The Fifth Stage Part 24

I'm a woman with a purpose. In a rare moment of clarity, an aha!

hit me. I'd been thinking about Tonya and how it looked like she'd never outgrow bar whoring and bed hopping. Then I thought about other friends. Some had a few flings and settled down after college, others waited till they were thirty or so before making a commitment, and still others went for the used-car approachfinding a happy relations.h.i.+p for a few years and then trading in their ride for a newer model.

That's when it came to me: I'm doing things backward. While I was playing house and building a business, my peers were out living it up and pa.s.sing women around like marijuana cigarettes. Now, here I sit on the brink of forty, and the sum total of my wild oats would fit in the palm of my hand. But it seems this puts me in a powerful position. I've been "pre-broken." I understand the complexities of life and have survived its ups and downs. I've felt pain, but I'll never hurt that way again. It's impossible. Scars have no feeling. Maybe the best part of my life is over, but the worst is in the past, too.

Now it's my turn to kick up my heels. With street smarts and a thick hide, I can do anything. It's better this way, now that I'm not a heart-on-my-sleeve kid with big eyes and a head full of ideas. Women don't stupefy me. Unlike a kid, I'm not held down by a shortage of cash or the lack of social graces. You don't sell as many filing systems as I have without gaining a certain amount of charm and a little finesse. h.e.l.l, I could talk Fidel Castro into voting Republican. Seducing Rebecca shouldn't be that hard, and that's exactly what I plan to do.

This newfound wisdom could be an overdose of Tonya, of listening to her prattle on about her weekend fling with the unfulfilled wife, or it could be a midlife crisis. If it is, then bully for me. I'll ride it till I'm sixty.

In preparation for my Sunday evening date with Rebecca, I take a shower and shave everything I can think of. Then I apply an extra dab of body lotion to my legs and a smidgen more eye shadow than usual.

152.

153.

Jitterbug tires of watching me dash about and stretches out at the foot of the bed.

I've picked out a nice pair of silk panties and a matching bra from Victoria's Secret, and I check myself in the mirror before getting dressed. Not too bad for an old woman. Luckily, my nipples haven't found my waistline yet and my b.u.t.t hasn't started creeping down my legs. Sure, I could stand to lose five pounds around the middle, but the overall package isn't too shabby.

I put on a forest green sweater with a deep V-neck that hints at my cleavage, and a pair of baggy jeans that make my midriff look somewhat smaller. A final makeup check, a subtle dose of Gucci cologne, and I'm out the door, armed and dangerous.

When I arrive at Rebecca's, I bound up the steps and knock hard on the door. She lets me in, kissing my cheek as she closes the door behind me. She's s.e.xy as h.e.l.l in her black ribbed turtleneck and snug jeans. I could pounce on her now, but that would be too much, even for the new and improved Claire.

"Hey, girl. You're right on time." Rebecca grabs a leather jacket from the back of the kitchen chair. "Hungry?"

"Yeah."

She shakes her finger at me. "You know, that Tonya person surprised me the other night. She looked at me like she wanted to rape me, but she looked at you like a lovesick puppy. I thought for a minute you'd neglected to mention something."

I hold up my hands. "I promise there's nothing between Fly and me. Besides, I wouldn't do that. If I were seeing anyone else, I'd tell you. You'd do the same, right?"

"Of course. As long as we're dating, or whatever it is we're doing, I think you have a right to know if I'm involved with anyone else." She puts on her jacket and opens the door. "I'm not, though. Seeing anyone else, that is." The heat kicks on, and the vent over the door blasts my head with hot air.

"Guess that means we're exclusive by circ.u.mstance," I say.

"I could start seeing someone else if that'd make you feel better, but I'm not good at juggling."

As we step out onto the landing, the freezing wind picks up a stray leaf and sends it spinning toward Choppy's roof.

"Don't put yourself out on my account." I thrust my hands into my jacket pockets and b.u.mp her shoulder as we descend the steps and hurry to the car.

154.

I left the motor running, and as I slide behind the wheel, the seat feels warm. Rebecca glides into the pa.s.senger seat and reaches for my hand. I take it, wondering how it will feel later, when the same hand explores more intimate places.

"You look like the cat who swallowed the canary." She runs her other hand through her hair, settling the effects of the bitter wind.

"I haven't swallowed anything." I reach across my lap and put the car in gear with my left hand.

She wiggles around in the seat and finally settles down. "So what do you want to eat?"

"Entirely up to you." I stop the car at Choppy's exit and look up and down the street. Dozens of restaurant signs line both sides of the four-lane road. There's everything from tacos to prime rib.

Rebecca purses her lips. "Haven't thought about it, really. We were swamped at lunch, and I didn't have time to think about much of anything."

"I'm hurt. You didn't think about me once?" I fake a pout.

"Oh, I might have let you cross my mind a couple of times... a couple of dozen times."

An old red pickup pa.s.ses, belching gray smoke from its tailpipe.

I lean close to the steering wheel and look in each direction. "You'd better tell me which way to go or we'll sit here all night."

"Surprise me."

I think a minute, then punch the gas and swerve to the left. It'll be a surprise, all right. It's quirky, unusual, and not like me at all. A smile tickles my insides before finding my lips. I like not being me.

"So where're we going?" she asks as she grabs the armrest.

"It's a surprise, like you wanted." I drive too fast down Freedom Drive whizzing by vacant car washes, discount stores with big red sale signs in the windows, and the super grocery store at the corner of Freedom and Winchester. It's all a blureven Rebecca seems indistinct, an obscure visage not two feet away.

When I wheel into the parking lot of Belmore Lanes, she shoots me a puzzled look. "We're going bowling?"

I grin. "Come on."

She lets go of my hand and we get out. The sky has been clear blue all day, but the winter sun is about to set. The heavens seem dreary and gray, a depressing vise pus.h.i.+ng us down into the cold earth.

Belmore Lanes is not exactly a family establishment. This is a hard- core bowling alley: no video games, no air hockey, just pins, b.a.l.l.s, and plenty of beer on tap.

155.

We go in and see league bowlers in team s.h.i.+rts with their names st.i.tched on their chestspeople called Buster, Ned, Pinkie, and Vie milling around, high-fiving and slapping one another's backsides.

Rebecca and I are trespa.s.sers here in the bowling underground, where the sun never s.h.i.+nes and the thunder never stops. The regulars sense the intrusion and eye us with caution.

A fog of cigarette smoke lingers around the snack bar, and a heavy metal song blares on the jukebox. I point to the snack bar and try to tell Rebecca to find a seat, but the screeching guitars drown me out, and I end up leading the way through a wave of beer breath and talk of strikes and spares. The song ends as we find two stools at the counter.

"Are we going to get killed?" Rebecca slips up onto the seat and clutches her purse to her chest.

"Nah, they're a tight-knit group, but they've seen me around. If you want the best hot dog in town, you have to come here." I s.n.a.t.c.h a napkin from the dispenser and wipe up a greasy spot on the counter in front of me.

A burly gray-haired woman wearing a Dale Earnhardt baseball cap and a white ap.r.o.n stained with mustard comes toward us. When she sees me, her eyes widen and she grins. Her teeth are as yellow as the smoke film covering the walls. "Well, howdy, stranger. I thought you'd left the country."

"Hi, Maude. Guess it has been a while. My lunch hours have been pretty busy lately, but I just couldn't wait another day for one of your chili dogs."

"I hear they're the best in town," Rebecca says.

Maude shrugs, but her modesty is skin deep. "It's my chili that does it. I've had folks from New York City offer to buy the recipe, but I won't sell. Not till I win the lottery, that is." She gives a belly laugh, sidles up to the counter, and juts an elbow toward me.

Rebecca smiles, but seems more entertained by Maude than by the comedy. "Then put a little extra chili on my dog, please, and a side of jalapenos if you've got some."

Maude jots a note on her order pad before looking at me. "Usual for you, blondie?"

I nod and watch her lumber toward the grill. "How's this for a surprise?" I ask Rebecca.

"Wonderful. You don't know how I've learned to hate restaurants over the years." She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear and glances around. "Everything's gotten so ma.s.s-market and franchised.

Places like this are hard to find."

156.

"Choppy's isn't a franchise, is it?"

"No, and that's the reason I'm there. The one thing that's worse than answering to my dad is answering to a corporate office." She glances toward the coin-operated pool table in the corner. "Enough restaurant talk. Five bucks on a game of eight ball?" That twinkle in her eye tells me I'm about to say goodbye to a five spot.

"Why, Miss Greenway, is that a challenge?"

"If you're up to it." Her eyes linger on me as she smiles.

Fifteen years ago, it could've been dangerous for her to look at me that way in public, but the crowd is caught up in its own world, and perhaps time has softened its fear of us, so no one notices the ripple pa.s.sing between the two women at the lunch counter. We recognize it, though.

The food arrives, so we thank Maude and dig in like death-row inmates. Between bites of scorching chili, Rebecca tells me about the time she almost got arrested for hustling darts at a bar in Charlotte.

"But those days are behind me." She wipes a dollop of ketchup off her lower lip. "I'm straight and narrow all the way."

"All the way?"

She glances over her shoulder. "Not all the way."

"I'm not sure I understand. Maybe you could explain it to me later."

She leans in and whispers, "Promise."

After we eat, Rebecca and her sledgehammer stick make quick sus.h.i.+ out of me at the pool table. As I feared, she is merciless, slamming one ball after another into the pockets. She leans over the table and calls each shot with confidence. Some guy named Boozer, sporting a mullet haircut, appears to be enjoying every opportunity to gaze at her wonderful b.u.t.t and watch her b.r.e.a.s.t.s sway as she bends down to line up a shot. Got to give him credithe has good taste. I can't take my eyes off her, either. When she's drilled the eight ball into the side, she saunters up to me with her hand out.

"All I've got is a ten." I hold the bill up between my fingers.

She s.n.a.t.c.hes it away. "I'll make change." She tucks the cash into her back pocket and puts the house cue back into the rack.

My safe little fantasy of Rebecca Greenway is over. The prim restaurant manager has been replaced by a real person, a woman who likes hot peppers and just fleeced me in a game of pool. Versatile, that's what she is, and I like that. But before I start liking her too much, I remind myself that this is nothing more than l.u.s.t.

157.

As we ramble out into the night, I breathe in the crisp air. It feels good. The stars are out, and the rising moon casts an eerie glow on the parking lot. It's a perfect night for a vampire movie.

We're quiet on the drive back to Rebecca's apartment. I take my time pulling into the parking s.p.a.ce beside her Mercedes. Rebecca leans back in her seat and bites her lip, not quite looking at me. "I've got a bottle of Merlot upstairs that's dying to be tasted. Interested?"

This is it, my moment of truth. Can I go up those stairs and do things with Rebecca that I've done with only one other woman? Can I touch her without feeling someone else?

Determined to find out, I unsnap my safety belt. All this thinking about liking people, loving people, and caring about people is giving me a headache. I need s.e.x, and there's nothing wrong with that. "I wouldn't want to disappoint a lonely bottle of wine," I tell her.

We don't speak on the way up the steps, and Rebecca fumbles with the keys as she unlocks the door. She gives me a tense smile. "My hands don't seem to want to work."

By the time we make it into the studio, we've resorted to nervous laughter.

She finds the Merlot in the top cabinet, struggles with the corkscrew before popping the cork, and leaves the open bottle on the counter. After another uncertain smile, she excuses herself and disappears into the bathroom.

I slip out of my jacket and check my breath against my hand. Fly taught me one thingalways have mints in your purse, just in case. A burning thought hits me. Am I turning into Tonya? Will I get to the point where I don't care about anyone or anything, as long as I get laid?

Doubtful. I've got mints in my purse; she carries a whole bag of travel-size toiletries in her trunk.

I sit down on the sofa as Rebecca comes back from the bathroom.

When she sits down close to me, I'm so keyed up I can't think of anything but dragging her to the bed and having my way with her till the sun comes up. We'd better get this show on the road before I lose my gumption.

"What's the matter?" she asks. "You look a little green."

"I feel fine. A little nervous, maybe."

"You don't have to be nervous with me." When she strokes my cheek, I'm past the point of conversation. I pull her to me, rougher than I intended to be. I'm out of practice with this sort of thing, but she doesn't seem to mind. She meets my mouth with the same kind of determination that's rumbled around inside me all day.

158.

She moves her lips to my ear. "I'm having trouble controlling myself with you."

My s.e.x fires up and my brain goes dull. "You don't have to control yourself. We can do anything you want. I'm ready to be with you tonight."

She pulls back and studies me for a second. "If you're sure, I mean really sure..."

Reading her words as an invitation, I stand up and guide her to the bed. She sits on the edge, and I drop to my knees in front of her and bury my face in her chest. She wraps her legs around me and runs her hands through my hair and along my back. Without asking, I pull her sweater up over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, kissing them through her bra.

She pulls her sweater over her head and strips off her bra. When it falls away, I close my eyes. I don't want to see the woman. I want to feel her s.e.x. But when her flesh goes hard against my tongue, my eyes fly open and my brain wakes up. I haven't been thinking of Rebecca. All I've been caring about is the physical release, enjoying what I feel without regard for her. Who the h.e.l.l do I think I am? This is not the dream woman I've been watching from a distance for months. This isn't a safe little fantasy where I get my jollies and forget about it like it never happened. This is real, and it affects us both. Rebecca is a living person, not a toy. I can't just buy her a cheap dinner, then take her home and maul her before she even pours the wine. I'm treating a funny, kind, beautiful woman like a two-dollar wh.o.r.e.

I fold my arms around her waist. My body trembles. "I can't do this."

She lifts my chin and forces me to look at her. "Hey, take it easy.

Everything's fine."

Rebecca tries to hug me, but I turn away and sit on the floor. I can't stand to see her there, only half-dressed. She's opening herself up to me and expecting me to do the same. I can share my body, but I have nothing else to give. Maybe I'm the two-dollar wh.o.r.e.

She slides off the bed and scoots up against my back. Her knees frame me and her arms circle my waist. "We don't have to do this."

"Jesus, I didn't even let you take your shoes off."

She peeks over my shoulder to her feet. "Let me? I don't recall feeling any particular need to take them off yet."