember.”

“That's good. We could make a country-and-western refrain out of that. The One Who Dumped Me,” he twanged.

“Are you making fun of my failed love life?”

“Sorry. That's rough, Dinah. Are you looking for another job?”

That's when I told Jon all about the dead peasants insurance. He stayed silent, straight-faced, and poured out the drinks. By the time I got to the bottom of the glass, I felt very relaxed. It was no ordinary cocktail I was drinking. It was a bomb. I couldn't stop myself from babbling on and on. It all came out, the whole messy package, everything that had happened in the last month including Hector Ferrer and the “Scarlet Tango.”

When my litany of woe finally wound to a close, he said, “You know, Dinah, there are a lot of things in this world that are out of our control and all our worrying and fretting isn't going to make an ounce of difference.” He put his hand on one of my shoulders and squeezed it gently.

“That feels quite nice, Jon. Please don't do it again. And don't make me beg.”

“I won't. Here now. I'll stop doing it right away. But keep those black eyes of yours turned away from me so we won't have any trouble.”

“I won't look at you.” I had my back to him.

He did what I hoped he would do, put both his hands on my shoulders and began to massage.

“My God, that feels good. You better stop doing it right away. Where did you learn that?”

“Animal doctorin', Miss Dinah. We work out. We need big strong hands fer all that wrestlin' livestock to the ground.”

“Like I said, you better stop while we're ahead.”

He took his hands away.

“What are you doing?” I laughed.

His voice was straight again. “I could bounce a tennis ball off your back. I think what we need here is some serious massage. Stretch out a little more on the couch.”

“I think this is a bad idea.” I giggled again.

“Sure it is. It's a terrible idea, but stretch out anyway.”

I did as I was told because I just had a taste of paradise and now I wanted the whole meal.

Kneeling beside the couch, Jon began to do the full screaming deluxe massage. At first I thought I was going to die, I was so knotted up and resistant, but then my muscles started to soften and turn to liquid. It went on and on, for much longer than I would ever want to work on someone else's back. I wanted him to do it forever, never stop.

But he did stop.

When I was in a luscious semi-unconscious place, almost on the verge of sleep, Jonathan's hands slowed down then rested gently on my back. I could feel him shift position and the sudden shock of the sandpapery touch of his face and lips grating on the place above my neckline where my sweater dipped into a V at the back.

I absolutely did and did not want him to stop.

And then I came to in a blinding flash and jumped up to
a sitting position. I was about to say, “Get your gay hands off me,” but there was something in his amber stare that stopped me.

“I see something pretty good in there,” he said.

“Your own reflection?” I ventured.

“How do I get inside?” he asked.

He moved his head forward to try to kiss me. I moved sideways and he banged his mouth against my injured cheekbone.

“Ow,” I screamed. But I was pretty anesthetized. I was really screaming for how I thought it ought to feel.

“Oh, jeez, sorry.” He took my face in his hands and examined it. That was when the real kissing started. It went on for an infinity. Then he stopped and pulled away again to look at me and I had a second of thinking, “Oh good, now we won't have to do this to Kevin.”

“We better not do this, Jon,” I rasped and laughed and pushed his hands away.

He was laughing, too. He pushed me back down on the couch and said, “No…uh…and we better not do
this
either.” He was unbuttoning the front of my sweater. I was fascinated. I did nothing to stop him. He pulled it off in one smooth slow move.

“Or this.” He eased my bra off.

“Or this.” He reached across to the coffee table, grasped the plastic honey bear and squeezed the gold liquid in thin swirling lines around my nipples. I gave a little squeal but didn't move. I was having too much fun. With an artistic flourish, he turned the honey bear upright, put it back on the coffee table and bent over me to taste, moving his tongue everywhere.

Giggling with the sensation, I made a feeble try. “That…is…so…we…should…really…stop.”

“Don't move, Dinah. I didn't get that last little bit.” He put his head up and licked his lips, taunting.

“Jonathan Ballam, I'll bet you never ever did what your mother asked.”

He nailed me with those eyes again and whispered, “No, I never did. I'm bad.” Then he took a long time finishing the last sticky spots and raised his head.

Everything snowballed. We somehow ended up on the floor, rolling and laughing into the middle of the carpet. It was my turn now. I pinned him down and worked off his bulky sweater and then his shirt and then his Fruit of the Loom T-shirt and then the thermal underwear under that.

Boy, he had a lot of clothes on and they all smelled a little of cow and horse.

It was like undressing an onion. I thought I would never get to the bottom of them. But when I did, what an onion.

Sitting on top of him, I ran my hands over his washboard stomach and muscular shoulders. “I'm going to stop all of this in just a minute. I am. Really.”

He pulled me into him and held me tight, not moving, just pressing me into his hard chest. “We're not actually doing anything. This is just a fantasy. Pure imagination. And in my fantasy, I haven't finished with you. Relax.”

He made me roll back onto the floor on my stomach and started up the slow massage treatment again. This time my arms and legs got to take a turn, and somehow all the rest of our clothes ended up in a pile on the floor.

In a voice drunk with new sensations, I said, “Shouldn't I be taking a turn and doing this to you? It's not fair that I get all the good stuff.”

He stretched out, pressed his body flat on mine and said quietly into my ear, “Whatever it is that we're not doing, we've only just started. Come with me.”

I'd never had treatment like this before. Jon stood up and pulled me to my feet then led me up the stairs. At the top was a big bathroom, cream tiles with black trim, which had connecting doors to two bedrooms.

Jon turned on the shower, adjusted the temperature and gestured for me to come in. The jets of water gushed over both of us. Neither of us touched.

He turned off the water, stepped out of the shower, and dried himself off quickly with a forest-green towel. He handed a dry towel to me and watched as I rubbed it over my body. Then he took a small bottle from the bathroom counter and said, “Come with me, little girl.”

He led me into one of the bedrooms—terra-cotta walls, a sparse Japanese feel to the furnishings—pulled back the jade-green bedding and patted the center of the bed. “Now just lie down here, and let the nice doctor have his evil way with you.” I did as I was told.

He lit three fat scented candles. They smelled of laurel and tangerines. After pouring oil scented with cinnamon and other spices from the bottle, he warmed it in his palms and then rubbed it into my skin. Every part of my body was given close attention.

Except for the war zone between my legs.

If he touched that, it was guaranteed. All hell would break loose.

But Jon was keeping the peace. He went on keeping the peace for the next fifteen minutes. Touching every other part of my body, oiling it, working the joints, fingers, toes.

Then he took a little break and sat for a minute at the edge of the bed.

I reached out and stroked his arm. “Jon?”

He turned. His eyes were like the cougar's.

I said, “I absolutely do not, in any and every way, want you to touch me ever again. Everywhere.”

And then, with his whole, slow, hard body, he had his evil way with me.

Except that it wasn't evil at all.

It was fantastic.

 

I slept until dawn in the embrace of those well-pumped shoulders. When I woke up feeling like another person, then realized where I was and what I'd done, I panicked.

My Inner Sex Police Patrol Woman screamed at me. “Dinah Nichols, do you have no self-control at all? You're in big shit now. You've gone and fallen in lust, no, something more, with your neighbor and he's gay and partnered. What the fuck do you think you're doing? Couldn't you have thought beforehand about how complicated your life was going to get now?”

Obviously not.

And even though I was quite sure that Jon was a thinking person too, thinking had not been on the agenda last night for either of us.

The guilt that had been brewing inside me bubbled up to the surface. Kevin would never find out about this and it would never happen again. I tiptoed downstairs, yanked on my clothes, and snuck out of Jonathan and Kevin's house.

Later that morning, on St. Stephen's Day, it was unusually warm again and the clouds were giving way to blue sunny patches of sky.

I would never be able to look Jon in the eye again. I would need to be out of the house for long periods of time. What if he came around looking for me? What if he knocked on my door? How long could I pretend I wasn't home?

That afternoon, I went for a run under steely gray skies. When I was still half an hour from home, the clouds burst apart and slushy rain pelted down, soaking and freezing me to the bone. I had thought that I could stay out there, away from my place just to avoid Jonathan Ballam. I wanted to. In one night, Jon had taken me apart and put me back together in a way that Ian Trutch hadn't been able to in a whole month.

I would have to stay out of sight.

Come and go at odd times.

Move out of the neighborhood.

I allowed myself the luxury of a small crying session, right out there in the middle of the park. And it's not true what Joey says, that the water level was two inches higher that night.

Monday

My weeping in the sleet storm was a bad idea. I picked up the flu and a bad cold and my Christmas holiday turned into sick leave. Somehow, I couldn't get worked up about the fact that I was using up all my sick days. I was not going to give Ian Trutch the satisfaction of my accidentally dying of the common cold and having the dead peasants insurance pay out. I was going to look after myself.

When I felt well enough to put on a dressing gown, I straggled over to Joey's by way of the balcony and knocked on the French doors. Simon opened them.