Ken Grimwood: Replay

"Jeff, how goes it? Who’s your lovely young friend?"

Jeff looked blankly at the man’s face: glasses, salt-and-pepper beard, wide grin. He looked vaguely familiar, but no more.

"This is Judy Gordon. Judy, ah, I’d like you to meet…"

"Professor Samuels," she said. "My roommate has you for Medieval Lit."

"And her name is—?"

"Paula Hawkins."

The man’s grin widened further, and he nodded twice. "Excellent student. Very bright young lady, Paula. I trust my class comes recommended?"

"Oh, yes, sir," Judy said. "Paula’s told me all about you."

"Then perhaps we’ll be blessed with your own delightful presence in the fall."

"I can’t rightly say just yet, Professor Samuels. I haven’t really decided on my schedule for next year."

"Drop by my office. We’ll discuss it. And you, Jeff: good job on that Chaucer paper, but I had to give you a B for incomplete citations. Watch that next time, will you?"

"Yes, sir. I’ll remember."

"Good, good. See you in class." He waved them off, went back to his beer.

When they got to the booth, Judy slid in next to Jeff and started giggling.

"What’s so funny?"

"Don’t you know about him? Dr. Samuels?"

Jeff hadn’t even been able to recall the professor’s name.

"No, what about him?"

"He’s a dirty old man, that’s what. He chases after all the girls in his classes—the cute ones, anyway. Paula said he put his hand on her thigh one time after class—like this."

She put her girlish fingers on Jeff’s leg, rubbed it, and squeezed.

"Can you imagine?" she asked in a conspiratorial tone. "He’s, older than my father, even. 'Drop by my office'—huh! I know what he’d want to discuss. Isn’t that just the most disgusting thing you ever heard, a man his age acting like that?"

Her hand still rested on Jeff’s thigh, an inch or so away from his growing erection. He looked at her innocent round eyes, her sweet red mouth, and had a sudden fantasy of Judy going down on him right there in the booth. Dirty old man, he thought, and laughed.

"What’s so funny?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"You don’t believe me about Dr. Samuels, do you?"

"I believe you. No, it’s just—you, me, everything. I had to laugh, that’s all. What do you want to drink?"

"The regular."

"A triple zombie, right?"

The worried look left her face, and she laughed along with him. "Silly; I want a glass of red wine, just like always. Can’t you remember anything tonight?"

Judy’s lips against his were as soft as he had imagined, had remembered. The fresh scent of her hair, the youthful smoothness of her skin excited him to a degree he hadn’t felt since the early days with Linda, before their marriage. The car windows were down, and Judy rested the back of her head on the cushioned doorframe as Jeff kissed her. Andy Williams was singing "The Days of Wine and Roses" on the radio, and the fragrance of dogwood blossoms mingled with the scent of Judy’s soft, clean skin. They were parked on a wooded street a mile or so away from the campus; Judy had directed him there after they’d left the bar.

The conversation tonight had gone better than Jeff had expected. Basically, he’d followed Judy’s lead as they talked, let her be the one to mention names and places and events. He’d reacted from memory or the cues he took from her expression and tone of voice. He’d made only one anachronistic slip: They’d been talking about students they knew who were planning to move off campus next year, and Jeff had said he might sublet a condo. She’d never heard the word, but he quickly explained it away as something new from California that he’d read about and thought maybe they’d build in Atlanta soon.

As the evening had gone on, he’d relaxed and begun to enjoy himself. The beers had helped, but mainly it was just being close to Judy that had set his mind at rest for the first time since this whole thing had started. At moments, he’d found himself not even thinking of his future/past. He was alive; that was what mattered. Very much alive.

He brushed Judy’s long blond hair back from her face, kissed her cheeks and nose and lips again. She gave a low moan of pleasure, and his fingers slid from her breast to the top buttons of her blouse. She moved his hand away, back to her covered breast. They kissed for several moments more and then her hand was on his thigh, as it had been in the booth at the bar, but moving purposefully higher, until her delicate fingers caressed and kneaded his firm penis. He stroked her nyloned calves, reached beneath her skirt to feel the soft skin above the tops of her stockings.

Judy disengaged herself from his embrace, sat up abruptly. "Give me your handkerchief," she whispered.

"What? I don’t—"

She plucked the white handkerchief from his jacket pocket, where he’d tucked it automatically as he dressed in the outmoded clothes earlier tonight. Jeff reached for her again, tried to pull her toward him, but she resisted.

"Ssshh," she whispered, then smiled sweetly. "Just sit back and close your eyes."

He frowned, but did as she asked. Suddenly she was unzipping his pants and pulling his erection free with a sure, practiced move. Jeff opened his eyes in surprise, saw her staring out the window as her fingers moved on him in a constant rhythm. He stopped her hand, held it still.

"Judy—no."

She looked back at him with concern. "You don’t want to tonight?"

"Not like this." He gently took her hand away, adjusted himself, and closed his pants. "I want you; I want to be with you. But not this way. We could go somewhere, find a hotel or—"

She drew back against the car door, gave him an indignant glare. "What do you mean? You know I’m not like that!"

"All I mean to say is that I want us to be together, in a loving way. I want to give you—"

"You don’t have to give me a thing!" She wrinkled her face, and Jeff was afraid she would start to cry. "I was trying to relieve you, just like we’ve done before, and all of a sudden you take it the wrong way, want to drag me off to some cheap hotel, treat me like a—a—prostitute!"

"Judy, for Christ’s sake, it’s not like that at all. Don’t you understand, I want to make you happy, too?"

She took a lipstick from her purse, twisted the rearview mirror angrily so she could apply it. "I’m perfectly happy just the way we’ve been, thank you very much. Or at least I was, until tonight." "Look, I’m sorry I said anything, O.K.? I just thought—"

"You can keep your thoughts to yourself, and your hands, too." She flicked on the overhead light, glanced at her thin gold watch.

"I didn’t mean to upset you. We can talk about it tomorrow."

"I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to go back to the dorm, right now. That is, if you can remember how to get there."

After he dropped Judy off at her dorm he found a bar on North Druid Hills Road, near the new Lenox Square shopping center. It didn’t seem to be the sort of place where he was likely to encounter anyone from Emory: This was a drinkers' bar, a hangout for an older, quieter crowd seeking only an hour’s escape from thoughts of mortgages and stale marriages. Jeff felt right at home, though he knew he didn’t look as though he fit the clientele; the bartender even carded him, and Jeff managed to find the altered ID he’d once kept in the back of his wallet for such infrequent occasions. With a dubious grunt, the man brought Jeff a double Jack Daniel’s and went off to fiddle with the horizontal hold on the black-and-white TV set above the bar.

Jeff took a long sip of his drink, stared blankly at the news: There was more trouble in Birmingham, Jimmy Hoffa had been indicted on jury-tampering charges in Nashville, Telstar II was about to be launched. Jeff thought of Martin Luther King dead in Memphis, Hoffa mysteriously gone from the face of the earth, and a skyful of communications satellites saturating the planet with MTV and reruns of "Miami Vice." O brave new world.