Wild Things (10 page)

Where was the scholar, the writer, the woman who found joy in the past, who taught with such happiness? Why did my mind turn to teen years,
when self-identity is so fragile and unformed? Before Renee showed me how to hate myself? Long before I became someone I could admire?

"Faith?" Eric leaned forward and touched my knee. "Where did you go?"

I fought down a blush and glanced from him to Sydney, who had gotten up from her pillow to add more chocolate sprinkles to her cappuccino. My throat began to ache and I knew that if I blinked they would see the tears I didn't want to acknowledge. "Sorry," I mumbled. I sipped my cappuccino and made myself breathe deeply. "I didn't think that would be a difficult question for me to answer."

Eric put his arm around me and said, "You don't have to answer."

"Certainly not," Sydney said, sitting down on the arm of my chair. "I'm sorry I asked."

"Don't be." I pushed myself gently away from Eric, feeling steadied by his undemanding physical support. 'You hit a nerve I didn't know I had. I don't think — I don't think I fit in my family."

"Why not?" Sydney looked into my eyes without flinching. "Are you so different?"

"I couldn't tell you if it's me or them." A lie. I was the different one. The unnatural one. "I've been meaning to tell you, Eric, that I've gotten my own apartment."

Eric gave me an intent look, then his gaze seemed to turn inward.

"You live at home," Sydney said, not really a question.

"I'm a good Catholic daughter," I said. "At least I was."

Eric patted my knee again and settled back into
the sofa. I had felt warm and comforted while he held me. His arms were a safe place. Sydney still sat on the arm of my chair, making my nerves prickle. I looked up at her, and I knew she was dangerous.

"You still are," she said, gazing down at me. "You owe it to your parents to use the life they gave you. To not do what your heart calls you to do holds them in contempt. It holds God in contempt."

I swallowed painfully, then managed a weak smile. "You'd be dynamic in a pulpit."

She didn't answer or move for a moment, then pushed her hair back in a nervous gesture. "It's the politician in me," she said. "Politics is part preaching and part peddling." She stood up and stretched. "How'd we get so maudlin?"

"Faith started it," Eric said. "It's the historian in her. Piercing questions and always looking for cause and effect."

"Feel like a game of pool?" Sydney asked. "I never get to play these days." It took all my strength of will not to watch her cross the room.

Eric looked at me and I nodded, eager to have their attention away from me. I tried hard to act as naturally as possible, but inside I was trembling and only a few heartbeats away from panic.

The game room was off a wide hallway that divided the rear half of the floor in half again. Sydney waved to the left. "Guest suite is the first door. The master suite is back there. And behind that door is a great deal of exercise equipment I don't have time to use. I haven't found a use for these rooms on the right, but I put the pool table back in this corner for the view."

What a view it was. We were looking away from
the lake. To the west the sprawl of Chicago glittered unbroken as far as the horizon. To the southwest was downtown Chicago with most of the buildings dwarfed by the final looming presence of the Sears Tower. Closer to us the Water Tower and Hancock Center twinkled, and the Eisenhower Expressway, never empty, gleamed with headlights.

Then Sydney switched the lights on in the room and I caught my breath. She looked at me with a pleased smile.

"She did a nice job, didn't she?" Eric sounded proud.

"I'm... agog." I said. "It looks like Rick's Place in
Casablanca."

Sydney grinned and Eric applauded. "Thank you for the compliment! Pick a cue," she said.

"I've never played before," I admitted. They both offered to help and racked up a noncompetitive game punctuated with explanations of where Sydney had found the cabana ceiling fans, the old mahogany bar complete with brass footrests, and the white baby grand piano. Eric had helped with the structural modifications necessary to support the weight of the bar and the spa in the master suite.

Inevitably, Eric helped me with my pool shots. Another man might have made something of the opportunities to put his arms around me from behind, positioning my hands just so, helping me sight along the cue, but I never felt flustered by his nearness. Rather I felt the same security I'd felt earlier. It was pleasant, and I accepted the comfort of it. I could go on this way with him. It would be so different than with Renee, but I would be happy. It would be so easy to be happy with him.

Eric excused himself for a few minutes, and Sydney took her next shot. She missed and left me with a not-so-easy opportunity with the 7-ball.

"Are you sure you want to do that? The two is a better possibility."

I looked at the relative positions and said, "Wouldn't I have to bank the shot?" I knew I'd never make it.

"Yes, but the cue position's not difficult. Like this."

Just as Eric had, she came around to my side and put her arms around me from behind. Her arms weren't as long as Eric's, so her body pressed against mine. Her hands wrapped around mine on the cue and then she let go to tip my head. She sighted along the cue, her cheek to mine. When she spoke, her Breath swirled around my ear. "That should do it. Smack the cue ball sharply, but not hard."

I drew the cue slowly back, not wanting to end the moment. Why was this feeling of Sydney next to me so different from the feeling of Eric? I felt her breasts against my side and the heat of her breath whispering past my ear, and I wanted more. After what seemed like an eternity of filling my head with the scent of her hair, I gave the cue ball what I hoped was a smack. We held our positions as it flew across the table, ricocheted, and tapped the 2-ball into the side pocket.

"Good shot," Eric said from the doorway.

Sydney stood up slowly saying "But of course" while I resisted the urge to leap guiltily to my feet. Fortunately, Eric came to the table to study his shot and thankfully didn't notice my blushing cheeks.

The rest of the game was uneventful, but the
damage to my self-image was irreparable. I didn't know who I was anymore, and I felt high. Renee had liked to smoke pot after sex, and it had left me blurry and the edges of my memory soft. This high was sharp and crystal clear. Everything about Sydney was a bright sparkle, and I memorized the freckle where her throat met her shoulder. Her left earlobe had an extra crinkle. When she pushed up her sweater sleeves, I took note of the light brown down on her forearms.

We said goodnight with laughter and a promise from Eric to have Sydney over to dinner as soon as he got back from his next business trip. It was unspoken but understood that Eric's invitation came from both of us, and I knew that the evening had significantly moved Eric and me closer together in his mind.

I had never felt so apart from him as I did when he drove me home. I felt like a fraud and didn't know what to do. He saw me to the door and kissed me lightly on the lips.

"Do you need help moving or anything? I'm sorry I'll be gone."

"No, I'll be fine. I really don't have that much."

"Leave the phone number with my service as soon as you get it so I can call you." He looked down at me with a tenderness that alarmed me. "Will you miss me while I'm in Hong Kong?"

"Yes," I said honestly. I would.

"Good," he said, giving me another kiss. "Miss me every day, please."

I pushed him away playfully and watched him get into his car. It would be so easy to love him. Easier if I still didn't feel the heat of Sydney's touch.

5

A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak

— Ecclesiastes 3:7

Sydney stared at the phone. She hadn't felt this way in a long time. She should be working, but she had found herself staring into space again, trying hard to think about nothing.

Thinking about nothing was better than thinking about Faith. She'd been struggling with too persistent memories of Faith all week. Cheryl had noticed her distraction. Even John, who tended to notice little unless it pertained to him, had told her to buckle down. She was almost never distracted, and that's why they noticed.

Thinking about nothing was easier in a bar. It was easy to be alone in a bar, easy to clear your mind and just let the time pass with the help of a smooth single malt. Even though she wanted a drink just about every day, she hadn't wanted to go to a bar in years.

She stared at the phone and knew she should call someone. Alan Stevens would be best. She needed to be reminded of what stood in the balance for her continued good behavior. Mark O'Leary's intimate little dinner had turned out to be her unveiling to party bigwigs as Mark's favored candidate for the next senatorial race. Mark had even gone so far as to make sure everyone knew that he knew she was a lesbian but that with her squeaky-clean personal history since she'd quit the bottle, he thought she would still beat anyone the GOP put up against her, especially since "Syd's promised she'll be good."

Squeaky-clean. How about lusting after your brother's girlfriend, a woman who is probably as virginal as she looks and most likely doesn't know you're a lesbian. Eric would not have mentioned it. He still had trouble coming out as a man with a gay sister.

She'd known since Liz's party that Faith intrigued her. And when Eric had so casually put his arm around Faith — she'd known then she was in trouble. And instead of resisting temptation, she'd used Faith's pool shot to be close to her. Faith had been too pliable to know Sydney was gay. Straight women tended to go rigid when a known lesbian touched
them, and Faith hadn't. She had melted into Sydney without any hint of awkwardness. Eric was damned lucky.

He deserved a woman like Faith. Intelligent and witty, attractive without any help from make-up. Genuine. With a heart as warm as topaz, not the cold glitter of diamonds like Eric's last serious girlfriend. He didn't tend to get serious very often, but he was serious about Faith.

She stared at the telephone and thought how easy it would be to put on a jacket and walk down the street to the Dorchester. There was a beautiful bar in the basement where one could be discreetly alone, pouring amber Glenfiddich into a heavy lead crystal glass. It was civilized. No one would know. It would be so easy.

The phone was between her and the door and finally, though it took a great deal of effort, she reached for the phone. She knew the number of her AA sponsor by heart, though she hadn't called her for six months. Her sponsor's partner told Sydney she was at the same health club as always.

As her cab slid past the Dorchester, Sydney wanted to jump out. But the cab was going too fast.

* * * * *

Considering the turmoil the announcement had caused, the day I moved out was quite calm. My mother sat in disapproving silence as I took out my boxes. I knew that when Meg showed up, she'd be glad of the empty room. My father was away at a church meeting, a frequent event since his retirement from the post office. Michael asked a friend to help,
and it took only two carloads to move my clothes and books. He and his buddy told me.I'd picked a nice place and left me there with a happy wave. I'd told my mother I would be back for Sunday mass, but otherwise my new future yawned ahead of me.

Arranging the furniture took only some of my mental energy, though I wanted it to take it all, and writing cards to acquaintances with my new address and phone number was not absorbing enough either. I couldn't get Sydney out of my head. I thought about her almost nonstop but could only recall Eric with a conscious effort.

What was wrong with me? Eric was everything I could want, and with all my heart and mind I wanted to want him. I yearned for the life he could offer me. It was my treacherous body that itched for Sydney. It was a powerful itch that made me recall every moment I'd spent with her and wonder what it would be like to lie next to her in her bed, kiss the soft skin on her thighs, hear her voice raised in passion.

It was with relief that I left a faculty meeting a little bit early to keep my lunch date on Thursday at Water Tower with Nara Rogier. Lunch stretched into a talkathon that lasted most of the afternoon. She had a photographer's eye for details, and I found her remembered descriptions of Canterbury Cathedral and the Tower of London inspiring. We finally left the restaurant and walked to a British shop she knew of to look at the imported table linens. Normally, I would have gone back to my office, but I was enjoying myself far too much. She wanted new linens for her sister, and I found myself buying a set for myself.

We were leaving the shop when she admitted she was hungry again. I glanced at my watch and realized it was after five. We'd eaten at noon. I acted completely on impulse.

"My place is about fifteen minutes by cab. Could I interest you in salad, bread, and cheese?" My menu suggestion was in deference to Nara's vegetarianism.

Her face lit up. "That sounds perfect. But you must be getting sick of me going on and on about my travels."