Case of Lucy Bending (39 page)

"Mmm," she said. "You may be right."

He rose to empty the bottle of champagne into her glass. He was on his way to the kitchen to get the second bottle when they heard the sudden honking of horns, a tooting of boat whistles. A string of firecrackers popped somewhere outside. They turned to look at each other.

"It's midnight," she said. "Happy New Year, Ted."

Still clasping the empty bottle, he strode to her. She rose from her chair to embrace him.

"Happy New Year, dear," he said. "Marry me?"

"No," she said, "but I would like to fuck."

They took the new bottle into the bedroom. The wine wasn't cold enough, so they poured it over ice cubes; they didn't care.

They undressed slowly, jabbering about what they might do on New Year's Day: a picnic, a drive to the Keys, or just a lazy, domestic day with the Sunday papers, nibbling on all those leftover appetizers.

Their lovemaking always started with theatre: simulated protests and cries of affright from both. What a couple! He so plump and hairy, she so spare and freckled. Their disparity amused them both. They really couldn't take themselves together seriously. But there they were. They shared raunchy laughter.

"Do you know," she said, "I've never told anyone but my analyst this, but one of the reasons, the
real
reason, I wanted to be a psychiatrist was because I was so sexually frustrated and inexperienced. I wanted to know all about it, and I thought that by listening to sex fiends confess, I could pick up some good tips."

"And did you?" he asked.

"Oh yes. How to masturbate while burning down a warehouse. How to pack a woman's vagina with Hershey Kisses."

"You remove the foil first?"

"It's better that way," she said solemnly, and they groaned and hugged.

In bed, her cold, precise, masterful manner dissolved, and she flung her bony, awkward body about like a wanton. The pale, shiny skin became feverish, hard breasts melted. She just opened up.

"I become a puddle," she once admitted.

He liked to watch her during orgasm. Something wonderful and frightening happened. Her flesh seemed to become translucent, a skeleton shone through. He imagined she became an essence, teeth bared, eyes glittering. She spoke in tongues. He thought it was almost a religious excitation.

Afterward, she had another glass of champagne and announced grumpily that she wished to sleep awhile. He turned obediently onto his side, and she clove to his back, fitting like a spoon. Her free hand held his testicles in long, cool, splintery fingers.

After a while he heard her breathing steady and deepen, and knew she slept. But he was awake, thinking back on the case of Lucy B., testing his hypothesis, pondering what he might do to prove it out.

Perhaps it was all that rich food, all that good wine, but postcoital depression engulfed him. He felt like weeping for himself, for Mary Scotsby, and especially for little Lucy B., that poor, wild child.

So all of us, he thought dumbly, creatures of chance and accident, victims of fears we cannot name, driven by needs we cannot understand, go running and falling through life, crying with pain and hooting with laughter. We are all children of the dark, making up the stories of our lives.

PARTY

Early in January, there was a week when clouds dissolved, the sky seemed chiseled, and the sun was a perfect round sliced from lemon paper and stuck up there. It looked like a Matisse cutout, Turk Bending said.

The air was so pure and lucid that Lighthouse Point never shimmered, and hovering gulls were painted on the blue. The days were warm enough for beaching, and people spoke of "one-blanket nights." Everyone knew it wouldn't last, but it was glorious while it did.

There were some small Portuguese men-o'-war on the sand, and a lot of tar gobbets. But swimmers went in anyway, the skin divers, too, and, when a swell was running, the surfers. The Goodyear blimp was up almost every day, yawing against the wind.

The new year brought a new sport: "baling." Drug-running "mother ships" came up that stretch of coast from Central America. At a designated drop-off point (or when pursued by the Coast Guard), they threw overboard their waterproofed bales of contraband.

Most of the marijuana was picked up by drug-runners in power boats, coming out from Florida inlets. But some of the bales were missed and came bobbing in on the tide. Hence "baling." Kids went out in Hobie Cats and small outboards, armed with boathooks, eager for salvage. Sometimes they succeeded.

During that week when the weather was exactly as advertised in travel brochures, Teresa Empt and Edward Holloway had only a single tryst in the gazebo. This was not due to lack of interest on his part, but Teresa was cruising.

She had discovered a whole new world in south Florida, a world of wealthy, mature women and impecunious and virile young men. Some of the latter worked as lifeguards, dance instructors, hairdressers, or bartenders. But many were simply beach bums, waiting for the next patroness to appear.

Teresa had her hard eye on a bagboy at a local supermarket. He was about five years older than Eddie Holloway but had many of the same physical attributes: long, golden hair, soft, bronzed skin, a tall and willowy body. But he had more presence and wit than Eddie.

The bagboy's name was Mike. He frequently helped Teresa out to the parking lot with her shopping cart. He accepted her generous tips with gratitude, a brilliant smile (like sugar cubes, those teeth), and a fervent wish that she might have a nice day. She was certain there was something doing there.

But she was not yet ready to make her move. So she agreed to meet Eddie in the gazebo, though his greed was becoming increasingly overt. They met, as usual, shortly after 9:00
P.M.,
both of them still unaware of the silent watcher.

Eddie lost no time in making his pitch. He said that Tony Sanchez had several potential buyers for the Hobie Cat. He figured Tony might take eight hundred cash if the deal could be closed immediately.

"And baling!" Eddie said enthusiastically. "If I had that oF cat right now, I could go baling. I know a guy, he picked up fifty pounds of the stuff last week. He's making a fortune peddling it all over school."

"Uh-huh," Teresa Empt said.

"Look," Eddie said, hurt, "I'm not trying to con you. If you're not interested, just tell me. I'll find the money somewhere else."

"Of course I'm interested," she said, stroking his cheek tenderly. "I want you to be happy, Eddie. You know that."

"Well, yeah, sure," he said grudgingly. "But, boy, sometimes you sure don't act like it. I mean, the money's not all that important to you—is it?"

"Money is always important," she said, laughing lightly. "You don't just throw it away. You try to make a wise investment."

"Well, this would be. You said you loved me. I mean, I heard you say it—right? So eight hundred doesn't seem such a big deal to me if you really love me."

"Oh Eddie," she said softly, "there are so many kinds of love."

She was wearing a wraparound skirt, nothing underneath, and she wanted him to play with her. She took his hand and placed it in position.

⁴⁴
You be nice to me," she said, giggling, "and I'll be nice

to you."

He wasn't entirely happy with that vague bargain, she could tell, but he wasn't ready to climb to his feet and stalk indignantly away.

⁴⁴
You know," she said thoughtfully, "I met a woman the other day who's had several lovers. She claims she says to all of them: 'Get it up or get out.' Isn't that funny, Eddie?"

"Yeah," he said mournfully, "funny." And he redoubled his efforts.

After a while, when they were both naked from the waist down, she became curious at just how far his avarice would take him. So she gave him orders and found that it took him very far indeed.

Do this, Eddie, she told him, or do that. And, after an initial hesitation, he complied. This complete sexual mastery was a new experience. Part of her could observe the process objectively, intrigued, and part was excited and went winging. Do this, Eddie. Do that.

Eventually, she admitted, it was not totally satisfying. She really did not want to suggest or command. She longed for a demon lover who might play her cello-shaped body like a maestro.

Meanwhile, she drove Eddie Holloway through his paces, deriving a distant, once-removed pleasure, but not really involved. So when she threaded him into her, and lurched to meet his frantic humping, she thought fondly of Mike, the bagboy, and was reasonably content.

After, when they were lying side by side, temporarily slaked, they lighted a joint and smoked in silence for a while. Then he started maundering about that stupid boat again, and she decided she was bored. She began to dress.

Got to run," she said breezily. "My dear hubby will be coming home soon, wondering where I am."

"There's almost half a joint left," he said, almost angrily.

You finish it, Eddie."

"Will I see you again?"

"Of course," she said, patting his shoulder. "We'll get together and talk about that wonderful boat of yours."

"Listen," he said hoarsely, "you really think you can come up with the loot? I mean, if not, tell me now so I can make, uh, other arrangements."

"We'll talk about it, Eddie. Next time."

He propped himself on his elbow, watched her stride away from him, into the darkness. Bitch! Still, he had to admit, she was a lot of woman. A great body for an old lady.

He was lying there, pulling in what was left of the joint, when Wayne Bending came out of the night and stood there, looking down at him.

"Where the hell did you come from?" Eddie demanded.

"Just taking a walk," Wayne said in a low voice.

"Bull
-shit!"
Eddie said. "You were watching us, I bet."

Wayne sat down alongside him, took the roach from his fingers, and dragged on it.

"Give it up, my main man," he said to Eddie. "She's never going to come up with the bucks for the boat."

"Sure she will," Eddie said confidently. "Just a question of time. I'm working on her. I've got her hooked."

Wayne passed the roach back to Eddie. He sat there, hugging his loiees.

"You're the one who's hooked," he said. "She's playing you."

"You
have
been watching us," Eddie Holloway said. "Jesus Christ!"

"Please," Wayne said, "forget about her."

"It was your idea, dumbo."

"I know," Wayne said miserably. "I was wrong. It didn't work out. Let's forget it."

"No way," Eddie Holloway said. "She's good for some bucks; I know it."

Wayne bent over him. "She's getting what she wants, but you're not. Can't you see that? What about us?"

"Well ..." Eddie said lazily, "what about us?"

"I thought we, uh, had something going."

"Shit, that was just for kicks."

Wayne looked at him. "That's all?"

"Sure. You know. We were both stoned and didn't know what we were doing. Right? You tell anyone and I'll kick your ass."

⁴
'You bastard!" Wayne cried, and tried to punch the other boy in the groin.

Eddie turned in time to take the fist onto his hip. Both scrambled to their feet. Faced. Trembling.

"Cocksucker!"

"Motherfucker!"

They came together in a flurry. Arms swinging. Legs pumping. They struck. Pulled away. Kicked. Embraced. Teeth shining. Eyes gleaming. Breath snorted. They danced about. Punching. Punching.

"Shiteater!"

"Pussylicker!"

Fury took them. They steamed, ready to kill. They grappled close, reaching for eyes and gonads. Grunting. Straining. Jerking out with elbows and knees.

Edward Holloway, taller, heavier, older, prevailed. He bore the younger boy down, butted the nose with his forehead. He hammered Wayne's head into the hard-packed sand. He slammed fist after fist.

"Asshole," he kept grunting. "Fucking asshole."

When, finally, Wayne Bending lay still, Eddie Holloway climbed groggily to his feet. He stood swaying, looking down at his crumpled foe. He kicked him in the ribs.

"Fucking asshole," he muttered again, and staggered away.

The moon was there, hanging, and when Wayne Bending opened his puffed eyes, he thought he was looking at a window, a lamp in a window. Then he focused, saw the latticed roof of the gazebo. He felt his pain.

He lay absolutely still, wondering if it was possible to will yourself to die. It never occurred to him that he might be of finer stuff than the boy who had hammered him down. All he knew was that he had been defeated. Not him, physically, but his noble love.

What a splendid thing to die. Get out of it. Just dissolve into nothingness. An end to all the finkery and betrayal. Drift away and be gone. People would weep. His parents. Brother and sister. For a while. Then the world would be as if he had never been. No care or attention.

A snake crawled down his lip; he became aware that his nose was leaking. He sat up shakily, drew the back of his hand across his face. Stared at the bloody smear. So much for love and fidelity. It all ended in a bloody smear.