Paul Kavanagh - Not Comin' Home to You

“I have a room.”

They were back in the town again. It was turning cool, and he had put the heat on low. She looked out the window. A couple of men had a car up on a jack and were busy changing a tire. In a doorway, an old man was drinking something out of a paper sack. Halfway down the block, a part-shepherd dog trotted off the curb and turned to stare at them, its eyes flashing red in the beam of the headlights. Jimmie John slowed the car, braked to a stop. The dog went on regarding them for a few moments.

He said, “That’s okay, dog. We got all the time in the world.”

The dog stayed still for another moment, then trotted briskly the rest of the way across the street, tail wagging.

“Now that dog,” he said, “is a real son of a bitch.”

“He wasn’t afraid of us or anything.”

“Oh, he knew I’d stop for him. I was saying. I have a room, it’s in a motel. Do you know, I don’t remember the name of the motel. I’ve got the key in my pocket, I expect it has the name on it. Doesn’t matter. I know where it is.”

She didn’t say anything.

“You could stay with me tonight. If you wanted to.”

“All right.”

He was silent for a few moments. Then he said, “The name I took the room in, it’s not my name.”

“Oh.”

“The name I told you is my own. But I have these credit cards; they have another name on them. So if I put that name down I can use the credit cards and it doesn’t cost anything.”

“That’s really neat.”

He looked at her sharply for a moment, then grinned. He said, “That’s what it is, all right. The room, well, I don’t guess it’s too bad. What’s important is it’s clean.”

“That’s the important thing, I guess.”

“Betty? You can just sleep. What I mean is, I won’t bother you if—”

“If what?”

“Well, if you don’t want.”

She squeezed his hand. She didn’t say anything, and neither did he.

She had prepared herself to walk with perfect nonchalance past the desk clerk, but, as it turned out, there was no need; Jimmie John drove around the side of the motel and parked in front of the door to his room. He opened the door with his key, flicked on a light, then stood aside so she could walk into the room ahead of him.

“Oh, it’s very nice,” she said.

She had expected to be very nervous and found herself at ease. If anyone was nervous, he was. He was so completely sure of himself that his lack of assurance now was very touching. Soon he would take her in his arms. He would kiss her, and they would make love.

Of course she would not be as good as the girls he was used to. But he liked her, she knew he liked her, and that would make up for some of it.

He said, “I guess I’ll take a shower. Unless you want to go first.”

“No, I’d just like to sit for a minute.”

“There’s a thing there for making coffee, if you want some. You just fill that little pot with water and put it on the coil, and the weight of it makes the coil heat up. And then there’s instant coffee and sugar and cream and a stick to stir it with, all wrapped up in a little package.”

“I don’t think so. If I have more coffee now, I won’t be able to sleep.”

“Maybe in the morning.”

She looked at him, and his eyes slipped away. He went into the bathroom, closed the door.

Now he’s taking his clothes off, she thought. And then she heard the water running in the shower.

She got on the bed but couldn’t sit still. She moved around the room, touching things absently. There was a large portable television set on one end of the dresser. It was bolted in place to prevent theft, as were the various table lamps, but was mounted on a swivel so that you could watch it from any part of the room. She switched it on, but before the picture could come into focus she switched it off again. She did not want another presence in his room. Their room.

Should she undress and join him in the shower? Did he expect her to do that?

But if it was not what he expected, if in fact it was not what he wanted, it would be an awful mistake on her part. And then it occurred to her that perhaps he did not want her at all. That he wanted to be with her but did not want her sexually. The thought disturbed her in ways she did not completely understand.

She heard him turn off the shower. A few moments later the bathroom door opened and he emerged with a towel fastened around his middle. He was tanned nicely, and his chest was smooth and hairless. Her father had body hair like an ape and would sit around on summer nights in sleeveless undershirts, drinking beer and perspiring heavily, scratching at the roll of soft fat on his belly. There was no fat on Jimmie John’s body. She saw now that he was leaner than she had realized, slender and wiry.

When she passed him she caught the scent of his after-shave.

“Don’t be too long now.”

“I won’t.”

“There’s just the one lever in the shower. You want to adjust it to the right position before you get under it, or it comes on too hot or too cold.”

When she had showered and dried herself, she wrapped a towel around her so that it covered her from her breasts to the middle of her thighs. She couldn’t fasten it but held it with one hand behind her back. She studied her face in the mirror. She had never considered herself pretty, but she did look pretty now.

Would he think she was pretty?

Instinct made her put out the bathroom light before opening the door. He had turned off all the lights but one bedside lamp. He was under the covers. She moved toward him and studied his eyes and the planes of his face.

She dropped the towel. She looked at him and his eyes were full of her. He said her name. She closed her own eyes and was briefly dizzy. When she opened them he was reaching to turn off the lamp. He drew back the bedcovers for her and she got in beside him.

He said, “You’re beautiful.”

“Oh, I am not.”

“Come here.”

When he kissed her she thought she was going to die. She had imagined a thousand equivalents of this moment. But it was much more than she had ever imagined. His body against her and his mouth on hers — it was more than she had thought it could be.

He kissed her for a long time. She put her arms around him and felt the weight of his upper body upon her breasts. He kissed her eyes and the tip of her nose. He lay beside her and rested a hand just below the curve of her breast. She put her own hand atop his and interlaced their fingers.

“I don’t know anything,” she said.

“We don’t have to do anything.”

“I want to. But I’ve never been with anyone.”

“Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid. Just tell me what to do.”

“Just lie still.”

She lay there, breathing slowly and deeply, and he began to make very gentle love to her. Slowly and tentatively his hands learned the contours of her body. He touched her breasts, her legs, between her legs. For a long time she did not feel anything that could be properly labeled excitement. His mere presence was excitement in itself, and the novelty of lying open to this boy, of being touched by him, was thrilling.

Then, before she knew it, she began to become passionate. Something extraordinary welled up inside of her. She thought she was going to burst open. Her heart was racing. She could not get her breath. She walked catwalks and narrow ledges, and instead of falling she soared.

“Oh, God!”

“Easy,” he said. “Easy, now.”

“It was so beautiful.” She turned to him and tucked her face into his shoulder. “Oh, I love you, I love you.”

She must have slept then, because when she opened her eyes he was sitting in a chair by the side of the bed. He was wearing a pair of white cotton undershorts.