Richard Laymon: Flesh

“I think we’d be smart to leave.”

“Okay. It’s settled, then.” She smiled at Jake. It was a false smile. See? You got your way.

Hey lady, he wanted to tell her, sorry. Just thought you might want to know there’s an asshole in the neighborhood and maybe you’re his type. Forgive me.

Smeltzer turned to Jake. “Could we give you a lift?”

“Yeah, thanks. I could use a ride back to the road.”

“Fine. We’ll just be a minute. We need to lock up.”

He and his wife headed up the porch stairs.

Jake glanced at the woman’s rear end. He didn’t find it especially interesting. She was a fine-looking package, beautifully wrapped, but Jake had the idea that he wouldn’t like what he found inside.

So much for lust.

They were inside the restaurant for longer than Jake expected. At first, he assumed they were probably delayed by a heated discussion about leaving ahead of schedule. Then he began to worry.

What if the guy from the van was in there and got them?

Not very likely.

But the possibility stayed with Jake. He counted to thirty, slowly, in his mind.

They still weren’t out.

He went for the stairs, took them three at a time, and reached for the door handle.

The door swung away from him.

“Sorry it took so long,” Smeltzer said. “Had to use the john.”

“No problem.” Jake turned away, not even trying for a glimpse of the wife, and trotted down the stairs.

From behind him came her voice. “This really is the pits.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Smeltzer said.

“Of course.”

A few classes were still in session and Bennet Hall had terrible acoustics that seemed to magnify every sound—especially on the stairways—so Alison climbed to the third floor with excessive caution, holding onto the old, wooden banister to keep herself steady.

Alison knew she was early.

She couldn’t help it.

She’d tried to stay away until four, but Chaucer let out at two and she had no classes after that on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and it just isn’t easy, killing two hours. The walk home only used up ten minutes. Neither of her roommates were there. Too bad. A conversation with Celia or Helen would’ve been good for making the time pass.

She’d tried to study, but couldn’t concentrate. Not on the book, anyway. Just on the clock, the minute hand of which seemed to move one space every ten minutes. If she could just take a nap and wake up at a quarter to four…So she set her alarm clock and stretched out on the bed. Sure, sleep. She shut her eyes, folded her hands on her belly, and tried very hard. It was no use. She couldn’t even lie still, much less sleep. Finally, she gave up on the idea, folded her waitress uniform into her flight bag, added a paperback, and left.

She had reached Bennet Hall at 3:20. That was early, even for her—a whole fifteen minutes earlier than her arrival time on Tuesday. So she took her usual seat on a concrete bench that encircled the broad trunk of an oak tree, and tried to read. Watched a squirrel eat a nut. Watched a couple of yelling lower classmen, probably frosh, toss a Frisbee around. Watched Ethel Something stroll toward the library holding hands with Brad Bailey. Tried to read. At last, it was ten till four. She couldn’t wait any longer. Besides, she told herself, the class might let out early.

So she entered Bennet Hall and made her way as quietly as possible to the third floor. The hallway was deserted. She heard the slow tapping of a typewriter from a faculty office, and a few faint voices drifting into the hall from open classroom doors.

She stopped near the open door of the last classroom on the left. The students were out of sight, but her position gave Alison a clear view of Evan.

She’d been with him only last night, but she felt as if far too much time had gone by since then. Too much time with a hollow ache in her chest. The ache didn’t go away. It seemed to get worse.

Come on, Alison thought. Dismiss the class.

Apparently, Evan hadn’t noticed her arrival. He was looking forward, probably at the student who was asking about a minimum length requirement for the term papers.

“It should,” he replied, “be like a young lady’s skirt—short enough to keep one’s interest but long enough to cover the essentials.”

A few of the students chuckled.

“But how long does it have to be? ” the voice persisted.

Evan arched an eyebrow. Alison smiled. He was so cute, acting the pedant. “Fifteen pages minimum.”

“Is that typed?” inquired a different voice.

“Typed. Black ink. White paper of the 81/2-by-11-inch variety. Double-spaced. One inch margins all around. If possible, refrain from using erasable paper—it makes my fingers sticky.”

They were freshmen. Probably taking notes on his every utterance.

Evan folded his arms. He was standing in front of his desk, its edge pressing into his rump. Taking off his wirerimmed glasses, he asked, “Any more questions?” While he waited, he wiped the lenses on a lapel of his corduroy jacket. Without the glasses, his face looked bare and somehow childlike. He put them back on and became the scholar again. “No? Your assignment is to read pages 496 through 506 in Untermeyer and come to class on Tuesday prepared to astonish me with your knowledge of Mr. Thomas’s craft and sullen art. You are dismissed.”

Alison stepped away from the door. There was no stampede to leave the classroom. The students took their time departing, some coming out alone, others in groups of two or three. The bell rang. More students wandered out. Alison waited impatiently, then peeked around the door frame.

A girl in the fourth row was still in the process of stacking her books on top of her desk. Finally, she stood, cradled the precarious pile, and strolled toward the front. “Have a nice weekend, Mr. Forbes.”

He grinned. “I shall spend the weekend continuing my quest for naked women in wet mackintoshes.”

“Huh?”

“Have a nice weekend, Dana, and Friday, too.”

Alison entered the room. The girl stepped around her and was gone.

“Naked women in wet mackintoshes?” Alison asked.

Evan grinned. He slipped a book into his briefcase. “A line borrowed from Mr. Thomas.”

“Your friend Dana will think you’re daffy.”

“Daffiness is expected from English instructors.”

Alison shut the door and went to him. He latched his briefcase, turned to her, and stared into her eyes.

“How you been?” she whispered. Her throat felt tight.

“Lonely.”

“Me, too.” She eased herself against him, arms moving beneath his jacket, head tilting back, lips waiting for his mouth.

He kissed her. He pressed her body closer and she snuggled against him. This was what she wanted, what she had longed for since last night—being with him again. If it could only go on and on. If they could only go from here to his apartment and be together, make love, eat supper, spend the evening and the night. But it couldn’t be that way, and the knowledge was a whisper of regret that tainted the moments in his embrace.

Alison ended the kiss.

She pressed her mouth to the side of his neck, squeezed herself hard against him, then lowered her arms and slipped her hands into the rear pockets of his corduroy pants. “It feels so good,” she said.

“My ass?”

“Just holding you.”

“The clothes get in the way.”

“It’s still nice.”

“Nicer still would be naked on the floor.”

“Undeniable.”

“How about it?” His hands went to her rump. They cupped her buttocks through her skirt, squeezed.

“Not a chance.”

“Give me one good reason.”