Curious Wine (12 page)

As they sipped their drinks and watched the crowd circulate through the casino, she asked, “Why didn’t you turn pro?”

“Oh I did,” he said mournfully, and related a lengthy story of a second round draft by the Philadelphia Eagles, then details of torn ligaments at training camp, injured reserve lists, team physicals, waiver lists, tryouts with various other teams. With increasing bitterness he talked about broken promises and heavy-handed politics in the National Football League, the destruction of the opportunity he deserved after being all-American.

His was a dream irretrievably broken, and she listened sympathetically, asking questions, drawing his story from him, touched by the pain in his voice, on his face.

Eventually they went on to other subjects, making light conversation; she found him pleasant, engaging—not a mental giant, certainly, but attractive. She realized with increasing elation that she did find him attractive, and decided she didn’t care if he had the intelligence of a gnat. She liked his body, his crisp masculine gestures and movements, his face, his voice. She did like men. Men were attractive to her. Perhaps she was recovering from this other aberration like getting over the flu. It had been just a temporary obsession—a schizophrenic and unreal Diana Holland who had been so weak with want in the presence of Lane Christianson.

“When do you go back to L.A.?” Chick Benson asked. He was also from Los Angeles, a steel salesman, living in the Marina.

“Thursday. You?”

“Tomorrow,” he said regretfully. “I’ve had such a great time. Skiing is fantastic here. You really ought to try it.”

“So I’ve been told.” “Why don’t we go up to my room and have another drink?”

“Let’s play blackjack for a while,” she countered.

Finding a congenial dealer and cards that ran fairly well, they played blackjack for several hours, bantering and laughing. Diana won sixty dollars; Chick Benson, betting cautiously, won twenty.

“How about that drink?” he asked.

She glanced at her watch. “I’m meeting friends for dinner in a few minutes. Are you going to be around? I could call you. Say about eight?”

“Room fourteen-forty-nine. You mean it, Joyce?”

“As sure as my name’s Joyce Carol Oates.”

She had dinner with Vivian and John at the Summit, Harrah’s rooftop restaurant. In a luxurious white leather booth in softly lit, romantic surroundings, she gazed at Lake Tahoe and the Sierras, watching a sunset that reduced even Vivian to silence. When she realized she was thinking of Lane and her reaction to this magnificence, she pushed the thoughts from her and concentrated on making conversation with Vivian and John. John’s arm was around Vivian; Diana thought Vivian was suffering her presence. But she was suspicious that John was preening, playing the role of male peacock, a happy and contented female at his side, showing off his sexual prowess to an unattached female. Diana chided herself for her uncharitable thoughts; John was buying her dinner at a very expensive restaurant.

He seemed to bring out a cynical, ungenerous side of her. Could she be jealous—subconsciously—that he was having sex with Vivian? She sipped wine, smiling with amusement. No, John was just a jerk, that was all.

Perhaps she should have brought Chick, to feel less an extra wheel. But Chick was not particularly interesting, and he and John would undoubtedly have talked sports —to Vivian’s intense displeasure and boredom.

Diana continued to sip wine, staring out the window, part of her mind listening to Vivian’s chatter. She considered whether she should meet Chick Benson. She would not go to his room, certainly, but they could have a drink, gamble together… She wasn’t sure what she wanted, or needed, to do.

The sky darkened. Lights sparkled around the Lake as she finished dinner. The restaurant became intimately, darkly romantic. Diana’s eyes were drawn and held by the figure of a woman making her way through the dining room, a woman wearing black, her movements graceful elegance, her body tall and slender, her hair blonde. The memory of Lane’s face in her hands penetrated her; memories of Lane’s hands and mouth filled her body with desire until she was hot and tremulous with it.

She picked up her wine glass. If it was sex she needed, she could do something about that.

She called Chick Benson from the lobby of the Sahara.

“Joyce? It’s really you?”

“I told you I’d call,” she said.

“I was betting you wouldn’t.”

“Why?”

“I just thought you wouldn’t. Will you come up?”

He was drinking vodka with Seven-up. “That okay with you or should I call room service?”

“No, it’s fine.”

He mixed her drink and handed it to her and then took her into his arms, kissed her lightly. “Just to show you I’m a good guy,” he said, releasing her.

She sipped her drink, wincing at the sweetness and the strong vodka content, and looked out the window at dark pines against the glowing mountains. “I thought you were a good guy before,” she said.

“Good.” He kissed her again, pushing his tongue into her mouth. She pulled away, annoyed.

“How about some music?” He switched off the television set and turned on the radio near the bed, adjusting the knobs. “That’s better. You a feminist?”

She was startled by the question. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. I like to know how women feel about it.”

“Well, I suppose I am. I’m for women’s rights. Why?” she asked again, still puzzled by his question. “Are you?”

“Sure,” he said, striding over to her, taking her into his arms again. She clasped his arms, her hands following the seams of his shirt over the breadth of his shoulders.

He kissed her, his tongue scouring inside her mouth, his hands roughly pressing her hips into him. Repelled, she broke away, and decided to leave.

He caught her in his arms again. “You’re one of those soft pretty women,” he told her. “I didn’t think you were one of those feminists but you can never tell anymore. They come to my room—but they think they know better than I do how I should use my balls. I think most of them are really a bunch of lesbos.”

He undressed her slowly, gentle with her. Hands on his shoulders, his chest, she tried to feel his hands and mouth with pleasure. He carried her to the bed and undressed himself.

His hands explored her body. “You’re really lush. Pretty.”

She moved under his mouth in a discomfort that was apparently interpreted as pleasure; he quickly pushed himself between her legs, rubbing against her without entering her.

“No,” she gasped, horrified, struggling, beating her hands on his shoulders.

“You mean yes.” He seized her hands and thrust into her, his mouth covering hers.

She jerked her mouth away and lay whimpering as he battered into her, his face against her neck, his hot breath burning her. As his movements abruptly quickened, she said desperately, swept by rising nausea, “I have no protection.”

“You what,” he gasped. “Jesus Christ, Christ you stupid—” His body shuddered and he wrenched himself out of her. A moment later his hot panting body collapsed across her.

He finally rolled off her. “Jesus,” he said. “You could’ve told me, Joyce. Before. Why didn’t you—what are you, Catholic?”

“Catholic,” she whispered, her eyes closed, her stomach wet with him.

“We could’ve done something if you’d told me. Well, we made it anyway. Now you can tell your friends you made it with an all-American football player.”

He was grinning when she opened her eyes. “I guess we need a shower, Joyce. Especially you. Unless you want to wear what I did on your stomach. How about a shower together?”

“No,” she said. “Uh, why don’t you go ahead? I need a few minutes to… collect myself. You know how women are.”

“Oh. Sure.”

She scrubbed herself quickly and savagely with a pillowcase, dressed swiftly, frantically as the shower ran; but he emerged, water dripping from him, his hips wrapped in a towel.

“I kind of thought you might think about leaving. I’ll make it better for you. Look. Why don’t we go down and gamble for a while? I’ll get some rubbers. Stay overnight with me. I’ll make it better for you, Joyce,” he said, striding toward her as she walked to the door. “I’ll make it so good. You’ll love it. Stay with me,” he pleaded.

She opened the door before she answered. “I think I’d rather become a feminist lesbo.”

Something thudded against the door as she slammed it. She ran down the hall suddenly afraid that he would pursue her even wrapped in his towel. She wondered what he had thrown.

Urgently, she searched for Vivian and found her with John at a craps table in Harrah’s. “I need to talk to you,” she said in a low tone to Vivian. “Bad.”

Vivian looked at her and without a word took her arm and led her to an empty section of slot machines.

“I need a favor, Viv. Desperately. Please let me have your room to take a bath.”

Vivian stared at her. “You look sick, Diana. Are you sick?”

She managed a wan smile. “Is there such a thing as consenting rape?”

“Yeah, it’s called marriage. What are you talking about, Diana?” Then she stared at Diana, stricken. “Oh my God did you—”

“Please, Viv—”

“Did you do this because of what I said? I’ll kill myself.”

“No. No. Not at all. But I’m going to die if I don’t take a bath.”

“Why don’t I take you to the cabin?”

“No, Viv. I need to do this quickly. Now.
Please
.”

“All right. Sure. I’ll tell John you feel dizzy in the altitude or something.”

Vivian brought her up to the room and Diana said, “Go on back. Please. I need to be by myself. Could you give me an hour?”

“Sure. Sure, honey.” Vivian hugged her warmly.

As soon as the door closed behind Vivian, Diana went into the bathroom and allowed herself to think about Chick Benson, leaning low over the sink as she threw up. She turned the taps fully on, and retched for some minutes after all her dinner had come up, her stomach continuing to convulse. She rinsed her mouth with mouthwash, and then rummaged through Vivian’s cosmetic kit and suitcase. She found a disposable toothbrush which she used and discarded, and with conscienceless calm she assembled and used Vivian’s douche bag. Then she ran bath water, filling the tub half full, and after lowering her body into it she ran hot water until the tub was almost full and her body felt parboiled. She scrubbed her skin till it burned.

She drained the tub and filled it half full again with lukewarm water. She lay back, and only then did she allow herself to think of Lane, Lane’s arms around her, until her trembling and nausea stopped.

After she dressed, she sat in an armchair, the room in darkness, and watched the lights of traffic moving down Highway 50, thinking calmly, dispassionately.

Diana Holland, you have really made a mess of things. You let that crude animal do that to you, but you wouldn’t let a tender sensitive woman—someone you care for—do what both of you want. Not performing an act — does that make your want of it not exist? If you had made love with her last night, would that have made you less a person? Less a woman? She is a beautiful, extraordinary person. You not only could do worse, you have done worse. When you let a drunk paw you for four years in the sanctified state of marriage, for instance. When you let a man defraud you for five years, for instance. Tonight, for instance.

What is it that you’re afraid of, Diana Holland? What you feel? What other people think? Where is your courage? Your honesty? Your self-esteem? And furthermore, Diana Holland, what do you care how many men or women she’s had? Did she care how many you’ve had? She wanted you. Just hope she still does.

She found Vivian, catching her eye to blow her a kiss. Crossing the parking lot to the car, she shoved her hands into her jacket pockets against the cold and felt a stiff piece of paper. She drew out a small card and walked under a floodlight to look at it. It was Lane’s business card. She turned it over and saw neat printing on the back, a San Francisco address and phone number. She stood still, examining the card, the printing, turning it over and over in her fingers. There was a dot of ink below the phone number; Lane had started to write something and had changed her mind. There was nothing to write, Diana reflected. Giving her this card had said everything.

Feeling as if she had the gentle touch of Lane’s fingers on her skin, she replaced the card in her pocket and went to her car.

Chapter 10

It was just before ten when she arrived at the cabin. She saw Lane through the window, in dark pants and a blue velvet pullover, sitting on the hearth with her hands around her knees, her back against the stone of the fireplace. She was looking at the door, unable to see out the window because of the reflections. Diana knew she had heard the sound of the car.

“The way you talked I thought you’d be a lot later than this,” Liz said as she walked in the door.

“I decided I’d rather be here,” she said, and looked at Lane. Lane’s eyes were blue against the blue of her pullover; they looked almost bruised.

“Are you still ahead?” Chris asked.

“Yes. I will be till I leave, if I don’t do anything stupid.”

“How do you do it?” Madge asked sourly.

“Luck,” Diana answered.

“Well, I’m glad to see you,” Liz said. “How about you and me head to head in Scrabble?”

“You’re playing a game,” Diana demurred. Liz, Madge, and Chris were gathered around the coffee table; Millie was strumming her guitar. “Besides, I want to take a shower.” Her skin had begun to crawl as unwelcome memory crept into her mind.

“We’re finished,” Madge said, yawning. “Chris and I are going to bed. We’re bushed.”

“Lane and Chris just took showers,” Liz said. “It’ll take a half hour for the water to heat up again. How about it?”

Concern had risen in her. Lane had not spoken, or moved. Diana shrugged and said to Liz, “Okay.”

“Would you like some wine?” Lane asked, getting up.

“We still have some?” she said with relief, and gratefully, thinking that a sip or two would be medicinal for her very empty stomach.

“Yes. We do.”