less likely to be spotted by intruders. He had also taken to putting one at each side of the door for insurance.)
When Janet asked what he was doing, he explained and added, “I suppose you’re going to say this is paranoid too.”
“Even paranoiacs have enemies,” she said seriously.
Janet’s room was a replica of his, except for the mess.
Janet took a slip and blouse from the green plastic-covered armchair and tossed them on one of the beds.
After rummaging first in a desk drawer and then in the closet, she located a bottle of Scotch and poured some into a couple of paper cups. She gave Gideon his drink, kicked off her shoes, and sat on one of the beds, her back propped against the white metal bars at its head. As she drew her legs up, Gideon caught a glimpse of long, tawny thighs. Suddenly, he was both excited and shy. He looked down into his cup and swirled the liquid around.
“So tell me,” Janet said, “how do you like teaching for USOC?”
“It’s okay, but it’s been pretty dull so far.”
Janet laughed as she brought the drink to her lips, spluttering the Scotch a little. When she had done that over wine with Eric, it had been an annoying mannerism, contrivedly girlish. Now it seemed spontaneous and charming.
“Janet Feller,” he said. “Nice name. Right out of a teenage romance. Do you know I don’t know anything about you?”
“Ah, you
“No, I mean about
She told him. For over an hour, through three cups of Scotch, she told him how she’d been raised in Illinois; how at eighteen, on a trip to Athens with her parents, she’d fallen in love with a Greek truck driver; how she’d married him against the wishes of both families and then lived two hellish years in his mother’s house in Piraeus, never managing to learn the language. Somehow, her father, an elementary-school principal, had managed to engineer a divorce and bring her back to Champaign, where she had lived at home while working on her B. A. in history. Her father’s graduation present was a trip to New York. There she promptly met and married another truck driver. That had lasted two months.
This was all vaguely unsettling to Gideon. Janet was full of surprises. Every time he thought he had her fitted into a niche, she came up with something new.
“Hmm,” he said, “you seem to fixate on truck drivers, don’t you? I wonder if there’s a name for that. Truckerphilia, maybe.”
As soon as he said it, he was sorry. He had meant to be entertaining, but it had come out flip.
Janet, however, appeared to be amused. “It does seem that way, doesn’t it?” she said as she got up to pour their fourth drinks. “Truckerphilia. Sounds naughty. Say, you don’t by chance happen to drive a truck, do you?”
“I could learn,” he said, feeling loose and happy. “I don’t see why it should be difficult. I’m super-competent in a Rabbit, except for parking and backing up, and turns give me a little trouble.” He sipped his Scotch, enjoying her laughter. “Go ahead, what happened after that marriage?” As she hopped back onto the bed, Gideon watched her smooth thighs more openly.
“Nothing; that’s all there is. I put in four years of graduate work at the University of Chicago, came to USOC three years ago, and I’ve been teaching and trying to write my damn dissertation ever since. Oh, and I never got married again, and I’m thirty-one.
Thirty-one was what he’d guessed. “Astounding,” he said. “Quite well preserved, in my opinion.”
“So I assumed from all that leering and heavy breathing.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be so obvious.”
“Like hell you didn’t. I gather you’re a leg man. A legophiliac.” She smiled sweetly. “Or did I just forget to put on any pants?”
Gideon’s cheeks turned hot. Women had changed a lot in the decade since he’d been in active pursuit. He’d had little practice at the new banter and, try as he did, no witty response came to mind. Angry with himself for being a prude, he bent over his empty cup, trying to hide the fact that he was blushing.
Janet leaned forward and clasped her arms around her knees. “Hey, Gid,” she said softly. Coming from her, in that tone, “Gid” didn’t sound so bad. “That was crude, wasn’t it? I’ve had too many Scotches. Now I’m embarrassed. Look, how about telling me something about you? You know everything about me.”
“There isn’t much to tell,” he began, but then he found there was. At first he talked about his childhood in Los Angeles, about how he’d wanted to be an anthropologist before he even knew there was such a thing, about how he’d supported himself through his Ph.D. at Wisconsin with a host of part-time jobs: waiting tables, being a night watchman, delivering cigarettes to vending machines. (“Did you drive a truck?” asked Janet. “Only a little one,” Gideon said, “a panel truck.” “Oh,” she said, with a make-believe pout, “that doesn’t count.”)
He told her, too, about how he’d boxed at local fight clubs for fifty dollars a fight when part-time jobs dried up. Once, calling on a talent he hadn’t known he possessed, he had lived for two months on his takings as a ping-pong shark in the Student Union. They were both laughing, and he was feeling relaxed again. But suddenly he found himself in the dangerous region, the region he’d never shared with anyone. He told her about Nora and what she’d meant to him, and even—at least to the extent that words could do it—about what it had been like when she had died.
When he was done, she came over to him and knelt between his legs, laying her head against his chest and embracing him with unexpected strength. It made Gideon’s entire body tingle. Bending his head, he kissed her soft, fresh-smelling hair, then turned up her face and kissed her gently on the lips. Their faint raspberry taste was a surprise, an exciting one.
When he released her head, Janet remained looking into his face for a long moment, then hugged him even harder. With nearly unbearable pleasure Gideon could feel her breasts against him, her body pressed hard between his legs. He ran his hands through her hair and over her face. Catching one of his hands, she brought it to her lips
