Eureka Man: A Novel (29 page)

But it was not there when she returned a week
later. “Can we go into your office?” she asked. “I'm going to be
sick.”

“You all right?”

She nodded and swallowed visibly, holding
down the vomit. Oliver opened the office door, and she stepped over
the threshold, bolted right to the trash can beside his desk and
threw up three times. Oliver stood over her, watching, his eyebrows
pulled together into waves of compassion.

“Something you ate?” he asked, leaning
forward to rub her head.

“God, I wish. Would you get me a glass of
water?”

He grabbed a large cup from his desk and
hurried to the water fountain. When he returned she was sitting
behind his desk with the trash can between her knees. “Thanks.” She
drank slowly and then leaned back into the chair. “I thought it was
coke, Oliver.”

He didn't understand. “You thought what was
coke?”

“In those balloons. I thought they contained
coke.”

One of his eyebrows rose just enough to
signify his anger. “Don't tell me you opened them, B.J.!”

“Two. I opened two.” Oliver punched the wall,
leaned against it and folded his arms, waiting for her to continue.
“I met with Chicken Wing yesterday morning. He was very nice. He
only gave me half the package. I have to meet him next week for the
other half.” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, sighed.
“When I got home from work last night, I was so exhausted. I still
had three hours of reading to do. And I was really hurting. So. I
thought a little coke would be just what I needed. To keep myself
awake awhile. I thought it was coke, Oliv-“

“That's heroin, for Christ's sakes, B.J.! You
said you opened two?”

“I did. I hurt my lower back two days ago. It
bothered me all day yesterday. After I tried that stuff last night
the pain went away completely. I felt so good. Late this afternoon
the pain returned so… I opened another balloon. Right now there's
no pain at all in my back or anywhere else. If only that stuff
didn't make me throw up every fifteen minutes.”

Slowly, she stood, gathered her equilibrium,
and went to him. She sat on his lap, collapsed her head on his
shoulder. She wrapped her arms around him while he unbuttoned her
blouse and ran his hand inside. He pinched her swollen nipple and
she said, “Just hold me tonight, would you please, Oliver? I'm
still feeling queasy. Let's just sit here together in the
quiet.”

“Listen, B.J., that's it. No more. That
stuff's highly addictive.”

“I know, Oliver. I know. I'm fine. Don't
worry about me.”

But worry was all he did until she returned
the following Tuesday night fifteen balloons short but quick to
say, “I'll have the rest next week for sure.”

Oliver sat at his new computer staring at
her, wondering what the hell she thought she was doing. Her voice
was deep and sultry now, and the inflections and tone of her words
had changed so drastically he thought he was talking to a phone sex
operator. The more she assured him she was fine, the more his
worries gave way to his needs-below-the-belt. Why cast a pall now?
Why diminish the scent of Chanel No. 19 that was wafting at him?
Blunt the taste of her thighs awaiting his lips? Earlier that
morning he had planned five or six ways to ease her mind in case
Mr. Sommers happened to mention to her what had really happened to
Victor. He didn't need to say a word. She was oblivious.

“I have a lot to tell you,” she said. “Would
you put some coffee on? My mouth is so dry. Would you get me
another glass of water?”

When he returned with the water, he poured
her a cup and used the rest to make a half pot of coffee. He sat
across from her and watched her. She faced him but Oliver couldn't
tell where she was looking. She was wearing sunglasses. “Thank
you.” She drank the water and then said, “Your essay is getting
rave reviews. It really is. I've shared it with several colleagues
in my department. And I sent copies to people I know in the English
and criminal justice departments. Everyone I've talked to said they
were shocked and appalled when they read your piece. I also shared
it with a local journalist who is a very good friend of mine. Hope
Best. You may have read some of her work in the Pittsburgher
Magazine. Not long ago she did a story called “Libraries in the
City.” The piece included part of an interview Hope did with your
prison librarian. Did you happen to read her article?”

“I may have. I don't remember.”

“Well, I had lunch with Hope last week, and
she told me she's just been assigned to do a full-length story on
the University's program here at the prison. After I spent an hour
telling her more about you, she now wants to focus the story around
you. Isn't that wonderful?”

“Yeah. As long as she doesn't twist the
facts. You know how reporters are.”

“No, no, no. It's not that kind of story,
Oliver. Her slant's inspirational.”

For the first time that night, Oliver noticed
she was wiping her nose every two or three minutes. “Do you have a
cold?” Oliver asked.

“Why?”

“You keep wiping your nose.”

“It's the medication.”

“What medication?”

“For my back. When I met with Chicken Wing
again, he still didn't have all of Champ's package together yet,
but he sold me a few balloons for myself. They really do the
trick.”

“You're kidding me!”

“Don't worry. I only take one every couple of
days. I'm not going to depend on them every day.”

“I don't believe what I'm hearing, for
Christ's sake! Do you know how easy it is to get hooked on that
stuff?” Oliver's voice was loud and incredulous.

“Yes, and that's why I only do one every
couple of days. I've had lower back pain off and on for several
years now, and nothing I've tried has worked as well as this. I'd
appreciate it if you'd give me credit for being adult and
responsible enough not to do harm to myself, Oliver, for goodness
sake.”

“Okay. You're right. Just be careful,
man.”

“I know you're disappointed we didn't make
love again tonight. Next time. I promise. Aren't you even a little
excited about the news I brought you? You're going to be in the
Pittsburgher, Oliver.”

“Yeah. I'm excited.”

“A story like this can give us the exposure
we need to bring attention to your case and get you out of
here.”

“You really think so?”

“Of course. Don't you?”

“I suppose it couldn't hurt.”

B.J. finished the water. The coffee aroma was
now apparent and she was raking her nails back and forth over her
forearms in anticipation. “I can't wait for you to meet Hope. She's
a lovely person. Did I mention she was a social activist during the
sixties? She was at Woodstock, Oliver.”

He poured coffee into her personal cup and
handed it to her. She set the cup down and he wrapped a strand of
her hair around his fingers. “How lovely is she?” He was teasing
her now.

WHEN SHE DIDN'T SHOW at all the following week,
Oliver was as humble as a monk. He opened the windows and breathed
in the cool evening air. There was so much to do, papers to finish,
books to read, lectures notes to decipher. She had gotten him a
computer on loan from her department and he was anxious to master
the statistical analysis software that came with it, but as hard as
he tried, he couldn't concentrate. When he didn't hear from her by
the end of the second week, he was disturbed and feeling totally
abandoned, like an orphan. She could have called. She had to call
Mr. Sommers sooner or later, didn't she? He imagined her getting
hooked on H and humping that faculty member who had been trying to
get inside her panties for years, or worse, doing it with Chicken
Wing. Oliver pictured her completely uninhibited now, spreading her
pussy department wide, and blaming him for turning her out.

When another week rolled by and still no
B.J., he thought maybe she had come to her senses and was getting
help. He asked Dr. Garris if he had seen her in the halls, and sure
enough, he had. She was fine. He thought of talking to Mr. Sommers,
but he feared his full-blown angst would give him away. Now he was
fuming. At her carelessness, her indifference, her total
abandonment. Then he got desperate. In his heart, he knew she would
come, sometime, and that she would have a lame excuse or no excuse
at all; but she would come. The desperation came from the sense he
had of her ruining everything, the love affair they had carved out
of a city of stone walls and razor wire. And sheer boldness. What
the world knew about what went on between the sheets in prison
could be summed up in one breath: Bubbas and pretty Michaels. What
went on between their sheets she had summed up as a Greek tragedy.
His office, a niche in the city of Troy; she was Helen and he was
Paris. The guards were the Greek soldiers turned loose from the
great wooden horse in search of any and all Helens-teachers,
guards, counselors, nurses, or college professors-who had the
temerity to spread their wings for a low-life prisoner whose name
could be Troy or Buckwheat for all they cared.

Suddenly, the open windows were not enough.
He began to perspire in the new blue and yellow Pitt Panthers tee
shirt she had smuggled in for him in the bottom of her tote bag.
Anger ricocheted through him like a hollow point .22. He wanted it
over--one way or the other. Over and done with so he could grieve
once and for all, so he could flush this bitch out of his life
completely. His longing, his craving for her had rendered him
stupid.

On Tuesday morning of the fourth week, he
found respite from his grief when Mr. Sommers escorted that
journalist into his office. He recognized her the minute he looked
up at her. “Hi, Mr. Priddy!” She didn't say the words, she sang
them. Oliver smiled outright for the first time in three weeks.
B.J. was right. Hope Best was lovely. She was wearing a sleeveless
white linen blouse, an orange paisley peasant skirt and bright blue
sandals. Her bare legs were tanned to the nines all the way to her
coral-painted toenails. Her champagne colored hair was cut in a bob
that shimmered each time she moved her head.

“Aren't you the same lady I saw a few months
ago standing outside the library talking with our librarian?”
Oliver asked, grinning as if he already knew the answer.

“I probably am,” she said.

“Yeah. I remember you. You were wearing a
tie-dyed dress. But your hair was longer.”

She looked surprised. “It's only shorter now
because of a little mishap involving Hubba-Bubba bubble gum.” She
smiled widely. She had perfect teeth. “One of my nephews was giving
me a hug when he decided to blow a bubble.” She held a layer of her
hair in her hand. “I had to cut it to get all the gum out.”

“I see. Well, how are you, Miss Hope
Best?”

“I'm fine, thank you, Mr. Oliver Priddy.”
They both laughed like old friends. He battled his stare and lost
every time.

For two hours they talked, laughed and traded
anecdotes and by the time Mr. Sommers came to escort her back to
the front gate, Oliver had taken a ton of mental notes. She's the
nicest person, he thought. Attractive. Intelligent. At ease. She
didn't look around the halls at the other prisoners, or jump at the
shouting match two were having outside his classroom. She didn't
seem to come with any agenda either, other than conversation. She
knew more about Sly and the Family Stone than he did, and he
thought he knew everything there was to know about his favorite
group. It was her favorite group too, she said. They had been the
first group to give her an interview at Woodstock. Every word Hope
Best uttered was animated and full of wonder. He counted eleven
different ways she tilted her head when she smiled, nine rings on
her fingers, and not a wedding band among them, and two very thin
blue veins showing on the side of her bare calf.

“When I return in a couple of weeks,” she
said, “you'll have to give me all the meat and potatoes for my
story, Oliver. I can't wait.”

“I'll give you whatever you need,” Oliver
said. And he meant it.

But as soon as she was she gone, he buckled
over with loneliness again. He was usually very good at hiding his
emotions, even from himself, but this time was different. This time
he made no attempt to disguise his pain. He slashed out at the
ceramic knick-knack of Emmett Kelly that B.J. had brought him,
hitting it with his closed fist and sending the famous clown flying
across the room to smash against the wall. He sat back in his
chair, stunned. He was a survivor, he knew that. He was as
resilient as they came. He would not play the blame game. If it was
over, it was over.

The night she finally brought him the closure
he needed, she was wearing sunglasses again, and he asked her to
take them off. When she did, he opened his mouth, his eyes were
wide and blank, and a red river rose up his neck and into his
cheeks. She looked like she hadn't slept in six months. “Here,
Oliver. There are twenty balloons there.”

“You were only fifteen short.”

“Tell him the extras are interest he earned
for waiting.” He searched her face for a sign, trying to feel,
smell her mood. Did she have her panties on? That was the sign. If
he knew that he would know whether she was planning to have sex,
but he couldn't find out without touching her.

“We need to talk, Oliver,” she said. Though
serious, she sounded maternal. She put on her sunglasses again, and
now he couldn't tell whether she was looking at him or out the
window.

“We can talk all you want, B.J.,” he said,
“but we've got something to take care of first, don't we? Remember?
Remember what you said the last time you were here?”

“I know what I promised you. I won't go back
on my word, but a lot has happened and we need to talk.”

“We can talk.” He walked over to where she
was standing and came up behind her. “But I've got to have you
first.” He slid his arms around her waist and squeezed her, kissing
and nibbling her neck until she responded with a slow writhing of
her pelvis. After a few minutes, he broke away and she stood there
swaying her shoulders to the Sam Cooke song playing on his cassette
player. Oliver rolled out two rugs on the floor. Then he maneuvered
her to her hands and knees. He pressed her head and shoulders
gently downward. Her face was turned sideways onto a pillow he made
out of his sweatshirt. Her hair flung out in all directions. He
positioned himself behind her and watched her hips and buttocks
rise to him. Sleek and round. She swayed to the music. As her body
quickened, she never stopped crooning and swaying to the music. Not
until he entered her, holding her hips so she couldn't get away,
did she buck and moan with urgency.