Case of Lucy Bending (13 page)

She accepted these rejections without rancor and moved on. Empt watched her approach with mild interest. Perhaps, he thought, she was cadging a drink or soliciting funds for some phony charity. When she stood, finally, at his shoulder, he swung around on his bar stool to inspect this waif.

A coffin-shaped face framed in black, shiny hair. Parted in the middle, falling straight in gleaming wings, the heavy mass of hair was her most attractive feature, but made her pale face seem narrower. The face of a drowning woman.

The eyes were dark and glittering, the nose small, lips thin. The body was slight, almost frail. She wore a man's white shirt, clean enough, and a wraparound skirt of denim cinched with a straw belt. Sandals on bony feet.

And then, of course, there was the withered leg. Not puckered or scarred or anything like that, but atrophied—a skin-covered bone.

She looked at Luther Empt with a brave smile.

"May I accommodate you?" she asked softly.

He almost yelped with laughter. He thought he had heard every whore's pitch, but this was something new.

"Accommodate me?" he said. "How?"

"Any way you like," she said, still smiling. "Any way."

He leaned close to her. "How much?"

"Twenty. An hour."

He made up his mind at once, and for the rest of his life he could not have said why.

"Wait for me outside," he said in a low voice. "Five, ten minutes."

She nodded and turned away. In the bar mirror he watched her move haltingly to the door. So thin! A wisp. He finished his drink slowly. No way was he going to be seen leaving with her.

He was already ashamed of his decision, calling himself a randy fool. He consoled himself with the thought that it might be a laugh, something different, a story to tell in the locker room at the club.

He paid his bill and left, casually, strolling. Outside, he looked about and saw her standing in the shadow of a clump of palms. He went over to her, lighting a cigarette as he walked. She was happy to see him.

"I was afraid you were going to stand me up," she said with a timid smile.

"Now why would I want to do that?" he said, and took her fragile arm. "My car's over here."

"We can go to my place," she offered. "In Pompano. Not far."

"No, thanks," he said. He never went to their homes or apartments. Too much chance of a husband or boyfriend barging out of a closet with an iron in his fist. "I kiiow a motel close by. Television on the ceiling." He laughed without mirth.

He wasn't lying about that. And, at extra cost, you could have a waterbed and porn movies. He didn't go for that stuff. A plain, hard bed was all he wanted. He didn't need aids. Or fantasy.

"What a beautiful car," she breathed, sinking back into the leather-covered seat.

"Yeah," he said, "not bad. What's your name?"

"June," she said. "What's yours?"

"Bill," he said, deriving a perverse amusement from using Holloway's name.

The motel room was sparsely furnished, but clean. The air conditioner worked. The towels were thick. There was a strip of paper across the toilet seat, absolutely proving the bowl had been sanitized. The drinking glasses were inserted in little paper bags.

"This is nice," she said, looking around.

"Yeah?" he said, surprised, wondering what she was used

to.

He made certain the door was locked and chained, the Venetian blinds tightly closed. No one was lurking in the bathroom or closet; he checked.

"You want the lights on or off, Bill?" she asked.

"On," he said. He wanted to see this skeleton.

"You want me to take my clothes off?"

"Yes."

"You want me to do it, or do you want to do it?"

"You do it," he said, touched by her anxious complaisance.

He took a twenty from his wallet and handed it to her. He always paid in advance. The deal sealed.

"Thank you, Bill," she said gratefully. "You're very nice."

"I am?" he said.

He sat in the single armchair and watched her undress.

My God, he thought, she's a child.

He had guessed her age at about twenty-five, twenty-seven—around there. But now, seeing the slender, almost unformed body emerge, he had a sudden surge of fear that she might be underage.

"How old are you, June?" he asked.

"Twenty-three," she said. "Next month."

He felt better. "You have a nice bod," he said.

She smiled shyly. "I don't have very much up here," she said apologetically.

"That's all right," he heard himself say. "Don't worry about it."

She was so white, so white. A tint of pink at the nipples, an ebony triangle below her soft belly. But the rest of her untouched by the sun and even, you might think, by the air, for the skin was so fine, with the milkiness of tissue grown in the dark.

She came over to stand before him naked, head bowed, arms down straight at her sides: the penitent child asking forgiveness. The sable hair covered her face, fell forward to mask her tender breasts.

He put a hand awkwardly on her bony hip. Her skin was cool, limpid. Her flesh surrendered, not resisting his fingers. He thought it might hold his imprint.

"June," he said hoarsely, "are you too cold?" And wondered at his solicitude.

"No," she said, "I'm all right. Do you want me to undress you?"

"I'll do it," he said, standing. "You get into bed."

But she sat on the edge of the bed and watched him with grave eyes. By the time he removed his shorts, he was almost rigid.

"You're very big," she said.

He didn't answer; that was a whore's gambit.

He stood in front of her. She took his penis in a gentle hand.

"Bill," she said seriously, "I can get on my back if that's what you want. Really I can. But I can't pull my knees all the way up. My leg—you know? But I can get on my hands and knees easy, and you can do it dog fashion. If that's all right with you. Bill? If not, I can lay on my back."

"Dog fashion is, is—" he said, and then something caught in his throat. He stood there, trying to breathe. His fingers were entangled in her glossy hair.

She touched him lightly. She stroked him. She smoothed him. She looked intently at what she was doing, then looked up at his face with widened eyes.

She must have seen something there, for she stopped her caresses, stood, turned, and kneeled on the bed. She bent far forward, put forearms and then her cheek against the blanket. She brushed her hair away from her face; her eyes rolled back to watch him.

He moved closer until he was standing between her ankles, one normal, one shrunken, hanging over the edge of the bed. He put his hands on her hips and looked down at the suppliant body.

Stalky neck drooped forward humbly. Shoulder bones poked. Spine a string of stones. A waist he might encircle with his big hands. Lyre flare of hips. Buttocks of gloss.

He ran a finger down her back, touching each of those stones. She shivered.

"Can you spread your knees?" he said throatily. "A little?"

She did, and he touched her, exploring. Her dark eyes closed, a bit, and the pale lips parted.

"Oh," she said dreamily. "Oh. Thank you."

It was so unlike him, and he knew it: to be gentle and caring. Always, before, he had been a grab-and-tussle man, intent only on his own pleasure.

Now he was tender and concerned, feeling her, his cunning fingers seeking her out.

"There?" he asked. "There?"

"A little higher," she murmured. "Oh yes, Bill. There. Yes."

He felt moisture, the slickness, and pressed forward. She reached behind her with one hand to guide him. He entered her. She breathed a sound: half-moan, half-sob, all bliss.

"All right?" he asked.

Her head nodded on the blanket, eyes closed now. He worked away slowly, holding her hips, looming over that meek body, bent in submission.

Once, when he almost withdrew, she cried out and begged, "Don't go away from me."

So he moved tight to her, grinding, and she moved in tiny little lurches. He started, stopped, started, stopped, until he could no longer stop, and with eyes squinched, mouth stretched wide, punished her with his weight and strength.

When he spent, he thrust his pelvis forward, arched his back, and howled soundlessly at the ceiling. Then, shuddering, emptied, he fell forward, collapsing from the waist to cover her with his heavy torso and bury his face in that mass of hair. It smelled of almonds.

He felt the frantic pound of his heart: a frightening stutter. He gulped air, huffed it out. His body burned with fever, and deep in his gut he felt a stirring, almost a hot tickle, as if a finger flicked him there.

After a few moments he said anxiously, "Are you all right?"

She nodded, eyes open now, and said, "Please don't go away from me. Not yet."

"Am I too heavy on you?"

"No. You're beautiful. Just stay where you are. Just for a minute. Please."

So he lay awkwardly atop her, his hairy legs thrust out behind him, toes snagged in the shag rug. He thought he must be crushing her, but she made no complaint. Instead, she reached back with both hands to pull him closer, tighter to her.

Finally, he touched a finger to the tip of her nose. When the dark eyes turned to look at him, he said, "I'm going to get up now." She nodded.

He rose with some difficulty, staggered and almost fell. He went into the bathroom and closed the door. He looked at himself in the medicine cabinet mirror. His fleshy face was flushed, a little, but there was no obvious sign of what he had felt, no transfiguration.

He washed his face, armpits, genitals with one of those minuscule cakes of motel soap. He dried, urinated, and came out into the bedroom. She was standing by the bed.

"I'll just be a minute," she said, giving him a wistful smile. As she passed him, before he could stop her, she grabbed up his hand and kissed his hard knuckles. Then she went into the bathroom.

He should have dressed. He should have been ready to leave when she came out. He should have driven her back to the honky-tonk or wherever she wanted to go. He should have dumped her.

When she came out of the bathroom, he was seated on the edge of the bed, still naked. He held out another twenty.

"Here," he said, not looking at her. "Another hour."

She took the money hesitantly, but she took it. She got into bed. They both lay back, side by side, not touching.

"What's wrong with your leg?" he asked gruffly.

"I was born with it."

"They couldn't fix it?"

"No. I don't know. Maybe. Anyway, nothing was done."

"Tough," he said.

She turned onto her side, cuddled close to him, kissed his meaty shoulder.

"Do you like me, Bill?" she asked.

"Yeah. Sure."

"I like you. Very much."

"I'm old enough to be your father."

"I never had a father."

His laugh was a snort. "Everyone had a father."

"I mean I never knew mine. He ran away from home when I was just a little kid. But I couldn't run," she added sadly.

This conversation disturbed him. "How you doing?" he asked her. "I mean money-wise. You get by?"

"Oh yes. I don't need much."

"No children?"
⁴
'Oh no. I've never been married.''

He was about to tell her that she didn't have to be married to have children, but shut his mouth. She moved closer, put her lips to his ear.

⁴⁴
Do you know what I'd like to do?" she whispered.

^{4 4}
What?"

⁴⁴
I'd like to make love to you. Please?"

⁴⁴
All right."

⁴⁴
You just lay there," she said.
⁴⁴
Close your eyes and pretend you're asleep. Okay? You know, like I just sneaked into your bedroom. You pretend you're asleep and don't even know I sneaked into your bedroom. And you won't even move or. anything, and I'll make love to you."

A nut, he thought. A sweet nut.

⁴⁴
All right," he said again.