The Ladies' Man (27 page)

Lois asks the name of the new famous boarder.

“Oh. Something short—a made-up name. I'll have to get it off the book.”

“Don't bother. You can introduce us at some point.”

Mrs. Chabot studies Lois for a few seconds, then pats her back. “Make yourself up a bit, hon,” she says.

Nash is shaving in the gents' bathroom (powder blue and black plastic tiles), experiencing something close to regret for having escorted Olive Boudreaux back to her apartment—“safely back,” is how he explained it to the heretofore obliging Cynthia. He is unaccustomed to introspection, so the face in the mirror doesn't look back any more thoughtfully or guiltily than usual. In fact, reflecting on Olive has put a smile on his lips. He is shaving with a blade that needs replacing and has suffered two nicks in the difficult area around the cleft in his chin. All his women have liked the cleft. Sooner or later, when the sex gets a bit more adventurous, all his partners dab something in there—whipped cream was popular for a while—and lick it out. Cynthia would have done that soon; she didn't worry about fat grams like everyone else. She was okay, Cynthia: invites him to move in like a long-lost brother. Well, hardly a brother. She liked to have sex every night. And he obliged, even though he'd never have looked at her twice on the West Coast. But maybe that meant something; maybe it was proof he was acting his age. Cynthia was everything that his previous girlfriends were not: plump, smart, olive-skinned, ambitious, educated, and postmenopausal. And he loved her apartment, its view, her running tab with the gourmet grocery store in the lobby.

And now there was a price to pay for ogling Olive: this dump of a boardinghouse. No elevator, no air-conditioning, no complimentary shampoo or shoeshine cloth, no hair dryer, and—unheard of—no telephone. His pillow seems to be filled with chunks of foam rubber, and his bed sags like a hammock. There's a smell he doesn't like, an institutional wintergreen he associates with the bathrooms from his catechism days, and rough, brown paper towels. The night before, he was sleeping under Cynthia's big white duvet looking out at the Atlantic Ocean. And best of all, he had the place to himself the whole day—and her Steinway B. Maybe he could apologize profusely to Cynthia, his best shot, and if that didn't work, lie low for a few days. Only then would he call Olive. He suspected she was one of those women who'd sleep with a guy
because she wanted to, without having to be in love. He'd definitely picked up signals from Olive—what else did a business card mean when it's slipped into your shirt pocket? That was the problem with Cynthia. With all women. They couldn't just enjoy the sex act. He remembers the Dobbin sisters, first Adele, then Kathleen, and finally, unhappily, Lois, his new ally. No way. No fucking way. Too flat-chested and chapped-looking, like a coach at a girls' school. Like a lesbo. That brought him back, almost fondly, to big-bosomed Cynthia, her feather pillows, and her good red wine. What would be a respectful waiting period? Twenty-four hours? Wake her up with a phone call tomorrow morning and say, “I'm miserable. Tell me what I have to do to come back?” Cynthia has principles and a master's degree, but she's lonely. Love-starved. And she believed in me, she must have, to throw a party and serve French champagne.

Which brings back Olive Boudreaux, tall and built, studying him above the fluted glass, fingernails a slutty brownish red. Green eyes? Turquoise blue? Her hair—why not?—is silver-blond. Her breasts straining against that stretchy pink dress. He wipes the dots of shaving cream off with a towel and reaches into his pants. He closes his eyes. Olive's face appears at his waist, smiling a smile that says, I couldn't stop thinking about you. I'm not wearing panties. I'm a real blonde. This is my favorite activity, and the pleasure is all mine. “That's great, baby,” he whispers. “You're the best.” With his free hand, he latches the door.

Too bad she hadn't thought to have a fruit basket sent, one with cheese and crackers, wine and wineglasses, even a slice of pâté. She'd write a card that said, “Welcome to Beacon Hill from a fellow … outcast?” No, the wrong inference. “Fellow … runaway.” I've left home because my sisters oppressed me. You left home in search of … Above her, the toilet flushes. Has to be him, she thinks, and smiles, the nagging question of his whereabouts answered. She runs a bath down the hall, and chooses her green-apple soap and grapefruit body lotion. She undresses in her room, refreshes her lipstick, and goes to the bath in her rose terry-cloth robe, barefooted. Tonight or tomorrow night, she thinks, I'll do my toes to match.

Nash falls asleep after he finishes in the bathroom. He doesn't mean to; he's keeping an ear out for Lois so that he can ask her to recommend a restaurant nearby. Unquestionably, she'll invite herself along, and he'll fight her for the check and she'll say, No, let me. You can get it next time. The money problem and the work problem make him sit up in bed, then reach under his sweater for his roll of Tums.

Jobs and money. He'd better let Dina know how to get ahold of him in case any of his demos make the cut, or if there're any checks to forward.

He doesn't know how long he can live without a phone. He'd noticed one on the floor below—had exclaimed to the landlady over the quaintness of its rotary dial—but Jesus Christ, what a pain to go through an operator and announce your credit card number to whoever's eavesdropping in a joint like this. He gets up, combs his hair, and goes down one flight. The phone sits in a niche in the wall. No chair and no phone book. He dials, smiles absently at the prospect of a friendly chat with a good-natured operator, but the voice is male, all business. He hates that.

Nash states his problem—no Touch-Tone—and murmurs his credit card number. In Newport Beach, Dina's studio phone rings. He gets her overblown Reflexology Unlimited greeting, so that by the time the beep comes, he is impatient. “Dina,” he says. “It's me. I'm still in Boston, at a B-and-B called”—he reads from Lois's scrap of paper—‘The Lucky Duck.' Here's the number. The front desk can take a message. Will you call me if I get any checks? And did I hear from anyone in New York? I've got stuff out that I'm waiting to hear on.” He recites the phone number and the address, says he doesn't know the zip code but she could get that easily enough—Boston. “Okay, kid,” he closes. “Hope all's well with you.”

At the last second, Dina picks up to bark, “I'm not your goddamn secretary.”

A door opens behind him, followed by a postbath waft of steamy, perfumed air. He turns around. It is Lois in a bathrobe, looking pinker than usual, as if she has bathed in boiling water.

“Nash!” she gasps.

“Who's that?” asks Dina.

Nash says into the phone, “I'm at a public phone. Another guest of the hotel.”

“Who knows you, obviously.”

“It's small,” he says. He holds an index finger up to signal to Lois:
Don't speak
. Lois stops obligingly.

“How long have you been there?” Dina asks.

“A day.”

“You make friends fast,” she says. “Especially if they have a vagina.”

Nash chuckles nervously. If Lois weren't standing at his shoulder he would deny any such history or inclination, and throw in an insult of this fellow guest for good measure. “I think that's beneath you, Deenie,” he replies.

Lois pantomimes,
Let me go get dressed. That's my room over there. I'll be back in two shakes
. Nash smiles and nods.

“How long will you be there?” Dina asks.

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“My finances. What MIDI equipment I can rent here. If I can get a phone installed.”

“Poor Nash. A roomful of junk at home, and now you have to rent stuff there. I guess you're thinking you never should have left.”

Nash doesn't answer right away. He sighs and says, “Aren't you with a client?”

“Have you maxed out on your credit cards yet?”

“To answer,” Nash says with quiet, injured dignity, “implies that that's your concern.”

“It is,” says Dina. “Big time. Starting with one thousand, seven hundred and seventy-nine dollars you helped yourself to on your way out of town.”

Nash switches ears, and tests his left cheekbone for tenderness. “Is that what's got you so crazed? Me withdrawing money from our joint account?”

“It was my money. My deposit. I only had your name on there for emergencies.”

“This
was
an emergency,” he says.

“This was a
burglary,”
she shouts. “You stole my money. I bounced two checks because of that.”

“Sweetie,” he tries. “I'm sorry about that. But, I swear, I didn't think of the money being yours or mine. I was catching a plane and I needed cash—”

“You stole two thousand bucks!”

“I will definitely make good on every cent,” says Nash. “We'll work that out. I've been thinking that I want to come home soon.” He lowers his voice to whisper, “I miss you, Deenie.”

Dina is now addressing someone else, someone he pictures lying on the reflexology table, repeating and ridiculing what he just confided.

“Who's that?” asks Nash. “Who's there?”

“No one you know.”

“It's not very professional, airing your personal problems in front of a client.”

“It's a friend,” says Dina. “Someone who's collecting your best lines.”

“Someone I know?”

“I doubt that.”

“Male or female?”

“I gotta run. I'm being rude,” says Dina. A male voice in the background calls to her. Nash hears Dina's hand muffling the receiver, but nothing after that.

“Are you there? Can I write a check on our joint account without it bouncing?”

“For how much?”

“I still have to pay what I owe before I leave. If you saw the sweet old lady who runs this place, and the sad, faded—”

“I'm not interested,” says Dina. “Just write the fucking check and don't compose a commercial about it.”

There is a tap on his shoulder: Lois in black, with dangly, beaded earrings, dressed for a date with a Beat poet or a jazz musician. Nash raises his eyebrows, faking artistic appreciation.

“Whenever you're ready,” she mouths.

Ten and a half years at 'GBH, and until today, no one has had grounds to tease Adele about a man or a suspected crush. She
knows why they are almost giddy: She and the station manager are single, whereas most flirtations that blossom under the station's roof are extramarital or messy in some other way—unsuspected homosexuality, a one-night fling with a visiting BBC producer, a quickie in a control booth.