Peter Abrahams - Crying Wolf

But was he really surprised when she said: “No? What would you be doing right now if it was Izzie in your bed?” He was not.

He said nothing.

Grace said: “Piss on that,” and left the room.

Nat lay back down. Was it just that he saw Izzie as the underdog and had always been one of those rooters for underdogs? How could someone like Izzie possibly be called an underdog? Was it instead some crazy competitive thing, that Izzie wasn’t available and Grace was? Or simply that he was a little afraid of Grace?

He closed his eyes, thought about returning to Inverness in the morning, even-but just for a moment-of going home. The steps outlined themselves in his mind: packing, paying Albert what he owed for the gift wine, finding the bus station. He slid down into sleep, and was almost there when it hit him that he’d forgotten all about his hundred foul shots, the first day he’d missed since he’d begun in fifth grade. His eyes opened wide. He remembered the basketball hoop on the deck down below, thought about getting up. Thought about it, but stayed where he was, eyes open.

Christmas morning.

Early morning: Nat was the only one up in the Zorns’ apartment; at least, he saw or heard no one else. Showered, shaved, dressed, packed, left $30 on his bedside table for Albert, with a note giving his college address in case the wine had cost more-$2,500!-he waited for the elevator. And while he waited, faced the Renoir.

A pink nude-not really pink, since he could see silver, yellow, violet, red, even blue on her skin, but the effect was pink-a pink nude, one foot resting on the edge of a bathtub, bending to towel herself dry. She was fat, but didn’t behave-if the word could be used for a painted figure frozen on canvas-the way fat women did now. Au contraire, as Grace or Izzie would probably say, she seemed confident, even liked her body, if that wasn’t reading too much into it. The problem, and the reason he didn’t like the painting-not liking a Renoir, who did he think he was? — was that he couldn’t see anything else inside her but that self-satisfaction. Women he knew, his mom, Patti, Grace, Izzie, might not feel that self-satisfaction-he was almost sure that none of them did feel it, despite the fact that they all had better bodies than Renoir’s woman-but there was something important in all of them that she seemed to lack. Was there a word for that something? What was it? An angle? A viewpoint? Or-here came an image-the habit of mind of a chess player forced always to play the black pieces, to go second? Nat didn’t know, but he sensed this something in women, wanted to know more about it, didn’t see it here. Did that mean that Renoir hadn’t known much about women? Nat, shying away from that conclusion, was about to move a little closer to the painting in order to examine the pink lady’s eyes and see where he had gone wrong when the elevator opened behind him. He turned.

Mrs. Zorn stepped out. She wore running shoes, black tights, and, despite the cold, a black midriff-baring top. And, despite the cold, she was sweating. A long and serious run: Nat could tell from the line of caked salt running like a blurred thread around her black top. There was a blurriness in her eyes too, but they cleared as soon as she saw him.

“You’re up early,” she said. “Nat.”

“Not as early as you, Mrs. Zorn,” he said, his voice sounding a little hoarse in his ears. “Merry Christmas.”

She nodded; her gaze rested on his backpack. “Going somewhere?”

“Inverness.”

Mrs. Zorn blinked, a long slow blink, much like his mom’s. This surprised him. With her flawless skin, high cheekbones, taut muscles-even to the extent of abdominal definition, if not quite a six-pack-and with the grape-sized diamond and the oxymoronic wine cellar and the rest of the life she must lead, Mrs. Zorn didn’t seem to have much in common with his mom.

“Weren’t you staying for the holidays?”

“That’s very nice of you, Mrs. Zorn. But I’ve got to be getting back.”

She looked almost alarmed. “I don’t understand.”

“No emergency or anything like that,” Nat said. “I’ve got a lot of work to do, that’s all.”

“Work?”

“Studying and stuff.” He thought of the list waiting on his wall: clean room, laundry, write home, work out, get to know town and surroundings, ‘ on next semester. Over Mrs. Zorn’s shoulder, he could see the Persian cat watching him from the couch in the elevator.

“Schoolwork?” said Mrs. Zorn.

“Yes.”

“But it’s vacation, and the twins say you’re a brilliant student.”

“I don’t know how they can. First-semester results aren’t even in yet.”

“The girls are always right about this kind of thing. And you’ll miss out on-” She glanced around, like someone seeking help. “How about some breakfast?”

“Thanks, but it’s really not necessary.”

“I’m fixing myself a little something anyway,” said Mrs. Zorn. “It’ll be my pleasure.”

Mrs. Zorn made an omelet, a beautiful glistening omelet with goat cheese-Nat knew that only from a quick glance at the label-onions, and peppers; the best-looking omelet he’d ever seen. She squeezed a glass of orange juice for him, made her frothy blue drink from a big cube of blue ice she took from the freezer and put in the blender, sat down opposite him in a little alcove jutting into the sky; a sky the color of her drink, the cloud level for the moment a few stories below.

“That’s not very fair,” said Nat as Mrs. Zorn divided the omelet into two highly unequal portions, taking one tiny end and giving the rest to Nat.

“This is plenty for me,” said Mrs. Zorn. “Too much.” The alarmed look crossed her face again. “You don’t want coffee, do you?”

He did, but thought it best to shake his head.

“One of the deadliest poisons there is,” she said.

Nat didn’t look up. He cut off a piece of his omelet, tasted it. “My God,” he said.

“You like it?” She didn’t sound surprised.

“It’s great.”

“My father taught me how to cook,” said Mrs. Zorn. “I hardly ever get a chance, but the staff’s off today, of course.”

A maid in uniform entered, laid a vase of flowers and some folded newspapers on the table, left. A young maid, Hispanic: she resembled one of the cheerleaders at Clear Creek High.

“The cook’s off, anyway,” said Mrs. Zorn, who still hadn’t touched her food. She sipped her blue drink. “Where are you from, Nat?”

He told her.

“I’m from Denver, myself,” she said.

“You are?”

“Do you know the city?”

“Not really.”

“My father had a diner in Arvada. He cooked and my mother served.”

Nat was amazed. Arvada was where his own mother had spent the first few years of her life, for one thing. “How long have you lived here?” he said.

“New York, you mean, or this place?”

“New York.”

“Since I was sixteen.”

“Did your parents open another diner?”

“I’m sorry?”

“When you moved here.”

“I came by myself. I’d always wanted to be a model, for some reason, and this is where you have to go, here or Paris, and I wasn’t ready for Paris back then. Or ever.”

“And did it… uh, work out?”

“Did what work out?”

“The modeling.”

“Yes indeed,” said Mrs. Zorn. She stared out the window, where the cloud level had risen and there was nothing to see but swirling fog. “I’m the third Mrs. Z.”