The Wisdom of Perversity (12 page)

The front door banged. She slammed the window shut, a fleck of paint flying off. “Honey!” Gary called. She tossed the pack of American Spirits into her pocketbook while his feet tramped in the hall, heading her way. She dashed into the bathroom and shut the door. “Honey! You here? Why aren't you answering your phone?” Gary called as he entered the bedroom. She turned on the faucets, grabbed her toothbrush and the tube of Colgate. She squeezed the container too hard—shooting out a two-inch stream of blue and white striped goo that vaulted over the bristles and onto the mirror, adhering to the glass like a dying worm.

“I'll be right out!” Julie called, trying to scoop up the creature with her toothbrush.

The door opened. Gary opened the door! She was in the bathroom and he brazenly came in as if she had no right to privacy. “Did you reach—?” Gary paused as he took in the spectacle of his wife scraping Colgate off the mirror. “What are you doing?”

She pushed past him into the bedroom, had a wild thought of fleeing from him, running out of the apartment and never coming back. But that was nonsense—abandon Zack?

Gary appeared, squawking at her like an outraged duck, “What the fuck is going on? You haven't called, right? Is that why you're hiding from me?”

She needed one now, she couldn't wait. She reached blindly into her pocketbook, perched on the night table. In her haste to remove one American Spirit yellow she crushed the pack, but at least she didn't destroy the cigarette selected. She put it between her lips, dry with fear, and moved at Gary while opening a book of matches. He gaped at her while she lit up. She inhaled deep and exhaled fully, walking through the cloud she had created. “I'm smoking, you self-centered motherfucker,” she informed him.

For once, he was silenced.

“I'm smoking,” she repeated, ready to cry. She took another draw and blew in his direction. Tears subsided. Her head throbbed. She didn't want the cigarette anymore.

The smoke between them had dissipated by the time he walked straight at her, eyes narrowed with rage.

She back away until she whacked into the wall. “Gary . . .” she pleaded for mercy.

He pressed flush against her and enveloped her lips with his, tongue pushing all the way in. He ran a hand roughly down over her breast, squashing it as if he were performing a mammogram. He pushed a thigh between her legs, quadriceps on pelvic bone. He mumbled over her lips, “I can taste it.” He turned his head to search for her hand with the cigarette. He took hold of her wrist and moved her hand toward his mouth, lips parting in anticipation of the filter's arrival.

“No.” She fought to keep the cigarette at arm's length.

“Gimme,” he pleaded.

“No, I'm quitting.”

He kissed her again, slobbering, not his usual firm peck. His lips were a stranger's, greedy, hostile. He jerked away, perhaps also feeling her lips to be alien, and buried his head in her neck. He licked from her collarbone to earlobe, a hot wet sensation that tickled. She arched away, head thudding against the wall. “I can taste it on you,” he croaked. He buried his head in the cleavage of her sweater and inhaled with noisy satisfaction.

“I'm quitting.” She pushed free, into the bathroom. She tossed the half-smoked cigarette in the toilet and flushed. Deciding to take a shower, she pulled up her sweater. As her head emerged from the wool blindfold, she discovered Gary had once again entered without respect for her privacy. He took her right hand, raised it to his nose, sniffing her fingers, kissing their smoky tips.

“I'm taking a shower,” she said, trying to pull free.

“No.” He pulled her out of the bathroom, toward their bed for a few struggling steps, finally flinging her at it. He pulled his shirt out of his pants and unbuttoned from the bottom up. His swollen belly appeared, covered with swirling black hairs. “How long?” he asked.

“How long?” she repeated, wondering with horror if he meant how long he could fuck her, for that was obviously what he intended as he proceeded to lower his corduroy pants, revealing the full splendor of his belly's overhang, a cantilevering so severe that his underpants were obscured by its shadow.

He kicked out of his shoes and dove at her, still wearing black socks. The bed sagged when he landed beside her. “How long have you been smoking?” he said as he pulled her blouse out of her skirt. He sniffed the collar while undoing her buttons and watched the unclothing of her body with a hunger she hadn't seen for two decades.

“A few weeks,” she lied for some unfathomable reason.

“You bitch,” he said with an admiring smile. He cupped her right breast, encased in the satin support of her wire bra. “I love you,” he said. He pecked at the outline of her nipple, sniffing as he did. He pushed her down gently, but firmly, and ran his tongue the length of her exposed midriff.

Her head lolled back, eyes wandering to the open window, blackout shades up, curtains pulled back. She was wet. All of New Jersey could see her, loose and fluid and helpless. She was so wet. How long? How long since her body was young like this? “Gary,” she called.

“Mmm,” he answered while plump fingers crawled between her back and the bedspread to unhook her bra.

“I love you,” she lied.

White Lies

April 1966

RICHARD KLEIN UNBUTTONED
and rebuttoned his blazer while he surveyed the roomful of children. “How about we all go for some good deli? Hot dogs, pastrami, knishes—what do you say, kids?”

Noah scrambled up from the floor and cheered, arms aloft.

Klein smiled at the sight of the excited boy on tiptoe, back arched to reach as high as he could. Brian studied that smile as if it were a Rosetta stone to the urgent mystery of Richard Klein: puffy cheeks raised, mouth parting to show small, evenly spaced teeth, as he enjoyed the spectacle of Noah. All Brian could decipher in the smile was the benign delight of a grandparent. He concluded, not for the first time, that what happened in the NBC bathroom had been unique, because of something about Brian or the circumstances: the violation of the set, the potted plant spilling, his penis's keen reaction when it was touched. Even Klein had noticed that: “You like it when I touch you there, don't you?” But how did he know in advance that Brian would like it?

“Come on!” Noah grabbed his sister's hand. Julie allowed herself to be towed to the door. “Come on!” Noah called to Jeff and Brian.

Brian tried to catch Jeff's eye, to signal they needed to confer. Brian wanted to tell him they had to skip lunch and deal with the secret recording—which was true enough—plus it was a convenient excuse for Brian avoiding being with Richard Klein without telling Jeff why he wanted to avoid him. Unluckily, Jeff's eyes remained down while he trudged after the group gathered near the door.

“I can't,” Brian blurted out.

They all turned his way, except for Klein. He shoved his hands in his pockets, noisily jiggling change while he peered at his highly polished black loafers.

“You can't?” Sam said.

“We're gonna have hot dogs! Hot dogs, hot dogs!” Noah chanted.

“Noah,” Julie warned.

Brian pointedly moved his eyes to the tape recorder on the twin bed, then back to Jeff. He repeated the signal twice, so blatantly he felt fortunate that Sam didn't pick it up. Unfortunately Jeff didn't either. He stared hopelessly at nothing.

Brian said, “I gotta have lunch with my mom,” which made no sense but was exactly what he felt.

“Okay, Brian can't come,” Richard Klein took his hands out of his pockets. The cold indifference in his voice amazed Brian. Maybe he was angry. Maybe Klein thought what happened in the NBC bathroom was Brian's fault. Maybe it was. “Come on, kids,” Klein said. “Let's have hot dogs!” He swallowed little Noah's hand in his chubby palm and led the way out. The rest followed.

Brian was left alone with his confusion. He heard Klein say, “We're going to lunch, honey. We'll be back soon!” as the group passed Harriet's door. “Hot dogs, hot dogs!” Noah chanted, fainter and fainter, until the front door slammed shut and there was silence.

Brian felt tremendous relief at the absence of people (his preference for being alone would last a lifetime) until he heard Harriet sigh, a surprisingly loud sound considering that it had to travel the distance from her bed and down the intervening hallway. Harriet sighed a second time and exclaimed, “What a cheap son of a bitch!”

Brian froze, dumbstruck by the stupidity of what he had done. He was trapped. Harriet assumed he had gone with the others. She would be angry that he hadn't; she had asked him to help Jeff entertain his cousins. Brian listened to her furious dialing of the phone's rotary, unable to hear what she was mumbling bitterly to herself.

Go!
he urged himself.
Go while she's distracted.
He crept down the hallway toward her room, hoping to get there before she made her connection.

“Saul,” Harriet said as Brian's nose reached the edge of her doorframe. She invariably talked on the phone with her head on pillows propped against the headrest, maintaining a constant surveillance of the hall, preventing him from escaping the apartment unobserved. “You can't call me back, Saul, I have to talk to you right now. Hy's not there yet, is he? I have to talk to you before your brother gets there.”

Brian smelled the peculiar dank odor of Harriet's lair: a blend of perspiration and potatoes, a stew smell like Grandma Maggie's cooking, but not of beef and vegetables, a boiling off of Harriet, an evaporation of her persona.

“Forget about your customer. Let Billy deal with a customer for once in his life. Now listen, Hy's on his way to you. I talked to him about the money. Because I had to! He brought it up. Yes, I'm telling you, he brought it up. Why would I bring it up? I don't remember how. Saul, will you stop arguing and listen to me. Of course you're arguing. I told him I have a lump in my breast. Yes, I told him I have breast cancer. No, not benign. I told him it was malignant. Calm down. Saul, calm down. Calm down and listen!” she shouted furiously, which was strange to Brian considering the subject was her death. Her raging made him cringe. Everything about her terrified him, especially her illness. “Listen to me, Saul!” she yelled. “Will you listen to me! Do you want to lose the store? Is that what you want? Fine. You tell him I don't have breast cancer and you'll lose everything and Jeff will grow up to be a
shmendrek
salesman while your brother's bratty little kids will live like kings. The thought of that little shit Noah becoming a doctor, driving a Cadillac, living on Park Avenue while my Jeff has to kiss his
tuchus
every High Holiday. It makes me sick. I'd rather be dead than see my Jeff humiliated.”

Brian, appalled and confused by Harriet's reason for lying, was also profoundly relieved that she wasn't dying, at least for Jeff's sake. But what preoccupied him above all was an inspiration that came to him during Harriet's weird speech about Noah's future. It occurred to him that a relatively short time had elapsed since the others passed Harriet's door to go to lunch. What if he had stayed behind to use Jeff's bathroom and was supposed to meet them at the deli? Then his sudden appearance, dashing out in a hurry to catch up, would make sense.

He settled on that plan while Harriet continued to shout at Saul, describing a bizarre future in which Julie married a rich man and gave Hy beautiful grandchildren while Jeff remained unmarried, lost his hair, and worked in a pool hall. (
Why a pool hall?
Brian wondered.) Brian stepped on the floorboards nearest to the wall, believing they creaked less readily there, and ducked into the hall bathroom. He flushed the toilet, and while the rushing water was at its peak he ran as if propelled by the explosive sound, dashing past Harriet's door—“Who's that!” she shouted. “My God, who's that?”—turned the corner into the main hall—“Brian? Is that you—”

He called out, “I'm late!” as he reached the foyer, opened the front door, exited into the building's hallway, and hustled down the stairs so recklessly that he missed a step as the staircase turned a corner, whacked into the wall, and ended up sprawled on the landing, unhurt, breathless, and full of triumph. He was free. He was safe.

No one answered the bell at his apartment. His mother must have gone out shopping and his father was probably rehearsing too loudly in the bedroom to hear his ring. He had been told to make sure to ring before using his key, something about a scary story of some kid he didn't know who had been followed home by a robber—it didn't really make sense to him. He let himself in and called, “I'm home!”

No response. He glanced in the kitchen and living room on his way to the hall to his and his parents' bedrooms. Their door was open. No one was in there. “Dad?” he called. When he turned, he saw the door to the bathroom at the end of hall was shut.

As he approached, he heard a soft slapping of water. His mother must be in the tub, soaking, as she liked to when tired, or upset at his father for staying out very late, sometimes so late he slept over at an actor friend's apartment. Brian knocked.

“Oh, I'm so glad you came back, honey. Come in. It's open,” Rose said in a lilting voice. Years later, when an adult Brian thought back on the many mysteries of this day, he realized she reserved that singsong for her husband.

Brian entered. His mother lay in a tub of clear water, wrinkled toes in the air, pubic hair afloat, as if levitating off her white belly. “Mom,” he leaned on the glass doorknob while staring at the curious sight of the black patch of hair swaying in the water. “When you get out, could you make me a grilled cheese sandwich?”

No answer was forthcoming. Brian raised his eyes to meet his mother's. They were wide with alarm. Her hands were on either side of the tub's rim, as if she were about to push off to rise, but she didn't move, didn't appear to draw a breath. “You okay, Mom?” Brian asked. Her eyes were red rimmed and swollen.

“Uh . . .” His mother glanced at the towel rack. Instead of reaching for one, as Brian expected, she lowered herself as much as she could, nipples sinking below the clear water's surface.
Periscopes down,
Brian thought to himself. She met his eyes, then immediately looked away. “Go to the kitchen while I'll dry off, and I'll come make you lunch.”

“Can I have grilled cheese?” Brian persisted, to make sure she understood that he definitely wanted grilled cheese and not tuna fish.

“What?” Her hands continued to grip the porcelain rim as if she were about to boost herself up. But she made no other move to rise; the opposite, in fact, slipping lower, water up to her chin, knees rising to put her back flat, drowning the floating black forest.

“I want grilled cheese. Do we have grilled cheese?”

“I—don't—know,” she stammered. “Why don't you look in the refrigerator and see?” She nodded at the door.

That was the moment he understood. A faint message that she had been transmitting since he entered the bathroom was finally received. He wasn't supposed to see her naked. Worse, he was supposed to know he wasn't allowed to see her naked. Lingering at the door, studying her body was wrong. Now that he understood how important it was for him to get out of there, he was too overwhelmed to leave. He wanted to explain that he hadn't meant any harm. “Go,” she ordered.

In the kitchen, he tried to make amends for his error. He took out the tin-foil-wrapped American cheese, removed the butter from its tray, searched in the lower cabinet for the small frying pan she used to grill sandwiches, and set a plate beside the stove. He prayed she wouldn't say anything about his mistake.

Could he distract her by telling her that Harriet had lied to her about being sick?
No, stupid.
The only way he could know Harriet had lied was because of the secret taping. Besides, he wasn't sure he wanted his mother to have this latest information on Harriet. Harriet was so nutty Rose might forbid him from playing with Jeff at all.

Brian sat down to wait at the white Formica kitchen table. Almost immediately he got up, worried if he was doing nothing when she entered the kitchen that might invite a lecture. He spied one of his Superman comics, bought and read yesterday. Not a good one. It featured Mxyzptlk, a villain Brian didn't enjoy, a whimsical imp who used magic to confound the Man of Steel, creating more dangerous mischief than actual harm. Brian preferred his bad guys to be made of sterner stuff. He sat at the table and opened it, pages high to cover his face.

Rose appeared in a long red robe, hair damp. She silently surveyed the kitchen. “You put out everything I need,” she noted with surprise. “Thank you.” Brian kept his eyes on a panel depicting a befuddled Superman flying upside down, cape flopped over his face, blind to the fact that was about to collide with a plane. He heard crinkling of tin foil, whoosh of a gas burner, sizzle of butter hitting the skillet. The yummy odor of cheese cooking reached him as his mother said, “I thought you were having lunch with Jeff.”

“He went out,” Brian said. He didn't want to talk about that either.
Why didn't you want to go to lunch? Because of Mr. Klein. Why? Don't you like him?
“Dad went out?” he asked.

“Yes. To yet another reading in
Greenwich Village,
” she emphasized the location as if it were damning. “Jeff went out for lunch with Harriet?”

Brian shook his head.

“With his cousins?”

“Yeah. That smells good, Mom. You make the best grilled cheese sandwich on earth.”

The compliment wasn't enough to detour her. “Didn't they invite you?”

Brian had an answer ready. “They were going to the deli for franks. I wanted a grilled cheese sandwich.” He dropped the disappointing Superman comic, got up, and stood beside his mother to observe her virtuoso technique. “I wanted to have
your
grilled cheese sandwich.” He rested his head against the soft shoulder of her robe.

She tensed. “But Jeff wanted you to go to lunch?” She shifted, shoulder slipping away.

Brian took the hint and straightened. “He didn't care, Mom.”

“Today's his birthday, right?”

“Not really. Monday is his birthday.”

One side was browned, the cheese oozing, sticking to the pan. Rose flipped the sandwich and pressed it flush with the spatula, forming stripes on the bread. “Aren't Harriet and Saul having a party for Jeff today?”

“They're not having a party, Mom.”

“You know what I mean. His cousins from Riverdale are there. And isn't that cousin of Harriet's, that nice man who took you to NBC, isn't he coming over?” She turned to him, spatula up, a fencer ready to spar. He lowered his eyes to the bubbling cheese. “That's what Harriet told me. We were talking on the phone less than an hour ago and she told me they were inviting you to stay for a special dinner to celebrate Jeff's birthday with all his family. Didn't Jeff invite you?”

He hadn't. But he probably just assumed. Brian's weekend dates often lasted through dinner. “I don't know,” he said.