Topping From Below (5 page)

Her body was pink from the hot shower, the room steamy and warm. She turned off the water and grabbed a large towel from the rack. As she toweled off, she remembered her shower last week with Michael, how he’d lathered her up, rubbed his hands all over her body, pushing her flesh around as if he were a sculptor, the look in his eyes greedy and determined. Then he’d turned her around and pressed his body into hers, plastered his groin against her buttocks, absorbing her, and she’d felt slender and desirable and graceful in the strong embrace of his powerful arms, and she’d wanted to stay like that forever, her body melded to his, secure in her love, but then he’d doubled her over and spread her buttocks, plunged into her roughly, his penis soapy and slick and hard, moving her as he wanted, telling her to take it even as she was groaning in pain, gripping her then even more firmly, continuing, ordering her to relax. Confused and sore, she’d wondered how she’d got there, bent and wedged between the tiled shower walls, and when he was finished, finally, when he’d wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight, still inside her, when he was kissing the back of her neck, sweetly soft and loving, saying, “Sometimes it’s going to be like that, baby. Sometimes I like it hard, and you’re just going to have to learn to take it”—when he was doing all this, she’d wondered if that was the way love was supposed to be.

She brushed her teeth, put on fresh clothes, and drove to Michael’s house. When he answered the door, he was holding a cordless telephone, talking to someone. He was dressed in corduroy slacks and a burgundy lamb’s wool sweater, and he looked tired, greeting her with a worn-out smile, his dark hair slightly tousled, spilling over the top of his forehead. He waved her in and she followed him into the den, a large, long room with elegantly overstuffed furniture and tall bookcases. A black piano, a five-foot baby grand, was at one end of the room, and a couch and desk at the other. He sat on the couch, continuing with his conversation. Franny shrugged out of her coat and drifted around the room, glancing at the book titles as he spoke on the phone. His desk was next to the bookcases, and mounted on the wall, above a framed picture of his parents, was his father’s sword, a steel cutlass almost three feet long, with a solid brass decorative hilt and a wooden handle, which he’d used in World War II. His father had been in the Navy, Michael had explained, and in 1944 he had captured and boarded a German submarine—the last time the Navy officially used the cutlass. Framed photographs of his relatives, aunts, uncles, grandparents surrounded the sword. Franny was envious of his family history; she’d never known her own grandparents, all of them dead before she was even born.

Michael lay back on the couch, putting his feet up on the cushions. Apparently, he was talking to a friend in San Francisco. They were arranging a time to meet at Fisherman’s Wharf this Friday night. Franny didn’t think he would invite her to go along. She sat at his desk, which was scattered with papers. He taught a musical literature and theory class, and he’d been grading some student essays. She picked up the one on top and read: “Dvo
ák’s
New World
Symphony is a combination of American and Bohemian thematic material. It was written in the musical language indigenous to Bohemia, permeated with the musical temperament characteristic of Dvo
ák, and infused with the spirit of America.” Franny put the paper down. Since they’d been sleeping together, Michael never talked about his students or his work or his music. Whenever she asked, he brushed her off. He, on the other hand, knew everything about her. No longer was he content to let her be silent. He pried intimate details out of her, about her parents and Billy and how they’d died, about Nora, about her one-night stand with some nameless reporter from the Bee. He wanted to know how he kissed her, how he made love to her, what she did for him. He wanted specifics. The nittygritty. But when it came to his life and his relationships, he was closemouthed.

Franny waited for him to finish his call. When he hung up, he stretched his arms and yawned. He put another pillow under his head and looked over at her, considering.

“I’ve had a tiring day,” he said. “Come over here.” It sounded like a command.

Franny stayed at the desk. “Michael, I think we should talk.”

He cocked his head to one side and raised an eyebrow, not saying a word. His level gaze was daunting. She bowed her head, looked at the carpet, and nervously began playing with her hands, rubbing one with the other.

“You don’t tell me anything about yourself,” she said. “I don’t know anything about your work … or your life … or your friends.”

“We’ve been over this, Franny,” he said, his voice firm. “I’m not in the mood to rehash it again.”

She was silent for a minute. Quietly, she said, still looking at the carpet, “I’m not happy with the way things are. We never do anything together. You find time to spend with your other friends—why can’t you spend more time with me? Why don’t you take me to Fisherman’s Wharf?” Slowly, she shook her head. “I don’t know. At times, you seem so distant.”

“Franny, look at me.”

She folded her hands on her lap and raised her head. Michael was watching her, reclining on the couch, his hands clasped behind his head, looking patient, as if she were his student.

“I don’t have a lot of free time, Franny. You knew this about me all along.”

“I thought, eventually, you’d make time for me, that you would change. I—”

He held up his hand, indicating he hadn’t finished. “You knew what I was like when you first met me. I never promised you I would change. It’s unreasonable of you to expect me to act differently just because you want me to.”

Franny looked at the wall above his head. His words sounded so matter-of-fact, so calm, as if he were tolerating her. She didn’t say anything.

“You have a choice, Franny. If you’re unhappy, you can stop seeing me. Is that what you want?”

She looked at him and shook her head. “No,” she said. “That’s not what I want. I wasn’t even thinking of that. I love you.” She looked over at the piano, not really seeing it, just thinking. “I was hoping that maybe, with time, you’d feel the same way.”

Sitting up, he swung his feet to the floor. “Come here, Franny.” His voice was low and patient, and she thought she heard a hint of empathy in it.

She went over to him and he pulled her gently down to her knees between his legs. She rested her head on his knee, feeling defeated, and he stroked her hair, rubbed her shoulder.

“I am fond of you, you know that,” he said, still caressing her, speaking softly in a deep voice as smooth as grosgrain. “I won’t make you any promises, but perhaps one day I will fall in love with you. Will you settle for that?” He lifted her chin up so she had to look at him. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

She nodded, then kissed the palm of his hand. “Yes,” she said. “I can wait. No matter how long it takes,” and she wrapped her arms around him, burying her head in his lap. He continued to hold her, stroking her head, neither of them speaking. In the silence she could hear the clock on the wall ticking, a dog in the distance howling, the rhythmic sound of their breathing. She thought of how wonderful it felt just to be close to Michael, to have him hold her, to feel the warmth of his body, the comforting touch of his hand.

Softly, he asked, “Are you okay now?” and she nodded, pleased with his tenderness.

“Good girl,” he said. He pulled her head up and gave her the barest flicker of a smile. “I’ve had an exhausting day,” he said. “I’m really tense and I need you to relieve me. I want you to give me a good suck.”

Franny stared at him, wondering if she’d heard him correctly. But he was pulling down the zipper of his pants, taking out his penis.

“Michael, can’t we do this later? I’m not—”

“Shhh,” he said, putting his fingers over her mouth. “I really need you to take care of me. Now do as I say,” and he pushed her head into his lap. “Suck me off good, baby,” he said, holding her head down.

Franny did as he asked, tears forming in her eyes.

“Oh, my sweet baby,” he said, sliding down an inch, making himself comfortable. “You’re going to have to do better than that. You’re not getting me very hard.” He brushed the hair back from her face, gently, and said, “I’ll give you five minutes to make me come. If you don’t, then I’ll have to punish you.”

CHAPTER
FOUR

Franny’s days at the clinic passed uneventfully. She had to work late tonight, and by the time she was driving home, around six-thirty, fog was settling in. It wasn’t too bad crossing the causeway, just wispy films of it floating along like gossamer, but as she got close to Davis it turned into a ground-hugging, heavy fog: tule fog. The sharp beam of her headlights dissipated into a gray illumination, dreamlike and hazy, the fog so dense it soundproofed the world. Oleander bushes lining the freeway median materialized a few feet in front of her car, then were swallowed in the dark haze as she drove on.

She got off at the Mace exit, turned left over the overpass, then slowed down and deliberated. She had three choices: McDonald’s, Taco Bell, or Burger King. She went straight and headed for the Burger King, ordered her dinner at the drivethrough, then got back on the street, driving carefully in the tule fog. She turned onto the old frontage road paralleling the railroad tracks, a dreary and forlorn road even without the smothering fog, then turned right on Pole Line and headed out to Driftwood Convalescent Hospital. Franny used to visit Mrs. Deever only on weekends or on her days off, but lately, since she gave up her bike rides, she visited her three or four times a week, stopping by when she got off work, bringing her dinner along.

As soon as Franny opened the door to Driftwood, the faint, underlying ammonia smell of urine hit her, as enveloping as the fog. Driftwood was clean, the floors always scrubbed, but under the disinfectant and cleanser and the fragrant smells of flowers left as gifts were the indelible sour odors of decay, the urine and feces and vomit from dozens of incontinent patients, from soiled bedclothes and adult-sized diapers, sad reminders of what these old people, who could no longer care for themselves, had come to. It was hard to find cheer in a place where most of the patients were left to die.

She walked down the long corridors. Festive Christmas pictures were hung on the walls: Santa Claus and his reindeer, bulbed and tinseled trees, peaceful Nativity scenes. In wheelchairs, old men and women rolled slowly in the hallways, going nowhere in particular. Some of the patients were ambulatory but senile, talking to themselves as they wandered throughout the rooms, setting off alarms with their Wonder-Guard anklets when they crossed the boundaries of the building, like prisoners on the lam.

Franny entered Mrs. Deever’s room, paused just inside the doorway for a moment. The walls were white, with two patients to a room. Beige draperies were pushed back against the walls, but they hung from the ceiling on rails so they could be pulled around each bed, enclosing it for privacy. Mrs. Deever’s roommate was a tiny, gray-haired woman in her eighties who slept most of the day. Rarely was she awake when Franny came to visit, and she was sleeping now, the blue bedspread pulled up to her chin, her slight body a mere ripple under the covers. A urine bag was attached to the side of the bed rail, and the clear tubing from her catheter drained into it, displaying an unhealthy, orangish urine. Neither she nor Mrs. Deever had many visitors, although old get-well cards were taped on the walls by their beds.

Mrs. Deever had been staring out the glass sliding door to the courtyard. It was dark outside, with nothing to see, but still she stared. Her stocky body was slumped down in the bed, and her face was drawn with fatigue. Around her neck she wore a white terry-cloth bib. When she saw Franny, she brightened, widened her heavy-lidded eyes. “Hi, sweetie,” she said. “It’s so good to see you. Crank me up so we can talk better.”

Franny set her purse and bag of food on the counter. She bent down and used the handle at the bottom of the bed to raise it. Mrs. Deever’s dinner, turkey and peas and a fruit compote, was on the bed tray in front of her, uneaten.