‘No,’ she said, and was grateful that her voice didn’t tremble. ‘I don’t want to talk about Norman. He was abusive and I left him. End of story.’
‘Fair enough,’ Bill said. ‘And he’s out of your life for good?’
‘For good.’
‘Does he know that? I only ask because of, you know, the way you came to the door. You sure weren’t expecting a representative from the Church of Latter-Day Saints.’
‘I don’t know if he knows it or not,’ she said, after a moment or two to think it over —
certainly it was a fair enough question.
‘Are you afraid of him?’
‘Oh, yes. You bet. But that doesn’t necessarily mean a lot. I’m afraid of everything. It’s all new to me. My friends at . . . my friends say I’ll grow out of it, but I don’t know.’
‘You weren’t afraid to come out to dinner with me.’
‘Oh yes I was. I was terrified.’
‘Why did you, then?’
She opened her mouth to say what she had been thinking earlier — that he had surprised her into it — and then closed it again. That was the truth, but it wasn’t the truth inside the truth, and this was an area where she didn’t want to do any sidestepping. She had no idea if the two of them had any sort of future beyond this one meal in Pop’s Kitchen, but if they did, fancy footwork would be a bad way to begin the trip.
‘Because I wanted to,’ she said. Her voice was low but clear.
‘All right. No more about that.’
‘And no more about Norman, either.’
‘That’s his for -real no-fooling name?’
‘Yes.’
‘As in Bates.’
‘As in Bates.’
‘Can I ask you about something else, Rosie?’
She smiled a little. ‘As long as I don’t have to promise to answer.’
‘Fair enough. You thought you were older than me, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I did. How old are you, Bill?’
‘Thirty. Which has got to make us something like next-door neighbors in the age sweepstakes . . . same street, anyway. But you made an almost automatic assumption that you weren’t just older, you were a lot older. So here comes the question. Are you ready?’
Rosie shrugged uneasily.
He leaned toward her, those eyes with their fascinating greenish undertint fixed on hers.
‘Do you know you’re beautiful?’ he asked. ‘That’s not a come-on or a line, it’s plain old curiosity. Do you know you’re beautiful? You don’t, do you?’
She opened her mouth. Nothing emerged but one tiny breath-noise from the back of her throat. It was closer to a whistle than a sigh.
He put his hand over hers and squeezed it gently. His touch was brief, but it still lit up her nerves like an electric shock, and for a moment he was the only thing she could see — his hair, his mouth, and most of all his eyes. The rest of the world was gone, as if the two of them were on a stage where all the lights except for one bright, burning spot had been turned out.
‘Don’t make fun of me,’ she said. Her voice trembled. ‘Please don’t make fun. I can’t stand it if you do.’
‘No, I’d never do that.’ He spoke absently, as if this were a subject beyond discussion, case closed. ‘But I’ll tell you what I see.’ He smiled and stretched out his hand to touch hers again.
‘I’ll always tell you what I see. That’s a promise.’
7
She said he needn’t bother escorting her up the stairs, but he insisted and she was glad. Their conversation had passed on to less personal things when their meals came — he was delighted to find out the Roger Clemens reference hadn’t been a fluke, that she had a knowledgeable fan’s understanding of baseball, and they had talked a lot about the city’s teams as they ate, passing naturally enough from baseball to basketball. She’d hardly thought of Norman at all until the ride back, when she began imagining how she would feel if she opened the door of her room and there he was, Norman, sitting on her bed, drinking a cup of coffee, maybe, and contemplating her picture of the ruined temple and the woman on the hill.
Then, as they mounted the narrow stairs, Rosie in the lead and Bill a step or two behind, she found something else to worry about: What if he wanted to kiss her goodnight? And what if, after a kiss, he asked if he could come in?
Of course he’ll want to come in, Norman told her, speaking in the heavily patient voice he employed when he was trying not to be angry with her but was getting angry anyway. In fact, he’ll insist on it. Why else would he spring for a fifty-dollar meal? Jesus, you ought to be flattered — there are gals on the street prettier than you who don’t get fifty for half-and-half.
He’ll want to come in and he’ll want to fuck you, and maybe that’s good — maybe that’s what you need to get your head out of the clouds.
She was able to get her key out of her bag without dropping it, but the tip chattered all the way around the slot in the center of the metal disk without going in. He closed his hand over hers and guided it home. She felt that electric shock again when he touched her, and was helpless not to think of what the key sliding into the lock called to her mind.
She opened the door. No Norman, unless he was hiding in the shower or the closet. Just her pleasant room with the cream-colored walls and the picture hanging by the window and the light on over the sink. Not home, not yet, but a little closer than the dorm at D & S.
‘This is not bad, you know,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘No duplex in the suburbs, but not at all bad.’
‘Would you like to come in?’ she asked through lips that felt completely numb — it was as if someone had slipped her a shot of Novocaine. ‘I could give you a cup of coffee . . .’
Good! Norman exulted from his stronghold inside her head. Might as well get it over with, right, hon? You give him the coffee, and he’ll give you the cream. Such a deal!
Bill appeared to think it over very carefully before shaking his head. ‘It might not be such a good idea,’ he said. ‘Not tonight, at least. I don’t think you have the slightest idea of how you affect me.’ He laughed a little nervously. ‘I don’t think I have the slightest idea of how you affect me.’ He looked over her shoulder and saw something that made him smile and offer her a pair of thumbs-up. ‘You were right about the picture
— I never would have believed it at the time, but you were. I guess you must have had this place in mind, though, huh?’
She shook her head, now smiling herself. ‘When I bought the picture, I didn’t even know this room existed.’
‘You must be psychic, then. I bet it looks especially good there where you’ve hung it in the late afternoon and early evening. The sun must sidelight it.’
‘Yes, it’s nice then,’ Rosie said, not adding that she thought the picture looked good —
perfectly right and perfectly in place — at all times of the day.
‘You’re not bored with it yet, I take it?’
‘No, not at all.’
She thought of adding, And it’s got some very funny tricks. Step over and take a closer look, why don’t you? Maybe you’ll see something even more surprising than a lady getting ready to brain you with a can of fruit cocktail. You tell me, Bill — has that picture somehow gone from ordinary screen size to Cinerama 70, or is that just my imagination?
She said none of this, of course.
Bill put his hands on her shoulders and she looked up at him solemnly, like a child being put to bed, as he leaned forward and kissed her forehead on the smooth place between her eyebrows.
‘Thank you for coming out with me,’ he said.
‘Thank you for asking.’ She felt a tear go sliding down her left cheek and wiped it away with her knuckle. She was not ashamed or afraid for him to see it; she felt she could trust him with at least one tear, and that was nice.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a motorcycle — an old butch Harley softail. It’s big and loud and sometimes it stalls at long red lights, but it’s comfortable . . . and I’m a remarkably safe cyclist, if I do say so myself. One of the six Harley owners in America who wears a helmet. If Saturday’s nice, I could come over and pick you up in the morning. There’s a place I know about thirty miles up the lake. Beautiful. It’s still too cold to swim, but we could bring a picnic.’