Enemy queen, p.5
Enemy Queen, page 5
“Tell me the story, Counselor. I’ll pour you another glass.”
“The law firm had this deal with a gymnasium in the building next door,” I said. “The employees of the law firm could use the gym free on weekdays. So I’d go over there on my lunch hours.”
“You were keeping fit even then,” the professor said.
I sipped some more of the sangiovese. The wine had opened a bit as it sat in the uncorked bottle; the second glass was fuller, richer.
“Our firm had a receptionist,” I said. “She was always at the desk in the lobby when you walked in. This woman was drop-dead gorgeous, Professor. Long, wavy black hair, skintight dresses, fantastic breasts, lovely face. Her last name was something Italian. I can’t remember exactly.”
“How fitting that we’re drinking sangiovese tonight, Counselor.”
“I remember the very first time I went into that building, for my initial interview. I had to wait there in the lobby for about half an hour until the attorney who was interviewing me freed up. That receptionist was so sweet. She came out from behind her desk and walked over to where I was sitting. She leaned over and asked me if she could do anything for me while I waited. God, that conjured up images.”
“But I’m sure you just said, ‘No, I’m fine.’”
“Exactly.” I laughed.
The professor poured a bit more wine into both our glasses.
“So one day I went to the gym during my lunch hour, and there she was, working out, wearing a slinky black leotard, making the rounds of the weight machines. God!” I closed my eyes in recollection. “That woman was ravishing!”
“Go on, Counselor.”
I drank a bit more wine.
“So I’m working out, trying to use machines that allowed me to watch her out of the corner of my eye as I did my reps. Then she went to the bench-press machine. And she lay down on her back, to do her lifts. Usually people put a towel down on the bench before they use it, but she didn’t. And when she was done, and she got up, there was a pool of perspiration glimmering on the black bench, kind of in the shape of her body. And I couldn’t help myself, Counselor. As soon as she got up, I had to go right over there and use that machine, and lie down right there in her sweat. It was almost as if I were touching her. I could feel her. I could smell her.”
I HEARD THE professor and Big Al returning from hunting. They were downstairs now, talking and munching on something. I walked down the stairs to join them. As I suspected, they were standing at the kitchen counter, drinking bourbon and sharing a bowl of peanuts. I hadn’t heard either one of them wash his hands, so I made a mental note to stay away from the nuts.
“Ah, good to see you, Counselor!” the professor exclaimed, when I appeared at the bottom of the steps. “I’ll pour you a bourbon.”
“Hello, Stanley,” Big Al added. “How you doin’?”
“I’m good, thanks. But tell me, Al, how are Tiffany and Marty getting along? Is their marriage going well? I can’t help but feel some sort of responsibility about that.”
“They’re doin’ fine,” Al assured me.
The professor handed me a glass of bourbon. I took a sip. Al picked up the bowl of peanuts and held it in my direction.
“No, thanks,” I said.
“He won’t touch those peanuts if we’ve had our filthy hunting paws in ’em,” the professor said to Big Al.
“I do take hygiene somewhat seriously,” I said. “It’s just part of being a civilized human being.”
“I’m surprised you ain’t married, Stanley,” Al said. “The things most men only do when their wives are around, you do naturally. Bein’ married would be easy for you.”
“Two failed marriages suggest otherwise,” I said, smiling.
“What were you doing up in your bedroom?” the professor asked.
“Actually, both you gentlemen will be proud of me,” I said. “The light switch in my bedroom was sticking, and it got to the point where I had to flip it five or six times just to get it to catch, so I bought a new switch at the hardware store, borrowed a screwdriver and a pair of pliers from the professor’s toolbox, and replaced the switch. And it’s working!”
Al said, “I hope you flipped the circuit breakah before you—”
“Wait, let me guess,” the professor interrupted. “I bet you turned off every circuit breaker in the house, didn’t you, Counselor?”
I chuckled. “Well, of course, that’s the prudent thing to do.”
The professor put down his glass of bourbon and pointed at me. “Prudent only if you don’t know what you’re doing, Counselor. You just needed to shut off one circuit breaker. Shutting them all off was unnecessary.”
“What’s the difference? It didn’t do any harm,” I said.
“I bet you had to reset clocks all over the house,” the professor observed.
“No big deal,” I countered.
“Why don’t you just ask me to take care of these things when they come up?” the professor whined. “I don’t mind. You could hurt yourself.”
“Because I’m a Hebrew, as you like to say?”
“That’s right! And I mean that in the best possible way. This kind of thing just isn’t something you know about or are good at. You’re so good at lots of things, Counselor, just not this. Why is it so terrible to let me be your hardware goy? Why do you think that expression exists, ‘hardware goy’? Because we know more about this stuff than you do. I only offer out of love. Because I care about you, Counselor.”
I was about to say something, but Big Al started laughing loudly. “My god,” he exclaimed, “you two argue like an old married couple!” He held his drink up in our direction as if he were proposing a toast. Then he took another swig. “I think I’m just gonna go home now. I can have convahsations like this with mah own wife! You two take care.” He put his drink down and started toward the front door. The professor accompanied him and showed him out.
“Sorry, Counselor,” the professor said, as he walked back into the kitchen. “I didn’t mean to get on your case. I just have things on my mind. You drink up. I’ll go take a shower, and then we’ll play some chess.”
By the time the professor returned downstairs, I had refilled my glass a couple of times. My feelings of resentment had been sufficiently doused.
The professor retrieved his drink from the kitchen and joined me in the living room.
He took a couple of hearty gulps and leaned toward me. He paused before he spoke. “I have some news, Counselor.”
“This sounds consequential,” I said. “What’s the news?”
“I may have found a woman to be our go-between.”
“Our go-between?”
“Our goddamn go-between! Don’t you remember the conversation we had? About a woman to sleep with us, so we could have sex with each other through her?”
“My god, Professor, I thought it was drunken ramblings. You were serious?”
“Damn right I was serious. This woman is perfect. She already graduated a couple of years ago, so she’s a little older. She likes writing fiction, and she was looking for a writing group to join. She works at the same office as Al’s daughter, Tiffany, and they got to talking, and Tiffany told her that maybe she could audit one of my creative writing classes because I’m a friend of the family, and I’d let her in as a courtesy. So I did. And this woman and I spent some time together one day after class, and we had a couple of drinks, and she’s up for doing it. She’s pretty good-looking, Counselor.”
“So she’s not a student?” I reconfirmed.
“No, just a consenting adult I’m letting sit in on my writing class. So I assume that makes it legally kosher, Counselor. And you know, it really wasn’t hard to get her to do it. You remember what I told you, don’t you, about students seeing their creative writing professor as romantic and subversive?”
I pushed my now-empty glass toward the professor. “Here,” I said softly, “please fill this up again for me, will you? I have to ponder this. I really never thought you were serious.”
IT SEEMED PRUDENT to the professor and me to schedule the initial meeting in a neutral location. That small Italian restaurant with outstanding sangiovese had become a frequent haunt of late. He and I had already started on a bottle when she arrived.
“That’s her,” the professor whispered, as she entered the restaurant and scanned the tables to find us.
I was struck immediately by her appearance and carriage. It was not at all what I expected.
Because the professor had so relentlessly insisted that many of his female students saw him as a sexually alluring subversive artist, I had for that reason created an image of Victoria as a wispy, self-effacing young thing, fawning, cowering, and politely laconic.
She was none of that.
Her arms and ample hips swung confidently as she approached, producing a walk that was perhaps overly flirtatious, but if so, only just barely. Her posture was so upright it seemed to me that she might be intentionally showcasing her breasts, which were in any case so full and round that they seemed to me to merit such attention. She had a pretty, understated face and adorned it with more makeup than would most women her age; I took her to be late twenties or early thirties. Her hair was dark and long, slightly wavy, and had the look of meticulously contrived insouciance. She wore a snug black dress.
“Victoria Templeton,” she said, extending her hand daintily, wrist limp and palm down, as I stood to greet her. I took her hand, held it for a brief moment, and then released it. She turned to the professor and kissed him lightly on the cheek. He pulled her chair out, and she sat down.
I poured her a glass of sangiovese as the professor got us started.
He said, “I thought it would be nice for the three of us to meet over wine and dinner before you move in, Victoria. So you have a chance to make sure the vibe is good for you.”
“Thank you, Professor McClellan. That’s very kind.”
Her southern drawl had been barely discernible until “McClellan” rolled lyrically along her tongue. Then I heard it distinctly. I found it arousing, which surprised me.
The professor raised his hands and affected a courtly tone. “Now if the three of us are going to be sharing a house, we need to address each other informally. I’m simply called ‘Professor,’ and Stanley here is ‘Counselor.’ What would you like us to call you, Victoria?”
She cocked her head and pursed her lips. “Well, since titles seem to be a thing with y’all, I think I’d like to be called ‘Miss Vicki.’”
I chuckled. “There was a somewhat famous Miss Vicki around when I was young,” I said. “She was the teenage wife of a very bizarre singer and ukulele player named Tiny Tim. He sang in a falsetto.”
She looked at me and smiled. “I’m sorry, Counselor. The only Tiny Tim I’m familiar with is the Dickens character in A Christmas Carol.”
“Tiny Tim was long before her time, Counselor!” The professor chortled and lifted his glass for a toast. “To new memories,” he announced somewhat pompously. I dutifully picked up my wineglass. Victoria was much more enthusiastic and resoundingly clicked her glass against each of ours.
“You look very lovely this evening, Miss Vicki,” the professor said. “That black dress against your delicate pale skin plays so beautifully.” Then he turned toward me. “She does look alluring, does she not, Counselor?”
I nodded in agreement.
“Oh, Professor, you do go on!” she cooed, smiling broadly.
In my private conversations with the professor, I invariably found him articulate and astute. I had never met Victoria, so I had no preconceptions about her communication style, but it was immediately evident to me that placing the two of them together seemed to instigate unbearably pretentious prattle. I hoped this would not become the conversational norm in our home if she moved in.
I tried to conceal my discomfort. But I feared that the professor, who was anxiously conducting periodic scans of my facial expression, would soon detect my cringing despite my best efforts.
I decided that probing Victoria for some factual data was my best chance at derailing the growing inanity.
“So, Miss Vicki,” I said, leaning toward her, “tell me a bit about yourself. How are you making a living right now, and what are your goals in life?”
“Life goals?” the professor whined loudly. “No need to pounce on the poor girl, Counselor! Let her get some wine in her.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” Victoria said gleefully to the professor. “People always tell me I excel at talking about myself!” She turned back to me. “The professor explained to me that you’re an attorney and have a tendency to cross-examine people from time to time. And that’s fine. Talking about myself is never a problem.”
She paused to take a sip of wine before continuing. “What I want is to be a writer. A writer who writes ladies’ novels and has millions of readers. Like Jackie Collins or Danielle Steel. A writer of those kinds of books. My picture in People magazine now and again. A proper lady novelist. I’ve always loved those kinds of books.”
“And are you writing much now?” I asked. The professor looked at me sternly. But Victoria was focused on me and did not notice his glance.
“You see, Counselor, that’s why this arrangement that Professor McClellan came up with here is just so perfect for me. I want to be a lady writer like Collins and Steel, but I have to spend time working, and I’m usually too tired to write when I get home. That’s why the professor’s class has been a godsend for me. It’s gotten me writing again. Oh, just a short story so far. But if I move in with you fine gentlemen, and my room and board are taken care of, then I can work less and write more.” She turned to the professor and smiled coyly.
The professor chimed in: “I’ve had the privilege of reading the few pages of Miss Vicki’s story that she’s completed, and it displays great promise.” And he smiled as well.
“So you haven’t finished writing the story yet?” I asked her. The professor’s smile became a scowl as his eyes pivoted in my direction.
Victoria turned back to me. “No, I haven’t been able to finish the story because I have to work too many hours. I’ve been temping, clerk and secretary kind of work. The temp position I have right now is thirty-five hours a week, Counselor. With the commute and all, I’m just too tired to write when I get home. But if I didn’t have to worry about room and board, then I could find a gig for just maybe ten hours a week. You know, for spending money for clothes and makeup and a few pretty things here and there. And then I could be a proper lady writer.”
“And the temp job is where you met Al’s daughter, Tiffany, and then Tiffany introduced you to the professor?”
“That’s right! What a godsend his class has been. It’s gotten me writing again.”
She drank some more wine and looked back to the professor. “Oh, tell me again how my pale skin plays off my black dress, Professor McClellan. That was so poetic, the way you put it.”
I HAD NOT set the alarm the night before and had fallen asleep effortlessly, relishing the idea of lounging in bed Saturday morning.
But the ring of a cell phone jarred me awake. It was not my phone. It was the professor’s. His room was a ways down the hall from mine, and both our doors were closed, but I heard it ring clearly nonetheless. I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. It was just after six and still dark out.
I tried to go back to sleep, but the professor was rustling about, first in the bathroom, which was adjacent to my bedroom, and then downstairs in the kitchen. So I threw on jeans and a sweatshirt, subjected my teeth to a quick cursory brushing for politeness, and traipsed down the steps to join him.
He was frying up some eggs and bacon, and sipping on what looked like a tall glass of orange juice. But there was an open bottle of vodka on the counter, so I surmised he had mixed himself a screwdriver.
“Vodka so early, Professor?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Who the hell was on the phone at this hour?”
“Miss Vicki.”
I looked at him but said nothing.
“Let me mix you a screwdriver,” he said.
The professor and I had deemed our meeting with Victoria a couple of nights earlier to have gone reasonably well. So Miss Vicki had been invited to our home for a second get-together this evening. The plan was that she’d join us for dinner and stay the night. If we all felt comfortable with it, the three of us would attempt our first sexual liaison, and evaluate the experience the next morning over breakfast.
The professor handed me a tall screwdriver. I took a sip. It was uncommonly strong. I took that as a portent of what he had to tell me.
“Did she cancel?” I asked.
“No, not at all, Counselor. In fact she expanded our agenda just a tad.”
“Expanded?” I had by now acclimated to my drink’s sharp edge, and took a few hearty gulps.
“Victoria called to confirm her understanding that we currently had no pets in the house.”
“Pets?”
“Yes, Counselor, pets. She thought it would be nice to have one. She’s been sharing a small apartment with a couple of roommates and hasn’t been able to keep an animal. Now that she’s moving into what she characterized as ‘a big roomy house,’ she thought it would be a nice idea.”
I had a few more swigs of the screwdriver. “Well, Professor,” I said, and took a moment to reconfirm my thought before continuing, “I actually wouldn’t mind a dog. I had one as a kid. I suppose Victoria would be around to walk the thing during the day. You know, a dog sitting at your feet when you’re playing chess can be quite relaxing. And I suppose you could take it hunting, Professor.”
“She wasn’t talking about a dog, Counselor.”
“Oh no!” I exclaimed, and slammed my drink down on the counter. “Not a cat! We cannot have a cat. Have you ever seen a cat around a chessboard? They wreak havoc with a chessboard, Professor. You and me, our whole friendship, it began when we met at the university chess club. Chess is integral to who we are. We cannot put that in jeopardy.”
