Naked Came the Stranger (22 page)

"Don't be ridiculous, ma," he had said, relieved by her
refusal.

"Don't worry," she had answered. "I wouldn't embarrass you or Miss
High and Mighty. Sadie Korbinsky don't go where she's not wanted. You
could give me a million dollars, I wouldn't come."

Miss High and Mighty was Myrna. His mother and Myrna had never
gotten along. "A Jewish girl who don't know enough to save chicken
fat," was the way Mrs. Korbinsky had characterized her
daughter-in-law. Whereas Myrna said that Mrs. Korbinsky, despite
living in Brooklyn, was the "most East Side person" she had ever
met.

"After all, Melvin, Myrna had once explained, "she simply refuses
to change. You know I'm not class conscious. I mean how could I be?
Doesn't my own mother play mah-jongg? So it's not that. It's just
that your mother refuses to fit in. She acts sort of – well
let's face it, she acts kikey."

Myrna, of course, didn't play mah-jongg. She played bridge. She
also belonged to the PTA, she was in a volleyball league at adult
education, and she was a member of the King's Neck Garden Club.
Melvin was extremely proud of the way she was active in the civic
life of King's Neck. She was making sure that they fitted into the
community.

You had to hand it to Myrna, thought Melvin. Myrna Gold from
Forest Hills, the dentist's daughter whom Melvin had drilled at
Grossinger's. The first night, before they had even finished the
peach soup, they had discovered their mutual interests – books,
music, the fact that they were both Democrats. Later, they had
cha-chaed together and that was it. Her parents were fine people; oh,
maybe her mother was a little overbearing, but after all Myrna's
father was a dentist. And the Golds had helped out financially in a
number of ways; they had even helped with the house. And he loved
Myrna, he owed her a lot. Besides, after nine years of marriage you
know that nothing is perfect, that the thing is to do the best you
can. Myrna was dark, intense, skinny; she was a good hostess and she
could talk about Dostoevsky and Camus. At first, it had been her very
nervousness that had attracted him – all that tension. It had
held the promise of explosion, but that had never happened. Still,
you kept trying. Even after nine years. He'd had great hopes for the
two weeks in Miami Beach. A second honeymoon, he'd told Myrna. Just
the two of them. But it hadn't worked out. Maybe it had been Myrna's
bathing suit. A bikini, but she had looked bony in it, she had
looked-well, neuter. And there was a stringiness about her hair. It
hadn't helped the way she looked that there had been a couple of real
good-lookers at the hotel. There had been one who had looked a little
like Gillian Blake – a slim blonde with a good bust. He had
watched her at the pool, at the beach, and in the dining room. In
Melvin's daydreams, she had seduced him in her cabana – he
imagined that she wore black lace lingerie and used alluring perfume.
And, also, that she was incredibly skilled in sex. When he was on top
of Myrna in their hotel room, he had tried to visualize the blonde.
One night, the fiction had succeeded and he had functioned well. But
usually it had been the same as at home – no good. The body
beneath him was neither soft nor firm, and they achieved little that
was mutual except perspiration. Afterward, when he was in the
bathroom with a men's magazine that he had hidden in his luggage, he
thought he heard Myrna crying. But he didn't let on. Nothing was
perfect. And it wasn't his fault. And anyway, they had so much
together that was good – the house, David, common interests.
Besides, sex was overrated. It wasn't everything. And there were
always the men's magazines – a harmless preoccupation.

He had read about men with worse fetishes than men's magazines.
Whips, fruit jars, all sorts of things. He was no nut. He was a
professional man. A lawyer. A junior member of a New York law firm
who specialized in real estate work. At the garden club's party the
previous weekend, Gillian Blake – oh Gilly, Gilly, Gilly!
– had asked him about it. "It must take a great deal of
intelligence," she had said. Imagine. Gillian Blake! The Gillian
Blake who was on the radio, and whose picture turned up in the
newspapers. He and Myrna had seen the Blakes around King's Neck, but
they had rarely talked to them. After all, the Blakes were
celebrities. You couldn't just walk up and talk to them.

But at the party, Gillian had been very nice. She had seemed very
natural to Melvin. Of course, her husband, William Blake, had been a
little snobbish. But then he had been a little high. "Corby?" he had
said. "That's not a Jewish name, is it?" Melvin had blushed. He had
tried to stammer a reply, but Gillian had simply taken his arm and
walked him away.

"Don't mind Billy," she had said. "That's the Princeton in him. I
mean, he still sends to some silly store there for his sports
jackets."

Myrna had smiled at him from across the room, obviously pleased
that he was talking to Gillian Blake. Other people had noticed, also.
Melvin remembered how self-conscious he had been. In heels, Gillian
Blake was about an inch taller than he was. He had found himself
staring at her breasts, which had seemed to be beckoning to him
through that low-backed green dress. She had leaned in front of him
to put down a drink, and her hair, tawny and sweet-smelling, had
brushed his face. He had been able to see that she was wearing a
strapless white bra. Just talking to her, he had gotten excited.
There had been a smile at the edge of her lips as if she knew. She
was the most provocative woman he had ever seen. And she was very
intelligent, she knew all about existentialism. She said she had
majored in Far Eastern religions and existentialism at Bard. After
she had left him, it had taken a while before Melvin was able to walk
across the room.

Now, as he got the gas can and filled his power mower tank, Melvin
felt himself becoming excited just thinking about her. What a woman!
And those breasts! Melvin shivered as he imagined how she would be in
bed. There was nothing wrong with thinking about it; hell, he was
only human. And the important thing was that, in nine years of
marriage, he had never cheated on his wife. Never. Not once. Unless,
of course, you counted the men's magazines in the bathroom, but that
wasn't, well, with a person or anything. Besides, he loved Myrna. It
was a fact of which he frequently reminded himself. You live with
somebody for nine years, and you build something together. He had
once heard Gillian Blake say something similar on her radio show;
something about the good and bad of everyday life building a solid
foundation for marriage. But it was hard to believe that there was
anything everyday about Gillian.

"Gillian Blake?" said Charlie Rider, when Melvin mentioned that
she lived in King's Neck. "Yeah, I've seen pictures of her. Now
that's what I'd call a piece of ass. And I bet she throws it around,
too." It was Charlie's frequently cited belief that Melvin's
faithfulness was doing him a great deal of harm. "What you need," he
told Melvin, "is a good piece of ass."

"I never even think about things like that," Melvin had said on
one occasion.

"Bullshit," said Charlie. "You think about it, but you're afraid.
It's your upbringing. You're a victim of Judeo-Hebraic
morality."

"That's nonsensical, besides being redundant," Melvin had
said.

"No guts," said Charlie.

"I just don't believe in the double standard," Melvin answered. "I
think fidelity should be a part of marriage."

"For chrissakes," Charlie said, "you knock something off and your
wife'll respect you a lot more than she does now."

"Listen, I love my wife," said Melvin.

"What the hell has that got to do with it?" said Charlie.

"You don't understand," Melvin had said.

"Love!" said Charlie, and he had practically snorted.

"Hey, you don't have to love a woman to bang her. In fact, if you
love her you're in trouble. You have to be cool. You never love 'em.
You just screw 'em."

"That's disgusting," Melvin had said.

"Bullshit," said Charlie. He said Melvin should get blown. "I bet
you never had a good blow job," he said.

"What the hell, that's not being unfaithful. It's not like you're
getting laid."

Melvin didn't say so, but the idea fascinated him. Sometimes, when
he was eyeing women, he stared at their lips and tried to visualize a
good blow job. Myrna's lips were thin, and she had a faint mustache.
Gillian Blake had firm, mobile lips. They were very sensual.

Melvin filled the power mower's gas tank and started to get back
on the seat when the unbelievable happened.

"Hi there, home owner," she called. It was her! It was Gillian
Blake!

Melvin got back off the mower. He felt as if he were in a dream.
He trembled with excitement as he watched her coming up the walk. She
was wearing a clinging white jersey, and white, tapered slacks. The
slacks were sufficiently tight to afford him an impression of her
love triangle as she came toward him. He just stood there admiring
every inch of her.

"Do I really look that good?" she said.

"What?"

"The way you're looking at me. Do I really look that good?"

"Oh, uh…. Excuse me." Melvin was stammering.

"Don't apologize," she said. "You're just what the ego
ordered."

"Well, uh, you do look very attractive, Mrs. Blake."

"Oh come on," she said, "call me Gilly."

"Gi-Gi-Gilly."

"Mmm, that's better. So, why am I here? Well, I must tell you that
I'm being very civic today. I'm absolutely up to my you-know-what in
good works. I'm collecting for dementia praecox."

Melvin gaped.

"Hey," she said, "that's a joke, son. Actually, I'm collecting for
the National Parapsychology Association."

"Oh," he said. "Well, Myrna, uh my wife, she's not in right now.
She's at the beauty parlor."

"We don't need her, do we? You can give me the donation."

"Right. Yes. Sure. Uh…," he said. "Uh, you'll have to
pardon me, I just don't seem to be organized today. I mean, I was
getting gas for the mower and everything."

"It's okay," she said. "I understand."

She probably did understand, thought Melvin. She probably
understood everything there was to understand. She was wonderful.

Gillian smiled at him, and then started for the house. Melvin
walked behind her. It was almost as if her rear end had a mind of its
own, the way it moved in the tight, white stretch fabric.

Melvin wondered what reality was, as the object of most of his sex
fantasies settled herself on a couch in his living room while he got
out the checkbook. "My," she said. "you have a lovely home."

"You and your husband should come over sometime socially," Melvin
said.

"Oh, let's not talk about him," she said. "My, isn't that nice."
Melvin had given her a check for $25. He rarely gave more than a few
dollars to causes but, after all, this was such a worthwhile
charity.

"Listen, I'm glad to help," he said. She leaned back, smiling at
him.

"Uh, it certainly was nice talking to you at the Garden Club
party," he said.

"Aren't you going to offer me a drink?" she said.

"Yes," he said. "Certainly. I was just about to ask." His voice
almost cracked with excitement. "What would you like?"

"A martini. Very dry. Nine to one. Lemon peel."

Melvin bustled about the kitchen making the drinks. Thank God, he
and Myrna had started having an occasional martini at home. Of
course, he usually made his two to one. Holy Christ! Nine to one! He
made enough for a couple of drinks.

Gillian plumped the couch, and motioned to him to sit next to her.
"Cheers," she said. Then she laughed. "No. L'Chaim."

They touched glasses. The first swallow brought tears to Melvin's
eyes, but he stuck with it. Thank God, they had Beefeater gin in the
house. He had been told that it was the best. He was sure someone as
sophisticated as Gillian Blake could tell the difference.

"Really," he said, "you and Mr. Blake should come over some
time."

"Please," she said. "I meant what I said before. Let's not talk
about him. That would be much too dreary."

"But your husband does seem like an impressive guy."

"Believe me, Mel, you're twice as interesting."

The drink had hit Melvin almost immediately. "You're kidding me,"
he said.

"No, honestly," she said. She put her hand on his wrist.

"I should have married someone like you. What is it they say, a
nice Jewish boy?"

"That's right," said Melvin, thinking that nine to one was a
perfect ratio. "A nice Jewish boy. Nice Jewish boys make great
husbands."

"Ummm, I'll bet they do," she said. "I'll bet they make great
lovers, too."

Melvin tried for what he hoped was a nonchalant grin. She winked.
"You know, Mel," she said, "You're a very attractive man."

"Listen," he said, overcome by her nearness and the nine-to-one
ratio. "You're the best-looking woman I ever saw."

"Billy never tells me anything like that," she said.

"Well, he should," said Melvin, wondering what a woman like her
had ever seen in a jerk like Blake.

"You're terrific."

"You're a doll," she said. And now her hand was caressing his
wrist. "You're really very nice."

"Not half as nice as you."

"Mel," she said as she stroked his wrist, "I wonder if I could ask
you something personal?"

"Ask me anything."

"Have you ever been unfaithful to your wife?" Melvin blushed.
"Well, uh…."

"No, really. Have you?"

He blurted out the truth. "No!"

"Honestly?"

"I haven't. Not ever."

"Really?"

"I'm telling you, it's the truth."

"You honestly never cheated on your wife?"

"No," he said. "I love my wife."

"Sure," she said. "But have you ever cheated on her?"