The Pillow Friend (24 page)

She felt tears spring to her eyes. “Because I like you.”

“But you're so normal!”

“What?” She gave an uncertain laugh.

“Oh—I have a history of being attracted to women as neurotic as myself, so of course we always fall out, usually sooner rather than later. And on the occasions when I am drawn to a genuinely nice woman she usually has too much sense to get involved with me. I don't mean to say that you're involved with me—”

“I am involved with you. I've been involved with you since—before I met you!”

“And you haven't gone off me now you've met me?”

“You're better than I imagined!”

“God, you are kind—or crazy. So I can see you again tomorrow? This doesn't have to be good-bye? Are you free at all? Could we have lunch?”

She was soaring. “Yes, of course. We could—we could have breakfast.”

“Breakfast?” He grinned, and she rushed on to say the obvious.

“I don't have to go home. I could stay the night.”

He looked so astonished that she wished she could unsay her words.

“Or, I mean, of course I'll go home, we'll meet at some civilized hour in the morning, not too early—”

He caught her hand. “I'd love for you to stay. Only, you took me by surprise. I was just trying to think of a way of inducing you to come back to my room, and worrying that I might offend you, when you solved the problem. Very direct, you Texans.”

She didn't believe him. She'd just proved herself to be one of the predatory women he so disliked, a poetry groupie only slightly more subtle than Lynne. He didn't want her, that was clear to her, but he would go through with it. Sexual etiquette, male pride, and the residue of his liking for her made anything else unthinkable.

As they got out and she locked the car, as they crossed the street and went into the hotel together, she kept wishing for time to roll back and deposit them in the car, her words still locked inside a fantasy. She felt nothing but dread and dismay as they went into his room. She struggled to come up with some last-minute, face-saving excuse, but her mind was empty.

He put his arms around her, tilted her face up to his, and thrust his tongue in her mouth.

She went rigid. She tried to pull away but he held her more firmly. Her petty resistance struck her as ludicrous—she'd asked for this, she'd dreamed of this, she'd wanted this—and she tried to relax, but she was as tense and unhappy and as utterly without desire as if she'd been in the dentist's chair. She tried thinking of how he'd winked at her from the stage, how he'd gazed at her across the table a few hours ago, but the man who was kissing her now, kneading her breasts through two layers of silk, was someone else, a stranger.

“We might be more comfortable on the bed,” he murmured.

If only that might be true, she thought, letting him lead her there. They undressed, rather awkwardly, impeding more than helping each other. For a moment, when they were both naked, looking at each other rather shyly, not touching, she had the hope that everything would be all right after all. The hope flared in her almost as fiercely as desire, and she reached out to him, touched him, and began to kiss his face, his neck, his unfamiliar chest with its sparse, springy hair, his faintly freckled arms.

Then he pushed her onto her back, and she felt his erection against her thigh. She tensed, holding her legs closed, and he looked at her.

“Do we need to take precautions?”

“What?”

“Should I use something.”

“I'm on the Pill.”

“Good.” She saw him smile as he leaned away from her and switched off the light.

“Oh—no—”

“It's better in the dark.”

“But I like to look at you.”

“I don't like being looked at. I want you to feel me.” He put her hand on his penis. She gripped it uncertainly. “Put me inside you.”

“I'm not ready.”

“Then stroke me.” As he spoke his fingers found her clitoris, and she flinched. “What's the matter?”

He sounded angry. She was alone and naked, utterly vulnerable in the dark with a stranger, here by an act of her own will, and it was far too late to tell him she'd made a mistake.

“I'm very sensitive there.”

“Well, I should hope so.”

“Please, be gentle. If you'd just—”

“I am always gentle!”

A silence. Neither of them moved. Then he said quietly, “I'm sorry. You seemed ready. Let's start again.”

“Let's talk.”

“No more talking.”

He put his mouth on hers and then was still. They lay on their sides, facing each other, pressed close together but unmoving. The room was as dark as a grave, the only sound the faint, breathy whisper of the air-conditioning. She couldn't tell what direction it was coming from and realized she had no idea where the window was, or the door. The room seemed to whirl around her, changing now that she could not see it, reminding her of childhood nightmares. She remembered how dark the room in Aunt Marjorie's house had been when the candle was out.

He began to rub himself against her, touching her breasts, pushing his penis between her legs. His breathing was harsh and hot against her ear, and she remembered the muffled noises she had heard from behind the wall, the bumps and the groans from Aunt Marjorie's room. This is sex, she thought, confused. This heavy, wordless thing. This is what grown-ups do in the dark.

As he pushed her onto her back, as he mounted her, she saw a faint light from the door, and the figure of a naked man standing outlined in the light, watching her. She was back in the house in the woods and the pillow friend had come for her. She cried out in fear, and his hand clamped down on her mouth. He thrust hard into her as she tried to move away, and she heard him groan.

She tried to say his name and tasted the familiar syllables flavored with his flesh and sweat. He took his hand away from her mouth, but she did not try to speak again.

She saw the lighter darkness that was the curtained windows, and the line of light beneath the door. The hotel room had come back. Graham rolled off her, muttering something about tissues, saying he was sorry.

She lay still. After a while she heard his breathing change and knew that he had fallen asleep. If she slept, she didn't know it. Many thoughts chased through her head, and some might have been dreams. After a long time, the room began to grow light; she got up, carefully, and went to the bathroom. When she came out, he still appeared to be asleep, and he did not stir as she dressed herself in the clothes that lay scattered about on the beige carpet.

She wanted to go home and never see him again but she knew it could not be that simple. If she left without any explanation he would think she was angry, or that he had done something wrong. It was herself she was angry at, for imagining it was a simple thing to make a wish come true, but she couldn't explain that to him. He didn't know her and he never would. They were just two strangers who shouldn't have come together but had. Darting nervous glances at him, willing him not to wake, she found a piece of hotel stationery and scribbled a note with her phone number.

Didn't want to disturb your beauty sleep, but something I have to do at home. Give me a call if you have time before you go
. She paused, chewed her lip, then signed it
Nancy
.

One final look at him, lying on his back, a pale, funerary monument, and she was gone.

His telephone call woke her from a sound sleep a little before noon. Her heart jerked and jolted and began to race at the sound of his voice but she didn't know what she was feeling. He asked her to meet him for lunch, telling her nothing with his tone of voice.

They arranged to meet in a sandwich shop just around the corner from the Driskill Hotel. Walking along the street she glimpsed him through the plate-glass windows and could see, even from that distance, that he was practically quivering with a tightly controlled nervous excitement. Her stomach began to hurt. As she walked through the door and he saw her, he reached into his jacket and found a pack of cigarettes. By the time she reached his table he was lighting up.

“Um, I don't think you're allowed to smoke in here.” They were not remotely any of the words she'd imagined greeting him with, but she'd seen the tight-lipped disapproval on the face of a waitress and had to warn him.

“Oh,
Christ
.” He held the cigarette away and looked around for somewhere to stub it out but there were no ash-trays, just “We ask customers to kindly refrain from smoking” cards on every table. He put the cigarette between his lips and stood up, rocking the fragile table. “We'll go somewhere else.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, stumbling after him. “I wouldn't have suggested it if I'd known, but—I never saw you smoke before.”

“I meant to give it up. This trip seemed like a good opportunity, a natural break from all my old habits, but when I got up this morning, I really—where are we going? I wouldn't mind a stroll, usually, but it's raining.”

She took him to the closest place she knew that served lunch, a cavernous bar in the next block which featured jazz bands in the evenings and creole specials for lunch. It was all but deserted this Saturday afternoon, and there were ashtrays on every one of the scarred, wooden tables. Graham stared at the chalkboard menu with a pained expression.

“The seafood gumbo is good,” she said helpfully.

“All I want is something plain. All this spicy food is ruining my stomach. Don't you have ordinary cafes here? Does everything have to be ethnic?”

“We could go somewhere else.”

“No, no, this is all right. I'll have a hamburger.”

She had to translate his order for the uncomprehending waitress. “He wants a plain hamburger, nothing on it, just meat in a bun. No mustard or relish or anything like that, okay? Just a plain hamburger.”

“He wants it dry?”

“Yeah.”

Graham lit another cigarette and inhaled, his face closed and brooding. She sat and looked at him until he answered her gaze. He looked accusing. “Why did you leave me?”

“I left a note.”

“Thank you very much for that. But it didn't explain anything.”

She was aware of his pain, which itched and pricked as if it were something spiky she'd swallowed. “What was I supposed to explain? I had some stuff to do . . . I hadn't expected to be out all night. I didn't want to wake you. I left my number.”

“So you wanted me to phone you?”

“Yes—well, only if you wanted to.” She wasn't prepared for this conversation. Looking at the thin, tense, unhappy man across the table she could not believe she'd been to bed with him, nor did he at all resemble the poet she'd known so long in her head. He was a total stranger who pulled at her emotions as no stranger could; they didn't know each other, but there was a connection between them.

“Why shouldn't I want to?”

“I didn't want you to feel obligated. Look—there is no obligation. We're both grown-ups, you don't have to think—”

“Oh my dear, dear Nancy!”

The name jarred and yet her heart leaped, strangely. He reached across and grasped her hand. His was startlingly cold. “I'm not so casual about sex as you might think. I have very strong feelings, very strong, warm feelings for you. We hardly know each other, of course, but I want to know you better. Look, I have a week before I have to fly out of Houston, and the thing in the world that I'd most like to do with that time is to spend it with you. If you'll have me.”

As he spoke those last words she was almost overwhelmed by an intensely physical memory of last night, and the urgent desire never to feel again that lonely, suffocating intimacy, that confusion in the dark. At the same time there was the habit of long desire: the poet she'd imagined had been so important to her for so long that she could not now easily walk away from the real man he had turned out to be. It would be a betrayal of herself to give him up so quickly. She had at least to try. Surely, she argued with herself, what had happened last night was a misunderstanding, some mistake which understanding and mutual goodwill could put right.

“I'd love that. But there's something we have to talk about.”

Their meals arrived then, and he took his hand away and sat back in his chair and said nothing until the waitress had gone. Then he said, very gravely, fixing his eyes on hers, “Yes. You're right. I know what you mean.”

The blissful sense of being understood, of knowing he was one with her, flowed through her and she relaxed and waited for him to explain everything.

“Of course I told you I had a girlfriend, and you must have been worrying about that, but Caroline is just someone I've been seeing, and there's nothing in that relationship for you to worry about. It's probably over by now—it's been on the rocks practically since it began. We have very little in common. It was a physical attraction, and once we got through that and got to know each other we discovered we didn't like each other very much. Really, I think she's only been hanging on to me until she finds a better prospect.”

She felt disoriented by what seemed his change of subject; then, sadly, realized he had not known what she was thinking about. But how could he? She watched him cut up his hamburger with a knife and fork, and when he paused to fork a piece into his mouth she said, “That wasn't really what I meant when I said we had to talk. You did tell me about Caroline, but I honestly wasn't worrying about her. Although as long as we're confessing, I guess I should tell you I've been seeing someone, too.”