On several occasions he managed to be near her, close enough to watch the way she handled herself in public. She did not flirt, he noticed, and she seemed impervious to the casual flattery she frequently attracted. Warren registered this and approved. She was not easy, then, not a mindless little cunt who could be caught on an unbaited fishhook. No, it was Melanie who did the selecting, Melanie who determined the occasions for her adultery. She was looking for something new, he guessed. Something special, something out of the ordinary. Something — if one could countenance the word — something perverse.
This, as much as her unquestionable physical appeal, particularly attracted Warren. While he frequently found women attractive, he was rarely moved to act on his feelings. As comfortable as he was with female bodies, he was rarely at ease with the minds that inhabited them. The thought of living with a woman appalled him. It was difficult enough to live with a man, even a man as temperamentally suited to him as Bert, but with any woman ever born it would have been quite impossible.
On a simpler plane, he had found that the discomfort of intimate female company generally outweighed the pleasure of occasional affairs with women. It was one thing to fuck them, another thing entirely to have them that close to you. The sort of closeness which he treasured with male lovers was upsetting with females.
The more he saw of Melanie, and the more he thought about her, the less he felt such considerations be operative in her case. She wanted thrills — he was sure of this, and no less sure because he had reached this conclusion largely through intuition. He had learned over the years to trust his intuition, had found it more reliable in most instances than reason. His intuition, given free rein, supplied him with a fairly detailed portrait of Melanie before he exchanged a single word with her.
That first exchange took place on a Tuesday morning. They passed on the street, she with a bag of groceries, he en route to the laundry with a half dozen dirty shirts in a paper bag. “Why, it’s Melanie Jaeger,” he said enthusiastically. “Warren Ormont. I believe we did meet once, but I doubt you’d remember.”
“Of course I do,” she said. “And I’ve seen you onstage at the Playhouse.”
“We’ll, I’m sure I was giving a ghastly performance, and I hope I won’t be judged on the basis of that.”
“No, I—”
“I won’t keep you,” he said. He deliberately let his eyes travel down her body, then up again to meet her eyes. She did not flush. He gave her a smile, put a little extra into it. “It’s so good seeing you,” he said.
He had been stopping at Sully’s fairly regularly. Now he made it a point to have a drink there every night, deliberately studying the man behind the bar. If Melanie’s behavior had worked any changes in her husband, Warren was unable to spot them. “He is the same old hairy bear,” he confided to Bert. “I’m told the husband is always the last to know, but it’s hard to believe he doesn’t have an inkling.”
“Maybe he doesn’t care.”
“He does tend to lose interest in his little wedded playmates. But generally he just detaches them and sends them on their way, suitably equipped with a handsome settlement. And there’s never been the slightest breath of scandal. Goodness, hear me talking in clichés. Never the slightest breath. Of course there’s no scandal with Miss Fancy Pants, come to think. I wonder just how available she’s made herself.”
“We’d better have her soon.”
“Don’t I just know it. But the waiting adds to it, don’t you think? I like to scheme, you know. I’d have made a marvelous Renaissance courtier. ‘Love is a precious thing, love is a poison ring... Getting there is half the fun, you know. Suppose you had brought her home that first night.”
“Oh, I could never have done that.”
“Why, she was cruising, for heaven’s sake.”
“Yes, but you know I’m incapable of arranging things like that. It’s your province, Warren.”
“My innocent flower. But taking it as an hypothesis that you conquered your stage fright and brought Melanie Melontits home to bed, we would have missed out on all this delicious intrigue. Do you remember that biker?”
“Of course. I don’t remember his name, but I remember him.”
“I don’t think he had a name. I brought him home and we had a marvelous trio, in spite of the fact that I couldn’t wait to get the little devil out of the house. Boys like that are divine to fuck but they shouldn’t be allowed to speak. ‘Duh, duh, um, far out, duh, outasight, duh.’ Marlon fucking Brando sans talent. If I become very very rich some day, Bert, I intend to subsidize a foundation dedicated to removing the vocal cords of motorcycle boys. I wish you would write all of this down. I don’t need a pianist, damn it, I need a Boswell. All this sparkling wit lost to the ages.”
“You’re outrageous.”
“I suspect I am. But you do remember Hell’s Little Angel, don’t you? Now if we’d had such a much with dear Mrs. Jaeger, we’d have missed all this. Hunger makes the meal, lover. And her time shall come soon. Count on it.”
It was over a week before he managed to run into Melanie again. He was very busy, performing at night and rehearsing another play afternoons. Ultimately he did encounter her again, once again meeting her on the street.
“Ah, the fair Melanie,” he said. “Here, let me carry that for you.” He took the package from her without waiting for her reply. “There we are. Now lead, kindly light, and I shall follow.”
“My car is just around the corner.”
“Scarcely far enough.” His eyes caught hers. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee first. I have to carry this awkward bundle more than a few steps in order for the task count as exercise. And my doctor is always telling me to get more exercise, so you’ll be performing a medical good deed.”
“Well—”
“It’s perfectly safe, you know.” Once again his eyes did their trick of running up and down her body, then fastening directly upon hers. “Nothing bolsters a woman’s reputation like keeping public company with an obvious faggot. And, come to think of it, there’s nothing better for a faggot’s public image than being seen in the company of a stunning young woman. Come. We shall talk in present tenses. Do you know that song? ‘Chelsea Morning’? Joni Mitchell?”
“I don’t think so.”
He took her to the Raparound, held a chair for her, sat down opposite from her. It was a weekday morning and the tourists had not yet begun to flood the town. There were a few regulars having breakfast and conversation at the Raparound, and Warren greeted them briefly, then ordered two coffees from the waitress.
He squared his shoulders, folded his hands on the table in front of him, and beamed smartly at Melanie. “Well,” he said. “Well.”
“Well what?”
“Just well.”
She started to say something, then waited while the girl put cups of coffee before them. Then Warren lifted his cup in a toast. “To the possibilities,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
“You will.”
She worried her upper lip with her tongue. Again she was about to say something, and again he didn’t give her the chance. He began pitching small talk at her, theater gossip, various presumably amusing anecdotes. He was quite good at this, and before long he worked past her reserve and she was involved with the conversation at hand.