William Kienzle - Chameleon

Grace blushed, though she knew he was. “He is a priest!” She smiled.

“Excuse me, a reverend asshole. Even he must know there’s no way of dictating a story like this. He’s just got a burr under his saddle because Joan’s picture was on TV and Clete Bash was nowhere to be seen.”

“You make it sound as if … as if he wants the spotlight all the time.”

“That’s it exactly, Grace: Bash wants to be important. I don’t think he has the slightest inkling of what an information office ought to be. For Clete it’s merely a springboard for his ego. Sometimes I wonder how far he’d go to inflate his vanity. Without that collar, he’d probably be in a breadline.”

“Quent!”

“Okay, check that: His war record might get him through the door somewhere. But, mind you, he’d be out on his ear in no time once they found out what kind of card player he is.”

The waitress brought their entrees.

“I don’t want to seem presumptuous, Quent,” said Grace, after the waitress left, “but shouldn’t that job have been yours? I mean, with your success in public relations, you seem a natural for the Office of Information.”

“Bash was already in place when I came on the scene.”

“Even so-”

“Our Cardinal Archbishop is not known for firing his employees, or haven’t you noticed? Except for more than adequate cause. And extreme ego needs doesn’t seem to be on his list.”

“Do you think the Cardinal knows?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, for instance,” Grace explained, “I’ll bet the Cardinal didn’t get one of today’s memos from Father Bash.”

“Oh, I see. Yes, you’re right there: Clete knows who’s dealing. Of course, he plays the sycophant to His Eminence. But my impression is that Cardinal Boyle does not get to work early every morning just to set a good example. He knows what’s going on. He knows what sort Bash is. Unfortunately for the rest of us, the Cardinal is able to live with a man like that in his administration.”

“I guess that is unfortunate.”

“The way to survive someone like Bash, Grace, is to have as little to do with him as possible.”

“Even me? After all, I’m only a secretary.”

“Grace, you have my complete and flat-out permission to act as if Father Bash has suffered a sudden and barely-provided-for death.”

They both laughed, and finished their dinner with small talk on more pleasant topics.

Ordinarily, Grace took the bus home from work each evening. Making allowances for the-at best-erratic dependability of Detroit’s public transportation, it was a simple, direct ride from downtown to the far west side of the city.

But on those evenings when she dined with Quentin Jeffrey, he invariably insisted on driving her to her apartment house. Sometimes he would accompany her to her door; other times he would remain in his car but wait until she had entered the building.

Grace tried to read some sort of message into these variables. When he stayed outside the building, did that mean that he was tired of her company? That this would be their final evening together?

When he entered the building, did he want to come into her apartment? He always declined her invitation. Was entering her building a metaphor for entering her body? She had to admit that, remote as it seemed, she enjoyed the fantasy.

Things were far less involved, at least on a conscious level, in Jeffrey’s mind. He was aware of no special reason for either procedure. It was merely that he was invariably concerned for her safety. He would never leave until she was at least within the protective walls of her building. Sometimes, for no perceptible reason, he felt particularly ill at ease about the neighborhood-an unfamiliar car, the front door left slightly ajar, something, anything. At such times, he would walk her to her door. She would invite him in. He would politely decline the invitation. Sometimes he felt quite strongly that he should accept. But he felt even more strongly that he didn’t want to complicate things.

Tonight when they arrived at her apartment building, he parked the car and wordlessly accompanied her up the walk and the stairs to her apartment. For the first time, he took the key from her hand, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.

Later, she couldn’t say why she did it. Maybe because this evening at dinner he’d seemed to share his feelings with her more openly than ever before. Perhaps it was his unique gesture of taking her key and opening the door.

Whatever the case, as he opened the door, she slipped her left hand to the back of his neck and kissed him gently on the lips.

Startled, he pulled back. She immediately sensed that she had misinterpreted the signs. She dropped her hand and moved back, only to be clasped firmly in his arms and pulled forward and upward. The kiss that followed was passionate.

Still locked in their embrace, they began moving through her door, when, without warning, a resident of an adjoining apartment opened his door and stepped out to retrieve his afternoon paper.

For an instant, all three were immobile in mutual embarrassment.

The man swept his paper from the floor and stepped back inside his apartment so hurriedly he almost stumbled. For Jeffrey, the moment was past, the magic gone. But not for Grace; Jeffrey had to peel her arms from his back.

“Come in, Quent, come in,” Grace pleaded. “It doesn’t matter. He went back inside. He can’t see us now. It’s all right.”

“No! Excuse me, Grace. I don’t know what-I’m sorry. My fault entirely. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He stepped away quickly and hurried down the stairs and out of sight.

Grace stood where he’d left her. She waited until she heard the outside door open and close.

He was gone. But not the memory

She entered her apartment, closed the door, leaned back against it, and closed her eyes.

Her imagination began to film a movie. Her neighbor was expunged. She and Quent, still locked together, moved into her room. They kissed, more and more deeply. They moved, as if in adagio, into the bedroom, where their passion overflowed.

Afterward, he held her as, completely relaxed, they basked in each other’s silent company.

Grace held the image all evening in happy contentment.

Quentin Jeffrey did not share her reverie fantasy. Immediately after starting his car, he turned off the heater. It was cold, but he was very warm. God , he thought, I’ve forgotten what it was like. He didn’t linger for any possible reappearance by Grace Mars. He quickly pulled away from the curb.

And then, as was his wont, he assessed the situation.

He had let his testosterone run rampant, even if only for a few moments. He thought he had convinced himself after his wife died that there simply was no outlet for passion in his life anymore. And now an unguarded moment had put the lie to that conviction.

The good news was he’d been able to extinguish the fire before it became a conflagration. At the very least, an affair with Grace Mars surely would contaminate the atmosphere at work. He’d seen that happen so often when he’d been in business. Sex between workers, especially between employer and employee, even if not actually in the work arena, usually led to disastrous consequences.

He hoped that his letting down the protective layers, even so briefly, would not jeopardize the genuine friendship, as well as the business relationship, that had grown between them. He didn’t think it had.

He had been driving with his mind in neutral. He shook his head and opened himself to the present.

There was something scheduled this evening. What was it? A gathering of some sort. Of course! How could he have forgotten poker with the gang? No wonder; after what had just happened-and after what had almost happened-he might well have forgotten his name.