Housebreaking (9 page)

“That's where they usually are.”

He led her by the hand, past the sleeping dogs and up the staircase. She went into the room ahead of him and looked around. “It smells like you in here.”

“I hope that's a good thing.”
Audrey Martin is in my bedroom.
This simple fact seemed to paralyze him. He grinned dumbly and followed her gaze around the room. “I've been meaning to change the decor.”

“I like the Farrah poster. Very retro.”

She saw the yearbook on the desk and flipped through a few pages. “Been catching up on your reading?”

“Only the parts that have to do with you.”

“You really did have a crush on me, then?”

“Still do.”

She closed the book and kissed him, more urgently now. She reached down and fumbled with his belt buckle. She got that open, then unbuttoned his khakis and eased them down, together with his boxer briefs.
His hard-on sprang out. She stroked him, her hands warm and soft. This snapped him out of his daze, and he bent to help her take off her jeans. His face was down at her thighs, and she ran her hand through his hair, just like she did that first day. He felt down her legs: smooth, freshly shaved. Maybe that's what she'd done in those minutes before they met with the dogs.

“Take off your shirt,” he said.

She did what he asked, then unfastened her bra. Her breasts emerged, bigger than he would have imagined. The sudden nakedness of a stranger, so shocking. He felt calm and oddly removed, like an observer at a tennis match. He took her in his arms and they fell onto the bed.

* * *

TWO DAYS LATER,
Leonard Mandelbaum came to. He found himself on a couch, watching TV. Benjamin was sitting next to him, eating potato chips from a bag.

“Where am I?” He had to concentrate on his words; they felt like cotton balls in his mouth.

Benjamin turned to him with a dawning smile. “Are you feeling okay, Dad?”

“I feel strange. Where am I?”

Benjamin told him the whole story: how he found him in the den, the ride to the hospital, the three days he'd spent in the ICU, oblivious. Leonard remembered his collapse, the eruption inside his head like a great wind blowing. But after that, there were only flashes—the expressionless faces of nurses, people coming into his room at night, someone screaming in the hallway, intercoms and alarms, and all that time, a feeling of shame for losing control, for not being able to think straight.

“Seven days,” Leonard repeated. It could have been a long night, a month, a year. “What's the date today?”

“Saturday. The twenty-seventh of October.”

Leonard got to his feet. He could barely feel his right leg. His whole right side was numb.

“Pins and needles,” he gasped, grabbing his son's arm.

“The doctor wants you to walk as much as possible.”

Leonard pointed toward the hallway and shuffled forward. “Okay then,” he said, leaning on Benjamin. “Let's go.”

* * *

WHEN THEY
got back to his room, Leonard saw the woman sitting in the corner by the window, a ball of yarn bouncing at her feet as she clicked the needles.

Benjamin said, “Hi, Mrs. Funkhouser,” and Leonard gestured at her and said, “It's Terri Funkhouser. From Newark.”

She looked up at him above her bifocals. “Is that the Leonard Mandelbaum I used to know?”

“I'm fine,” said Leonard. He eased into bed.

“Dad's feeling much better,” said Benjamin. “We went up and down the hallway three times and took the elevator to the gift shop.” He set the magazines on the table, and she examined them.

“
Newsweek. The New York Times.
You were always so well informed, Len. Would you like me to read to you?”

“You do your sewing.”

“Not sewing.
Knitting.
Guess what I'm making.”

Leonard squinted at the wool in her lap. “Blanket.”

“Guess again.”

“Carpet.”

Benjamin adjusted the sheets, covering his father's legs. “A carpet, Dad? Why would you say that?”

“Joking,” said Leonard, exhaling heavily. He felt a sudden physical exhaustion.

“It's a sweater for my favorite patient.
You
.”

Benjamin patted his arm. “I'm going to head home, Dad. Mrs. Funkhouser will keep you company. She's been coming to see you every day. You remember that, right?”

“I'm happy to visit. Gives me something to do with myself.”

After Benjamin left, Leonard closed his eyes. But it would be rude to fall asleep with the woman visiting him. “I'm awake,” he said.

“Go ahead, nap if you want. You got an hour before dinner. I'm happy to see you back to your old self. You're not all glazed over like before. The same thing happened with Dick Senior after his stroke. One afternoon he got out of his armchair, wiped the drool off his mouth, and said, ‘Terri, where am I?'”

“Who's Terri?”

“What was that, Len? Say again.”

He sighed and closed his eyes. The clicking of the knitting needles, like Morse code.

* * *

WHEN HE OPENED
his eyes again, it was dark, the curtains were drawn. The TV flashed without sound. In the corner the woman was sprawled in the chair, head back, mouth open, her chest rising and falling. Her blouse had come untucked and he could see some of her stomach, pale and rippled, spilling over her hip. As he raised himself up in bed, Leonard grabbed at his right leg, yelping in pain. Terri Funkhouser stirred and picked her glasses off her chest, attached to a thin gold chain that went around her neck. “What's wrong, Len? You're not having another stroke, are you?”

“Cramps,” said Leonard.

“That's the paralysis,” she said, rising heavily from the chair. “A little rubdown will do you wonders.”

She pulled the blankets away, exposing his legs in the tight hospital stockings. Her hands, warm and strong, gripped his right thigh and squeezed.

“Too hard.”

“Don't be a baby, Len. We gotta get the blood flowing. You can't just lie in bed all the time like a cripple. You don't want to get bedsores. Dick Senior used to beg for massages. He would pay me by the hour, like a hooker. Said I had million-dollar hands.”

Leonard pulled his gown over his groin, trying to cover the diaper and his hairless thighs. Myra had once complained that, as he'd gotten older, he'd grown as smooth as a baby while she'd gotten hairy.

“Don't be shy,” Terri said. “You've got nothing down there I haven't seen before.” Her hands moved toward his stomach, making him laugh involuntarily. “My son Dickie's been hell to get along with lately.”

“Dickie's a good boy,” Len managed.

“He never had a head for business, but after Dick Senior died, he just went to pot. He lost the dry-cleaner business on bum stocks, thousands and thousands of shares, and the whole thing went poof overnight, like throwing money into the wind. His wife left him when they foreclosed on their house. Now he's back living with me, a fifty-year-old man. He's got a shiksa girlfriend and they want to sell my house out from under me and take the money and go to Florida. I hear them scheming in the next room, as if I were already dead. They even had the house appraised. After all I've done for him, this is the way he treats me, my only son.”

“Oww.” Her hands were digging into his kidneys, making him wriggle.

“Dickie's dead broke, and that shiksa twists his head all around. ‘Wouldn't you be happier in a nice little condo in Sarasota, Terri? It would be so much easier for you
at your age
.' This she says to my face. ‘You're sitting on a gold mine. The Realtor told us it's worth four fifty, maybe more. Think of what you could do with all that money in Florida!' You can practically see the dollar signs in her eyes. Stefanie is her name. ‘Stefanie with an
f,
' she likes to say, as if anyone cares. Voice like a chipmunk. How does that feel, Len? Good?”

“Stop.” He tried to turn away, but she pushed him back, her hands gripping his ribs.

“Don't get me wrong. I don't like living in that big house all alone. I'm glad to have the company. And I like Florida as much as the next person, but who wants to live there all year round in some concrete tower built in the sand? Who wants to get pushed out by some shiksa with a boob job? Well, I shouldn't mention the boob job because she had a mastectomy due to cancer and I wouldn't wish that on anyone, so forget I said that. Dickie never knew how to handle the ladies, and this one has her claws into him deep and she's not going to let go. I never begrudged Dickie anything. I spoiled him rotten. I'd give him the deed to the house tomorrow if he asked. I just don't like
her
asking. What's wrong, Len?”

“Hurts.”

“There. Done.”

Her face appeared just inches above him, peering down through her spectacles. Leonard felt his lungs clog with her perfume, pungent and stupefying.

“Can't breathe,” he said.

She tucked the blankets around him like a straitjacket. “Dickie met her at the post office. She runs some sort of half-assed business out of her apartment, selling calligraphy—personalized invitations, wedding announcements, that sort of crap. Every day she schleps her packages to the PO. No wonder she's got her meat hooks into poor Dickie. Anything looks good compared to that type of life.”

She went back to her chair and picked up her knitting needles. Her voice went on, but he tuned out the words, feeling a calm come over him. Myra would do the same thing—talk and talk, the words turning into a sort of music. He closed his eyes and let the voice draw him into a comfortable oblivion.

* * *

ON THE DRIVE
home from the hospital that night Benjamin couldn't stop thinking about her. Her taut body, that lovely ass, raised for him. A silly refrain had gone through his mind for the first few minutes—
I can't believe it. I can't believe I'm fucking Audrey Martin
—as if he were his sixteen-year-old self, amazed at his good fortune.

For the past two days he'd wanted to call her, but—she was married. Better to let her make the next move, he figured. But now he couldn't stop himself. He got out his cell and dialed. “I was just thinking about you,” he told her.

“That's nice,” she said.

Her voice sounded flat, so he tried to bring her out. The direct route, always the best. “I enjoyed our little adventure the other night,” he said, “in case you couldn't tell.”

“Me too,” she offered.

He checked the time: a few minutes past 6:00
P.M.
on a Saturday evening. “I've got another bottle of wine, if you're interested.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“It is.”

“Hmmm,” she said, drawing out the word in a teasing tone, which made his heart race. Teasing was good. Teasing meant it wasn't a one-time thing. She said, finally, “May I bring the dog? She hasn't had her walk yet and she's getting excited.”

“That makes two of us.”

They arranged to meet at his house in a half hour.

At home, he changed into a pair of jeans and a fresh pair of boxer briefs. He piled some kindling and a few logs in the fireplace and lit the newspaper to get it going. What woman could resist a fire? He opened the bottle of wine and readied the glasses. He got a blanket from his father's closet. What else? Condoms, of course. The half hour passed, then another ten minutes. He paced from the den to the kitchen, Yukon following him. Every few minutes he pushed aside the drapes and peered out at the dark street. What was keeping her? Had she changed her mind? Had her husband gotten in the way?

Finally, the doorbell rang. When he opened the door, her malamute raced past him, the leash slipping from her hand. Yukon pounced, and both dogs charged into the kitchen and began barking.

“The rain started,” said Audrey. “I'm soaked.”

“Come into the den. Warm up.”

She stood before the fireplace in sweatpants and a sweatshirt. She pulled off the hood and let her hair down, shaking it out.

“You look terrific,” he said.

“You haven't seen what I'm wearing yet.”

“I haven't?”

She shook her head. “Turn around.”

He did as she asked, staring into the darkness in the backyard. In the window he followed her reflection. She shimmied out of her clothes and bent to retrieve something out of her bag. Outside the window, the bushes trembled in the night breeze.

“Okay,” she said. “You can look.”

He turned to her. She was wearing black mesh panties, a pair of high heels, nothing else.

“Well? What do you think?”

“I'm speechless,” he said.

* * *

AFTERWARD
his cell phone buzzed. He fished it out of his pants and checked the caller ID.

“It's my son,” he explained. “I'll call him later.”

He turned off the ringer. He felt bad, but David had picked a lousy time to return his calls. Benjamin had been trying to reach him for a few days. He wanted to talk to him about Thanksgiving, just a few weeks away. Maybe his son could convince Judy to allow him to come to the house for dinner. He had called Judy three or four times since their last talk, but she wouldn't answer or respond to his messages. He still hadn't told her about Leonard's stroke. But now that his dad looked so much better, it didn't seem as urgent.

He tried to sweep his wife out of his mind as he rubbed Audrey's back. They were naked, lying side by side on the rug, on top of Leonard's Hudson's Bay wool blanket. Her dark red hair fell across her shoulders.

“You're good at that,” she said, her voice raspy. She cleared her throat. “Really good.”

“Thanks.” He grinned. He had to admit, he'd been on his game. He hadn't rushed it. He'd taken his time, the way Judy always told him to, particularly at the start. Audrey had a beautiful body. It was blissful to
run his hands over her soft skin, her breasts, the insides of her thighs. She was forty-five, but she looked a decade younger, easily, and he saw only the high school girl of his past. After some time with her on top of him, he'd switched positions, fucking her from behind, squeezing and slapping and caressing her ass, the way he'd always wanted to. He'd picked up speed as he went along, and her voice had gone hoarse with her cries of pleasure.