Scott Turow - Presumed innocent

But Carolyn was pure phenomenon. I was dizzy. I was disoriented. After seventeen years of faithful marriage, of wandering impulse suppressed for the sake of tranquil domestic life, I could not believe that I was here, with fantasy made real. Real. I studied her naked body. The gorgeous large areolas, her long nipples, the sheen of her flesh running from her belly to her thighs. I was lost and high, here in the land beyond restraint, rescued from the diligent, slowly moving circles of my life. Each time I entered her, I felt I divided the world.

"I was with her three or four nights a week. We tended toward a routine. She left the door unlocked for me and the news was on when I arrived." Carolyn was cleaning, drinking, opening her mail. A bottle of white wine, cool and wet like some river-bottom stone, was uncorked on the kitchen table. She never rushed to greet me. Her business, whatever it was, preoccupied her. Usually her comments to me as she traveled between rooms were about the office or local political events. The rumors were thick by then that Raymond would not be running, and Carolyn followed this possibility with great interest. She seemed to gather scuttlebutt from everywhere-the office, the police force, the bar association.

And then, sometime, finally, she would find her way to me. Open her arms. Embrace me. Welcome me. I found her bathing once and made love to her there. I caught her once while she was dressing. But usually we would go through that wandering toward one another, time passing until she was finally ready to lead me to the bedroom, where my hour of worship would begin.

My approach to her was prayerful. Most often, I found myself on my knees. I would unpeel her skirt, her slip, her pants, so that her perfect thighs, that lovely triangle, were exposed as she stood before me; even before I began to push my face in her, that heavy female aroma overpowered the atmosphere. Perfect mad wild moments. On my knees, straining and blind, driving my face inside her, my tongue at work in fevered, silent ululation, while I stretched my hands upward, probing in her garments for her breasts. My passion at those moments was as pure as music.

Then, slowly, Carolyn would take control. She liked it rough, and in time, I would be called upon to slam myself inside her. I stood beside the bed. I dug my hands into her behind and shook her.

"She did not stop speaking."

"Saying what?" Robinson asked.

"You know: Mumbles. Words. 'Good.' 'More.' 'Yes, yes. Oh yes.' 'Oh, hard.' 'Hold on, hold on, hold on, oh, please, baby, yes.' "

We were not, I realized later, lovers who fulfilled each other's needs. As time went on, Carolyn's mood with me seemed to become more confrontational. For all her pretense to sophistication, I found that she could border on the gross. She liked to talk dirty. She boasted. She liked to talk about my parts: I'm going to suck your cock, your hard hairy cock. These outbursts would astound me. One time I laughed, but her look revealed such obvious displeasure, almost fury, that I learned to absorb these predatory remarks. I let her have her way. For her, over days, I realized there was a progression. This lovemaking seemed to have for her a destiny, a goal. She was to be given her own dominion. She would roam, take my penis in her mouth, let it go, and slide her hand past my scrotum, probing in that hole. One night she spoke to me. 'Does Barbara do this for you? Working there. And looking up to ask again, serene, commanding, 'Does Barbara do this for you? She showed no reluctance, no fear. By now, Carolyn knew there would be no wilting paroxysm of shame from me at the mention of Barbara's name. She knew. She could bring my wife into our bed and make her one more witness to how much I was willing to abandon.

Most nights we ordered out for Chinese food. The same kid always brought it, squint-eyed and looking greedily at Carolyn in her orange silk robe. Then we would lie in bed, passing the cartons back and forth. The TV was on.

Always, wherever she was, a TV or a radio was going, a habit, I realized, of her many years alone. In bed, we would gossip. Carolyn was an acute observer of the maelstrom of local politics and its endless crabbed quests for private aggrandizement and power. She viewed it in those terms, but with more excitement than I did and less amusement. She was not as willing as I to disown the quest for personal glory. She viewed it as the natural right of everyone, including her.

While I was seeing Carolyn, Nico was in the initial phases of his campaign.

At that point I did not take him seriously. None of us, including Carolyn, gave him any chance to win. Carolyn, however, saw a different potential, which she explained one night not long before our little paradise came to an end. I was telling her my latest analysis of Nico's motives.

He wants a sop, I told Carolyn. He's waiting for Raymond's friends to find something for him. It's not good party politics in Kindle County to begin a primary fight. Look at Horgan. Bolcarro's never let him forget that Raymond ran against him for mayor.

What if Bolcarro wants to get even?

Bolcarro's not the party. Someday he'll be gone. Nico is too much of a sheep to set out on his own.

Carolyn disagreed. She saw, much more clearly than I, how determined Nico was.

Nico thinks Raymond is tired, she said. Or that he can convince him that he should be fired. A lot of people think Raymond shouldn't run again.

Party people? I asked her.

At that point, I had never heard that. Many people had said Raymond wouldn't run, but not that he was unwelcome.

Party people. The mayor's people. Nico hurt him just by announcing. They're saying Raymond should move over.

She reached for another carton, and a breast fetchingly swung free when the sheet fell away.

Does Raymond talk about it? she asked.

Not to me.

If he starts getting the wrong kind of vibes, will he think about it?

I made a face. The truth was that I did not have much idea about what Raymond thought these days. In the time since his divorce, he had grown increasingly insular. Although he had made me his chief deputy, he probably confided in me less.

If he agrees to step aside, said Carolyn, the party would probably let him decide who should be slated. He could bargain for that. They know he's not going to just hand it all to Nico.

That's for sure.

Who would he choose? she asked.

Probably someone from the office. Carry on his traditions.

You? she asked.

Maybe Mac. She'd make a hell of a candidate in her wheelchair. No way, said Carolyn, elevating moo shu in her chopsticks. Not these days. That chair is not very telegenic. I think he'd pick you. You're the natural.

I shook my head. It was a reflex. Perhaps, at that moment, I even meant it. I was in Carolyn's bed and felt I had already indulged one temptation too many.

Carolyn put the food down. She grasped my arm and looked at me levelly. Rusty, if you let him know you want it, it'll be you.

I watched her a moment.

You mean you think I should go to Raymond and tell him his time is up?

You could be tactful, said Carolyn. She was looking at me quite directly.

No way, I said.

Why not?

I'm not gonna bite that hand. If he wants out, he has to make up his own mind. I don't even think if he asked my advice I'd tell him to quit. He's still the strongest candidate around against Della Guardia.

She shook her head.

Without Raymond, Nico doesn't have an issue. You pull the party people and Raymond's people together behind somebody else, that person would walk into the P.A.'s office. It wouldn't be close.

You've really thought about this, I told her.

He needs a push, she said to me.

Push him yourself, I told her. It's not in me.