The Seal Wife - Kathryn Harrison [37]
Or angry—maybe that’s it. Angry at how transparent he must be to her, enough that she’s willing to bet on it, challenge him, buy that much more of his desire. His desire that she be silent.
Silenced. He knots the towel tight. Underneath him, she makes little sticky noises as she breathes, trying to suck the saliva back into her dry throat, and the sound both provokes and arouses him. He drives her up the bed until her head bumps against the wall.
Afterward, when they’re dressed, he hands her the extra dollar, but what’s expensive is the look she gives him, dismissive. She’s figured him out, or so she thinks; and he feels himself slide into a slot in her brain: the one who likes gags. Now, when he comes to visit her, if he does, she need not consider his case any further.
THERE’S NO REASON to hope that the gap-toothed girl is still at Knik, and anyway, Bigelow thinks as the launch approaches the dock, maybe he doesn’t want to see her. She did take his money, after all.
The boat bumps against the pilings, and the captain jumps down and ties her up, heads off toward the Pioneer before the passengers have disembarked. Bigelow hangs back, then follows the crowd up the hill to Open Hall, watching a couple as they walk leaning into each other, her head on his shoulder, his hand squeezing her waist, sliding down her hip and feeling the top of her leg, then, when she apprehends it with a little slap, back up to where it began. Watching them, Bigelow feels conspicuous in his loneliness.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have come. As he walks, he turns his empty pockets inside out, rehearsing the gesture he plans to make if he sees the girl. The dancers are over the crest of the hill now, out of sight, but he can hear their laughter, the occasional squawk from one of the band members’ trumpets. He stops following them and stands on the path, listening as the voices grow fainter. Around him, in the scrub, animals move—deer, rabbits—a restless tremor Bigelow feels more than he hears.
He turns around, looks behind him at the empty boat. The tide nudges it into the dock, then lets it fall away. Having come across the water, he’s stuck here for the next ten hours. He might as well make the best of it.
He chews his way through a sausage sandwich, so dry it makes his eyes water, but he’s no longer foolish enough to start on an empty stomach. The Russian bootlegger has a black eye and a split lip; his hand wavers as he pours out a dime’s worth. “Na zdorov’e,” he says as Bigelow picks up the glass.
“Cheers,” he tries when Bigelow doesn’t answer, and Bigelow repeats the word, “Cheers.” He drains the little glass, replaces it on the barrel head for the next customer.
Back at the dance floor, he sees the girl as soon as he steps up onto the planks. The two missing teeth identify her, but she’s forgotten him, he can tell, and anyway the idea of showing her his inside-out pockets seems pointless now, childish and petulant. Besides, he reminds himself, it’s not as if he didn’t get something for the money he lost.
She’s wearing new shoes, shined as shiny as patent, and he tips his hat, he steps aside and lets her pass, watches her thighs move under the fabric of her dress. She walks differently from the way she dances, walks hurriedly; the strike of her heels is that of a predator. Hearing them, Bigelow knows what he wants, to watch her steal from other men. An endless supply of them, people like him, lonely and lusting—trusting—and she so nimble, graceful and quick as a fish, exchanges one partner for another without missing a beat, the lights overhead shining like moons on the toes of her new shoes. Before the evening’s over he’ll have to kiss her, push his tongue through the gap. But for now it’s enough to watch.
Was her hair the same before, coiled in that smooth figure eight? It’s not a hot night, but her pink bodice is dark at the waist, stuck wet to her skin with the effort of dancing. Mouth open, she tips her head back, aware of the effect. Whoever her partner is, even if he doesn’t like the missing teeth, he has to keep looking at that place.