Kissing in Manhattan (17 page)

Douglas shut his mouth. He kept expecting a game-show host to spring out from behind a curtain, but none did. Directly across the table from Douglas sat Nicole in her impossibly black dress, watching him with her relentless blue eyes. For the first time Douglas honestly considered what it would be like if she were his. He thought of Lillian Marx, the last woman he’d dated, who’d adored jazz music. He imagined holding Nicole’s hand, driving with her to Montauk in a convertible, the radio playing the bizarre punk bands he knew she liked. He blushed.

“Religion’s not an issue,” blustered Samson. “Nicole assures me that you’re high Episcopal, same as we are. She admires your intellect, and you always give her an A. So, what’s your problem, Doug?”

Douglas pressed the corners of his eyes with his thumbs. “It just . . . seems a little sudden, sir.”

Samson snorted.

“Douglas,” said Paulette. “We’re really very impressed with you. Especially now that we’ve met.”

Douglas sat up very straight. “Yes. Well. As I was trying to say, Nicole’s eleven years younger than I am. Doesn’t that seem . . . problematic?”

“No,” said Samson. “I’ve got twelve years on Paulette.”

“Mr. Kerchek,” said Nicole. “Did you know, Mr. Kerchek, that in centuries past a girl was often married and birthing offspring by fourteen?”

“Let’s not rush into any birthing,” chuckled Samson.

“This isn’t the Middle Ages, Nicole.” Douglas swallowed some brandy after all. “You haven’t even been to college.”

“Well, I’m going, aren’t I?”

“Of course she is.” Paulette sounded offended. “No daughter of mine will be denied an education because of her husband.”

“Now, hold on,” said Douglas.

“Hey,” growled Samson. “You can have my daughter’s hand, Doug, and we’ll give you some starting-out money, but Princeton’s nonnegotiable. Don’t try to weasel her out of that.”

“I wasn’t.”

“No weaseling,” said Nicole.

Douglas sighed heavily. “I need to use the bathroom,” he said.

“Well, hell,” said Samson. “Who wouldn’t?”

Paulette pointed to a hallway. “Third door on the right.”

Douglas strode quickly out of the room. His mind was a blur. He thought of his unserved, uneaten German cake. He recalled a teaching class he’d once taken, where the instructor had told him to watch out for female students and their crushes.

Is that what this is? thought Douglas. A crush?

The door to the bathroom was slightly ajar. Douglas was about to push it fully open when he heard a toilet flush from within.

“Excuse me,” said Douglas automatically. He stepped back, surprised. Moments later the door nudged open and a black cat stepped out of the bathroom. It stopped at Douglas’s feet and looked directly up at him.

“John Stapleton,” whispered Douglas.

“Mrow,” said John Stapleton.

Stunned, Douglas stood very still. John Stapleton nibbled briefly at the toe of Douglas’s left shoe, as if testing for taste. Then the cat proceeded down the hall, disappearing into the shadows.

This is nuts, thought Douglas. This night, this family, this cat, all of them are certifiable. But the cat seemed like an omen, somehow, and as Douglas washed his face and hands in the bathroom sink, as he studied his goofy haircut and took deep, weight-lifting breaths to compose himself, he thought of Nicole. He thought of the simple silver post earrings she always wore. He recalled the Melville she’d committed to memory, the respect she had for Graham Greene novels, the merciless grip she kept on her stick when she played field hockey. Her favorite film was
The Philadelphia Story,
a tough favorite to argue against. He’d heard her rail passionately against the death penalty once during an ethics class debate, and he’d seen her hold a faculty member’s baby in her arms.

“I’d like to talk to Nicole alone,” said Douglas, when he rejoined the Bonners.

“Of course you would,” said Samson.

“Alone, alone.” Paulette smiled wearily at Douglas.

“Use my study.” Samson stood up, shook Douglas’s hand.

They were alone. The study door was closed. Nicole sat on a daybed, her shoes off, her calves drawn together and to one side. Across the room Douglas sat on the edge of a wooden chair, the top crossbar of which was embossed with a crest. Douglas thought that it might be the Bonner family crest, but he didn’t ask.

Nicole cracked her knuckles. “In a minute I’m going to start calling you Douglas instead of Mr. Kerchek.”

“Oh, really?”

Nicole sighed. “Mr. Kerchek, please just listen. I’m going to say some things.”

Douglas collected his thoughts. Outside the door were a married couple on a green couch, drinking brandy, perhaps petting John Stapleton. In the study with him was a headstrong young woman.

“Mr. Kerchek,” said Nicole. “You know that I’m smart. That I can think and read well, like you could when you were nineteen. But I also know what the world is like, Mr. Kerchek.”

Douglas watched Nicole. She’s serious, he thought. She’s deadly serious.

“I know,” said Nicole. “I know how long people go in this city without finding someone to love. I’m young, but I understand loneliness, and how sad it is.” Nicole rubbed her feet. “I know a guy in this building who ties girls up to his bed because he thinks it will cure his loneliness. That’s the kind of sadness I’m talking about.”

“Fine, Nicole. But what does that have to do with us?”

Nicole put her finger to her lips. “Listen. I know I can be irrational, Douglas.”

Douglas caught his breath. He felt something in his spine, fear maybe.

“Like tonight,” said Nicole. “That King Lear business. But here’s something you probably don’t know. I saw you at the Film Forum last week.”

Douglas blushed again.

“They were showing
The Gunfighter,
with Gregory Peck. It was last Tuesday, the nine o’clock show. I saw it advertised in the paper, and I just knew you’d be there. So I went.”

Douglas tried to remember what he’d worn out that night, what candy he’d brought with him. A flannel shirt? Gummi Bears?

“I sat five rows behind you and watched your silhouette. I saw you admiring the guy who played the bartender. You know, the guy from
On the Waterfront
.”

Douglas closed his eyes. She’s right, he thought. She’s nineteen, and she’s right.

“Anyway, whether you marry me or not, this is what I want to tell you.” Nicole exhaled. “It’s no good, Douglas.”

Douglas kept his eyes closed. He was listening.

“It’s no good, the way you’re living. All those weights you lift, all those miles you run, all those movies you see. It isn’t right. It’s lonely.”

Douglas looked at her, then. He saw her curves and her temples, but something else, too, something that lived behind her eyes.

“You’re a good teacher and all, but you’re just killing time, Douglas. I can tell.”

Bullshit, thought Douglas. Then he thought, How? How am I killing it?

“I can tell from the books you assign, the ties you wear, everything.” Nicole was not chewing her hair. “You’re ready, Douglas. For
the
woman, the one you’re supposed to marry.” Nicole shrugged, just a little. “And I think she’s me. I’ve dated some guys, and I know what’s around, and—well, I just know what I want.”

“How?” blurted Douglas. His hands trembled on the snifter, so he put it down. He felt like he might weep, but he refused to. “How . . . are you saying all this?”

“I just am.” Nicole gazed at her teacher.

“Are you in—” Douglas changed phrases. “Do you love me?”

Nicole petted her neck, sipped her brandy. “Look. I’ve got Princeton to go to. And I’ve got that huge heirloom library out there to read. I’m just saying that you should have a woman with you at the movies, and she should be me. I’m ready for her to be me.”

Douglas couldn’t sit still any longer. He stood up and paced, the way he always had in the locker room before a fight. He wanted to shout or punch or be punched. He wanted something reliable, something he knew the feeling of. He stalked over to Nicole, unsure of what to do.

“Easy, Douglas.” Nicole moved back on the daybed.

“No.” Douglas shook his head, kept pacing. “No ‘Easy, Douglas.’ You have to tell me something, here. I’m thirty-one, and I’m—I’m your
teacher,
for Christ’s sake. I mean—is this—look, answer me, now, Nicole.”

“Okay,” she whispered. “I will.”

“Is this real? I mean, are you . . . in love with me?”

“I’m ready to be,” said Nicole. “And I mean this as a compliment, but I’ve got nothing better to do.”

Douglas stopped pacing. “I’m going crazy,” he said softly. “I’m standing here, solidly, on my own two feet and I’m going crazy.”

Nicole smiled. She took his hand.

“Listen,” she said. “I have the prom in a month, which my cousin Fred’s escorting me to, and graduation’s two weeks after that. It’ll be hectic for a bit, but as of the first week of June I’m prepared to become completely infatuated with you.”

Douglas laughed out loud, once, at the practicality in her voice. He thought of his mother, of Chiapas and the Mexicans, of the unbroken chain of essays that he’d corrected for the past six years. There might have been a thousand of those essays. And there might have been a time in history when all people spoke like Nicole Bonner.

“I can commute to Princeton,” explained Nicole, “or else just come back to you on weekends. My family’s a little eccentric, and I am, too, but—well, there it is. What do you think?”

Douglas pulled Nicole to her feet. He felt giddy, vicious. He didn’t know what he felt. Like an animal he set his teeth for one last stand.

“Nicole.” His voice was low, almost mean.

“Yes?”

“I’m—I’m only going to ask you this once more.”

“All right.”

“If you’re kidding about all this, and you tell me tomorrow that you’re kidding, then I’ll—I’ll . . .” Douglas clenched and unclenched his fists.

“I’m not kidding,” said Nicole.

Douglas looked out the window at New York City. He looked back at Nicole.

“You’re sure?”

Nicole reached up, trailed one hand lightly over Douglas’s haircut.

“Domestic short hair,” she whispered.

Douglas took both her hands in his. He was beaming. He felt slightly nauseous. “All right. All right, if you’re serious, then I want you to do something for me.”

Nicole frowned. “No sex till we’re hitched. A kiss, maybe.”

“Be quiet and listen.” Douglas’s voice quavered with pleasure. “I don’t want you to kiss me. I want you to hit me.”

“What?”

Douglas couldn’t keep the grin, the old, triumphant sass, off his face.

“I want you to punch me in the stomach as hard as you can.”

Nicole stepped away. “You’re insane.”

“No.” Douglas took her by the shoulders, squared her off facing him. “Trust me. If you do this, I’ll know that we’re—I’ll just know.”

Nicole laughed, just a little. “You’re a freak.”

“Hit me.”

Nicole angled her head to one side. “You’re serious.”

“Give me your hand.”

Nicole held out her right palm.

“Make a fist. No, like this, with your thumb outside. Good.”

“How do you know how—”

“Shut up and hit me.” Douglas sneered at her. “Come on. Let’s see what you got.”

A wicked joy stole over Nicole’s face. “You better watch it.”

“Hit me.”

“I’ll do it, Douglas,” she warned.

“Go ahead.”

Nicole drew her fist back to her hip. Her eyes checked the door that was hiding her parents. She looked to Douglas as if she would erupt with laughter, or something else, something he couldn’t predict.

“Come on, punk,” Douglas dared her, and that was it. Nicole shot her fist forward and showed him what he, what the both of them, were in for.

Leonard Bunce wanted one woman, but he planned to use another. Leonard worked in Manhattan, as a lawyer for Spuck and Hardison. The two women were paralegals for the firm. The woman Leonard wanted was Hannah Glorybrook, and the one he planned to use was Alison Shippers.

Alison was five foot three and thirty-five years old. She was plump, busty, and strong in her body, but shy around men. She’d grown up in Maine, and she looked built for lighthouse keeping or work in a cannery. She had an apartment in Gramercy Park, and she wore suits to the office that did not capitalize on her womanhood. On Thursday nights Alison treated herself to sushi, her one urban indulgence, then gave herself a mudpack and watched television. On Saturday nights Alison wept herself to sleep.

Hannah Glorybrook worked two cubicles away from Alison. Hannah was a blond, graceful five foot seven, with sharp cheekbones and a come-hither gap between her two front teeth. She was twenty-six, and an only child. Her mother was dead, her skin was perfect, and her father owned Glorybrook Perfumes and Cosmetics, an expensive, successful line of products sold in New York and Paris. Hannah had the kind of body for which such goods are forged. Whether she had tousled hair or pigtails, whether she wore a gown or a rain slicker, Hannah charmed the streets of Manhattan. She consented to the trap of her good looks and trimmed herself daily in black seductions: berets, dresses, thigh-high stockings, buttoned-up vests. Hannah held a degree in political science from Tufts, and she was rich from her father’s most famous perfume, Serendipity, which she wore daily. She’d worked six months at Spuck and Hardison, where she did her paperwork, then read novels at lunch. At night and on weekends she drank beer and wore sixties-style black-rimmed glasses that made her look savvy and feline.

Meanwhile, Leonard Bunce was a bitter bachelor. He was forty-three. In high school he’d collected trophies in quiz-bowl contests. He aced college, won a Rhodes scholarship, and was now one of Spuck and Hardison’s premier trial lawyers. Leonard’s bitterness, however, didn’t rise from intellectual condescension. It stemmed from a giant birthmark on his right temple. This birthmark was a red, raised splash of skin that made it seem as if Leonard’s brains were exploding out of his skull and leaking down into his right eye. Leonard hated his birthmark, and the women and friendships he was sure it had cost him, the privileges and challenges it afforded him. It nauseated Leonard to stare into a juror’s eyes and see sympathy for his client building or dying as a result of his own visage. It sickened Leonard to believe that Hannah Glorybrook, the bombshell on the fourth floor, would never lavish her ecstasies upon him because of a physical branding he couldn’t control. Whether the world, and women in particular, deserved Leonard’s suspicions or not didn’t change Leonard’s demeanor. He curled his lip at beauty and truth, always wanting to conquer and wield them, never confident that he could.