Jason groaned and covered his eyes with his hands. The light hurt. His innards were on a roller-coaster ride, and when he lifted his head, the ceiling spun. He let it back down gently and tried not to move.
It seemed to him, as he replayed his mounting enjoyment, that he had drunk most of those three bottles of wine. Wagman kept pouring. Whenever his glass got down, there was that bottle, tipped over its top. At the time, he’d felt nothing but elation. Now, he was goddam mad.
Was this any more legal than doping a girl on a date and raping the semi-sleeping victim? Wagman got him drunk and made off with his wife.
His wife. Sickeningly, he turned his throbbing head to look at her. Sleeping not just peacefully, but ecstatically, a beatific smile on her face. That should make him happy, but in this case, what was good for the goose was not good for the gander.
Wagman wanted to send her to Washington. She’d gone on about it all the way home. How exciting it was. How much good she could do. That was the big focus – how much good she could do for everyone else in the world but him.
What about the children? he’d asked her, cruel as she claimed his question to be. And he knew it, because here was the contradiction. She was going out to fight for other people’s children and to do it she was ready to sacrifice her own.
“They’ll be fine,” she said. “They have two parents.” Pause. Silence. “Don’t they, Jase? Don’t they have two parents?”
Jase? When was the last time she’d called him that? It was before the last time they ate at The Orange Duck. She must really want this bad. That made it worse. He was inadequate. That was it; he hadn’t satisfied her, hadn’t given her enough of a life. She wanted more, and another man was going to provide it.
How was this any better than having an affair? She was going to neglect her family, go off to dinners with other people, have her good time with them, tire herself out so she couldn’t have one with him, and yeah – what about the children? He knew damn well. They needed a nanny, and he was it.
He didn’t want to look at her anymore, smiling there in her sleep.
Who was she smiling at, he wondered. Herself or Wagman? With whom was she more pleased? It didn’t matter; it wasn’t him. She was angry at him. Said he wanted to stand in the way of her using herself for the public good.
The public be damned. What about him?
Was he being unfair? He didn’t think so. His job was nowhere near as rewarding as hers. It wasn’t fun. Hers was. She was with people all day. He was with spreadsheets.
And what about the way it was done? Wagman had sicked his wife on him. And it had worked. Nutty Nina had sucked him in with her pseudo-philosophy and her, now, the morning after, he could see, long elaborate anecdotes meant to keep his attention riveted on her so he wouldn’t notice Big Bill raping his wife over there on the other half of the table.
Why had she told him all those personal stories? That awful one about her son. How embarrassing. Why had he listened? He had a flashback of the bottle of wine. The second? The third? Hell, they could have rung in a fourth – he wouldn’t know.
And what was that thing she’d done to him? Something with her hand on the back of his neck… he couldn‘t remember. Just that it put him in another dimension. Oh, right. Just another dimension, that’s all. What the hell else had that woman done? Why was he thinking of her?
If he hadn’t been out of mind, they never would have been able to pull it off.
His stomach surged. He sat up. That was worse. He lay back down again, scrunched the pillow under one ear and curled up around his misery. He would never drink again.
- - -
And she would be; he knew. The way she looked at him, with those shining eyes and that exulting expression on her face. That could not possibly have been brought about by the line he was feeding her, though the line, he had to admit, was very good – perfectly suited to her.
When he asked her to think about the huge difference she’d make if she could get to the place where they passed the laws, how much easier it would be to give children what they needed if she were the one, figuratively, who signed the checks.
Where she was, there was no doubt, she did excellent work, but it was for a few, a very few of the advantaged who had plenty without her. What about all those thousands, millions, no one was helping? She could be the one.
She was so good at getting into people’s minds, at teaching them, he’d said – that there was, as she seemed to have sensed, a movement abroad to draft her for Special Ed. He’d been trying to quash it, since he knew regular children were important too, not to mention the gifted, but… he’d lifted his hands wide to indicate helplessness. That was to take care of any qualms she might have about leaving the school, should she get elected.
What else would she do not to have to teach Special Ed? That would be a good place to start his fantasy. He closed his eyes. And you may close the door so the children don’t barge in.
She would, after he’d persuaded her that he was open to negotiation, slowly begin to unbutton the jacket of that terrible suit she’d worn to their meeting at school. Slowly, very slowly. Looking at him with trepidation, her fingers shaking.
“Take it easy,” he said, “nothing I haven’t seen before.” Hell, he sounded like a doctor. He’d have to remember that one, try it sometime. But some other time. He liked this.
She smiled. That was better. He knew she wasn’t a cold fish, she was too much fun. Let’s have a little fun. She’s on the last button. That look of humiliation is gone. Put it back – it thrilled him. He was going to rescue her – not from Special Ed, but from her prim and properness.
She removes the jacket like a librarian and hangs it on her chair.
“The blouse,” he says, his voice husky with phlegm. He’s beginning to affect himself. She’s better than he thought.
Slowly again, she unbuttons the blouse. (Don’t skip ahead; it won’t be long now; you can wait.) He anticipates the bra, but there is no bra. She lets the blouse slide off her shoulders, and there in front of him are two of the cutest little cupcake-style breasts he has ever seen. She puts her hands under them, and offers them up. He moves closer to the desk, leans over, and takes one in his mouth. She helps it in, still holding the other one up for its turn. He licks one, then the other. He takes the niblets in his mouth one at a time and tickles them with his tongue. She moans.
Little Willy stands up straight and tall. And very big around. He’s poking through the hand. Down boy, down. We’re not ready yet.
But it’s too late. He’s spurting his appreciation all over the place. Nina’s going to kill him. He’s supposed to use something – a tissue if nothing else. Like that would hold it. Not with a temptress like this one. She’s a tease. She wants it, he realizes. This is the real Brenda Shapiro. If she hadn’t been willing, he never would have been able to make her act like this. He has scruples, you know.
