I was shaking. I had to get away. I told Jake I was sorry, I had to go. I had to think about this. He said he understood. His eyes said something else. He looked lost, afraid. I didn’t have the energy to deal with that.
I had a million questions. Had he contacted Melissa before the day he’d come over? Since? Did he know anything about her death? About who might have…
I couldn’t ask the questions. It was already too much.
We went to Trois Pistoles, Dorita and I. I ordered onion soup and a bottle of cheap Burgundy. I ignored the soup. I drank the wine. I chainsmoked cigarettes.
Well, I said gloomily, that explains the phone calls, doesn’t it?
It sure does.
They were talking. He probably came over. How would I know? I’m never in the goddamn house.
Dorita wisely said nothing.
I changed the subject. I talked about books, movies. I couldn’t bear the thought of silence.
We talked about meds. I gave her my list. She gave me hers. Zoloft for depression; lithium so the Zoloft didn’t make her manic; Inderal for the tremor induced by the lithium; Clonodine for the sweating and Nexium for the nausea brought on by the Zoloft; Klonopin for the panic attacks, which she occasionally confused with the Clonodine, with unfortunate effects; Provigil to stay awake because all that other stuff induced narcolepsy; Seroquel to get to sleep.
Wow, I said. You are one crazy babe.
That’s why you love me, honey.
Somewhere into the third bottle of Burgundy we started talking about her. She’d never opened up before. She didn’t then, either, really. But she said a few things. Enough for me to know that she hadn’t had it easy. That she had her monsters too.
Dorita pulled her chair around to my side of the table. Put her arm around my shoulder.
We’ll get through this, she said.
We?
You and me. Together. We’ll get you through it.
Damn, I said. I don’t feel sad enough.
What do you feel? Dorita asked softly.
I hung my head. I wasn’t going to say it.
You need some good old-fashioned comfort, she said.
We’re on the third bottle already.
Not that kind.
I looked at her. Oh dear. She’d read my mind.
Please don’t say what I think you’re going to say, I said.
Okay. I won’t say it. Let’s just do it.
Please. I really don’t think that’s a good idea.
Why not? she asked.
More reasons than I can count. You got a couple hours?
Sure.
I was afraid you’d say that.
Come on, Ricky. If you’ve been truthful with me…
You know I have.
…which I have no reason to doubt, you haven’t done it in years.
Not for lack of trying.
Sure. Not for lack of trying. Once in a while. But you can’t keep on like that. There’s a lot of life left on those old bones.
I was silent.
Well, isn’t there?
No comment.
Getting cagey, are we? Come on, Ricky, it’s written all over your face. You hate it. You want to get out of this thing. You want to live again.
I thought awhile. She was right, of course. I couldn’t cling to the martyr thing forever.
I can’t argue with that, I said.
Well, we agree on that much. So what’s wrong with your best friend taking care of you?
Precisely that. Because you’re my best friend. Because if we do it, God knows what will happen then. You’re not only my best friend. You’re really my only friend. And what if I lost that? Where would I be?
Darling. I’ll always be your friend. No matter what. You know that.
I looked into her eyes. They were sincere, I had to admit. They radiated sincerity. I felt a warmth creep up my body, from my toes, that I hadn’t felt since…well. I’m not sure I’d ever felt it before.
Okay, I said. I’ll think about it.
Think about it? These moments come but once, my neurotic friend. Whatever makes you think the offer will stay open while you think? There’s a lineup for these favors, darling, she said, turning to the crowd at the bar.
Next! she called out.
Heads turned.
Jesus, I whispered. Keep it down. This is bloody blackmail.
Yes it is. And if I were you I’d fork it over pronto. The consequences could be dire.
I couldn’t really argue with that, either.
All right, I said. I’ll try.
Try. I’m not at all sure that will be enough. But I guess I’ll take my chances.
Your chances? Maybe I’m missing something, but it seems to me that I’m the one taking all the chances here. Jesus, do you understand the enormity of what I’ve just learned?
Ricky, she said in a soft voice, what in God’s name makes you think that I’m not taking any chances?
Had I not known her better, I’d have thought that her eyes had tears in them. I felt a fool. Again.
Oh God, I said. I’m sorry.
It’s okay. I’m used to it.
Her smile was warm and giving.
Let’s go to my place, she said.
I’d like to. But Kelly.
Let’s go to your place then.
But Kelly.
Don’t worry about Kelly. I’ll take care of her.
We went to my place. Kelly was out. I called up Francis, told him to send over the Grande Dame 1988. I’d asked him long ago to save it for me. For a special occasion. One that never seemed to come. I pulled out the handblown Riedel glasses that I’d bought in Germany, years ago. Before they’d made the wine press highlights, started mass production. I’d tried the new ones since, the ones they sold all over now, at reasonable prices. They didn’t have the same effect for me.
Kelly came home. She saw the champagne glasses. She looked at Dorita. Dorita winked. Kelly looked at me.
She shook her head.
Okay, she said. I get it. I’ll go to Peter’s.
And off she went. Without a backward glance.
My God. What had I done?
Dorita took me to the bedroom. She took me to my own bedroom. She pressed me up against the wall. She kissed me. Gently, yet with passion. I fell to my knees. I kissed her stomach. She laughed. She pulled me up, and to the bed. She undressed me, slow and gentle. She undressed herself. I watched, transfixed. All these years of coveting. Of sublimation.
And I wasn’t disappointed. Those breasts I had so long imagined, full and languorous, impossibly imposing on her slim and muscular frame. Her legs, finally revealed from toe to waist, long and strong and graceful. Her stomach smooth and cool as ivory. She laid it all out for me.
And I was afraid.
She was utterly desirable and smooth, exquisitely constructed. I knew, I knew beyond certainty, that even had I been a normal man, with normal lusts and fully functioning libido, I’d be in so much awe of her that I’d be utterly unable to function.
But she took care of that.
She lay down beside me. I was exposed. She was radiant. She put her head on my shoulder. She asked me to read to her. I chose Dylan Thomas. I read poems of rage and defiance. ‘Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night.’ ‘And Death Shall Have No Dominion.’
Rage, rage against the dying of the light, I read.
And it gave me the power.
And she was gentle, and giving, and warm, in the face of the rage. She stroked me softly, like a whisper in the night. We lay by candlelight.
Her mouth hovered and touched and rose again to attack with abandon my most sensitive, my grieving places.
She was a miracle.
I came alive.
She devoured me.
And when it was over, we lay back. We smiled. We touched. We held each other.
For the first time in memory, all felt right with the world.