Read Online I Know This Much Is True by Wally Lamb - Free Book Online
Authors: Wally Lamb
Tags: Fiction
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yes or no, she hit the power switch on my tuner and went searching for a station. I’d have pegged her for a classical music type, but she settled on Tina Turner: What’s love got to do, got to do with it?
She turned around and smiled. “Hello, there, Mr. Housepainter.”
She walked over to me. Kissed me. Took my hands in hers and put them against her hips. Her tongue flicked around inside my mouth.
“Is this a turn-on, Mr. Housepainter?” she whispered.“Am I making I Know[001-115] 7/24/02 12:21 PM Page 41
I KNOW THIS MUCH IS TRUE
41
you feel good?” I couldn’t tell if she was being daddy’s little girl or a majorette or what. I pretended I was kissing Dessa, but she was thicker than Dessa, damp to the touch no matter where I touched. I hadn’t been with a woman since the divorce—had imagined it happening pretty differently. Had imagined being more a part of the decision process, for one thing. I found Nedra a little scary, to tell the truth. The last thing I needed in my life was another nutcase. I wanted my wife.
“Um, this is very nice,” I said, “but sort of unexpected. I’m not sure I’m really ready for—”
“I have one,” she said. “Relax. Touch me.”
She slid my hand down to her butt, placed my other hand up under her sweatshirt. Then suddenly, right in the middle of kissing her, I started laughing. A few little nervous burps of laughter at first that I tried to swallow back. Then worse: full-throttle, out-of-con-trol stuff—the kind of laughing that turns into a coughing attack.
She stood there, smiling, humiliated. “What’s so funny?” she kept asking. “ What? ”
I couldn’t answer her. Couldn’t stop laughing.
Nedra headed for the bathroom. She stayed in there for a good fifteen minutes, long enough for me to begin to wonder if a person could commit suicide by overdosing on Nyquil, by cutting her wrists with a nail clipper. She emerged, red-eyed. Without a word, she went for her coat and briefcase. I told her I’d just been nervous—that I was still getting over things. That I was really, really sorry.
“Sorry for what?” she said. “For getting your kicks by degrading women? Don’t apologize. You’re born to the breed.”
“Hey, look,” I said. “I didn’t—”
“Oh, please! Not another word! I beg of you!”
At the door, she stopped. “Maybe I should call your ex-wife,” she said. “We could commiserate about sexual harassment.” She pronounced it in that alternative way—William Henry Harass ment.
“Hey, wait a minute. You put the moves on me. How did I harass you ?”
“What’s her number, anyway? Maybe I’ll call her. Maybe she and I can have our picture in Ms. magazine.”
I Know[001-115] 7/24/02 12:21 PM Page 42
42
WALLY LAMB
“Hey, listen. All I ever contracted you for was an overpriced translation. The rest of this was your idea. Leave my wife out of it.”
“Overpriced? Overpriced? That work is painstaking, you bastard!
You unappreciative—!” Instead of finishing her sentence, she swung her briefcase at me, whacked me in the leg with her freaking twenty-pound doctoral thesis.
She slammed the door behind her and I yanked it open again—scooped up some snow, packed it, and let it fly. It thunked against her Yugo.
She gave me the finger, then got into her car and revved up for takeoff. Oblivious of the road conditions, she gunned it all the way down the street, slipping and sliding and nearly front-ending a honking city plow.
“Your lights!” I kept yelling at her. “Put on your lights!”
By March, the oncology team at Yale had begun to sound like snake oil salesmen. Ma was in near-constant pain; what little comfort she was getting was coming from an old Polish priest and the hospice volunteers. Painting season had begun, jump-started by an early spring that I couldn’t afford not to take advantage of. It was mid-April before I got the time and the stomach to drive back to the university and walk the steps up to
She turned around and smiled. “Hello, there, Mr. Housepainter.”
She walked over to me. Kissed me. Took my hands in hers and put them against her hips. Her tongue flicked around inside my mouth.
“Is this a turn-on, Mr. Housepainter?” she whispered.“Am I making I Know[001-115] 7/24/02 12:21 PM Page 41
I KNOW THIS MUCH IS TRUE
41
you feel good?” I couldn’t tell if she was being daddy’s little girl or a majorette or what. I pretended I was kissing Dessa, but she was thicker than Dessa, damp to the touch no matter where I touched. I hadn’t been with a woman since the divorce—had imagined it happening pretty differently. Had imagined being more a part of the decision process, for one thing. I found Nedra a little scary, to tell the truth. The last thing I needed in my life was another nutcase. I wanted my wife.
“Um, this is very nice,” I said, “but sort of unexpected. I’m not sure I’m really ready for—”
“I have one,” she said. “Relax. Touch me.”
She slid my hand down to her butt, placed my other hand up under her sweatshirt. Then suddenly, right in the middle of kissing her, I started laughing. A few little nervous burps of laughter at first that I tried to swallow back. Then worse: full-throttle, out-of-con-trol stuff—the kind of laughing that turns into a coughing attack.
She stood there, smiling, humiliated. “What’s so funny?” she kept asking. “ What? ”
I couldn’t answer her. Couldn’t stop laughing.
Nedra headed for the bathroom. She stayed in there for a good fifteen minutes, long enough for me to begin to wonder if a person could commit suicide by overdosing on Nyquil, by cutting her wrists with a nail clipper. She emerged, red-eyed. Without a word, she went for her coat and briefcase. I told her I’d just been nervous—that I was still getting over things. That I was really, really sorry.
“Sorry for what?” she said. “For getting your kicks by degrading women? Don’t apologize. You’re born to the breed.”
“Hey, look,” I said. “I didn’t—”
“Oh, please! Not another word! I beg of you!”
At the door, she stopped. “Maybe I should call your ex-wife,” she said. “We could commiserate about sexual harassment.” She pronounced it in that alternative way—William Henry Harass ment.
“Hey, wait a minute. You put the moves on me. How did I harass you ?”
“What’s her number, anyway? Maybe I’ll call her. Maybe she and I can have our picture in Ms. magazine.”
I Know[001-115] 7/24/02 12:21 PM Page 42
42
WALLY LAMB
“Hey, listen. All I ever contracted you for was an overpriced translation. The rest of this was your idea. Leave my wife out of it.”
“Overpriced? Overpriced? That work is painstaking, you bastard!
You unappreciative—!” Instead of finishing her sentence, she swung her briefcase at me, whacked me in the leg with her freaking twenty-pound doctoral thesis.
She slammed the door behind her and I yanked it open again—scooped up some snow, packed it, and let it fly. It thunked against her Yugo.
She gave me the finger, then got into her car and revved up for takeoff. Oblivious of the road conditions, she gunned it all the way down the street, slipping and sliding and nearly front-ending a honking city plow.
“Your lights!” I kept yelling at her. “Put on your lights!”
By March, the oncology team at Yale had begun to sound like snake oil salesmen. Ma was in near-constant pain; what little comfort she was getting was coming from an old Polish priest and the hospice volunteers. Painting season had begun, jump-started by an early spring that I couldn’t afford not to take advantage of. It was mid-April before I got the time and the stomach to drive back to the university and walk the steps up to
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