15

“Of course, Mr. Hollander,” and the doctor’s eyelid twitched rhythmically, “you must feel free to consult another doctor. Get another opinion. Or several, if you like. We believe that second and third opinions, in a case like yours, are a good idea.”

The air in the room was suffocating. “In a case of this sort,” the doctor’s voice seemed to deepen, gain momentum, “it’s best to explore all possibilities, all options. There should be no doubt whatever in your mind as to what the proper procedure should be. As to the proper steps to be taken, that is. I want your complete confidence. It’s important to have that between patient and doctor.”

There was a ringing in his ears. He swallowed hard and shook his head to clear it.

“The X-rays show a mass in the abdomen, Mr. Hollander, as I said. It’s hard to know what we’ll find until we go inside and have a look around.”

He wanted to shout, “You’re talking about my insides, goddam it! You’re not talking about spelunking. What are you, a real estate agent!” He heard Ed say, “They said they’d know more after they take a look inside.” It was like a real estate agent. Go ahead. Feel free to look around, see what’s what. This is your gallbladder, this your pancreas. Nice location. If there’s something you don’t like, why, we’ll just eliminate it, cut to fit. We aim to please.

“As far as the liver goes,” the doctor’s voice was inexorable, “the tests show some damage. We’ll do a biopsy. That’s the usual procedure. But perhaps you have another doctor you’d like to consult. Before we proceed.” The doctor fixed him with a stern glance, waiting for some feedback.

“If the liver is cancerous,” he said. “If my liver is cancerous,” he corrected himself, showing the doctor he was facing reality, “if it’s cancerous, then that’s it. Nothing can be done. Is that correct?”

The doctor’s gaze shifted to a point just over his shoulder. “Usually this is the case, yes, Mr. Hollander.”

“I mean, if the liver is cancerous,” he knew he was saying it again but he couldn’t seem to stop, “there is no hope. Is that about it?” Perspiration slid from his armpits down his sides, where his belt made it captive.

The doctor lowered his head, thinking this over. “That is true,” he said, without inflection. “But we don’t know for sure, we’re not absolutely positive that this is so. The biopsy will tell us more.”

“I understand they do lots of things these days with diet,” he said.

“Diet?”

“I read a magazine piece not long ago telling of wonderful cures for cancer brought about by diet, a change in diet. By eating certain foods in quantity and eliminating others. Some man who had been told he had only a short time to live cured himself by changing his diet drastically. Did it on his own, too. No medical advice was involved.” He liked saying that. “And now,” he sat up very straight and put his hands on the edge of the doctor’s desk, “now that man is hale and hearty. Did it on his own, too, the whole way.”

“Well,” the doctor smiled. “There are lots of quacks around. If you are going to consult another physician, Mr. Hollander, I would suggest a need for haste. Time is important. The sooner we get to the bottom of this, the better.”

“Another?” the bartender asked, swabbing down the bar unnecessarily.

“No,” he said. “No thanks. I shouldn’t. I’ve had enough.” He laughed. “I sound like my wife.” He got down from the stool, patted his pockets to see if he had everything. The bartender smiled tentatively, waiting for him to leave before scooping up his tip.

“I’m a dying man,” he said. “You may not think it to look at me, but I’m a very dying man. Don’t feel bad.” He lifted a hand in admonition. “Don’t say a word. It’s all right. I don’t blame you. I don’t blame anyone. It’s no one’s fault. Good night.”

He went out into a stinging downpour. His body felt weightless, his head enormous, almost touching the stars. His feet seemed huge, black platters skimming the ground. How could there be stars when it was raining? Stranger things have happened. Alcohol had made him strong and brave; at least he felt, momentarily, very strong, very brave. But he knew he was a coward, too.

“No!” His voice rang out, a high, hoarse croak. “No! No! I am not!” He lifted his fist and shook it at the sky. In a dark house on the corner, lights went on, and someone came to a window. A terrible sound was wrenched from deep in his throat, a sound like an animal in a trap.

He was still there a few minutes later when the police caught up with him. The headlights of the squad car picked him out, and the driver said to his partner, “Jeez, he’s in bad shape.”

“I reserve the right to remain silent,” Henry said as he climbed in, giving them his name and address. They drove him home and escorted him to his front door, the cop checking the house number to make sure it was the right place. Lights were on downstairs, the cop noted, and the drunk’s key fitted the lock. The door swung open.

“See!” Henry crowed. “I told you this was my house.”

Over his shoulder the cop saw a woman standing in the shadows. Poor guy, the cop thought. He’s in for it.

“Thank you,” the woman said.

“Good evening, Ceil.” Henry turned and said to the cop, “If you leave your card, I’ll send the money around in the morning.” The cop touched his fingers to his cap and left quickly.

Henry climbed the stairs slowly, stumbling over each one. Ceil walked behind him, thinking she might have to catch him if he fell, wondering if she could manage that. Please God, don’t let him fall. This was bad enough. Leslie and John and Emma were still in front of the TV set; she could hear canned laughter as she closed the bedroom door.

Henry took off his shoes, lifting each one in order to inspect it carefully before he let it drop. Then came his tie, his shirt. She helped him out of his suit, shocked at his color, his sunken eyes. He crawled into bed, closed his eyes, and began to snore. She sat on a chair, heart pounding, listening to his rattly snores, smelling his whiskey breath. If it hadn’t been for the strong odor of Scotch, she might’ve thought he’d had some sort of a stroke. Rage constricted her throat. Where had he been? With whom? And why had he come home in this condition? She would have gone into the guest room, but Emma was there. After a long time she got into bed and slept fitfully, her arms rigid at her sides, careful not to touch him.

In the morning, when she woke, she could hear him in the shower. She lay there, waiting. He emerged, fully dressed, and went directly to the closet to get his overnight bag. Turning, he saw she was awake. He came toward her with a gesture of conciliation.

She was carved of stone.

“I have to go to Dallas today,” he said, going to his bureau, rooting through the drawers.

“Today!” Anger propelled her from the bed. “Where were you last night to get so drunk? How could you do that to me?”

“I didn’t do it to you,” he said. “I did it to myself. I’m sorry, Ceil.”

“Sorry!” Her voice became uncharacteristically shrill. “Sorry isn’t enough. I’m embarrassed for you, Henry. And ashamed. In front of Leslie and her friend. And John. You set a fine example to your children. And humiliated me in the bargain. You could hardly walk.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Don’t keep saying that,” she said, teeth clenched. “I want an explanation. A man doesn’t get falling-down drunk and come home in a police car and say ‘I’m sorry’ and that’s it.”

“Then I have no excuse,” he said, his back to her. He stuffed in socks and a tie. He’d buy some handkerchiefs in town. There were no clean, ironed ones in the drawer. He wouldn’t ask her if she knew where his handkerchiefs were, which he often did. They were usually in a pile in her ironing basket. It as a standing joke between them.

Had he taken off his clothes and paraded naked in front of them all, lined up so tidily in front of the TV? He remembered seeing them when he staggered in. He remembered the rain, the bar, although if his life had depended upon it, he couldn’t have found his way back to it. He remembered the nice cop.

“What the hell are you going to Dallas for?” She almost never swore, considering it beneath her dignity.

“Burrell wants me to go out to speak to some hotel people about a rather advanced design they want, wants me to talk them out of it, if possible. Offer them several alternatives.” He was amazed at his own glibness.

“Oh, then I suppose you’ll see Ann and Ben while you’re there. Play some golf, have a nice little visit, is that it?” Her voice was so thick with sarcasm it didn’t sound like hers.

“I’ll be back tomorrow or the next day.” Tell her the truth, a voice within him said. Tell her now.

No, that’s a terrible idea. Not yet. Not until I know for sure. I won’t put her through that unless I have to.

The idea had come to him in a dream he’d had just before he woke, the time they say most dreams occur. It had been a strange dream in the way it had surged and receded time and again, like the tide. The idea formed so perfectly in his head, despite the amount of alcohol he’d consumed, that he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it immediately, it was so right, so perfect. He would go to see Ben Nilson, his old friend, his doctor. Ben would give him the straight dope. He could believe Ben, trust him as he was unable to either believe or trust the new young doctor. Ben would fix him up, tell him the other man didn’t know what he was talking about. Relief washed over him. When he turned himself over to Ben, his troubles would be over. He longed, at that moment, to hear the sound of Ben’s voice; longed the way a lover longs for the sound of his beloved. He longed to feel Ben’s agile hands, so steady, so soothing, so full of healing. All doctors should have healing hands: big, thick-knuckled, as Ben’s were. This new doctor couldn’t help being young. All he lacked was experience. You can’t hang a man for that. Experience and compassion. Experience comes with time. Compassion does not necessarily. Either you have it or you don’t.

Like sex appeal. Or cancer. Either you have it or you don’t. There were no in-betweens.

“Maybe that’s why you got so drunk,” she suggested. “Because you have to fly to Dallas. You always get nervous when you have to fly, Henry. You know you do. Is that it? You want me to believe that?”

“Ceil, I’ve had a rough week. Please. Everything sort of piled up.”

“Baloney,” she snapped. “That’s baloney, Henry, and you know it.” A thought occurred to her. “Are you seeing another woman, Henry?”

He laughed. He couldn’t help it. He broke into peals of laughter. She burst into tears, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“All right, then!” she shouted. “You’re leaving me, that’s why you got out your suitcase. You’ve got some girl. I should’ve known!” She felt a sliver of pain in her heart muscle. She had trouble breathing. She had never expected anything like this of him.

Get hold of yourself, he told himself. And still couldn’t stop. She went for him, raking her nails along his neck. He held her hands together tightly, still laughing, further infuriating her.

“Stop it!” she cried. “You’re hurting me.”

He let her go. “Oh Ceil, forgive me. It’s nothing like that. I love you. I’ll always love you. You know that.” He tried to take her in his arms, but she would have none of him. She ran from him, stood near the door, hands cradling her face, staring at him. He saw smudges of mascara beneath her eyes and knew she’d gone to sleep without washing her face. Ceil, the most meticulous of women, had gone to bed without washing her face because of him.

“There could never be another woman for me, Ceil. Never. You are my heart. Without you, I am nothing.”

Against her will, she was moved by the tenderness in his voice, and by the expression on his face.

“What is it, then, Henry? Your job?”

“No, Ceil, the job is fine. It’s cumulative, I guess. Things build up, things bother me now that never used to. And I haven’t been feeling well, as you know.”

He felt himself stretched to the limits of his endurance and was fearful that if he didn’t escape now, this minute, he might break down and tell her the truth.

He brushed her forehead with a kiss.

She reared back and demanded, “Why can’t you give me a real kiss? Pretend we’re courting. Pretend you’re trying to get me into bed, that you can hardly wait.”

She grasped his upper arms and shook him and was so inadequate to the task that he surprised himself and laughed at her.

“For Christ’s sake, Henry!” she exploded. “Open up! Why can’t you open up to me, to all of us? We’re your best friends. Let us in, let us know what’s bothering you. Maybe we could help.” Ceil released him, exhausted by her outburst, and stood, quivering, waiting for him to speak.

In his usual quiet voice he said, “I have to go now, Ceil. I’ve got a cab coming at eight.”

He made a gesture toward her.

“All right,” she said coldly, “have it your way.”

Upstairs, in the bathroom, he heard them and felt sort of sorry for his father. When his mother got up a head of steam, watch out. He heard the front door slam and took his time going downstairs.

“Where’s Dad going?” he asked cautiously.

His mother drew a deep breath, composing herself.

“To Dallas,” she managed in an almost ordinary voice. “On business.”

“For how long?” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, getting rid of some excess toothpaste, willing her to look at him. Her eyes skimmed over him, unseeing. She was in a state, he knew.

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” she said, as if his father were a casual acquaintance whose comings and goings she wouldn’t dream of prying into.

He went into the kitchen and she followed. “I didn’t have time to make any oatmeal this morning, John,” she said. “You can have eggs or cornflakes.”

He didn’t want either, but he settled for cornflakes because it seemed easier.

“Don’t forget, John. Today is my day for Mrs. Hobbs, and Les is going to town for lunch. If she isn’t up in ten minutes, I’ll wake her. She was planning to go in with Dad, but obviously that’s out. I’ll run up and get dressed and drive her to the station. And,” she turned on her way out, “Emma’s on her own.”

“Yeah, Ma.” The mere mention of her name provoked ennui. He yawned elaborately. “I might be able to get out of gym early so I could take her on a tour of local spots of historical interest.” His mother must have changed her mind about leaving, because she came back, rolled up her sleeves, and began to scrub the skin off the kitchen sink.

“I scarcely think that’s necessary,” she said in a cold voice. “Emma strikes me as being a young woman who can take care of herself. You better get going. I’ll be home by five-thirty, John, certainly no later than six.”

He kissed her ear good-bye and trudged down the front walk. She went to the window to watch him go, saw him look up at the bedroom windows, saw him break into a run as his bus came into view. He reminded her of a colt set free on a spring morning. Never let them get the upper hand, Henry liked to say. Being a parent, Ceil, is a power struggle. Once they get the upper hand, and they’re in control, you’ve lost it. Lost the whole thing. One of the reasons Henry was so stiff with John, she knew, was his way of dealing with what he thought of as her softness with him, her efforts to keep her children protected from the woes of the world. Her desire to protect them, Henry had told her, was sometimes overwhelming. It was all right to see that they had their shots, to see that they went regularly to the dentist and that their shoes should fit properly. Anything further, he thought, was coddling and cosseting. In the final analysis, protection meant pampering, which he was against.

“I’m not running a popularity contest, Ceil,” he’d said during a recent disagreement they’d had about his treatment of John. “I’m interested in developing his character, not in making myself the best-loved dad on the block. If you don’t expect a great deal from your children, if all you expect is the barest minimum, then that’s what you get. And I’m not willing to settle for the barest minimum.”

She considered she’d been greatly overprotected by her mother and father, probably because she was the only child, and had long ago resolved not to make the same mistake with her children. But she found herself fighting a constant battle with herself not to repeat the errors of her parents. Wrap them in cotton batting, guard them against the germs and evil, against life. It didn’t work.

Already she regretted her behavior of this morning. She knew she’d behaved badly and was sorry for losing her temper and accusing Henry of lying. Henry had never been a liar. Just as he had never been a philanderer, despite that silliness over Emma the other night.

He was a proud man, though. She couldn’t imagine why he’d allowed himself to get into such a state, to be so drunk he could hardly navigate. To be brought home, like some recalcitrant child, by the police. Had he lost his job, or invested all their savings in some bum scheme, lost it all? It didn’t sound like him.

She ached all over. Unwashed, uncombed, she felt like a slattern. She heard someone in the bathroom. Probably Leslie. Hastily she climbed the stairs and went to her room to try to repair the damage the past twelve hours had wreaked on her face as well as on her psyche.

A discarded Ace bandage buried in the general detritus in his desk triggered it. Just as his father’s plan to go to Dallas had sprung, perfect, whole, exactly right, from the dream, so then did John’s modus operandi take shape.

Skillfully, he wrapped the bandage around his knee. He’d had enough knee injuries to know how to fake one convincingly. He limped to the gym, wincing theatrically. The soccer coach saw him coming out of the corner of his eye and thought, what the hell is this, Hollander was okay yesterday. Looking woebegone, he told the coach that the doctor had advised staying off the leg as much as possible. It might be nothing, but to avoid complications—surgery, even, he hinted—stay off it. The coach heard “surgery” and his skin tightened on his face. People liked to sue. Steer clear, Gleason had said, of problems resulting in surgery, due to inadequate care on the coach’s part, the school’s part; he got Gleason’s drift. On the slightest provocation, they used the shit out of you. Gleason had told him to be especially careful with the boys. This careful stuff, the coach privately thought, was keeping him from winning his matches.

“Okay.” The coach turned his back and blew his whistle to show he had other things on his mind. What a crock. The coach let him know by the way he hunched his shoulders and shouted orders at the other players that he thought his story was a crock.

He sped home, heart pounding, unimpeded by the Ace bandage. He let himself into the house. It was empty. He knew an empty house the minute he stepped inside. Emma’s Saab was in the drive, though. He hollered, “Anybody home?” to be sure. No answer. He prowled around some, pretending he was a cat burglar. He checked the pad by the telephone.

In a cramped, felonious-looking hand, someone had written “Back soon. Hang loose.” He smiled, delighted. No big, round Palmer-method stuff from this cookie.

I break my buns so she won’t get lonely, he told himself, and she’s off and running anyway, probably with the milkman, though they hadn’t had a milkman in years. He swung on the refrigerator door, looking for sustenance. All right for you, Emma, he told himself. See if I cut soccer practice again for you. He loosened his tie, turned on the stereo to cheer himself up, and started to dance. Then, thinking he heard someone, he turned off the music, not wanting her to catch him in action. He strained for the sound of approaching footsteps, heard nothing. He went to his room, undressing along the way. By the time he got there, he had the bandage off his knee and was down to his skivvies. He lined up the crease in his gray flannels and hung up his jacket, making his mother proud. He saw his camouflage suit nestling on the closet floor and put it on gratefully. Army surplus, with the voluminous crotch known and loved by all GIs, it was guaranteed in the magazine to be the real thing. A suit made for real men, real danger, real combat. Odd that he thought of this garment as his leisure suit. When he put it on, he thought of himself as invisible. He had never worn it anyplace but here, in his secret room. He had thought of buying one for Keith, who needed camouflage more than most people. Keith could crawl inside and he, too, would be invisible. Keith’s mother and father could shout and argue and OD and chicken out all they felt like and Keith would be out of their reach. Safe. But the price of the suit had gone up, according to the latest ad, and he couldn’t scrape together enough bread. In the summer he planned to mow lawns, clip hedges, guard lives of importunate, exhausted swimmers, counsel campers, teach them how to make first-class lanyards so they’d have something upon which to hang their front door keys. Now, in the dead of winter, his hands were tied.

He settled back, fished under his sofa bed, and came up with Dandelion Wine. He loved Ray Bradbury, loved the idea of the Happiness machine. Had tried, years ago when he was young, to make one in the garage. Another time he’d tried to make dandelion wine—stuff so bitter he could hardly open his jaws to retch.

This time he was sure he heard someone moving around downstairs, or was he? He sat up in order to hear better. If it was a burglar, ripping off his mother’s silver and the stereo, the two most valuable things in the house, then let him. Or her. He wasn’t messing with any armed robber. Even in this camouflage suit.

Once more he fell back and took up his book.

“So this is where you get your jollies, is it?” It was Emma, standing on the threshold, her eyes glinting through the murk. To his dismay, a hoarse cry escaped from him. He leaped to his feet, impeded by his suit’s low-hanging crotch.

“Hi,” he said, super casual. “Come on in.” She already was. Slowly, she approached, her roving eyes taking everything in. With a wide swath, he cleared the bed of its flotsam, shoving everything underneath with his foot. From the way the load resisted the burial, he knew it was getting fairly crowded under there.

“I got home early,” he said lamely.

She smiled, and dimples—which he hadn’t remembered—jumped in her cheeks. Too much, he thought, despairingly. Too much.

“I thought you would,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Where were you? Your car was here but you weren’t. I thought you had a date or something.” He tried not to sound plaintive.

“I do,” she said. “With you.” This left him speechless. “What’re you reading?” She picked up his book and turned a few pages, pretending to read, and he wondered what came next.

“I thought you were a burglar,” he said into the stretched silence.

“And if I had been?” Calmly she lay down, fitting the bed as if it, too, had been custom-made for her. She crossed her ankles, put her arms behind her head. “This is cozy,” she said, her eyes at half-mast. “I can see why you like it here. This is where you hide to get away from things. People. How come you came home so early?”

“I told Les I would,” he said, knowing he sounded like a sanctimonious twit. “She asked me if I’d see that you didn’t get bored.” That was a white lie, one that did no harm. And was therefore justified. And justifiable. He thought of asking if her expected phone call had come and decided not to.

“Oh, I’m almost never bored.” She smiled sleepily, kicked off the yellow clogs, and lay back again, wiggling her toes. He stood at the side of the bed and wondered if he should put the moves on her. She liked him, he could tell she did. She was perfectly relaxed, she even closed her eyes. What would he do if she fell asleep, if his mother came home and found her sleeping in his bed? And eating his porridge?

“I like your suit.” She opened her eyes and looked at him. “It’s adorable. I wouldn’t mind having one like it.”

“It’s army surplus. Maybe a size small would fit you. I’ll check and see if they have a size small.”

“That would be nice,” she said, dreamily.

“They run sorta big,” he said. She laughed and said, “So I see.” Then they both laughed. She patted the mattress and said, “Sit down, why don’t you?” He sat. Her fingers ran up and down his back absentmindedly, as if she were practicing scales on a piano. They touched the skin at the back of his neck and he jumped, but only a little. Then he shivered. If only he had some experience. He didn’t want her to think he was a loser, a nudnik. Which he was. What would Woody do?

With each stroke of her fingers, he sank lower until, finally, he was lying beside her. Emma lifted herself on one elbow and kissed him on the mouth. Like a child kissing another child, her kiss was ingenuous. Prim at first, then authoritative. Dazed, he suspected she might mean business. Otherwise, why had she begun to kiss him with her lips opened, why was she slipping in her tongue. There was no doubt about it, this kiss was distinctly French.

She gave him a series of little nipping kisses on his face and neck. He felt woozy. Spots formed in front of his eyes and he wondered how they got there, two of them on the bed, so fast. He was dazzled by the speed with which he had moved. His head was as light and empty as a gourd. His body felt weird, like a jug into which some strange, combustible liquid had been poured, making everything inside tingle. His nerve ends were all hanging out. His insides were a mass of sensation. It was as if he were a puppet and Emma the puppeteer. The master puppeteer. No matter what he’d read and imagined and heard, none of it bore any resemblance to what was going on now.

She began to unbutton him. Slowly, slowly, she made her way. She had all the time in the world. Her fingers skimmed over his stomach, under his skivvies. All the while she was working on him, she made little chirping noises, like birds on a summer morning before the sky filled with light. Her body settled over him, very slender, very hard.

As hard as his; harder, even. Except for her little pointed breasts that came to rest against him from time to time, only to pull away, tantalizing him beyond belief. She smelled delicious. His breath was short, erratic. His chest was heavy, his eyelids leaden. Desire lodged in his throat like a piece of improperly chewed meat. Desire, newly felt, wasn’t always easy to recognize. Desire wasn’t lust, he thought, it was on a much higher plane than lust. A plane he had always wanted to reach. He watched as Emma shed her jeans and T-shirt. Underneath, she was all skin. Rosy, shattering, pink-and-white skin. She nibbled at his earlobe, which tickled. He tried to sit up and she pushed him back down. Her tongue fiddled around with his ear and entered it. Her hands were as light as a moth as she stroked and caressed him. It was the most exquisite agony he had ever known. She kissed her way from his collarbone to his navel, worked her way around it clockwise, then counterclockwise. Her moist little mouth sucked on his thigh, his kneecap. He felt her moving toward his feet and scrunched up his toes in an effort to make them smaller, smell sweeter.

She hummed as she worked, a queen bee. Her body moved rhythmically, light and drifting, like fog. He entered her. Unbelievably, he entered her.

He opened his mouth to tell her something, then closed it, unable to remember what it was he wanted to say. Words hung on the end of his tongue like shreds of tobacco. He shuddered in ecstasy, willing this to last forever. She continued to caress him, her mouth delicate, sure.

“Yes,” he heard her sigh. “Oh, yes.”

A cataclysm seized him, wrenching, tugging, pulling, sucking at his insides. In a throaty voice she said, “Don’t stop now, damn it.”

The sensation was indescribable. Ineffable. That’s what it was: ineffable.

She held him in a vise. “Keep it going, John,” her voice was husky, her eyes closed. “Don’t leave me behind. It’s not fair. That’s not nice, John. Don’t leave me.” He tried to go on, tried to hang on, but a sensation of falling took over; falling, falling into a deep place.

“Oh, Johnny, yes, that’s nice, yes, that’s lovely. Keep going, John. Keep going!”

He collapsed, like a balloon with the air let out, lay there flat on his back, smiling foolishly at her. “I’ll give you five minutes, kid,” she said briskly. “This time it’s my turn.” She rolled off him, got up, stretched, smiling at him over her shoulder.

“Want to try again?”

He nodded, awash in a sea of satiation.

“I have to go to the loo,” she said. “Be right back.”

He closed his eyes. He had dreamed it all. God knew he’d had plenty of practice, dreaming dreams like that.

“Here I am, love.” Was the five minutes up already? Emma stood by the side of the bed. He tried to look surprised, as if he’d forgotten she was coming back. She burst out laughing.

“You’re so cute.” She reached under the sheet and again her warm little hands went to work.

“Johnny.” She cocked her head and stood with her hands on her hips, smiling, shaking her head. “Take it easy, Johnny. Easy does it. Make it last. Move over.” She snuggled in. “Let’s see how it goes this time.”

Fearless, well-armed, dauntless in love, he plunged in. He lunged and parried and thrust, a true swordsman. Time passed, time stood still. Emma rose to meet him, his willing partner found at last. And he hadn’t even been looking. He felt as if he could go on forever. His pecker was okay, after all. No need for him to write Ann Landers.

“Oh, yes, please, yes, yes, now!” Emma cried out. He didn’t have to be hit over the head. He knew what she meant. It was okay to let go. A good thing. He’d been trembling on the brink for a long time. It was a question of balance, among other things.

The cataclysm came again, this time more prolonged, more cataclysmic. In all the room, nothing moved. He felt as if he’d had a near-death experience, like the guy who almost drowned. Maybe he had died and this was heaven.

“I could do this all night,” Emma said, eyes still closed.

Elated, he made quick plans for a raid on the kitchen, a quick trip to the head, then lock the door.…

From a great distance, he heard a telephone ringing. Emma heard it, too, and bounced off him, her stomach pulling away from his with a slight plop.

Stay! he cried silently. Don’t leave me! Let the bastard ring. But she was gone, as lightly, as unexpectedly as she had arrived. He could hear her talking, laughing.

Laughing! He sat up, clutching his camouflage suit to his chest, a virgin surprised by a unicorn. Presently he heard her returning and lay back in readiness. Through the slits of his eyes he could see her come in, bend to retrieve her clothes. He reached out. Her lips barely touched his forehead, like his mother checking him for fever. He grabbed out at her. His hands came up with air.

She’d be back. Probably she was taking another shower, getting set for him all over again. He smiled to himself. She didn’t need to bother. He liked her as she was. But why was she taking so long? Hadn’t she said she could make it quick if she wanted? It wasn’t nice of her to tease him. Maybe this is what girls did; they gave you a taste of honey and then they closed down the hive until they felt like putting out again.

A fuzzy outline of a gag—a hive pulsing with sex-crazed bees engaged in an orgy—passed fleetingly through his befuddled brain before he was overcome by a paralyzing lassitude. Weakly, he raised his head from the pillow. Did he hear her coming? Was she sneaking up on him, ready to assault him one more time? He certainly hoped so. There were lots of things he wanted to ask her. His head swam with myriad questions that had occurred to him.

He dozed. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help it. When he woke, the room was almost dark. He was very thirsty and he had to go to the bathroom. He studied his face in the mirror and, even to his eye, it was not the face of a great lover. His hair stood in peaks, the ends looked wet, like a dog’s coat when it comes in from the rain. He was as pale as an oyster. He stuck out his tongue to see if it had turned black. Once, years ago, a kid told him you can tell when someone’s done it because their tongue turns black. Like so many bits of miscellaneous information he’d stored in the dim recesses of his brain, this one turned out to be fake.

He went to his mother’s room to look out. Emma was tripping down the front path, hanging onto a mountainous oaf with a thick neck, sixteen and a half, easy. They were talking animatedly and she reached up to pat the oaf’s cheek. Was that Ralph? Or was it the married man? He was helping her into his red Toyota.

He got dressed and went to the telephone to call Keith.

“Hello?”

“Guess what?” He could hear music playing. “I just got laid.” A baby wailed in time to the music.

At the other end, there was a pause. A man’s gruff voice said, “Wish I could say the same.”

He hung up. His head fell into his hands like a ripe coconut. He tottered back to his room and stood looking down at the bed.

He had been had.