'Exactly!'
'But then,' Pam said, looking straight at dear old Mum, 'it's difficult to overestimate the damage a mother can do.'
Mrs. Maxson sighed and carefully replaced her cup and saucer on the silver tray. They must have been down this road before. She smoothed an imaginary crumb from the shimmering blue dress and shifted in her chair as if the tea were coming to a close. 'Dr. Riggs, may I offer you a last slice of mincemeat cake with the brandy-butter sauce?'
Charlie patted his stomach and demurred, and Mrs. Maxson dispatched the pastry cart with a wave of the hand to her kitchen girl and told us we'd be having roast quail for dinner. I figured a five-mile run would be the prerequisite for that feast and would have made it, too, if a nap hadn't sounded so good. Mrs. Maxson showed me a room at the end of the second-floor corridor, and the four-poster practically invited me to drop in. The bed was high enough to store a steamer trunk underneath. Topside, it had a thick mattress, cool pink sheets, and high fluffy pillows.
I stripped down and drew the heavy curtains, blackening the room. The combination of jet lag, Thorazine, and two thousand calories of sweets took its toll. I was already asleep and dreaming of clear skies and steady winds when a sixth sense told me of a presence in the room. Unless I was dreaming.
I opened my eyes and, in the light of a candle, saw Pamela Maxson. She wore white panties and a white bra, and my waking sensation was that an erotic nurse was about to minister to her patient. She was fuller of hip and larger of breast than she appeared fully clothed, an enchanting swirl of womanly curves. She slid out of the panties and unfastened the bra. She shook her long auburn hair free over a bare shoulder and put the candle on the nightstand.
'I really don't own a bikini,' she whispered, crawling into the cool bed and burying her head against my chest. 'Red or otherwise.'
There was the initial excitement of fresh silken skin and sweet womanly scents. There was the slight awkwardness of exploring new but familiar terrain. There was the customary kissing and touching and sighing and nuzzling, and there was finally the joining of bodies. Which, no matter the depth of feeling, the mutual care, comes down to the mutual thrusting of loins, the roar of engines in sync, the pure physical explosion of chemical energy. But even as my motor revved I thought the same was somehow out of kilter. There was, after all, no depth of feeling or mutual care. My pursuit of her had been halting and unsure, her response caustic and defensive. Then, the sudden change of moods; she became interested. In me or my neuroses, I didn't know which. But she was asking all the questions. She was filling in the blanks about me. That was fine. But who was this woman? I didn't know her at all. I didn't know the meaning of what we were doing, or why suddenly I needed to know, or why my spirits had plunged. It never used to be that way. Not in the days of the AFC Traveling All-Star Party Team. But damn, we change without knowing when or why.
So, after we unlatched, as my heartbeat slowed to its normal snail's pace, I had a short argument with the friend who sits on my shoulder, a smarter guy than me.
Lonely. That's what I feel. My arms wrapped around a beautiful woman who came to me, and I feel lonely…
What are you complaining about, Lassiter? You got yours, didn't you, fella?
Yes, but…
But what?
I want some caring with the caresses.
You're breaking my heart, big guy.
There's even some new words out there. Commitment. Love.
I'm gonna bring out the violins any minute now.
This didn't feel right. So meaningless.
Postcoital depression. Discuss it with your therapist. Hey, isn't that her…?
Somewhere, under the blanket of sleep, I heard a tapping against the windows and felt a chill in the room. There was the sense of movement, of clouds clearing, that perception below consciousness. Then invisible fingers flipped the switches and turned on the juice, warming up the brain.
I stretched an arm across the cool sheet and found myself alone.
'Looking for someone?'
'Found her,' I said.
She stood at the foot of the bed, draped in a black velvet robe with gold piping. A candle flickered on the mantel. Outside, a summer storm pelted the windows with rain.
'I must be dreaming,' I said.
'And not of me on a beach, I'll wager.'
'Why do you say that?'
She sat on the bed.
'Now that you've had me, the repressed wish has been fulfilled. Time to move on to other wishes, other dreams.'
She said it analytically, coldly, and I didn't like the way it sounded. 'Is that a general comment on the male gender or should I take it personally?'
She was silent, so I said, 'Or do you have some fear of abandonment?'
'You treated me as a transitional object,' she said, 'as a child would a teddy bear. To you, I'm something halfway between yourself and another person. Just a comforter for your infantile narcissism.'
Oh. So that's what it was. It's so convenient to have a doctor in the house. Still, like most men, I prefer not to have my ego bashed just after sex. 'Hold on, now. If I'm not mistaken, there was an appreciable amount of cooing and sighing coming from your side of the bed. Unless you were acting, things were pretty equal in the heat department.'
'Is that it?' she demanded. 'Were you measuring my galvanic skin response, the square inches of the blush on my chest? Is that all it is to you, the thermodynamics?'
'Time out! I was lying here peacefully. You're the one who came in, slithered out of her pants, and-'
'Bastard! Rotten bastard! It's what you wanted, the old slap and tickle.'
'Wrong. I wanted more.'
She stood and turned away. With the candlelight behind her, her profile appeared in silhouette. 'And I didn't want to be treated as a need-satisfying object as you would your mother.'
'My mother? I never knew my mother.'
'It shows. Your suckling my breasts was the manifestation of an obsessional need.'
'Where I come from, it's considered appropriate, even appreciated by many females of your generation.'
'Really? Boasting now of your prowess, adding another notch to your belt.'
'No, damn it! I think we made a mistake here. We weren't ready for this. You shouldn't-'
'Blast and damn! It's my fault, is it? Why didn't you send me away?'
'Because I wanted you. I just don't know what you expected.'
'Not a bloody thing! You're all alike.'
'I'm glad it isn't personal.'
'It is, you blockhead. Have you ever tried talking, comforting? Afterward, you didn't say a word unless your silent melancholia followed by snoring is considered suitable communication among females of my generation.'
Suddenly I wasn't lonely anymore. I wanted to be alone. I was tired of having my head analyzed and my lovemaking criticized. I went on the offensive. 'As long as we're talking about mothers, you were downright rude to your mother today.'
'Now you're an expert on etiquette as well as orgasms, is that it?'
'My granny taught me to be kind to stray cats, to wipe my shoes before coming in the house, and to pee before I got in the shower. I figured out on my own it isn't nice to call your mother a tramp in front of company.'
'You think you know everything, don't you?'
'I know you're a grown-up lady and so is your mother, and the two of you ought to just let each other live the
