Naked Came the Stranger (14 page)

"It doesn't have to spoil anything," Marvin said.

From somewhere in the past, from distant days of young manhood,
Marvin felt stirrings that had been quietly laid to rest shortly
after wedlock. It was not simply that this woman was desirable. Nor
merely that she seemed available. What truly excited Marvin was the
undeniable fact that he excited
her
, that
she
wanted
him
. Guilt? Perish the thought. There could be no sense of
guilt if one considered Helene's flagrant falsehood. Yes, Helene
needed to be punished. And it was up to him.

"It's 12:45 now," Marvin said. "Why don't we hop into my wagon
– it's just downstairs – and take us a little drive?
We'll find a spot for lunch. I mean I'm free for the rest of the day
and right now 1 think I could use a little change."

"I know what you mean."

She put her hand around his arm and squeezed it. Marvin glanced
quickly around the store. Saks' Long Island store was located in
Garden City, an upper-middle-class residential and shopping
community a forty-five-minute drive from King's Neck, and Marvin knew
the odds were well against encountering any other neighbors. And so
what? So what if he did? He walked calmly with Gillian to the parking
lot, into the distinctive white convertible with the MG-1 license
plates. Marvin headed directly for the Meadowbrook Parkway, and he
felt the slight pressure of Gillian's left thigh against him. At that
moment Marvin Goodman knew his luck was about to improve.

As the big car turned onto Northern State Parkway, Marvin glanced
at the gas gauge. E – that's where the needle was flickering.
He bit his lip and eased off the gas pedal slightly, allowing the
speedometer needle to settle back toward fifty-five. By the time
Marvin found a gas station, the meter registered below empty and he
ordered the attendant to fill the tank. It required just short of
twenty gallons.

"You nearly didn't make it," the man said.

"You're so right," Marvin said. "But I have a feeling this is
going to be my day."

The station was one of the few in the northeastern United States
for which Marvin Goodman did not have a credit card. Still, even
after paying for the gas, he noted that there were almost fifty
dollars remaining in his wallet. Fifty in his wallet and not much
more in the world. Gillian sat beside him quietly as Marvin drove
past the boat basin, now devoid of its white sails, and on toward the
Throg's Neck Bridge.

"How do you feel, Gillian?"

"A little nervous, Marvin," she said – and honestly. "I
wouldn't want you to think I do this kind of thing with anyone."

"I don't," he said – and, indeed, he had no reason to. It
was doubtless that… rugged quality. "But what do you feel like
doing? What are your needs?"

"I feel," she said, "thirsty, hungry and … sexy. And not
necessarily in that order."

"We can handle that list item by item," he growled.

"And not necessarily in any order."

At the Throg's Neck Bridge, Marvin dug into his pockets but
couldn't locate the quarter.

"Sorry," Gillian said. "I can't help. All I've got is my Saks
charge plate and my good name. Let me say, if you're ever offered a
choice, take the charge plate."

He broke a ten to pay the toll and headed north. In Westchester he
paid another toll on the Hutchinson River Parkway, then took the next
turnoff and parked outside of Country Inn. The restaurant was
decorated in a manner supposedly similar to what you might find in
the French provinces, a fact that escaped most of its expense-account
clientele. Marvin steered Gillian to the heavy oak bar.

"First," he said, "let's take care of the thirst."

"Martini," said Gillian.

"Two of them," he told the bartender. "Bone-dry."

"On the rocks or up?" the bartender said.

Marvin looked at Gillian, who signaled up with her thumb. Marvin
did the same, and Gillian closed her hand gently over Marvin's
upturned thumb.

"Got you, lover," she said in a low voice. Marvin, by way of
answer, began moving his thumb slowly up and down inside her closed
fist. "Mmmmmm. I'll bet they call you Marvelous Marv."

"No," he said. "No, they never have."

"Maybe they don't see what I see," Gillian said.

"Maybe they don't," he said. "Maybe that's what's bothering me.
Things like this don't happen to me. They
never
happen to me.
Why me? Why should this be happening to me all of a sudden?"

"Drink up, Marvelous Marv," she said. "Maybe you have something
that I want. Maybe this kind of thing has never happened to me
either."

They stayed long enough for a second martini. Marvin, euphoric
from a combination of the alcohol and the prospect that lay ahead,
left the grinning bartender a dollar tip. They climbed back into the
Cadillac and continued north on the Hutchinson River Parkway. The
next time Marvin glanced at his gold-banded watch it was nearly three
o'clock and he realized they had not yet eaten lunch. They were
almost in Connecticut when he pulled off the Parkway a second time.
This time he followed a network of local roads into Bedford Village
and eventually to La Cremaillere, a restaurant that
Holiday
Magazine had described as "distinguished," a restaurant that Helene
had begged to visit. Well, the hell with Helene.

Lunch, if a trifle rich, was distinguished. And with a half bottle
of vintage Chablis lulling his senses, Marvin for once forgot to
tally up the bill, which he drowsily noted approached $25. And $5 for
the young lady who offered such impeccable service. And another loose
bill for the excellent young man who went to fetch the car.

"How do you feel now?" he asked Gillian.

"I'm not thirsty," she said. "And I'm not hungry. Let me see, was
there something else?"

"It'll come to you." Marvin ran his free hand down her side and
let it come to rest on her hip. "What you need is a conducive
atmosphere. I think we passed one a few miles back."

"The one with the
Vacancy
sign?"

"That was the one."

It was all going incredibly well, Marvin thought. Too well,
really. The idea that it was going perfectly sent him into a
momentary panic. Something had to go wrong. Something would go wrong.
Stop that! Stop thinking like a loser. That's all over now.
Everything's perfect and everything will be perfect.

The panic soon dissolved as Gillian rested her head against
Marvin's shoulder and traced the creases in his slacks. She started
at the knees and worked her way up. Her touch excited Marvin
immediately and Gillian traced the swelling outline, gently, gently,
until Marvin felt the blood pounding against his temples.

"Marvelous Marv," she said, "so full of surprises."

When they reached the motel, Marvin noted with gratitude that
there was a drive-in window for registering guests. He couldn't have
left the car at that moment in any circumstances. His slacks still
bulged from Gillian's gentle, skillful and persistent manipulations.
The motel owner, a soft-spoken country man with leather elbow patches
on his tweed jacket, accepted without comment the registration blank
that carried the name "Milton Silver" and the "MG-1" license
plate.

"That'll be $20 for the double," he said.

Marvin reached into his wallet, extracted the single remaining
bill, handed it over.

"And ten more, young fellow," the owner said.

Marvin looked at the bill and went white. It was a ten. He had
tipped the young man at the parking lot ten dollars instead of one!
God, God, God – it had to happen!

"I seem to be momentarily short of funds," he said.

"You don't happen to have anything for ten dollars?"

"Might have if you were alone," the man said. "But the best I can
do for you and your lady friend is $16." Marvin took the bill without
a word, jammed the car into reverse, screeched out of the graveled
parking area.

"Damn it," he said. "Damn it – I
knew
it!"

"Don't be like that, Marvin," Gillian said. Her finger resumed its
tracing efforts, but the swelling had vanished in the frustration of
the moment. "We can go somewhere else. We can use your name. You can
cash a check."

"Any check I would cash," Marvin said, "would bounce from here to
King's Neck and right back again."

"But you could cover it," Gillian said. "You could go to the bank
on Monday and cover the check."

"You don't understand, Gillian," he said. "All I could cover that
check with is unpaid bills. I'm broke. I'm flat broke."

Now that it had happened, Marvin couldn't accept it. His conquest,
so fortuitously begun and so intricately constructed, was collapsing
like a deflated balloon. He was again, again and forever, a loser.
No, not a loser. No, not a loser,
the
loser, the all-time
number-one world-champ loser. And what he had even greater difficulty
in accepting was the fact that Gillian Blake was convulsed in an
uncontrollable attack of giggles.

"You're broke?" she said, finally.

"I am driving from here," he said, "directly to the nearest
poorhouse."

"But this car?"

"I own precisely $1,350 worth of this car. And the way they charge
for this car, that means I own four tires and the rear window."

"The house?"

"Will be mine in precisely twenty-eight years if I continue paying
$325 a month until that date."

"Poor Marvin," Gillian said. "Poor Marv."

They rode silently then, each contemplating a private disaster.
Finally, more to clear the air than anything else, Gillian told
Marvin that she had been going to ask him for a loan. A loan of
$1,500. A loan to pay for an abortion because she was carrying, deep
in her womb, the beginnings of a beatnik, the embryo given her by a
hasty hipster.

"You wanted my money?" Marvin said.

"Don't get me wrong," Gillian said. "I wanted you, Marvin. But
wanting you didn't prevent me from also wanting your money. But not
permanently. Just a loan.

And, honestly, I wouldn't have even mentioned it except, you have
to agree, it is an emergency."

"We each have our emergencies", Marvin said.

"Poor Marvin," Gillian said.

They were approaching the toll booth in Pelham. Marvin fished for
a coin, found two dimes and a nickel. He searched his pockets,
desperately for a moment, found another quarter. "For the bridge," he
said. His words were lost because Gillian was kissing his right
ear.

"Poor, poor Marvin," Gillian said.

Marvin's body jerked involuntarily as Gillian slipped her hand
inside his shirt and ran her fingers along his ribs. Slowly and
methodically she unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers.
Traffic was beginning to thicken, Marvin noticed, even as he
responded to Gillian's dexterous fingers.

"Maybe not so poor after all," Gillian continued, stroking him
into a full erection.

"Christ, Gillian," Marvin said. "The other cars, they'll see."

"Oh Marvin, let them see. You've nothing to be ashamed of. Let
them see. Let the whole world see."

"Oh, God," Marvin said. "Oh, God, that feels good." Ahead, but
dimly, Marvin saw the approach to the Throg's Neck Bridge. Rush-hour
traffic, he perceived, was jamming the lines to the toll booths. As
he reached for his last quarter, Gillian burrowed her head in his
lap. "My God. my God, my God!" he was saying as he rocked up and down
on the seat cushion. He had never known this, never known anything
like this before. Never. Not anything. And he gasped as Gillian
suddenly stopped, pulled back, brushed back her hair.

"No, please," he said., "Don't stop now."

"Marvin," she said, "you could still lend me the money."

"How?" he said. "I don't have it."

"You could raise it," she said. "You could raise anything,
Marvin."

"Just don't stop," he pleaded.

Gillian bent down once again. The truck driver in the adjoining
lane looked down in mute fascination. In the other lane a
three-year-old boy was jumping up and down in his car seat, pointing,
but his parents didn't notice anything amiss – just a man
sitting silently behind his wheel with a silly grin on his face.
Again Gillian pulled up and away.

"Please," he said.
"Please?"

"A thousand," she bargained. "You could raise a thousand."

"Five hundred," he said.

Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh,
oh!
The car behind the white
Cadillac sounded its horn as the space widened in front of Marvin
Goodman's car. Marvin stepped down on the accelerator. In the next
lane the truck driver, attempting to keep abreast of the car,
crunched into a Chevrolet carrying a troop of Cub Scouts and a Den
Mother.

"A thousand" – this time Gillian didn't even lift her
head.

"Seven fifty," he said.

Marvin felt a kind of paralysis engulfing him – every muscle
was tense and he stretched himself back against the seat. He noticed,
thank God, that he was in the Exact Change Lane. No toll taker. And
then he was powerless, his hands gripping the steering wheel like
twin vises. There was a rapping on the window beside his head but he
ignored it – it was the Den Mother from the rammed Chevrolet
and she was asking whether he saw what happened and then she turned
away quickly, in horror at the sight of Marvin Goodman in his finest
moment.

Then they were abreast of the toll basket and the car behind him
was honking furiously. Marvin pressed the button that rolled down the
window. "Oh, Gillian-Gillian-Gill…." Marvin found the quarter
and tossed it to the basket. "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh…." The quarter
rimmed the basket, bounced on the asphalt, wheeled on edge in a wide
semicircle and finally came to rest under the left front tire of the
stationary Cadillac.

The toll booth attendant saw the vast tie-up and signaled the
patrolman, who gunned his motorcycle over to the parked Cadillac. He
noted that the door on the passenger's side was open. He noted that
the sole occupant of the car seemed in a daze, a small grin pasted on
his face in a lopsided fashion. "Hey Mac…," he began and
"Sweet Jesus," he wound it up.