Eye Contact (22 page)

In reaching this plausible understanding of the dilemma that David faces, Manning feels a rush of sympathy for the kid. He wishes he could help assuage the fears that tug at David’s still-young psyche. He also recognizes the sublime irony of these emotions—that he should condescend to pity the golden child from his own enlightened middle-age perspective.

Without a qualm, he returns David’s shoulder hug. In the milling activity of the shop this morning, no one notices the uncharacteristic ease with which Manning has indulged in this minor but public display of affection. No one cares that he has crossed another hurdle in a lifelong race for emotional maturity. No one—least of all David—can appreciate the significance of this exchange.

Waiting in line to pay, Manning says to David, “You were right. It’s been a long drive. If you’d like to take over at the wheel, be my guest.”

Does David want to drive? Needless question. He answers by slipping his fingers into Manning’s pants pocket and extracting the keys. It isn’t time to leave yet, but he wants to hold them in his hand—now. He wants to possess them.

He’ll soon put the keys to use. The couple in front of them load a bag with cheese and trinkets for their trip. They’re college kids, a guy and a girl. He wears an Illinois sweatshirt, knee-length jeans, and sandals with socks. A tattoo, a big one, wraps around his right calf. It looks like an eagle, or maybe an Indian war bonnet, but it’s impossible to be sure, since the whole image cannot be seen from one angle.

David notices Manning eyeing the decorated leg. He turns his head to whisper in Manning’s ear, “Gross, huh?” Manning laughs his agreement.

The man behind the counter finally sends the tattooed student and his companion on their way. Manning and David step forward with their fudge, and Manning reminds the proprietor of the cherries, already parked there. “No tax on the produce,” says the old man, thinking aloud, “but the governor gets five percent on the fudge.” He pulls a figure out of thin air, Manning pays him, and David picks up the brown paper bag, fondling the keys in his other hand.

Outdoors, walking to the car, Manning notes, “It’s a lot cooler up here.” Indeed, the jet stream that’s working its way south toward Chicago has already dipped into Wisconsin, bringing with it drier air and a blue sky without haze. A breeze carries the scent of pine.

David eagerly opens the driver’s door and sits behind the wheel, setting the brown bag in back, on the floor. By the time Manning opens the passenger door for himself, David is busy readjusting the seat, mirrors, and steering wheel. With both authority and childlike anticipation, he inserts the key and turns the ignition. With a whir of the engine and the chiming of various system checks, the car comes to life. David just sits there, both hands stuck to the wheel, savoring a moment he has longed for.

“Whenever you’re ready. …” Manning tells him.

David needs no further prompting. He shifts into drive and steers Manning’s black sedan out of the gravel parking lot and onto the highway. “Awesome,” he says—there’s no other word that suits the experience, and he offers no apology for it.

Any apprehensions Manning felt about letting David drive are soon overcome, and he gets comfortable—for the first time—as a passenger in his own car. He sees that David’s manner behind the wheel is conscientious and mature, revealing a facet of the young man’s personality that Manning might not otherwise have discovered. He glances at his watch. It’s just past ten-thirty. They should arrive in Baileys Harbor within an hour or so. The time will pass agreeably, Manning decides, and he considers the possibility of napping during this last leg of the journey.

Oddly, though, Manning finds he is no longer tired. The cooler weather, the wooded scenery, the ability to relax and not concentrate on the road—all these factors have made him alert and conscious of his surroundings. What’s more, there’s something in the back of his mind that needs attention, some bit of unfinished business. Several miles pass in silence as he mulls the gnawing thought. Damn. He’d like to set it aside, forget it, but he just can’t put a period on it.

“Ah!” he says.

David, startled, looks at Manning, breaking his steady gaze on the road. The car swerves, but its course is quickly righted.

“Sorry,” Manning explains, “but I was trying to think of something. It just came to me.”

“Care to share it?” asks David, eyes ahead.

“Yes, actually. It’s about you. Back in the shop, seeing that guy’s tattooed leg reminded me of a discussion you and I had at the party last Saturday.”

“Oh?” David pretends not to recall it.

“Don’t be coy now. You did your share of teasing that night. We were talking about the popularity of tattoos among young people, and you dismissed the fad as kids’ stuff, informing me that you were ‘into’ something else entirely. If your intention was to tantalize me, you’ve succeeded. So ’fess up. What is it?”

David smiles. He turns just long enough to look Manning in the eye and tells him, “Body piercing.”

“What?” Manning wasn’t prepared for that, not by a long shot. He thought, more than likely, drugs. That’s something David would be reluctant to discuss with an older coworker. If not drugs, then Manning might have guessed some playful but kinky fetish—ladies’ underwear maybe. Well, maybe not. But body piercing? Manning stares at David. There’s no apparent trace of this interest, not even a single dot in his earlobe.

“Where?”

David doesn’t move his eyes from the road. The pause is not a reluctant one, but intended to deliver maximum impact. “Nipples.”

Ouch. “Both?”

David nods. “I had the first one done, the left one, a few years ago, one summer during college. Some of the guys were doing it, and I thought, Why not? It took some getting used to, but I eventually came to like it. More important,
other
people seem to like it. And because they don’t see it till … well, till clothes start coming off, it always brings an element of surprise to the situation.”

“I’ll bet,” says Manning. “Your pierced nipple becomes a conversation piece—something to talk about, like the weather.”

David laughs. “Yeah, you could say that. Anyway, I figured, if this doesn’t work out, it’s easily removed, and the hole eventually fills in again—I’d be done with it, no permanent scars. But I found that I really liked the look and the feel of it, plus it had that unexpected payoff with other friends at the right moment.

“There was one minor problem, though. I always felt sort of ‘unbalanced’ by it. I’ve worked hard on my body, and the symmetry was shot. This bothered me so much, I finally decided I’d have to either undo the left nipple or get the right one pierced too. So, a few weeks ago, nipple number two got the treatment. I feel much better about myself now.”

This is all too bizarre. Manning still suspects it’s a joke, but he hasn’t heard the punch line yet. He says, “I’m not at all sure I believe you.”

David says nothing. Instead, he removes his left hand from the wheel and places it over his right breast. He splays his index and middle fingers, stretching the piqué of his polo shirt over his nipple. Sure enough, there’s a peculiar bulge beneath the fabric. It looks like something man-made, something like hardware.

Okay, Manning believes his own eyes. He’s surprised to realize that he’s highly intrigued—and a bit aroused—by this revelation. “Are they, uh, rings?”

“The new one is.” David pats his right breast. “But the first one is something like a little barbell, which required a bigger hole. It hurt like hell and took forever to heal. I didn’t want to go through
that
again, so I chose a simple ring the second time. It’s already healed.”

Manning is so amazed by this story—it’s the last thing he expected to discuss this morning—all he can say is “This I’ve got to see.”

Though Manning has spoken figuratively, David takes him at his word and, without hesitation, begins pulling his shirt out of his pants. The car swerves.

“Whoa”—Manning reaches to steady the wheel—“that can wait.” Once David has control of the car again, Manning adds, “I do want you to show me. But later.”

“Just say when.” David is clearly pleased that he’s sparked Manning’s interest.

He’s sparked more than that. David’s story has affected his listener in many ways. Manning is surprised—he just wasn’t prepared to hear these things. He’s amused—it’s all so goofy, a kid thing. He’s intrigued—what would compel this levelheaded young man to willingly endure, twice, the pain of self-mutilation? And Manning is, by now, the more he ponders these things, highly aroused.

Needing to sort this out, he says to David, “I’m curious. You’ve had some body piercing done because, at least partly, it’s a fad, pure and simple. And you’ve said you like the way it looks, so there’s an element of … let’s say, ‘aesthetics.’ But you could have pierced your ears, or your nose, or any number of places, but you opted for the nipples, and you said that you also like the way it
feels.
It sounds as if this goes way beyond fad or fashion. It sounds as if you get an erotic charge out of it.”

David’s grin confirms that Manning has nailed the issue. He admits, “There’s definitely that edge, yes.”

Manning turns to peer vacantly through the side window. He puckers his lips, exhaling a silent whistle. Giant pines, responding to his call, march from the cool shadows to the edge of the roadway like a wall of quiet sentries. Their frilly-skirted greatcoats rush past the car in a bluish blur.

Professor Zarnik checks his watch. It’s eleven o’clock, and he quickens his pace. Even though he keeps his own schedule at the planetarium, he knows that he slept too late and dawdled too long at home this morning. Traversing the long hallway, he stops just long enough to drop some change into a gaudy vending machine. With a
ka-chunk,
a can of Diet Rite lands in the black plastic trough near his knees. Already burdened with two tote bags and a smaller sack containing his lunch, he struggles to consolidate the load in one arm. While he stoops to pluck the can with his free hand, his chrome whistle swings on its chain, clattering against the fluorescent-lit front panel of the machine. Wet with condensation, the chilled can slips from his fingers. Skittering to pick it up, he kicks it, sending it rolling down the hall in the direction of his laboratory door.

“Let me help you with that, Professor,” says a young lady, stifling a laugh as she approaches from the opposite direction. They meet in front of the lab door, where she crouches to retrieve the cola. In her other hand, she carries a sheaf of pink message slips. “I heard you were in the building,” she tells him, “and wanted to make sure you got these. Some of them look important.” She wags the chits. “They really piled up yesterday. I’d have put them on your desk, but you’ve got the only key.”

“Thank you, Miss Jenner, most kind.” His funny little accent delights the woman. He puts his key in the lock and opens the door a crack. “I regret to become such a nuisance, but could I ask you to screen my calls again today? I have entered a critical phase of my research, and it is important that I not be disturbed.”

“Certainly, Professor.” She giggles.

“Good of you to look after me.” He takes the messages from her, slips into his lab, and tries nudging the door closed.

“Wait, Professor”—Miss Jenner thrusts a hand through the narrowing crack—“your soda!”

“Ah, clumsy me.” He takes the can, nods a smile, and pushes the door shut.

Inside, the room is lit by a dim security light. The rows of computers, the multitude of monitors, and the various other electronics scattered about the lab are all still—no humming, whirring, winks, or flashes. Zarnik flips a bank of switches adjacent to the door, near the fire cabinet. Overhead lighting flickers on, filling the room with its cold, sterile energy. The equipment remains dark.

He crosses to the desk and sets down his things, putting his lunch bag with the cola off to one side, the messages near the phone. Propping his tote bags on the chair, he removes paperwork from the first—a stack of computer printout, various magazines that include
People
and
Buzz,
and the morning editions of both the
Journal
and the
Post.
From the second, he removes half a dozen Blockbuster videotape cases. These he stacks atop the VCR that he has used to demonstrate his “graphic realization.”

Zarnik tosses the totes onto the floor and plops into the chair, sliding the phone and the pink slips in front of him. He puts on his reading glasses, looks at the top message, and heaves a weary sigh. Pausing a moment, he reaches to open the desk’s file drawer. Inside is a two-liter bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He lifts it from the drawer, removes the cap, and downs an eye-opening swig. Shaking his head and flapping his lips, horselike, he recaps the Jack and plunks it on the desk next to his bagged peanut butter sandwich.

Sorting through the message slips, he arranges two piles. The shorter stack, only three, are calls he must return. The deeper pile consists of messages from the press—local television, national newsmagazines, and scientific journals worldwide. One by one, he crumples the press queries and lobs them blindly, backwards, over his head. There’s a wastebasket against the far wall, but the little pink projectiles don’t even come near it, falling randomly, ticking upon impact with the cement floor.

The reason there are so many messages is that Zarnik didn’t come in at all yesterday. He had thoroughly enjoyed Saturday night’s party, and Sunday’s hangover was, in the imaginary parlance of his assumed homeland, a
drechtzyl.
He awoke dry-mouthed around noon with a headache that left him longing for death. Searching his apartment for aspirin, finding none, he asked himself, What would Dr. Zarnik do? Certain that the ancient bromide regarding “the hair of the dog” must trace its roots to Eastern Europe (“the hair of the
gmuut
”), the course to his cure was clear. Jack and Coke to the rescue. But he had not done his weekly shopping on Saturday—the breaking news of his discovery had kept him busy at the planetarium all day—so there was no cola, diet or otherwise, among the sparse supplies in his pantry. No problem. It wasn’t the pop that bit him. Jack did it. And Zarnik was always careful to keep plenty of Jack on hand.