Part 6 (1/2)
”You bet.”
”Okay. I have to trust you. I mean, we're the innocent parties here.”
That was pretty weird. Or maybe I heard her wrong, being drunk and all. But I did my thing-a knowing chuckle, an old Johnny Carson bow. ”Are any of us truly innocent?”
With that, she held her breath. I wondered if she was trying to pa.s.s out. She finally exhaled and said, ”I've asked myself over and over.”
How to answer? I couldn't. No, I was definitely out of the loop.
She bundled her papers into one arm, walked over and reached around me for a hug. Her skin was sticky with dried sweat. She smelled like bananas and tanning oil. A Pablo Neruda poem came to mind: I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes, I didn't understand why I was being hugged, but I didn't resist. And she held on for an eternity. An entire minute of her and me in a darkened college hallway, conspiring, embracing, forgetting the lies we had originally been caught in.
Then she slackened and backed away to her husband's office door, reaching behind for the handle. A peaceful lift of her lips, not quite a grin, and then the door opened. ”Bye, Mick.”
How I wished not to be a poet at that moment, but instead a hurt soul who had met another hurt soul and recognized each other in spite of our thick armor. Also, I wished I wasn't drunk, because instead of the touchy-feely c.r.a.p I wrote in the previous sentence, I was actually wondering what she looked like naked.
SEVEN.
Octavia could smell it on me-not just the alcohol fumes, but also the bananas and tanning oil that had rubbed off Stephanie. She turned her head away in something like revulsion before saying, ”Would you like some wine with your toxicity?”
Jennings led us to the dining room. On the way, Octavia asked, ”I can tell it's not s.e.x. You don't smell like p.u.s.s.y. So what have you been up to all day, Professor Thofft?”
”Just...talking.”
”To whom?”
I felt like I was in a funhouse, in the spinner. I had to steady myself on her shoulder. She scoffed but slowed her pace to match mine. I supposed the interview had gone well, as Octavia certainly looked comfortable. Her hair was down, slightly damp, and she wore black pajama bottoms with a summery white long-sleeved blouse, also damp in spots as if she'd just gotten out of the shower.
Did I mention that drinking makes me painfully l.u.s.ty?
She was waiting for an answer. I said, ”I believe I've found the key to the Robo Pen.”
”Okay.”
”I need to decide how-”
”You call the boy and tell him there's a problem with the magazine, and you need to discuss it with him in person because you have a hard time explaining computer language over the phone, even though we both know you're pretty well-versed in it.”
I stopped walking. My hand slipped off her shoulder as she continued on. After a few more steps she stopped and turned. A Mona Lisa grin in bright lipstick. I wobbled like a boxer who had been badly mismatched.
”You knew?”
”As did you,” she said. ”So let's talk to each other like grown-ups and stop trying to pat ourselves on the back for being just as smart as we already know we are.”
I had my pride. I stared her down and waited, I swear, at least twenty seconds before saying, ”I had to go to the office and get his address. I ran into a friend. Well, one of Frannie's. That's all.”
”A woman.”
”Yes. The wife of another professor.”
That seemed to satisfy her, as she nodded curtly and resumed walking to her dining room, leaving me behind to prop my hand on the wall for guidance.
If the rest of the house was a museum for her love of the Gothic, then the dining room was her Renaissance. Antique Italian walnut table and chairs, plus cabinets to hold her Wedgewood china. An immense chandelier hung over the center of the table, and along the wall opposite the cabinets ran a room-length mirror of the sort I'd only ever seen in castles. Embossed walls of blue and cream. Candles on stands high as my head. The only unusual thing was the art, all by Fernando Botero, all paintings of fat people. Like cartoons, grotesquely balloon-like. And they were all either erotic nude women, exotic dancing, or several of his recent, very disturbing paintings of Abu Ghraib prisoners being humiliated and tortured. Just what you want at dinner.
Jennings held Octavia's chair for her at the head of the table, a coordinated dance they'd worked out to perfection. I made my way to the seat to her left. As Jennings started towards the kitchen, Octavia called out, ”No, you too.”
He stopped, looked over his shoulder. ”Excuse me?”
She pointed to her right. ”Come, sit. You're trying this too. Let the girl serve it herself.”
”You do know what's on the menu, right?”
”The one I helped plan? Really? Don't get all catty on me.”
He swallowed hard and stood his ground. ”Beef.”
”Actually, it's Cabernet Filet Mignon, rare, with twice-baked garlic potatoes and roasted asparagus.”
That sounded good to my out-of-focus head. ”Sounds great. I'm surprised.”
Octavia shrugged. ”I decided we should start with her handling of the basics. After you left, she made some very nice eggs and hash browns.” She turned back to Jennings. ”And we all need to sample what she's prepared for us-”
”I'm a vegan,” he said. ”You know that.”
”That may well be your philosophy, but let me ask-are you physically unable to eat meat?”
”It's been five years. I'll get sick.”
Like a cat's eyes widening to all black when it sees a toy dangled in front of it, that's what happened to Octavia's, too. I swear. She dropped her chin, batted her eyelids at him. ”That's in your f.u.c.king head, mister. I ask again. Are you physically-”
”Please.” Jennings stepped closer, lowered his voice. He was sweating. ”Please. It's all I've got. I just...can't.”
”Are you-”
”No. I can eat it. But...but you're so cruel. Petty.” Seething now, cheeks red. ”You've taken so much away from me, can't you just give me this? I'm begging.”
If it rattled her, I couldn't tell. Poor guy. I had to look away, just in time to see a sliver of Harriet at the far doorway, one-eye peeking around. She ducked back when she saw me.
Octavia lifted her water gla.s.s and took a sip, ignoring Jennings, not even looking at him when she said, ”It's part of the job. I need your advice. I don't care if it means slaughtering a pig for me, it must be done. Beliefs, religion, feelings, none of it happens on the clock. Square it later when you're trying to sleep.”
If it were me, I would've quit. Really. Even considering how much money was involved, plus all the side benefits of working for the rich and powerful-the clothes, the food, the business trips he took in her place when necessary, since she hated traveling. The contacts he'd made in the business world, all the more helpful for when he finally raised the money he needed to open his own club or restaurant or used bookstore, whatever it had morphed into that week.
But then again, I didn't know what it was like. I had never been indebted to her as he was, the sickness of it all just staggering. I played with my napkin, unable to watch as Jennings held his tongue, pulled out his chair, and sat at the table staring straight ahead-at me-probably thinking that for all of the good Professor's seeming support and friends.h.i.+p, when it came down to having Jennings' back, I was long gone, man.
Octavia said, ”Good.”