When he drew her jeans off, he caressed her legs, running the smooth warmth of his palms along the calves, up the thighs. There was nothing professional or practiced about it; it was not a massage. It was touching for its own sake, and he seemed to feel as good doing it as she did receiving it.
They spoke some, but for long stretches the only sound was Cindi’s moaning when he found a new spot or another way of touching her. She could not believe the warmth and feel of his hands.
It took two hours, the first half just touching, the second half lovemaking that seemed like just an extension of the first. Becker was as slow and patient throughout as he had been at the beginning. It was the process that intrigued him. After all, he knew the destination.
Afterwards, Becker continued to embrace her, cradling her in his arms until he knew she was asleep. He was grateful she had not felt the need for comment or witty talk. They simply held on to each other, sustaining the connection that had begun hours ago until she slipped into slumber. Even then Becker continued to hold her, grateful for the comfort she gave him, hopeful that she had not seen the desperation with which he had clung to her. He gripped her until dawn and when she rolled away in her sleep, he moved with her and put his arms around her again. Only when the sun was up did he feel his need ebb away. Like a vampire, he thought. Retreat with the sun. Only then was he sure he would not go to the darkened house and crawl into the cave.
Chapter 7
Pulling into the parking lot, Dyce took the only available spot and turned off the lights of his Toyota. Because the bar was popular and crowded, he left the motor running; his ignition had been erratic of late and he did not want to risk not getting the spot he needed because he couldn’t move immediately when the opening came.
The red station wagon was parked behind him and to the side, but he could watch it by fuming his rear-view mirror. The wagon was just on the edge of the pool of light shed by the parking lot’s one lamppost. Not fully lighted, but not completely dark, either. Dyce would have preferred it darker, but it would serve.
The door to the bar opened and several people came out, accompanied by a gust of music and loud voices. A couple, arms around each other, moved toward the red wagon. The woman was laughing at something the man said, and he had his arm around her waist as if afraid she might bolt. Dyce slid down on the seat and watched in the mirror as they paused behind the car on the left of the wagon. The man slipped both arms around her and tugged her into him. They stood, pressed together at the waist, leaning back with their trunks so they could look at each other as they talked. She pointed in one direction, he in the other and she laughed again. Deciding which car to take, Dyce thought.
The man whispered something into her ear and she pulled her head back even farther to look at him, startled by his suggestion. He pulled her to him again, and for a moment they leaned against the back of the wagon itself. Behind them Dyce could see the shadows of the man’s landscaping tools, hafts and handles sticking up like a dead, stunted forest.
Finally the couple moved to the car on the right of the station wagon and drove off together, the woman behind the wheel. She was talking as they swung directly past Dyce’s car and for a moment she reminded him of Helen. That inability to do anything in silence. Dyce wondered if the man next to her bothered to listen to her, either. It wasn’t conversation. There was no exchange of views and ideas; it was noise, generated from a fear of what she might hear if she were quiet.
There was an opening next to the wagon now, but it was on the wrong side and in the full glare of the light. Dyce could not take a chance, so he settled in to wait and let himself think of Helen. It was now just past nine o’clock. She would call him around eleven before she went to bed to say goodnight. She had already called him at six to discuss her day. She had inquired about his activities as well, but Dyce didn’t have those kinds of days. Things did not happen to him as they did to her. He met no strangers, he encountered no minidramas in the shopping aisles, no shoplifters tried to run away with steaks under their shirts in his world. Dyce did his work, ate his lunch, was overlooked by his superior. There was a beauty and a comfort in the numbers, of course; an elegance in the predictions formed from raw data, as simple but complex as the patterns of the ocean’s waves- but he had long since given up trying to explain it all to Helen. She did not understand and after a halfhearted attempt, did not even try. Dyce kept it to himself, another private pleasure.
He did not know what to do about Helen. She was smothering him, that much was clear, but how he might stop it was as murky as the shadows in the back of the station wagon. They had had one fight, a silly squabble about nothing at all as far as Dyce could remember. At the time, he had even suspected she started it just to get a rise out of him. Dyce was not accustomed to fighting and did not understand there were rules. At first he took her petulance as some sort of game, but eventually it dawned on him that she was accusing him of not being jealous. Somewhere in her ramblings she had told him about another man who made a pass at her at work, and Dyce had not responded with the fury she hoped for. In truth, he had not even been listening and the incident was lost on him, although it would not have occurred to him to be angry even if he knew the details. What she did during the day was her business, as far as he was concerned, just as what he did when he was alone was entirely his concern.
The argument had grown and swirled about Dyce as he watched in bafflement, wondering how she could wring so many variations of woe out of the same theme without Dyce contributing anything. Finally she had begun to cry, and it was then that Dyce realized how hard it would be to stop seeing her. When she wept, she touched him and Dyce would do whatever he could to ease her pain.
He comforted her as best he could even though he wasn’t sure what ailed her, and to his amazement he heard himself apologizing. When he admitted his guilt in the matter, her spirits improved immensely. She forgave him and kissed him. The crisis was past, although she continued to pout occasionally about his alleged lack of attention.
He knew she would cry if he told her he didn’t want to see her anymore, or even not so often. He was afraid, in fact, that she would do much worse than cry. She had told him more than once that she would kill herself if he ever left her, and Dyce believed she was capable of it. In a way, the notion of being that important to her was rather flattering, although something of a responsibility. Dyce did not want to be the cause of anyone’s death, or even their unhappiness.
Pouring him a third white wine spritzer, the bartender considered what he was going to have to do with Eric Brandauer. Ginny had already complained twice. The first time, while giving him Eric’s order, she had simply said, “What a prick.”
He liked that about Ginny; she was a no-nonsense person. Older women made better waitresses. They didn’t look so hot, maybe, and nobody tipped them big just because they were cute, but they got the orders straight and they knew a prick when they saw one. Ginny had two kids in high school and a husband who drank it up as fast as Ginny could pay for it, so she didn’t have any illusions that waitressing in a place like this was a stepping-stone to somewhere else. This was it.
The second time she said, “Harold,” using his proper name, which was what he preferred, not Harry, which he hated and the younger women insisted on. “Harold, you’re going to have to shut that prick off.”
“Eric?”
“The asshole.” Eric was slouched in his chair, his left leg stretched out so it nearly tripped anyone who passed, his right leg draped over another chair. “The one sitting in two chairs.”
“Eric Brandauer,” said the bartender. “This is only his third drink.”
“His third here,” said Ginny. “He’s been swilling something stronger than white wine spritzers somewhere. Either that or he’s just naturally as pleasant as a molting snake.”
“Eric’s always had a mean streak,” said the bartender, hoping he wouldn’t be called on to do anything. Eric not only had a reputation for being mean, he was awfully quick to use his hands. And his boots. Tending bar was not the same as bouncing, and Harold had no desire to take up a new career at this stage in his life.
“If he gives you any more trouble, let me know.”
“I’m letting you know now, Harold. If he touches me again, or even looks at me like that, I’m through serving him.”
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” said Harold, placing the wine spritzer on Ginny’s serving tray. She added a napkin.
