Halley interrupted my monologue by removing a worn edition of my book from the shelves. “It turns out I’ve been a fan of yours for years.” The copy was eight years old, the first paperback edition. “I discovered it after our dinner together. When you told me about your life I had this nagging feeling …” Halley flipped through the pages. “I bought it on an impulse and read it feverishly one weekend. I think I was in college. It’s terrible, isn’t it? You read something you find fascinating and you don’t remember the author’s name.”
My pleasure at her literary praise was almost as keen as from her kiss. I wondered if her aim was also more lethal. “You found the subject of incest fascinating?”
“Well, the way you handled it. I read it again after our dinner. I started it that night and took it with me on a trip. Knowing you were an incest victim yourself, I was really impressed you could come up with those insights.” She wandered away with my book, returning it to the shelves. With her back to me, she continued, “Incredible objectivity. Its truly brilliant,” she said, sliding the book home.
I needed to sit down. I chose the cream-colored couch facing the windows.
“What should I read next?” she asked, moving toward the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink?”
“Did Gene notice it?” I asked.
“Gene?” she repeated as if she had never heard of him. “Oh, you mean when he was here … No. And he never told me your name, so …” She entered the kitchen, calling, “I’m getting some Evian. Do you want a glass?”
I was thirsty, very thirsty now that I thought about it. “No thanks,” I said. “I’m fine.”
“I’m going to read everything you’ve written,” she said from the kitchen. “Tell you the truth, I’m a little scared of reading about the child abuse cases. They must be so sad.” She appeared with a tall glass of water. She paused in front of me, kicking off her penny loafers. I watched her pale feet. “My father hit my brother once. Just once.” She sat next to me, pulling her legs under her, angling my way. She sipped from her glass and leaned forward to put it on the steamer trunk. The movement opened her dress enough for me to see she wasn’t wearing a bra. And I noticed as well that her breasts didn’t require support. It had been fourteen years since I had been this close to making love to a twenty-six-year-old body, when I was twenty-six myself. The cliché “Youth is wasted on the young” came to mind. I wanted to laugh. “He slapped Mikey once,” Halley was saying. “No big deal, but I burst into tears. My brother didn’t do anything. He sat still, with his cheek turning red. I was inconsolable. Daddy had to buy me a ice cream cone to calm me down.”
“Because you wanted the attention,” I said. “You recognized that your father’s slap was a sign that he cared more about your brother than you.”
Halley leaned back, sitting sideways, facing me, an arm going behind my head. Her body carried some of the odors of our day — the barbecue, the humid streets, the crowded riverbank — and mixed with her perfume. All of her was talking to me: her heat and her longing. The commitment and concentration of the performance was impressive. “Is that what I was doing?” she asked. “I didn’t care about my brother at all?” Her eyes were serious, but a faint smile briefly played on her lips before she settled into a thoroughly earnest pose.
“Why do you and your father avoid each other when you’re in public? I know you’re close. So why the act?”
Halley lowered her eyes, disappointed. The hand behind my head stroked my neck, again a petting touch, and then departed. “Why are you so angry at me?” She looked up with a little girl’s face, lips turned down in a pout, eyes wide and helpless. “Because I’m not sorry enough about Gene?” When I didn’t answer, she looked off toward the book shelves. “I’m not a hypocrite, that’s all. I’m not going to act weepy and say all those fake things people say when someone dies. I liked Gene, but he wanted more than I could give him. I’m not a wife, I’m not a girlfriend. What was I supposed to do, live some kind of lie so he wouldn’t be miserable? He would have been miserable anyway because he’d know it was a lie and he’d never stop pushing me and pushing me until I hated him.”
“You already hated him, didn’t you?”
“That’s really mean.” She returned her attention to me. “Are you being so mean because you like me?”
“I’m in love with you,” I said calmly. “But I’m not being mean and you know it. Gene was annoying you. He had served his purpose and he wouldn’t be disposed of gracefully. That got so annoying you started to hate him. Isn’t that the truth?”
Halley slid closer, her elbow capturing my neck, rising on her knees so she was a little above my head. “Could we go back to what you said before you went back to being mean?” She brought her lips close, eyes on mine, while hers smiled. “Did you say you were in love with me?” She rested her free hand on my thigh, fingers sliding up the lip of my Bermuda shorts. Her fingers were cool from holding the glass.
“Take your dress off,” I said quietly. For a moment, she didn’t react. “Take your dress off,” I repeated. This time her eyes flickered. She moved closer, lips aiming for mine.
I averted my head. Her nose landed awkwardly against my cheek. She made the best of it, resting cheek on cheek, her mouth to my ear. “Let’s go to the bedroom,” she whispered.
“Don’t pretend you need a romantic setting.” I removed the hand that had by now completely infiltrated my shorts and shifted my position away from the arm behind my head, departing also from her cheek and the length of her body. Halley was left alone in the awkward position of aborted seduction — on her knees, facing the wall, embracing air. “Take the dress off,” I said softly.
She frowned, thought about it for a few seconds. Abruptly, she stood up, arms arching to the back of her neck, undoing a clasp and then unzipping. She had to give the dress a tug to loosen it past the tight fit on her hips. Then it dropped suddenly. Breasts glowed white against the tanned skin. Her panties were white so the two zones were fluorescent.
Before she moved back onto the couch, I hooked the front of her panties with my index finger. “This too,” I said and let go. The elastic snapped gently against her flat belly.
She put her hands on her hips, as self-assured naked as clothed. “What about you, fella?”
“We’ll see,” I commented in a bored, almost stern tone. “Hurry up.”
“I’m cold,” she said in a little voice, hands crossing over her belly.
I stood up — I could by now without difficulty or embarrassment — and took her hand. “You need a bath,” I said, towing her through the brief hall and into her bedroom where I assumed the bathroom was located. I was a little amused — though not surprised — to find that her queen-sized bed was girlish: pink bed ruffles, a pair of stuffed animals wedged between pink pillows with lace trim. I released her hand, entered the bathroom alone, flipped on the lights, moved to the tub, sat on its rim, and turned on the hot and cold faucets. I tested the mix until the temperature was as hot as it could be this side of scalding. Resting in the corner were three bottles: shampoo, conditioner, and a pink one — bubble bath for children. I shut the drain, not looking to see what she was up to, and waved for her to enter. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up. You had a messy day.” I didn’t hear a response. I picked up the pink bottle. “You want bubbles tonight?” I asked.
She came up behind me, hands resting on my shoulder. She whispered in my ear, “Yes, Daddy.”
I poured two cupfuls of pink liquid under the faucet’s waterfall. A cloud of suds appeared. I stirred them into the shallow pool already forming in the tub. I shifted to face her. Her panties were at eye level, the deep hole of her navel a Cyclops eye, questioning me. I hooked her panties on both sides, widening them away from her hips. “Let’s get out of these.”