Where the God of Love Hangs Out - Amy Bloom [3]
“This could be it,” he said. “The big bang. That would take some explaining.”
“It won’t be your problem,” I said, and he laughed, bouncing me in his lap a little.
“Touch me,” he said.
I unzipped his pants and reached into his big blue-striped shorts and held his penis in my hand. I touched him as best I could, moving my fingers in the small space beneath his belly, in the little cave of his pants and boxers. He put his head back and closed his eyes, and he looked just the way he did at our lunches, greedy and delighted and deeply attentive. His whole body shuddered when he came, and even before his eyes were open, he’d pulled out a beautiful white handkerchief and cleaned up.
“Messy,” he said. “Marvelous.” He cleared his throat and put the handkerchief away. “Darling. Something for you?” He picked me up and laid me back on the couch. I shook my head. I still had my socks and slippers and every thing else on. William took my slippers off.
“What a little chatterbox you are,” he said, and while I was laughing, he knelt down on the floor in front of me, muttering about his knees and the state of our carpeting, and pulled my pajama bottoms down and put his face between my legs. I put his glasses next to mine on the coffee table. When he got back up on the couch, breathing like a freight train and smoothing out my pajamas, Greta Van Susteren was still answering questions on her show, which William said was an excellent forum for the slightly informed. He handed me the remote.
“Turn it off, please,” he said. “Put your head here.”
I laid my head on his shoulder again and put my slippers back on.
“It’s almost three,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “Not yet.”
We held hands, and then he hoisted himself up, bringing me with him.
“People,” he said. I nodded.
“No harm done, I hope? You’re not going to look at me tomorrow with barely disguised horror?”
“No,” I said. “Nothing like that.”
I put away the popcorn and rinsed the bowl while William finished his beer.
“How about a cigar?” he said.
William has moved to cigars from cigarettes, not exactly the dramatic change his doctors hoped for, and moved from cream in his coffee to fat-free half-and-half, which he now talks about the way other men talk about working out. When he smokes, I take a few puffs, to be companionable.
We sat on the back porch, the wood cold under my ass. “Do you need a coat?” he asked.
“I’m fine. How about you? You don’t have a jacket on.”
“I keep me warm,” he said. “My thermostat is set rather high.” The moon shone through the clouds.
“The leaves are going,” he said.
I puffed on his cigar.
“William,” I said.
He stood up slowly, using the banister for leverage.
“It’s still a beautiful night,” he said. He lay down on the ground. “Climb on,” he said. “Let’s go for a ride.”
The moon lit up the whole yard and William, white beneath me. I folded my robe and tucked it under his head. Tiny leaves shook loose, bronze snow floating down upon us, sticking gently in my hair and his, until we were almost covered.
I LOVE TO SEE YOU COMING, I HATE TO SEE YOU GO
William has gout.
It is the worst and most embarrassing pain of his life. His true nature, his desires and hidden history are revealed. By his foot.
Before he can get to the phone, the machine picks up.
“It’s me. I heard the gout’s back. Call me.”
Clare’s messages are always like this, concerned and crabby, as if having to make the call will cause her—probably has caused her; the plane is pulling away even as she speaks—to miss her flight.
“I’m here,” William says.
“Okay, do you want to just get Thai in Springfield?”
Springfield is almost halfway between Clare’s house and his. William doesn’t have the energy even for Thai in Springfield.
“Christ. Why don’t you just drive up here and bring lunch?” He would like to patch things up with Clare, but just putting down the phone drives two long, thick needles of uric acid deep into his ankle. He