The Man Who Loved Women to Death (2 page)

My own sense of smell as I stood there, blind, in the entry hall, told me that Pamela, our silver-haired British housekeeper, had made Daube à la Niçoise for dinner. For dessert she had baked a walnut loaf made with black walnuts from our own tree in Lyme. My own sense of hearing told me that my stomach was growling.

She heard us come in, Pam did, and started down the long, dark hallway toward us from The Safe Zone, her brightly lit kitchen. She had a Petzl zoom headlamp strapped to her head, and looked somewhat like a cheery, pink-cheeked coal miner. Lulu stayed put in between my feet, whimpering mournfully. She’s afraid of the dark. Only dog I know of who is. Tracy, she didn’t seem to care much one way or the other.

“Yes, yes, here we are, Miss Lulu,” Pam called to her soothingly from under the light beam. “Help is on the way. Here we come. Here we are. Did we all have a lovely day? Of course we did. Now we’ll see that Miss Tracy has a proper bath and to bed, won’t we?”

“Where is the divine Lady M?” I asked, handing over Tracy.

“Off wandering somewhere in the living room.” Pam lowered her voice discreetly. “Poor dear’s gone and moved the settee again.”

And with that we heard a loud thud from somewhere off in the blackness. Followed by “Oh, sugar! Shirley Temple! Succotash!” And then a hurried “I’m all right, Pam! It wasn’t an important toe! I’m all right!”

“Fine, dear!” Pam called back to her. Clucking, she turned her headbeam on the entry closet so I could hang up my coat. “Poor girl’s positively covered with bruises. The sacrifices she makes for her art. Unless, that is, you’ve been hitting her.”

“I have not. Besides, how would that explain all of
my
bruises?”

“She’s been hitting you back,” Pam sniffed. “High time, if you ask me. Victor wanted words with you.” Victor being Vic Early, celebrity bodyguard extraordinaire, who doubled as caretaker of our Connecticut farm. “Did he get hold of you?”

“No, he didn’t. What’s it about?”

“I really couldn’t say, dear boy,” she replied airily, heading back to her clean, well-lit kitchen with Tracy in her arms and a grateful Lulu on her heel. And leaving me there in the total dark.

“Honey, I’m home!” I called out, groping my way blindly toward the living room.
Wham.
That was me colliding with the umbrella stand.
Wham.
That was the door to the powder room. “Merilee?”
Wham.
That was the umbrella stand again. Cursing, I moved forward, arms waving wildly at my sides. I felt like I was playing the childhood game of Dare. Which I suppose is as good a description of my on-again, off-again nonrelationship with Merilee Gilbert Nash as any other. “Merilee, are you there?”

“Darling, in here,” she whispered urgently from the blackness, her hand grabbing me by the wrist and tugging me toward the powder room.
Into
the powder room. She locked the door behind us. “Oh, God, Hoagy, you smell so good,” she murmured in my ear.

“That’s Floris, Merilee. I’ve been wearing it forever.”

“But my other senses are so keen now. So
aroused.”
She let out a startled gasp. “I want you, Hoagy.” Her lips were on mine now, her breath hot on my face. I heard the slithering of her silk dressing gown as it fell to the floor. Her hands took deadly aim at my belt, my zipper. “I want you this instant!”

“But Pam is right in the other—”

“Now,
Hoagy!” she cried, flinging herself against me. She was brazen. She was wild. She was not wearing a stitch under that dressing gown. And, well, there was no talking her out of it. Not that I tried, mind you.

Hmmm … I suppose I should explain this recent and somewhat lubricious phenomenon. Or try to. I didn’t know if it was Merilee’s fortysomething hormones or some really interesting form of postpartum depression or just this role she was rehearsing—but something about being in the darkness had unleashed her untamed side. No sooner would I hang up my coat then she’d whisper,
“Psst,
over here, darling!” and faster than you can say Charlie Sheen we’d be locked in just this sort of feverish, teeth-clanking embrace. I never knew where or when the mood would strike her. I only knew that to date we’d consecrated the entry hall floor, the dining table and the coat closet. All of this made for quite some departure from Merilee’s usual prim-and-proper Miss Porter’s School self. But I’d decided not to ask why. And to just go along with it for as long as I could keep it up, as it were.

Afterward, I made us a pitcher of dry martinis, heavy on the olives, and made straight for a steaming bubble bath in the vast master bathroom tub, where I collapsed, limp in every known sense of the word. Merilee’s Oscar could be found in there, mounted ceremoniously over the toilet tank. Lulu could be found in there, too, sprawled out on her back under the sink with her tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth. She likes the steam. More than I like sharing it with her, being that she will eat only that which swims or scuttles or inhabits the ocean floor. For dinner she’d just enjoyed some of her 9-Lives canned mackerel for cats and culinarily challenged dogs. Sharing steam with Lulu is like hanging out in the kitchen of a fish house.

Merilee came bustling in for her hairbrush, humming gaily to herself, her green eyes bright and animated, a healthy glow to her patrician features. They really are the stronger sex, you know. She had slipped into the black velvet Ralph Lauren for dinner, the one that makes her look willowy as a schoolgirl. This had to do with a certain pact we’d made. No nightshirts or jammies at the dinner table. No
Jeopardy
on the TV. None of those things that boring married couples do. We dress. We light candles. We use the good silver and the linen napkins. We are not a boring married couple. Repeat after me: We are not a boring married couple.

She remained there in the doorway, brushing out her shimmering waist-length golden hair. That’s a sight I will never, ever grow tired of. “Demi turned down the new Brad Pitt. They’ve offered it to me.”

“Congratulations, Merilee.”

“Not so fast, darling. There’s a problem with it. Rather large one. There’s, well, this nude scene …”

“You and Brad?”

“That’s right.”

“You and Brad in bed together?”

“In an abandoned root cellar, actually.” She tossed her hair back, a gesture that has always quickened my pulse, and stood there with her hip thrown out. “I’ve never believed in them, you know.”

“Abandoned root cellars?”

“Nude scenes. I’ve always said no. But there’s no getting around this one. It’s pivotal to the story.”

“Wait, what about that nude scene you did in
Romeo and Juliet
for Papp?”

“That was different, darling.”

“Why, because it was Art?”

“No, because I was twenty-three when I played Juliet. Or, more specifically, my thighs were.”

“Merilee, your thighs are lovely.”

She took a sip of her martini, her forehead creasing fretfully. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Why don’t you just do what every other actress your age does?”

“What, go in for tumescent liposculpture?”

“No, silly. Use a body double. Some twenty-year-old who’s six-feet-three and works out on a Stairmaster fourteen hours a day. I’ll sit in on the casting sessions, if you like. That way we’ll be sure she’s got a butt just like—” Somehow, her hairbrush bounced off my left ear. “Ow, that hurt!”

“It was supposed to, mister. A body double’s out of the question.”

“I don’t see why. You used a stunt double when you jumped out of that helicopter in the Bruce Willis picture.”

“Because I’m an actress, not a paratrooper. This is different.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m
forty,
that’s why. I know it, the audience knows it and Mr. Gravity sure as sugar knows it. Let’s face it, darling, from the neck down I’m starting to resemble one of those cute baby elephants you see at the circus, the ones they dress up in little pink pinafores.”

“I believe it’s the monkeys they do that with.”

“I’ll
know it’s not me.
Everyone
will know it’s not me. It’s cheating. It’s fake. It’s—”

“It’s a
movie,
Merilee.”

“Oh, beans, I’m sorry I even mentioned it. Forget it, I’m not doing it. Let Sharon do it. What am I saying? She’s probably turned it down already.” She sighed grandly, tragically. “Oh God, I hate this business.”

“Merilee,” I said, reaching for her hand, “you’re still one of the most beautiful women in the world.” Which she is. Not that she’s conventionally pretty. Never has been. Her jaw is too strong. Her nose too long. Her forehead too high. But on her it all adds up to beautiful. She was beautiful at twenty-five. She was beautiful at forty. And she would be beautiful at sixty.

“Bless you for that, darling. But you and I both know that I’m getting to be a card-carrying grown-up, and they don’t believe in those out there. Not if you happen to be a she.” She came over to freshen my martini from the pitcher. Two is my limit these days. After that I become incoherent, unless there is a language where the phrase “oot-groot” is considered intelligent conversation. “Did Vic get hold of you, by the way?”

“Pam asked me that, too. What’s this all about?”

“Heavens, I wouldn’t know. He phoned from the country this afternoon. I assumed it was to do with the furnace or the roof or something.”

“Ah, a guy matter.”

“Well, you are a guy, darling.” From the doorway, she gave me her up-from-under look. “At least you were the last time I looked.”

“Looking isn’t all you did, Miss Nash.”

That one drove her back out to the bedroom, where she started tearing at the mail I’d left on the bed. “My brother has invited us out to Aspen for Christmas,” she announced gravely. “Please tell me we can’t go.”

I lay back in the tub with my martini, groaning comfortably. “Merilee …”

“Yes, darling?” she said, voice breathless with anticipation.

“We can’t go to Aspen.”

“Oh, what a relief. I hate that place. Especially over the holidays, when it’s overrun by Sly and Barbra and all of those horrid sweaty men from CAA and their snarly, muscular little wives. Darling, let’s spend it at the farm with our own little tree and Grandmother’s decorations and a stuffed goose and Tracy and Lulu. We’ll stuff a goose. We’ll—”

“I’d prefer a large one.”

“A large one, darling?”

“The tree. I want a large one.”

“Oh, I see. And I suppose just because you want a large one we have to have a large one. Gosh, you’re a brute. I’m so glad I didn’t marry you.”

“But you did marry me.”

“I did? Oh, dear, I did. But then that means that Tracy is—”

“Ours, Merilee. But don’t worry. She was conceived after our divorce.”

“Whew, that’s a relief. For a second there I thought we were becoming one of those stable, normal American families that the politicians keep talking about. Hoagy, promise me we’ll never become stable and normal.”

“I can’t imagine that will ever be a problem in our case.”

“Promise me!” she insisted.

“I so promise,” I said solemnly, raising my glass.

She reappeared in the doorway. “What’s this?” she wondered, meaning the nine-by-twelve manila envelope.

“First chapter of the next great American novel. Here, hand it over. We could be facing a historic moment in the annals of contemporary literature.”

She did. I got comfortable. We have a pillow for that. I sipped my martini. I ate my olive. I ignored the prevailing aroma of fish in the air, or at least I tried.

I read.

1. the answer man hits town

New York City, November 30

Friend E: Well, old pal, I guess you’ve heard that the Big Apple has claimed me once more. Whoop-de-damn-do, as Derrick Coleman, basketball’s most overpaid dog, likes to say. Not that I ever thought I’d end up back here. Just seems like I’m not happy nowhere else. Found myself a semi-decent jack rack in the shadow of G.T. Not much view, but the hot plate’s brand new. So here I am.

Mostly I’ve been riding the subway. Been riding it for hours at a time, fact is. Just watching the people. So many different kinds of people from so many different parts of the world living and working and scratching and clawing here. All of them crammed together, noses buried in their newspapers, ears buried in their sounds. All of them going somewhere. I’ve been watching them, Friend E. Watching them and wondering: How do they do it? How do they brush their teeth, eat their breakfast, go to work, stand there on that plaţform waiting for a train … knowing that none of it means shit? I mean, they’re all gonna die anyway, right? And they know this, right? So how do they do it? How do they not hurl themselves right in front of the oncoming downtown No. 1 local, making all stops to South Ferry?! Makes me wonder, Friend E. I truly wonder.

I mean, what in the hell ARE they thinking about?

Me, I think about what I always think about. And that’s not money, as you damned well know for sure. Though if you could spare me fifty I would greatly appreciate it and will pay you back for sure just as soon as I find me some paying work. Tomorrow I’m gonna see about getting me my old job back at the restaurant, where the boss is pretty fair and don’t seem to mind I sometimes can’t deal with shit.

Wait til you hear about this girl I got over on. A real honey. Blows me away just how many honeys there are here, E, all of them lonely, all of them desperate to take a chance on some guy, any guy. Not that I’m any guy, but you know me.

THEY sure don’t. The doctors, I mean. Or they wouldn’t have let me out.

I searched for her for three days, riding the subway uptown, downtown, all around the town, day and night. Finally caught sight of her half-past nine one morning, standing there on the platform, waiting, locked into her own little space capsule, Walkman over her ears, her eyes deep into some book.

One look at her and right away I knew my day just got booked solid.

She was a little thing, five-feet-four tops, and slender. Couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds. Had nice blue eyes and real nice blond hair long and shiny. Good teeth, too, with just a slight overbite, which I’ve always had this thing for. Don’t know why, I just do. She looked to be maybe 28. Wore a leather jacket with a small backpack over it, baggy jeans and those big heavy motorcycle boots they’ve all taken to wearing. Which I don’t understand, since I think a woman’s slender ankle and foot are among the sexiest things they got working for them. She was looking real tough and together, the way the honeys do in New York when they are standing around somewhere in public.