what happened?” Brenda says. “Don’t you have any idea what happened to Maria?”
Neil says no, he has no idea.
The story won’t leave Brenda alone; it stays with her like a coating on the tongue, a taste in the mouth.
“Well, maybe she got married,” she says. “After she got out. Lots of people get married who are no beauties. That’s for sure. She might’ve lost weight and be looking good even.”
“Sure,” says Neil. “Maybe have guys paying her, instead of the other way round.”
“Or she might still be just sitting in one of those places. One of those places where they put people.”
Now she feels a pain between her legs. Not unusual after one of these sessions. If she were to stand up at this moment, she’d feel a throb there, she’d feel the blood flowing back down through all the little veins and arteries that have been squashed and bruised, she’d feel herself throbbing like a big swollen blister.
She takes a long drink and says, “So how much money did you get out of her?”
“I never got anything,” Neil says. “I just knew these other guys who did. It was my brother Jonathan made the money off her. I wonder what he’d say if I reminded him now.”
“Older guys, too—you said older guys, too. Don’t tell me you just sat back and watched and never got your share.”
“That’s what I
am
telling you. I never got anything.”
Brenda clicks her tongue, tut-tut, and empties her glass andmoves it around on the table, looking skeptically at the wet circles.
“Want another?” Neil says. He takes the glass out of her hand.
“I’ve got to go,” she says. “Soon.” You can make love in a hurry if you have to, but you need time for a fight. Is that what they’re starting on? A fight? She feels edgy but happy. Her happiness is tight and private, not the sort that flows out from you and fuzzes everything up and makes you good-naturedly careless about what you say. The very opposite. She feels light and sharp and unconnected. When Neil brings her back a full glass, she takes a drink from it at once, to safeguard this feeling.
“You’ve got the same name as my husband,” she says. “It’s funny I never thought of that before.”
She has thought of it before. She just hasn’t mentioned it, knowing it’s not something Neil would like to hear.
“Cornelius isn’t the same as Neil,” he says.
“It’s Dutch. Some Dutch people shorten it to Neil.”
“Yeah, but I’m not Dutch, and I wasn’t named Cornelius, just Neil.”
“Still, if his had been shortened you’d be named the same.”
“His isn’t shortened.”
“I never said it was. I said if it had been.”
“So why say that if it isn’t?”
He must feel the same thing she does—the slow but irresistible rise of a new excitement, the need to say, and hear, dire things. What a sharp, releasing pleasure there is in the first blow, and what a dazzling temptation ahead—destruction. You don’t stop to think why you want that destruction. You just do.
“Why do we have to drink every time?” Neil says abruptly. “Do we want to turn ourselves into alcoholics or something?”
Brenda takes a quick sip and pushes her glass away. “Who has to drink?” she says.
She thinks he means they should drink coffee, or Cokes. But he gets up and goes to the dresser where he keeps his clothes, opens a drawer, and says, “Come over here.”
“I don’t want to look at any of that stuff,” she says.
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“Sure I do.”
Of course she doesn’t—not specifically.
“You think it’s going to bite you?”
Brenda drinks again and keeps looking out the window. The sun is getting down in the sky already, pushing the bright light across the table to warm her hands.
“You don’t approve,” Neil says.
“I don’t approve or disapprove,” she says, aware of having lost some control, of not being as happy as she was. “I don’t care what you do. That’s you.”
“I don’t
Neil says no, he has no idea.
The story won’t leave Brenda alone; it stays with her like a coating on the tongue, a taste in the mouth.
“Well, maybe she got married,” she says. “After she got out. Lots of people get married who are no beauties. That’s for sure. She might’ve lost weight and be looking good even.”
“Sure,” says Neil. “Maybe have guys paying her, instead of the other way round.”
“Or she might still be just sitting in one of those places. One of those places where they put people.”
Now she feels a pain between her legs. Not unusual after one of these sessions. If she were to stand up at this moment, she’d feel a throb there, she’d feel the blood flowing back down through all the little veins and arteries that have been squashed and bruised, she’d feel herself throbbing like a big swollen blister.
She takes a long drink and says, “So how much money did you get out of her?”
“I never got anything,” Neil says. “I just knew these other guys who did. It was my brother Jonathan made the money off her. I wonder what he’d say if I reminded him now.”
“Older guys, too—you said older guys, too. Don’t tell me you just sat back and watched and never got your share.”
“That’s what I
am
telling you. I never got anything.”
Brenda clicks her tongue, tut-tut, and empties her glass andmoves it around on the table, looking skeptically at the wet circles.
“Want another?” Neil says. He takes the glass out of her hand.
“I’ve got to go,” she says. “Soon.” You can make love in a hurry if you have to, but you need time for a fight. Is that what they’re starting on? A fight? She feels edgy but happy. Her happiness is tight and private, not the sort that flows out from you and fuzzes everything up and makes you good-naturedly careless about what you say. The very opposite. She feels light and sharp and unconnected. When Neil brings her back a full glass, she takes a drink from it at once, to safeguard this feeling.
“You’ve got the same name as my husband,” she says. “It’s funny I never thought of that before.”
She has thought of it before. She just hasn’t mentioned it, knowing it’s not something Neil would like to hear.
“Cornelius isn’t the same as Neil,” he says.
“It’s Dutch. Some Dutch people shorten it to Neil.”
“Yeah, but I’m not Dutch, and I wasn’t named Cornelius, just Neil.”
“Still, if his had been shortened you’d be named the same.”
“His isn’t shortened.”
“I never said it was. I said if it had been.”
“So why say that if it isn’t?”
He must feel the same thing she does—the slow but irresistible rise of a new excitement, the need to say, and hear, dire things. What a sharp, releasing pleasure there is in the first blow, and what a dazzling temptation ahead—destruction. You don’t stop to think why you want that destruction. You just do.
“Why do we have to drink every time?” Neil says abruptly. “Do we want to turn ourselves into alcoholics or something?”
Brenda takes a quick sip and pushes her glass away. “Who has to drink?” she says.
She thinks he means they should drink coffee, or Cokes. But he gets up and goes to the dresser where he keeps his clothes, opens a drawer, and says, “Come over here.”
“I don’t want to look at any of that stuff,” she says.
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“Sure I do.”
Of course she doesn’t—not specifically.
“You think it’s going to bite you?”
Brenda drinks again and keeps looking out the window. The sun is getting down in the sky already, pushing the bright light across the table to warm her hands.
“You don’t approve,” Neil says.
“I don’t approve or disapprove,” she says, aware of having lost some control, of not being as happy as she was. “I don’t care what you do. That’s you.”
“I don’t
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