"Let me get this one," Oliver said.
"It's no use." George pushed his empty glass across the bar. "That was
a great party at your place. Eats. Bazumas."
"Jacky," Oliver said.
"And that Martha chick--the real estate chick--she wants to look at my
paintings. Maybe she'll buy one."
"She's got the money," Oliver said. "Sell her a big one and go down and
paint Jacky."
"I'd like to," George said. "Something about her . . ."
"Yeah," Oliver said. "Those were the days." Oliver had thought life was
complicated when he used to drive over the bridge to Jacky's. "
Bazumas!" he toasted.
"The finest," George said.
A pint later, Oliver reached in his pocket for tip money and felt a
small thick square. On his way back to the parking garage he dropped
Suzanne's note carefully into a city trash container.
20.
On Friday, Oliver left the hospital fifteen minutes after Suzanne drove
out of the parking lot. It had been a tense week. He wasn't any closer
to the missing $185,000, and he didn't understand what was happening to
him personally. He had avoided Suzanne, although at least once a day he
put his head in her door and they exchanged smiles, a moment that was a
relief to both of them.
When he got out of the Jeep, Suzanne was standing in her doorway. "You
remembered how to get here. Come on in." She shut the door behind him
and came into his arms. "Hi, Stranger," she said.
He breathed in the familiar minty smell of her hair which was brushed
out fully and freely to her shoulders. "God, you smell good." She
squeezed him and stepped back.
"Let's get that coat off you." She had changed into dark brown cotton
pants, a cream colored T-shirt, and a red plaid flannel shirt,
unbuttoned. She hung his jacket on a peg by the door.
"You look great," Oliver said. It was the truest thing he had said all
week.
"Thank you." She stopped a moment, pleased. "I put the water on. Want
some tea? Some lunch?"
"Tea would be good. I'm not too hungry--maybe a piece of toast?" He
followed her to the kitchen. "I've got a headache."
"I thought you looked tense. Well, you just let me fix you right up."
She pointed to a chair, and he sat down. She knelt by his feet.
"Boots," she said, untying the laces, "here we go." She pulled them off
and led him into her bedroom. "Lie down there; I'll be right back."
Oliver stretched out. He heard water running. Suzanne came in with a
washcloth that she doubled and placed across his forehead and eyes. It
was cool and moist. "There," she said. He felt her hands on his ankles
and then his socks were drawn off. She loosened his belt and fluttered
a light cover over his knees and bare feet. "There," she said again,
satisfied.
Oliver was rarely sick. It was odd but comforting to be treated like a
patient. He relaxed into the coolness of the washcloth as sounds
floated in and out of consciousness. Suzanne moved around the house. A
jazz combo started up quietly in the living room.
"Feeling better?"
"Yes."
"I'll bring the tea." She returned with mugs and two toasted English
muffins on a plate. She put them on a bedside table, went around to the
other side of the bed, and lay next to him, her head propped up on
pillows.
They sipped tea and munched on muffins. "I like it here," Oliver said.
"It's cozy," Suzanne said.
"It's hard not talking to you at work," he said.
"I hate it," she said. She put down her mug. "We don't need to think
about that now."
"No," he said, closing his eyes. She placed her hand on his chest and
rubbed slow circles. Oliver sighed and surrendered to the palm of her
hand and her fingertips.
"Much better," she said. Her hand moved slowly across his chest and
then down over his stomach. Her fingers reached under the top of his
pants and paused. He sighed again and rolled a little closer. Her hair
brushed across his face, and her fingers worked downwards, quietly
circling and pressing. "Oooh," she said. "We have lift-off."
Oliver took a deep breath. Impulses swirled. He reached down in slow
motion and undid his pants. Then he rolled over onto his knees above
her and opened his eyes. Suzanne watched him as he yanked off her
pants. A knowing smile twitched at the corners of her mouth while
concern and a plea for forgiveness showed in her eyes. She was wet and
ready. She held nothing back, let him drive her crazy, begged him for
it, and then gave a series of wondering cries as releases rippled
through her body, one after another.
He withdrew, still hard, and kissed her. He lay back and stretched his
arms toward the ceiling. His headache was gone. Suzanne lifted one hand
a few inches and let it fall back on the bed. "Oliver?" He moved his
head closer so that he could hear her. "You hungry yet?"
"After awhile," he said. He ran a finger lightly down the top of her
thigh.
"Gardenburger," she murmured.
He rested his whole hand on her leg. "Gardenburger," he agreed. She
smiled slightly. The devil and the angels were gone from her face. She
might have been a sunset or an early morning lake. They lay quietly for
a minute.
"I love it when you just _take me_ like that."
"Mmm," Oliver said.
"All week, I don't know who I am. I get a hint, like, when you smile at
me--but when you fuck me, I know." Her hand lifted again and fell over
against his stomach. He patted her hand. She sighed contentedly and
slid her hand down. "Oh," she said, "we've got work to do." She rolled
to his side and put her open mouth on his chest. She stroked him
steadily and then rolled to her back pulling him over on her. "Come on,
Lover. Give it to me." She was urgent, calling repeatedly. The need
built deeply and quickly, leaping into her, turning him inside out and
helpless in her arms.
It was an hour later when he opened his eyes. "I was going to wake you
at three," Suzanne said.
"Make that two gardenburgers," he said. "I'd better take a shower."
Suzanne cut up an onion and fried it with the burgers.
"Damn," Oliver said, emerging from the steamy bathroom, "onions!" He
was still waking up. Suzanne was dressed again. Oliver sat at the
kitchen table to eat, but he couldn't take his eyes from her breasts.
They were just right, hanging and swelling under her T-shirt; they were
perfect for his mouth, like pears, but so much better. "God!" He shook
his head. "You are too much."