“Then,” said Hooper, “while we were driving along, you might be sitting on my right hand and I’d be giving you a massage. Maybe I’d have my fly open. Maybe not, though, because you might get ideas, which would undoubtedly cause me to lose control, and
Ellen started to giggle again, imagining the sight of Hooper lying by the side of the road, stiff as a flagpole, and herself lying next to him, her dress bunched up around her waist and her vagina yawning open, glistening wet, for the world to see.
“We’d try to find a motel,” said Hooper, “where the rooms are either in separate cabins or at least not butted fight up against each other, wall to wall.”
“Why?”
“Noise. The walls are usually made of Kleenex and spit, and we wouldn’t want to be inhibited by the thought of a shoe salesman in the next room pressing his ear to the wall and getting his kicks listening to us.”
“Suppose you couldn’t find a motel like that.”
“We would,” said Hooper. “As I said, in a fantasy anything is possible.”
Why does he keep saying that? Ellen thought. He can’t really be playing a word game, working up a fantasy he has no intention of fulfilling. Her mind scrambled for a question to keep the conversation alive. “What name would you register us under?”
“Ah yes. I’d forgotten. These days I can’t conceive of anyone getting uptight about something like this, but you’re right: we should have a name, just in case we ran into an old-fashioned innkeeper. How about Mr. and Mrs. Al Kinsey. We could say we were on an extended field trip for research.”
“And we’d tell him we’d send him an autographed copy of our report.”
“We’d dedicate it to him!”
They both laughed, and Ellen said, “What about after we registered?”
“Well, we’d drive to wherever our room was, scout around to see if anyone seemed to be in the rooms nearby — unless we had a cabin to ourselves — and then go inside.”
“And then?”
“That’s when our options broaden. I’d probably be so turned on that I’d grab you, let you have it — maybe on the bed, maybe not. That time would be my time. Your time would come later.”
“What do you mean?”
“The first time would be out of control — a slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am deal. After that, I’d have more control, and the second time I could prepare you.”
“How would you do that?”
“With delicacy and finesse.”
The waitress was approaching the table, so they sat back and stopped talking.
“Will there be anything else?”
“No,” said Hooper. “Just the check.”
Ellen assumed that the waitress would return to the bar to total the bill, but she stood at the table, scribbling and carrying her ones. Ellen slid to the edge of the seat and said as she stood up, “Excuse me. I want to powder my nose before we go.”
“I know,” said Hooper, smiling.
“You do?” said the waitress as Ellen passed her. “Boy, that’s what marriage will do for you. I hope nobody ever knows me that well.”
Ellen arrived home a little before 4.30. She went upstairs, into the bathroom, and turned on the water in the tub. She took off all her clothes and stuffed them into the laundry hamper, mixing them with the clothes already in the hamper. She looked in the mirror and examined her face and neck. No marks.
After her bath, she powdered herself, brushed her teeth, and gargled with mouthwash. She went into the bedroom, put on a fresh pair of underpants and a nightgown, pulled back the bedclothes and climbed into bed. She closed her eyes, hoping that sleep would pounce upon her.
But sleep could not overpower a memory that kept sliding into her mind. It was a vision of Hooper, eyes wide and staring — but unseeing — at the wall as he approached climax. The eyes seemed to bulge until, just before release, Ellen had feared they might actually pop out of their sockets. Hooper’s teeth were clenched, and he ground them the way people do during sleep. From his voice there came a gurgling whine, whose tone rose higher and higher with each frenzied thrust. Even after his obvious, violent climax, Hooper’s countenance had not changed. His teeth were still clenched, his eyes still fixed on the wall, and he continued to pump madly. He was oblivious of the being beneath him, and when, perhaps a full minute after his climax, Hooper still did not relax, Ellen had become afraid — of what, she wasn’t sure, but the ferocity and intensity of his assault seemed to her a pursuit in which she was only a vehicle. After a while, she had tapped him on the back and said softly, “Hey, I’m here too,” and in a moment his eyelids closed and his head dropped to her shoulder. Later, during their subsequent coupling, Hooper had been more gentle, more controlled, less detached. But the fury of the first encounter still lingered disturbingly in Ellen’s mind.
Finally, her mind gave in to fatigue, and she fell asleep.
Almost instantly, it seemed, she was awakened by a voice that said, “Hey there, are you okay?” She opened her eyes and saw Brody sitting on the end of the bed.
She yawned. “What time is it?”
“Almost six.”
“Oh-oh. I’ve got to pick up Sean. Phyllis Santos must be having a fit.”
“I got him,” said Brody. “I figured I’d better, once I couldn’t reach you.”
“You tried to reach me?”
“A couple of times. I tried you at the hospital at around two. They said they thought you’d come home.”
“That’s right. I did. I felt awful. My thyroid pills aren’t doing what they should. So I came home.”
“Then I tried to reach you here.”
“My, it must have been important.”
“No, it was nothing important. If you must know, I was calling to apologize for whatever I did that got you upset last night.”
A twinge of shame struck Ellen, but it passed, and she said, “You’re sweet, but don’t worry. I’d already forgotten about it.”
“Oh,” said Brody. He waited a moment to see if she was going to say anything else, and when it was clear she wasn’t, he said, “So where were you?”
“I told you, here!” The words came out more harshly than she had intended. “I came home and went to bed, and that’s where you found me.”
“And you didn’t hear the phone? It’s right there.” Brody pointed to the bed table near the other side of the bed.
“No, I…” She started to say she had turned the phone off, but then she remembered that this particular phone couldn’t be turned off all the way. “I took a pill. The moaning of the damned won’t wake me after I’ve taken one of those pills.”
Brody shook his head. “I really am going to throw those damn things down the john. You’re turning into a junkie.” He stood and went into the bathroom.
Ellen heard him flip up the toilet seat and begin to urinate — a loud, powerful, steady stream that went on and on and on. She smiled. Until today, she had assumed Brody was some kind of urinary freak: he could go for almost a day without urinating. Then, when he did pee, he seemed to pee forever. Long ago, she had concluded that his bladder was the size of a watermelon. Now she knew that huge bladder capacity was simply a male trait. Now, she said to herself, I am a woman of the world.
“Have you heard from Hooper?” Brody called over the noise of the endless stream.
Ellen thought for a moment about her response, then said, “He called this morning, just to say thank you. Why?”
“I tried to get hold of him today, too. Around midday and a couple of times during the afternoon. The hotel said they didn’t know where he was. What time did he call here?”
“Just after you left for work.”
