6
“ Edge geometry,” Gil’s father would say. “That’s what it’s all about.” He’d tap the steel with the tuning hammer, indicating the spot. Gil would strike with the twelve-pounder. Tap, strike, tap, strike: the steel cherry-red from the forge; the anvil live and quiet; Gil still a boy, but big and strong; his father the master.
They lived in the trailer. The forge was out back, in the barn. RENARD STEEL FORGE, read the sign over the door. Winters were best, when the coke in the forge glowed hot, and the wind whined and moaned through cracks in the old walls. In airless summers, nothing came through the wide-open door but black flies, and Gil’s sweat ran down his bare arms, down the twelve-pounder, sizzling on the steel with every stroke. He got stronger and stronger, became the finest striker his father had ever had. But by then it was an anachronism. Every smith who could afford one had a power hammer; and Gil never mastered edge geometry, or any of the other precision skills. He just liked to swing the big hammer.
Gil awoke from a forge dream in sheets damp with sweat. Edge geometry; precision skills: none of it mattered anyway. His father got sick, and soon after the moneymen came and took their name away. Gil’s eyes went to the picture of Richie; his father had been called Richie too. There was no resemblance. Gil turned on the radio.
“-may have reinjured those ribs making a sensational diving catch in the first inning. Certainly there was a lot of comment in the press box about Burrows leaving him in.”
“Why take chances with the big-ticket guys, Jewel, especially in the month of March?”
“That’s it exactly, Norm. And the thing is he didn’t look like himself up there at the plate yesterday. Sid Burrows may have a lot to answer for.”
“Thanks, Jewel. See you at the top of the hour. We’ll go to the phones after this brief-”
In a bad mood now, Gil put on his robe, picked up his toilet kit, and walked down the hall to the bathroom. Lenore had already been there. The mirror was steamed, except for a cleared circle in the center where his own face now appeared, sniffing. He smelled her perfume, a dense, rich smell of tropical flowers, a smell that gave him a headache, or made him aware of the headache he already had. Gil shaved, showered, went back to his room.
“-Ron in Brighton. What’ve you got for us, Ron?”
“Can we talk hockey for a sec?”
“Anything you want.”
Gil dressed: white shirt, blue suit, yellow tie. He had five or six yellow ties, left over from the days when they were in. This one, with a pattern of tiny mauve discs, was his lucky tie, worn the day he earned his highest single commission, $3,740, from a sporting-goods chain that went bankrupt not long after. Gil was knotting his lucky tie when someone knocked on his door.
“It’s open.”
Lenore walked in, wearing her kimono, the one that came halfway to her knees. Gil’s headache, confined until then in a narrow wedge behind his right eye, began to spread.
“Nice tie,” Lenore said.
“Thanks.”
“Guess what the temperature is.”
Gil glanced out his window, saw no clues in the brick wall.
“Fourteen degrees,” Lenore told him. “And they’re calling for snow.”
That wasn’t cold to Gil, and snow didn’t bother him.
“It’s my day off, thank God,” said Lenore. “I’m going to spend it in bed.” The kimono opened a little, revealing more of her leg. Lenore had well-shaped, muscular legs; she’d run track in high school, had trophies on the cracked bureau in her room to prove it. Now she sold jewelry in a mall off the ring road.
Gil switched off the radio, took his coat from the wall hook.
Lenore toyed with a lock of her hair. “I wouldn’t mind a little company,” she said.
“Got to work.” Gil moved toward the door. Lenore stepped aside, but not enough to keep him from bumping against her hip.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be.” Lenore pressed against him, pressed hard with her soft breasts, backing him against the bed.
Gil had work to do: he could see the day’s schedule in his head, laid out in neat boxes, ready to be checked off. He put his hands on her shoulders, almost pushed her away. But Lenore’s hips made a comma-shaped motion, like a preview of what could be happening in the next minute, and the neat boxes in his head collapsed.
The blue suit, the yellow tie, the white shirt, the kimono, all came off. “I’m so pent-up,” said Lenore, as they moved onto the bed, their bare skins, warm and soft from the shower, prickling up in goosebumps.
Gil was pent-up too. He was inside her in moments, her buttocks cupped in his hands.
“Gentle.”
But what good would gentle do? Not with this headache, not in this mood. His body took over. Her mouth was at his ear and he heard her suck in her breath, heard every nuance and texture of the sound. It was basic, animal, a world in itself. He came.
“Gil?”
He lay on her, the boxes rebuilding themselves in his head.
“You didn’t wait for me?”
First: call Everest. Second: bank what was left of Hale’s money, pay the car bill and something on the credit cards. Third: hit Bluewater Fishing and Tackle. Fourth: try a cold call at the new Great Outdoors on the north shore. That would leave just enough time to drive down for Richie at five.
“Gil?”
“Yeah?”
“You can’t just leave me like this.”
“Like what?”
“Pent-up, Gil. I’m still pent-up.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Something.”
He stuck his hand down there.
Her mouth was at his ear again. “Lick me, baby.” He still heard every nuance and texture of the sound, but now it didn’t have the same effect. She would have to settle for his finger. He moved it in circles, mentally putting on his white shirt, blue suit, yellow tie, unlocking the 325i, driving off, punching in Everest and Co. on the car phone.
You got in the car, you kept plugging. Gil told himself that a few times, until he was hyped enough to call Everest. He had to rehype twice before he got past the purchasing VP’s secretary.
“Hi, Chuck. Gil Renard here.”
“What is it?”
“Our meeting on the eighth. Two-thirty’s tough for me, Chuck. How’s the morning?”
“Full up.”
“Maybe late afternoon, then.”
“Flying to Chicago.”
“Any chance we could make it earlier?”
“Earlier?”
“A day or two earlier. The sixth? The seventh?”
“Didn’t we go through this already?”
“I just thought maybe you’d had a cancellation or something, could squeeze me in.” Shit. First rule of the commission rep: Look and sound successful.
“No.”
“What about later that week?”
“In Chicago. Didn’t I say that?”
“When are you coming back?”
“End of the month.”
