Case of Lucy Bending (34 page)

What he wanted, what he really wanted was . . . Was what? Something more than sex. He wanted something absolutely new, never before felt or imagined. He thought that if he could name it, he could find it. But it eluded him.

"What the hell," he whispered angrily, furious with her, but mostly with himself.

When he came back to the sofa, she had taken off the nightgown and was lying naked, arms and legs outstretched. The pillow was beneath her hips, elevating her rump. The black braid lay along her spine, a plump snake that gleamed and twisted.

He stared down at that pale starfish, spread and waiting. Haunches were tight, back boned, legs roped with tendon. He took a deep breath and put his drink aside.

When he lowered himself upon her, she writhed and moaned piteously in a child's voice: "Don't hurt me, daddy. Please don't hurt me."

He paused. He had never hurt her. Never. He knew that, and she knew it, too. He could only guess it was her private fantasy.

Or she was wiser beyond his ken and had decided what might lock him to her, forever and ever.

That same evening, while Luther Empt agonized over what was happening to him, his mother, Gertrude, and Jane Hollo-way's father, Professor Craner, sat placidly on the Empt terrace. They were bundled up against the night's chill, and sipping small snifters of Luther's Italian brandy.

The professor was dressed rakishly in old-fashioned creamy gabardine slacks with a plentitude of sewn pleats at the waist. His open-necked white shirt was decked with a boldly patterned ascot. Over this, he wore a heavy white V-necked fisherman's sweater in a cable knit. The rosewood cane was clasped between his bony knees.

Gertrude wore one of her flowered tents with a drawstring neckline. She had pulled on a moth-eaten wool cardigan (one button missing), and the kind of sashed, wide-brimmed straw hat (decorated with a clump of plastic cherries) that an impecunious duchess might wear to a garden party. As usual, her legs and feet were bare.

Craner looked about serenely.

"Quiet tonight," he observed. "Where is everyone?"

"John Stewart Wellington is in his room," she told him. "Reading another book about the battle of Waterloo. That man is just nuts about Waterloo. Luther is at some business meeting or other. He says."

"And Teresa?" he asked idly.

She didn't answer.

"I didn't mean to pry," he said apologetically.

"I know you didn't, perfesser. She's not too far from us. On the grounds, in fact."

"Oh? Taking a walk?"

"Not exactly." Gertrude paused a long moment. "She's out in the gazebo. Rubbing the bacon."

It took him a while to understand. Then he hastily sipped his brandy.

"My goodness," he said. "I never would have guessed."

She grinned at him. "Don't you want to know who she's doing it with?"

"Not unless you want to tell me."

"You'll get a charge out of this," she said, laughing roughly. "Your grandson."

Then they both gulped their brandies. They stared out at an inky sea, shifting and turning onto the beach. Lights of fishing boats crawled along. There was an occasional flash of a whitecap. They were hardly conscious of the surf's constant pound and splash.

"Jesus Christ!" Craner burst out.

"Yeah," Mrs. Empt said, "I figured that would throw you."

"You're sure?" * "Sure I'm sure. I know what's going on in this house. Besides, sometimes when the wind is right, you can hear them."

"That devil," the professor said softly.

"Him or her?" she asked, leaning forward to pour them more brandy.

"Gertrude," he said, "sometimes I just can't seem to keep up with it. It's a whole new ballgame."

"Nah," she said. "People aren't doing anything that they haven't always done. They just don't make a big deal out of hiding it anymore. No one gives a damn."

"No one gives a damn," he repeated, sighing. "I'm afraid you're right." He stroked his mustache and goatee reflectively. "I guess I really don't object."

"Me neither," she said. "To each his own."

"The boy is only sixteen," he mentioned.

"If they're big enough," she said, "they're old enough. It might be the best thing in the world for him."

"And for her?"

"Her, too. It's a cinch she's not getting any loving from that lummox son of mine."

He stared at her with a tight smile.

"You don't much like your son, do you, Gertrude?"

She hesitated for a beat or two. "No," she said.

"I don't much like my daughter," he confessed. "She's all right, I suppose, but she's a stranger to me."

"It happens," Gertrude said philosophically. "God knows

I don't know where Luther gets his ambition and drive. Not from me, and certainly not from his father, that's for sure."

"Are children a blessing or a curse?" he asked her.

"Both," she answered. /

They sat in contented silence. She was sprawled, tea-colored legs thrust out. She wiggled her bare toes reflectively. He sat stiffly, leaning forward from the waist to grasp the silver toucan head of his cane.

"Have you thought about that place we looked at?" he inquired casually. "The motel near Fashion Square."

"I've been thinking," she admitted.

"Good," he said. "As long as you haven't forgotten. But in all honesty, I should tell you there's a drawback."

"What's that?"

"Me," he said.

"Ah-ha," she said. "I knew it. Come clean, perfesser. Spill the beans."

"I snore," he said.

"And?"

"I drink prune juice," he said.

"Big deal," she scoffed. "If I had the prune juice concession for south Florida, I'd be a zillionaire. What else?"

"My feet aren't so great. I wear a built-up arch in one shoe, and I've got a painful callus on the other foot. I have to take pills to keep my blood pressure down, no salt, and my liver isn't exactly in prime condition. Let's see . . . what else ... A touch of arthritis in my hip, I have to wear reading glasses, and the last time I got it up was on May 14, 1968."

She shouted a laugh.

"Not so bad for an old fart," she said. "Want to hear my tale of woe?"

"Delighted," he said.

"I had a hysterectomy, but I still have trouble occasionally with my plumbing. And the stomach isn't so great. I belch like a maniac, especially in the morning; I'm Turns' best customer. I also had a mastectomy, so I'm titless on the left side. Okay on my last checkup; no signs of spreading. My teeth are store-bought, but my eyes are fine, and my hair's all mine. My ass is sinking, and I've got the Goodyear blimp around my waist. I think that's about all. Scare you off?" "Not at all," he assured her. "I'd be comfortable with another survivor. We might just make a go of it."

"Maybe," she said doubtfully.

He looked at her steadily, almost fiercely. "Gertrude, I would like to live with someone who remembers the same songs I do."

"We'll see," she said.

The new revolver had been cleaned three times, though it had never been fired. A month after buying it, Holloway had decided it was stupid to keep it in the drawer of the bedside table. He decided to wear it, in the handsome black leather holster he had purchased.

The holster had a safety strap that snapped over the gun, so there was no nonsense of practicing a fast draw. Nothing like that. It was just that the holster and revolver suspended from his belt gave Holloway a pleasant feeling of security and confidence.

More exciting was the feel of the gun when he cleaned it, or just gripped it. There was something sensuous about its oiled gleam, something thrilling in its blunt power.

On a Wednesday afternoon, mid-December, following a two-martini lunch and then three surreptitious nips of vodka from his office bottle, Holloway was bubbling. When alone, he chattered away to himself gleefully, getting good answers to difficult questions.

But by the time he decided to leave the bank, a little after four o'clock, his ebullient mood had shredded away.

The rain didn't help. It had started about 2:00
P.M
., with a crack of thunder and strike of lightning, like a curtain raiser. The deluge began. A steady, soaking rain that fell straight down, making a swamp of the bank's landscaped grounds and a pool of the parking lot.

Holloway dashed for his Mercedes, holding over his head the morning's copy of
The Wall Street Journal.
Once inside the car, he started the engine and flipped on the air conditioner. He sat there, gripping the wheel, conscious that his socks and shoes were soaked and squelching.

He made no effort to drive, hoping the downpour might let up. He cleaned a patch of fog from the window and, looking out, imagined that he might be under water, sunk and gone. The grayness was all about him, solid, and he glanced at the floor of the car, half-expecting to see it creeping up.

Nothing had followed that initial crash of thunder, but far up in the murk there were still occasional flashes, lightning like tarnished silver. Holloway sighed, began again his dialogue:

"What happened to your resolution to live as a virtuous man?"

"It wasn't a resolution. Just a decision to explore the possibility."

"And?"

"It's difficult."

The difficulty lay, he admitted, not in his willingness, but in the almost total lack of moral choice in his life. His drinking or not drinking could hardly be considered a matter of virtue or vice. Similarly, his involvement in the pornography industry, however peripheral, was simply cold business which did not concern his soul's salvation.

"Piddling stuff," he said aloud.

"True," he agreed. "Nothing meaningful or significant."

Meanwhile he remained a medium man living a medium life. He longed for drama, a clap of thunder and flare of electricity that might signal theatre of moral import. He wanted to endure a grievous wound or volunteer an extreme sacrifice.

The rain continued. Dreading the drive home, he headed slowly out of the parking lot. The snicking windshield wipers barely kept up with the flood; he leaned forward to peer through the streaked half-moon.

Streets and highways were awash. Stalled cars blocked his way. He maneuvered fearfully, hoping that drivers behind him were moving as cautiously as he. Traffic lights were out, and he waited almost three minutes before daring to turn south on A1A.

There was a delay at Northeast Sixth Street: cars waiting in line for some obstruction to clear.

Dimly, through the streaming window on the passenger's side, he saw a sodden, forlorn figure standing on the verge. The boy was hopefully jerking a thumb southward. Holloway slid across the leather benchseat and rolled the window down a few inches.

"Wayne!" he yelled. "Wayne Bending! Over here."

The lad came running. He slipped into the car, slammed the door behind him.

"Jesus!" he said. "Am I ever glad to see you."

"What happened?"

"Aw, I missed the school bus and couldn't get a ride. I called home, but no one's there. I decided to hitch, but the guy I was with got flooded out, so I started hitching again. I'm sorry, Mr. Holloway, I'm getting the seat all wet."

"It's only water," Holloway said.

The line of cars started inching forward again. Holloway leaned to stare through the murk.

"It's a pisser, isn't it?" Wayne Bending said.

Holloway didn't answer. The line of cars stopped again. He turned off the stereo, took a pack of cigarettes from his inside jacket pocket.

"Could I have one of those?" Wayne asked. "Please."

"I guess so," Holloway said, laughing nervously. "As long as you don't tell your parents I'm leading you astray."

"They'll never hear it from me," the boy said.

They lighted up, Holloway holding the match. Wayne handled the cigarette expertly, inhaling without effort. He turned his head away from Holloway, wiped mist from his window, stared out.

"Getting worse," he reported. "Shit."

They sat in silence a few moments. Then they heard the warbling whine of police sirens. Through the windshield, dimly, they could see revolving red lights.

"Oh God," Wayne said. "The cops. That means a crackup or a stalled car. We'll be sitting here forever."

Holloway opened his window a crack to let the smoke out and help clear the fog from the windows. Wayne Bending watched him, then did the same on his side.

"How are you getting along in school?" Holloway asked with as much interest as he could muster.

"Okay," the boy said shortly. "I get by."

"That's not what I hear," Holloway said with a tinny laugh. "I hear you're a hotshot student."

"Yeah? Where'd you hear that?"

"Around. I wish I could say the same for Eddie."

"He does all right," Wayne Bending said.