Other Plans (15 page)

He lay with his arms behind his head and looked at his feet. They didn't look all that erogenous to him. The sun rested a tentative finger on his big toe. His mother yelled, “Get a move on!” and banged on his door. He snatched his foot out from under the sun's warm touch.

“Thanks a lot, Ma!” he yelled back.

He got out of bed and trudged down the hall. The doors were all closed. Suppose Emma emerged from her room and they collided. He had a feeling she slept in the nude. Either that or in a see-through nightgown with her initials over the nips. The thought revved up his groin. He took a hot shower, changing to cold. Plenty of guys he knew told him the shower was the best place for fantasizing in.

Oh, sorry. Emma stepped daintily into the tub. I didn't know anyone was here. Do you mind if I share?

That's okay. Sure, plenty of room. Here, have my soap. I'm done with it. Temperature all right for you? He tried not to stare. Good manners were important, never more so than in the shower. Emma began to wash her hair. Maybe she'd want him to hang around to soap her back. He stood under the cold shower, daydreaming, exchanging witticisms with her, until goose pimples started creeping up on him.

Stay as long as you like, he said as he exited. No rush. Wrapping a towel around himself, he peeked behind the shower curtain. She was singing with her eyes closed against the spray, neat and trim, her skin taut and rosy. He checked the nips. They were in place, just where they were supposed to be. He was relieved. She was perfect. An older woman, nevertheless perfect.

He'd have to ask Les about her. Find out what she was like, what she was interested in, what kind of guys she went out with. Slept with. He had a feeling she wasn't a virgin. He was pretty sharp about things like that. But she wasn't promiscuous. Choosy was the word for Emma.

She was enchanting. He was enchanted. Not only that, but he was also a prince of a fellow. An enchanted prince and she was the princess who felt the pea lousing up her mattress. There was something about Emma that put mattresses in his mind. And to think they'd only met yesterday. How would it be when he'd known her a week? How long was she staying? He'd never thought to ask.

For the first time in his life he chose what he would wear with care. Clean everything: underwear, socks, chinos, button-down shirt, tie. He went for broke and even parted his hair. His hickey glowed discreetly, somewhat diminished in luster.

Usually, he played at being seedy. Mostly to aggravate his father, who never even appeared in shirt sleeves. When he was dressed, his father stayed dressed. He had his hair trimmed every other week, his shoes polished to a high gloss; his garters were kept busy holding up his socks. If they knew what was good for them.

He, John Hollander, however, in order to offset the ridiculous, to him, anachronism of shirt and tie demanded by his school, went as far as he could to the other extreme. He affected white socks stiff with dirt, so stiff no garters were necessary. A soiled white T-shirt worn in lieu of an undershirt. And, when his father complained about the long hair, he'd hack at it with dull kitchen scissors so that, if another complaint arose, as it surely would, he could truthfully say his hair had just been cut.

Last year, during the February vacation, he'd met a girl on the towline at Butternut. She was a pretty nice girl, a much better skier than he was. They'd gone to the lodge to get warm and high on cocoa and, when he'd pulled off his ski hat, she'd let out a little shriek.

“My gosh!” she'd cried. “What happened to your hair? You look like you have a case of the mange.” So he'd made up a story about how he had to take medication that made his hair fall out and then she'd been embarrassed, thinking he had some terrible disease. They'd finished the cocoa while she told him a long, involved story about her dog, who had the mange, only the vet hadn't diagnosed it until the poor animal was practically bald. He was about to tell her a funny tale about his dog spraining his knee jumping off the newly upholstered couch when a bunch of people the girl knew showed up and they all went to ski the top of the mountain. They told him in supercilious tones that the top of the mountain was the only trail worth talking about at Butternut. They hadn't asked him to come along, which was probably just as well. And he'd been left there, staring into the fire, mange and all.

Emma probably had a line of guys reaching around the block, he figured, waiting to take her out. There was a look about her, a look he'd never run into before, that he found disturbing. The look was trying to tell him something. The way her body moved, her eyes, her shoulders, all of her, spoke to him in a foreign language, one he didn't speak or understand, but one he knew without question he would very much like to become fluent in.

Big hangover, eh, Dad? he thought as he watched his father pick at his half grapefruit, his gray face matching his gray suit. You never learn, do you? I coulda told you to steer clear of that calvados, Dad. That stuff's bad news. If you'd asked me, which you didn't, I coulda told you.

“Girls not up yet?” His father rattled his newspaper and settled in behind it as if it were the Declaration of Independence and he was John Hancock checking it for errors before he signed on the dotted line.

“You know how they are. They'll probably surface in time for lunch,” his mother said. The telephone rang. His father's hand jerked, sending coffee flying. He was surprised. His father almost never made an awkward motion, never spilled things. Boy, he must really be hurting.

He elbowed his mother out of the way, saying, “I'll get it.” His father put down his paper and listened as he said, “Hello.”

“Trouble here,” Keith said. “Big trouble.”

His father stood, clutching his paper to his chest. “Who is it, John?” he asked.

“It's Keith.” His father sat back down and again hid behind the paper.

“She's in the hospital,” Keith said.

“How come?” He was becoming an expert at monosyllabic answers and questions.

“I was baby-sitting next door at the Irvings, and she called and said ‘Come and get me.'” Keith's voice faded as if he were holding the receiver at arm's length. “From next door she called and said ‘Come and get me,' so I knew it was bad. I left the oldest kid in charge and skinned home. Told the kid I'd give him a quarter if he kept the others apart, kept 'em from killing each other. Man, you oughta see those kids go for each other. It's like the battle of Little Bighorn. The kid said he wouldn't do it for less than fifty cents. I couldn't believe it. Anyway,” Keith took a long breath, “when I got here, she was zonked out on the couch. There was an empty pill bottle and an almost empty booze bottle on the floor. So I knew. I called the cops, they came and took her to the emergency room in a squad car. They got her in time.” Keith stopped and he heard the sound of heavy breathing, an obscene caller. “They pumped her out in time,” Keith said.

Whatever he said now counted.

“You did good, kid.” Noncommital, words Keith needed to hear, words that meant nothing to his mother and father, who were listening, he knew. “How about today?”

“I have to sleep. She's still there. I don't know for how long. I don't know what the doc's going to say. I'll set the alarm for noon.” Keith sounded exhausted. “They got her in time. I don't believe the whole thing. The intern told me five more minutes and it would've been curtains.”

“Don't worry about a thing. I'll tell Gleason,” he said and hung up.

“Keith's mother's in the hospital.” If she asked, he'd say the doctor didn't know what was wrong. She didn't ask. “He didn't get much sleep last night. He wants me to tell Gleason he'll be in after noon some time.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” his mother said. “Poor kid, he has a rough time of it, doesn't he?”

Little did she know.

“Why don't you ask him for dinner? I'm taking Mrs. Hobbs to the doctor this morning, but I'll have plenty of time to go to market, maybe bake a cake or something festive. Les would probably like it if I made cheesecake. Whatever we have, it'll be better than Keith going home to an empty place, eating alone.”

“Thanks, Ma.” It was the first time she'd ever suggested he invite Keith for dinner. Usually he had to ask. “Thanks, I will.” On his way out, he checked the windows of Emma's room. He wouldn't have been too surprised to find her leaning out, grinning at him, maybe even waving good-bye. The windows were blank, blinds down. He thought of throwing a couple of small boulders up against the glass to get her attention. Nah. With his luck, he'd break the window and his father'd have him up in small claims court for damages.

“So long!” he hollered to a nonexistent person across the street, hoping he'd wake her and she'd stagger to the window to see what all the ruckus was about. He waited, nothing happened. All right, so she was a heavy sleeper. He skimmed the fence like a decathlon runner and almost wiped out when he hit some ice. Never mind. She would be there, in his house, when he got home. The thought cheered him all day. Even after he'd seen Keith.

“She really did a job.” The shadows under Keith's eyes were like bruises. He'd made it to school in time for lunch, which he ate ravenously, without criticism, not having eaten in some time.

“She must've taken the whole bottle. Washed 'em down with Scotch. She's done it before. I told you, didn't I?” Keith's eyes were puffy and bloodshot. “I don't know what to do, where to go from here. Sooner or later she's going to pull it off. That's what the doctor told me. If they really want to die, they'll manage.”

“Why don't you call your father?” He spoke before he thought. “Maybe he could help.” Keith's face turned dark. He didn't answer. He plunged on, as if this day were like any other. “My mother wants you to come for dinner. Les is home and she brought a friend. She's really something.”

“Your sister isn't all that great,” Keith said, not looking at him.

“I meant the friend, not Les.” He wouldn't allow himself to get sore at Keith now. Keith was like a grizzly woken early from its nap. He had good reason. “She's from Oklahoma. She has these fantastic boots made of red snakeskin. They're custom-made.”

“So?” Keith said.

“What's ‘erogenous zone' mean?” he asked, knowing that would get Keith if nothing else would.

“Why do you want to know?” Keith smiled a strange smile.

“Because she said feet were an erogenous zone and I figured it meant something sexy.”

“Why?”

“The way she said it.”

“How'd she say it?”

“I don't know. Everything she says is sexy.” He wanted to go on and on about Emma, but, for once, discretion prevailed. He decided against overkill. Keith would find out about Emma. All in good time.

“I have to go to the hospital after school. I said I would.”

“You want me to come with you?”

“That's okay. I'll go alone, thanks anyway. But thanks for offering. And tell your mother thanks, I'd like to come for dinner. I've gotta split now.”

“But what's it mean? Do you know?” If it was sexy, Keith would know.

“Hey, man.” Keith smiled. “It's every zone in your bod. It's your teeth, your toenails, your knees. You're loaded with them. You probably have more erogenous zones than most people. Hang on to 'em, kid. Hang on. I have a shitty date with Simons. See you.” Keith took off.

“Do you spell it with one
R
or two?” he shouted, but Keith by then was too far away to hear. On his way home he stopped at the library. The dictionaries were kept in a room off the main room where harried college students on vacation pored over reference books; haggard, earnest, procrastinators all. Procrastination is the thief of time. He'd had to write that one hundred times last year for one of his teachers. Boy, that was
depressing. One hundred times when he could've been doing something constructive. The room was loaded now with hunched figures, writing feverishly. In a couple of years, that might be him. Would be him. He lifted one side of his mouth in a thin, Woody-type smile. Suppose he skipped college, took a year off to find himself. Suppose, when he found himself, he felt like puking. Entirely possible. He winced, thinking of the roars his father would let loose if he suggested finding himself.

Maybe he should run away. He could travel across country, notebook in hand, gaining experience from living. Sort of a Jack Kerouac type, only more lovable. Or he might opt for art school, learn the mechanics of drawing. That way, if he turned out to be a writer manqué, he'd have something to fall back on. Life was full of possibilities.

His hickey. He clapped a hand to his neck, causing heads to snap up. People were looking at him. No one had mentioned his hickey. He'd forgotten it himself. His encounter with young Grace had been for naught. He could've sworn that hickey was a winner. A standout. But here it was, afternoon half gone and the hickey was fading, drooping on the vine. Too much else was going on.

He found the dictionary, thumbed to the
E
's. There was Eros, Greek god of love. Yeah. Right on. One
R
or two? He found it. Erogenous. Sexually sensitive or gratifying. All right.

He stared down at his feet with new respect. If feet had something to do with sex, then everything did. Sex was everywhere.

14

Woody put it another way. “My brain is my second favorite organ,” he'd said in some movie.
Sleeper
? He wasn't sure.

Was the brain an erogenous zone?

It bore some thinking about.

“Keith says thanks, Ma, he'd like to come for dinner. He'll come over after he gets back from the hospital, all right?”

“Fine. Get me the milk, would you, please, John?”

“What're we having?”

“Shepherd's pie and cheesecake.”