and said, “You see, they are real. Your eyes have been like a bra all night.”
There was something so pat about it all, I became sore. I told her coldly, “That's me, very bosom conscious. Here's another book idea for your husband; no part of the human body, including the brain, has changed the world's history as much as a firm pair. In fact, at the moment, breast shots are the mainstay of a high percentage of our magazines; they're the new literary movement.”
“Odd time for a lecture, isn't it?” Her big eyes were mocking me.
I slid along the seat and stepped out of the car on the other side, undressed. Wilma ran into the water and I followed her. The water was wonderfully salty and cool. Wilma was a good swimmer and we went out about a hundred yards before turning back. It was a fine beach, very few rocks or mud on the bottom. We walked up and down the beach, shivering a bit. She kicked up the sand with her toes and stared at me, her face more intense than ever. “You strip big, Norm. You really have good shoulders, and those hands.... so strong.”
I looked down at the sand, kicked some on her feet. She seemed to have perfectly formed feet. “Why do you wear those funny looking shoes?”
“Find they relax me. The old gag about taking a cold shower—the swim did it for us, didn't it?”
“Did what? We wanted to take a swim, and we did. Let's go back to dry ourselves.”
As we headed back toward the car Wilma took my hand. We walked along like a couple of kids. She said, “You have such hard rough palms, like a laborer's. What do you do at Longson's, use your hands for a paper press?”
“I play a lot of handball,” I said, knowing I must sound like an idiot.
She suddenly placed my hand on her breast. And then we were thrashing around on the sand. It was all over before I could even think about it. Lying beside her I didn't feel a thing but confused. Then I wondered if I had let her down.
I glanced at Wilma and in the pale light she seemed to be smiling up at the stars. She was still breathing heavily. She turned, smiling at me, and said, “Talk to your juvenile editor about Joel. I think a change in publishers might be good for him. You see how I have to look after Joel, wear his pants. But I don't mind.”
The words bounced off my face and I looked away, wondering if she was stark crazy. Then I realized it hadn't meant a damn thing to her... or to me. It seemed so downright childish. Why had we done it, then? Instead of being full of sand and probably catching at least a cold as I lay beside this nutty broad, I should be with my wonderful Michele. The exciting, sensuous strength to her arms around my back. How embarrassed I'd been at first, the way she would embrace for hours afterward in sleepy satisfaction. I would finally awake in the middle of the night, my arms cramped and distant, but so aware of her soft beauty. I would be proud of her and....
Now, all I wanted was to be rid of Wilma and this dirty sand. I stood up. “Shall we wash up with a swim?”
I pulled Wilma to her feet—and she still had this kind of patronizing smile on her face. She held up her face and we kissed with absolutely no feeling. She giggled as we walked slowly into the water and swam around. Then I jogged back to the car for our clothes. I tossed her my T-shirt for a towel, while I tried to dry myself with my shorts.
I tossed the shorts into the grass. Wilma threw the T-shirt into the back of the car. Being dressed again seemed to be an act of sanity. I drove back to New York, her head resting on my shoulder. She happily didn't talk until we crossed the 59th Street bridge when Wilma sat up to ask: “What time is it?”
“Nearly three. Would you care for something to eat?”
“No, I feel fine. Norm, when you get straightened out with your wife, come over and visit. I think we can all be wonderful friends. Joel is very amusing, usually.”
“Sure.”
When I parked in front of her door Wilma held up her face and we kissed lightly. She said, “Don't forget,” waved and walked into the house.
My teeth were chattering. I drove to the first coffee pot and had two cups of hot coffee. I still felt completely confused. The coffee warmed me and I thought, Okay, so now I'm a man, and all that slop. I've had my affair, got it out of my system.
Oddly enough, I did feel very much a man. And I also had the same childish feeling as when Frank and I would dress in old slacks and a sweatshirt some Sunday mornings, drive to the handball courts on the lower Drive. With stupid delight we would play a sloppy one wall game until we were 'suckered' into playing for two bits a man with some of the other players. We'd tighten up, win. Between us we made nearly forty grand a year, yet winning a half a dollar gave us pure delight.
When I reached the apartment I sat in a hot bath for awhile, then fell into bed, wondering if the coffee would keep me up. It didn't; I slept the sleep of the just.
I awoke at nine and felt so good I winked at myself in the mirror while shaving... like a happy jerk.
As I was closing the windows of my car in front of Prof. Brown's 'hotel,' I saw my crumpled T-shirt on the back seat. I stared at it for a second, almost with pride. Last night had been lousy but it had done something to my malehood, childish as that may sound, to know that these sexy-looking babes were not very good at it, as I always expected. True, I was basing this pearl of wisdom only on Wilma, but she was a fair sampling, I decided.
The heat and insecticide perfume hit me as I stepped into the lobby. The clerk waved as if I was an old buddy, then slapped his face and ran around the desk, rushed me to the door. I couldn't get his rapid French, but he kept gesturing madly at the back of the little man walking up toward Broadway. When I asked if that was Prof. Brown, the clerk nodded and waved his arm even more violently.
Thanking him, I walked and ran up the street, reaching Broadway in a blaze of sweat. Brown was making for the subway and I sprinted after him. He seemed to be in his late fifties, a slightly built little man, wiry and lean, walking with a neat stride. He was wearing an old tropical suit As I caught up with him his face surprised me. It was a thin face, the skin tight, a sort of owlish expression under a great deal of brushed gray hair. Only owls don't have broken noses and the Professor's nose had been broken sharply, probably a lot of years ago.
I touched his shoulder and he jumped as I said, “Prof. Brown? I'd like to talk to you. I'm—”
