The Forgotten Hours(74)

He shoots her that quizzical look she is now so familiar with: Something wrong with you, or are you bald on purpose? She brushes past, her body infused with sudden desire that tingles in her neck and between her thighs. In the bathroom, she puts her arm onto the wall to steady herself. The wallpaper is a garish pink and turquoise, a floral pattern only a grandmother or absentee landlord would choose. Toothbrushes with splayed bristles crowd the sink.

The bathroom door opens behind her. “Oh—” a boy says. But instead of stepping away and shutting the door, he steps forward. It is the boy she likes, Damian. Katie jumps up and makes to yank up her panties, but he is next to her in a flash, grabbing her wrist. “I saw you looking at me out there,” he says.

“So what?” she answers. In that second she thinks of Lulu and what she would do—then she turns away from that thought. Who does Katie want to be right then? Blood pounds in her ears from excitement or fear. They stare at each other for longer than seems possible. Close up, the boy’s eyes are small, his face chapped looking.

“Fuck,” he says, his breath stinking of beer and smoke, “you’re some kind of freak, aren’t you?”

“You are too,” she says. “You just won’t admit it.”

He takes her hand and puts it on his crotch. He flips her around so she is leaning over the toilet, bracing against the wall with the palm of her hand. Her throat is tight; she didn’t expect things to go so fast, but his hand is between her legs, and she is wet, and her disgust melts away, and she stops wondering how he knew that she would let him do this to her, even though she doesn’t really want to, not this way.

A hand on her head. The air smells of something faintly tart. Her chin lifts, propped up by two stubby fingers. “You all right?” a voice asks.

She opens her eyes a bit and through the cracks sees that she is outside on the street. The sky has turned from black to blue and is brightening. Something wet is on her hand. It lies beside her on the pavement, and she turns, very slowly, to look down, and there is a small brown dog licking her knuckles.

“You need to go home.” It is the old man who isn’t old, crouched back on his heels. He wears painter’s pants and scuffed suede trainers. “I came back. The music is still so loud. I’m usually up late, but even so.” She wants him to cradle her face in both his huge, warm hands. With the pad of his thumb, he wipes her cheeks. “Where is home? I will take you.”

“Cushing,” she whispers.

“I knew it,” he says, but he doesn’t tell her what it is that he knows. Instead, he holds on to her elbow and guides her upright. “Come with me.”

Her head begins spinning, and she turns away from him and retches against the fence. There is no one else on the street. The house behind her continues to pulse with music, and she tries to swallow the noises and the pain.

The little dog is off his leash, and when they get to the other side of the street, the man calls, “Mira!” and the dog scampers across the road to his side. He unlocks an ancient Kia, puts his hand on Katie’s head again, and guides her into the front seat like a police officer guides a perp into a cruiser. The car smells of turpentine and ropes and is filled with boxes and bags and canvases. After sinking into the front seat, Katie leans her head back, and a shudder courses through her.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” he says, putting the key in the ignition.

“I’m not afraid.” Her head throbs with every syllable.

“Well, good, but you should be more cautious. You can’t just trust everyone”—he interrupts himself by hesitating—“in general, I mean to say.” He pulls into the street. In the fog of her stupendous hangover, she thinks to herself that under different circumstances she would consider him handsome.

“What’s your name?” he asks. His hands on the steering wheel are scrubbed clean. That is where the fresh smell is coming from.

“I’m Katie.” She tries to smile. “Do you know where to go?”

“Yes, I know where to go,” he answers. The interior light of the car is still on, and when he looks at her, his eyes are washed out, a weak blue. “I’m Zev. I teach at Vassar. Studio art, sculpture. I’ve seen you around campus before.”

“So you’re a stalker, then.”

He laughs. “Yes, and you are just a little girl, though you don’t seem to think so.”

“Am I in trouble? You a provost or something?”

When he doesn’t answer, she thinks he might be a weirdo after all, someone who wants to teach her a lesson. But he is intent on the road, his mouth curled upward slightly. At Collegeview Terrace he pulls up to the dorm, and he doesn’t get out of the car to take her into her room as she thinks he might. But the way he looks at her when she pokes her head back in to say thank you—his gaze is so penetrating that it makes her think that maybe this is the beginning of something, but she doesn’t know what.





34

The sound of running water, a sharp smell. Katie kicked the door of her apartment closed behind her, lugging three plastic shopping bags. Could it be her father already? He had finally called to tell her he was coming over that night, and she’d gone food shopping after work. But he didn’t have a key.

“Hello?” she called out. Then she smelled it more distinctly: oil paint.