Naked Came the Stranger (18 page)

Paddy was weeping.

"It
was
in," he whimpered. "It's all over. It's… all
over now."

Gillian sat up and touched herself and discovered that Paddy was
as good as his word. He had been in and, dammit, it was all over. She
shook her head in disbelief.

"Let me look," Gillian said. She grabbed at Paddy, at the
shriveled remnant of his brief passion. She found it and held it
firmly between her thumb and forefinger.

Nothing in her past experience, even her recent past experience,
had prepared her for the object which she now encountered. Her first
reaction was near to awe.

"Someone short-changed you," she said. "You're muscle everywhere,
everywhere but here."

Paddy looked away then, and tears rolled down his face onto the
embroidered coverlet. Gillian was in an experimental mood. She
stretched the tiny member to its full length, and it seemed to shrink
even more in embarrassment. She toyed with it, coaxed it, managed to
extend it as much as it could be extended – and even then it
would have fit nicely into a … what? A thimble, she
decided.

The humor of the moment finally overcame her frustration. And she
laughed. How could one hope to destroy a marriage that was held
together by such a fragile link? She couldn't control the laughter
then, and she threw back her head and her body was heaving and her
breasts were undulating with each round of laughter.

But Paddy was still crying.

"Please don't laugh," he said finally. "Don't you laugh. Agnes was
the only one, she never laughed. Agnes says that fucking is dirty and
you shouldn't do it but only once a month. Only when you have to.
Fucking is the curse God gave us because of Mother Eve. Only Agnes
never laughs."

"I won't laugh, honey," Gillian said.

But composure was difficult, especially with Paddy going on about
Agnes. Then he was telling her how his name was really Walter, Walter
Madigan, and that Paddy was given to him by his manager. And how it
somehow seemed to fit with Agnes because her name really was Bridget
Murphy before they were married and that she had changed her name to
Agnes because her cousins told her that Bridget was too old-fashioned
and too Irish. Then he told her about being in the Seabees during
World War II, just a kid, and when he heard his outfit was going to
Guam, he began wetting his bed, even though Guam was secured.

His tiny penis had made him shy of girls, he told her. There was a
slut in San Francisco who said he was the only guy she had ever met
who drove a tack with a sledgehammer. He had beaten that girl black
and blue, and his manager had to pay her a thousand dollars just to
keep her big mouth shut. And there was a girl in the Bronx who said
it was so small she couldn't even bite it, and he had knocked out her
two upper front teeth and that had cost $500.

Paddy began crying again.

Gillian's hand stroked his shoulder and then once again the
ludicrousness of the situation struck home. She tried to hold back
the giggle, but most of it escaped.

Paddy reached up then and slapped her across the face. That did
it. Gillian's head made an arch to the pillow and she started to cry
then. It was the first time she had ever been struck by a man. It
wasn't the humiliation, though, that prompted the tears. It was the
pain. Paddy had caught her a good one.

"Please don't cry," he was saying. "Please don't, missus."

It was no use. His words were almost a prayer, but they ran
together and they seemed to come from a great distance. Gillian tried
to look up at Paddy but his face appeared blurred, the face seen
through a window in a rainstorm.

"Please, please, please," he was saying. "I'll make it right."

She felt him then, reaching under her and slowly massaging her
buttocks. Wondering what the point of all this was, she didn't
resist. She allowed Paddy to spread her legs, and his fingers found
the dampness there and he stroked and crooned and she spread the legs
even farther. Then, with a last quick cry, Paddy's face lowered
itself into the darkness and Gillian crooned. She found herself
holding onto the back of his head, guiding it, pressing it, and the
tears went away.

It was nearly dark. Paddy felt as though he were waking from a
long sleep but his eyes hadn't closed once. The time had gone
somewhere and he hadn't been aware of its passing. Gillian had gone,
too, and he hadn't known that either.

His manager had known the truth about Paddy. Maybe he was the only
one besides Paddy to discover it. They both knew that Paddy Madigan
fought out of desperation alone. "He's got a heart the size of a
pea," the manager had told Agnes after that last fight, "but he's so
scared that he fights like hell – that's what he's always had
going for him."

Agnes had accepted this truth without comment. Her one reaction
was to purchase a small Japanese pistol for self-protection. Paddy
thought of that pistol as he struggled from the bed and smoothed it
with faltering fingers. He could feel his desperation come to life
again. He stumbled into the living room and groped through the closet
under the stairs where Agnes kept her pistol.

Paddy was shaking then, saying words that only he and his God
could understand. He grabbed at a chair, then threw it away from him
and knelt down before the crucifix. He stared at the image of Christ
on the cross for more than a minute, and then he turned away from it
and faced the tinted picture of Agnes. He blessed himself with the
right hand, forgetting that the pistol was clasped within that
hand.

"Bless me, Agnes, for I have sinned," he began.

The wind, which bore only a tinge of its Canadian origin, had
blown the loose leaves from the backyard toward the porch, and they
swirled about the feet of Agnes Madigan as she climbed the back
stairs. She had just put her key into the lock when she heard the
shot.

She told the police she couldn't imagine why her husband killed
himself. They had always been so happy.

Gilly: Your back seems to be bothering you again
today, Billy.

Billy: Yes, it's that old sprain. It's probably age creeping up
on me.

Gilly: That's a shame. And just a few weeks ago, we were
talking about physical conditioning.

Billy: Right. No more squash and tennis for Billy Blake for a
while.

Gilly: Well, you do have to be careful. You wouldn't want your
condition to be any worse.

Billy: Actually, I feel buffeted from all sides. Not only is my
back acting up, but did you read this morning's Times?

Gilly: You mean the radio column?

Billy: Yes. I'm afraid that man doesn't like us, dear. Gilly:
Wasn't it awful?

Billy: Pure vitriol.

Gilly: I'll tell you, I'm not even going to dignify what he had
to say by discussing it on the air. I think that the wonderful people
who listen to us can judge our show for themselves. They certainly
don't need any nasty little man to tell them whether they like us or
not.

Billy: I must say, darling, you're especially beautiful when
you're angry.

Gilly: Thanks, sweetheart, I don't know what I'd do without
you.

Billy: And I don't know what I'd do without you.

Gilly: I swear, Billy, you could pass for a southern gentleman,
you're so courtly.

Billy: And I'm not even southern. Gilly: But you are
courtly.

Billy: Seriously, that does seem to be a southern trait,
doesn't it?

Gilly: Oh, absolutely. To tell you the truth, I think southern
men are quite sexy. You know, like the character Marlon Brando played
in
Sayonara
.

Billy: What do you think it is – the accent?

Gilly: That's probably part of it. But it's their whole
approach. They know how to make a woman feel like a queen.

Billy: Ah do declare, Miz Blake. Ah've nevah seen you-all look
more lovely.

Gilly: Oh Billy, you're too much.

From where he sat, looking out over Research and
Accounting, Taylor Hawkes could see in all directions, except behind
him. Behind him was wall, gun-metal gray wall, like the side of a
battleship. Taylor Hawkes had wished for a long time that the wall
was cyprus paneling, or leather, or maybe even burlap like some of
the offices in the city, but he was a little uneasy about asking the
Baron for that. Glass to his left and two secretaries; glass to his
right and three secretaries; glass in front of him and the vast
secretarial pool; long straight rows of girls with adding machines;
rows of girls with typewriters; the alcoves housing two dozen account
executives; the department switchboard girl with the fine round
bottom.

Taylor Hawkes could see in all directions, all right, except
behind him on this day, February 27th, at 4:20 in the afternoon, with
four Beefeater martinis and three vodka and tonics under his belt.
Taylor Hawkes was looking down, his sunglasses still on, looking down
at his desk, picking through the papers and memos, picking at the
spike with the yellow message forms, the forms that showed who had
called while he was at lunch, the time of the call, the degree of
urgency and, when possible, the message. Ringold (Research) 2: 10
p.m…. "Screw him," Taylor said out loud, "he didn't think I've
got to eat?" Leonard (The Smellwell Account)

3:20 p.m. "Screw him, too." Mrs. Grace Belcher (a close friend of
the Baron's, wanting some free advertising advice for Planned
Parenthood in Roslyn) 12:50 p.m., 2:15 p.m., 3:55 p.m. "Well, the
hell with you, Mrs. Belcher," Taylor said, wadding up the message
form. The message forms were the real pain in the ass, the worst
thing when you just got back. Who was trouble? And who wasn't
trouble? At the sound of the buzzer on his desk, Taylor Hawkes picked
up the phone. He looked as he always did, to his right, watching
Emily, good lady, talk to him while he was listening to her voice on
the phone.

"Taylor, there's a Mrs. Gillian Blake in the lobby."

"Bring her in, Emily."

As he said it, Taylor swung the swivel chair around, looking out
over Research and Accounting, and Emily must have looked, too. She
didn't buzz this time; instead, she came to the glass door of his
office and opened it.

"The Baron, Taylor."

"I see him, Emily."

"He's rolling fast," Emily said., "Real fast."

"He sure to God is," Taylor said. He felt perspiration at the back
of his neck. "That ol' bastard can really roll."

"Mrs. Gillian Blake?" Emily said.

"Yeh," Taylor said. "Hold her, Emily. Get her some coffee. Show
her the new computer setup or something. Hold her until I get the
Baron out of here."

The Baron was about a third of the way through the huge room,
rolling now, as Emily said, fast, real fast. He spun the wheelchair
deftly down the narrow lane between the account executives' alcoves
and the adding machine girls, picking up speed in the wide stretch
between Taylor's office and the first row of girls.

"He ain't stopping," Taylor said to himself. "He's coming on."

Trouble now. Copy of the
Ladies Home Journal
on the Baron's
lap, bouncing on his lap, while he rolled with both hands in his
wheel chair. The old skinny arms, pumping, pumping in his black suit,
and the little silver round head pointed right straight at Taylor's
office, and rolling on, the old skinny arms and the old little silver
round head, rolling on.

"Old sonofabitch," Taylor said.

Can't get to my coat, he thought, no use trying to put it on.
Straightening tie, smoothing papers on the desk. Take off the
sunglasses, he see my eyes. Leave sunglasses on, he think I'm drunk?
Phone buzzing.

"Yeh?"

"Taylor" – it was Emily – "Mrs. Blake doesn't want
coffee. Doesn't want to see the computers. She wants to see you.
She…."

"Jesus, Emily, tell her… tell her…" The Baron
fifteen feet out now, slackening speed, rolling for Taylor's glass
door. "Just hold her, Emily."

"Taylor, she…."

Then, another voice, this one in Taylor's ear.

"Taylor," Gillian said, "I'm not just another ordinary,
dissatisfied customer. You know, dear…."

And another voice, in front of Taylor.

"You've seen this, Taylor?" The Baron was holding up the magazine.
"This is your idea of a small joke?"

The Baron's voice, very sharp. And on the phone, Gillian -
"Taylor, if I want to see a computer deck, I'd go over to IBM."

"No sir, Baron." Taylor said. "I haven't seen the magazine yet.
However, if it's the Honest ad, I can explain –" He had the
phone out in front of him, shoulder high, it was breaking his arm, he
could feel his hand clamped on it, knuckles splitting. "Gillian,
please look at the computers…. I'm sorry, Baron, but the
Cigaret Advertising Board said that business about the microfilters
couldn't go…. Mrs. Blake, yes, you'll find the computers
fascinating….."

Knuckles splitting and the phone hanging out there like a big
black airplane between him and the Baron.

"Gillian… Mrs. Blake… please look at the computers.
Call you right back." Phone down, finally, and hand still cramped,
knuckles going to split wide open.

"Mrs. William Blake?" the Baron said.

"Yes, sir," Taylor Hawkes said. "Lives out there in King's
Neck."

"I
know,
" the Baron said. "You seem to forget, the Blakes
are my customers.
My
customers."

"Yes, sir," Taylor said.

"And I haven't even seen the Honest ad yet," the Baron said. "I'm
talking about the Smellwell ad. Two pages in color, Taylor, and what
do I see? Well?"

"You see the Smellwell research laboratories," Taylor said.

"That is what I see," the Baron said. "I see six men in white
robes fussing, Taylor, fussing with test tubes. What I do not see is
Vivian. I do not see Vivian Garland on a gondola in Venice. I do not
see the slogan that I take personal credit for – 'Tonight's the
night, Vivian, with Smellwell.' Perhaps this refreshes your
memory."