If she wrote an advice book for women, it would basically say: Tell men what they want to hear. What they think they want to hear. But it wouldn’t do anyone any good, because most women aren’t her. It’s not her looks or her body. Her looks are only slightly above average, her body didn’t come into its own until she had all those long empty days to exercise. Besides, she would never invest so heavily in a commodity that won’t last forever. It’s how she is on the inside that makes her different from other women. She fixes her gaze on the goal and never loses sight of it.
The goal is never a man. Never. Men are the stones she jumps to, one after another, toward the goal. She’s getting closer. Thank God she’s patient. She never figured this to take so long, but you can’t plan for every contingency.
And now she’s thrown a monkey wrench into her own works. But he’s planning to leave this fall and that suits her just fine. She’ll have moved on by then, too.
He eats the eggs from the pan, standing up. She starts kissing him again, but gentle, sweet ones, as if she doesn’t know where it’s going to go. She doesn’t want him to think, I’m being rewarded. If he makes the conscious connection, that’s no good. Moaning, he picks her up, carries her back to the bedroom, tosses her on the bed. The sheets are damp, almost as if dew has fallen on them. She’s going to have to get to the Laundromat at some point today.
The morning is warm, but not unbearable, not yet. She doesn’t have AC, not even in the bedroom, only a box fan in the window. Set to high, it’s loud enough to drown out the noise he’s about to start making.
She asks innocently, “Don’t you want coffee? I can—” Then lets him cover her with him. There’s always a quick moment of panic when a man is on top of her, but she gets through it.
“One more thing,” she tells him, not sure if he’s the kind of guy who can hear or understand anything at this point. “At work, we’re a secret. Which means we’re a secret in this town. This will be the last time you leave my place in daylight.”
He grunts. A yes? She’s pretty sure he would agree to anything she said right now.
*
By the end of the week, Cath’s eyes are red all the time, just big and sad and wretched looking. Polly takes her into the bathroom for a confidential talk.
“Adam won’t even speak to me,” she sobs, sitting on the closed toilet. “I think he’s seeing someone else, but he says no. He acts like he doesn’t owe me anything. It’s like we were never together at all.”
“Men,” Polly says, tearing off a piece of toilet paper and handing it to her. “You’re better off without that asshole. He probably thinks he’s being kind, but this is anything but.”
13
Adam tries to tell himself that Plan B is superior to Plan A in every way. No, he shouldn’t be sleeping with her, but she’s the one who wants to keep it a secret. He didn’t see that coming. Most women like to stake their claim publicly. His client doesn’t have to know that he’s crossed the line. His client won’t care, as long as the job gets done.
Adam’s the one who cares. He’s an ethical guy. He’s never done anything like this. But he can’t stop. When he leaves her at 3 a.m., 4 a.m., never later than 5 a.m., he sometimes has trouble remembering why he was supposed to get to know her in the first place.
And although his client doesn’t have a clue what’s going on, he’s not exactly pleased with Adam.
“What’s taking so long?” the client demands in their next phone call.
“First of all, this whole thing is an improvisation, right? If I didn’t get a job in that place, I couldn’t keep tabs on her.”
“But you must have learned something, working alongside her.”
Working alongside her. Sure, let’s call it that.
“She doesn’t talk much,” Adam says. “And she doesn’t have a car. So unless it’s stashed somewhere here in Belleville—”
“That’s an idea.”
“No. She’s never been here before in her life.”
“I thought you said she didn’t talk.”
“Doesn’t talk much. Some things come up.”
He has started using the pay phone outside the motel to call his client, just in case the phone in his room isn’t secure. Not that he thinks anyone has him bugged, but he has to assume the front desk has records of the numbers he calls, even if it’s billed to his calling card. It costs too much to use the mobile and that’s what a straight shooter he is, has always been. He doesn’t run up costs no matter how deep the client’s pockets. He is ethical, he reminds himself, under the red hood that shields the pay phone from the elements. It’s not a full-on phone booth, but it provides all the privacy he needs. There’s nothing weird about being a guy who uses a public phone, right?
Monday. He has the night off. She doesn’t. He tries to ignore the feeling that is demanding to be heard, this feeling that he can’t wait until her shift ends. He no longer walks her home, of course, and she doesn’t let him come over every night. He pretends that’s mutual, that they both want a little space. They have devised a system, their own one if by land, two if by sea. If they’re working the same shift, she passes a fake check to him—Adam and Eve on a raft, whiskey down. That means come over. He told her to use that because no one in this place ever orders poached eggs with rye toast.