S.E.C.R.E.T.: An Erotic Novel (4 page)

I had stopped getting those stupid Brazilian waxes after Scott died. The look always
unsettled me, like I was supposed to be a little girl or something. I let my hand
travel down to my … what? What do you call it when you’re alone?
Vagina
always sounded by turns juvenile and clinical.
Pussy
was a guy’s term and felt too feline for me.
Cunt?
No. Too much. I moved my finger around
down there
, and found, to my surprise, that I was wet. But I couldn’t muster the energy, the
effort, to do anything about it.

Was I lonely? Yes, of course. But I was also slowly shutting down parts of myself,
seemingly for good, like a large
factory going dark, sector by sector. I was only thirty-five and I had never had really
great, mind-blowing, liberating, luscious sex, the kind that notebook seemed to allude
to.

There were days when I felt I was just a suit of flesh pulled over a set of bones,
pouring in and out of buses and cabs, walking around a restaurant, feeding people
and cleaning up after them. At home, my body was a warm place for the cat to sleep
on. How had this happened? How had this become my life? Why couldn’t I just pick up
the pieces and get out there, like Will had said?

I looked in the mirror again: all that flesh, all of it available and tender, yet
somehow locked away. I stepped into the bath and sat down, then slid all the way under
the water, submerging my head under the suds for a few seconds. I could hear my heart
underwater, beating out a sad echo. That, I thought, is the sound of loneliness.

I rarely drank, let alone drank alone, but somehow that night called for a glass of
cold white wine and a warm bathrobe. I had a box of Chablis in the fridge, albeit
one that had been there for a couple of months, but it would have to do. I poured
a big tumbler full. Then I settled into the corner of the futon-couch with the cat
and the notebook. I traced the initials
PD
on the cover with my finger. Inside was a nameplate with
Pauline Davis
printed on it, but no contact information. That page was followed by a table
of contents in scripted lettering, spelling out steps, one through ten:

Oh my God, what did I have in my hands? What was this list? I felt hot and chilled
at the same time, like I had uncovered a dangerous but delicious secret. I got up
from the couch to draw down my lace curtains.
Fearlessness, Courage, Confidence, Exuberance?
These words had leapt out at me from the page, blurring before my eyes. Was Pauline
taking these steps herself? And if so, where was she on the list? I sat down again
and read the steps once more, then flipped the page to the next heading, “Fantasy
Notes on Step One.” I couldn’t stop myself. I began to read:

I could feel my own heart beat as though
I
was in the hotel room as this stranger opened the door …

I shut the book again. It was wrong to read this. It was so raw. This was none of
my business. I had to stop.

After one more Step. Then I’d stop. Then I would
most definitely
put this book away.

I opened it randomly to the middle, flashing forward, I assumed, through pages of
sexy words:

I snapped the book closed. Okay, I had to stop. This was too much. Two men? At once?
I looked to the top of the page. This was Step Five:
Fearlessness
. I was shocked that I felt damp between the legs. I didn’t normally read erotic stuff,
and when I came across pornography by accident, I rarely found it arousing. But this?
This was all about
desire
. I wanted to read the whole thing, but no, I wouldn’t. I held the book shut tight
in my lap.

She didn’t seem the type, Pauline, with her short hair and her clean looks. But what’s
“the type”? What’s the furthest I’d ever gone with a man? The riskiest? A giggly handjob
in a movie theater in high school with a boy I dated when Scott and I were on a “break.”
I’d given blowjobs. Maybe not well, and not always to completion. Sexually speaking,
I was sorely inexperienced. Dixie had rolled onto her back in a posture that was appropriately
lewd.

“Oh, kitty, you’ve probably had more fun in the streets than I’ve had in my bedroom.”

I had to put the notebook away. To read any more of it would be to violate Pauline’s
privacy irrevocably, and to
drive myself to distraction. I got up and almost angrily shoved the book deep into
the drawer of the telephone table by my front door. After ten minutes, I moved it
to a pocket of an old ski jacket I had brought from Michigan and left hanging in the
back of the closet. Still, the book called for me. Then I put it in the broiler beneath
the gas stove. But what if the pilot light ignited it?

I decided to put the notebook in my purse so I wouldn’t forget to bring it to work
the next day, in case Pauline came back to retrieve it. Oh God, what if she thinks
I read it? But how could I not? Well, at least I didn’t read all of it, I thought,
taking the notebook out of my purse and finally locking it in the trunk of my car.

Two days later, after the lunch rush died down, the door chimes signaled the arrival
of Pauline. My stomach lurched, like she was coming to arrest me. This time she wasn’t
with her sexy man but with a beautiful older woman, perhaps fifty or a well-preserved
sixty with red wavy hair, wearing a pale coral tunic. They were both a little grim-faced
as they made their way to an empty table by the window. I smoothed down my T-shirt
and steeled myself as I approached the table.
Try not to look at her too long. Try to appear nonchalant, normal. You don’t know
anything because you never read the notebook
.

“Hi there. Start with coffee?” I asked, my lips pulled tight across my teeth, my heart
bashing against my rib cage.

“Yes, please,” said Pauline, avoiding eye contact with me and looking directly at
the red-haired woman. “You?”

“I’ll have green tea. And a couple of menus, please,” she replied, staring back at
Pauline.

I felt a rush of shame. They knew something. They knew
I
knew something.

“O-of course,” I stammered, turning to the table.

“Wait. I was wondering …”

My heart leapt to my mouth.

“Yes?” I said, turning back, hands shoved deep in my front pouch, shoulders up at
my ears.

It was Pauline who’d spoken. She was as nervous as I was. Her companion’s face, however,
was serene, supportive. I sensed a slight nod urging her on. I noticed the redhead
also wore one of those beautiful gold bracelets, the same brushed pale finish and
dangling charms.

“Did I forget something here the other day? A small booklet. About the size of this
napkin. Burgundy. It has my initials on it, P. D. Did you find it?” Her voice was
quivering. She looked on the verge of tears.

My eyes darted from hers to the calm face of her companion.

“Um. I don’t know, but let me check with Dell,” I said, way too brightly. “I’ll be
right back.”

I walked stiffly back to the kitchen, punched the door open and stood with my back
against the cool tile wall. All the air was gone from my lungs. I looked over at old
Dell, who was cleaning the big pot that she’d used for the chili
special. Though she kept her nearly white afro shorn close to her skull, she always
wore a hairnet and a professional waitressing uniform. I had a lightning bolt of an
idea.

“Dell! You have to do me a favor.”

“I
have
to do no such thing, Cassie,” she said with her slight lisp. “Use your manners.”

“Okay. Really fast. These customers out there. One of them left something here, a
small notebook, and I don’t want her to think I read it. Because I did. I mean, not
all of it. But I
had
to read some of it. How else would I know whose it was, right? But it was like a
diary, and I might have read too much of it. And it was personal. Very. But I don’t
want them to know I read
any
of it. Can I say
you
found it? Please?”

“You want me to lie.”

“No, no, I’ll do
all
the lying.”

“God, girl, sometimes I don’t understand young women today with all your dramas and
stories and such. You can’t just say, ‘
Here, I found this
’?”

“Not this time, no. I can’t.”

I stood in front of Dell, hands clasped pleadingly.

“Fine,” Dell said, waving me away like a fly. “So long as I don’t have to say anything.
Jesus didn’t raise me to lie.”

“I could kiss you.”

“You could
not
,” she said.

I ran to my locker, plucked the book from the top of a pile of dirty T-shirts and
made a mental note to do laundry. I was breathless when I got to the table. The faces
of both women turned towards me at the same time, expectant.

“So! I asked Dell. She’s the other waitress who works days, too, right over there …”
At this point, Dell dutifully came out of the kitchen and waved a tired arm our way
to legitimize my total lie. “It turns out she found this,” I said, triumphantly pulling
the notebook out of my pouch. “Is this what you—?”

Before I could finish that sentence, Pauline plucked the book from my fingers and
deposited it into her purse.

“That
is
it. And thank you so much,” she said to me, exhaling. Then she turned to the other
woman. “You know what? I have to go now, Matilda. So sad, but turns out I don’t have
time for lunch after all today, is that okay?”

“That’s fine. Call me later. But
I’m
famished,” Matilda said. She stood to hug her harried companion goodbye.

I could feel the relief and the vexation coursing through Pauline. She had gotten
the booklet back, but she knew that it had released some of its secrets somewhere,
to someone, and it seemed she couldn’t wait to leave. After their quick embrace, she
made a dash for the door.

Matilda folded back down into her chair, as relaxed as a cat settling into a sun patch.
I looked around the restaurant. It was about three o’clock, and the place was almost
empty. My shift would be over soon.