Read Online Imaginary Men by Enid Shomer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Enid Shomer
Tags: Fiction, General, Literary Criticism, Anthologies (Multiple Authors), Literary Collections, test
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Virgin) who, five years Riva's senior, treated her like a little mouse. Now that they were officially engaged, Barry and Olivia were planning to go to Atlantic City the last weekend in April. They talked about it all the time in front of her parents as if to forestall suspicion that they would Do Anything. Riva was sure Olivia hadn't done it. You could tell by looking in her eyes, Riva believed. She got up from her desk and studied her reflection. Anybody could see she was still untouched, even though Paul had been pressing his case hard since January. Riva hadn't worked out a philosophy to justify why she hadn't done it yet. It was just safer to say "no." She felt the same urges Paul did. Sometimes she nearly
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went crazy when they were fingerfucking. She had to remind herself that it wasn't just a technicality, the difference between a finger and the real thing.
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
Riva had a four o'clock appointment with Pop Goldring on Tuesday. As soon as school let out at three, she took the streetcar and bus to Du Pont Circle, stopping for a cherry Coke at the drugstore on the ground floor of his building so that she wouldn't be early.
Pop Goldring was prosperous. He had a construction company with his son, Mel, and had built many office and apartment buildings around the city. Mrs. Stern kept a scrapbook of clippings about her father and brother, who were periodically honored for their philanthropy. Pop Goldring had planted a lot of trees in Israel. He probably had a whole forest by now. But he wasn't generous just for the publicity or the tax deductions. Once, many years before, he had supported an American artist in Italy. Alongside the plaques and certificates in his office hung a huge painting by the man, the portrait of a family of jesters. They wore velvety red clothing and stocking caps with bells. They were traveling to their next court performance, the artist had explained. The father jester walked along, playing the flute. The mother and one child perched astride an ox. A mysterious winged infant balanced on the ox's rump, his back to the viewer. Behind them, fields, sky, and mountains flattened into shapeless daubs of bright blue, yellow, and orange. No one in the family knew what had happened to the artistwhether he kept on painting or was butchering meat somewhere for a living. Pop called the painting "my Michelangelo," and he thought it just as artistic as the bust of Moses by the other Michelangelo that sat on his desk.
The receptionist buzzed his office, and he promptly appeared in the reception area. He was a squat, heavyset man with light blue eyes and wisps of white hair around a large bald spot. His face was wide and Slavic-looking, with high cheekbones and a broad forehead. "Sweetheart," he said, giving her a big hug. He had a heavy Russian-Yiddish accent. Years later, Riva would melt whenever she heard that accent, even from the mouths of second-rate stand-up comics.
His office was uncluttered, outfitted with modern furniture that was sleek and low-slung like cats relaxing all around the room. Even the
Page 53
desk top was clear except for a few letters and an ashtray with a half-smoked cigar in it. His home was the oppositeit glittered with gilt tables, Victorian whatnots, and crystal decanters. Grandma Bella was constantly rearranging it like a gigantic still life. Only the den was livable. As a child, it was the only room Riva had been allowed in.
"How's my Einstein?" he asked.
"Everything's great. I came to ask you a favor."
His gaze intensified. Riva had never asked him for anything before.
"I have a good friend who needs money, and I want you to give it to him. I want you to buy him an airline ticket to San Antonio, Texas."
"You're asking for a complete stranger?"
"Actually, you met him during Christmas when he picked me up at your apartment. His name is Paul Auerbach."
Pop Goldring narrowed his eyes, trying to recall the boy. He shook his head. "I don't remember any
Page 52
went crazy when they were fingerfucking. She had to remind herself that it wasn't just a technicality, the difference between a finger and the real thing.
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
Riva had a four o'clock appointment with Pop Goldring on Tuesday. As soon as school let out at three, she took the streetcar and bus to Du Pont Circle, stopping for a cherry Coke at the drugstore on the ground floor of his building so that she wouldn't be early.
Pop Goldring was prosperous. He had a construction company with his son, Mel, and had built many office and apartment buildings around the city. Mrs. Stern kept a scrapbook of clippings about her father and brother, who were periodically honored for their philanthropy. Pop Goldring had planted a lot of trees in Israel. He probably had a whole forest by now. But he wasn't generous just for the publicity or the tax deductions. Once, many years before, he had supported an American artist in Italy. Alongside the plaques and certificates in his office hung a huge painting by the man, the portrait of a family of jesters. They wore velvety red clothing and stocking caps with bells. They were traveling to their next court performance, the artist had explained. The father jester walked along, playing the flute. The mother and one child perched astride an ox. A mysterious winged infant balanced on the ox's rump, his back to the viewer. Behind them, fields, sky, and mountains flattened into shapeless daubs of bright blue, yellow, and orange. No one in the family knew what had happened to the artistwhether he kept on painting or was butchering meat somewhere for a living. Pop called the painting "my Michelangelo," and he thought it just as artistic as the bust of Moses by the other Michelangelo that sat on his desk.
The receptionist buzzed his office, and he promptly appeared in the reception area. He was a squat, heavyset man with light blue eyes and wisps of white hair around a large bald spot. His face was wide and Slavic-looking, with high cheekbones and a broad forehead. "Sweetheart," he said, giving her a big hug. He had a heavy Russian-Yiddish accent. Years later, Riva would melt whenever she heard that accent, even from the mouths of second-rate stand-up comics.
His office was uncluttered, outfitted with modern furniture that was sleek and low-slung like cats relaxing all around the room. Even the
Page 53
desk top was clear except for a few letters and an ashtray with a half-smoked cigar in it. His home was the oppositeit glittered with gilt tables, Victorian whatnots, and crystal decanters. Grandma Bella was constantly rearranging it like a gigantic still life. Only the den was livable. As a child, it was the only room Riva had been allowed in.
"How's my Einstein?" he asked.
"Everything's great. I came to ask you a favor."
His gaze intensified. Riva had never asked him for anything before.
"I have a good friend who needs money, and I want you to give it to him. I want you to buy him an airline ticket to San Antonio, Texas."
"You're asking for a complete stranger?"
"Actually, you met him during Christmas when he picked me up at your apartment. His name is Paul Auerbach."
Pop Goldring narrowed his eyes, trying to recall the boy. He shook his head. "I don't remember any
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