14 Stories (17 page)

“But I don't feel like it.”

“Rub him,” he tells her.

She rubs me. Nothing happens.

“When he doesn't want to he can't,” she says. “I know him.”

He grabs me. Rubs me. Nothing happens. He puts it in his mouth, the knife against my penis. Nothing happens. “What do you expect?” I say. “It's impossible. Nothing, you see?”

“If I didn't have the knife it wouldn't be nothing,” he says.

“Then put away the knife,” I say.

“You do what I did,” he tells her. He gets up, holds the knife to her neck. She does it. Nothing happens. He rubs me while she's doing it. Nothing.

“Say nice things to him,” he says.

“Tony, I love you. Tony, I love it. This. What we're doing. What I'm doing. Do it. Get big. I want you to make love to me. I'm going to do it again now, so get big.”

She does it. Nothing happens. “It's impossible,” I say.

“It's impossible,” she says. “Believe him.”

“If you don't get that thing going I'm going to cut it off,” he says to me.

“I'll try.” I concentrate. Nothing. “Maybe it will. Wait.”

“Get hard,” she says. “He'll kill you if you don't. Then he'll kill me. Put your mind to it.”

I concentrate. I shut my eyes. Nothing. “I'm sorry,” I say to him. “I can't. But don't do anything rough. Maybe I can. Just wait.”

“Don't do anything to Tony,” she says. “We were nice. We did what you asked. We won't make any charges against you to the police. We won't even call them.”

“Bull,” he says.

“You're right,” she says. “Of course we'll call them. But don't do anything now. Tie us up. Then leave.”

“I want to do it once more,” he says. “Four's my lucky number. Not my lucky, just a good number. And I've never done it four times in a row in so short a time. And I feel cheated. That one with him doesn't count. So I haven't even got my three yet. And three's my minimum. The absolute must. And I can't get big either. Make me big,” he says to her. “Do what you can.” She tries. “Everything.” She tries everything she used to do to me. Nothing happens. “Both of you try on me.” We both try. Things I've never done before. Knife at her neck. Nothing happens though. He stays the same way. “You're both screw-ups,” he says. He stands up. “You come with me.” She stands up. “You stay there,” he tells me. I stand up. “I said stay.”

I walk towards him. He has the knife at her back. I bend down and stretch under the bed and get the table leg. “I don't care about her life anymore,” I say. “I just want to beat your brains in.”

“Bull,” he says.

“Tony, drop the club.”

I drop it.

“You didn't mean what you said,” he says. “Too bad. It would have been nice sticking it in her and then pulling it out quick and fighting you off with a couple of feints and slices or two and then sticking it in you. Maybe not nice. But different. And I could do that. I'm ready. I hope you believe that. Sure you do. And I'm very very good with this knife. So maybe you should try,” he says to me. “Come on. Pick up your club and try and get me.”

“Don't, Tony.”

I don't. “I wasn't going to hit you with it anyway,” I say to him. “Just go. Leave us alone.”

“No, come on,” he says. “If you don't come at me with the club I'm going to stick the knife in Della's neck.”

“No.” I sit on the bed.

“You want me to stick it in her neck?”

“No.”

“Where then?”

“No place. All I want is for you to go.”

“Just stay there like that, Tony,” she says. “This will be over soon. Or in an hour. Or a day. Then it'll be over. But you're being smart. Even if he knifes me don't attack him and risk your life. Only attack him if he comes after you. But now just leave him alone. He'll eventually go.”

“Don't be too sure,” he says. “Come on, big boy, come try to get me with the club.”

I lie on the bed, head on the pillow, arms over my chest.

“Then I'm going to put it in her back or neck.”

“Please don't,” she says.

“Even if you do, it'll be her neck and she'll be dead. So what's the sense of risking my life for her as she said?”

“Because you'll have a better chance to come get me and beat me over the head in the time I stick it in her neck and try and pull it out to get you. You have to think like that.”

“That makes sense,” I say. I stand up.

“Sit down,” she says. “Lie down, Tony.”

I lie down.

“You two are just no fun,” he says. He gets dressed. “Don't move,” he tells her. “Just stand by my side.” He sits down. “Put my socks and shoes on and tie them tight” She does that. “All your money now,” he says, “and his.” She collects it with him following her right behind. “Now walk me to the door. And you stay in bed or try and come after me with or without the club,” he yells at me.

“Stay in bed, Tony,” she says.

They go to the door. I can't see them. “Now kiss me goodbye,” he says.

“Oh stop the crap already and go,” she says.

“You're right. You're much smarter than him. Who needs a kiss? Kiss him. He needs it.” He opens the door and goes.

We don't have a phone. I go next door to call the police. Della says “I'm going to take a shower for an hour and don't want to be bothered by anyone,” and goes into the bathroom. The police come. “Come out when you can,” I yell into the bathroom. She comes out. Lots of questions from the police. We tell them everything. One policeman says to Della “You should go straight to a doctor.” She says “No, I'm okay. I can take care of myself.” We go to the police station and answer more questions and look at photos. None are of him. I say to the police we're exhausted. They say sure. We go home. That evening a circular from our police precinct is pasted on the mailbox in the vestibule and slipped under every tenant's door. It's a warning about that man today who's been raping and robbing women in their apartments in the neighborhood lately. It has a good description of him, ours along with others. Several different outfits and hats. The outfit and hat he wore today are there. The circular says he gets into the apartments mostly by telling the woman over the downstairs intercom that he's a delivery boy from a local florist with a box of flowers for her.

“Did he tell you on the intercom he was a florist delivery boy with a box of flowers for you?” I ask her.

“No, at the door.”

I meet Ann on the street. At first I don't recognize her. Woman yelling “Dave?” I look. Car's coming too. We're both in the crossing and car's not going to stop. I immediately see she's pregnant and not going to move except maybe at the last moment and I pull her by the elbow closer to the sidewalk and then on it and let her go and she says “You remember me.”

“You almost got yourself killed just now.”

“I know, that was stupid and thanks, but you remember me. Ann from the street.”

Now I know. She's much darker, has pink-tinted prescriptions on, hair cut shorter but covering most of her forehead when before it was brushed straight back, face thinner, pregnant, looks much different. “Sure. How are you?”

“Fine, and you?” Puts out her hand and we shake.

“Okay. And Ryan?”

“Couldn't be better. He's writing movies now, very big-time stuff in Hollywood. Everything seems to have worked out. But what about you, beyond being okay?”

“Things seem to have worked out there too. Three books in two years have been published and a fourth's due in June.”

“Fabulous. We did get a postcard from you about something about it.”

“That was about my first and second. I just finished my fifth and also a play the other day. That's why I didn't recognize you, and am surprised you did me. My eyes are a little tired. Celebrated the end of the play last night and had too much to drink.”

“You just had plenty, not too much. You deserved it I guess if you finished a play. It's a long one?”

“Over full-length. That your second?” pointing to her stomach.

“First.”

“Perry from the street told me so long ago that you were pregnant that it almost seems as if it could be your second.”

“Perry was the first to hear, that's why.”

“When—” I start to say and she says “End of November.”

She looks so great, thin, belly barely a bulge though end of November's only a couple of months away, less—but she goes on. “How's your sister?”

“Great. Moved to L.A. California's changed her life she says.”

“And her son?”

“Doing great too.”

“How old is he now?”

“Almost thirteen.”

“Thirteen?” She can't believe it. “I remember when—”

“On his scooter.”

“Up and down the block. Once under someone's legs. He was always so frisky. Thirteen. Must be pretty big.”

“He's getting there.” I'm starting to feel depressed. Maybe from last night's drinking, which made my body today a little upset. But Ryan and Ann have been married for about ten years and have a child coming, which could make me depressed. She's so happy. And more beautiful than ever, maybe from the baby, and kind, warm, intelligent, the rest. Instead I'm by myself, no woman, no child, no past marriage, nothing like that, and no prospects, in two small rooms, and where all my relationships with women over the past fifteen years have been failures after the first few months or a year, while theirs has obviously flourished, not just stayed intact. I've seen them during the last few years eating behind restaurant patio windows in the neighborhood, laughing and gabbing and holding hands. Seen them once or twice kiss each other affectionately on the street and one time a year ago or so passionately goodbye as he was getting in a cab with hand baggage and a typewriter, though at the time I was involved with a woman and doing the same things on the street and behind patio windows but not to someone I've been with for years. But she goes on.

“Then you make a living writing now?”

“Just about, but I keep my living small. Still working?”

“Right to the end. I help edit a magazine.”

“Oh yeah, which one?”

“You wouldn't know it—we don't accept short stories. A trade one for beauticians and their shops. It's good work, different, only twenty hours a week, so for me perfect Anything longer—”

“Wait, you were doing…”

“Hospital research.”

“I thought physical-therapy work.”

“Research, on hospital medical records, then writing reports on it. So the two professions aren't too dissimilar, editing and before, if that's what you meant.”

“No, I was just remembering you in your white hospital suit—”

“They made us wear it for some reason. Cleanliness. Show. Something, not that I minded. It made me feel like a doctor.”

“Every morning, while I was on my way to sub in junior high schools, you biking down the block on your way to work.”

“Now I just walk across the park three days a week. See? Perfect.” Her face. Darkened by the sun. Looks recent. They had a long vacation someplace, maybe overseas, Greece, but some beach, probably L.A. Black hair cut prettily over her face, well done. Everything well done. Nice voice. Real poise. Beautiful smile. Five years younger than I or thereabouts. I wish I'd met someone like her ten-fifteen years ago. It'd be the same I think. I'd still love her, she me. And to have a baby in November would be perfect after ten­fifteen years of those kind of years. I don't make anywhere near what Ryan must with his films, nor could afford the brownstone duplex they bought in the area a few years ago, according to Perry, but it would've worked out. Our surroundings would've been cosier. In three rooms instead of my two. More my style. She would've stayed close. Helped and comforted me, given me warmth, body to hold almost every night when I was drifting into sleep, something I need and love. Things I'd have given her as much of if not more. Baby husband love warmth comfort body, same person all those years and happy with it. Memories shared and made the most of. All that. Would've been great. What I want but it's almost too late for that now isn't it? I want it to have happened and still to be living through it. Now it'd take years. It won't work. I've just about proven myself a loser with personal relationships. My last was disastrous. One before that almost worse. Before that only a little better. On and on back. Most women I'm now interested in say I can barely talk to them anymore. That my lovemaking's become too rushed. That I've really lost the touch. That I'm too settled in my ways. That I ought to just have affair after affair and be satisfied with that for the next twenty years or till I tire of them and then have nothing but my work. So why do I think now I could've had something like that with someone like Ann ten-fifteen years ago or even twenty? Luck at an early stage in my relationships, that's why. Plain luck.

“Well, it's been fun chatting,” she says. “I'll tell Ryan I saw you.”

“Do, and give him my best.”

We shake hands, mine out first. I look into her eyes to catch the color of them. Can't because of the glasses except that they're dark. I've recently found I can be with a woman for months before I realize I don't know the color of her eyes except if they're startlingly blue. I drop her hand and she turns to go. “The bike,” I yell.

Bike almost clips her as she crosses the street. Bike passes without slowing down. “Watch where you're going next time,” I yell after it.

“She should've been watching out for me,” cyclist yells back.

Ann's turned around to me, shoulders humped as if to say how dumb she was not to see the bike, waves, goes. I watch her from behind. She's got an Ace bandage around her right calf. Maybe it goes all the way up to her thigh. As a support I suppose because of the weight of the baby or leg veins or reasons I know nothing about. Continues to walk. Her hair flops. Her shoes are flat. Her dress is black, shirt blue. It isn't a dress but something like a pinafore or whatever it's called with two straps over the shoulder that button right on top of the shoulder knobs and very loose over her body, also because of the baby perhaps, black probably because of the baby too. So she won't look that pregnant, so the bulge won't show that much. It worked. She walks. Is so pretty. Voice face smile niceness kindness lovingness warmth. I picture her coming home to me. Standing there on the sidewalk my eyes still following her, I do. I'm writing. She puts a key in the lock, then the next. I hear her and run to the door. My room would have to be somewhere near the front on the first floor. I open the door same time she does, key still in the lock. She laughs. She might say “You almost pulled my arm off.” “I wouldn't do that,” I'd say, “I love that hand and arm too much.” All of this is too much perhaps but I'd say it, I've said it, and kiss that hand and maybe go right up her arm with my lips and take the key out of the lock for her and give it to her and then kiss her neck and mouth. I'd hold and hug her. Maybe not too hard because of the bulge. It'd be our apartment alone and I might say to her then “Let's go to bed.” She might even agree. Seemed like nothing pressing for her now, probably not a workday. She didn't have any packages when I met her so she wouldn't, if she doesn't pick up any on the way home, have anything to put down. I could even lift her up and carry her but that might scare her so I don't think I would. Later she might say or before we get to bed that she met someone I know on the street. I'd say “Who?” and she'd say “You. I said I'd give you your regards. No, you said to give your best and I said I'd tell you I saw you on the street.”