The Dark End of the Street: New Stories of Sex and Crime by Today's Top Authors (26 page)

“Let's go inside,” says Andrea. “I want to show you the house. Just leave everything here.”

Ben plants himself behind the knotty pine bar, shakes a packet of whiskey sour mix into the blender, adds the liquor, flips the switch, runs it longer than necessary so he doesn't have to chat with Jerry while the girls are upstairs.

“I considered the Cape Cod, like yours,” Andrea is saying to Evelyn as they come into the den, “but I like the idea of going from level to level.”

“We've got levels,” says Jerry.

“But not the
split
-level,” says Evelyn.

“It was the most expensive of the three models,” says Ben, “but that's what Andrea wanted, and what Andrea wants, Andrea gets.”

“Evelyn's an artist,” says Andrea. “And she's doing a painting of me.”

“It's just a beginning,” says Evelyn.

“But I'm going to keep posing,” says Andrea.

“When did this happen?” Ben asks.

“This morning,” says Andrea.

“Evelyn's a regular da Vinci,” says Jerry, his meaty hand squeezing Evelyn's thigh. “How come you never painted me, Ev?”

“Because you never asked,” says Evelyn.

“Where's your kid?” Jerry asks.

“Sleepaway camp,” says Andrea. “For six weeks.”

“Isn't he young to go away for so long?” Evelyn asks.

“He's seven,” says Andrea. “Same age when I first went. Everyone I know went to camp.”

“Really?” says Evelyn. “Not me. Did you go to camp, Ben?”

“Ben's parents couldn't afford to send him,” says Andrea.

“We were destitute,” says Ben.

“Really?” Evelyn asks.

“No,” says Ben.

“Oh, it's Elvis,” says Andrea, turning up the volume on the radio. “Dance with me, Ben.”

“In this heat?”

“I'll dance with you,” says Evelyn. She kicks off her sandals, twirls Andrea around while she swivels her hips, bare feet disappearing into deep pile carpet.

“We could be on
Bandstand
,” says Andrea, laughing.

Jerry rolls his beer bottle across his forehead. “You have an attic fan you can turn on?”

“It's on,” says Ben.

“I'm dizzy,” says Andrea.

“Sit down,” says Evelyn. “It's the heat.”

Andrea flops onto the love seat. “The room is spinning.”

“Get some ice for her forehead,” says Evelyn.

“I'm fine,” says Andrea.

“You look pale,” says Ben. “Why don't you go to bed. I'll clean up.”

“I'll help,” says Evelyn.

“Oh, I couldn't,” says Andrea.

“Don't be silly,” says Evelyn. “It's my pleasure.”

Outside, the chirping of crickets adds an electric buzz to the still air.

Ben scrapes plates. “What do you think you're doing?” he asks.

“Helping you clean up,” says Evelyn.

“You know what I mean. What are you doing
here
?”

“She asked. What was I supposed to say?”

“How about
no
?
”
Ben drops a dish; it clatters onto the slate patio but doesn't break. “Melmac,” he says. “And you're
painting
her?”

“It just happened.” Evelyn collects empty glasses and beer bottles. “You never told me you were from Brooklyn.”

“You never told me you were from
Slum
-erville.”

“Fuck you,” says Evelyn, tossing the container of ambrosia into a trash bag.

Ben pulls her to him. “I've had a hard-on for you all night.”

“Cut it out,” says Evelyn. “She could see us.”

Ben tugs her toward the house, gets her against the brick wall, unzips, presses into her. “I can't wait till Wednesday.”

“Then go fuck your wife!” Evelyn dashes toward the fence, disappears. A minute later the light in her kitchen goes on. She stands in the window, opens her blouse, unhooks her bra.

Ben grips his cock; a few strokes and it's over.

The light goes out.

“You're still awake.”

“My head is pounding,” says Andrea.

“Too much booze—and that cigar. What was that about?”

“I felt like trying one.”

“It looked ridiculous.”

“Even when Evelyn smoked one?”

Ben takes off his shirt, squashes it into the hamper.

“You should do some exercise,” says Andrea.

“Like what?” Ben pats his belly.

“Something other than
bowling.
”

“I like bowling.”

“I know,” says Andrea. “How about tennis?”

“Oh, sure. I'll play at the Brookville Country Club where they don't allow Jews.” Ben turns around to take off his pants, worried he's still hard. He tugs on pajama bottoms. “Let's not make that a habit, okay, having them over.”

“Did you think Jerry's comment was anti-Semitic?

“You mean about the
Jew
deli?” Ben gets into bed, aims the Lazy Bones remote at the TV. “We should have bought in Plainview or Hewlett.”

“Daddy said Jericho was a better value.”

“You like being the only Jews in the neighborhood?”

“Evelyn seems nice.”

Ben stares at the television.

“Do we have to have that on?” Andrea asks.

“I thought you liked
Gunsmoke
,” he says.

“It's
your
favorite, not mine, and it's a rerun. I saw it on Wednesday, when you were out,
bowling
.”

Ben switches the station,
The Tonight Show,
Jack Paar making small talk with Zsa Zsa Gabor.

“Do you think I should cut my hair?”

“No.”

“You didn't like Evelyn's hair?”

“No.”

“Do you love me, Ben?”

“What a thing to ask. Of course.” He leans over, kisses her forehead.

“I never had anyone paint me before. It's exciting.”

“I think it's stupid.” Ben presses the remote, but nothing happens. He shakes it, violently.

“You're going to break that and Daddy just bought it.”

Ben shakes it again.

“Why is it stupid?”

“Wasting your day posing for a painting isn't stupid?”

“I thought you liked art?”

“When did I say that?”

“When we met. When you wanted to be an architect.”

“I don't remember,” says Ben.

“If the painting turns out well will you buy it for me?”

“Has Evelyn
asked
you to buy it?”

“Of course not. But if I like it I'm going to, and if you don't buy it for me Daddy will.”

Wednesday

Ben leaves his bowling team before the last game. A headache, he says, the excuse Evelyn recommended when she called him at AndiAnn suggesting they meet earlier, that she couldn't wait to see him.

It takes him ten minutes to drive his turquoise-and-white Ford Fairlane from Bowl-o-Rama to the Howard Johnson on Jericho Turnpike, the whole time picturing Evelyn showing off her tits in her kitchen window.

The motel is separate from the restaurant, a one-story strip of rooms that Ben knows well. Before Evelyn there was Babs, who worked at Bowl-o-Rama, fresh out of Holy Family High School over in Carle Place. He parks the Fairlane near the trash bins so it's half hidden.

The room is dark but he can smell her perfume, Ambush, and just make her out sitting on a chair against the back wall, smoking a Cigarillo. He starts to unzip his pants before he even says hello.

“Wait,” she says.

“What's wrong?”

“We have to talk.”

“Why?”

“I've been painting Andrea for days,” she says in a hoarse whisper. “And I'm getting to know her.”

“Yeah,” says Ben. “It's all she talks about—
Evelyn this, Evelyn that.
I think she's got a crush on you!”

“She's sweet.”

“Sweet, my ass! She's a spoiled brat! Daddy's little girl.”

“Is that so bad?”

“If you're married to her, yeah.”

“So why don't you divorce her?”

“Because she's my meal ticket, remember? And I don't want to lose my kid. I thought I was clear, that you understood. Hey, I didn't come here to talk about Andrea.” Ben kicks off his loafers, takes a step forward.

“Wait.”

“Now what?”

“Take off your shirt,” she whispers. “And your pants.”

“Now you're talking.” Ben laughs, strips. He's already hard.

She switches on the lamp, her face cast in harsh light, brows penciled black, lips dark red.

“Jesus—” he says. “What the—”

“Good imitation, huh? The voice, the accent. I nailed it, just like Jerry said.”

“How—”

“You didn't think I knew? Please, I've known for years.”

“It's only been a month.”

“I'm talking about
all
of them, all the women. The smell of them on you. Do you think I couldn't tell? Do you really think I'm allergic to perfume? I gave it up so I could smell
theirs
—so I could smell
them
!” She crushes the Cigarillo into an ashtray, stands, cocks her hip.

Ben tries to think what to say, what's expected of him. “I'll end it.”

“No,
I
will.”

“Where the hell did you get
that
?”

“I asked Evelyn to show me Jerry's guns this morning—after I finished posing—and I took it when she wasn't looking.”

“And what—you're going to
kill
me?” Ben forces a laugh.

“No,
Evelyn
is. I made sure the motel clerk got a good look at me, at
Evelyn
—from a distance of course—and I'm sure he recognized me—
Evelyn
, that is.” Andrea tugs off the short black wig. “Though I hate to do this to Evelyn. I really think we could have been friends.”

“This is crazy, Andrea. I love you.”

“I thought I was your
meal ticket
?”

“I was kidding. I knew it was you.”

“Is that why you said I was a spoiled brat?”

“I'll make it up to you.”

Andrea steadies the gun with both hands.

“What is it you want, a divorce?”

“I discussed that with Daddy and he said no.”

“You discussed this with your father?”

“Of course.”

“And what did
Daddy
say?”

“That your AndiAnn life insurance policy is a million dollars.”

“Come on, Andrea. This isn't you.”

“You're right. I'm
Evelyn.”
Andrea switches the television on, flips the dial. “Oh, look, your favorite show,
Gunsmoke
.”

“Evelyn is going to be here any minute.”

“Of course she is,” says Andrea. “Just after I shoot you. I'll leave the gun behind for her.”

“And what makes you think she'll pick it up?”

“Oh, Ben, she doesn't have to. Evelyn's prints are already on it. I made sure she held the gun, and my gloves won't leave any prints.”

“There's no way you'll get away with this, Andrea. Evelyn will deny it.”

“Of course she will. But isn't that always the way? A lovers' quarrel, that's how I see it. She thought she was the only one, then found out about all your other women.”

“And what about you?”

“Me? Oh, Daddy will say I was in Forest Hills with him all night.” Andrea turns up the volume on the television, Marshall Dillon and his posse on horseback firing their rifles at escaping outlaws.

“Andrea, please—” Ben shouts over the blare of the television. “We can talk about this. I'll change, I'll—”