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Pool Night, Part 2 of 3
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
"So do I get a guided tour of the house?" Monica asks. She
stands up and holds the wineglass close against her chest and
begins to look around the room.
"There's not much to see. It's a small house." The house
is a long-term lease from a friend in the English Department who
has moved to Africa, where he is teaching Kenyan students about
James Joyce and William Faulkner. He still makes payments on the
house, and I reimburse him each month. People have asked why I
do not go ahead and buy the house, but I cannot tell them the
answer. Perhaps I am looking for something else, perhaps not. I
do not know, but my problem may be that buying a house would be
an admission of failure in my marriage. I do not know. "I
thought we could barbecue some steaks for dinner," I say.
"Neat. Lead on."
We go out into the backyard, where I have already prepared
the gas grill and have the steaks in an ice chest next to the
grill. The steaks are marinating in teryaki sauce and a little
garlic. "I didn't tell you about the pool, did I?" I ask.
She seems impressed by the pool. She goes to a lounge chair
and sits on the edge sipping her wine. "No, you didn't. If I'd
known I could have brought a suit." She is pretty, with long red
hair tied at the back in a loose ponytail, and her eyes are
green, much like the cat's.
"I thought my daughter could have friends over," I say. I
turn away from her and open the grill. "How do you like your
steak?"
"Medium-well, I guess. I'm not much into meat."
I turn back to her. "We could go out, if you like. Or
there's salad. Lots of salad. A big bowl."
She laughs and shakes her head. "I live in the dorm, and
the meat there is soybean. It's really gross. I love steak."
She stands up. "Mind if I get another glass of wine?" She holds
the glass out; it's nearly empty.
"Sure, it's in the refrigerator."
She starts toward the sliding door, then stops and turns.
"Would you like something?" Her cutoffs are short, and in the
late-afternoon light I can see very fine reddish-blond hairs on
her thighs glowing like tiny fires.
"No." I hold up my glass, which I've barely touched.
"There's a bottle of something in the cabinet under the sink."
She stands there looking at me. "I think the corkscrew is in the
silverware drawer," I say.
"Okay," she says, and leaves into the house.
The grill is easy to use. Turn on the gas and get the heavy
cast-iron grill part hot, then put on the steaks. But for some
reason tonight it won't start. I use up half a box of matches
before I realize the gas is barely on, so I reach down and open
the valve on the tank a little further. This cures the problem,
and when Monica gets back the fire is started and I'm getting the
steaks out of the plastic container in the ice chest. Below the
ice are twelve cans of beer which I bought earlier in the day.
"Why don't I put this on ice and then we won't have to go
inside until it's time to eat," she says. She's got a bottle of
Burgundy and the corkscrew.
"Burgundy doesn't need to be too cool," I say. "But it's so
warm outside it wouldn't hurt to put it on top of the ice."
"You've got beer, too," she says when she kneels down to put
the wine away. Her legs are strong and well-shaped. She's a
beautiful girl.
"Yeah. The beer. I didn't know what you'd like, and then I
forgot it was here until I got the steaks out."
She stands up and looks at me. "You're not going to try
getting me drunk, are you, David?" She must understand from my
return look that this is not the case, because then she winks and
says, "I was just kidding. You wouldn't do something like that,
would you?"
"No," I say, but if the regents found out about Monica's
visit, this would be the first thing on their minds. "I just
figured you're used to beer at parties and things," I tell her.
The steaks are beginning to sizzle, and this gives me the
opportunity to check them with the long-tined fork.
"Yeah, beer's okay, but wine's sort of . . . more
sophisticated, somehow."
"I like wine, but I don't drink much of it. It's for
company." The two bottles have been here for over two months; I
opened the Zinfandel two weeks ago and drank it with a microwave
dinner. "The white's been opened for a while," I say. "How is
it?"
She sits on the lounge chair again. "I wouldn't know if
it's good or not, really. I don't drink it too often."
"The steaks will be ready in a little bit," I say. "If
you'll watch them for just a minute I'll go get the salad.
Unless you'd like to eat inside, that is."
"It's nice out here. Let's stay."
Inside I get the salad bowl and set it on the kitchen
counter. The cat jumps up and puts her nose to the plastic wrap
covering the top, and I say "No, kitty. No, Scarlett," and the
cat looks at me and meows. I get her some dry food from the
cabinet above the sink and pour some into her bowl. She jumps
down and sniffs at the food, then looks up at me and opens her
mouth as if she's going to say something, but she doesn't. The
phone rings, and it startles me. I get the wall phone and
answer, "Lear residence."
"Daddy? I just wanted to call and ask if everything was
okay."
"Sure, baby. Things are fine. Why should you worry?" I
feel good to think she's concerned about me, but her tone makes
me feel like a child.
"I was just wondering," she says. There's another voice on
her end, in the background, and she says something soft which I
don't catch. "I met your friend when I was there a little while
ago. She's kind of young, isn't she?"
"She's not a student, if that's what you're thinking," I
say. I am not lying to her. Monica is an ex-student now.
"We're just about to have dinner, in fact." I realize I'm not
making much sense, but I don't want my daughter talking to me
right now. "I thought you and Kevin had a date tonight. What
happened?" I ask.
"We're here at the house. Mother offered to cook dinner,
and then we're going to play Monopoly or something."
"That's good. In fact, if I don't get outside and check the
steaks we'll have to go out to eat, so I'd better let you get
back to what you were doing." The cat has wandered off
somewhere, and I want to go ahead and get the salad outside.
"Be careful, Daddy."
"I will, baby. Tell your mother hello for me."
"She knows I called you. She doesn't hate you, you know?"
There's a plaintive quality to her voice when she says this, and
I am sorry all over for not being with them. I want to apologize
somehow, but I do not know how. For the last two years of my
marriage I had trouble communicating with my wife, and Mandy was
trapped in the position of mediator and messenger, always having
to translate for us.
"I'm glad you told her. I don't want you to have to feel
guilty about being in touch with me." I think she's crying, but
maybe it's just something in the line. "And if you want to come
out here with your friends or anything," I say, "you can use the
pool for a party or something."
"I'd like that, Daddy. Take care, huh? Please?"
"I will." I make a kissing noise into the receiver, only it
comes out like a slurp. "Bye, honey," I say, and the line goes
dead. I hang up before the dial tone starts and stack paper
plates and salad dressing on a tray with the bowl of salad.
When I get outside, Monica is sitting on the edge of the
pool dangling her legs in the water. She looks up and says, "The
steaks smell good. I'm starved." She stands, and I see that
water runs down in droplets off her calves, to her ankles, to the
tops of her feet. She sees me looking. "It was so warm, and the
water felt so good. You don't mind, do you?"
She is truly a beautiful girl. In class she was always
quiet, but when I asked questions she was quick with answers.
"Not a bit. I mean, not at all. That's why the pool is here."
"Let's eat," she says.
There is a small picnic table under the awning by the back
door, and we sit there to eat. I turn on the bug zapper and it
glows blue, begins almost immediately to snap and pop with the
tiny gnats and mites which fly into its grill. As we eat our
salads I have a momentary fantasy about being a bug drawn into
the machine, and I wonder whether they feel pain. While I think
this I look up at Monica sitting there across from me, her jaws
working gently on lettuce and tomato and radishes. "I'll get the
steaks," I say.
The grill has been off during salad, but the meat is still
hot, and I serve the small T-bones on paper plates. Monica cuts
off a small piece and holds it on the fork in front of her lips,
purses them, and blows on the meat, as if blowing a kiss, then
puts the piece in her mouth and chews with her eyes closed.
"It's perfect," she says. The expression on her face says this
is so. She cuts more and eats, and we don't talk, we just eat
and sip wine and look up at each other occasionally.
I finish my steak first. "Would you like something else? I
could run down to the store and get some pie or ice cream." She
is just finishing, dabbing at her lips with a paper napkin. "I'm
not prepared so well. I'm not used to company."
She stands and begins stacking up the paper plates. "Why
don't you make yourself comfortable," she says. "I'll go do the
dishes." She giggles. "Pour us a glass of wine. Sit down and
relax. I'm not running off."
I start to protest, but she touches my shoulder and nudges
me in the direction of the lounge chairs. When she's gone I pour
wine and leave her glass on the table. I sit down and watch the
water. The outdoor lights have come on, and they glow softly.
Insects flit in and out of the light like tracer bullets in a war
movie. The lights are small, more for atmosphere than
illumination, I suppose. They highlight the pebbles imbedded in
the concrete around the pool, but then the lights go off, leaving
only the glow of the pool's underwater lights. I start to rise,
but Monica comes out and gets the glass of wine from the table.
She sits in the lounge next to me. She tilts her glass back and
takes a long sip. "I found the light switch," she says. "I
always liked the way a pool shines at night."
"I sit out here sometimes and watch the water. It's very
peaceful," I say. There are a few small, white clouds moving in
from the east, and I wonder if it's going to rain. "I hoped my
daughter Mandy and her friends would come out and use the pool."
"I know," she says. I look at her. "You mentioned that
before, David."
"Yes." As I answer I have a momentary thought of Mandy and
her friends from the high school splashing in the water of the
pool, while her mother and I sit back and watch them, then we get
up to serve sodas and sandwiches. "I'm not thinking too well
lately," I say. "Or maybe it's just the wine."
She stretches, her arms extended fully like a cat's legs
when it's getting up from a nap, and the cotton blouse rides back
up over her shoulders, then goes back into position when her arms
are down. "I feel . . . delicious," she says. "The water felt
really good earlier. I'd love a swim."
I look at the water. The surface is calm, broken only by
the slight breeze blowing over the wooden privacy fence. "It's
too bad you don't have a suit," I say. "And besides, you should
never swim on a full stomach."
...to be continued
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