Are You Happy Now? (8 page)

Amy looks at him with shining eyes. “Will you help me?” she asks.

“Well, I’d be happy to look the stuff over.”

She leans forward. “You don’t think Pistakee would publish a book like that, do you?”

Lincoln sits back and considers, the hoary old master. “Maybe. Who can say. We’ve done fiction before, though not for a while.” Then, after a pause: “But let’s not mention it to Byron just yet. This will be our own little project.”

“Right!”

It’s almost midnight by the time they leave the bar. The Wrigley crowd has disappeared, the leafy streets are quiet. Amy’s apartment on Seminary Avenue is on the way home for Lincoln, so he walks her the handful of blocks. They are both a little unsteady on their feet and bump occasionally. The soft summer air coats Lincoln’s feeling of accomplishment. After all the gabbing, they don’t talk much. Lincoln wonders what she’s thinking. Outside her building, Amy takes his hand. “Now I really do want you to come up,” she says.

He follows without hesitation. It flits through his mind that Mary had said there was no one else. Hah! She’s probably with her lover right now. In the elevator, Amy leans against him, and Lincoln rests his cheek on the top of her head. She’s tiny, he thinks, she fits right under my arm.

They step into her apartment, and she flips on the light. Lincoln has only a moment to take in bright swatches of color, a collection of dainty bottles, other girly essences before they stumble to the sofa, bounce back to their feet, stagger entangled to the narrow bedroom, and fall onto the bed. Lincoln’s head swims. He’s on his back, naked, an overhead fixture making him blink, and Amy is in a white, frilly bra and panties, the cloth gorgeous against her tan skin. Lincoln closes his eyes, and he imagines a large cat, a panther, maybe, walking up and down his body, its soft, padded feet pressing gently into his flesh. With impeccable timing, the panther nibbles, then squeezes, and Lincoln feels as if he has let go of days, years of tension, his entire life in the Midwest, the flatness, the brown suits, the overweight children, the featureless gossip columns with the birthday greetings at the bottom, the stubborn plainness—all of it, washed away.

Afterward, Amy lies with her head on his chest. Lincoln feels too drained to breathe. Can you be so limp and exhausted that you just stop respiring, smothered by contentment?

Amy turns, arches her back to look up at him. Lincoln kisses her on the forehead.

“Are you happy now?” she asks.

SUMMER/FALL:

The Evinrude Doctrine

7

I
T’S AFTER THREE
in the morning when Lincoln pecks Amy softly on her shoulder while she sleeps, then slips out of her apartment. The sidewalks are empty, and under the pressing light of the streetlamps, the storefronts take on a muted, Hopperish aspect—but without the melancholy, Lincoln thinks. In fact, Lincoln feels so buoyant that he briefly considers hiking over to his concrete rock on the lakefront to watch the sun come up. But he’s expecting a busy day at work, and he should try to get a few hours of sleep. So he walks slowly home, his exuberance gradually giving way to...well, not to guilt itself, more like the anticipation of guilt. Actually, he doesn’t know quite how to feel or how he will feel.

Later that morning at Pistakee, Lincoln applies himself diligently to rereading Bill Lemke’s Wrigley Field manuscript, erasing or scratching out edits that aren’t absolutely necessary, marking with a gentle little star suggestions that he hopes the author will continue to honor. But Lincoln really only has one object in mind today: talk to Amy. Tell her that last night was delightful, but it must not happen again, and it must remain their secret. There are so many reasons why. He still loves Mary. At least, he presumes he still loves her. He presumes that the brew of affection, regret, sympathy, memories, concern, interest, and, yes, lust he feels for
his wife still combusts into love, even if their marriage is dormant for the moment.

But there are other, more practical, reasons why he and Amy must maintain a professional distance. Duddleston would fire him if he found out. In the sober daylight, Lincoln has no doubt. Duddleston is a Presbyterian family man, a Democrat, who nonetheless still grumbles about Clinton canoodling with Monica Lewinsky. In an era fraught with sexual harassment issues, you don’t jeopardize the country’s business (or a thrifty little publishing company) for a quick spot of animal pleasure. Besides, Lincoln reasons, he and Amy are onto a promising project. If they hope to haul the sex book through the writing and revision process, they must be clinical, objective. They can’t get muddled by an emotional entanglement.

Amy will agree, Lincoln is certain. But she has disappeared. She’s nowhere around the office, and he doesn’t have her cell phone number. Several times Lincoln diverts past her cubicle on the way to the bathroom. The third time catches the attention of Duddleston’s secretary, Mrs. Macintosh. “Something wrong, John?” she asks.

“No.” She’s noticed him frowning at Amy’s empty desk.

“You look troubled,” says the old lady.

“Just wandering the halls to exercise my imagination,” Lincoln tells her. He doesn’t want to risk asking where Amy is.

Mrs. Macintosh considers him suspiciously from beneath a tower of intricately curled white hair. Lincoln hurries away.

What if Amy’s been so traumatized by their encounter that she’s had a breakdown and even now is at home—unwashed, undressed, sobbing uncontrollably? Or what if she’s one of those desperate, clinging women like Glenn Close in
Fatal Attraction
, and she’s skipped work to plot her assault on his family, such as it is? What has he got himself into?

At around eleven, Lincoln gets a call from the office receptionist, Kim, a chunky blonde recently arrived from Iowa. “John, there’s a policeman on the line who wants to talk to you.”

“A policeman?” Lincoln’s weary body immediately comes to attention. “What’s he want?”

“I don’t know.” Kim sounds annoyed. “He says he wants to talk to you.”

“Put him through.” Lincoln’s mind rushes through the terrible possibilities. Amy’s dead. She flung herself out her window in humiliation at her lost honor. Or she’s been murdered. Her boyfriend beat a confession out of her and then finished her off.

“John Lincoln?” says a deep voice with inflections of the South Side.

“Yes.”

“This is Sergeant Evinrude of the Twenty-Third District. I wonder if you’d mind stopping by in the next few days?”

“What’s this about?” Lincoln asks abruptly.

“Someone has filed a battery claim against you.”

“What?” Lincoln is not prepared for this—he’s still recovering from last night.

“A battery. They say you hit someone.”

“That’s impossible. There must be some mistake.”

“Were you riding the Brown Line at about six fifteen last Tuesday evening?”

Lincoln’s body rebels. Head, heart, stomach, arm. “There was a riot on the train that night,” he squeaks through his tightened throat. “The
Tribune
had a story about it.”

“Look, anyone can file a complaint. It’s my job to investigate it. Can you stop by? We’re on Addison, just east of Wrigley Field.”

Lincoln tries to settle himself, think clearly. “Should I bring a lawyer?”

“Up to you,” says Sergeant Evinrude evenly. “I just want to ask a few questions. You’ll be free to go whenever you want. No need for any Miranda warnings.”

Lincoln is dumbstruck. The sergeant moves them along. “How about ten tomorrow morning? Just ask for me at the front desk.”

“Ah, OK,” Lincoln mumbles.

“See you then.” Click.

Lincoln sits holding the phone until it starts to whine from the disconnection. Even after he returns it to its cradle, the whine remains in his ears. A battery complaint? It must be from shoving the black woman. But that’s ridiculous. He replays the incident over and over in his head. He was just acting in panic, like everyone else. Maybe he was thinking only of himself, maybe he was a little rough, but how could that possibly be criminal?

He stands and walks to the window, looking down on the alley, working to gather himself. He knows he’s got to channel his father. Steely calm. Never admit, never concede.
His father
. An assistant attorney general for civil rights under President Clinton. The distinguished advocate for human rights whose son is being charged with battery on an elderly black woman.

“Lost in memory?” asks a voice from the doorway. Amy, looking relaxed and trim in jeans and a sleeveless green shirt.

“Where have you been?” he asks.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she says, laughing. “I never heard you leave.”

“Shhh.” Lincoln motions her to sit.

“I’ve really only got a second,” she tells him, sitting down nonetheless. “Byron has got me running all over the city picking up photographs for your Professor Fleace. I spent the morning at the History Museum.”

“Were you able to find some good shots?” Earlier, Fleace and Lincoln had made a list of promising images.

“Lots. You could cut the text and add more photos.”

“Listen,” he says, sitting again, “we need to talk, seriously.”

“OK.” She looks at him with concern.

The phone rings. Lincoln picks it up.

“John, your wife is on the line,” Kim announces.

“Ah...” Before Lincoln can decide whether to take it, the call clicks through.

“Linc?”

“Hiiii.” In his distress, he turns the greeting into a yodel.

“Linc? You OK? You sound kind of funny.”

“Yes, just in a meeting at the moment.” Lincoln sits up and hunches over the phone, as if he could hide this conversation from Amy.

“Oh, sorry,” Mary says. “This will only take a second.” But then in a rushed, anxious voice she launches a monologue about how their insurance broker thinks Lincoln should take his name off the car insurance since Mary’s the one using the Camry these days, and the premium will drop without Lincoln and his two speeding tickets, etc. They haven’t spoken in two weeks, and this is what Mary wants to talk about?

Lincoln nods with the phone at his ear and smiles stupidly at Amy. His head is pounding, and he wonders if it’s too soon to take more Bufferin, but he’s too distracted to do the math and count the hours. Finally, he breaks in and tells Mary to go ahead, delete his name from the coverage.

Mary pauses. “How are things going?” she asks in a gentler voice.

“OK, busy, OK.”

“Me, too. But I’m getting away. I’m leaving today for a week in Sedona.”

Alone? Of course, not. Lincoln wants to ask, With whom? Instead, he jokes darkly, “Oh, a vacation from the vacation.”

Mary doesn’t get the reference. “Huh?” Then: “Sorry, I know you’re in a meeting. I’ll let you go. I miss you, Linc.”

Really?

“Me, too,” he blurts nonsensically.

Mary hangs up.

Amy stands abruptly. “I have to go. More photos to chase down.”

“Wait!” Lincoln cries.

Amy sits again, but she cocks her head and studies Lincoln. “Are you OK, John?”

“Fine,” he lies, then continues carefully, “I just thought we should maybe talk. Last night—I had a really good time, and you’re terrific, but I think we ought to lay out the parameters...well, we probably should just cool it.”

Amy aims a hard little smile at him.

“I mean, I’m still married, technically, and I don’t know what’s happening with that, and given that we work together...”

Amy lets a silence settle between them. Finally, she says, “I envy your ego, John. I really do.”

“Ah...”

“Last night was last night. Get over it.”

“Right, right.” Lincoln nods frantically, though on top of everything, he feels let down. As a lover, is he really that fungible?

After another pause, Amy asks, “Why are you always rubbing your arm?”

“I guess I didn’t realize I do it.” Lincoln drops his hands to his lap. “It aches sometimes where I broke it once.”

“How’d you break it?”

“It’s a long story.”

More silence. Amy stares at him evenly. It startles Lincoln, how she can make herself appear so different from those early impressions. Her layered, dark brown hair divides in a neat part stylishly askew from the crown of her head. Dark brows and lashes frame her chestnut eyes, and her thin nose is softened by surprisingly full lips. Even now, with all hell breaking loose, memories of last night tease him.

“What about my novel?” Amy asks.

“I love the idea.”

“You know, I didn’t sleep with you just so you’d help me.”

“And I didn’t encourage you just to get you in bed.”

Amy rises to go. “I’m glad we understand each other,” she says.

“Right.”

At the door, Amy stops and sends a parting shot: “You know, it’s terrible, when you think of all the damage Glenn Close did to one-night stands in
Fatal Attraction
.”

Wisely, Lincoln says nothing.

8