I said, “There’s a difference?”
“Oh yeah. No one’s ever tried to steal a vase out of the West Wing to trade for beer.”
I couldn’t get used to her voice. She looked twenty-two, twenty-three-I really can’t tell ages anymore-but she sounded sixteen or younger. It didn’t mesh with consistent patterns of articulate thought and her world-weariness. She had a way of sighing, of looking off into space, that suggested emotional scarring and a loss of resolve or of confidence that originated in the marrow.
What surprised me most about Lindsey Harrington, though, was this: I liked her. Liked her despite her age and mall-girl vocabulary.
Initially, she’d hoisted a couple of red flags by saying, “I noticed you the day you got here, the first day you showed up on the island. You and that sweet old hippie with the really kind eyes. But you’re the one who really caught my attention. It’s not just that you’re so big. Kind of wide and rangy and bearlike. It was, like, I don’t know, something about your face and those wire glasses. Like if I was going to choose an ideal professor? You’d be the model. Real bookish and safe, but with enough testosterone flowing through that body to make it interesting.”
Transparently ingratiating, I thought at first. Not just in speech, but in body language. Sitting there in the weak light, braless in her thin T-shirt, breasts swinging and showing cleavage when she leaned toward me to laugh or lift her glass, nothing else on but running shorts, looking into my eyes with her sad, rich-girl face, not caring what I saw.
When strangers who happen to be female are so obviously demonstrative, I’m quick to retreat.
But, no, that’s the way the girl was, apparently. She spoke spontaneously, no editing whatsoever. Had nothing to hide, so nothing to fear. Same with her appearance. The rainforest humidity had made her hair wild as a lion’s, ribbed and curled, but she’d done nothing to try and contain it.
At one point, she said, “At the White House, some of the staff would go fucking nuts when I refused to wear makeup or a bra, any of that crap. Lipstick’s the only thing I like because it comes in flavors. To this day, you mention my name to the basement drones and they’ll roll their eyes. It got so I felt like I wasn’t welcome anymore, so I stopped going. Then my dad got assigned to foreign service, and that’s the last time we lived together. That was six years ago, so I was…” She had to think about it. “Sixteen or seventeen.”
I asked, “Are you still close?”
She chuckled, toying with the cell phone. “We were never close. My father’s one of the world’s greatest men, but the only time he ever shows, like, real emotion or, you know, like, concern, it’s when I do something that he thinks is outrageous. The men I choose to sleep with, some of the causes I support, it drives him crazy. Know why I think it is, Doc?”
I said to her, “The reason you choose to do outrageous things? As of now, I’ve got a pretty good guess, but you tell me.”
“What I think it is? It’s, like, I’ve spent so much of my life having to associate with fucking fakes and political con artists that I’ve become, like, militantly natural. I want to live in a mountain cabin and grow my own tomatoes and curl up with my dogs by the fire. I want to walk around naked and take showers in the rain. If I never see another man wearing hair spray and a vote-for-me smile, it’ll be just fine with me.” She looked at me through the light for a moment before she added, “Know what my new motto is? Give me a man who prefers blow jobs to blow dryers. Catchy, huh?”
Another warning flag-and unexpected, despite the gradual and increasing hand and eye contact between the two of us. She was a patter and a toucher. I was surprised that I’d misjudged her intent.
I stood and said, “I think I’ll get another beer. You ready?”
Her eyes hadn’t wavered from mine. “Yeah. I’m ready. That was my point. But somehow I just offended you.”
“Nope. Just surprised. And thirsty.”
I came back with a Diet Coke but didn’t sit. I said to her, “I think it’s late, and it’s been a very tough day for both of us, so it’s time you headed home. Grab your stuff, and I’ll walk you back.”
She reached and took my right wrist in her hand, stopping me, swinging hair out of her face, eyes tilted upward, looking out from beneath pale eyebrows, “Mind if we spend the next couple of minutes talking like adults?”
I said, “That’s what we were doing until just a moment ago, Lindsey. I’m curious. I was enjoying the conversation. You’ve got a good brain; a quirky, funny sense of humor. Why’d you decide to make such an obvious pass? Is it some kind of test?”
She was still holding my wrist. “I’m too obvious? Maybe you don’t like it when the woman is the aggressor. Some men don’t. Is that the problem, Doc? Or maybe you’re hung up on the age thing.”
“Nope. The body ages a hell of a lot faster than the brain, so it’s neither one. Problem is, we don’t know each other and we don’t have a relationship. So there’s nothing to be aggressive about.”
She nodded and said, “Ahh-h-h-h,” releasing my hand. “The moral, prudish type. I don’t meet many of you.”
“Lindsey, my friend, suddenly, we’re both doing a very bad job of reading one another. And we were getting along so well.”
“So maybe you just don’t find me attractive.”
“Let’s see, you’re five-seven, five-eight, great body, great face. So what’s not to find attractive? I’ll tell you the problem if you want.”
She sat back and gave a pouty sigh. “I don’t have anything else to do. Go ahead.”
“Okay, it’s simple. When I meet a man or woman whose behavior crosses normal boundaries, it scares me a little. I start asking myself, Why? So what I do is stop, take a step back and analyze. Slightly more than six hours ago, a man in a ski mask took a shot at a woman who was standing right beside you. Could be he was taking a shot at you; who knows? Maybe you’re still in shock. Maybe you feel like you owe me something. After what you went through this evening, there are so many valid reasons for you to be vulnerable, fragile, and not yourself that I’m not going to risk imposing.”
“Imposing on me. Right. ”
“Sorry, but it’s the truth. Not for your benefit, it’s for mine. I’ve got rules and I try to follow them. I need to be selfish that way.” I thought for a moment, and took a sip of Diet Coke before I added, “My conscience has more than its share of scars, Lindsey. It can’t tolerate many more. I like you. You’ve made me smile a couple of times. But I’m not interested. Not now. Probably not ever. And do us both a favor-don’t push it, please.”
She sat in her chair, looking out through the screen, drink in hand. She turned her head toward me briefly, and in her little-girl voice said, “You’re serious. You really are.”
“Yeah, I’m afraid I am. I’m flattered. You’ve got all the great genetics, all the soft and interesting parts in the right places. I look at you sitting there, your hair, the way you look in that white shirt, and it’s… well, let’s just say that you have an impact. The way you look, I mean. I can feel it in my stomach.”
“A Boy Scout,” she said. “Jesus Christ.”
“I’m no Boy Scout. Believe me. Anything but.”
Once again she reached out and touched her fingers to the back of my hand. I’d already noticed that her nails were short, no polish. “It’s not like I’m bragging, but I’ve never had any guy say no to me in my life. Ever.”
“I don’t doubt that for a moment.”
“Want me to tell you what the attraction is? To you, I mean. And you’ve absolutely fucked it up, by the way. You have zero chance as of now.”
“Sorry to hear that, but I’m still interested. Why?”
I could feel her fingernails moving over my skin, but then they stopped and clawed down, her brief punishment. “This afternoon, when we’d finished our run, Gale and me, out there on the dock, uh, I’ve had such an absolutely shitty year. The only times my father came to see me was twice back when I was in rehab, and that was because someone overheard me talking about committing suicide. Not that I was really thinking of it. I wasn’t. It was just talk, you know?