Two days after the obit was published, Karen and I met for drinks. Right away she sized up my problem, and offered to bring me to the morgue for “immersion therapy,” which I declined. She said that being among laid-out corpses would help to “demystify” death. I explained that I wasn’t troubled by the mystery of it so much as the finality. Nothing to be seen in an autopsy room, short of a spontaneous resurrection, could alleviate my concern about that.
I persuaded myself I was attracted to Karen because of her lanky athletic figure and quick sense of humor, but in truth it was the dark nature of her work that intrigued me—transcribing the narrated observations of Pete and the other dissecting pathologists. I couldn’t imagine how she slept at night, her skull buzzing with such gory entries. She insisted the morgue job was the best she’d ever had, owing to the lack of customer complaints. And I must say she was, if not totally carefree, a vivacious and upbeat spirit. Heaven knows she enjoyed sex, which gave us at least one thing in common.
The last time we made love, the aforementioned Friday in March, we first ate dinner at a seafood house on the Jupiter Inlet. I remember nothing of the meal or the conversation, which means the evening must have gone well. Afterwards we took A1A all the way back to my apartment, where the CD deck happened to kick off with Exile on Main Street. This elicited a groan of disapproval from Karen, who had already stripped down to a sheer bra and panties. An untimely discussion of musical preferences followed, resulting in my grumpy capitulation. The Stones were replaced with Natalie Merchant, who is splendid unless you’re in the mood for “Ventilator Blues,” which I was.
Needless to say, the sex was less than transcendental for both of us. I carry a crystal recollection of Karen on top, grinding rather listlessly to some fluttery love ballad while I fumed beneath her, yearning for a backbeat. Her faked orgasm was so unconvincing that I mistook the feeble shudder as a delayed gastric response to the conch fritters, which had been criminally overseasoned. It was a dispiriting end to the relationship, and put lust at a distance for some time.
Now Emma is coming over and I’m pawing through the CD rack in a fevered search for something we both can stand, just in case. Anne’s photograph is gone from the refrigerator door and I assume it was I who removed it, not wishing to give Emma the impression that I’m carrying a torch.
The first words I hear upon answering her knock: “Did Evan call yet?”
“He’s fine, Emma. Safe and sound.”
She ropes me with a fierce hug. You would have thought Evan had turned up alive after forty nights in a Himalayan ice cave. I might be jealous except that I recognize Emma’s exuberant relief for what it is: To an ambitious mid-management newspaper editor, the only thing worse than getting one of your reporters killed would be getting one of your interns killed.
“I feel like celebrating,” Emma says. She’s wearing a pale cotton sundress and sandals. Her toenails, one can’t help but observe, are painted canary yellow.
“You like U2?” Poised I am, disc in hand.
“Know what I’d really like to hear? Your man Jimmy Stoma,” she says. “I’m dying to know what he was up to when he died.”
I show her the stack of CDs from Dommie the Whiz Kid. “About twenty hours’ worth. I’ve barely put a dent in ’em.”
“That’s all right,” Emma tells me. “We’ve got all night.” She smiles playfully and whips something out of her handbag. My desiccated old heart soars.
It’s a toothbrush.
21
Something about the first time.
I’m never sure what it means, or how much to believe of what’s said. Emma is parsimonious with clues. Meanwhile I hear myself whisper alarming endearments, including at least one spontaneous reference to love (this, while kissing a nipple!). Starved and pitiable I am; a goner.
Meanwhile Emma is as quiet and discreet as a hummingbird. In the shower I nuzzle a soapy earlobe and say: “Will this affect my annual evaluation?”