cloth.
“Yeah. The robe’s nice” I said. I felt a little feverish. I cleared my throat.
“Why don’t you come over and take a closer look?” she said.
“I can see an awful lot from here,” I said.
“Wouldn’t you like to see more,” she said.
I shook my head.
She smiled carefully, and let the robe fall open. It hung straight and framed her naked body. The blue went nicely with her skin color.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like a closer look?” she said.
I said, “Jesus Christ, who writes your dialogue.”
Her face flattened out.
“What?”
“This is how it would happen on
The Dating Game
, if they were allowed to film it.”
She blushed. The robe hanging open made her seem less sexy than vulnerable.
“You don’t want me,” she said in a loud whisper.
“Sure, I want you. I want every good-looking woman I ever see. And when they point their pubic bone at me I get positively turbulent. But this ain’t the way, babe.”
Her face stayed flushed. Her voice stayed in the whisper, though it sounded hoarser and less stagey now.
“Why?” she said. “Why isn’t it?”
“Well, for one thing, it’s contrived.”
“Contrived?”
“Yeah, like you read
The Total Woman
and took notes.”
Her eyes had begun to fill. She had let her hands drop to her sides.
“And there’s other things. There’s Paul, for instance. And a woman I know.”
“Paul? What the hell has Paul got to do with it?” She wasn’t whispering now. Her voice was harsh. “I have to get Paul’s permission to fuck?”
“It’s not a matter of permission. Paul wouldn’t like it if he found out.”
“What do you know about my son?” she said. “What do you think he cares? Do you think he’d think less of me than he does now?”
“No,” I said. “He’d think less of me.”
She stood without movement for maybe five seconds. Then she deliberately took hold of her robe and shrugged it back over her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. She was naked except for a pair of sling-back pumps made of, apparently, transparent plastic. “You saw most of it already,” she said. “Want to see it all?” She turned slowly around, 360 degrees, her arms out from her sides. “What do you like best?” she said. Her voice was very harsh now and there were tears on her cheeks. “You want to pay me?” She walked over to me. “You figure I’m a whore, maybe you’ll pay me. Twenty bucks, mister? I’ll give you a good time.”
“Stop it,” I said.
“Who’d tell Paul that you fucked his whorey mother? How would he find out you’d been dirty?”
Her voice was shaking and clogged. She was crying.
“You’d tell him when there was a good occasion. Or you’d tell his father and his father would tell him. And besides there’s this woman I know.”
Patty Giacomin pressed against me. Her shoulders were heaving, she was crying outright. “Please,” she said. “Please. I’ve been good. I’ve cooked. I pay you. Please, don’t do this.”
I put my arms around her and patted her bare back. She buried her face against my chest and with both hands straight at her sides, stark naked except for her transparent shoes, she sobbed without control for a long time. I patted her back and tried to think of other things.
Carl Hubbell struck out Cronin, Ruth, Gehrig, Simmons, and Jimmy Foxx
in an all-star game. Was it 1934? The crying seemed to feed on itself. It seemed to build. I rested my chin on the top of her head.
Who played with Cousy at Holy Cross? Kaftan. Joe Mullaney? Dermie O’Connell. Frank Oftring
. Her body pressed at me. I thought harder:
All-time all-star team players I’d seen. Musial; Jackie Robinson; Reese; and Brooks Robinson. Williams; DiMaggio; Mays; Roy Campanella; Sandy Koufax, left-hand pitcher; Bob Gibson, right-hand pitcher; Joe Page in the bullpen
. She was crying easier now.
“Come on,” I said. “You get dressed, I’ll take a cold shower, and we’ll have some breakfast.”
She didn’t
“Yeah. The robe’s nice” I said. I felt a little feverish. I cleared my throat.
“Why don’t you come over and take a closer look?” she said.
“I can see an awful lot from here,” I said.
“Wouldn’t you like to see more,” she said.
I shook my head.
She smiled carefully, and let the robe fall open. It hung straight and framed her naked body. The blue went nicely with her skin color.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like a closer look?” she said.
I said, “Jesus Christ, who writes your dialogue.”
Her face flattened out.
“What?”
“This is how it would happen on
The Dating Game
, if they were allowed to film it.”
She blushed. The robe hanging open made her seem less sexy than vulnerable.
“You don’t want me,” she said in a loud whisper.
“Sure, I want you. I want every good-looking woman I ever see. And when they point their pubic bone at me I get positively turbulent. But this ain’t the way, babe.”
Her face stayed flushed. Her voice stayed in the whisper, though it sounded hoarser and less stagey now.
“Why?” she said. “Why isn’t it?”
“Well, for one thing, it’s contrived.”
“Contrived?”
“Yeah, like you read
The Total Woman
and took notes.”
Her eyes had begun to fill. She had let her hands drop to her sides.
“And there’s other things. There’s Paul, for instance. And a woman I know.”
“Paul? What the hell has Paul got to do with it?” She wasn’t whispering now. Her voice was harsh. “I have to get Paul’s permission to fuck?”
“It’s not a matter of permission. Paul wouldn’t like it if he found out.”
“What do you know about my son?” she said. “What do you think he cares? Do you think he’d think less of me than he does now?”
“No,” I said. “He’d think less of me.”
She stood without movement for maybe five seconds. Then she deliberately took hold of her robe and shrugged it back over her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. She was naked except for a pair of sling-back pumps made of, apparently, transparent plastic. “You saw most of it already,” she said. “Want to see it all?” She turned slowly around, 360 degrees, her arms out from her sides. “What do you like best?” she said. Her voice was very harsh now and there were tears on her cheeks. “You want to pay me?” She walked over to me. “You figure I’m a whore, maybe you’ll pay me. Twenty bucks, mister? I’ll give you a good time.”
“Stop it,” I said.
“Who’d tell Paul that you fucked his whorey mother? How would he find out you’d been dirty?”
Her voice was shaking and clogged. She was crying.
“You’d tell him when there was a good occasion. Or you’d tell his father and his father would tell him. And besides there’s this woman I know.”
Patty Giacomin pressed against me. Her shoulders were heaving, she was crying outright. “Please,” she said. “Please. I’ve been good. I’ve cooked. I pay you. Please, don’t do this.”
I put my arms around her and patted her bare back. She buried her face against my chest and with both hands straight at her sides, stark naked except for her transparent shoes, she sobbed without control for a long time. I patted her back and tried to think of other things.
Carl Hubbell struck out Cronin, Ruth, Gehrig, Simmons, and Jimmy Foxx
in an all-star game. Was it 1934? The crying seemed to feed on itself. It seemed to build. I rested my chin on the top of her head.
Who played with Cousy at Holy Cross? Kaftan. Joe Mullaney? Dermie O’Connell. Frank Oftring
. Her body pressed at me. I thought harder:
All-time all-star team players I’d seen. Musial; Jackie Robinson; Reese; and Brooks Robinson. Williams; DiMaggio; Mays; Roy Campanella; Sandy Koufax, left-hand pitcher; Bob Gibson, right-hand pitcher; Joe Page in the bullpen
. She was crying easier now.
“Come on,” I said. “You get dressed, I’ll take a cold shower, and we’ll have some breakfast.”
She didn’t
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