Looking for Mr. Goodbar (19 page)

Instead she shrugged, “I guess.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“No.”

“Next Saturday?”

She hesitated, not because she couldn’t, of course, but because she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

“All right,” she finally said. “But you’d better call during the week, just to make sure.” He agreed that he would call her on Wednesday or Thursday and wrote down her phone number. Then he said good night and left.

She wasn’t at all
ready for sleep. She started to get undressed but then it seemed ridiculous when the sleepiness from the drinks had worn off and she was feeling strangely high and restless. She had carried a couple of fairly heavy cartons from the supply room to her classroom the day before and been aware since then of feeling a slight strain in her back. She’d forgotten about it but now it seemed to return, making her want to lie down flat while the rest of her craved to keep moving. She took some aspirin, put her coat back on and left the house. She walked over to Fourteenth and then across, sort of thinking she’d go to Corners because she hadn’t been there in a while. But then on impulse she walked up Third, stopping in front of a place called Luther’s that looked crowded enough to be comfortable. You could walk right in and walk right out, which was important because she’d once again taken only her keys. She stood outside for a moment. Two couples came out, glanced at her without interest and continued on their way. She took a deep breath and went in, pretending to be looking for someone, walking around the bar, then looking at the tables in the back as though she were supposed to find someone she knew. There wasn’t anyone of course. Slowly she made her way back past the bar, still looking. Luther’s was darker and lusher than Corners, with dark wood and almost everything else red.

“Lookin’ for me?”

She smiled before she even saw him because she knew she wouldn’t have to go home.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Who you?”

He was a punk but a cute one. Very Italian, with dark hair and dark eyes. He wasn’t much taller than she was but he had broad shoulders and a narrow torso and the air of a kid who’d had to fight for space to grow up.

“Tony Lopanto,” he said. “Pleased to meetcha.” Cocky-insecure.

She nodded.

“Glass of wine?”

“Are you from the Bronx?”

“No,” he said. “Queens. Are you?”

“No,” she said. “I never even heard of the Bronx before.”

He looked puzzled for a moment but then he laughed.

“Hey, that’s pretty good. I dig that.”

The bartender brought them their wine.

“What’s your name, hon?” He was very tense. His fingers drummed the bar and his body moved to the Rod Stewart song on the jukebox. Serenely she told him that her name was Sonya Irini Katerina Henikoff.

“You’re kidding,” he said, laughing uncertainly.

“I’m not, as a matter of fact,” she said. “But you don’t have to call me the whole thing. I just tell it to people because I like to watch them groove on it. My friends call me Sonny.”

“You Russian?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Are you?”

“What are you, kidding?” he asked—that puzzled look again, followed by a laugh as he realized that she was. She wasn’t a nut, she was kidding.

“You’re pretty funny, y’know? I like you.”

“Good,” she said, finishing the first glass of wine. “I’m glad you like me because only people who like me are allowed to buy me wine and I’m ready for another glass.”

He finished his own and signaled for two more.

“You better watch out,” he said. “Red wine makes me horny as hell.”

“Okay,” she said, clinking her glass against his. “I’ll watch out.”

“Hey,” he said, “you’re a doll. Did I tell you that already?”

“I don’t remember.”

“This friend of mine came in with me before,” Tony said. “You should’ve seen the dog he took home.”

She was briefly taken aback by his appraisal.

“Don’t you like dogs?”

“No, I mean—” He laughed. “Yeah, I get it. Yeah, I like dogs, but this was supposed to be a
girl.
I kept telling him, ‘Forget it, pal, pass it up, something better’ll turn up.’ ” He grinned at her with satisfaction. She was silent, feeling a mixture of emotions from attraction to disdain. How old was he? Maybe not much more than twenty, twenty-two or three at the most. She was too young to be an older woman, surely. She was amused. But beyond all these gentle wine-diluted emotions was amazement at her own distance from them. She could see herself—as though she were both Gulliver and one of the Lilliputians—leaving Luther’s with this dopy kid, careening home with him, making fun of him, giggling with him, screwing. Suddenly she laughed, but it was a strange laugh that came from somewhere beneath where the wine soothed her. It unsettled her.

“What’s so funny now?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You still on the dogs? You got it into your head I really hate dogs?”

She giggled.

“Let me tell you something sweetheart,” he shouted over the jukebox. “Sonya! Onya! I
love
dogs. The only thing I love better than dogs is horses.”

“Horses,” she said. “I’ve heard of them.”

“Aw,” he said disgustedly, “maybe we should forget this whole conversation. You don’t wanna talk to me, you just wanna give me the business.”

She became instantly, genuinely contrite. “Tony, Tony, no, love, you’re wrong. I’m not making fun of you. No, that’s not true.
I mean, I’m making fun of both of us. It’s that it’s my nature—I’m a clownfish!”

He stared at her, sure now that she was crazy.

“I mean, I joke a lot. It’s not about you, it’s not about anyone. I joke when I’m depressed. It’s just what I
do.
”

“What’re you so depressed about?” he asked, almost willing to go along. You could see him fighting with himself to believe her so he could keep wanting to lay her.

“I don’t know,” she said. “That’s what the joking’s for. It makes me forget.”

He watched her suspiciously, his desire for conquest making him want to believe she wasn’t getting off at his expense. Some tiny unwelcome pin of intelligence pricking him with the knowledge she had to be. Desire won.

He laughed, “The wine don’t hurt either.”

“No, love,” she said. “The wine don’t hurt either.”

He turned out to
be a delightful, tender and energetic lover, although he had to have music on the whole time, preferably hard rock at top volume. She laughed when he was fucking her in tune to Chicago and said she hadn’t known what hard rock really meant until now, but he was totally into the music and the fucking and he ignored her. That was fine.

He didn’t come until what seemed like hours had passed, although he would rest inside her when the music was interrupted by the disc jockey’s voice. When he finally did come it was more like a loss of energy than a climax; he just collapsed inside her and became so still she thought he was asleep. But when she got uncomfortable and tried to move out from under him he readily rolled over onto his back and apologized for having to stop for a while. She smiled; now she was peering at him in the darkness to see if
he
was kidding. No.

“Do you mind if I turn down the radio a little?” she asked.

“Nah,” he said, “you can turn it off altogether.”

But a moment later he reached out and turned it back on.

“I’m sleepy,” she murmured.

“The radio bother you?” he asked.

“Can you sleep with it on?” she asked.

He laughed shortly. “I don’t sleep either way.”

“No kidding,” she said. “How long have you been not sleeping?”

“What difference does it make?”

“I was just curious.”

“Since I was in the Army.” Almost sullenly. “I sleep an hour or two in the morning.”

“Were you in Vietnam?” she asked.

“Where do you
think
I was? Palm Beach?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I won’t ask any more questions.”

“Ah, that’s okay,” he said. “I shouldn’t of jumped on you. Here, c’mere, you wanna feel something?” He took her hand and guided it to his thigh, running her fingers up and down the skin until she became aware of a scattering of small hard fragments right under it. He’d been soaked with sweat before but now his skin was cool and smooth.

“That’s shrapnel,” he said.

“Why didn’t they take it out?”

“They only get the big pieces.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No. Stop talking about it.”

“Okay.” But she went under the covers to kiss his thigh all over where the shrapnel was. His whole body was rigid. She kissed his other thigh, played with his penis, which was getting hard again, kissed the hair all around it until he pulled her up and they made love again.

“You like that, huh?” he said when she moaned.

She was exhausted. She
was sure it was close to morning although it was still dark. The music was bad enough but the artificial high of the disc jockey’s voice grated on her ears like chalk on a blackboard.

“Listen,” she said, “I have to sleep.”

“Okay.”

She turned off the radio. He got out of bed and began to get dressed.

“Do you
want
to leave?” she asked.

“Might as well,” he said. “Catch a little shuteye. An hour, maybe.”

“You don’t take very good care of yourself.”

“Cut it out,” he said. “I’m not a kid.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No,” he said. “I’m twenty-seven. I done my time. I’m no kid.” He sat down on the edge of the bed with his shoes.

“You look younger.”

“So?”

“Nothing. You’re so touchy, all of a sudden.”

“I’m always touchy. It just shows more when I’m tired.”

“You have a right to be tired.”

He glanced at her to make sure she wasn’t teasing. Allowed himself a smile when he saw she was flattering him.

“What kind of work do you do?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stood up, stretched and jogged a little in space as though he were warming up for a match. He took something small from the floor, she couldn’t see what it was, and stuck it inside his shoe or his sock.

“You going to walk home?” She was curious to know where he lived. Not that it mattered. She didn’t expect to see him again and she wasn’t going to let herself care.

He laughed. “To Brooklyn?”

“I guess not.”

He said, “Write down your phone number.” She wrote it on
the pad near the phone, gave him the page. He kissed her on the forehead and headed for the door.

“Don’t you want my name, too?”

“I won’t forget it,” he said. “Sonya, Moanya.”

“No, my real one.”

“Cunt.”

Silence.

“Okay,” he said. “Shoot.”

“Theresa,” she said.

“I should’ve known,” he said.

“Theresa Dunn,” she said.

“Irish cunt,” he said. “I’ll call ya, Irish.”

On Monday night he
called and they agreed that he would come over around ten thirty Wednesday night, after work. On Wednesday night she was so eager to see him that she could hardly contain herself and ate constantly from the time she came home until eight thirty, when James Morrisey called. When he told her his name she couldn’t place it for a moment; she hadn’t thought about him since she’d seen him.

“Oh,” she finally said. “Hi.” Wishing Tony were there.

“Are you having a good week?” James asked.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Definitely.”

“Good,” he said. “So am I.” He started telling her about an interesting case he was working on with one of the partners but she was barely listening. Her juices were running; she couldn’t wait for Tony, she might jump out of her skin if he didn’t come on time. On time! Another hour and a half! How could she bear it? She would listen to James for a while. James was explaining that the lawyer he was working with was a very strong trial lawyer whose weakness was that he couldn’t write a brief, which was why he, James, had been called upon. This was his strong point, while he had little trial experience.

“I can’t see you as a trial lawyer,” she said.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because I can’t see you giving an impassioned plea to a jury,” she said, wondering why she was being rotten again.

“You’re thinking in stereotypes.”

“True.”

“That’s not fair to me.”

“Why should I want to be fair to you?” Waiting for him to hang up on her because she was being such a shit. Half sorry that he must be about to write her off, because he was pretty smart, after all, and he liked her, and how often did she get to go out on a proper date, to dinner, say, and a movie?

“What would you like to do on Saturday night?” he asked after a long pause.

“I don’t know,” she said. It was funny the way she was measuring herself out. She had to measure her breath into the telephone in order not to give herself away. It had nothing to do with him, anyway.

“Do you have any preference?”

“I can’t think about it right now,” she said. “My mind’s somewhere else.”

“All right,” he said. “Then I’ll just think of what I like and hope it’ll be all right with you.”

“Okay.”

She tried doing school
work but couldn’t concentrate. She tried reading and then watching TV. She’d wanted to save a bath for the last half hour of waiting but now it seemed the only thing to do was to soak for a while. She’d bought a bottle of red wine but she didn’t want to break into it; it occurred to her that she really should keep a bottle of Scotch or something in the house. A drink right now would be nice.

She had to force herself to stay in the tub for an hour, at the
end making up a new fantasy in which she and Tony were making love under water in some position that was at once graceful and passionate when Brooks, having missed her friendship since she’d moved, dropped in and was transfixed, not only by the beauty of the scene but by this new view of her.

Later she got into jeans and a sweater and waited for Tony. Ten thirty came, and then eleven and she gradually decided he wasn’t coming. The tension left and its space was filled with a quiet misery, which was maybe just as well because when he finally came she was reasonably relaxed.