Topping From Below (4 page)
He licked her nipple, looked at her, and winked. “All in good time,” he said.
The sky was dark with huge, slow-moving, black-bottomed clouds. Big drops of rain, falling dolefully in spread-out intervals like long, sad regrets, splashed on the windshield of Franny’s car. She hated driving in bad weather. Just as she flipped on the windshield wipers, the rain came down faster, harder, instantly turning the highway into a Postimpressionist blurry landscape of smeared divider lines and wet concrete and sealslick passing automobiles. She was meeting Nora for dinner at the Radisson Hotel off Highway 160. They tried to get together at least once a month, and usually they ended up at the Radisson for their chin-chin salad, the best Chinese chicken salad, they both agreed, in Sacramento.
Franny pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, a duncolored stucco building that looked, from the outside, like a modern-day monastery. She drove around to the front, but all the empty spaces near the hotel’s entrance were tiny, made for compact cars. Franny owned an old, black, fin-tailed Cadillac, an antique, her most prized possession. It was a gas-guzzler, behemoth in size, made back in the fifties, but she loved it. She had a special relationship with the car, as if it were a dear old friend; and, like a good friend, she lovingly took care of its needs, washing and waxing it, polishing the chrome, checking the white-wall tires for air, vacuuming its insides. She’d had it since high school, when she lived with Nora, and when she first brought the car home, her sister had called it a monstrosity, an eyesore, a blight to the environment. But Franny, usually so docile, refused to sell it. She wasn’t sure why, but she loved this car.
The Cadillac glided around the parking lot, sleek and silent, like a shark circling in the water. She found a large, empty parking space in the rear. She parked, the car clunking to a stop as she switched off the ignition, then checked the backseat for her umbrella; it wasn’t there. She pulled on her coat, jerked it up over her head in a makeshift tent, then made a dash for the long breezeway leading up to the hotel’s main building. When she reached the double-doored entrance, she stopped and adjusted her coat, shaking off the rain like a wet animal shaking off water. She looked up to see the doorman, a skinny man with heavy, plastic-framed glasses, give her a look she couldn’t interpret. He hesitated, then opened the glass door for her.
“Thanks,” Franny said in a breathless whisper, and she rushed past, not meeting his gaze. She walked through the carpeted hotel, decorated in a palette of muted shades, past the registration desk, past the potted plants and gift shop and hanging artwork, up a few steps to the raised dining room. She had just got off work, and before she’d left the clinic she’d changed into a long black skirt and sweater. Her hair, frizzled by the rain, was damp. She tried to comb her fingers through it, but it was a long, tangled mess. Giving up, she searched in her purse for a barrette. Next to her wallet was Billy’s silver medical bracelet, with the words “dialysis patient” etched on one side. She kept it with her always. After her parents died, she wore it on her wrist until, one day, Nora insisted she put it away. Nora believed the past belonged to history, and that Franny was being morbid, wearing Billy’s medical bracelet as though it were an amulet, a good-luck charm. But she never thought of it as an amulet; it was more like a stigma, weighing heavily on her wrist. Now she kept it in her purse, or wore it on a chain around her neck, under her blouse so her sister wouldn’t see it.
She found a barrette and was putting it on when she spotted Nora in the back of the dining room, sipping a glass of wine. She looked chic and aerobicized, wearing a tightfitting knit dress, short and sexy, that showed off her body and long legs. Franny knew, for a fact, that Nora was almost neurotic about her weight, working out at the Capital Athletic Club six days a week to keep her body trim, always being careful about what she ate.
Nora looked in Franny’s direction, smiled and waved. She was wearing red, flashy lipstick, and her black hair was cut stylishly short, falling level to her chin. Franny walked over, feeling dumpy in her sister’s presence.
“Hi,” Nora said. “What kept you? I was about to give up on you.” She had a pleasant, almost teasing face, with lips that turned up just slightly at the corners, as if she was about to smile.
Franny took off her coat and hung it on the back of her chair. She sat down, saying, “Sorry. We had an emergency at work.”
“Oh?” Nora raised her eyebrows, a faint lift of inquiry.
“A patient’s blood pressure got too low and he went into a seizure. I had to stop his pull and the dialysis.” She put the folded napkin on her lap. “I think the tech should have watched him more closely. I’ve never had a patient seize on me before. I gave him some saline, then called the doctor.” She could tell that Nora was only half listening, her eyes distant-looking, nodding her head slightly in agreement to what she was saying. Franny finished the story off quickly. “Anyway, we sent him to the hospital.”
Nora took a sip of wine. Her eyes were a deep blue, like drops of melted sapphires, that matched the color of her dress. They were fake, Franny knew, color contact lenses, because Nora’s eyes actually were a light, dusty blue. Still, the dark color suited her. The waiter came over to take Franny’s drink order, and she asked for some hot tea, herbal. After he brought it, they ordered their salads.
“Do you like these?” Nora asked. She leaned forward and brushed her hair back so Franny could see her earrings, cylindrical cones of silver with tear-shaped jade insets.
“They’re nice,” Franny said, dipping her tea bag in a pot of hot water. The waiter brought them a basket of assorted breads. Franny reached for a piece of sourdough and buttered it.
“I was in Berkeley last Thursday, doing a story on a zoologist studying the mechanics of motion. He uses insects—centipedes, spiders, ghost crabs, cockroaches. Really interesting. It’ll be in the paper next week. I was about to get on the freeway, coming home, when I saw this cute jewelry store. They had great stuff. That’s where I bought these.”
Nora took a piece of dry flat bread out of the basket and nibbled on it, unbuttered. She looked around the room, surveying the other diners, the waiters and waitresses, the man playing the piano in the corner. Nora had always been especially observant, probably due to her journalistic background. Her eyes never relaxed; subtly, she would shift her gaze around the room, taking in everything as she spoke, or as others were speaking to her. Some people found this annoying—they thought she wasn’t paying attention—but Franny knew that Nora never missed a word of conversation, remembering it long after the speaker had forgotten it.
“Cockroaches?” Franny said, looking skeptical.
“Uh-huh,” Nora said, and she flashed the waiter a smile as he set down their salads. She asked for another glass of white wine, then broke apart her chopsticks and turned back to Franny. “He puts them on mini treadmills and videotapes them. Then he watches the tapes in slow motion. He’s postulated that all animals and insects are similar in their walk, that they all share the same bouncing motion because their leg muscles move the same way.”
She went on, talking about the insects’ energy consumption while in motion, and their push against gravity, the force of generation. Wielding her chopsticks, she told Franny the implications this could have in the fields of human physiology and robotics and medicine. Franny was proud of Nora, even if she didn’t completely understand what she was saying. Sometimes she wished she were more like Nora, was even envious of her, but then she reminded herself of the foolishness of such thinking. It didn’t serve any purpose to wish for something you couldn’t have. She might as well wish for the lottery.
When they’d finished their salads, Nora was still talking about cockroaches and centipedes. Franny wanted to bring up the topic of sex, but she didn’t know how to go about it. They had talked about sex before, in a general, joking manner, but had never got into the details. Franny hadn’t even told her about Michael yet. She’d meant to, she hadn’t planned to keep him a secret, but the time just never seemed right. Nora was always so busy. Whenever Franny called her, it seemed she was on her way to a meeting or busy writing against a deadline or about to go out on a date. She didn’t want to tell her about Michael unless she had time to explain what he was like. The last several weeks had been strange. She was beginning to wonder what was normal, sexually, and what wasn’t. She didn’t have any experience in this area, but she thought Nora could enlighten her. Some of the things Michael wanted to do seemed downright weird. She’d hesitated a few times, telling him she didn’t want to do something, but he always coaxed her into it, and, to her surprise, she enjoyed it—most of the time. Still, it seemed a little weird, his collection of nipple clamps and labia clips, the ankle and wrist tethers, and the way, lately, he always wanted to dominate her, each week becoming more and more demanding.
“Are you going out tonight?” she asked. “You look dressed for it.”
Nora nodded. “I’m going dancing at The Rage. You want to come?”
Franny shook her head. They both knew Nora’s invitation was only a formality. Franny didn’t like bars, and she hated dancing even more.
Nora put her elbows on the table and leaned forward. Even in the dusky lighting of the room, her hair shined. She grinned. “I met this really neat guy there last week. He’s a great dancer and super good-looking—big chest, at least six feet tall, tight butt.
Real
tight butt.”
Franny looked around to see if anyone had heard her sister, relieved that no one was paying attention to them. “Do you like him?”
Nora shrugged. “He’s a lineman for the phone company. He’s funny and nice, but I just don’t think he’s bright enough for me. I know I’d get bored with him after a while.” She picked up her glass of wine. “Too bad,” she said regretfully. “He’s got a great body.”
Franny was used to her sister’s cavalier attitude toward men. Nora always had plenty of boyfriends, but she was never really serious with any of them, even with the two men she’d lived with. Several men had asked her sister to marry them, but she’d told them right from the beginning that marriage was not in her plans. Franny, on the other hand, liked the idea of married life, of having someone there for you, knowing there would be a person who always cared for you and who would look out for your best interests. She would give just about anything to be married, whereas Nora casually discarded her marriage proposals and her men. She threw them away when she was finished with them as if they were something disposable that could be easily replaced, like a Bic pen or a used tampon.
“Did you sleep with him?” she asked, then blushed for being so straightforward. Although Nora was frank about her boyfriends, telling her whom she’d slept with, Franny had always merely listened in these conversations, never commenting, never having any stories of her own to relate.
Nora laughed, a distinctively cheery sound that tumbled out of her mouth. “Since when did you start asking me questions like that?”
Franny smiled sheepishly.
“Actually,” Nora said, “I didn’t. I thought about it, but it just seemed like too much trouble.”
Franny must have looked puzzled because Nora twisted her mouth a little, in an expression of exasperation, and went on to explain.
“Oh, you know. All the precautions. Asking their sexual history, dragging out the condoms and spermicide, making sure the condom is latex and the lubricant is waterbased, et cetera, et cetera. Who needs it? Especially for someone who isn’t going to be in your life very long. It seemed easier just to go home alone. Sometimes, the sex isn’t worth it.”
Franny thought this would be a good time to bring up Michael, to mention, casually, the things they did. She started to say something, but Nora was pulling on her coat, getting ready to leave. She wanted to go dancing.
Standing up, Nora looked at the bill, then put some money on the table. “What is it?” she said, seeing that Franny had hesitated.
Franny gave her a small smile, shaking her head. “Nothing,” she said. She decided not to tell her she had a boyfriend. She wasn’t willing to submit him to her scrutiny yet. Nora only dated men her age or, preferably, younger, and had often said she could see no advantages to dating a much older man. She would think it odd that Michael was twice Franny’s age. And what would she think if she found out they didn’t go anywhere or do anything together? Nora tended to be cynical about men, and she probably wouldn’t understand. She would want to meet him, and what if he wouldn’t agree to that? Franny decided to wait. The time was not yet right. She also decided, on her way home, to stop off at the Baker’s Square in West Sacramento for a hotfudge brownie pie.
The green light on Franny’s answering machine was blinking when she got home that night. It was a message from Michael, telling her to come to his house. She smiled to herself, delighted by his message. Walking through her apartment, still shivering from the cold weather outside, she began taking off her wet clothes, the rain-soaked coat dripping water on the floor, the long black skirt, which was damp around the hem, clinging to her legs. She draped the skirt and coat over the back of a chair to dry. Her apartment was small, a onebedroom unit on the first floor of a complex filled almost entirely with university students, and it was completely ordinary. Bland beige walls blended into an equally bland wall-to-wall carpet. The rent was cheap, though, and she’d tried to liven it up with colorful pillows, hanging plants, and bright prints on all the walls.
She entered the bedroom and took off the rest of her clothes, piling them on the bed, then went into the bathroom. Standing under the shower, she let the warm water take the chill out of her body. She was glad Michael had called. She’d never realized how lonely she was until she met him. She’d become inured to the loneliness, like a minor wound that never heals: you get used to it, you forget it’s even there. But not anymore. Now her empty apartment was unbearable. Whenever she went to Michael’s house for the evening, she felt as though she were escaping, breaking out of her solitary life.