Naked Came the Stranger (2 page)

Before beginning his second drink, William had managed to surround
himself with those few people of King's Neck who might qualify as
resident intellectuals – such people as Rabbi Joshua Turnbull
and lawyer Melvin Corby. There was, too, an outer concentric circle
of women, the kind of women who always basked in that invisible light
cast by certifiable celebrities.

"And I'll maintain," William was saying, "that without parties
such as these, suburbia, per se, would disintegrate before our eyes.
These are, after all, not merely social gatherings. They are, in the
psychological sense, encounters – they're what we have instead
of group therapy. It's my sincere feeling that if everyone in the
country would go to just one suburban party a week, psychoanalysis
would soon go out of vogue." Gillian's shrug turned into a shudder.
William was doing his Hugh Downs imitation – locating his con-
versation on the right side of pompous and the wrong side of stuffy.
His voice – a narcissistic and mellifluent instrument of
torture – was professionally resonant, overwhelmingly smooth,
always able to intimidate lesser voices and superior intellects in
any gathering. The immediate conversation was more than passingly
familiar to Gillian; it was a replay of last Tuesday's radio show.
Gillian edged slowly away from the group and her space was filled by
a plump and matronly woman with eyes that were devouring William.

Working her way toward the bar in an adjacent room, Gillian paused
to take note of the décor. Fake beams that had been scarred by
an ineptly wielded claw hammer; tapestried walls; lampshades with
fringes; gaudy oil paintings of watery sunsets and Italian hill
villages; everything overstuffed and red and silk. Expensive and
atrocious.

On her way she met the Goodmans – Marvin and Helene. She
walked unannounced into what seemed to be a family quarrel of some
duration. Marvin Goodman's voice was raised, and tiny bubbles of
perspiration were bursting on his forehead: "Ernie Miklos's wife
says she can get by on thirty-five dollars a week – -
thirty-five dollars a week for food
and
car." By way of
response, Helene Goodman calmly and methodically unbuttoned the top
two buttons of her blouse. Gillian noted a strange phenomenon –
as her husband's voice rose, so did her bustline. It led to a
lowering of his eyes, a lowering of his voice and finally an end to
the discussion.

Then she encountered her next-door neighbors, the Earbrows –
Morton and Gloria. Morton's fingernails carried the residue of his
day's labors, a colorful mixture of green paint and grease. He was
sound asleep. His young wife, Gloria, was holding the attention of a
small male audience by explaining precisely how one scraped paint
from cement walls, the proper way of cleaning a paint brush, the
relative advantages of a Black and Decker five-eighths-inch drill,
what steps should be taken to prepare a lawn for a fall seeding
– all of this while her husband snored his way into an
ever-deepening sleep.

Gillian turned to meet Willoughby Martin and his friend, Hank.
Willoughby was saying, "We really must take a drive soon; the foliage
in Maine is already changing and before too long it will all just
be… oh… a riot of color."

And Hank said, "Yes, in a few weeks it should be simply
breathtaking."

Then Gillian was introduced to the Madigans – Agnes and
Paddy. "Paddy Madigan, the fighter?" she said.

"That's right, dear," Agnes said. "Many think the finest
left-handed fighter ever to contend for the light-heavyweight
championship of the world."

Gillian then complimented Paddy Madigan on his remarkable physical
condition. Paddy said nothing and Agnes did the responding: "Thank
you, dear, we still manage to do our morning workouts, summer or
winter, makes no difference." Gillian then asked Paddy what business
he had entered since his retirement. Again Agnes answered for her
husband: "Oh, we just putter around the house these days, doing the
gardening and so forth."

At this point, what Gillian wanted was another drink. Before she
could reach the bar, Mario Vella, the host for the evening, was
standing up on a stool, calling for everyone's attention.

"Quiet, please," Mario said. "Please now, ladies and gentlemen,
quiet down now. Tonight, by way of a little entertainment, we have a
very special surprise for our neighbors at King's Neck. I have
persuaded my very good friend, Johnny Alonga, to come here and favor
us with a few of his hit songs."

Gillian was momentarily surprised. Johnny Alonga was a rising
young singing star, reportedly Mafia-sponsored, who had sung a
song, "A Dying Love," that had been on the charts for over a year.
There had not yet been a second hit record. Possibly because Johnny
Alonga's syrupy voice made Jerry Vale's seem crisp by comparison.

As all the lights except one were extinguished, two men in tuxedos
entered from the bedroom. The black man sat at the piano and quickly
picked out the opening notes of Johnny Alonga's one hit record. And
the singer began to sing.

In the darkened room, now thirstier than ever, Gillian was
suddenly aware of the presence beside her of Mario Vella. He had
allowed his left elbow to brush gently against her. In any other
surroundings, in any other circumstances, Gillian Blake would have
gracefully withdrawn. She didn't. She held her ground and his elbow
became more persistent.

"You like?" he said.

"Very much," she said in return. "That's quite a thing, having
Johnny Alonga come to your house to sing."

"I own him," he said.

"You own him?"

"Forty per cent," Mario said. "That's how much I own. And you want
to know what I think about that song?"

"What's that?"

"It makes me sick to my stomach," he said. "It makes me want to
puke."

"Oh?" she said, silently agreeing.

There might be something there, she thought. There was an
appealing unreal quality to Mario Vella; he was a fabrication, the
creation of someone or something else. Beneath the razor cut and the
tailored clothes and the scent of expensive cologne there was
something threatening to break out of the mold. It was, carried to
the extreme, as though someone had put Brooks Brothers clothes on a
gorilla.

Then the song ended and Mario disengaged his elbow and walked back
up to the piano.

Before Johnny Alonga could launch his next number –

"Be My Love," no less – Gillian slipped into the adjoining
room, the den, the bar, the oasis. It was all but deserted in honor
of Johnny Alonga.

It was then that she met the Franhops – Arthur and Raina.
Arthur, the boy, was wearing his hair twisted and curled in the style
popularized by Bob Dylan. Beneath his gold-buttoned, double-breasted
blazer he wore no shirt. Raina, the girl, was seated in a far corner
of the room staring at an unblemished white wall with wide-open
Little Orphan Annie eyes.

"Don't mind her," Arthur said. "She's on acid."

"LSD?" Gillian said.

"Yeah, like acid," Arthur said. "We were all set to play a new
game tonight and then she has to go and suck on a cube and ruin it
all."

"What kind of game?" Gillian asked.

"Time Machine," Arthur said. "We thought we'd go back in time, all
the way back here to the seventeenth century, and see what the cats
were doing back then. Then she goes and sucks a cube and ruins the
game."

"You mean you think most of the people here live in the
seventeenth century?"

"Where else?" he said. "Not you, though, you're something else.
Outasight. Hey, do you groove?"

"I'm not sure," Gillian said. "Do you speak English?"

"Hey, later," he said.

That was Arthur Franhop's exit line. Without another word he was
gone. He paused just long enough to take his blind-eyed Raina with
him, and moments later the quiet suburban night was rent by the sound
of a Harley-Davidson motorcycle being fired up.

"Shit!" The expletive came from the last man in the room, the
bartender. This was Ernie Miklos, a man who had once tended bar in
his youth and willingly played the role at most of the King's Neck
parties. For one thing, it gave him an excuse to stay away from his
wife Laverne.

"I beg your pardon," Gillian said.

"Shit," he repeated. "That kid, he's shit. What're you
drinking?"

"Martini-very-dry."

"That's shit too," Ernie Miklos said. "Burn your guts out."

"That's the way I started the day," Gillian said, "And I guess
that's the way I better end it."

There was something about Ernie Miklos that Gillian found vaguely
intimidating. Possibly his eyes. Ernie's eyes met her own head-on and
then insolently surveyed her from top to bottom. Possibly it was the
hair on the back of his hands – so thick and luxurious a growth
of hair that it seemed more like fur than hair, more like a paw than
a hand. The two open shirt buttons above the loosely knotted tie
revealed still another thick stand of hair.

"Where's your wife?" Gillian asked.

"The last time I saw Laverne," Ernie said, "she was drooling all
over your husband. Not that I personally give a shit. How do you like
it?"

"Very good," Gillian said. "You make a nice martini." She took
another sip. It
was
a nice martini. A nice martini and an odd
moment. They stood there, the only people in the room, and they
didn't say a word for three, maybe four moments. What to say anyway?
Gillian knew that she had nothing at all to say to Ernie Miklos, and
quite probably he had nothing at all to say to her. But was she sure?
She had, after all, spent twenty-nine years on this planet without
ever attempting a conversation with an Ernie Miklos or anyone, for
that matter, who remotely resembled him. Finally it was Ernie Miklos
who broke the silence with an eminently logical question.

"What are you doing here anyway?" he said. "Why is a broad like
you wasting time with someone like me?"

"Maybe it's because you make a nice martini."

"Yeah and maybe it's because I look like Richard Burton," he said.
"But that ain't the reason either."

"Maybe you can figure it out for yourself."

"I am doing that," Ernie said. "That is exactly what I am doing. I
am figuring it out for myself and about the only way I can figure it
is that you want something from me."

"What would I want from you?" Gillian said.

"Maybe you would want to step outside for a while and find out,"
Ernie said.

"Maybe," Gillian said.

"You want to step outside for some fresh air or what?" he
said.

"Yes," she said.

Yes – Gillian heard herself saying the word. It seemed so
unnatural, so contrived, that she had the feeling she had shouted it
through a megaphone. Ernie Miklos didn't say any more. He dried his
hands on his bartender's apron, took off the apron and walked over to
the plate glass doors that opened onto the patio. He had clearly had
too much to drink, and the latch gave him a moment's difficulty.
Wordlessly, floating again, Gillian followed Ernie Miklos out beyond
the reach of the patio lights. A strange feeling. Gillian had the
eerie sensation that she was not actually a participant in the small
silent tableau. She was an observer, audience for an unreal drama, a
spectator at the theater of the absurd.

Gillian offered no resistance. She allowed herself to be coaxed
down onto the lawn beside a stranger named Ernie Miklos. She felt
removed, alienated, singularly unexcited. Through the nearby
living-room windows she could see the silhouetted figure of Johnny
Alonga as he sang to all the other strangers. She could feel the
softness of the still warm grass beneath her. And she could feel the
lips of Ernie Miklos against her throat, feel the lips and then the
hand as it reached through the side of her low-backed dress and
snared her left breast.

Gillian didn't move, didn't dare breathe. His lips had now moved
up to her own and his hand had for some unknown reason switched
breasts. She could feel all of him leaning against her now –
his teeth against her lips, his hands on her breasts, his body
thrusting hard against her own. There was at first fear, fear and
revulsion, but she refused to protest, fought the impulse to pull
away from him.

And then she began to feel the beginning of a response. The
feeling was foreign to her and quite involuntary. But it was there
and it soothed her. Gillian moved her weight slightly to accommodate
Ernie Miklos and then she reached out to him and pulled him closer
against her. And from the far reaches of her throat she felt the
start of a low pleading moan.

Thus was the matter decided. It would be Ernie Miklos. Yes, it
would be a stranger and neighbor named Ernie Miklos. For
starters.

Billy: Wasn't it lovely driving in today,
Gilly?

Gilly: It certainly was, Billy. You know, I've always thought
that october is the loveliest month. And that's especially true in
the suburbs. It's the whole marvelous cliché of Indian
summer.

Billy: The golden autumn. Gilly: The tang in the air. Billy:
The falling leaves.

Gilly: The ripening pumpkins. Billy: The fresh apple
cider.

Gilly: The grand finale of the chrysanthemums.

Billy: The Saturday afternoons in front of the television
set.

Gilly: The what?

Billy: The Saturday afternoons in front of the television
set.

Gilly: I guess it's my slow day.

Billy: I'm surprised at you, dear. Football. The college
football games on Saturday afternoons.