Wild Heart (20 page)

"I'm not—he is." He smacked Michael on the shoulder with his fist.

"How nice. And then?"

"And then ... I think my friend and I are just in the mood to watch tonight. At first, anyway. Afterward, who knows?"

Mrs. Birch nodded her head, still without any expression. She looked more like a doll than a person. "Will you have your wine here or upstairs?"

"Mmm," Philip hummed, swaying slightly as he looked around the room. "Upstairs."

She lifted her hand, and a girl who had been leaning against the shadowy wall came toward them. "This is Lily. She'll take care of you this evening. Enjoy yourselves, and let me know if there's anything else you require." Mrs. Birch glided off through a dark archway into another room.

"Lily," said Philip, and to Michael's amazement he took the girl's hand and kissed it. "Didn't you used to be Stella?"

She laughed, showing yellow teeth; Michael could smell tobacco on her breath. She had thin, straight, orange hair, pulled back behind her ears with pins. Her face was white, like Mrs. Birch's, but she looked younger. She looked like a child.

"That was last month. This month I'm Lily. Don't I look it?" She laughed again. "Hello," she said to Michael, blinking her eyes at him.

"Hello." He held out his hand to shake.

She laughed some more—-she thought everything was funny. "I've never seen you before."

"I've never seen you before, either."

"Are you going to be my friend?"

"Yes," he said politely.

She rolled her eyes at Philip. "He's a
darling.
Where have you been keeping him?" She hooked her hands through their arms, making them turn around. "Shall we go upstairs, gentlemen?"

She took them up a wide staircase lit by more candles, and then down a hall to a closed door on the left. When they went in, Michael thought they were in a bedroom at first, until he noticed all the couches and chairs scattered around. No, it must be a sitting room. But why would you put a bed in a sitting room?

"You gents make yourselves comfortable, now. I'll be right back with your refreshments."

After she left, Philip flopped down on the biggest sofa and stretched out with his head on a pillow.

"Do you know these people, Philip?"

"Some of them." He closed his eyes, as if he was going to take a nap.

Michael started to prowl the room. "Is there going to be a show?" Philip didn't answer. There were some paintings on the walls, but nothing on the tables, no pictures or flower vases or anything. Half of one whole wall was covered by a green velvet curtain. Maybe there was a stage behind it. No; when he pushed against the curtain, he touched something hard—the wall, he assumed. He turned back to Philip. "Is there?"

"Hm?" He sounded like his father. "Yeah, sort of a show."

"Where's the audience?"

He wore a funny smile. "We're the audience."

He was keeping a secret, Michael could tell. He didn't like it. It made him think of the experiments Professor Winter used to perform on him.

Lily came back, carrying a tray. "Here we go." She put the tray on the bed and started to open a bottle. Bang! Michael jumped up in the air when the cork flew up and hit the ceiling. Lily laughed as if it was the funniest thing she'd ever seen. "Haven't you ever had bubbly before, honey?" He shook his head, standing back. "What's your name?"

"Michael MacNeil."

Even that made her laugh. "Just say 'Michael,' honey. We don't use last names here."

"Don't you want any?" he asked when she gave a glass to him and one to Philip.

"No, I got my own special brew." She picked up a glass of something clear—water, he thought. "Well, boys, bottoms up, so we can get this show on the road."

Bubbles popped under his nose and tingled on the surface of his tongue. The champagne tasted cold and sweet; he liked it better than the sour red wine they had drunk at dinner. But after only two swallows, it made him belch. He put his hand over his mouth and said, "Excuse me," while Lily laughed and laughed.

" 'Scuse
me
for one sec." She went outside, but came right back in. "Okay, it's all set, so whenever you're ready." She went around the room, blowing out all the candles but one. Philip moved his legs when she started to sit down beside him. Their couch faced the curtained wall. "You wanna sit down here with us, Michael MacNeil, and get real, real comfortable?" When she crossed her legs, her nightgown fell open, showing her knees and part of her thigh. Michael choked on a sip of champagne, and Lily let out a real laugh this time.

"Y'know, I don't think we're quite ready." Philip made an effort to speak slowly and clearly. "Lily, sweetheart, would you mind going out again, just for a minute or two, while Mick and I have a word in private?"

"Well, sure, honey, but you might miss the beginning. I can't hold back progress, y'know."

"That's all right. We'll use our imaginations." They both laughed while Michael looked on, mystified. Lily got up and left the room.

Philip started to stand, but his legs gave out and he fell back onto the couch. "Whoa, Nellie." He patted the place beside him, where Lily had been, and Michael sat down.

"Are you all right?"

"Sure, sure. I'm just thinking this shouldn't be susha big surprise. Don't want you having a heart attack at Mrs. Birch's, do we? Papers'd have a field day."

Why would he have a heart attack? What was a field day? Michael's head was starting to hurt. "Philip, where are we?"

"Mick, my boy, we're in a whorehouse."

"What's a whorehouse?"

Philip peered at him, bleary-eyed, as if to make sure he was serious. He set his drink down, cleared his throat, and sat up, putting his hands on his knees. "It's a place where men come to have sex with women. Usually. There're variations, but that's the kind of house this is. You with me? We pay money to girls like Lily—she's a whore and that's her job. Everybody's happy."

"We pay them money?" He laughed, waiting for Philip to join him. "Tell me the truth. Really, what's going to happen?"

"I just told you."

"No. No. For
money!"
He laughed again, but not with as much certainty. Philip just stared at him, not even smiling. "You're saying people have sex with each other because they
pay?'

"Yeah. Helluva thing, isn't it?" He looked at Michael strangely. "God damn. That is a helluva thing." He picked up his drink and took a big swallow. "So anyway. Here's the thing. Since you've never done it before, I was thinking Mrs. Birch's would be a good place to start, because it's got a, um, special feature you don't find in too many houses."

"What?" His mind was still racing.

Philip pointed to the green curtain. "See that? That covers a big window. And behind it there's a room jus' like this. And right now there're two people in there. One of 'em's a whore, and the other's a man who doesn't care if people watch while he's doing it with her."

"Having sex?"

"Right."

No, it couldn't be. Couldn't be.

Philip scratched his head. '"Course, we don't have to do this if you don't want to. We can just go home, I don't care. But this's how it's done. If you want a girl and you're not married, this's about the only way you're gonna get one. Because most of the other ones won't do it."

"Why?"

"Because. It's not respectable. They think. Not moral."

"It's wrong for them, but not for us?"

"Right." He sat back, sloshing champagne on his trousers. "Wrong for them, not wrong for us. That's it exactly." He blinked at the wet stain spreading over his knee. "So what's it gonna be? Stay or go?"

The door opened and Lily came in, carrying a bottle of champagne in each hand. Michael stood up. "Well?" she said. She stood in front of the only candle she'd left burning, and he could see the shape of her hips through her nightgown.

"Have you done this before?" he asked Philip. "Watched people?"

He looked away; Michael thought he wasn't going to answer. For the first time since they'd come here, he looked embarrassed. "Yeah, I've done it. There's nothing wrong with it." He almost sounded angry.

Lily bent her knees and sagged her shoulders, pretending the bottles were getting heavy.

Michael said, "Okay, then."

"Okay, then." Lily set the bottles on the table by the couch and sat down again next to Philip. "Honey, you pull that string next to the curtain, and then you come on over here and sit beside Lily."

Michael pulled the string next to the curtain, but he didn't sit down beside Lily. Even though she laughed at him, he went around the couch and stood behind her. He didn't want her to see his face.

Even now, up until the very last second, he didn't really believe it.
Philip's joking,
he thought in the back of his mind;
it's going to be a trick.
But his body jerked backward as if he'd been shoved in the chest when he saw what was on the other side of the window.

A woman. And a man. He had his trousers and his shirt on, but she—she was completely, completely naked.

But she was taking his clothes off. They stood at the foot of a bed in a room like this one, exactly like it except theirs was bright from a lot of candles. She took his shirt off for him while he petted the white skin on her ribs and her breasts. Michael couldn't get enough of the sight of her body, he wanted to see more, he wanted to
devour
her with his eyes. She unbuttoned the man's pants and pulled them down his bare legs, and while she did that the man looked straight into the window, smiling a small, tight-eyed smile. Michael wanted to turn, hide, cover up. But he couldn't move and he couldn't look away.

Hands, mouths, breasts, legs. The woman had yellow hair on her head and black hair between her legs. The man stood behind her in front of the glass, touching her all over, resting his chin on her shoulder. Did she like it? Her face was a mystery. He squeezed her heavy bosom with one hand and put the other in the patch of hair between her legs, pulling her up close. She bent her knees, and his hand slid in lower. Michael's body felt too tight. He was going to break soon, burst right out of his skin.

They moved to the bed. The woman fell back, and the man covered her. He kept his feet on the floor and she wrapped her legs around him. Now they were doing it, having sex. Their bodies strained, curved, pushing and pushing, but their faces stayed empty, their eyes open. The man grabbed her hands and held them while he pushed into her fast, fast, fast. She opened her mouth wide and put her head back.

Then it was over. The man rolled off, onto his back beside her. She got up. She said something; he didn't answer. She came toward the window, swaying, hands on her hips, pushing her stomach out. When she got to the glass she pressed her whole body against it, flattening her breasts, thighs, her palms, even her lips to the window. Lily laughed at that, as if it was a joke, but it was ugly. Michael was glad when Philip didn't laugh with her.

Lily stood up and went to close the curtain. "All right, gents. Who wants to go first?"

* * * * *

Chilly wind blew wet paper and pieces of trash across the alley, sweeping them into the gurgling, dammed-up gutter. The smell of dank water and rotting garbage rose from a black grate in the cobblestones. Michael huddled inside his coat and thought about how soft he'd grown. This was nothing, this cold rain blowing in his face and down his collar, and yet here he was, shivering like a cornered rabbit and wishing he had a thicker jacket.

Across the dirty street, the door to Mrs. Birch's house opened, but two men came out and neither of them was Philip. It would be dawn soon. The blurry moon had already sunk below the jagged line of rooftops across the way. Now the street was deserted, but an hour ago rough-looking men, some of them staggering from drink, had prowled past him on the muddy sidewalk. Only once had anyone tried to bother him, a big, stringy-haired man who stank of beer and reminded him of O'Fallon. Michael had straightened up from his crouch in the alleyway, ready to fight,
happy
to, clenching his hands in his eagerness to hit something. So much bad energy was swirling inside him, he was almost sick from it. The man got close enough to see into his eyes, and then the meanness in his face turned to fear. He cursed him and shuffled away.

Michael rubbed his cold arms.and shifted from foot to foot. Only half a year ago he could have lain in icy snow without moving for an hour or more while he waited for his prey, a rabbit, a mouse, to poke its head out of its burrow. Now he was somebody called "Michael MacNeil," and his life had turned into a struggle not to survive but to understand what that meant. Tonight he had found out something important about what men did. But instead of making him more comfortable inside his new self, his new skin, the thing he had learned only made him feel stranger. Because he couldn't do what men did.

His body had wanted to, though. It still did. Pictures of the naked girl in the window kept coming back into his head, making him hard, making him ache. He kept seeing that moment when she had fallen back on the bed and opened her legs, and the man had used his hand to steer his penis into her. He couldn't make that scene go away. He wanted to touch himself to relieve the ache, but he was afraid someone might see. That was one human lesson he was learning fast—that sex was a secret thing. You weren't even allowed to talk about it. Men wanted it so much they even paid for it, but they couldn't admit it in public. It was a big, sneaky secret.