Falopian and
Murfletit
went at it like medieval scholars arguing over the metallurgy of the Holy Grail. Banion listened until he went back to doodling Roz's name. He concluded that (a) the caller was for real, (b) his show had been sabotaged, and (c) there was nothing he could do but push ahead, assuming (d) that anyone out there still cared.
Falopian and
Murfletit
finally arrived at a synthesis: the government had effected the sabotage, in
collusion
with the aliens. The two had been working together for years as it was. It made perfect sense that they should combine resources at this critical juncture.
But they had to have someone on the inside. Thus Dr. Falopian and Colonel
Murfletit
planted the tumorous thought that there was among them a spy.
Banion said nothing. The clear implication was that it was Roz. Inwardly, he scoffed. It was hardly a disinterested conjecture on their part. They had both taken a dislike to her from that very first moment at the UFO convention in Austin. They looked upon her as a cosmic Yoko Ono, ruiner of cozy male comradeship. She'd been nothing but trouble from the start. Her suggestion that their pair of eminent Russians were nothing but post-Soviet con men - what cheek! Then, too, Banion mused, there was the pantingly obvious
*
National Security Agency, the government agency that listens in on all your phone calls.
fact that these two space muffins yearned to have sex with her. No, it was ridiculous.
He dismissed them, saying that his headache had reached violent proportions and he was going home. He would, like Scarlett, think about it tomorrow. Roz was going to cook dinner for him, her specialty,
macaroni ai quatrro
formaggi,
his favorite, the perfect Italian dish for a blancmange WASP appetite: macaroni and four cheeses.
"Jack! Over here! Jack!"
The lens- and microphone-wielding horde was waiting for him on the red-brick sidewalk outside his office. He forced his zygomatic muscles into an approximation of a smile - what effort it took - and stepped into their range like a man bravely baring his chest to the firing squad. He leaned on his cane, a light malacca that had once belonged to Fatty Arbuckle.
'And what can I do for you gentlemen today?"
"What's the latest?"
"Our switchboards are flooded. They want to know if we're showing the rest
of
Space Bimbos
next Saturday."
The paparazzi laughed. There. They had their bite. They were, for the time being, defanged. He stood with his chest bared while they fired away at him until they were out of bullets.
"Thank you," he said, walking away, knowing that they would not bother to follow now.
He walked, unhindered and alone, to the little house on Dumfiddle Street that he had moved into. A light rain slicked the bricks. He became so lost in troubled thoughts that he took a wrong turn on N Street. He couldn't shake the nasty suggestion that Falopian and Murfletit had dumped on his desk. Had he, who so yearned to penetrate, been penetrated first?
He found his way home. Warm, delicious cheesy smells embraced him, shortly followed by Roz, in white leggings and sheer top that showed off her breasts in heartbreaking detail. He could not persist in this insistent chasteness of hers much longer. She kissed him with wine-wet lips.
She stood back and examined him. "Oh baby, you
l
ook
awf
ul!
"
Banion tossed his coat at the rack. "Long day. Spent the whole afternoon with the brain trust listening to conspiracy theories. I need . . . ibuprofen."
'An afternoon with those two would give anyone a headache. I'm sorry. I know Dr. Falopian is a nuclear scientist and Colonel Murfletit was in the Army for thirty-Five years and saw the Roswell aliens, but they just seem so off-the-wall. Renira agrees with me, you know. She says they're 'off.' It's Brit for food that's gone bad. Hungry? It's all ready I just need to stick it in the oven for twenty minutes."
"Oh
that feels good," said Banion. "Rub lower."
"There?"
"Um
. Roz?"
"Yeah, honey?"
'Are we ever going to . . . you know
..."
"Do it?" she said cheerfully.
"Yes."
She kept rubbing and gave the back of his neck a brief kiss. "Like that?"
"It's a start. It's just that every time we do start, you say 'not yet.' When are we going to get to 'yet'?"
"Have you been watching porno movies again?" "I'm serious."
"Why do we have to rush?"
"I may not be Leopold Capriano -"
"Who?"
"The one in that movie,
Titanic."
"Leo DiCaprio."
"Whatever. I may not be a nineteen-year-old movie star -"
"No, you're not. You're a middle-aged, Episcopalian UFO wonk."
"Stop interrupting." "But I
think you're sexy."
"Then why - oh never mind. I'm not going to plead. It's undignified. The point I was trying to make was that I feel very close to you. I enjoy being with you. You make me laugh. 1 seem to afford you
some
enjoyment, or at least that's the indication you give."
"I love it when stuffy WASPs let down their hair."
"I assure you there's nothing awkward about me in the sack."
"Why does that sound like a George Bush acceptance speech?"
Banion realized with some dismay that in fact it
was
a paraphrase of George Bush's 1988 acceptance speech at the convention. He was hopeless as a lover. Perhaps with time. He turned around to face her. God, she was lovely, and she was smiling.
"What I meant was, I love you and I want to marry you."
The smile froze on Roz's face and melted. Then it came back at about one-third its previous strength. "That was sudden," she said.
"I propose to all women who make me macaroni with four cheeses. So how about it? Or do you want to see the size of the ring from Tiffany first? Actually, I don't have one on me. This wasn't really planned."
He knew he wasn't very good at reading women, but she did seem to be reeling. "I'm very fond of you, Jack."
"Now that's the sort of thing a WASP would say instead of
'Marry you? Are you nuts?'
Oh well." He reached over and kissed her, chastely, on the cheek. "Just something I needed to get off my chest. There's something sexy about sleeping on the couch, even if it's tough on the back."
Now she kissed him, and there was nothing
chaste about it. It was,
he reflected later, the longest kiss he had ever had. By the time it was over, both their eyeglasses were on the floor, his hair looked like a tornado had moved through it, and his lips were numb. His vision was blurred, but perhaps that was from the glasses.
They sat up and looked - as best they could - into each other's eyes with that unembarrassed intensity lovers exchange after the first caresses. When the silence was finally broken, it was by Roz, who said, "Well . . . maybe we should move into the kitchen. I'll fix you some -"
The word dinner was pre
-
empted by another kiss, this one even more confident and exploratory, ranging from one earlobe to the other. There was also some whistling of air in and out of the ear, generally a prelude to more ardent goings-on elsewhere. When they came up for air, they were on the floor next to the couch.
"Dinner first." She smiled. "Then . . . dessert."
She rearranged herself and padded off on bare soles to the kitchen. Banion, utterly content, remained on the floor, sipping the remains of her wine. He listened to the comforting sounds of food being prepared for him. At heart, all men want to be cooked for. But first, there was business.
"I have to go out later." he called to her. "How come?"
"I got a call today. Out of the blue. Someone who says he works for the government and can provide me proof that they tampered with the satellite transmission. He sounded for real. We're going to meet. He says he'll provide me with proof that I can take to the media."
Roz appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding a wooden salad spoon. Her short blond hair was mussed. Her glasses made her look schoolgirlish. He had never desired a woman this much.
Please give the right answer,
Banion said to himself.
"What makes you think it's for real?"
"Just a hunch, really. He sounded for real. Sometimes you can just tell about people" - he smiled -
"even if you're a dull old WASP
" "I don't think you should go."
"Oh, I'm going. If this guy has proof. I want it. Wild horses couldn't keep me from going." "I think it's a setup." "Why?"
"I just do. Why would someone from the government want to help you?"
"Good question. Guess I'll find out."
She went back into the kitchen. "What time are you meeting him?" she called out.
"Eleven oh-three," he said. "That made me think he's for real. Military and intelligence types set precise appointment times to eliminate confusion and ambiguity. Nothing ambiguous about eleven oh-three."
"Where are you meeting this guy?"
"National Cathedral. Gazebo in the Bishop's Garden. It's a pretty spot. I used to go there sometimes just to clear my head, or if Bitsey and I had had a dustup. It's made from the stones from Grover Cleveland's house there."
"Shoot."
"What's the matter?" "I forgot the Pecorino." "What's Pecorino?"
"A kind of Romano. One of the four cheeses." "So
make macaroni ai tre
formaggi."
"No such thing."
She emerged from the kitchen, slipped on shoes, and took her jacket and purse off the rack.
"Won't take two sec
s. I'll just walk over to the Griffin." "I'll go with you."
"No." She leaned over and kissed him. "Go take a nice hot shower." She smiled. "Or a cold one. Be back in five minutes. Dinner in fifteen. Open another bottle of wine."
She was out the door in a flash. Banion went into the kitchen. He stepped on the foot pedal of the trash bin. The lid flipped open. He rummaged. He found what he was looking for under the empty bag of pasta - a discarded piece of plastic wrapping with a Sutton Place Gourmet cheese section sticker on it with yesterday's date and the
words
PECORINO ROMANO.
"Delicious," Banion said. They were at the table; the candles were lit. He'd drunk most of the second bottle of wine to get up the courage and to deaden certain parts of his brain and body.
Roz smiled curiously at him. "First thing you've said."
"How long have you been working for them?"
She didn't look up. "Working for who?"
Banion reached into his pocket and passed the cheese wrapping, neatly, WASPly, folded to show the labeling, across the table to her.
"I
knew
I'd bought some. I must have tossed it out with the -"
"Don't. You went to phone them about my rendezvous."
She put down her fork. She dabbed at her mouth. Her head was down, avoiding eye contact. "I thought you were walking into a trap," she said quietly and deliberately. "No one from our - from this side would have called you today. I was worried for you."
"I see you only like it when I walk into one of your traps." Banion drained what was left of his glass. "Have you been working for them from the beginning? Or is this more along the lines of a betrayal?"
"I can't go into it, but don't leap to conclusions. You can't possibly have this figured out."
"So, what branch of government is it that discredits UFO believers? CIA? FBI? Or are we dealing with some more exotic acronym here?"
"Sweetheart -"
"Please."
He saw tears in her eyes. Good.
"It's not what you think."
"Well, that's a relief."
"I can't go into it. You're not cleared."
"Cleared?
Cleared?"
She said hotly, with what seemed to be genuine professional concern for ethics, "Do you want me to commit a security violation?"
"Oh no. We can't have
that!
"
He stood, suppressing the strong urge to smack her and start hurling objects. He reeled with wine and rage. He wandered over to the fireplace, where men feel comfortable indulging in philosophical outburst, a nice roaring fire at their backs. "So the government and the aliens
are
in it together," he muttered. "Of course. The government had to know, after all. How could they
not
know?"
"Jack, I swear, you've got this wrong."
Banion laughed bitterly. "So your job is to discredit people who make too big a deal out of it. Who threaten the
arrangement.
But how does editing a magazine for women abductees come in?"