Read Online An Available Man by Hilma Wolitzer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Hilma Wolitzer
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the cartons destined for distant strangers. The four of them carried the cartons into the garage, and Sybil gave Edward a list she’d prepared of organizations that might pick them up and distribute them. Edward felt oddly lighter and heavier at the same time.
After the women were gone, he resisted the impulse to go back upstairs and look at the empty closet and drawers. He walked the dog, who’d been confined to the kitchen during the purging, and then Edward went in there and poured himself a stiff shot of vodka on the rocks. He sat on a stool at the counter, sipping his drink and looking through the newspaper he’d already read that morning.
The war, the war. Stalemates in the Middle East and in Congress. There were photos of the flood-ravaged towns Sybil had referred to, where Bee’s clothing would probably be worn in some makeshift shelter rather than at a festive dinner party. Bloomingdale’s was having a white sale. Some eighty-nine-year-old musicologist had died following a fall in his home. It was Saturday and the crossword puzzle looked daunting. Edward put the paper aside and opened the drawer where he’d stashed the letters. There was still time to open a few more before he’d have to start thinking about dinner.
Some of the women sounded nice—quietly friendly, and funnier and more modest than most of those who had placed ads. Lonesome, the way he was. A couple of them seemed slightly insane. He began to put the letters into piles, the way he did sometimes with students’ papers before he graded them: the brainy ones, the hopeless cases, and those that fell somewhere in between.
He opened a can of clam chowder and poured it into a pot. There was a desiccated-looking bagel in the freezer that might be toasted back to edibility. He wasn’t hungry exactly, just kind of restless. How good it once was to prepare dinner for two, to chop onions on the cutting board while Bee shelled the peas and the broth simmered. To set the table, each place mat a mirror image of the other.
He saw that they’d forgotten about Bee’s aprons, still hanging on magnetized hooks at the side of the refrigerator, but they were unisex, really. He tied one around his waist and turned on the heat under the soup.
For over a year Edward hadn’t felt sexually aroused, as if a vital wire between his brain and his penis had been severed. He’d tested himself a couple of months ago with a porn site on the computer, and those women with their absurdly enhanced breasts, their staged expressions of lust, and the choir of moans that might have come from a horror movie all left him unmoved. Now, standing at the stove stirring the soup, he became aware of a halfhearted erection.
What kind of sicko was he that the discarding of Bee’s clothing, or scanning the desperate letters of women he’d never met, or the sea-smell of the canned chowder could turn him on, even weakly, after such a long dry spell? Then he thought of the three women he knew well who had been in his bedroom only hoursago, with their rustling skirts, their hair, and the fluty chorus of their voices. And he remembered how they’d each embraced him at the garage door before they left, Lizzie going last, after the others had turned away, and that she’d kissed him fully and lingeringly on the lips.
First Date
I n the darkened AV room, Edward kept telling the kids to settle down. But the title of the video,
Our Sexual Selves
, had been paused on the big plasma screen as they’d come in, sending a ripple of nervous excitement through them, like a wave undulating through the fans in a baseball stadium. There was a lot of laughter and shoving as they scrambled for seats, and pens and pencils clattered to the floor.
It was always like this. The videos had changed over the years, growing more explicit in content and language, along with the sophistication of the students, but their reactions remained the same. Most of the boys had gravitated toward the left side of the
After the women were gone, he resisted the impulse to go back upstairs and look at the empty closet and drawers. He walked the dog, who’d been confined to the kitchen during the purging, and then Edward went in there and poured himself a stiff shot of vodka on the rocks. He sat on a stool at the counter, sipping his drink and looking through the newspaper he’d already read that morning.
The war, the war. Stalemates in the Middle East and in Congress. There were photos of the flood-ravaged towns Sybil had referred to, where Bee’s clothing would probably be worn in some makeshift shelter rather than at a festive dinner party. Bloomingdale’s was having a white sale. Some eighty-nine-year-old musicologist had died following a fall in his home. It was Saturday and the crossword puzzle looked daunting. Edward put the paper aside and opened the drawer where he’d stashed the letters. There was still time to open a few more before he’d have to start thinking about dinner.
Some of the women sounded nice—quietly friendly, and funnier and more modest than most of those who had placed ads. Lonesome, the way he was. A couple of them seemed slightly insane. He began to put the letters into piles, the way he did sometimes with students’ papers before he graded them: the brainy ones, the hopeless cases, and those that fell somewhere in between.
He opened a can of clam chowder and poured it into a pot. There was a desiccated-looking bagel in the freezer that might be toasted back to edibility. He wasn’t hungry exactly, just kind of restless. How good it once was to prepare dinner for two, to chop onions on the cutting board while Bee shelled the peas and the broth simmered. To set the table, each place mat a mirror image of the other.
He saw that they’d forgotten about Bee’s aprons, still hanging on magnetized hooks at the side of the refrigerator, but they were unisex, really. He tied one around his waist and turned on the heat under the soup.
For over a year Edward hadn’t felt sexually aroused, as if a vital wire between his brain and his penis had been severed. He’d tested himself a couple of months ago with a porn site on the computer, and those women with their absurdly enhanced breasts, their staged expressions of lust, and the choir of moans that might have come from a horror movie all left him unmoved. Now, standing at the stove stirring the soup, he became aware of a halfhearted erection.
What kind of sicko was he that the discarding of Bee’s clothing, or scanning the desperate letters of women he’d never met, or the sea-smell of the canned chowder could turn him on, even weakly, after such a long dry spell? Then he thought of the three women he knew well who had been in his bedroom only hoursago, with their rustling skirts, their hair, and the fluty chorus of their voices. And he remembered how they’d each embraced him at the garage door before they left, Lizzie going last, after the others had turned away, and that she’d kissed him fully and lingeringly on the lips.
First Date
I n the darkened AV room, Edward kept telling the kids to settle down. But the title of the video,
Our Sexual Selves
, had been paused on the big plasma screen as they’d come in, sending a ripple of nervous excitement through them, like a wave undulating through the fans in a baseball stadium. There was a lot of laughter and shoving as they scrambled for seats, and pens and pencils clattered to the floor.
It was always like this. The videos had changed over the years, growing more explicit in content and language, along with the sophistication of the students, but their reactions remained the same. Most of the boys had gravitated toward the left side of the
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