American Boy - Larry Watson [45]
In this situation, for example, even though I believed that Mrs. Knurr was coming on to me, I couldn’t be completely sure. And to have acted on a hunch—even a good one—might have been disastrous. What if I would have responded to Mrs. Knurr’s flirtation the way I thought she wanted me to, putting my hand on her knee, or kissing her, or cupping her breast, only to discover that I had misinterpreted the moment? It was one thing to slide my hand under Debbie McCarren’s skirt and have it pushed away. But were the same rules in effect on the Knurrs’ couch as in the backseat of Johnny Dunbar’s car? What if there were consequences I couldn’t foresee, consequences more lasting and severe than a slapped hand or a reprimand? Besides, I couldn’t stop thinking of Mr. Knurr’s open eyes.
Abruptly I asked, “Is your husband’s pain in his lower back?”
“Is ... what?”
“His pain. Is it in the lower back? On one side? Because that’s a symptom of sciatica.”
Mrs. Knurr smiled knowingly, as if she were perfectly aware that concern for her husband was not prompting my questions. “You don’t say,” she said. “You’re certainly set on that diagnosis, aren’t you?”
“And the pain usually goes down into the buttocks and then down the leg.”
“The buttocks ... Really.” She let go of her necklace, but leaned in even closer. Something she did with her arms squeezed her breasts together, deepening her cleavage and pushing more flesh out of the top of her dress.
“And down the leg.” I shifted my gaze deliberately, looking into the autumn darkness of her eyes.
And then suddenly Mrs. Knurr saw something in me or in herself. She sat up straight and wriggled slightly to adjust her clothing. She swung her legs off the couch. Only when her feet were flat on the floor and the moment had passed was I sure: I could have fucked Mrs. Knurr.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You probably didn’t know it, but we just had a little test. You passed, and I failed.”
I’m sorry, I wanted to reply. I don’t mean to insult you, but I’ve pledged myself to another woman. . . . But even if I’d changed my mind, there was nothing I could do at that point. Pity is an even more powerful antiaphrodisiac than fear.
“Do you prefer Matthew,” she asked, “or Matt?”
“Doesn’t matter.” For some reason I had a hard time getting the words out.
“My son was always Richie. Until he graduated. Then he wanted to be Richard.”
“I remember him as Richie,” I said. “When he was on the basketball team.”
“Matthew ... ,” she began, but then thought better of it. She lit a cigarette, and when she turned back to me her smile had vanished. Now her expression was close to a grimace, as if it were she whose back had gone out.
For a moment or two she simply smoked, exhaling in my direction and regarding me so coolly I began to calculate how far it was from the Knurr house to my own, and what the effect would be of traveling that distance in the subzero cold without a coat, hat, or gloves. Although the surrounding hills were now dotted with houses, divided by pavement and leveled into lawns, the terrain was still mine, in the singular way that childhood play takes possession of place. I wouldn’t walk, I decided; I’d run home and hope that activity would generate enough heat that I could cover the two and a half miles without freezing.
Then Mrs. Knurr smiled once more. Her face lifted unevenly and one eye squinted almost shut, yet she looked more beautiful, if sadly so, than she had when she was posing for me.
“Tell me,” she said, “what else have you learned from Dr. Morgan? Oops. Dr. Dunbar. But that’s what some women call him. You know, from the comic strip? Rex Morgan, Rex Dunbar. I’ve also heard ‘Sexy Rexy.’ You know, like Rex Harrison.”
“He concentrates on teaching us about