Fifty-One

Maybe I still had a little naïveté in me, but I wasn't stupid. I understood the code. "Yes," I said, and we left.

Later, I leaned against the bathroom sink to steady myself and looked at my face in the mirror, surprised. Whoa!

"Are bloodshot eyes normal?" I called through the door. I might have picked up a bit of experience with some adult things, but smoking pot wasn't one of them. The answering affirmative and laughter reassured me.

I went back to studying myself. Lipstick is a disaster. A swipe with some toilet paper removed what little remained. Uncertain coordination missed the trash can with the wad, which struck me as funny. Geez, clumsy much? Hair is ... hmm ... mussed seems kinda right. Which led back to my eyes. Ignoring the redness, that's what you look like when you're turned on, girl. Stoned and turned on.

I was. Ever since four minutes ago when his fingers had slid lightly but confidently off my knee and in between my legs. The warmth in my groin had flowered as they encountered the gusset of my underwear, and I'd tightened my hands around his neck and the pressure of my tongue against his. As an index finger hooked underneath, I'd pushed back. "Give me one minute."

I didn't really need to do anything physical to get ready. I was on the Pill, plus he was going to wear a rubber or this wasn't going to happen. I didn't need to pee. He probably didn't give a damn how my hair looked. What I really wanted was a second to get my head straight. The pot had induced a relaxed feeling that warred with what I truly wanted: sharp emotions. The biting excitement just before that first entrance; the drive, frantic at the end, toward my orgasm; the intense satisfaction of knowing I'd put that look on his face when he had his.

That's what you look like, I repeated. I'd never seen myself in a mirror in this state, and seeing the desire only increased it. I shrugged off the lethargy. I embraced the pulse I could feel from my chest down to my vagina, the tingly warmth like a cup of hot chocolate swallowed on a cold day, only much lower. I popped the buttons on my dress and shrugged to let it fall, bra following. Let him peel off the panties and find out how much you're ready, I giggled to myself. I opened the bathroom door and soaked in the "Holy shit!" like a sponge.

The next morning was a first for me because three things weren't true. I wasn't a nervous-but-in-love virgin. I wasn't a nervous-but-determined neophyte learning how to play this adult game. I wasn't a confident-but-cynical siren bent on revenge while giving yet-another-shithead a taste of something before jerking it away. I was simply a woman who went out and got herself laid because she was horny and because sex with a man made her feel alive in a way her fingers didn't.

I lay there in the morning light and savored the precarious moment.

I didn't know his last name, and he didn't know mine. I didn't feel the slightest bit romantic about him. Hell. He's probably a pain in the ass day-to-day. He's clearly a pothead with all that paraphernalia, and that's the absolute last time you're doing that. Sharp and clear, that's the way you like sex. I felt safe in my relative anonymity and distance.

And it wasn't just the safety. God, if I could bottle whatever chemicals come from sex, I'd be rich. I studied the back of his head and the shoulders exposed above the sheet. Kinda cute and, for a while there, yeah -- I grinned to myself -- I had his whole attention. And that made me feel like the world cared that I existed. I stretched, feeling the languorous sensation of muscles tired in a good way. Like sports, only better. It was a moment worth savoring.

But precarious because it couldn't last. He stirred in response to my stretch and half-rolled to look at my face, his arm wrapping over me, hand molding over a breast. That act was probably only his morning boner talking, but it suddenly felt confining. You're mine now, it seemed to say. I didn't resent him for wanting action. Truthfully, ten seconds before I had been inclined toward it myself. But a trapped sensation swam into focus as I felt his grasp. I pushed out from underneath and sat up. It was time to go.

Weeks later I was sitting in the pub again. This time I got a look from the bartender. Shit! Does he think I'm hooking? Am I about to get a Kayla Matyas tag? I bolted. I fought through a couple of weeks of anxiety while I waited for the backlash. But no more sidelong looks than I was used to. I mentally placed the pub off-limits and relaxed about rumors, but my urges didn't, and there were some restless evenings.

The manager of the dairy department at work, Roy Giordano, was kind of a stud in a Danny Zuko sort of way. I usually worked the late shift, but a month later I was on earlies and he talked me into going for a drink after I punched out.

Joining him in shots turned into joining him in bed and, Jesus, that man knew how to do it. The problem was the next day. My climb into his car hadn't gone unnoticed, and the barely hidden snickers told me everyone knew what that meant.

"Chill out," Andrea advised as I stood in the bathroom, red-faced with mortification. "You weren't the first, and you won't be the last. Besides, you had fun, didn't you?"

There was something in her tone that made me glance up at her. She gave a chagrined shrug. "Last year. He still corners me in the back fridge once in a while and tries to shove his tongue down my throat. Once he's had you, he figures you're easy-peasy any time the mood hits him." At my questioning look, "No way, José! He's an alley cat and I've got a steady now."

I appreciated the hug, but not the attention from other would-be Lotharios around the store now that I had a reputation as a girl who "would." And, sure enough, Roy tried it every once in a while, never accepting "forget it" as a final answer.

No more co-workers. The trouble was: I was a little slow upstairs, and that wasn't quite the lesson I needed to learn.

Two months later, a soccer dad I knew was divorced struck up a conversation in the library. To him, I said, "Yeah, you can have my number." To myself, Where did the wallflower go?

We rocked each other's worlds for a night. A couple of weeks later, we did it again. But then he asked if I wanted to go to a friend's party with him, and the walls closed in. Suddenly I saw myself six months down the road when some coed caught his eye--

No, not a coed.

When some soccer divorcée catches his eye because they're yelling the same things from the bleachers, because they understand kid/adult time juggling, and can share freakin' carpools. And I'm supposed to be on the edge of that picture, trying to understand why there's a soccer-dad-shaped hole in my life? I don't think so.

The icing on that cake came when I left his place: the neighbor across the street saw me.

"Hello, Lila." No judgment on the surface, but I had a sinking feeling. I knew what the talk could be like. And, for one brief second, I felt the dissonance between how I was raised and how I lived.

I remembered the conversations with my erstwhile friends. Our less-than-A-List status only made us snarkier. Cheerleaders and other cool-crowd were prime targets. "And then Nancy saw her in the backseat with Brad and said she was definitely about to do it, or at least probably and, God, the Junior Dance was only three months ago and you know she gave it up to Mike then, so she's such a whore, and I heard she ..."

My father's words swam back into my mind.

No! I fought back. I'm not a tramp. It's the goddam 1970s. The sexual revolution happened whether you like it or not. And I'm not a hypocrite. I'm not promising eternal love and then getting some other dick on the side. At least I'm honest with my partners! I--

I pulled back abruptly. That was too close to the edge.

Yet, for that one brief second, a tiny ray of ... something ... pierced right through the hatred of my father. A tiny shift in my perception of that moment when the wet towel or the fabric softener or the toilet seat had penetrated his brain. I felt a stab of fear and refused to think about what it meant. I shoved it down underneath the memory of the rigid, authoritarian figure I'd lived with for eighteen years.

Instead, my mind groped for something else to think about. Jean Laskowski. I hadn't heard from her in a while. The last time had ended with, "Call me any time. You know I'll be glad to hear from you."

But months ago, three days after that second pub night, she was still checking in. At first, I had been suspicious. Word's gotten around. She's calling to tell me to get my shit together. But no, she wasn't. And, somehow, in my I'm-so-worried and her calm I'm-a-good-listener, I'd spilled. She was silent for a long moment after I told her. Here it comes! But again, I sucked as a psychic.

"Lila, I get the feeling that you think you're unusual. And maybe you are in some ways. Certainly, you've had some challenging experiences in your life." Her voice was matter-of-fact and friendly, not what I expected. "But in this, you're perfectly normal. Let me give you a little statistic. By the end of their first year of college, about half of young women are sexually active." A note of laughter entered her voice, inviting me to see that this wasn't a heavy trip. "There's a reason prom night has the reputation it does."

That quip hit a nerve, but I knew she was trying to make me feel at ease, so I just made a sound to let her know I was listening.

"The problem is, we're socially still stuck in the '50s, and we make young women feel ashamed when they act normally. Now, I'm not saying that I think meeting partners in a bar is a great idea. I emphatically do not. But the fact that you've been with a couple of young men does not make you a bad person. So, don't beat yourself up. Just be safe. You're a very intelligent woman; you'll make good choices."

And that would be reassuring if it were "a couple." But I didn't tell you about those trips to New York or Vicki's boyfriend. I hadn't said that out loud to her, of course. But something about her made me sure that she wouldn't have judged even if I had, and the memory of her quieted my mind enough that I could respond to soccer dad's neighbor.

"Hey, Mrs. Conlan." I could feel her eyes on me as I got into my car and drove away. The bitches would talk because bitches talk. I hadn't done anything wrong. But we don't live in a perfect world, and I had no desire for whispers to turn into ostracism, so the real lesson sank in: not around town. Be discreet.

When soccer dad called me two days later, I told him, "The rumor mill is being harsh. I can't do this." I made that up; I hadn't heard a word. But it was probably true, and he stopped calling. Men weren't immune either.

As the months and then the years went by, my life settled into a pattern dictated by my finances and my disposition. I had no friends beyond Andrea at work, and I didn't even enjoy her all the time. All she wanted to do was get drunk, get high, and get laid regularly with a series of semi-stable boyfriends. All I wanted to do was not get too drunk, not get high at all, and get laid every month or two with a one-night stand.

And one evening when she was two out of three and on her way toward the third, her boyfriend suggested I might like to join in. I mightn't; he persisted; things were said; and my social life dwindled to nothing for a while because I didn't want to be around him.

I worked every hour I could get. I read endlessly, mostly from the library or cheap books from the second-hand store. I mowed the yard and raked the leaves and shoveled snow when needed.

To say I suffered from a little misandry was an understatement. Vicki was barely a memory anymore. Truthfully, I felt the teensiest bit uncomfortable about what I'd done to her, telling myself I'd freed her from a cheating shithead of a boyfriend to counterbalance. Mom ... well ... I had trouble even thinking about her. But Dad and Stanley? I still hated them. And any time a man with a ring, or worse, a man with a mark where a ring normally sat, approached me, I hated him too.

Yet, every month or so the thought wouldn't go away. Jesus! I want to get laid so badly! I'd find myself at a hangout in some other town, looking for respite. I chose as carefully as I could. Not always the same type. Older men, by that I mean thirties, were the best. They knew how to take their time. Men my own age were the easiest, and their enthusiasm and gratitude were good for the ego.

I reached an uneasy détente with my upbringing. In a fit of fretting one evening, I looked up the definition of promiscuous. After mulling it over, I decided I could live with "transient" because "frequent" didn't apply. The break room was Brag Central, and if you believed even half of it, everybody else, boys and girls, had ten times the amount of sex. Andrea certainly did, albeit with a lot fewer guys.

"Do you think I'm a slut because I do the pick-up scene?" I asked her one day.

"Do you?"

Huh? "I'm just not looking for romance, and I don't want to lead anyone on."

"Sounds good. Well, not good. It actually sounds sucky, but it sounds considerate. So, again, do you?"

"No, but other people--"

Her snort interrupted. "What everyone else thinks is irrelevant. You're good peeps, L."

Who would have thought a twenty-six-year-old checkout clerk with a substance problem could grant me so much relief? It wasn't absolution, but my self-doubts quieted.

And that culminated one night at Maxwell's in Hoboken when I met Trey Winterthorne. I didn't know who the Winterthornes were back then; I had to find that out later. All I knew was that he oozed privilege, from the turned-up collar of his Lacoste down to the worn Topsiders that probably actually had been on a boat deck.

Tall, dark hair, built as lean as the marathon runner I later found out he was. He was barely nineteen to my twenty-four but not quite the average teenage boy I'd encountered before. My eye contact and accidental brush evoked interest but no fluster. I guess growing up with daddy's money and power bred a whole other level of confidence. Just who was doing the propositioning wasn't clear at first, but he settled it.

"Why don't we get a bottle of Moët and split for the night? I've got some killer grass."

"Champagne's fine, but I don't get high."

"No prob. Your place?"

"I can't have guys over." A lie. The truth was, I didn't have guys over. It was my sanctuary.

"Married?" He glanced at my left hand.

"No."

"Well, I can't take you home because Mom and Dad would have a cow." That didn't sound as juvenile as it might have. Even though I didn't know who the Winterthornes were, I had an idea of what they were, and a back-from-Yale scion of that kind of family staying at home just seemed natural. "There's a shore house. Interested in a road trip?"

And that's how I found myself in my first Porsche zipping down the Parkway.

"How are you certain?" I asked Jack.

"I became morally certain when I peered in through your living room window and saw that you had a VCR. At a thousand bucks, it didn't seem like the kind of thing you'd have. And yes, I'm admitting to trespassing and invasion of privacy."

The outrage that brought didn't stand a chance against the dread clutching at me. I'd stolen it along with the tapes.

"I became positive when I had someone I know match a fingerprint on the cassette against one on a glass I took from your patio. And yes, I'm admitting to petty larceny."

I sat there frozen. I thought I'd been careful but, evidently, I was wrong.

"And no, Lila, you are not in danger of me outing you to one of the most powerful men in the state."

"What do you want from me?"

"I want to know if there were more tapes. If so, I want to know if you took them. If" -- his hand came up in a placating gesture -- "you're on any tapes, I want to know if it was voluntarily." It took me a second to realize that the expression on his face was kindness. He shook his head. "I'm not judging. It's just a different ballgame if everyone knows the tapes were being made than if not."

"I'm not," I whispered.

He nodded. "Okay. I'm glad."

Strangely, I believed him.

"If you do have more tapes, I want to know if you'll let me see them." He glanced at his watch. A faint glint of humor crept onto his face. "I want you to eat your burger because your shift starts in fifteen minutes. I'll leave you in peace and pay on the way out. I'll stop by tomorrow after you've had time to think."

He was ten feet away when I said, "Jack." He turned. "How did you find me?"

He studied me for a second. "I'll tell you that part tomorrow. I promise."

I barely made it through my shift. Sleep eluded me that night until I finally took an old Dalmane of my mother's that was still in the medicine cabinet.

I got some of my equilibrium back the next day. That wasn't to say I was calm, but I wasn't skirting the edge of panic. I made a call and checked on some things. I showered and shaved my legs and dressed for confidence the way I did when I went out. When I heard the knock around eleven, I answered.

"Maybe not standing on a doorstep?" he asked in a repeat of the day before.

I shook my head.

"Still afraid of me?"

"I never invite guys in." I stepped forward, causing him to back up. "If you want to talk to me, you buy me lunch. I'm sure your paper can afford it."

He bowed me toward his car.

"So," I said as we settled into a corner booth in the diner, far from other ears. "I have some things I want too."

There was a world of cynicism in that smile. "How much?"

"I don't want any money." I could see that startled him. "I want to know how I come out of this given who we're talking about."

"I already told you that I wouldn't out you."

"And when his lawyers ask where you got your information?"

"Then I refuse to tell them."

I settled back. "Jack, I made a call this morning to my attorney." I think I surprised him a second time. "And he told me that while, technically, the law protects you from revealing your sources, reporters still get thrown in jail by some judges for contempt, and it takes another court hearing to get them out."

"Unlikely. Besides, do you really think Winterthorne is going to ask about sex tapes in open court?" His grin was mischievous.

He let me ponder. One thing I'll say for him is that he wasn't pushy. At least, after he got his foot in the door.

"There's no point in denying fingerprints," I said before a thought struck me. "Did you lie about that to get me to admit it?"

"No." Again, I believed him.

"Okay," I surrendered.

"Were there more tapes?"

I shook my head. "I'm not done with what I want yet."

That brought the first actual laugh of our acquaintance and a gracious wave to go ahead.

"I want to know how you connected Trey to me, and I want to know why you care. You have a tape. What more do you need?"

That wiped the smile off his face. I waited. He didn't say anything.

Finally, I prodded. "You're asking me to trust you."

A long, level gaze. "Did you watch the tape you left for us?"

"Yes."

"You know how it starts as a barbecue out on the porch before jumping to the two in the bedroom later?" I nodded. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph, a bit grainy but faces still recognizable. "This is made from that tape." He pointed to one of the men. "One of our staff thought this guy looked familiar, which started us looking in places where a reporter might encounter people. Turns out he works down in Trenton.