Blue World (38 page)

But it seemed to him suddenly that most of life itself was already purgatory--a wandering over cold, heartless landscapes. Surely both he and Debra Rocks were already occupants of that netherworld.

John fastened the chain and padlock together. He locked his bike to the stairs, and then he ascended to her again.

She had opened a can of tuna and was spooning chunks onto a flat brown tray. “Do you have a cat?” he asked her.

“No. I hate cats. They make me sneeze my head off. Come on, Unicorn!” she called into another room--the bedroom, he guessed it was. “Dinner’s on!” She set the tray with its tuna chunks onto the kitchen floor. “Well,” she said when nothing appeared to accept the food, “he’ll eat when he’s hungry. You want a ham frozen dinner or turkey? I’ll pop it in the microwave, just be a few minutes.”

“Debr--” He stopped, before the rest of it got out. He remembered the woman at the cash register calling her

Debbie.

“Debbie,” he said, “why did you ask me to come here with you?”

Something about her face had sharpened. Her eyes were hot gray pools. “How do you know my name?”

“That woman at Giro’s. I… guess I heard her use it.”

She stared at him for a moment. Then her face softened again, but there remained in it the wariness of an animal who might have smelled a trap. “Oh. I’ll buy that, I guess.” Again she looked up at him. “You’re not going to hurt me, are you?”

“No!” he said, shocked. “Certainly not!”

“Good.” She liked the way he said that; now her face lost its hardness and relaxed once more. She let her hand drift from the drawer where the knives were.

“I’d still like to know. Why did you ask me here? I mean… you don’t even know me.”

Debbie opened a ham dinner for herself and chose a ham for him too, since he didn’t seem to have a preference. She shrugged. “Intuition, maybe.”

“Intuition? Like how?”

“I won the monthly contest at Giro’s,” she explained. “Giro draws a number from a big bowl on the first Monday of every month. If you’re that number customer, you win a hundred and fifty bucks. I’ve been goin‘ to Giro’s for four years, and I never won the contest until today.”

“What’s that have to do with me?”

“Well,” she went on, and as she spoke, she took the sunglasses off her head and undid her ponytail and that magnificent black hair cascaded down over her shoulders with a suddenness that almost made John gasp, “if you hadn’t bumped into me I wouldn’t have won. See, I would’ve just bought my stuff and gone. Somebody else would’ve been that number. But I had to go back and get the eggs, and when I went through the register, the winnin‘ number was me. See?” She flashed a brief smile at him, and her teeth were startlingly white against her tan.

“I think so.”

“And then, you havin‘ the name Lucky and all. I mean… it’s like a sign, you know?”

“A sign of what?”

She looked at him, disappointed that he didn’t seem to grasp her meaning. “A sign,” she said, “that everything’s gonna go right for me from now on. That’s why I came after you. I couldn’t let you just walk on out of my life. And I knew it for sure when you told me your name.”

“Oh.” John felt a new heaviness inside him. “I see.”

She opened the refrigerator and checked to make sure she had enough white wine. “My birthday’s November third. What’s yours?”

“March eleventh,” he said, and he went to the window to look out and think about what was happening here at what felt like the speed of light.

“See? I

knew you weren’t in Giro’s by any old accident!“

“What?” He turned toward her.

“We’re soul mates!” she said. “Scorpio and Pisces! Two water signs!” She frowned slightly at his blank expression. “Don’t you read your horoscope?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, we’re soul mates. Take my word for it.” She got two of her nicest wineglasses out of a cabinet.

He had to ask the next question, and as soon as he did he damned himself for it: “Debbie… what do you do?”

She poured the glasses full of wine. “My job, you mean?”

“Yes. Your job.”

“I’m an actress,” she said with no hesitation. “Commercials and stuff. I do modeling too.” She went right on, though he didn’t wish to hear any more. “I do a lot of TV work. I did a commercial for this wine right here. Gallo. That’s why I drink it.”

His heart hurt, a deeper hurt than anything he’d ever experienced in his life. The false cheer of her voice almost squeezed the tears out of his eyes. “Here y’go,” she said, and offered him a glass. He took it, sipped, and was afraid to look at her for fear of what he might see--or what his own face might show. “Know what? I’m up for a movie part right now. Believe it!” Her voice was now full of genuine excitement, and John thought that at least this part of it might be true. “My agent, Solly Sapperstein in L.A., got a callback from my first readin‘. They want me to go back and read again on Thursday. It’s Bright Star Pictures, and they’ve done some real bitchin’ flicks. Ever see

Destruction Road?“

“I don’t go to movies very much,” John told her.

“Man, you must be from another planet!” She laughed, the sound like a stream flowing over smooth warm stones. She watched Lucky sip his wine, and she admired his profile. “So what do you do?”

“I’m a…” He paused. Tell her the truth, you gutless sonofabitch! “I’m… in public relations,” he said.

“Yeah, me too. Kind of.” She strode back into the kitchen. “You want some dinner now?”

“Yes,” he said. “That would be good.”

“Sorry I can’t cook worth a shit. I just pop the fuckin‘ frozen dinners in and that’s about it. Don’t taste worth a fuck, but--”

“Please don’t curse,” John said.

Debbie abruptly halted with a frozen dinner in each hand. Her back was to Lucky. Something about what he’d just said bothered her, but she couldn’t get a handle on it. Had somebody said that to her just recently? Where had it been? She couldn’t remember. The toot was burning out her memory cells. Well, fuck it! She looked at him, standing there in the slanting golden light, his shadow thrown across her floor. “You’re weird,” she said.

There was a scuttling noise. John stared down at the kitchen floor. A land crab the size of a dinner plate was moving across the linoleum tiles toward the tray of tuna chunks.

“There’s my baby Unicorn!” Debbie said. She put aside the TV dinners, gently picked up the huge crustacean, and kissed its plated back. “I call him Unicorn ‘cause he’s always so horny.” She laughed, but Lucky didn’t seem to get the joke. “Well, I thought it was funny,” she said, and lowered the crab to its food. “Eat ’em up, babe!”

When the TV dinners were ready, John and Debbie sat at the little circular table in her kitchen and ate. She ate fast, as if afraid someone was going to jerk the food away from her. He watched her lips move, and his crotch began to stiffen with the memory of her masked face in

Rough Diamonds and what her mouth was doing. He shifted uncomfortably, and asked her where in the South she came from.

“Louisiana. Town called De Ridder. Between Merryville and Sugartown.” The way she said it let him know she didn’t want to talk about it.

He shifted again. His legs were beginning to ache once more, the muscles knotted. He rubbed his calves and winced.

“Come on,” she said when she’d finished her food. “Let’s fix that right now.”

“Fix what?”

“Your legs are hurtin‘, aren’t they? Been ridin’ that bike too much. Come on, get up.”

He did.

“Shuck your pants off,” she said, and went into the kitchen.

“No. Listen… wait a minute.” He watched her return with a bottle of Wesson oil. “What are you going to do?” His voice trembled.

She blinked. “Give your legs a massage. Work those kinks out. Come on, shuck your pants and you can lie down right here on the carpet.” She got a pillow from the sofa and laid it down for his head. Then she knelt, waiting.

“I’m all right,” John said. He swallowed hard. “Really.”

“No you’re not. You’re hurtin‘. I can tell.”

He looked at her strong brown hands, then at the bottle of Wesson oil. Get out of here! he urged himself. Right now! But he stood where he was, and he said, “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Debbie told him, and patted the pillow. Then, before John could react, she reached up and unzipped his trousers. He sprang back as if fire had licked his crotch. Debbie laughed softly. “Wow!” she said, amazed. “You’re shy, aren’t you?”

“Listen… this is wrong. I’ve got to tell you--”

“I’ll tell you,”

she said firmly. She began to unbuckle his belt. “It’s right.”

And then he stood and squeezed his eyes shut while she tugged his trousers down to his knees. Now he was only a pair of Jockey briefs away from total, soul-searing damnation.

Debbie patted the pillow again. “Come on, put your head here.” She unscrewed the bottle, poured a little oil into the palm of her right hand, and rubbed both palms together. John felt his insides twist into a lump of Silly Putty. His willpower was water, and hers was flame; commingled, there would be steam. But his legs were hurting. What would be the harm in a massage that would last at the most two or three minutes? He could control himself; he could rein in his sensual urges.

He hoped.

He lay down on his stomach, his cheek against the pillow, and she said, “Cute ass,” and began to knead the knotted muscles of his calves with her warm, slick fingers. The first touch made him jump, and she laughed softly and said, “Relax.” Her hands dug down into the core of his soreness, fingers rippling in the muscles. There was a lot of pain for the first minute or so, but gradually her hands kneaded away the pain and got down to the pleasure.

She felt Lucky tremble under her hands. He was sure a strange dude. She’d never met anyone quite like him. He looked fine, but why was he so shy? Gay, maybe? No, she could tell those things. She liked the way he said “Pardon me” instead of just “Huh” when he didn’t understand about the chain and padlock. He was… God, it was corny, but Lucky was a gentleman. She didn’t see many of those; the breed was almost extinct.

She was working hard. “Lucky?” she said. “Would you take off my sweater for me? I don’t want to get oil on it.”

John slowly sat up. Debbie lifted her arms. His fingers burned when he touched her red sweater. Quickly, before he could change his mind, he pulled the sweater up over her arms and head. Underneath, she wore nothing but a black lacy bra, and over the rise of her jeans her stomach was hard and flat. Her shoulders and stomach gleamed a little with the sweat of her effort. “Thanks,” she said, and then John lay back down again with an inner groan, and her fingers began to work his calves once more.

“Just relax,” she urged him, her smoky voice gentle. “You’re too stiff!”

Oh, Lord, John thought. Oh Lord oh Lord oh Lord oh…

Debbie leaned her weight on his legs, her hands sliding across his flesh.

John closed his eyes. He couldn’t stand much more of this. Oh, God, he couldn’t take it! But he didn’t tell her to stop, nor did he try to get up. Her hands felt so good, so soothing; the pleasure was in his brain now, and he felt all his muscles unkinking. If this wasn’t paradise, it might be the closest earth had to offer. Even the memory of the porn scenes began to fade from his mind, and his brain relaxed. He thought about nothing but sensation, the sheer pleasure of warm flesh pressing yielding flesh.

He opened his eyes.

The pressure of her hands was no longer there.

He lifted his head from the pillow--and found himself looking into the face of the huge land crab, or as much of a face as the armored creature had. He sat up, startled, and the crab shot with surprising speed under the sofa, where it folded itself up and glowered at him.

John looked out the bay window. Night had fallen, and lights gleamed. The lamps were on in Debbie’s apartment, and some of the scented candles--vanilla and strawberry-- burned. He looked at his wristwatch, bleary-eyed. It was seventeen minutes before nine o’clock. He had slept for almost four hours!

He stood up. His pants were still down around his ankles, and instantly he tripped on them and fell to the floor again.

“Lucky?” Her voice came from the other room. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, fine.” He struggled to pull up his pants, zip his zipper, and fasten his belt. This was madness! Insane, sinful madness! He had to get out of here!

He looked at the floor. On the carpet lay Debbie’s red sweater, her blue jeans, wool socks, and the boots she’d been wearing.

“Lucky, will you come in here a minute?” she called.

He pressed his hand to his face. The crab scuttled past his feet and into the kitchen, crawling onto the last few tuna chunks.

“Lucky?” she urged.

He was midway between her bedroom door and the way out. He took two steps toward the way out--and then he stopped, his body trembling like a lightning rod. He smelled the electricity of his own need. At least he could tell her good-bye, he decided. He shouldn’t sneak out like a thief in the night. He turned and walked to the bedroom door, stood at the threshold, and peeked around the corner.

Debbie was sitting at her dresser, applying mascara while she watched herself in the mirror. She wore only the lacy black bra, black underwear and garters, and dark hose with black flowers on them. Her lips were wine-red with freshly applied lipstick, and her cheeks had a rouged glow against her tan. “Hi.” She put down the tube of mascara, one eye done, and smiled at him. “You must’ve been pooped.”

“I was.” His voice sounded strangled.

“I let you sleep. I hope that was okay.”

“Yeah. Fine.” He darted a glance at her breasts and his face bloomed red.

“Do you like to dance?”

“Pardon me?”

There it was again. The etched lines around her lips deepened. “You know: dance. Guess you haven’t heard of dancin‘ on your world, huh?”

“No… I mean… I don’t dance.”

“Well, you can fake it. I want to take you somewhere.” She began making up her other eye. “The Mile-High Club. It’s just a few blocks away.”

“A club? No… really. I don’t go to clubs.”

She had to ask it: “Lucky, are you gay?”