Only Son (16 page)

But Terry Harlowe was talking about the washers and dryers in the basement, the storage lockers, and the parking facilities. Amy pretended to listen and eyed the bulge in his sweatpants as he unlocked the door marked 301.

“I just repainted in here a couple of days ago,” he said, opening the door for her.

“Looks wonderful.” Amy dared to touch him on the shoulder for a moment, as if congratulating him on a nice paint job.

The living room was large, vacant, and hot. Sunlight streamed through the open windows. There was an echo as she wandered across the hardwood floor in her high heels. Unlike her other apartment inspections, she wasn't counting electrical outlets or checking the view out the window. She was looking at the young landlord as he closed the front door and stepped toward her. He swept back the sweaty tufts of hair that hung over his forehead. “This eastern exposure means it'll be a lot cooler at night when you get back from work,” he said.

“Yes, it is awfully hot in here, isn't it?” Amy pulled at the V neck of her dress and fluttered the jerseylike material to fan herself. She stepped into the kitchen, careful to avoid a low-hanging light fixture that was meant to hover above a breakfast table. She moved toward the oven and range. It was quiet, and she could hear bees buzzing outside the window screen.

“We've got steam heat here, which is cheaper—” She turned and saw him walk into the light fixture. He hit his head against the copper shade. “Ouch! God, that's the second time I've done that in here—” A hand went up to his forehead. “Hurts like a son of a—”

“You cut yourself,” Amy said. She searched through her purse until she found a clean handkerchief.

“I'll live,” he said sheepishly. Then he lifted his front shirttail and dabbed his forehead. Amy glimpsed his taut, rippled stomach, the trail of hair that grew below his navel. The sweatpants rode low around his trim hips, and she could see his tan line.

She busied herself at the sink, dampening the handkerchief. “You're bleeding,” she said. “Come here. Let's fix that.”

“Yes, nurse.” The sexy grin again, and his green eyes stared into hers. He stood so close, she could feel the warmth of his body, and smell a musky cologne mingled with his sweat. She brushed aside the damp bangs from his forehead, then applied the handkerchief to the tiny cut. Amy tried to keep from trembling. She listened to the bees outside, and a steady drip from the faucet behind her. He wouldn't stop staring or smiling. She wanted him to say something. Amy let one hand slide down to his whisker-stubbled cheek.

His pelvis brushed against her. She glanced down at the bulge in his sweatpants. The material was so flimsy, she could see the mushroom-shaped head of his penis as it stirred. She looked back into his thick-lashed, green eyes.

He gently touched Amy's lips with one finger.

“
Don't
,” she whispered. But she took the finger in her mouth. She nibbled and sucked on it. He rubbed against her, and she felt the hardness of his erection. Amy dropped the handkerchief. He pulled his finger away and replaced it with his mouth. The whiskers were rough, like sandpaper, but his lips against hers were so soft and wet. His tongue probed her mouth.

It had been so long since she'd kissed like this. Amy couldn't believe it was happening to her now. She moved her hands up and down his hot body, so firm and brawny. She tugged at his shirt, pulling it up to his neck. He broke away for a second, then shucked it over his head and tossed it on the floor. Frantically, she kissed the hairy chest and gnawed at his nipples. She'd never done this to Paul.

His hands were under her dress, peeling down her panties. She felt the same finger she'd sucked on—now entering her. Amy quivered at the sensations that were awakened after so many, many months.

She feverishly pulled at the sweatpants until his erection was freed. The brown pubic hair was a shock against the untanned section of his torso. She squeezed his taut, manly buttocks. A moment later, his finger slipped out of her as she fell to her knees. Amy took his swollen penis in her mouth. She listened to him groan with pleasure. His fingers roamed through the tangles of her hair. Finally, he buckled down on the linoleum floor as if his legs had given out. He pulled Amy on top of him and kissed her. “God, you're beautiful,” he said, between kisses.

“No, I'm not,” she replied weakly.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, clawing at her dress until it was up over her waist. The panties imprisoned her thighs. Amy wanted to take them off, but he rolled on top of her. The sweatpants were still bunched around his knees, and their legs remained trapped by clothing. She wanted to be totally naked with him, see every inch of his toned, tanned, muscular body. Yet his erection was gliding up the soft inside of her thigh and he penetrated her.

The linoleum floor somehow felt cool against her buttocks as he rhythmically moved deeper inside her. It was so animal-like and alien. She kissed this stranger, and tightly clung to his broad, sweaty shoulders. His thighs were hard and hairy against her own. He kissed her neck, the beard chaffing the tender skin there. But she liked it. Amy felt herself overpowered by ecstasy, all the pleasure coming alive inside her.

Yet she did not surrender to it entirely. She thought of Paul as this other man rocked and shuddered on top of her. She'd never done this with anyone else but Paul. He was the father of her child, and together they'd suffered his loss. She remembered Paul in college, and the first time they'd made love. She'd broken curfew to spend the night with him in his dingy, little apartment. How she'd loved him then. It had been new and sinful and passionate. She'd never known such happiness.

For a moment, when Terry Harlowe had pulled her to the linoleum floor, she'd almost felt that passion again. But the pleasure was just discomfort and muted pain now. She wanted him to finish. When he did, she kissed his whiskered cheek one last time and gave his shoulders a gentle push. “Oh, that was nice,” she managed to say. “Real nice. I'm—a little squashed here….”

Finally, he rolled off her.

Amy found the handkerchief and wiped her thighs. “I'm going to be late for work,” she said, pulling her panties back on. “See, I'm on my lunch hour. How's your forehead?”

He chuckled. “I don't feel a thing.”

The muscular torso was marred with scratch marks she'd made. Amy picked a piece of hair out of her mouth, then handed him his sport shirt. Unsteadily, she got to her feet. “I hate to run off like this,” she said. “I had a—a wonderful time….”

He stood and pulled up his sweatpants, a baffled smile on his handsome face. “You haven't seen the bedroom yet,” he joked.

Amy's dress was wrinkled and soiled with sweat. She wanted to shower and change. Most of all, she wanted to get out of there. “Sorry,” she said. “My boss has it in for me as it is. I'm going to catch hell. It—was fun. Better put some iodine on that cut.” She hurried to the door, ran down the stairs, and then outside. But she couldn't run away from what had just happened. His semen was still inside her. Suddenly she worried about venereal diseases, or herpes. She felt like damaged goods. It would be another five hours at work before she could take off this dress and stand under the cleansing spray of a hot shower.

She wasn't worrying about Paul finding out. He wouldn't. What disturbed her most was that for a few reckless moments, she'd almost allowed herself to feel happy again.

“The date on this is almost two years old,” the pharmacist said, examining the empty prescription bottle.

Amy had taken out the eleven pills and wrapped them in a Kleenex—now in her purse. The sedatives had probably lost their potency since her doctor had first prescribed them the night Eddie had been taken; but she was saving them as backups—in case a new bottle of eighteen didn't do the trick.

“I only use them when absolutely necessary,” she told the pharmacist. He looked Arabic, and about fifty years old. The ugly, pale blue polyester shirt-jacket made him appear stupid—easy to fool. “Sleeping pills scare me,” she said. “That's why it took me so long to get through the bottle. But I do need them from time to time. If there's any problem, you can call my doctor. The number's there on the bottle.”

The bluff worked. He moved away from the window and reached for a canister of white pills on the shelf behind him.

She'd phoned in sick that morning—after Paul had gone off to work. He never called her at the store, and he wouldn't be home until six. By then, it would be over.

She'd been walking around in a blue stupor for the last two weeks—ever since that sweaty encounter on the kitchen floor with Terry Harlowe. Lately, she'd just start crying without really knowing why. Sometimes, Paul would say something to her, and she wouldn't respond—often on purpose. She practically flaunted her listlessness, waiting for him to notice, perversely wanting him to suspect she'd
done
something. But Paul didn't care enough to worry. He took no notice.

She drove home and went into the bedroom. When they found her, she'd have on clean underwear and a nice dress. Amy spent fifteen minutes in front of the mirror, making up her face. She kept glancing at the bottle full of pills—and the others wrapped in the tissue—on her dressing table. She filled a tumbler with water, forced down three of the old pills, then returned to her mirror to brush her hair. Amy swallowed two more pills. Already she was feeling a bit tired—and bloated from the water. She gagged on the seventh pill, and it lodged in her throat. Refilling the tumbler, she forced down the rest of the old pills. Her mouth was full of their powdery bitter taste.

Amy carried the tumbler and the unopened bottle of pills into the nursery. This is where they'd find her.

Eddie's teddy bear stared back at her with vacant button eyes. He'd loved that thing. He was clutching it in the studio portrait that hung in their bedroom. She should have given away the toy bear last year—along with everything else in this room. What were they saving all this stuff for anyway? They certainly weren't going to have another baby. And the child who had occupied this room had outgrown everything in it. He was two years old now, not a baby anymore. Even if she got him back, those precious months with him were lost forever.

Amy started to empty all the baby clothes from Eddie's dresser drawers, repeatedly reminding herself of their practical uselessness. There was a girl at the store who was pregnant, her first, and she needed baby things. Amy figured she'd give it all to her. She'd pack everything in boxes and label them “For Suzy,” a last generous act. They'd find her in the stripped nursery—everything in boxes. Then they could just put her in a box, too, and be done with it.

The old pills must have lost their potency, because she no longer felt tired. She got some empty boxes and bags from the cellar. As she shoved his toys into a Frederick and Nelson box, Amy didn't stop to examine any of them. She lumped all his clothes together and shoved them in bags, not lingering over any of the cartoon emblems or washed-in, baby food stains. It was as if someone else were packing Eddie's things away, and she stood by, helpless, watching.

Amy unscrewed the mobile of little wooden airplanes and round-faced smiling pilots that dangled over Eddie's crib. She dumped tiny sneakers and saddle shoes in another box. One slipper—with tiny pictures of Mickey Mouse, Goofy, and Pluto decorating it—fell to the floor.

A terrible emptiness swelled in her stomach as she looked down at the little slipper. Amy crumpled to the floor. All the pent-up sorrow came out in dark, inconsolable sobs. She curled up on the floor and wept, cradling the slipper as if it were a precious doll.

She had no idea how long she remained there at the foot of Eddie's crib, but she'd used up all her tears. The carefully applied mascara streaked down her face. She had an awful headache and felt dizzy when she got to her feet. She glanced over at Eddie's changing table and remembered what she'd come in here to do. Had she been stalling with all this packing? She smiled. Didn't matter. In a few minutes, she'd be unconscious—the long, trouble-free sleep. No pain or misery or tears.

Amy wiped her eyes, then opened the bottle of pills. She poured them out on the table, and reached for the tumbler.

Just then, she heard the front door open. “Shit,” she said, under her breath. It couldn't be six already. “Paul, is that you?” she called.

“Yeah…”

Amy quickly opened the top drawer of the changing table and swept the pills and the bottle inside it. Paul came to the doorway just as she closed the drawer. Loosening his tie, he frowned at the boxes and bags she'd filled. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

“What's it look like I'm doing?” Amy replied. She scooped the Mickey Mouse slipper off the floor and tossed it into a box. She resented the interruption to her glorious exit. “I'm giving all this stuff away,” she said. “A friend at work is having her first baby. I'm giving her the crib, the changing table, the whole works.”

“Think you might have discussed this with me first?”

Amy shrugged. “Well, we don't need this stuff. It certainly doesn't look like we'll have another baby—not the way it's been lately. I don't see why you should care. You're the one who wants to put it all behind us.” Amy busied herself closing up the boxes.

“So you're just giving all this away? Ever stop to think that we could get a nice chunk of change if we sold this junk to a secondhand shop?”

Amy glared at him. “No, I didn't, you insensitive, cheap son of a bitch.”

“Hey, if I'm acting like a son of a bitch, it's because work bit the big one today and ten seconds after I come through the door, you start talking in this snotty tone to me.”

Amy smiled. She'd succeeded in making him angry. At least that was something. It had been a while since they'd even had a good fight. “Sorry,” she said. “I've got this doozie of a headache.” She glanced around the nursery—at the cartoon jungle animals on the wallpaper. “Anyway, with a couple of coats of paint, this would make a good study for you, Paul.”

“Maybe, whatever,” he grumbled. “I'm too tired to give a shit right now.”

Amy set a box aside and went to him. “So it was a cruddy day at work, huh?” she asked. Then she kissed Paul on the lips.

“What'd you do that for?” he asked.

“Apology kiss. Can I get you a beer, hon?”

He turned away and started for the kitchen. “I'll get it.”

Amy trailed behind him, rubbing his shoulders. “God, I can feel how tense you are,” she said. “What happened at work?”

“I don't want to talk about it,” he sighed. Paul kept trying to wiggle away from her. “C'mon, cut that out. Okay?” He bent down at the refrigerator to grab his beer.

Amy ran her hands up and down his back. She felt him shudder, and knew his resistance was beginning to wane. “Why don't you take off your shirt and let me give you a rubdown?”

“Amy, I'm hungry. I'd like dinner more than anything else.”

“We'll order pizza. Come to the bedroom first. Lie down and let me rub those aching muscles….”

Laughing nervously, he broke away from her. “God, what's gotten into you?”

In a week, Amy would be alone for another session with Dr. Amberg, and she'd discuss why she suddenly got affectionate with Paul—in the midst of their bickering. “
My timing was lousy
,” she would admit. “
Neither one of us was in a romantic mood. I guess, deep inside, I didn't want it to work out well
.”

Amy took the beer out of his hand, and sipped it. “C'mon. Let me give you a massage. It'll do you a world of good.” She led him to the bedroom, then set the beer aside on his dresser and pulled off his tie. She started to unbutton his shirt.

“This is stupid,” he said weakly. “Cut it out….”

Yet he let her continue. She unbuckled his belt and zipped down his fly. “Relax,” she whispered. “Enjoy life.” Amy slowly peeled off his shirt, then worked her mouth down the center of his hairy chest. Paul shivered again. His body was rather flabby and dilapidated compared to her memory of that stranger she'd been with two weeks before. Still, she ran her tongue over one of Paul's nipples.

He laughed and gently pushed her away. “What are you doing? Christ Almighty…”

“Don't you like it?” she asked. Amy climbed out of her pretty dress, performing a little striptease for him. The underwear she'd chosen to die in was a champagne-tone bra with delicate embroidery and a pair of matching parities; an expensive ensemble and pretty damn sexy, too. At least, she felt sexy in it now. She sauntered toward Paul and lowered one thin bra strap.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Is this that stupid foreplay therapy your shrink recommended?”

Amy kissed his shoulder, then stepped behind him. Her hand slid around to his soft stomach, her fingers inching under the elastic band at the front of his undershorts. “Not quite,” she whispered in his ear. “If I remember correctly, we weren't supposed to go beyond kissing and caressing. Right now, I'd like you to fuck me.”

She enjoyed this role as the seductress, and the use of some dirty words made her feel even sexier. Amy rubbed her breasts against his back. Her hand moved deeper into his shorts, and she fondled his penis. It was flaccid, but grew heavy and firm with her caresses. “Your body's so nice, honey.” She nibbled at his ear. “I've really missed it. Hmmm, you're getting hard….”

“C'mon, Amy, this is stupid,” he said with a nervous laugh. “You're making a fool out of yourself.”

“Let me suck you off,” she whispered.

He tore away from her and laughed again. “Jesus! Listen to you. Do you know how ridiculous you sound?”

“Then I won't talk. I'll do something else with my mouth.” Amy got on her knees in front of him. He looked down at her, and momentarily touched the bra strap that dangled off her shoulder. Amy imagined that the champagne lingerie and her subservient position must have perked his interest—even if he was frowning a bit. She kissed him on the stomach. Then she shucked down his trousers and shorts. But he was flaccid again.

Embarrassed, Paul yanked his shorts back up. “Shit, give me a break,” he snickered. “One minute you're bitching at me and the next you're giving this bad Linda Lovelace impersonation. What are you, nuts?” Laughing again, he zipped up his trousers.

But Amy's hands fumbled over his. “No, don't get dressed, honey,” she pleaded, still on her knees in front of him. “At least let me give you a massage—”

Paul backed away from her. “For God's sake, turn it off, Amy. You're not even good at it.”

She looked up. “I'm not good at what?”

He chuckled. “This asinine sex-goddess act.”

She thought if he laughed at her once more, she'd kill him. How much humiliation could a person take? She was actually down on her knees, begging for him to desire her. Amy reached for her blouse and covered herself. The sexy bra and panties might as well have been some tacky ensemble from Fredericks of Hollywood; she felt worse than naked there on the floor in front of him. He'd made her feel silly and vulgar.

Tears stung her eyes and she glared up at him. “You bastard,” she whispered. “God, I hate you. I hate you so much….”

 

“Hello. Is Connie there, please?”

“This is Connie.”

“Hi, Connie. This is Carl Jorgenson. We met—”

“Who?”

“Carl Jorgenson. You gave me your phone number at the Red Robin about five weeks ago. You waited on me. I was there for lunch…” Carl rolled his eyes, and he tossed the Red Robin matchbook on the kitchen counter. Way back in his pre-Eve days, he'd always dated by the rules—the first being that once he got a woman's phone number, he had better call her within three days or forget it.

Obviously, Connie had forgotten him. “I—I'm kind of tall,” he explained. “With light brown hair. I was there on a Thursday with a coworker from Allstate….”

“Oh, Carl!” she said. “Yeah, I remember you now. Hi. How've you been?”

“Fine, now that we've gotten that out of the way.”

“How come you haven't been by for so long?” she asked.

“Well, I have a little boy, and I usually eat lunch with him at his day-care center. Stuff like that comes with the territory when you're a single parent.”

He figured this revelation would be the kiss of death. He'd tagged Connie as a free spirit who wasn't about to get involved with a widower-father. Just as well. He hadn't been with a woman for so long, the prospect of dating again was scary. But the guys at work had been pressuring him to ask Connie out, and he'd been pressuring himself, too. He was lonely.

Well, fine. So he'll ask her out now, and she'll say “no, thanks.” He could pat himself on the back for trying, and look each of his work buddies in the eye and tell them that Connie wasn't interested. And he'd go on being lonely.

“Anyway,” he said, “I've been brown-bagging it with my son at the day-care center.”

“Oh, that's sweet,” she replied. “Are you divorced?”

“I'm a widower.”

“Is it just you and your son?”

“That's right. Anyway—”