Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil (88 page)

She nodded. Inside, she twisted away from me to face the window while leaning her head against the crook of my shoulder. Her right arm rested on my thigh. I was wearing beige Bermuda shorts. Her fingers lightly stroked my skin above the knee, playing with the hairs. Against her elbow, she could feel my excitement at her touch.

Going crosstown in the seventies we stopped at a red light. She sat up, turned, held my face with both her hands, and kissed me again, parting her lips slightly. Then she resumed her place, fingers petting me. And it was just like being petted—the languid touch of an owner.

We were crossing Central Park when I said softly, “How long have you been having an affair with Jack?”

Her fingers closed on my thigh, not tight, more like holding on. We were out of the park before she answered with a question. “Do you care?”

“I’m not jealous, if that’s what you mean.”

She sat up and opened her purse. We were half a block from her building. “Sure you are,” she said with good humor.

“I’ll get this,” I said.

“No,” she took out money, told the driver which was her awning, and said to me, “I told you. I don’t fall in love. So there’s nothing to be jealous about.”

I got out first, holding the door while she paid the cabby. At the corner I saw a trio of teenagers scatter. A moment later a trash can blew up. Or at least, it rattled and fell over, a cloud of smoke floating across the pavement.

“What was that?” Halley said, popping out of the taxi.

“A cherry bomb. I hope.”

“Let’s get inside,” she said, taking my arm and pretending to run as we entered the building. We discussed the rowdy gangs of kids with the doorman on our way to the elevator. He was saying something about them losing fingers and hands if they weren’t careful when the doors closed.

“Were you guessing about Jack?” Halley asked with a playful smile. “Or did you really know?”

“You were comfortable with him.” I watched our ascent on the bank of lights. Eleven. Twelve. Fourteen—it was a superstitious building. “You’re not really comfortable with a man unless you’re having sex with him.” At fifteen a faint bell rang and we stopped. The door opened. I put my back against it and made way for her.

Halley stared for a moment. She shook her head, then walked out. As she passed me, she commented, “And you say you’re not jealous.”

“How long?” I asked, following her to the end of the hallway, the corner apartment.

“We’re not having an affair. There was a …” she searched in her purse for a key while also searching for the right word, “… an encounter a few months ago. That’s all.” She found the key and put it in. She asked, “Seriously. How did you know?” She unlocked the door, swung it open, stepped in, then turned back with a sudden worry, “He didn’t tell you?”

“No.” I entered after her, shivering at the refrigerator cold of her air-conditioning. The apartment was a one-bedroom with a sweeping view of Central Park, thanks to the low height of the adjoining building. Two walls of windows, forming the L-shaped living and dining rooms, were unadorned. A round butcher block table stood in the L next to the utility kitchen. A pair of cream-colored couches filled the living area. There was a machine-made Oriental, mostly red, and an old steamer trunk served as a coffee table. Walking around, my sweaty polo shirt chilling me, I was surprised to discover the living room’s rear wall covered by bookcases. There were a few serious works of nonfiction, survivors from college days. Two whole shelves were devoted to plays, from her flirtation with acting. A new group of books on marketing and sales were allotted one shelf, there was a handful of modern novels, as well as a collection of classic and modern romantic fiction, but what fascinated me was that there were three shelves of popular books on self-help and psychology, ranging from New Age inspirationals to my own book on incest. I didn’t have to investigate to find my work. While I answered her question, “I knew because of Jack’s body language. I knew because you used the same nickname for the labs—Geek Heaven. I knew because he pretended in front of his wife that your coming home with me was somehow sexual, which I’m sure he thought was a good cover for him and incidentally gave expression to his genuine jealousy …”

Halley interrupted my monologue by removing a worn edition of my book from the shelves. “It turns out I’ve been a fan of yours for years.” The copy was eight years old, the first paperback edition. “I discovered it after our dinner together. When you told me about your life I had this nagging feeling …” Halley flipped through the pages. “I bought it on an impulse and read it feverishly one weekend. I think I was in college. It’s terrible, isn’t it? You read something you find fascinating and you don’t remember the author’s name.”

My pleasure at her literary praise was almost as keen as from her kiss. I wondered if her aim was also more lethal. “You found the subject of incest fascinating?”

“Well, the way you handled it. I read it again after our dinner. I started it that night and took it with me on a trip. Knowing you were an incest victim yourself, I was really impressed you could come up with those insights.” She wandered away with my book, returning it to the shelves. With her back to me, she continued, “Incredible objectivity. Its truly brilliant,” she said, sliding the book home.

I needed to sit down. I chose the cream-colored couch facing the windows.

“What should I read next?” she asked, moving toward the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Did Gene notice it?” I asked.

“Gene?” she repeated as if she had never heard of him. “Oh, you mean when he was here … No. And he never told me your name, so …” She entered the kitchen, calling, “I’m getting some Evian. Do you want a glass?”

I was thirsty, very thirsty now that I thought about it. “No thanks,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“I’m going to read everything you’ve written,” she said from the kitchen. “Tell you the truth, I’m a little scared of reading about the child abuse cases. They must be so sad.” She appeared with a tall glass of water. She paused in front of me, kicking off her penny loafers. I watched her pale feet. “My father hit my brother once. Just once.” She sat next to me, pulling her legs under her, angling my way. She sipped from her glass and leaned forward to put it on the steamer trunk. The movement opened her dress enough for me to see she wasn’t wearing a bra. And I noticed as well that her breasts didn’t require support. It had been fourteen years since I had been this close to making love to a twenty-six-year-old body, when I was twenty-six myself. The cliché “Youth is wasted on the young” came to mind. I wanted to laugh. “He slapped Mikey once,” Halley was saying. “No big deal, but I burst into tears. My brother didn’t do anything. He sat still, with his cheek turning red. I was inconsolable. Daddy had to buy me a ice cream cone to calm me down.”

“Because you wanted the attention,” I said. “You recognized that your father’s slap was a sign that he cared more about your brother than you.”

Halley leaned back, sitting sideways, facing me, an arm going behind my head. Her body carried some of the odors of our day—the barbecue, the humid streets, the crowded riverbank—and mixed with her perfume. All of her was talking to me: her heat and her longing. The commitment and concentration of the performance was impressive. “Is that what I was doing?” she asked. “I didn’t care about my brother at all?” Her eyes were serious, but a faint smile briefly played on her lips before she settled into a thoroughly earnest pose.

“Why do you and your father avoid each other when you’re in public? I know you’re close. So why the act?”

Halley lowered her eyes, disappointed. The hand behind my head stroked my neck, again a petting touch, and then departed. “Why are you so angry at me?” She looked up with a little girl’s face, lips turned down in a pout, eyes wide and helpless. “Because I’m not sorry enough about Gene?” When I didn’t answer, she looked off toward the book shelves. “I’m not a hypocrite, that’s all. I’m not going to act weepy and say all those fake things people say when someone dies. I liked Gene, but he wanted more than I could give him. I’m not a wife, I’m not a girlfriend. What was I supposed to do, live some kind of lie so he wouldn’t be miserable? He would have been miserable anyway because he’d know it was a lie and he’d never stop pushing me and pushing me until I hated him.”

“You already hated him, didn’t you?”

“That’s really mean.” She returned her attention to me. “Are you being so mean because you like me?”

“I’m in love with you,” I said calmly. “But I’m not being mean and you know it. Gene was annoying you. He had served his purpose and he wouldn’t be disposed of gracefully. That got so annoying you started to hate him. Isn’t that the truth?”

Halley slid closer, her elbow capturing my neck, rising on her knees so she was a little above my head. “Could we go back to what you said before you went back to being mean?” She brought her lips close, eyes on mine, while hers smiled. “Did you say you were in love with me?” She rested her free hand on my thigh, fingers sliding up the lip of my Bermuda shorts. Her fingers were cool from holding the glass.

“Take your dress off,” I said quietly. For a moment, she didn’t react. “Take your dress off,” I repeated. This time her eyes flickered. She moved closer, lips aiming for mine.

I averted my head. Her nose landed awkwardly against my cheek. She made the best of it, resting cheek on cheek, her mouth to my ear. “Let’s go to the bedroom,” she whispered.

“Don’t pretend you need a romantic setting.” I removed the hand that had by now completely infiltrated my shorts and shifted my position away from the arm behind my head, departing also from her cheek and the length of her body. Halley was left alone in the awkward position of aborted seduction—on her knees, facing the wall, embracing air. “Take the dress off,” I said softly.

She frowned, thought about it for a few seconds. Abruptly, she stood up, arms arching to the back of her neck, undoing a clasp and then unzipping. She had to give the dress a tug to loosen it past the tight fit on her hips. Then it dropped suddenly. Breasts glowed white against the tanned skin. Her panties were white so the two zones were fluorescent.

Before she moved back onto the couch, I hooked the front of her panties with my index finger. “This too,” I said and let go. The elastic snapped gently against her flat belly.

She put her hands on her hips, as self-assured naked as clothed. “What about you, fella?”

“We’ll see,” I commented in a bored, almost stern tone. “Hurry up.”

“I’m cold,” she said in a little voice, hands crossing over her belly.

I stood up—I could by now without difficulty or embarrassment—and took her hand. “You need a bath,” I said, towing her through the brief hall and into her bedroom where I assumed the bathroom was located. I was a little amused—though not surprised—to find that her queen-sized bed was girlish: pink bed ruffles, a pair of stuffed animals wedged between pink pillows with lace trim. I released her hand, entered the bathroom alone, flipped on the lights, moved to the tub, sat on its rim, and turned on the hot and cold faucets. I tested the mix until the temperature was as hot as it could be this side of scalding. Resting in the corner were three bottles: shampoo, conditioner, and a pink one—bubble bath for children. I shut the drain, not looking to see what she was up to, and waved for her to enter. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up. You had a messy day.” I didn’t hear a response. I picked up the pink bottle. “You want bubbles tonight?” I asked.

She came up behind me, hands resting on my shoulder. She whispered in my ear, “Yes, Daddy.”

I poured two cupfuls of pink liquid under the faucet’s waterfall. A cloud of suds appeared. I stirred them into the shallow pool already forming in the tub. I shifted to face her. Her panties were at eye level, the deep hole of her navel a Cyclops eye, questioning me. I hooked her panties on both sides, widening them away from her hips. “Let’s
get
out of these.”

She alternated using my shoulders for support as she stepped out of them, first the pale right foot, then the left. The hairs of her pubis were silky and fine, very black against a triangle of bleached skin. One thin wisp ascended up, ending well before the tan line. I brushed the surface lightly with the length of my thumb. “You’re getting to be a big girl,” I said. She watched me with wide innocent eyes.

I stood up, holding her left hand with my right. I tapped her white ass with my free hand. “Okay, step in.”

She tried her right foot, arching up at the first touch of water. “It’s hot,” she complained.

“You’re cold from the air-conditioning. You’ll
get
used to it.” She leaned all her weight on my hand. I nearly staggered, but managed to keep my balance. She immersed all of one foot, saying, “Ow, ow, ow,” while bringing the other in. She stood in the water for a moment. “I’ll make it cooler,” I said, bending forward to adjust the water. “Thanks, Daddy,” she said, coming close to watch me. Her thigh and silky hairs brushed against my cheek.

“It’s cooler now,” I said looking up at her.

She was peering down at her dark left nipple, holding it between her thumb and finger. “It’s hard,” she said.

Lightly, I slapped the back of her hand. “Don’t play with yourself.” She smiled mischievously. “The other isn’t,” she said, gesturing at the soft right nipple.

I cupped water in my palms and bathed a leg. “Mmmmm,” she said. I gathered more and massaged the other with liquid. The bubbles lingered on her thighs. I brushed up toward her black hill, finally cupping it with all the fingers of my left hand, holding her as if it were a handle. “I’m wet inside too,” she said, which was obvious. “Lie down,” I said and eased her backwards into the water, supporting the neck until her head rested against the sloping porcelain. She shut her eyes. I got up.

“You’re going?” she called out in a panic.

“Hush,” I said. I turned off the harsh fluorescent light over the medicine cabinet and the recessed white lamp in the ceiling. From the bedroom window, a square of amber from New York’s street lamps lit her upper half.

I sat on the edge of the tub, gathering bubbles with my fingers and meticulously cleaned her feet, her calves, her thighs, her stomach, her flanks, her underarms, her neck, leaving the best for last. I discovered what was ticklish, what was eager, what liked me to be rough, what liked me to be gentle.