Making Love (18 page)

“No interfering with the driver.”
 

“Illegal use of hands?”
 

“No, Sonny, no. It's just that I'm not ready.”
 

He closed his eyes and before she reached Thirty-fourth Street he was asleep. The activity on West Ninety-Eighth in front of the park surprised her; the drug and homosexual traffic had reached rush-hour proportions. Pick-ups, quickies, and skin popping were in full swing and it made her nervous. She nudged Sonny, and he stirred.
 

“Hey, where the hell are we?”
 

“Home sweet home. I'm afraid to get out of the car.”
 

He stared through the window.
 

“Oh, this is nothin', you ought to see it weekends.”
 

He helped her out of the car, now in full possession of his senses, or at least acting as if he were. A few stumbles at the door indicated that it could go either way. The hallway of the building had the sour odor of lingering cooking which had nowhere to go. He was on the fourth floor.
 

“We used to be on the ground floor, but we got into this after we was robbed twice. Landlord give in to me ‘cause I slipped him a few hundred under the table.”
 

He fished in his pockets before locating the two keys. She entered a small dimly lit foyer which housed a plastic telephone table, a sack of laundry, and a large collection of
Sports Illustrated
.
 

On the left was a kitchen the size of a sardine can, stocked with dirty dishes and an order from the A&P in a carton waiting to be put away. Sonny with his attention to detail took out a can of Glade air freshener and sprayed as he walked. Sleep, old blankets, and fried salami combined with the Glade to create a unique fetor. Actually the place seemed more like a neglected locker room than an apartment where people lived. A three-way torch lamp in the living room, reaching an intensity of two hundred and fifty watts, revealed a wall of Sonny's memorabilia. Photographs of a lanky teen-ager in a football uniform gave on to more photographs as the running back filled out through college and the pros, tracing the historical development of his triumphs. On an old bureau, doing triple duty as bar, ironing top, and trophy-display vault, were various plaques, small bronze statues of golden warriors about to punt, three bottles of Jack Daniels with old cheese jars serving as glasses, and some jeans waiting to be ironed.
 

“We got two bedrooms. Junior's in here.”
 

He directed her into a cubbyhole where a small boy snored peacefully in spite of the racket coming from the street as bartering reached its peak. Sonny pecked the boy's forehead, eliciting no response, and tiptoed out.
 

“Did you see him?”
 

“He looks like you.”
 

“Without a broken nose,” Sonny quickly noted. “My coloring and build.”
 

Cheese jars were rescued from the bureau, run through water in the kitchen, and Jane sank down on a tweed sofa which she discovered was a pullout bed.
 

“The maid comes once a week. Tomorrow's her day,” he explained. “Is bourbon okay with you?”
 

“I've been drinking it for four hours.”
 

“That's right.” He rubbed his eyes, still a bit fuzzy.
 

“Where do you sleep?”
 

“I got the master bedroom. TVs in there, too. Want to catch the Late Show?”
 

Sonny sat down next to her, tapped his glass forcefully against hers, and gulped his drink down.
 

“Hey, I just remembered I left the camera and film at your place.”
 

“It'll be safe.”
 

“Oh, I know that. Just that I hate to misplace things.”
 

He pulled her up from the sofa, stood awkwardly in the center of the room as if ready to dance, and put his hands on her shoulders.
 

“Jane, why don' we go inside?”
 

“If you want to.”
 

“Don' you?”
 

He took her hand and ushered her into the bedroom. His first action was to switch on the TV. It was a large neat room with a bed, two tables, a Panasonic clock-radio and a functional reading lamp. An Ellery Queen mystery magazine bent at the spine and a bottle of Pepto-Bismol revealed Sonny's penchant for mystery and heartburn. There were also six pillows on the bed and she looked quizzically at them.
 

“That's ‘cause of my deviated septum. I gotta sleep high and I also have a nasal drip.”
 

“Can't you get it operated on?”
 

“Why bother? I'm used to it. As long as I got pillows what do I need operations for? I had my share.” He pulled up a trouser leg, showing her a calf that could proudly be revealed on Muscle Beach and a kneecap with intersecting crisscrossed scars which looked like evidence from a Nazi torture camp. “Water on the knee, floating cartileges, torn ligaments. You name it, I had it. Joe Namath has a picnic compared with me. Don't forget, he don't run. Half the time when I carried I was past my blockers and the reception committee always was there to greet me.” A nylon sock was peeled off and a maroon lump the size of a plum was offered for her inspection. “My last year in Canada, I broke my ankle. That's why football's the number one spectator sport. Better than boxing, ‘cause you got a chance of seeing not one or two but twenty-two guys crippled ... and shit, I love it.”
 

She stooped down and kissed his foot.
 

“Hey, why'd you do that?”
 

“I just felt like it.”
 

He closed the door and set up a chair against it.
 

“Sometimes Junior busts in with a bad dream.”
 

He stared at her, puzzled, confused, and uncertain.
 

She sat down on the bed, then put her feet up and laid her head on the mound of pillows.
 

“Have you got any ambition, Sonny?”
 

“Naturally. Not to be broke.” He laughed with childish amusement.
 

“Seriously, I mean.”
 

“Sure I've got ambition. It ain't running a bar and grill either or a single joint. Hate them hours. Late nights. Smell of beer in my nose ... ambition, well, you wouldn't believe it. Ever since I've been out of football I want one thing...” He looked at the ceiling as though an otherworldly message was about to be projected. “Jane, I want to be a scout.”
 

“A what?”
 

“A scout. Cover high-school and college games and try to spot new talent. Bring a kid along till he's right for the pros. I got an eye for it. I know what natural ability is, and I know how to bring it out.” He sighed with frustration. “A good scout makes twenty, twenty-five grand a year, plus all expenses; then there's bonuses. Oh, Christ, if I could have a team again. Belong to an organization. Go to the lunches at Shor's and Mama Leone's; I'd be the happiest guy on the face of the earth.”
 

“Why can't you become a scout?”
 

“Nobody wants to hire me, that's why. Good reason?”
 

“Have you tried?”
 

“I been shut out everywhere. Can't even get an appointment to see anybody from a front office. I got ideas for varying an offense that nobody ever thought of. I wrote Lombardi a letter when he went over to the Redskins and suggested that he use a single wing and an A formation as well as the T. Could you imagine what the team on defense would do if suddenly outa the blue they had to face a single wing? They never played against one.”
 

“I don't know what you're talking about, but it sounds brilliant.”
 

“Brilliant!” He was in a frenzy of excitement. “I got a million ideas.”
 

“Is it expensive to buy a team?” she asked innocently.
 

“Very easy. Got ten million dollars or thereabouts? Then you gotta find somebody that wants to sell.” He reached for the bottle of bourbon and took a pull. “Buy a team. Listen, you're not on drugs or somethin'?”
 

“I smoke a little pot. Nothing dramatic.”
 

“Kills your wind.”
 

“It never crossed my mind.”
 

“Well, think about it the next time you turn on. One day you'll be running for a bus or a train and you won't make it.”
 

“You're beautiful, Sonny.”
 

“A lot of the kids around have crabs, so watch your step, Jane.”
 

She stretched out her arms and he fell into her embrace. His mouth was sweet from bourbon, and he pressed his tongue inside. He put his hands between her thighs and she gripped it tightly. The danger zone was bald, twitching excitedly, but still not ready for a customer.
 

“Hey, you're not turning me down?” Sonny asked incredulously.
 

“No, of course not. It's just the time of the month,” she replied, falling back on the honorable excuse women had used since Esther. Sonny sat there stunned, waiting for her to call a play.
 

“Jane, I thought—well, you comin' up here—”
 

“I'm in your bed, do I have to say more?”
 

“That's right,” he reassured himself. She touched his hair and put up her face to be kissed. “Great situation. I'm hotter than a firecracker and you're sidelined with an injury.”
 

“Was I supposed to report to you before I came up?” she asked irritably.
 

“No, I guess not. But I'm not—” He faltered awkwardly, his mouth open.
 

“You're not what?”
 

“How can I put it, so it sounds nice?” He ransacked his mind for a delicate phrase but came up with air bubbles. No fault of his, there was no genteel way of putting it. “My ice-cold shower days are over, Jane. Like forget that number. Firstly I hate cold water, big as I am.”
 

“I'm not sold on it, either.”
 

“Now you're talking.” He glared at the lamp. “Too much light in here for you?”
 

“No, I like looking at you.”
 

“We really got a lot in common. Wesley Junior isn't crazy about darkness, either. Let's see, where was I? Right, lights. So you like them, too.” He let his loafers drop off his feet.
 

“Don't you worry about the people under you?”
 

“Couple of business girls. Up all night with pills and johns.” She unbuttoned his shirt. “Welcome to Sherwood Forest. Hey, what're you doing? Lookit, I got a solution, ‘cause this ain't getting us nowhere. Why don't I run downstairs, have a little visit with my neighbors, then we can have coffee or somethin'?”
 

“Is that what you want?” she asked.
 

“Don't be crazy, you know I don'. But ... I got to get my rocks off.”
 

She reached out and touched the small mound building outside his fly.
 

“I don't like to ask personal things. Better when they just happen. Anyone ever tell you, Jane, you got a beautiful body?”
 

“A few people,” she admitted.
 

“It's sensational in fact. Had my eye on you at that cocktail party, but overtures I don't make if I want to work again. Got to be cool. Pour them scotches and dish out those cheese puffs and keep my mind clear of pussy or else I'm dropping trays all over the place. Immediate shit list if that's an occurrence.”
 

She reached over to him and snuggled against his hard tense body.
 

“I feel something for you.”
 

“Me, too,” he said with a chortled breath. “I'm not like cold-blooded that I grab everything that walks. I'm fussy. What're you thinkin', Jane?” he asked, setting his chin on her lap.
 

“You make me feel good.”
 

“Wait'll I start, if this is just openers.”
 

The warm animal next to her gave her a sense of security that she'd missed, she thought, for most of her life. She was touched by his confusion and encouraged by his simplicity. She'd have to remember that the best way to find something was not to look for it. Sonny had happened to her, an event, a fact, recorded immutably in her mind. Well, maybe it was her time to get lucky.
 

“If everything works out and you get yourself set, maybe we can live together,” be suggested.
 

“Let's see.”
 

“God, Jane, you really puzzle me, and I'm not a man it's easy to puzzle.”
 

“I don't want to talk.”
 

“That's what I mean about puzzlin'. Keepin' me off balance.”
 

“Okay, what do you want me to say?”
 

“Well, think about a relationship like more than a one-night stand with me.”
 

“I will.”
 

“Do you mean it?”
 

“Yes, I do.”
 

“Jane, I think you got a lot to say for yourself and maybe someday you'll open up to me.”
 

Devoid of treachery and earnest, he had one of those faces that resist time. She was looking at the same expressions that she'd seen in the photographs a short time ago: the perennial teen-ager, the sweet, big, soft neighborhood boy who'd carry boxes, refuse tips, defend ideals he didn't understand, and of course fail in an adult's world. Another man would have given her a hard time, made a grab for her, and ultimately forced her to yield. She'd inherited her father's reluctance to fight and her mother's inclination to retreat into herself. Defense for the Siddleys had become a vestigial emotion. They ran from what they couldn't sidestep. Sonny believed her, trusted her, accepted the fact that she wanted to go to bed with him but for the intrusion of her period. His eyes remained fixed on her hands, waiting for a clue to her mood.