THAT SATURDAY AFTERNOON, King, a white stallion, escaped from Ginty’s Stables up on County Road 11. One of the grooms had accidentally left the horse’s stall door open, and it fled into the nature preserve across the roadway, eventually emerging from the woods behind the cul-de-sac on Mundy Lane where the McCarthys, the Contes and the O’Briens lived. The huge horse, its long mane flying off its neck like a flag, and its powerful hindquarters beautifully attuned, pounded down the middle of the street. It was gone in a flash, but not until it trampled over the Chinskys’ lawn, leaving big clods of grass upended. King continued on to other neighborhood streets, galloped back to the stable, and finally sauntered into his stall as if he’d just been out in the pasture grazing lazily.
Because Mundy Lane was a dead end with a wide circle that butted up against the woods, it tended to be a popular spot for street games, and a game of SPUD was underway when the horse came through. A handful of kids from other streets were there to witness it, as well as the Conte boys, Alice O’Brien and the McCarthy twins.
The woods, though only about two square acres, held all the intrigue of an enchanted forest, and when the horse appeared at the edge of the tree line and paused regally, reminiscent of an Apache’s horse on the top of a ridge, it was magical, in a frightening way. The kids scattered, taking refuge behind hedges, some hid over by Mr. Conte’s brand-new Edsel. King’s heavy hooves clopped down hard on the pavement as he thundered past.
After King was gone, the children gathered on the Contes’ lawn and replayed the scene to each other; who saw what when, and how cool it was. But the excitement wasn’t over. Shortly, Felix Spoon and his father wandered up Mundy Lane. Nothing out of the ordinary ever happened on Mundy Lane, and now, two strange events in just a few minutes. The conversation shifted and kids whispered wisecracks to each other about how weird the Spoons were.
“Here comes cootie-bag, caterpillar-eater,” whispered Dale Conte.
Upon seeing Felix, Dawn, who still wore Band-Aids on her elbow and knee from the incident in the playground, jumped up from where she sat cross-legged amidst the other children, and ran across the street to their house. Fawn trailed dutifully behind her.
Mr. Spoon stopped halfway up the street and sat on the curb. He sent his son to continue up the street alone. Fathers didn’t usually sit on curbs. His long legs were bent at the knees, and his hands, clasped between them, made it seem like he was praying.
Felix Spoon stopped in front of the McCarthys’ white house and paused to observe the other children across the way. They stared at him in silence, and he stared back. He made his way up the McCarthys’ driveway and rang the doorbell.
Clarisse McCarthy opened the screen door. Her hair was fresh out of curlers and she wore a flowery shirtwaist dress with a soft leather belt.
“What the heck are you doing here?” she said.
“Can I talk to the twins?” said Felix, looking up at her.
“What? No. Absolutely not,” she said.
“But Sister A. told me to,” said Felix.
“That’s absurd. Sister schmister. You’re a bully.”
“But I’m not,” said the boy, shrugging.
“Yes, you are. And don’t get fresh with me.”
“I’m not being fresh. What did I do to be fresh?” he said, looking around.
Clarisse McCarthy felt her voice rising into a high pitch, and before she knew it, she reached down and slapped the boy in the face. “That’ll teach you to pick on my girls. You’re bad, Felix Spoon. We don’t behave like that here in Hanzloo.”
Felix ran down the driveway, holding his face, while the children watched from across the street. When Luke Spoon saw his son running toward him, he rushed to meet him halfway, and scooped him up in his arms. “What the hell happened?”
“Mrs. McCarthy slapped me in the face,” said Felix.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
With his son in his arms, Luke strode up the street to the McCarthy home, left Felix standing in the driveway, approached the house and rang the bell.
Clarisse’s heart was still racing from the slap. When she saw Luke Spoon at her front door, she tried to keep her cool.
“Hello, Mrs. McCarthy. My name is Luke Spoon. I live on the Post Road,” he said, stretching out his long arm, and pointing down the street. “Pardon the intrusion, but did you actually slap my son?”
“Of course I know who you are, Mr. Spoon, and, look … yes, I did slap your son. But I can explain,” she said. “Please come in.”
Luke Spoon at her own front door—ha ha—what a happy accident. She ran her fingers through her hair. “Forgive the mess around here, Saturdays are always hectic. But please, don’t stand in the hall. Come on in.”
Towering over her like a fun house shadow, Luke Spoon seemed oddly benevolent, considering she’d just slapped his kid. He wasn’t wearing his black-framed glasses, and she saw that he had hazel eyes. Clarisse hoped she could smooth things out with him. She straightened her dress.
“Look, can we start over? I don’t believe we’ve formally met. I’m Clarisse McCarthy, you’ve probably seen me around,” she said, offering her hand.
“No, I really haven’t.” He shook her hand, which Clarisse took as a good sign. She ushered him into the living room where he stood uncomfortably.
“Can I get you a coffee or something?” she said.
“Um, I don’t like coffee.” He looked her in the eye, holding her gaze for a moment. His eyes narrowed. “I find it outrageous that you slapped my boy.”
Apologies did not come easily to Clarisse, but she knew she had to formulate something. “I really didn’t mean to. It’s just, well, did you see the stallion that ran down the block?”
He smiled the slightest bit, and Clarisse wondered if he was finding her charming, and so she let herself get animated in the telling of the story.
“A big white horse came out of the woods and galloped down the lane. Can you imagine? I got confused and nervous when my daughters ran home. They were scared. Between the horse and your son walking up the street.” Here she paused and was more careful with her words. “You understand that the incident in the playground the other day left its mark. But, hey,” she added, raising her hands in surrender. “That’s no excuse. I don’t normally go around slapping children. I don’t know what came over me.” Clarisse was quite sure that he’d forgive her. “Why don’t you come in and sit for a minute?”
“My son is waiting outside.”
Clarisse went to the window and pulled the curtain back. “I’m sure he’s fine, see? He’ll be playing with the others in no time.” The children had resumed their game of SPUD and Dale Conte was throwing a big brown ball in the air.
Luke looked out the window to see his son.
“Please. May I call you Luke? Let me make it up to you. I really am sorry,” she said, gesturing to the couch.
Luke sat down and ran his hand through his hair. “Actually … I’d prefer chocolate milk to coffee. Do you have any? With a shot of scotch.”
“A shot of scotch. In milk? For real?”
“For real. I have an ulcer, so I drink a lot of milk.”
Clarisse worried that Frank, who was at the hardware store in Silverton, would pull into the driveway soon, and not be pleased to discover Luke Spoon drinking whiskey in his living room.
“Okay, sure, let me …” As she turned toward the kitchen, she noticed that the twins were sitting at the top of the staircase, and she clapped her hands in rapid succession. “You girls get your behinds upstairs. I’m having a private conversation with Mr. Spoon.” They scurried away, their hands and knees thundered up the stairs on the way up to their attic room.
Clarisse looked back at Luke and rolled her eyes. “They may be girls, but they’re twins. Double trouble,” she said, as she ducked into the kitchen.
With shaky hands, she poured herself a coffee, though the pot had been sitting there since breakfast. She grabbed the Bosco from the cupboard and squirted chocolate into a glass of milk, stirring it quickly with a long-stemmed spoon, all the time feeling excited, about what she wasn’t sure. Glancing at the kitchen clock, she realized that now it was past two and Frank really could come at any moment.
She worried about the whiskey. Should she have said no? She carried the drinks into the living room and sensed him looking her over as she set the milk and coffee on top of the liquor cabinet. She knelt down to get the bottle of Canadian Club.
“Allow me,” he said. He walked over and took the bottle out of her hand, poured a hefty shot into the milk, and stirred it slowly. The two of them stood closely for a moment, and Clarisse was painfully aware that she had a reddish pimple on her chin. Luke stared at it. “Oh, did you cut yourself … shaving?” He chuckled and swallowed a gulp of his drink.
Was that his idea of a joke, or was he making fun of her? Shaving? The remark seemed way too intimate, but also absurd. What woman shaves her chin?
“I don’t shave,” she said, softly, realizing it was a stupid thing to say. Luke crossed back over to the couch. His green shirt, halfway tucked into his slacks, looked expensive, and she liked his strong, sloping back and graceful gait. There were no men like Luke Spoon in Hanzloo. He was rudely cute, in his New York City way, but there was something else; he moved like an animal. And now that he had his chocolate milk, he seemed to relax.
“So, you were saying something. What was it, about a stallion?” he said, as he sat back down, settling in with his drink. She sat, too, across from him on a slat back chair.
“Yes, there was a stallion … I didn’t actually see it but … but the kids did. It came out of the woods.” She put her cup down on the coffee table and took a risk. “Why are you looking at me like that? You seem bored.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
She laughed, but Luke didn’t.
“Luke, I hope it’s okay that I call you Luke, I’m sorry I slapped your boy. I know I shouldn’t have done it. But obviously you heard about how he pushed my girls down in the playground, and I’m a mother, it’s unbearable to see harm come to my kids. I’m a tiger that way. You know, girls are more delicate than boys,” she said, crossing her legs.
“I understand the way you feel,” said Luke. But he didn’t seem particularly interested in what she was saying and instead glanced around the living room as if he’d never seen furniture before. Clarisse tried to play it cool.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked.
“No,” said Luke.
Clarisse pulled out a cigarette and a book of matches from the pocket of her dress. “I’d offer you one, but I’m afraid I only have the one, my husband doesn’t like me to smoke.”
“What does your husband do, if you don’t mind me asking?” asked Luke.
“He’s an executive with Henkel Paint.”
“Big company,” said Luke. “You’re nicely cared for.”
“Yes, Frank does pretty well for himself.”
“Lucky to have you, I’m sure,” said Luke.
Clarisse crossed her legs the other way and lit her cigarette. Her shoe dropped off her heel and was now dangling from her toes. “And what about you, Luke, what’s your business? I know you’re from New York City, everyone in town knows that,” she said, feeling confident that she was on the verge of securing some very valuable information.
But instead of answering her question, Luke said, “You know, Clarisse, don’t take this the wrong way, but I could swear you’re flirting with me.”
Time stood still as she absorbed what he’d just said. He had balls. She reached over to flick her ashes in the ashtray, but the ashes missed the tray and fell on the coffee table. “Uh … actually, I believe I was talking about my girls.”
Luke smiled, and took another swallow from his drink. “I don’t mind when a pretty woman flirts.”
Clarisse pulled a strand of hair across her mouth, a nervous habit she’d had since childhood, and she felt herself slow down, aware of her nipples against her bra. “I’d hardly say I’m flirting.” She took a deep inhale from her Salem menthol and then hastily snuffed it out.
“Oh, forgive me, then. I guess I’m way off base,” said Luke, but he stood up and, strangely, so did she. He carried his drink across the room until he was a foot in front of her.
“What are you doing?” Clarisse began to shake ever so slightly, desire creeping up in her like mercury in a thermometer. He was a good six inches taller than she was, and he stood looking first into her eyes and then down at the but tons of her dress. She raised her finger to the tiny crucifix on her necklace.
“Clarisse, I get the picture, you’re a sexy woman,” he said.
“Oh, well,” she whispered.
He moved closer to her face, and she could smell the mixture of chocolate and whiskey on his breath. He raised his hand to flip her hair off of her cheek and whispered in her ear. “If you ever touch my son again, I’ll kill you.” And with that he dropped his glass on her flowered rug. Chocolate milk and whiskey flew across the floor, and the glass landed sideways on the rug.
Clarisse had the unlikely thought that they were in a movie together, and she pressed her palm across her hammering heart as he slammed the door on his way out.
WHEN LUKE Spoon emerged from the McCarthy house the sun was bright, and he raised his hand to cover his eyes. He saw his son standing exactly where he’d left him on the driveway, with his hands by his sides. Felix’s thin frame and wide eyes belonged to his mother, but his perpetual melancholy he’d inherited from both his parents.
“Did you tell them I was sorry?” Felix asked.
“Something like that. Mrs. McCarthy is sorry too. So now we’re all sorry.”
“Are the twins sorry?”
“Who knows? Try to forget about them,” said Luke, wearily.
“Okay. The nun will be glad.”
“Good.” Luke Spoon hoisted his boy onto his shoulders, and from across the street the neighborhood kids watched as the two of them walked back down Mundy Lane.
Clarisse McCarthy stood frozen in the dim light of her living room. The humiliation she felt was equal to her desire. It had been forever since she’d felt that kind of hunger.
Replaying the scene with Luke in her mind, she went into the kitchen, filled a bucket with soapy water, and lugged it back to the living room. Luke Spoon’s empty glass lay like an insult in the middle of her rug, and yet it was something that he’d left behind, an offering of some kind. She set it on the coffee table next to her snuffed out cigarette.
On her knees she scrubbed the rug, wondering what it would be like to have his hands all over her body, what his kisses would feel like between her thighs, what pleasure he might unleash in her. But she cursed him at the same time. Didn’t anybody know how sensitive she was? There were limits to what she could take. No one screwed with Clarisse McCarthy; and Mr. I’m-from-New-York-City was going to have to find that out.