Эд Макбейн - Barking at Butterflies and other stories

“Right.”

“I’ll tell her I don’t like to be blamed for something that’s not my fault. She should have told me about the presentation earlier.”

“That’s right, she should have.”

“Damn right, she should have,” Frank said. “I’ll tell her there are millions of copywriters in this city, but not many of them are as good as I am. And if she continues to hand out the kind of abuse she did this morning, I’ll just head over to one of the other agencies where they won’t treat me like an adolescent.”

“Good,” Millie said, “tell her.” In bra, half-slip and panties, she padded to the clothes rack and hung up her dress.

“As for the lunch hour,” he said, gathering steam, “I’ll tell her to stop behaving as if it’s a banquet! It isn’t a banquet, it’s just an ordinary long lunch hour, and that’s that.” He nodded, took off his shirt, and draped it over the back of one of the chairs. Millie was silent for what seemed like a long time.

“Frank, have you ever done anything like this before?” she asked suddenly.

“With another woman, do you mean?”

“Yes, with another woman.”

“Besides Mae, do you mean?”

“Yes, besides Mae.”

“Never,” he said. “Why? Have you?”

Millie walked to the air conditioner. “Do you think this thing works?” she asked, and stabbed at a button on its face. “There,” she said, and went to the bed, and neatly folded back the spread, and then carried it to one of the chairs.

“Millie?” he said. “You haven’t answered my question. Have you ever?”

“Have I ever what?”

“Done this?”

“With another man, do you mean?”

“Yes, with another man.”

“Besides Michael, do you mean?”

“Yes, besides Michael.”

“Do you want an honest answer?”

“Of course I want an honest answer.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Jesus!” he said.

“You wanted to know.”

“Who was it?”

“Another man.”

“I know that! Who?”

“You don’t know him. His name is Paul.”

“Where’d you meet him?”

“In the Chock Full O’Nuts on Sheridan Square.”

“Having a nice long lunch, was he?”

“No, he was eating a cream cheese sandwich on toasted raisin bread.”

“I don’t want to know anything else about him,” Frank said. “In fact, I think we’d better get dressed.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to leave.” He went to the chair and picked up his shirt. He started to put it on, but one of the sleeves was pulled inside out. Angrily, he shoved at the sleeve, and finally managed to get his arm through it.

“He’s a sculptor,” Millie said.

“I don’t care what he is.”

“I posed for him once. Just my belly button.”

“Your what?” Frank said.

“He does belly buttons. Not always, you understand. That was his project at the time. When I met him. He was doing these enormous sculptures of belly buttons. It was really quite fascinating. I mean, things take on a completely different perspective when you see them larger than...”

“I don’t want to hear about your goddamn sculptor and his belly buttons!” Frank shouted. Calming himself, he said, “Get dressed, please,” and began buttoning his shirt.

“He filled a very important need in my life,” Millie said softly.

“I’m sure he did.”

“And I could hardly have known at the time that I was going to meet you on the eight forty-six from Larchmont. Besides, I stopped seeing him right after I met you. In February.”

“That’s not right after you met me,” Frank said. “That’s a full month after you met me.”

“Well, it takes time to end things,” she said.

“More time than it takes to begin them, I’m sure.”

“Now you sound like Michael.”

“Oh, did you tell him about your sculptor, too?”

“Of course not.”

“How come I’m so privileged?”

“I thought you’d understand.”

“I don’t. Put on your clothes, and let’s get out of here.”

“I wasn’t looking for anything, Frank, I hope you realize that. It just happened.”

“How? What’d you do, show him your navel in the middle of Chock Full O’Nuts?”

“I didn’t do anything of the sort.”

“Then how’d he know he wanted to sculpt your navel? There are six million women in the city of New York, how’d he happen to pick your navel?”

“He picked a lot of navels,” Millie said. “Not only mine.”

“How many?”

“At least fifty of them.”

“Now that’s sordid, that’s positively sordid,” Frank said.

“It wasn’t sordid at all.”

“Where’d you pose for him?”

“He has a big loft in Greenwich Village. There. But not the same day.”

“Oh, that makes an enormous difference. When did he sculpt you, if you’ll pardon the expression?”

“A month later. On October sixth.”

“You remember the exact date, huh?” Frank said. “That really is sordid, Millie, remembering the exact date.”

“Only because it was his birthday,” she said.

“What’d you do? Drop in on the loft, strip down and yell ‘Happy Birthday, Paul!’ ”

“Not Paul’s birthday. Michael’s.”

“Oh, Jesus!” Frank said.

“And I didn’t just go there. Paul called and asked me to come.”

“Oh, you gave him your number, did you?”

“He looked it up, the same as you.”

“He seems to have done a lot of things the same as me,” Frank said. “Will you for God’s sake get dressed? ”

“It was just like open heart surgery,” Millie said.

“What was?” Frank asked.

“Doing my navel. I didn’t have to expose any other part of me. He had me all covered up with a sheet, except for my navel. It was very professional.”

“When did it start getting un professional?” Frank said, and whipped his tie from the seat of the chair, and walked angrily to the mirror.

“After he cast it in bronze.”

“Did he put it on the living room table?” Frank asked, and lifted his collar and slid the tie under it, and then began knotting the tie, and had to start all over again because somehow he’d forgotten how to knot a tie. “I think that would’ve been touching,” he said. “A bronze belly button instead of a pair of baby shoes.”

“It would’ve been too big to put on a table, anyway,” Millie said. “I told you, the whole idea of the project was...”

“The whole idea of the project,” Frank said, “was to get fifty stupid housewives into bed with him!”

“We weren’t all housewives,” Millie said.

Calming himself again, carefully knotting his tie, Frank said, “In any case, Millie, I think we should leave. I don’t know how to sculpt, you see. I wouldn’t know how to sculpt a goddamn navel. Or how to pick up a goddamn lady in the Chock Full O’Nuts on Sheridan Square.”

“You did fine on the eight forty-six from Larchmont,” she said.

“Oh, I did. I see. I’m the one who seduced the innocent little housewife, led her down the garden...”

“Well, I certainly didn’t have the movie projector in my trunk!”

The telephone rang, shocking them into silence. They both turned to look at it, but neither made a move for it. The phone kept ringing.

“Why don’t you get it?” Frank said. “Maybe it’s Paul. Maybe he’s doing buttocks this week.”

Millie did not answer him. With great dignity, she padded to the phone, and lifted the receiver. “Hello?” she said. “Who? Yes, just a moment, please.” She held out the receiver to Frank. “It’s the manager. He wants to talk to Mr. McIntyre.”