American Sextet (4 page)

"Gosh."

This had to be the real thing, he told himself. He couldn't
remember the last time he'd heard "gosh," especially from a woman.

"You ever met the President?"

He couldn't believe it, nodding finally.

"Gosh," she said again.

He slapped the bar and gathered his bills in a fist.
Pausing in his mopping, the bartender winked at him.

"I'll be a minute," she said, hurrying off. He
watched her move away in her tight jeans.

"He's a jealous bastard, her boyfriend. Better be
careful."

Jason peeled off two fifties, putting them in the man's
hammy hand. His stubby fingers closed quickly and he slipped them into a side
pocket.

"I don't know from nothin'. I'm supposed to be
watching out for her."

"I won't hurt her," he muttered. Man's greed could
not be overestimated, he thought. And his ability to corrupt.

She came back looking neat and freshly scrubbed, a tiny
hint of lipstick, like a kid ready for her first date.

"I walked," Jason said.

"I'll take Jim's pickup."

"You crazy, Dot," the bartender said.

"Better not," she replied, after a hesitant
frown.

On the road, he walked beside her, listening to the sounds
their shoes made on the gravel. Her high heels gave her walk an uncommon
stiffness. They seemed like ordinary lovers on a warm summer night.

"You do this much?" he asked.

"Do what?"

She hadn't even broken stride. It was a novice's inevitable
question, as if he had to be genuinely attracted in order to make the
transaction palatable. He let it pass.

A canopy of stars was overhead, the road deserted, the air
heavy with the scent of wild honeysuckle. He was thankful that Art Smart's neon
was turned off. Silently she walked beside him, like a trained puppy. He
reached out and took her hand; her fingers returned the pressure. He felt
wanted. The tide of anger receded as he unlocked the door and let her into the
room.

"Don't," he said as she flicked on the overhead
light revealing the disarray. The bed was mussed and dirty underwear was strewn
on the floor. A chair in the corner was piled with sweat-stained shirts and
stray socks. He felt embarrassed by his untidiness until she turned off the
light.

"You a writer?" she asked, having noticed his
typewriter.

"Newspaperman."

The "gosh" again.

He lit a cigarette and sat cross-legged on the bed, kicking
off his shoes.

"I write for the
Washington Post
. Doing a story
on the mines."

"The mines? That's boring."

She started to undress, unzipping the fly of her jeans and
stepping out of them. The tumescence was instantly triggered again. She lifted
her T-shirt.

"You're a remarkably beautiful woman," he said,
feeling the pulse in his throat.

"You want to see me dance?" she asked.

"I saw that."

"It's fun," she said. "Feels good,
too."

"You like showing ... yourself?"

"Sure. Men like to look at me," she said proudly,
rolling down her panties and turning to exhibit herself.

"Come here." He could barely speak; his breath
was short in his excitement.

She moved forward, standing close to the bed, until he was
a hairsbreadth away from her breasts. Reaching with his tongue, he licked her
nipples, first one, then the other. They hardened instantly.

"I wish I could gobble you up." He had never said
that to anyone before. Against his cheek, as he caressed her, he felt her heart
beating rapidly. At least she wasn't indifferent, he thought.

"Undress me," he said. He was surprised at his
tone. It was a command. She obeyed, tugging at his pants. When he was free of
them, she bent over him, caressing his throbbing erection with her breasts.

"You feel good?" she asked.

He nodded his head appreciatively.

"What about you?" It would simply be too much to
ask for.

"Love it," she said. "The best..."

Is this what joy means? He was sure it was.

She was tucked in the crook of his arm, fitted there as if
her body were clay. Along with his explosive pleasure his anger had dissipated,
leaving him tranquil. It was an uncommon sensation for him and he felt
transformed--almost happy. He breathed in the sweetness of her flesh while his
fingers caressed her smooth haunches.

"6.7 on the Richter scale," he told her when they
lay quietly together. Her passion had surprised him as well. Jane hadn't given
him much mutuality, especially not after the first few years. Before Jane,
other women had offered quick pit-stops. But this was different.

"Who?" she responded, confused.

He let it pass.

"What do you want?" he said suddenly. It had been
there all along, the quintessential question. It bothered him to want to know.

"Want?"

She was alert, not drowsing. During their lovemaking, a rim
of perspiration had burst on her skin. It had cooled now, a delicious cool.
Against his flesh, hers was like a compress to a bruise.

"I mean what do you want to do with your life?"

"Gosh."

"You always say that," he teased. It was not
meant to hurt, nor did it. She seemed awed by life. Was she a true innocent or
an outstanding dissimulator? This wasn't just a woman. She was like a dream
materialized.

"Dress up. Look pretty. Be happy. Make other people
happy," she said. She was silent for awhile, then lovingly patted his sex
again. Why was he asking "big" questions, expecting "big"
answers. She was just a pretty wildflower growing in the slag heaps. Why was he
romanticizing her?

"All in white," she said. "I want everything
to be white. Clean." He could understand that.

"And money," she whispered. The stereotyped dream
injected a slice of reality he didn't appreciate and he tried to ignore it.

"You live with ... what was his name?"

"You mean Jim? Yeah."

"Why don't you marry him?" It was, he realized, a
ridiculous question. Pay your money and take your pleasure. Stop trying to give
this toy a life.

"Marry Jim? He got a wife. Five kids."

"Why do you stay with him?"

"He's good to me. That's the most important
thing."

"You don't have a family?"

"Over in Hiram. An aunt. My parents died. Three
brothers in the Navy. I never see them." She sighed, thinking of the early
misery.

"That it?"

She shrugged her body against his. That's a history? he
thought. So dry and empty.

"What do you do with your days?" He supported
himself on one elbow, looking down at her face, a perfect oval, her hair mussed
as if by design.

"I used to work in a store. Then a beauty
parlor." She thought about it some more. "Do up my hair. Watch TV.
Jim and me. We both work nights." She looked up at him and smiled.
"We do this a lot."

"Just like this?" It was a deliberate injection
of reality. He had begun to believe the illusion of her caring.

"I'm going to buy him a birthday present with the
money."

His money! Used for another man. The idea destroyed the
illusion completely.

"Would you have done it without that?" he asked
stupidly.

She looked up at him, her eyes shining, like great saucers.

"Might," she said, stroking his cheek. "But
Jim takes care of me, and I make him happy."

Her convoluted reason defied logic.

"Well, I'm getting my money's worth," he said,
kissing her deeply, sucking her soft smooth tongue. Reaching out, she caressed
him and he hardened swiftly. She moved under him until he was inside her again,
her eyes closed in concentrated pleasure. She lifted her knees, digging her
insteps into his sides, grasping his buttocks, pushing him deeper. She emitted
a low moan, like a kitten meowing. Soon his body erupted in excruciating joy.
This, he knew, was ecstasy.

"You happy?" she whispered later.

Beyond imagination! But he said nothing, afraid he was only
dreaming.

When he awoke, he was surprised to discover that he had
drowsed and was still connected to her. Her breathing was so shallow, he had
put his ear against her mouth to hear it, reassured by the tiny cool wafts. In
the darkness, the air-conditioner purred. Something, he knew, had awakened him
and he listened for a break in the night sounds. Slivers of light had begun to
poke through the drawn blinds.

It was too late when he realized what it was. The door
crashed open and grimy rough hands were pummeling him. Fighting off the
attacker, he jumped and tripped. Then he felt an overbearing pressure, a sweaty
malignant human form, pinning him to the floor, heavy blows sinking into his
face and body.

"Stop, Jim!"

She hadn't screamed, nor panicked. The sweaty miner now had
Jason's arm in a pretzel twist and was pulling it upward. The pain was agony.
Turning, he saw a fist fly out and swat her back to the bed like an annoying
fly. Undaunted, she came back again, pulling at the arm that was inflicting his
punishment.

Loosening his grip, the man slipped off of him to
concentrate on the girl, punching her in the midsection and the face.

"Are you crazy? You'll kill her," he shouted in
disbelief. He got up unsteadily, somehow finding the strength to pull him off
her. Apparently, his anger was spent. Lowering his fists, he watched the girl
slowly move her arms, raised in self-protection. A blue nob was rising on her
cheekbones and blood trickled down her nose.

Grimy with coal dust and unshaven, the man turned and
inspected Jason's nakedness. His face broke into a sardonic smile. Oozing
sweat, he filled the room with his sour, unwashed odor.

"Cunt." he hissed, looking at her, but his animal
anger was drained.

"He gave me a hundred, Jimbo," she said softly.
Her voice was clear, without a whimper or a trace of judgment. "I was
going to get you a present."

"You didin ask," he said harshly, showing the
true core of his discontent. "And you didin pick me up."

"I fell asleep."

"Sheet," he said, clearing his throat and
spitting on the floor.

Jason hadn't yet given her the money. And now his reactions
were confused--the trip from paradise to hell had been too abrupt.

"You let him beat you like that?" he asked
quietly. The man turned to him and sneered.

"He didn't mean any harm," she said, standing up
now. In the quickening daylight, he could see the redness of her flesh where
he'd pummelled her.

"I tole you," the man said, pointing a finger at
her nose.

She lowered her head like a punished child. This is
incredible, Jason thought, like the ritual of some foreign tribe.

"I ain't takin' you back no more," he said,
waving a finger, the nail topped with its black half moon symbol. Then, as
quickly as he came he left, leaving them staring after him, frozen, naked
figures. They heard him gun the motor of the pickup angrily. Tires squealed and
the truck sped off.

After he'd gone, the girl slipped into the bathroom,
leaving the door ajar. He saw her clean up her puffed face, then step into the
shower.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he tried to understand this
new spectrum of emotions. Her docility blunted his compassion. Was it some kind
of environmental aberration? The area itself had a burned out feel about it, a
sense of futility and resignation. Not at all like Washington, with its frantic
striving, its ambitious arrogance, its self-serving subterfuge. There was
something about this place that was raw and basic.

She came out of the shower wrapped in a towel, her hair
moist and glistening, wearing her wounds with disinterest. She seemed devoid of
pride or vanity and he viewed her like some new anthropological discovery.

"Did he ever do that before?" Jason asked.

"Never." She paused thoughtfully and shrugged.
"Maybe he's telling me it's time to split."

"Isn't that a strange way of saying it?"

"I guess," she said.

She curled up on the bed and fell into a deep sleep, her
face immobile as if all memory of the past few minutes had been obliterated.

Sometime later the telephone rang, jarring him out of his
own deep sleep.

"You up?" the voice said. It was Barrows, an
assistant editor.

"Up now," he groaned. The girl beside him didn't
stir. He shook his head, remembering. His pained shoulder told him it
definitely was not a dream.

"Your piece," Barrows said. He wasn't one for
small talk. "Too unbalanced. You say there's money up there now that oil
companies are taking over." He waited in silence, refusing to fill the
gap. "So why the absence of hope?"

"Hope." He blinked and looked at the mouthpiece.

"You said there's more dough coming in. Then why is it
so bleak and hopeless?"

"It's the work. The darkness. The pits." He
realized he was incoherent.

"King Coal is coming back. Where's the dancing in the
streets?"

"I called it like I saw it," he said defensively,
the old anger returning. When you're out of favor, the vultures like to pick at
the carcass. He took refuge in the thought. They were edging him out, he
decided, culling the ranks of the disgruntled.

"Don't get paranoid. I'm trying to be constructive.
We're rewriting. I'm the salvage team."

He felt the blood beat in his head. Barrows was an editor
on the national desk, a company man. "You? Don't touch a goddamned word.
You'll mangle it."

"Watch it, Martin, your hotshot days are long
gone."

"Shove it up your ass."

"Listen, wise guy." He could hear Barrows's heavy
breathing and wished it would stop. "The word's out on you. If you got a
complaint, take it up with Webster. Hell, I'll do it for you."

"You do that." The mention of Webster inflamed
him even more. "And don't touch one word of that copy or my name comes off
the by-line."