Spanish Disco (8 page)

Good. Then I have a chance. Cassie…you know this seduction is with words. This long, slow dance we have been doing for years now. Circling in a tango of words. A dip here. A turn of the heel there. Pulling you in close to me until we both hear the tango at the same time, heart against heart.

When I was a teenager, what a bloody fool I was like every poor besotted fool since the beginning of time. My seductions were all of a fumbling sort. A grape of the

He paused in his writing.

Scratch that. A GROPE of the breast, a silly kiss on the street before I dropped her home. I got older, and my seductions, to be honest, weren’t much better. I tangoed much better, of course. I learned about rhythm and pacing yourself during the dance until the breathless finish, but it was still all about a quick grasp of the hand, a fumble in the dark—pull close only to pull away because risking the dance becoming more than a dance was too dangerous.

I read his words, aware he was sitting on his bed, laptop on a pillow, clicking this off the top of his literary head. These were his thoughts. Unedited. Before I ever took
hold of them or shaped them. It was the middle of the night in London. Michael is not a good sleeper.

And then there was Cassie. Our dance is so much more frightening. But I cannot be still. I must make you hear our music. Hear the way our words overlay each other’s like a scherzo. A perfect composition. And then you must feel. You must feel, Cassie, that we are the sun rising over your ocean, the sun setting over London, two halves. But not two halves. The same sun. Just different horizons. But still one.

Dance with me tonight.

I took a deep breath.

Michael. I hear. I hear the band playing, but you know I never dance. All right. I dance sometimes at weddings. Occasionally when drunk. I dance on tabletops and on top of barstools. A long time ago, at least, I used to do that. But this kind of dance? Trusting that you won’t drop me when you dip me? Now you’re asking a lot of me. You remain the setting sun over London. This mystery. We dance, but you hold back. And so do I. The fact that you can’t call me—it’s making you worry. But I’ll be back before you know it, and we can continue whatever “this” is.

I pressed Enter. He responded in a flash.

I do not hold back. Tell me what you’re wearing.

I looked down at my T-shirt and jeans. Not terribly ex
citing. I stood up and stepped out of my jeans and pulled off my shirt, unhooking my bra and letting it fall to the floor.

I’m not wearing anything, Michael. For the moment, I am all yours.

My screen blinked…waiting, waiting for his reply.

It drives me mad when I picture you naked. I want to taste you, Cassie. I want to feel your nipple beneath my tongue. I want to start at the hollow of your neck and make my way down to your legs and nestle my head there between them, home at last. That is what I want. That, from the moment we first started writing and calling each other, is all I have ever wanted.

I wrote back:

I think about how your cock would feel, Michael. But the delicious fantasy, this pre-coital bliss is better than anything real between us. Do you really want to grow old together and hate the sight of each other? Do you really want to look across the table and realize the thrill is gone? Maybe the thrill would be there for a while, but it always fades. That is the march of time. It dulls everything. I would rather dream of your cock inside me, than have it and tire of it someday.

I waited.

Love is not a rush of wetness between your thighs, or this MASSIVE erection of mine (have I told you lately how downright sexy I am?). It is what’s between your ears. That brain of yours that I must possess.

“You want to play, Michael, but you don’t really want to dance,” I whispered softly.

Please. What’s between my ears is drunk half the time. And what about you? How many times do you call me slurring and out of it, Michael? Is it after you have dropped off a date? Slept with her and been disappointed? Then you dream of me and call, drunk? Tell me, Michael. Tell me why in five years if you felt this way, you have never come to America? You refuse to talk to me about your drinking. You are as interested in preserving this ideal as I am, you just will not admit it. If you would go ahead and ask me some of the questions you must want to ask…but are too afraid of the answers, THEN we could discuss a tango. For now, we just dance on the edge, afraid of truly letting go.

I sent the message, and I waited. I waited minutes. I opened the window of my room and listened to the Gulf of Mexico, knowing I had trumped him. In all our time together, he avoided discussing his drinking. He also pointedly refused to answer whether he was sleeping with all of London.

And then, POP. His words came zapping onto my screen.

I know I sometimes come across as an alcoholic, but I’m not. You, however, well…that’s for another night, another e-mail. I wish I could tell you why I have avoided coming to America to meet you. It’s a long story, but I assure you it is not what you think. But now that I fear you may slip away into the arms of another man, I must put aside all my fears and tell my secrets and dance finally. With you. My turn for a question.

Here it comes, I thought.

Have you ever thought, even for a second, that you could love me?

Now it was my turn to stare at the keys and think. I grabbed another Tums. I chewed. I swallowed.

Yes. But of course, that’s not saying much. I thought I could love Marlon Brando (in his thinner years). And I went through a Mick Jagger phase. When I see his helium lips now I could just smack myself. These were my youthful obsessions/crushes. What was I thinking? I had terrible teenage crushes. So my track record is really abysmal. All my relationships end badly. I can’t even have a good one-night stand, Michael. I even tried marriage once. But that’s a story for another time.

He typed back:

Tell me.

No. You got your one question. I gave my one answer. Yes. But whether we can dance, Michael, that’s for another night. It’s nighttime here. Time for me to go to bed.

He still tried to make me love him across the ocean separating us:

Dream of me. Ravishing you. Crawling next to you and making love to you.

I clicked back:

I think I’ll actually dream that giant burritos are assaulting me.

I don’t understand????????

Long story.

Good night, Cassie. My sun will be your sun tomorrow.

Good morning, then, Michael.

I’ll e-mail you later.

Bye.

Bye.

Michael??

I was just about to log off.

Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so afraid of dancing.

I logged off my e-mail system. I didn’t want to see what he wrote back. I didn’t want to dream of Michael. The breeze coming in my window caressed my face. I turned and stared at the huge sleigh bed, as yet unrumpled. I stood, turned off the light and stretched. I had laid out my new pajamas from Lou. The silk felt sinful against my bare legs. Lying down, I felt my heart race. The end of my day—my night, really—is always the same. Try to relax enough to sleep. Drink enough to sleep. Work until exhausted enough to sleep. To stop. To surrender to the Jungian world of dreams and symbols. For me, my dreams are always about falling and running and large alligators hunting me down in subterranean tunnels. And memories long buried. A giant burrito or Michael Pearton? Who would come calling in my dreams? I felt dinner burning a hole in my gut. It would be a very close race indeed.

8

“B
ig money! Big money!”

Tuesday night was the same as Monday night, which was the same as tonight. I sat wedged on a couch between Roland Riggs and Maria watching
Wheel of Fortune.
The two of them commented on Vanna White’s outfit. I found Roland was partial to evening gowns, whereas Maria favored her short dresses with sequins. Lots of sequins. They also disagreed on the question of Vanna’s hair. Roland preferred her hair down, with a slight curl. “It makes her more youthful. Flattering to her face.”

“No. No, Mister Riggs. She looks much better with her hair up like last night. Don’t you think so, Cassie?”

“Hair up? Hair down? These are the mysteries of the ages. I’m with Maria on this one.”

“And,” Roland said, “while we’re discussing the mys
teries of the ages, why on earth did they stop with the letter turning.”

I turned my head to look at him. “Sorry. Apparently I was in an amnesiac when this controversy arose.”

Maria became animated. “She used to turn the letters. These big lit-up squares. Blocks. Now she just touches the square—see she’s doing it now. She just touches it, and it lights up. It’s like magic! No turning. But, Mister Riggs says it makes her job seem less important.”

A less-important letter-turner.

My life had become a bad Fellini movie.

That morning I had asked him about the manuscript.

“Soon. I promise.”

At night, I sometimes heard him in his office very late. Sounds of a printer churning out pages sparked hope in me. At least, I mused, the book exists. I hoped so.

After
Wheel of Fortune,
the room became electric with excitement. Alex Trebek and
Jeopardy!
were next. I had discovered on Monday night that Roland was unbeatable. No one could spout the answer out faster than he—and he always phrased his answer in the form of a question. What disturbed me most was the arguably greatest literary mind of this century was content to watch game shows. Yet his mind was apparently sharp enough to recall the Norse tales of the Norns and the history of 19th-century bridge-building as he answered the
Jeopardy
thousand-dollar questions. Why was he staying on this little island when he could be the toast of New York? He could be the toast of anywhere. Hell, he could
meet
Vanna White and Alex Trebek if he wanted to.

Wednesday night, as Alex was poised to tell his television audience the origins of the myth of Aphrodite, the phone rang. Curiously, in the five days of weird hell I had spent in the home of Roland Riggs, the phone had never rung.

Roland stared at Maria, who stared back. They both looked at me.

“Well?” I asked. “Are you going to answer it?”

Roland rose and strode to the counter where the phone rested. Lifting the receiver, his voice was tentative. “Hello? Mmm-hmm.” He turned to face me, holding out the phone. “It’s for you.”

I crossed the room. I’d never know Aphrodite’s origins. “Hello?”

“Miss Hayes?”

“Yes?”

“This is Carla Waters at Stratford Oaks.”

My heart fell somewhere down into my shoes, and I gripped the counter of the breakfast bar to steady myself.

“Is my father all right?”

“Yes, he’s fine. And I’m very sorry to bother you. I couldn’t reach you at your office, and I spoke to your employer. He’s listed on your emergency number list.”

“Lou.”

“Yes. And…ummm…I told him we had a situation here, and he gave me this number and said you’d want to know.”

Situation. It’s the kind of word used by stalwart men in dark suits in movies to explain to the president of the
United States that a nuclear war is at hand: “Mr. President…it appears we have a situation.”

“Please just tell me, Carla.”

“Your mother is here. Was here, actually.”

“My mother? Oh my God, did she upset him?”

“No. I don’t think so. I talked to his day nurse, Kathy, and she said he seemed fine after she left, but it seemed like he didn’t realize they were…you know, divorced. But I know you have express instructions that he is not to receive any phone calls from her. You said phone… But I suppose we didn’t think she’d ever visit. She got past the reception desk and was alone with him for about ten minutes.”

“That God damn bitch.”

“Well, Miss Hayes, I suppose I shouldn’t say this, but those very words passed through my mind.”

“She’s on a death watch.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Roland Riggs watching me. He was no longer answering Alex’s questions.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s about money. I keep telling her he’s going to live a long time, and it’ll be a while before she gets her greedy paws on his money. But to tell you the truth, I don’t care if I never get a dime from him. As far as I’m concerned, spend the estate on Stratford Oaks. I could care less. I want him cared for.”

Carla Waters, a beautiful African-American administrator with a laugh that could charm the very old near-corpses in some of the rooms, was silent. She was a
compassionate woman. She had seen, no doubt, the ugliness that families wreak as they claw and fight over pennies as their parents and grandparents wither away and die.