The Last of the Wise Lovers (21 page)

   "Does Debbie know?"

   "No," I huffed impatiently,
"and it's not a girl, it's a
guy
."

   "You needn't yell."
 She asked me to get her a bottle of perfume from the dresser, which she
tipped between her thumb and forefinger before daubing behind her ears, above
her cheeks, and under her arms. Then she stood up and smoothed her skirt over
her legs.  She really was beautiful: her legs seemed sculpted in their
dark stockings, her narrow, straight skirt fit her perfectly, her short,
Eisenhower jacket with its wide lapels was elegantly suited to the gray silk
blouse underneath it, and her makeup highlighted her prettiest features - bold,
high cheekbones, a full, sensuous mouth, large eyes.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"
she asked.

   "You look good," I couldn't
resist, "too good to be meeting a girlfriend."

   She chose to hear the first part of
the sentence only, and she smiled in satisfaction.

"You see? You can be nice when you want to
be."

   We went down to the garage.  One
of her suits - perhaps the one she'd wear the next morning - was hanging on the
hook above the back window.  She seemed so calm, so pleased with herself
as she slid in behind the wheel that she seemed to be inviting trouble; and
despite having cancelled her most risky appointment, I was still afraid of all
the terrible things that could happen to her at this rendezvous.  For a
moment I thought of delaying her (I had a sudden urge to get a stomach ache,
like I used to when I was a kid; I even felt my intestines contract), but I
realized I didn't stand a chance.

"When will you be back?" I asked, as if
I didn't know that she wouldn't be back till morning.

   She started to get annoyed.

"Late," she said with all the
pleasantness she could muster, "very late, actually."  She
stroked my cheek.  "Go to sleep when you get home.  When you
wake up in the morning, I'll be there."

   This meant I'd have an endless night
of no-sleep, waiting to hear the familiar sound of her car in the garage.

"I might stay in the city until late,
too," I said, maybe to get her worried.

   "How will you get home?"

   "I'll sleep over at my friend's
house."

   "Where does he live?"

   "Queens," I blurted out.

   She thought a moment, then said - to
my surprise - "Maybe that's a good idea, instead of you riding around on
buses late at night."

   The idea sounded good to me too, so
good that the feeling of being the abandoned little boy began to be replaced by
an overwhelming sensation of adventure.  I had $80 in my pocket, my last
week's wages from the library plus what I had made on the docks.  How much
could a hotel cost?  By the time I sat down in the car I was tingling with
anticipation.  Mom backed out of the garage and used the remote-control to
close the garage door.  I leaned back, glancing at my reflection in the
side view mirror.  That's when I saw the car.

   At first I didn't think anything of
it.  I was busy watching the thin trail of white smoke leaving its exhaust
pipe and wondering why the guy behind the wheel didn't turn off the engine and
get out.  Only a minute later did I realize I was looking at
that
car, the blue Chevrolet.  I wasn't scared; maybe because something much
stronger had mesmerized me: curiosity.  This was the first chance I'd had
to get a good glimpse of the guy who'd sat behind me in the Lincoln Tunnel,
just barely grazed by me on the night of the break-in, followed me in Kennedy
Airport, and  frightened Debbie the
other
night (I couldn't be absolutely sure that hadn't been Dad, but I preferred to
think it had been this guy).  Most importantly, this was the guy who knew
so much about us, while all I knew about him was that he was small, he was
fast, and he had an annoying, wheezing cough.  I adjusted the mirror so as
to catch every detail.  All I could make out were light hair and a round
face.

   Mom drove slowly to the end of the
street.  The Chevrolet pulled out from behind the tree, rolled a little
way after us, then stopped again, without getting too close.

   Mom signaled and started to turn into
the next street.

"Wait a second," I asked.
 "Wait a second."

   She braked.  "What is it
now?"

   "Don't turn around," I said
as softly as I could, "but if you look in the mirror you'll see him."

   "See whom?"

   "That guy, the one from the
Lincoln Tunnel."

   She didn't want to believe me, but
she glanced in the mirror anyway.  "I don't see a soul, just a blue
car...”

   "That's him."

   "It's about time you stopped
this nonsense!" she burst out.  She sounded angry, but she looked
scared to death.  All of a sudden I realized something very important:
 She hadn't been denying reality, as I'd thought; she'd just been ignoring
my anxiety, and she was angry with me for arousing it in her again.

   Once I realized that she was
suspicious
,
that she wasn't completely detached or denying everything but that she was
actually suspicious, I felt a sudden surge of respect for her.  I opened
the door and got out.  She called after me, "What are you
doing?"

   "I forgot something.  I'll
take the bus into the city later."

   "Ronny...” there was real worry
in her voice.  Again she peered in the mirror.  "I don't want to
leave you like this."

   Suddenly life seemed unpredictable,
full of surprises.  I'd worked so hard in the last few days to arouse her
anxiety, but now that I'd finally succeeded, I discovered that her concern was
worse than her calm.

"There's nothing to worry about," I called,
stealing a glance at the Chevrolet (the sun's glare on the windshield made it
impossible for me to see the driver).  "It's not the same car,"
I added confidently.

   She hesitated.

   I pointed to my watch.
 "You haven't got much time left."

   "Are you going back home?"
she asked anxiously.

   "Where else would I be
going?" I waved to her and started walking toward the house.

   After she had gone I stood stock
still, in case the guy in the Chevrolet tried to follow her.  Not that I
had a clue how I'd stop him.  Actually, I wasn't thinking of anything
except the danger that Mom might be in, and the need to prevent it.  A few
raindrops landed on my face.  The guy in the Chevrolet turned on his
windshield wipers, then turned them off again.  Hesitantly, a little
sheepishly, I turned around.  Mom's car was gone, but was she at a safe
distance?  There was still a chance she had stopped at the deli for a
minute, or at the florist's or at her hairdresser's.  The wipers again
swept across the Chevrolet's windshield.  What should I do next?  My
imagination - which everyone had always told me to get rid of - was working
feverishly, vainly trying to generate an idea.  All it could tell me to do
was to start walking.  And that's what I did.  When I'd gone about half
a mile, the Chevrolet moved away from the curb and started following me.

   I walked along the side of the road,
next to the front lawns of the houses so that I could escape if things got
serious.  I wondered whether - and how much - I should fear him.  If
he really was one of Dad's cronies, I figured he wouldn't want to harm me, just
follow me.  But that was a hunch, and I couldn't trust it any more than I
could have trusted any of my other hunches in the last few days.  Suddenly
I thought that this was exactly the type of "event" that I would want
to tell you about.  I stopped by a pay phone and dialed your answering
service.  In mid-dial I started wondering how I was going to explain the
situation to the dry little man on the other end.  I dialed again, this
time directly to your house.  The answering machine answered.  When
it had finished, I left a brief message.  The Chevrolet waited patiently
at a safe distance the whole time.  I put the receiver down and started
walking again.  Again he began to follow me.  I turned down a
different street.  He turned after me.  I felt very powerful.
 He was like my prisoner, attached to me by an invisible cord.
 Immediately afterward I felt exactly the opposite: weak, stupid, afraid.  The
intoxication of adventure and power became the awful feeling that I'd gotten in
over my head.  The empty streets, the light rain, the loneliness - all of
them turned the blue car and the man inside it into something foreign,
unexpected, and threatening.

   I couldn't decide which way to go.
 There were two possibilities: one led to the deli, which was near the
southern entrance to East Neck; the other led down the street where Debbie
lived, near the northern entrance to East Neck.  As I passed her house I
could see her on the front lawn, raking leaves.  From the way she held her
head and stared off into space at some distant point above me I realized she
was going to let me pass without a word.  I'm no good at those kind of
games; and besides, I needed all the help I could get.  I walked up to her
fence and said, "Hi."

   She answered with a sad, dry,
"Hi."

   I stole a glance at the Chevrolet.
 He had positioned himself between two cars, as if to signal that there
was nothing to worry about - he would wait until I was finished.

"Can I come in?" I asked.

   She shrugged her shoulders, and when
I opened the gate she started to walk around the side of the house.  I
walked briskly after her, and when I caught up to her I grabbed her hand.
 She didn't resist.  I was very grateful.  When we got to the
corner of the house I turned around and looked at the car.  When I turned
back around her face was very close to mine.  I kissed her.  At first
she was frozen, but then she thawed as if the other night and the torn letter
on my bed had never been.  That's what's so confusing about Debbie: she's
so simple that sometimes she's absolutely wonderful and sometimes - like if I
need a little understanding and compassion when things get complex - she's
absolutely maddening.  Anyway, just then - I loved her.  It began to
rain again, harder.  We ran to take cover.  Through the bay window of
her house I could see her Dad sitting in front of the television drinking beer.
 Her mother was ironing.  We ducked in under her back porch and sat
on cartons full of empty bottles.

"I'm glad you came," she said, pressing
herself against me.

   I peered around the corner of the
house.  The Chevrolet was still there.  The driver wasn't inside it.
 I glanced around the other side, to their back yard: an old dryer was lying
abandoned in the flower bed, two cars were parked under the pine trees, and
several white, wrought-iron chairs were strewn about; he could have been hiding
behind any one of them.

   Debbie attributed my constant
fidgeting to embarrassment.  

She said, "Look at me, Ronny," gently
cradling my chin in her hand.  "I've been thinking about you, about
what there was between us.  We have to open up more to each other...”
Something flitted behind the dryer, and I froze. She sensed it.  "Is
something wrong?"

   `We've got to get away from here,' I
thought, `to draw the blue Chevy and its driver away before he goes after Mom
or tries to break into the house again.' The thing that had been hiding behind
the dryer jumped up on a chair: a cat.

"Maybe ...” I had an idea, "we should go
on a picnic?"

   "In the rain?"

   "Why not?"

  
She
thought a moment, then said, "That could be nice.  Do you have a
car?"

   I pointed at her parents' cars, which
were parked nearby (and for a moment I was afraid the guy would be hiding in
one of them, only to pop up in the back seat as we were driving along the
river).

   Debbie said, "They'll only let
me take the pick-up."

   "Fine."

   "Where to?"

   I spread my arms open wide,
"Wherever you like."

   Now she was really happy.
 "I know a wonderful place, a little inlet just north of Tarrytown.
 There's a small cafe there with a tiny dance floor...”  Suddenly an
engine turned over, and I jumped up and peered around the corner.  The
Chevrolet was no longer empty.  The guy was sitting in it.  Debbie
hugged me warmly. 

"Your heart is beating so...”

   I suppose I shouldn't have told her
why it was beating so; if I hadn't, we would have gone off to that little inlet
or islet or whatever near Tarrytown, and maybe things would have turned out
differently.  But I was so tense, and her voice sounded so full of that
feminine compassion that always stirs me, that I began.  

"D'you remember that night you thought you
saw someone in our garden?" (Inside I thought: I wish I could be certain
that she'd been imagining things, and that the guy she'd seen
hadn't
been my father.) "Well, that guy - the one you thought was my Dad - is
right over there, sitting in that blue Chevrolet.  I was going to go into
the city with my Mom, but suddenly he showed up in back of us.  I got out
of the car to try and draw him away from Mom and it worked, in fact he followed
me all the way here...” and then I saw her face.

   It was frozen in a mixture of
astonishment, disgust, and fear.  I think "horror" would be the
right word.

She said: "Why do you insist on telling those
stories?"

   "It's still there...” I invited
her to check.

   "Maybe there is a blue Chevrolet
there, and maybe there really is some guy sitting in it, or maybe he's already
gone into one of the houses, but I don't believe that he followed you all the
way here.  Things like that simply do not happen in the real world,"
she slapped her thigh in disgust.  "I don't get this game you're
playing, Ronny.  I really was hoping that things could go back to being
the way they were, before I went on vacation.  When you came up to the
fence just now, I decided to give us another chance - though only yesterday I'd
made up my mind to forget that you even existed; I even talked to my mother
about it - and that's after years of not telling her any of what was going on
with me...”