Instant Love (16 page)

“Hon? Can you top this off?” Joey pointed to his coffee mug one morning. “And can you take your top off while you’re at it?” He said it in this very controlled voice, as if he were as entitled to nudity as he was to coffee. And then he followed it with one of his gigantic smiles and a slow, easy wink. Maggie looked into his eyes and held the look.

His tablemate, a vice president at his father’s gigantic frozen-food corporation, almost did a spit take with his water, and then started laughing heartily. “Aw, leave her alone, Joey. Don’t you know better than to mess with the girl holding the hot coffee?”

Maggie could feel every nerve ending in her body cutting into her skin.

“Anytime, Mr. Pollack.”

Joey clucked his tongue and shook his head. Maggie imagined the top of his head was swelling and turning pink.

“Just give me some more coffee, all right, kid?”

Maggie poured his coffee, and walked back to the wait station. She filled the saltshakers. She bit at her thumbnail. She stood, she stewed, she waited. As tee times grew closer, a wave of heads checked their watches and then popped their heads up and made eye contact with Maggie. Then they drew little check marks in the air with their hands, or scribbled an imaginary bill on their palms, or mouthed the word “check” and raised their eyebrows. Maggie floated across the room, delivering bills to all the husbands and fathers who had come to her for sustenance. Three dollars, five dollars, ten. It didn’t matter how much, there would be no cash exchanging hands, just a signature, an agreement to cover their financial responsibility. It almost made it feel like the meal was imaginary.

In the center of the room, Joey and his tablemate jawed some more, then slugged the rest of their coffee. Joey motioned for the check. His friend rose and left the table, headed for the men’s room in the front lobby.

“You’re being a little saucy today, aren’t you?” said Joey, as Maggie flipped through her stack of checks.

“You’re a little saucy every day,” she replied. She found his check, slapped it on the table, held it there with her fingertips. “Aren’t I allowed to play, too?” She tasted the tang of bile coming up from her stomach to her throat; flirting with him was literally making her sick.

“You can play, you can play,” he said. He paused, then said, “See you out there,” to another member as he walked past and nodded at him. “What time you done here?”

Deep breath. “Ten,” she said.

“You want to go for a drive?”

Never get in a stranger’s car. Was he a stranger?

“Sure.”

At the end of her shift, Eugene caught her at the time clock.

“Maggie Stoner, in the office, please,” he said.

His suit was light brown and his tie was bright bloodred and had little horses on it. All she could do was look at the tie. That tie sucked.

“Maggie, Maggie, Maggie.” He tapped his fingers on his desk. “How do I say this? While I have heard only good feedback from the members as of late, I’m concerned you might be developing inappropriate feelings or relationships with some of them. I watched you today, and it was like you were almost leering at them or something. And I don’t know
what
you were talking to Mr. Pollack about for so long, but he’s a married man, with children. We don’t want people talking, dear.”

Maggie sat quietly. How much she wanted to slice that tie right off his neck and stuff it in his mouth.

“Eugene.” She stopped herself. “Eugene.” She laughed. “Eugene. I really hate your stupid fucking tie.”

And then she got up and walked out the door. She had only a little time to get ready for her date.

IT
’
S BECAUSE I
said we should start thinking about having children, isn’t it? That’s why you’re telling me this story, says Robert.

Yes, Maggie thinks. Why would I want to bring children into this world?

No, of course not, she says.

She twists the ring, the gigantic diamond ring, around her finger, loosens it from her flesh. Underneath is a white band of skin, one freckle in the center of it. A marker. You are here.

MAGGIE WORE
so much baby pink lipstick it was all she could smell, waxy and sweet. She had rubbed some of it into her cheeks, too. Her hair was combed straight, the barrettes securely fastened. The razors were in her pocket. She had taken one out, and rubbed her finger against it as she walked through the parking lot, searching for Joey Pollack Jr. in a sea of BMWs.

Finally, in the last aisle, in the last spot, she saw him, snug in his front seat. He was wearing aviator sunglasses. He smiled when he saw her, unlocked the door, motioned for her to open it. When she did, a blast of air-conditioning pushed against her and a rash of goose pimples flooded her arm. A Phil Collins song was playing loudly; a ballad about star-crossed lovers, sung with earnestness. The car smelled like smoke. She didn’t know he was a smoker. No, it wasn’t cigarette smoke, it was too sweet for that. It was pot. Maggie took a big inhale, but felt nothing.

“Hey,” he said. “How’s it hanging, little lady?”

“Are you high?” she said.

“Why? You want some?”

“I was just wondering.” She leaned forward, shoved her hands in her pocket, felt for the razor, stretched her hand down her thigh until her finger hit metal.

“This is kind of weird,” he said.

“Why?”

“Well, this is my wife’s car. Mine is in the shop.”

Maggie squinted at him.

“Never mind,” he said. “So what are we doing here?”

“What do you want to do?”

“I think you know.” He rubbed his hand on his crotch a few times, back and forth, until he was hard, the fabric of his pants stretching up toward the dashboard. “I want you to suck it.”

“Let me see it.”

He reached for his fly, unzipped it, and unfolded his penis. It was thick and dark, except for the bell-shaped tip, which was pink. “Come on, kiss it.”

“Show me all of it.”

He puffed up his chest, sucked in his stomach, wrestled with his belt. The sound of metal on metal. Then he popped open the button of his golf pants, hoisted himself up slightly, and struggled with his pants until they were down almost to his knees, the fabric bunched up underneath his thighs on the car seat.

His balls are so hairy, thought Maggie.

I’m playing for keeps,
sang Phil Collins.

Hand in pocket, hand on blade, head to thighs, lips to thighs.
I’m in too deep,
he sings. Mouth bites thigh, mouth and head move up together, mouth surrounds him, takes it in.

“That’s right, take it all in,” says Joey.

Hand in pocket, hand on blade. A full mouth. Hand out of pocket, hand in air, hand on thigh. Flick finger on edge. Flick, flick, flick.

Then slash, not too deep, don’t hurt him, just let him know, you’re there.

Ding-dong, I’m here.

At first he didn’t know he was bleeding, but then, oh boy, he knew.

“What the fuck?”

He pushed her head, and she hit the steering wheel. She pulled up straight, wiped her mouth, and then bolted out of the car, away, away, run away toward home, do it fast, do it now. She saw the blood for only a moment, a huge swipe of it, like someone had painted it on his thigh.

She made it home, running, a running waitress, she was certain she was a punch line to a joke. Through the front door, past the mirror in the foyer, and then she stopped. There was blood on her cheek. It looked kind of cool, but she wiped it off. Into the kitchen, where her father sat at the kitchen table, coffee cup to his right,
New York Times
arts section spread before him, the op-ed section waiting in reserve.

“Dad.” She sat down next to him and began to weep.

“What’s going on? Calm down, calm down.” He put his hand on her shoulder and began to rub it.

“I think I’m going a little insane this summer. I’m being fucked up. I’m sorry.”

He took her into his arms. “Shh,” he said. “It’s going to be OK. If there’s anything I can handle, it’s this.” He smiled, he hugged her. His poor, pretty, crazy daughter. He was going to make everything better.

IT WAS ACTUALLY
the only time he was ever cool to me in my entire life, she says. He got me a plane ticket to Europe and gave me a bunch of money. I went and found Holly and spent the rest of the summer backpacking with her.

Yes, a father helping his fugitive daughter flee from justice, says Robert; his tone ripens quickly to condescending. Very cool.

He didn’t know I was fleeing. No one ever came looking for me. He just thought I was freaking out. And then he threw some cash at me to make it go away, and you know what? That really does work. You should know that by now.

You’re mean, says Robert.

Only sometimes, says Maggie. And only a little part of me.

Let me introduce you, she thinks. Here I am.

T
here are three things you need to know about Kong,” Bill told Christina. “And if you follow them, everything should work out perfectly. First, don’t ever look him in the eye, at least not now. He’ll view it as a challenge. Wait till you get to know him first. It’ll take a while, probably a month. But in the meantime: no eye contact. Second, don’t touch him. He really doesn’t like affection. Occasionally I’ll give him a nice pat on the back, but that’s me, and I’m the leader around here. He might nip at you or growl, so just keep your distance for the time being. And third, don’t ever show fear to him, not for a second. Because the minute you do that, he knows he’s won, and he’ll bully you for the rest of the summer.”

Christina eyed Kong as he was held by Bill, who while nearing sixty, was still fit enough to handle a 150-pound dog. A slight growl hovered in the dog’s throat, as if he were on the verge of releasing it into a full-force bark. From the side of his mouth a tiny strand of drool dangled, also seemingly poised for something more disastrous. Otherwise he was a beautiful dog; thick, chocolate brown fur, golden around the eyes and paws, wide paws that reminded her of a lion’s, and a determined snout. His eyes barreled deep into his head; two shiny black stones that looked like they’d be perfect for skipping.

“Aw, he doesn’t look so bad,” said Christina, and she reached her hand out to pet his head. Kong lunged forward, and Bill pulled back on his collar, his fingers digging into his palm tightly.

“Christina, please! You have to listen to what I’m saying. Kong is not to be toyed with. Got it?” He looked down, pissed off, and then up again with a smile. “I didn’t mean to scare you, dear. I’m sorry. I just want this to be perfect for you.”

“No, I got it. I got it. Don’t look, don’t touch, don’t show fear.”

“Oh, and if you can talk to him sometimes in a high, feminine voice?” Bill shifted his rich, deep voice into an imitation of an excited teen girl. “He likes that, I think. Don’t you, Kong?”

Kong’s tongue dropped from his mouth, and his ears perked.

“I can like, totally try,” said Christina, imitating one of her Introduction to Comp Lit students from first semester, a young woman who always greeted her friends with an urgency and enthusiasm one usually reserved for wedding announcements or job promotions, not compliments on the color of a new blouse.

Kong barked at her, and Bill soothed him again.

“You know what? Don’t do the high-pitched voice. Maybe he doesn’t like it on you.”

“No high-pitched voice. Check.” Christina clenched the handle of her purse. I could make a run for it now, she thought. My suitcase is still in the car, and my backpack is right by the front door.

Bill pulled the dog out of the front room and onto the patio, next to a clear, chemically treated, full-length pool. He locked the sliding door that separated the patio and the front room, and mumbled, “You have to lock it or he breaks in.

“It’s going to be fine, I promise. This is going to be just what you need.” He put his hand to her face, ran his tan, spotted hand along her jawline, then up to her ear. He squeezed her lobe with his thumb and forefinger. “Allow me to give you what you need,” he said.