Making Love (43 page)

“Mrs. C. Benjamin Luckmunn,” he said aloud. “Mrs. Charles Luckmunn. Mrs. Charles B. Luckmunn. Mrs. C. B. Luckmunn.” He was so excited that he forgot the olives and had to go back.
 

He tried the door and found it locked.
 

“Jane, it's me.”
 

“Disappear.”
 

“I've got your drink. If you open up, I'll just hand it to you.”
 

The door opened. She'd let her hair down. She looked disturbed, sluttish, and inviting.
 

“If you want to go to sleep now, that's okay with me. But let's have a last drink and the other thing is, you haven't eaten. I've scrapped dinner, but there's some tongue downstairs if you want a bite.”
 

“I'm sorry. I just feel lousy and mean.”
 

“I wouldn't say that.”
 

“I appreciate what you're doing for me. I had to clear out of the city.”
 

“You can stay here as long as you like. There's no time limit.”
 

“Look, I'm in love with somebody.”
 

This he definitely didn't want to hear.
 

“What made you bring that up? I didn't ask, did I?”
 

“I want to tell you. It's over and I'm responsible. I couldn't make it work.”
 

Luckmunn had one hope, the attrition of kindness. He felt mortified and useless, unable to ignore the truth, and nervously gulped down the martini. He wanted to say something. He couldn't even remember being so hurt by another human being and had always considered himself beyond it.
 

“I'm not ready for another affair and your patience might go unrewarded.”
 

“I respect your honesty,” he said with a groan.
 

She poured herself a drink from the pitcher. He extended his glass weakly.
 

“The other thing is I'm not very good at establishing relationships and I can see that you're trying very hard.”
 

“You're a smart little bitch for someone who's only twenty.”
 

“I like you a lot better when you're tough,” she said. “Don't become a victim, Luckmunn.”
 

“Don't worry. I don't get screwed. I do the screwing.”
 

“For your sake, I hope you're right.”
 

He didn't say good night, and slammed the door.
 

Could he have prevented this, or had she caught him just at the right moment? Perhaps it would be best to take his licking like a man and get out now. Furious that he'd been outsmarted, he thought of vengeance. Maybe he should call the police and say that she'd lifted something from the house. He'd picked her up in the city, his neighbor's kid. How should he know she was on acid.
 

“I really need this little tramp,” he told himself, banging the arm of the record player. A persuasive arguer, he lost this one.
 

 

* * * *

 

Her watch had stopped and she had no idea of the time. She crept out of her room and down to the kitchen. She found him there, slicing tongue with an electric knife. Hunger had defeated passion in the footrace.
 

“How about a tongue on white?” he asked. “You can have it
to go,
if you like.”
 

She sat down at the breakfast nook, the bay window behind her. He peeled off about six inches of slices from the small mound he'd erected. “May sound crazy to you, but when I'm nervous or need to relax, I like to slice meat.”
 

“Perfectly normal. I smoke pot for the same reason.”
 

“I tried it. But I'm afraid to breathe the air, let alone inhale that crap.”
 

He placed the sandwich in front of her and sat opposite. She was wearing a flimsy wrapper with nothing on underneath, and he sighed. The only torment he'd ever tolerated of comparable stature was a Hitchcock movie. He got up, brought glasses and a bottle of milk.
 

“I really can't drink. I've got an ulcer. You'd never know it, to look at me, would you?”
 

“No, I don't suppose I would.”
 

He glared angrily at her nipples pushing through the fabric, making covert vows to himself about future retribution.
 

“I don't begin to understand you, Jane. Smart guy like me getting myself trapped like this. It doesn't happen. I've been around, boy, could I tell you some stories. I cut my teeth on airline stewardesses when they were glamorous ... before they became waitresses, so don't tell me....”
 

“You're rambling.”
 

“I've got a right to, if I want to.”
 

“I shouldn't have come,” she said.
 

“I wanted you to. It's my fault.” He got up, slipped a piece of tongue in his mouth, and looked around for something else to cut. “All evening I watched TV by myself. That's not living. I could have filled every room of this house with young ladies. Cost, no object.”
 

“Why didn't you?”
 

“I wish I could answer you. I heard twelve different versions of the weather report tonight. Do you think I have any idea of what it's going to be like tomorrow? Not if my life depended on it ... oh, what the hell ... Jane, you can stay, go, do what you like. I won't bother you. You don't even have to talk to me.”
 

“You're really serious?”
 

“I've been struck by lightning, is that serious? I don't know a goddamn thing about you, except that your last name is Siddley; you're sullen and moody; fifteen years younger than me; a dropout; in love with a bum from the Village; that you live in Gramercy Park in a property I can foreclose on; that the sight of me sickens you; that I met you very recently, a youthful relationship I might say; that I really,
truly,
don't like you but I want to marry you. My mother once said I'd meet up with somebody and get a good kick in the teeth. Congratulations, you've got the honor. If you want another sandwich, help yourself. Take it to bed, who cares? Sleep in crumbs. It's your life. I am total health. Normal. For God's sake, will you please tell me what's wrong with that?”
 

Jane smiled at him and he had a moment of confusion, then weakly returned to the table, distraught, thoroughly shocked. He'd offered his hand in marriage. He could go no further.
 

“Jane, my big edge is I know what I want. And I shopped till I found out.”
 

“Oh, Luckmunn, you miserable bastard, we deserve each other.”
 

This time a retort evaded him. He was stumped, a victim of his ideal incarnate. He despised her, made a clumsy lunge under the plate she was carrying.
 

“Mr. Submarine strikes again. I'm going to kick you in the balls.”
 

“You have, kid.”
 

He stared at the upset tongue sandwich on the red and black linoleum, then stooped to pick up the slices, fearful of roaches.
 

“Children in Asia starving with distended stomachs and this is the way you and your generation treat food.”
 

He munched the spoiled food in penitence. Above him, she was exposed and he felt sorry for her, became lame as he rose, limped ahead of her with the old water on the knee and asthmatic breathing that had kept him out of the service. Mr. Sarah Bernhardt, his mother's pet name for him.
 

“You're the little clerk doing his job and when the partners get through stabbing each other, you suddenly find yourself boss. The Bronx Gatsby.”
 

“And exactly what's wrong with that, Jane?”
 

She decided to stay with Luckmunn, although she didn't care about him, probably never would. She'd reached the account-due stage of her life, and had never been further away from the imaginary locus of home.
 

A time for charity.
 

 

 

 

Envoi: An Exchange of Letters

 

 

Over Christmas, Jane did the Bermuda business with Luckmunn, then moved on to other remote Caribbean spots which were less infested with the college crowd, with whom she'd lost touch. They signed in as Mr. and Mrs. Charles Luckmunn, an unnecessary formality she assured him, since no one cared one way or the other. His personal habits proved to be as fastidious as a surgeon's, and he always came to bed well scrubbed, smelling of lotions which on contact made her skin tingle, a man destined to come out on top in his sexual residency, leading ultimately to smashing references and an impeccable appointment. She marveled at his packing. Somewhere along the line he had acquired the strange skill of folding clothes, so that they emerged ready to wear at a moment's notice. He loathed hotel cleaners, food in the room, swimming without a nose grip, complained if a waiter forgot a coaster with his drink—vices she was prepared to overlook. She made the startling discovery at Dorado Beach, where they'd spent a week of unsurpassed privacy and tranquillity, a discovery, in fact, almost irrelevant: She really liked him. The honey bee of love whimsically danced on different flowers, continuing to evade her, and anyway living with substitutes was less fattening.
 

He'd spend a small fortune to amuse her. Caneel Bay, another of her whims, had no air-conditioning, and they were isolated in a small cottage. He walked along miles of fine blond sand, looking for someone to promote, an investor in the making. Privacy. Give him skiing any day. He had the clothes for it.
 

He found it necessary to escape from the room, when beneficent easterlies died on their veranda, to roam about, peering at the sea for a boat.
 

“At these prices, they can't afford a Carrier? A reconditioned Welbuilt?”
 

She stalked before him nude. Always nude, disconcerting him. He didn't like to take his meals in these circumstances. Having finished her, he didn't want to be reminded, requiring lamb chops with gloves, so he wouldn't get his fingers sticky. He picked his teeth with dental floss, flicking bits on the rail. She found it disgusting, a necessity for him. Over the chocolate mousse, glaring at the stars, he studied her outline. Her pussy. He had expected a Kinney parking lot. How did it get so tight? Certainly not from her diet, which consisted of tuna-fish salad on rye toast and
escargot
wherever she could get it, making her breath indescribable. He'd purchased a small drugstore inventory of women's hygiene products without her asking. None of it used, for she had no vaginal odor. They'd traveled to too many places for him to be eligible for rebates or credits. All day she sucked limes, mooned, ignored him. Recondite chemical processes were at work which he didn't understand.
 

They argued frequently. He called her Frances behind her back, a spiteful gesture which, when she heard the name, never succeeded in inciting her.
 

Moonlight, the veranda inspired her.
 

“Come on, let's go swimming bare-ass,” she suggested.
 

“We did that for the last four nights. I wouldn't mind TV, if this joint had one, or the floor show at the Sahara.”
 

“I'm only trying to get you to stop picking your teeth.”
 

“Listen, Jane, when we get back to New York I'll go to the dentist for a haircut.”
 

“Very funny.”
 

“It gets you there, so let's not quibble.”
 

“You're a shit, you really are,” she said, more alone than ever, and kissing his neck, for he was generous with affection.
 

“Jane, give me insight, not facts. I've got the
Wall Street Journal
for that.”
 

“I may need analysis.”
 

“Foolish I may be, stupid I'm not. No analysis. We've all got boils on the ass.”
 

“I'll do it on
my
money,” she protested.
 

“It's locked,” he said quietly. “You've only got a clothes allowance.”
 

She pressed against his face. Needle pricks on his cheek. After dessert he considered such activity infamous, thought he saw the flickering light of a ship at sea waving a friendly hello. That box, he loved it, had done a Mercator projection of it with his tongue, every square inch of it. Prince Henry could teach a course for apprentice navigators on it. He'd charted it for him, he thought disgruntledly. He pinched the back of her neck, forcing her to bend.
 

“Don't,” she said, spinning away.
 

“Look, Jane, put it in your mouth ... once.”
 

“Maybe I don't like where it's been.”
 

He examined himself hurriedly.
 

“I'm not a seaman or something.”
 

“Don't force me.”
 

“That'll be the day.”
 

He turned his head to the brightly lit star-filled sky. Another roaster tomorrow, and he was the color of toast.
 

“It's protein,” he claimed. “And God knows, you could use some of that.” She sat down at the table, a defiant child, her backside cradling his dessert. “Becomes amino acid in the stomach”—he had a heavy investment in a drug company. “What's the matter, have I pronounced it wrong? I read it in an analysis report the other day from my broker.”
 

He slipped his fingers between her thighs and listened to her groan, the extent of her relationship with Luckmunn and nature.