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Page 20.
Chapter 11
 Tory felt thrilled about this interesting new man as she sat in the plush chair by the window. Her wall screen flickered with a talking head speaking news softly, but her thoughts were in outer space. David Gordon. She couldn’t help saying his name quietly to herself every few minutes. She was finding it hard to concentrate on the novel she was reading. She hoped she wouldn’t make a fool out of herself at lunch tomorrow—but he seemed such a fun person, so really serious and quiet yet lively and certainly decent. And yet, she already felt the pain beginning, the fear of disappointment, that dark wall she would never be able to get past, had never been able to get through with any of the men who’d taken an interest in her and then—
Her reverie was interrupted by Maxie, who stormed out of the bedroom dressed to go out. “Tory, ya gotta go with me. I’m not going alone, and I’m not staying here.”
“Maxie...”
All her protests were in vain. Maxie’s fiancée had been mean to her, and she wanted to go out man-hunting. Not literally man-hunting, Tory knew. Man-haunting, maybe. Going somewhere, getting even, by having men flirt at her. Tory was tired. She worried about Ib, although surely he was at his book club and he’d contact David with his morbid fears and conspiracy papers tomorrow. She wanted to climb into the feathers and fall asleep daydreaming about David Gordon. Maxie, more hyper than usual, begged, pleaded, and cajoled with Tory to accompany her on a wild night out this evening. Tory didn’t drink much—two glasses of wine and she had a headache. She worried that if Maxie went alone, she’d wreck her car driving home drunk, so she agreed to go along.
As Tory finished dressing and stepped to the curb, Maxie was already in the gray Porsche. Tory walked through the fog and got in. Maxie looked crisp in sweater and denim skirt. The usual blonde whisp floated over her forehead.
“Why don’t you give Van Meeuwen the shoe?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay.” Tory couldn’t stand Van Meeuwen, the proctologist.
Maxie rummaged in her glove compartment for her keys. Out fell expensive lipstick, perfume, a mechanical pencil, a USO New Testament, cigarettes, surgical gloves, a stethoscope, a field NBC (nuclear, biological, chemical) kit. Even so, Maxie was class, like her blondness, which wasn’t overly gold or loud, but soft and bright as a sunbeam as it whipped energetically around her temples. She had a handsome wide face, with crinkly eyes, a model’s streamlined nose, a few freckles, and a sensuous mouth. Tory had once thought, if someone wanted to have lots of plastic surgery, they’d want everything to end up like what Maxie had naturally. In fact, though her white uniform looked tailor-made, it was bought off the quartermaster shelf; she was just that thin and shapely. She looked ravishing in her Army officer’s nursing whites, and she’d look just as ravishing in her flight suit. Then again she smoked, occasionally drank too much, and regularly received speeding tickets. “That’s our Maxie,” people said.
Maxie tore down the city streets. Tory closed her eyes. “Gotta give you driving lessons.”
“It’s been tried.” Maxie laughed and lit an imported oval with gold imprinted paper. Tory rolled her window down. Maxie drove around the Beltway and then westward out of town. Soon they cruised along tree-lined country roads.
Maxie said, tipping her soda can up to her lips, while keeping her eyes on the road: “I hear you and David Gordon are having lunch tomorrow.”
“He seems to be a nice guy,” Tory said guardedly. The last man in her post-divorce life had been an Air Force officer transferred to Alaska a year ago. She'd never heard from him again, after a hot and steamy romance of (she’d counted, fool) seventeen days. Tory had forced herself to forget his name, his rank, his serial number, and his state of origin. And yet, because of her secret, she wasn't surprised. She couldn’t really remember at this point what he’d looked like. Didn’t want to.
“Whoo-hoo!” Maxie whooped, pulling an imaginary train-whistle. Tory was puzzled. Maxie could have had David, at least as a fling, certainly as a friend, and yet she always seemed to fall for guys who hurt her. Paul Van Meeuwen, Maxie’s current squeeze, a handsome doctor in his mid-30’s, performed buttpucker surgeries at Walter Reed, played 18 rounds of golf on Saturday, owned two houses and part of the family tire fortune, sponsored Formula 1 races at Watkins Glen, and loved Maxie—in that order. Tory wasn’t convinced but didn’t want to say so for fear of seeming jealous.
They drove through a guard gate onto the small Virginia military reservation. The Porsche stopped in a cloud of dust outside the Officers’ Club. Maxie turned her huge key ring and the motor went from hum to silence. Tory had once asked why she had so many keys. They were for half of Washington, Maxie said; and she kept them all with her to remember the people she loved.
Tory got out and zipped up her jacket. Her breath steamed as she stared at a dilapidated building. “Yu-uk. Want to leave?”
“It’ll be an adventure!” Maxie protested. Tory went along, though she’d always hated these places. They stopped at the ladies’ room to touch up their makeup. Then they walked through the swinging doors into that redly glowing, music-pulsating world of clinking glasses and laughing voices. They found a table. A waiter took their orders—Campari and soda for Tory, martini with a twist, up, for Maxie. Tory leaned forward under the waiter’s tray. “You change that to white wine, you hear?”
“You’re right,” Maxie said. Tory thought Maxie seemed a little off tonight.
“Hello,” said several men all at once, holding drinks and looking charming.
“Are you one guy with five heads?” Maxie said.
The men separated and babbled: “I’m Bill. I’m Bob. I’m drunk. Ha ha ha. No really, we saw you here and. Two beautiful women. Bookends, a dark sultry one and a light happy one. The blonde, now you must be a nurse.”
“That’s a rodge,” Maxie said.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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