Michael Hemmingson: Seven Women: An Erotic Private Investigation

Amelia asks, “You don’t sit in your office and wait for sexy women in wide-brimmed hats and skirts with high slits wanting you to solve mysteries?”

“It’s never like that,” I say. “It’s usually boring.”

“It is,” Tasha says.

The waitress comes to the table. I insist on buying the round. Amelia orders a beer and the others all want wine, white, except for Lisa, who has red. I ask for a refill of my vodka tonic.

“So,” I say, “you ladies get together once a week and shoot the bull?”

“Lady?” Sheila says mockingly. “Who are you calling a lady?”

“Sorry. Women. Girls?” I grin.

Sheila says, “I still like being called a girl. In three months I’m going to be thirty fucking years old."

The waitress returns with new drinks and I give her a twenty, tell her to keep the change. I sip my drink.

“One day I want to write a book, any kind of book.” Amelia shrugs. “I don’t know what it’ll be about.”

“Let’s not talk about books,” Tasha says. “I’ve been talking books all day. I’m sick of books.”

Silence as we drink.

“We can talk about men,” Cara says.

“We always talk about men,” Sheila says.

Amelia says, “Men are an endless topic.”

“Endless is the word,” Sheila says.

My ex-wife gives me another quick look.

“Do we need men?” Lisa says.

I’m enjoying this.

“You don’t if you’re a lesbian,” Amelia says.

I want to touch Tasha at this moment. I am remembering Veronica, a friend of hers. One night, during our marriage, we took her to bed, and afterwards, things were never the same. I watched Tasha get caught up in the swarm of that evening, the alcohol and the drugs and the sex we couldn’t control. Then I believed that evening was a watershed, that it marked the decline of our marriage. And yes, it did.

Tasha says, “We need men.”

“I need men,” Amelia says, looking at me from her beer, “but that’s because I like men. All sorts of men, as long as they’re not fat or sweaty or dumb.”

“Ah,” I say.

“So, Leonard,” Sheila says to me. “When you get together with your buddies, your guy pals, what do you fellas talk about the most? You probably talk about women.”

I really don’t have any buddies, not the kind I get together with. I’m pretty much a loner, and always have been. Tasha knows this.

“Sometimes what we talk about is we talk about women,” I say.

“Or sports,” Cara says.

“I’m really not into sports.”

“I like sports,” Amelia says. “I like football. I like to watch football on TV.”

“You just like to look at the players,” Cara says.

“All those cute butts,” Amelia says. “Oh, yes.”

“I went out with a football player in high school,” Lisa says.

“Really?”

“A dumb jock. I didn’t go out with him for long. I don’t know why I dated him in the first place. He was cute, sure, and a lot of the girls at school wanted him, but he didn’t have crap up here,” she adds, pointing to her temple.

“Stereotype,” Tasha says, “I’m sure not all football players are dumb jocks.”

“I agree,” Lisa says, “but this fellow happened to be one.”

“So did you sleep with him?” Sheila wants to know.

“No.”

“No?”

“We only went out for a short time.”

“But I bet he tried to get some,” Cara says into her wine.

“He tried, and failed.”

“I never slept with a football player,” Amelia says. “I think it’d be interesting.”

“You would,” Sheila smiles.

“Look how I’m talking,” Amelia says, “I wonder what Leonard here is thinking.”

“He thinks you’re a horn-dog,” Cara says.

“I’m just being honest.”

“Call her a horn-dog,” Cara tells me.

“If you feel uncomfortable talking with me here—” I say to Amelia.

“Not me,” Amelia answers. “I’m always honest.”

“We don’t want Leonard to leave,” Sheila says.

Tasha looks at me. “How’s Jay?”

“He’s okay.”

“Who’s Jay?” Sheila asks.

“A good friend of mine,” I say. “He paints. His work is in the galleries now and then.” I add, “He’s a friend of Tasha’s, too.”

“I went out with a painter once,” Cara says. “He always smelled like paint. That really bugged me.”

“What did he paint?” Lisa asks.

“Houses.”

“I think Leonard is talking about a real artist,” Amelia says.

“Artist, yes,” Tasha says, touching her wine glass.

“Is he an artist,” Cara asks, “or a ‘real’ artist?”

“Is there a difference?” Sheila says.

Lisa answers, “Yes.”

Tasha says, “All that’s academic. Philosophical.”

“Philosophy is horse manure,” Sheila says.

“Or house manure, if you’re a painter,” Amelia says.

“Touché,” I say.

“All those philosophers did was sit in French cafés and bullshit.”

“Kind of like what we’re doing now,” Cara says.

“I’ve never been to France,” Sheila says.

“I’ve never been anywhere,” Amelia says, “except to outer space.”

Lisa smiles. “I was in France one summer. I was nineteen, going all over Europe. It was an experience.”

“Yeah,” Cara says.

“I really went into outer space, in a UFO,” Amelia says quietly at the same time Tasha says, “Leonard is French.”

There’s a brief pause when we all try to decide whether or not Amelia actually said that. Then she says, “Oh, you’re French?”

“Half French,” I say.

“Which half?” Sheila asks.

I say, “My mother is French, my father is American.”

“You have dual citizenship?” Lisa says.

“No. I’m all American.”

“You don’t have an accent,” Amelia says.

“I was there when I was really young,” I say.

“Then he came here,” Tasha says.

“Have you ever gone back?” Lisa asks.

“I used to,” I say.

Tasha says, “I wonder where Holly is?”

“Late,” Lisa says.

“As always,” Sheila says.

“Subways and buses,” Amelia says. “I used to drive when I lived upstate. I would drive toward the mountains and look at them. Sometimes I’d think I could drive forever, on and on, going anywhere and everywhere, leaving my past behind.”

“I hate cars,” Tasha says. “They have no respect for space.”

“Or pavement,” Lisa adds.

“Are our feet competing with cars?” Amelia says. She seems confused, drinks her beer. I wonder what is really on her mind. I shouldn’t speak. I should just listen. I have always been a good listener. I make a fool out of myself when I talk and drink. Talking and drinking don’t always mix well.

“So,” Sheila says.

“So,” Amelia says.

“So,” Cara says.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Tasha says.

I get up so she can get out. I sit back in the booth, and I’m next to Sheila now. I see that her skirt is hiked up some from her position, charcoal gray nylons. I find her attractive. I find them all attractive.

Amelia kicks me with her foot. “Oh, sorry,” she says.

“So,” Sheila says to me.

“So,” I say.

“You must feel a little weird.”

“Yeah?”

“Tasha,” she says.

“Well.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Sheila says.

“It’s okay,” I say.

“She hasn’t said a lot about you,” Sheila says.

“Well,” I say.

Cara says, “You’re putting him on the spot. Poor Leonard.”

“Am I making you feel uncomfortable?” Sheila asks, leaning close, her hand brushing my leg.

“Not at all,” I smile, and it’s no lie.

I do feel weird.