I Loved You Wednesday (17 page)

He smiles, wipes his hands on a towel, picks up a book of matches, strikes a flame and lights her cigarette. She puffs, inhaling deeply before gently blowing the smoke right into his face. Which is crazy because Chris doesn’t even smoke!

“Thanks, bartender,” she says playfully, sticking the cigarette smack back into the center of her mouth.

“What’ll it be?” is Bradley’s sensitive reply.

Chris doesn’t let up on the slow-seductive-husky tone. “I’ll have a very dry vodka martini: rocks, twist, two olives and your phone number, sonny.”

Bradley blinks a few times before turning to me. A tough act to follow, so I play it safe and order a somber scotch and water.

While Bradley is mixing the drinks, Chris turns to me. “Oh, I forgot to tell you . . . I’ve given up tranquilizers!”

“Congratulations. As of when?”

“As of this afternoon. I read in
Time
that they’ve linked abuse of tranquilizers with cancer. So no more.”

“Good for you.”

Bradley arrives with the drinks, places one in front of each of us, rings up the tally on a check and shuffles down to the other end of the bar to wait on another customer.

“Is he being aloof?” asks Chris.

“I don’t think he’s being aloof,” I answer. “I think he’s ignoring us.”

“That makes a difference. You think he’s upset?”

“I don’t know if he’s upset. I do think he’s rude.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t’ve come.”

“Of course, we shouldn’t’ve come! I told you that.”

“Well then, why are we here?”

“We are here because you insisted.”

“Then why didn’t you stop me?”

“There was no stopping you.”

“It’s all your fault.”

“Wrong. I will not take the blame for this blunder. Let those who have wronged be responsible!”

“What is that, the curse of the canary people?”

“Just so you know who’s at fault.”

“Do you think we should leave?”

“Do you think we should stay?”

“Do you?”

“Do you?”

“One of us should make a decision.”

“One of us should.”

“Who?”

“You!”

“You!”

“Why
me?”

“Why
ME?”

“Because you got us here.” “Then let’s leave.” “Fine. I’ll get the check.” “I was hoping you would.” “Chris?” “Yes?”

“You’re quite a unique individual.”

“Why, thank you.”

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t care if tranquilizers
are
conducive to cancer. I’m taking several tonight!”

I signal Bradley for the check. He comes over, saying not a word, totals the tab and hands it to me. Still no dialogue. I pay him, he thanks us cordially, and we leave.

I place a mummified Chris in a taxi, sending her home, and I guess you can imagine how upset she is.

The evening is still fairly young, and I’m, quite frankly, thanks to all this sexual tension in the air, a little horny. So I go to a nearby phone booth and call Wendy Chart-off.

Who sounds glad to hear from me but gives the impression of being unimpressed.

“Nice of you to call,” she says, matter-of-factly.

“I thought I might drop by for a drink, Wendy.”

“It’s a little late, don’t you think?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” This isn’t going to be as easy as I thought. “It’s just a wee past midnight.”

“I’m already in bed.”

Am I being punished for not having called earlier? “Well, then ... all you have to do is move over.”

“Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh. Wise guy.”

“Come on. What’d’ya say?”

“I couldn’t possibly.”

“Sure you could.”

“Not tonight.”

“Come on, Wendy. I really want to see you.”

“I’m tired.”

“I’ll take care of that.”

“Some other time, huh?”

This is getting to be hard work. “Hey, Wendy. I left my compact there. Can’t I come over and pick it up?”

Tit for tat.

“Oh, Steve....”

Her resistance just peaked. “I’m coming over, Wendy. I want to be with you right now, and I’m not going to hang around, standing on ceremony. I really, really want this. Don’t say no!” If that speech doesn’t do it, I’m turning in my Actors’ Equity card.

“Oh ... I don’t know.”

She’s bending. “Come on, Wendy. A friend of mine told me about some terrific fun you can have with grape jelly.”

“Sounds obscene.”

“It is.”

“Luckily, I happen to have a jar in the kitchen.”

“Perfect. I’m jumping into a taxi.”

When I arrive twenty minutes later, Wendy is in her nightgown and robe. Her hair is neatly brushed, and she’s got on some fresh makeup.

“Come on in,” she says invitingly. I step into the small apartment and make myself comfortable on her flowered couch.

“Can I get you something, Steve?”

“Got a beer?”

“Comin’ up!” says Wendy, hurrying into her tiny kitchen. “I was watching the most wonderful old Cary Grant film on TV when you called,” she offers from the kitchen, raising her voice. “
Penny Serenade
. You know it?”

“I’ve seen it,” I yell.

“So sad.” Wendy sighs, sluggishly returning with a bottle of beer and a glass. “Irene Dunne and he just lost their kid. Terrible drowning accident. So upsetting. I think maybe that’s why I wasn’t sure you should come over at first when you called,” she lies. “I was so involved with the movie. I mean how do you go from being unhappy one moment and then the phone rings and poof, you’re expected to pop up and be your old bubbly self? Well, I guess that’s just not my style. Heh-heh-heh-heh.”

Suddenly my interest in coming over here is fast diminishing. She goes on, apparently determined to be boring.

“Of course, I could watch Cary Grant in
anything
. He could read a road map, and I’d be fascinated. Heh-heh-heh. They don’t make stars like that anymore, do they, Steve?”

Am I expected to contribute to this meaty conversation? Why is it her laugh never seemed so obnoxious before? I sip my beer and stare at her as she crawls up on the couch, sitting close to me. As expected, my silence makes her more uncomfortable, and so she continues babbling as I search the back of my brain, trying to recall the erotic image that made me place the phone call to her in the first place. And if I’m to get this show off the ground, I’d better make some move fast, else I’ll soon be incapable of functioning at all. So

I place my beer down on her coffee table, stand and, unbuttoning my shirt, interrupt her mid-sentence and walk into her bedroom saying firmly, “Let’s get going!”

Wendy follows me as I undress and pull down the sheets of her recently made bed. Going over to her stereo, she puts on Mahler’s Third, which, it turns out, is an even better bet than Mahler’s Fifth, leading me to believe perhaps I’ve more to learn from her than I’d supposed.

Wendy hops into bed and snuggles up next to me. We start to kiss, and not only is my heart no longer in this, neither is anything else. Placing my hand on top of her head, I slowly force her downward to the lower portion of my body. She picks up the none-too-subtle clue and goes to work.

Lying there on my back, running my fingers through her hair and massaging her naked shoulders, trying to get heated over the sporadic slurping and gagging sounds below me, I find myself drifting, fantasizing elsewhere. A beach, a grassy hill, a fireplace. The music swells, and the image changes. And the new image coming into focus, like always, as clear and certain, as touchable and real as all the other times I’ve dreamed this similar scenario, as Wendy, unsuspecting and out to pasture, works harder than ever, is of this woman locked together with me, wrapped and entwined so that our fleshes practically meld and our bodies unite in sensual, rhythmic thrusts, and I’m finally getting very excited, working this image very hard now, picturing the two of us breathing heavily together, and we’re giving it all we’ve got, holding onto each other and squeezing whatever is there to reach out and touch in our abandon, and as I hold Wendy’s head very tight and very stiff, forcefully instructing her just exactly how I want her to finish, and as this very erotic image peaks in a climax of its own, I fulfill my appointment with Wendy and, at the height of my own orgasm, see the face in the fantasy more clearly for the first time and, as always, it surprises me very little that the woman I’ve just imagined I’ve made love to is, of course, Chris.

The deed done, Wendy crawls back up into my arms, and I don’t know about her, but I fall asleep sometime during the next three minutes.

The following morning over breakfast, things really fall apart. Wendy is too eager to please. If the toast is too dark, she’ll gladly pop in another piece. If the coffee’s too strong, she’ll be only too happy to brew a fresh pot. If the sun’s in my eyes, she’ll lower the shade.

That sort of thing.

I respond by making matters worse. Sitting at her kitchen table, I get lost in the
Times
while she keeps reheating the toast, praying for a properly cooked piece.

Flipping the pages of the newspaper, I comment now and again about a particular story, just to let her know I’m aware there are two of us at the table. Predictably, this tack makes her even more fidgety.

Soon I dress and get ready to leave. Wendy walks me to the door. “When shall I see you again?” she asks, knowing I’m obviously not the type who likes to be pinned down.

“Soon,” I tell her in as noncommittal a tone as possible.

“I’m so glad you came over,” she says with too much enthusiasm.

“Me too,” I say, blase.

She’s growing desperate.

I’m growing distant.

“Listen, my singing teacher’s in your neighborhood. I’ve got a lesson Thursday afternoon. Why don’t I drop by afterward?”

Whoops! Here comes the rush. “Thursdays are bad for me,” I say off the cuff. She’s picked up the message.

“Well, another time then.” She shrugs.

Sometime I must examine this limit-testing streak. Treating women like rubber bands, stretching their tolerance levels until one of us snaps the relationship.

“Well, good-bye,” I say. “Thanks for having me over.”

“Sure. Thanks for the reminder,” she replies, fairly hostile.

“What reminder?” “I always forget how neurotic men are,” she says, snapping the rubber band.

“Well, 1 hope it wasn’t too unpleasant a lesson.”

“No. Merely typical.”

Sock-o. A shot below the belt. Good for her.

Kissing her on the forehead, I say, “Keep punching.”

“You too, slugger!” she answers, very clever, closing the door behind me.

I return to my apartment a little after eleven. A few minutes later Chris calls.

“Guess who just phoned?” she asks, shockingly spritely.

“One of the Warner brothers.”

“No, silly. Bradley.”

“No fooling? What’d he want?”

“Catch this. He called to apologize for being cold to us last night. He was real happy to see me but... hold your pants . . . his
wife
was there, at the bar, drinking with friends. Can you believe that? We could’ve gotten a free peek at the enemy for the asking. Talk about irony, huh? He didn’t want to be overly friendly for fear one of us might say the wrong thing or get a little too familiar or something. So you see, Steve, we were
right
to go there, after all!”

“Apparently.”

“There’s more.”

“Go on.”

“Bradley wanted to know how come we were there. Had I changed my mind about seeing him?”

“And you said. . . .”

“And I said what the hell, life was short, I guess I didn’t mind being an afternoon lay, after all.”

“And he said....”

“And he said he’ll see me Monday afternoon.”

“And you said. ...”

“And I said I’d be expecting him around one.”

“Well. All’s well that ends well.”

“Yeah....” Chris sighs blissfully.

“There’s one more small detail, Chris. One loose end.”

“What’s that?”

“You owe me three seventy-five for the goddamn drinks!”

I think I told you how irrational auditions can be. Well, proving my point, Pat calls from the Morris office several afternoons later with word that I’ve been called back for
March into April
, the Broadway play for which I auditioned almost eight weeks ago. Astounding news, for sure. Pat tells me the reason we hadn’t heard from them before this is, as rumored, they’d stopped holding auditions when the producers ran into difficulties raising funds to mount the show. Now that they’ve money in the bank again, however, they can once more afford to continue driving actors to psychiatrists.