Scott Spencer - A Ship Made of Paper

opers are going to do is make them suitable for some gullible buppies and I don’t want to be a part ofthat.”

Back at the apartment, Iris looks at the eastern sky;a few clouds are tinged with the reflected red glow ofthe setting sun.The windows ofthe Sheridan Square buildings and, further east, FifthAvenue, blaze irides-cent orange.Below, the cars are suddenly turning on their headlights, the light streaming from them as cool as the moon.Hampton is in the bath-room and has been for several minutes.He has never gone into a bath-room without taking an inordinate amount oftime.She has never asked him what takes him so long, she doesn’t know and has never wanted to know.Maybe he has some disorder he is keeping secret from her.Maybe he just needs to be by himself for fifteen minutes a few times a day.Right now, she is glad for the privacy;she cannot shake that sense ofbeing un-prepared for an examination, or perhaps a cross-examination.

She sees Hampton’s reflection in the window, coming at her, superimposed over the skyline, floating like a ghost.He has taken offhis sweater and hisT-shirt and, unless she is mistaken, he seems to be shim-mying toward her, in a kind ofCalypso rhythm.Iris understands that Hampton, when he needs her, feels vulnerable and somehow trapped be-neath the ice ofhis dignity.Often, he will cover his own desire with a protective irony.She has in the past found it endearing, but now his lit-tle dance seems ludicrous, and a little demeaning.He visits the pleasures ofher body like a tourist who behaves on vacation in a way he never would dream ofat home.And like the tourist who raves about the island hospitality, there is, in Hampton’s adoration ofher, a bit ofcolonial con-descension.She is his refuge from the hard realities oflife.He has de-cided that she is more natural than he, more in tune with the primordial—motherhood, cooking, listening, fellatio, that sort ofthing.

She goes to bed with him;to refuse him this afternoon would be unwise, unthinkable.She feels he is trying to impress her, to renew his claim on her, and, even as it breaks her heart and makes her feel she is the most unfaithful, unworthy woman who ever drew breath, all ofHampton’s exertions cannot dislodge her mind from its secret orbit around her memories ofDaniel.

Each ofHampton’s kisses is not only what it is but what it is not.

She puts one hand on Hampton’s chest, grabs his hip with the other.

She shrinks back from him until he is dislodged and then she turns over, presses her forehead to the mattress, puts her arms out over her head, raises up on her knees.He is covered in perspiration.He is behind her, she is beginning to pick up his personal scent making its way through the layers ofIrish soap and Italian cologne.He is saying her name, low, gut-tural.Then there is a moment’s silence as he aligns himself with her and then she feels him going back into her.She squeezes herselfaway from him, grabs his cock, and then, rocking back, presses the head ofit against her anus.She is relatively dry, but he is slick, oily.His breath catches when he realizes what she is proposing.

“Are you sure?”he whispers.

”Yes.Do it.Just do it.”

He sprawls across her, his weight is crushing.He opens the drawer of his night table and takes out a jar ofsome sort ofcoconut-scented cream.

Her eyes are closed now, she doesn’t want to get involved in the practi-calities.She hears the plastic whisper ofthe lid being unscrewed, and then hears Hampton’s suddenly belabored, overly excited breathing.He scoops some ofthe cream up and then throws the jar onto the floor.He slaps the cream onto her, gruffand impersonal.She can feel the warmth ofhis fingers behind the slimy chill ofthe cream.And then he is astride her again.Whenever they have done this she has imagined her mother walking in.He is finished in moments.

He falls to his side ofthe bed, covers his eyes with his forearm.

”Did I hurt you?”he whispers, not looking at her.

”No.A little.I’m fine.”She is wondering what she will say when he asks her ifshe wants to come, too.But he is not his usual obliging self.

“I feel afraid oflosing you, Iris.”

She is silent.The room has gotten suddenly darker, colder.She scrambles to get under the covers.The weight ofHampton’s body presses the sheet and blankets down on her.

“Should I be?”he asks.He raises himself up on his elbows, looks at her through the corners ofhis eyes.She feels his keen, predatory intelligence.

He ought to have been a lawyer, he loves to come after you with ques-tions.“Is there any reason I should feel as worried as I do?”

“What are you asking me, Hampton?”she manages to say.She has history on her side;he has been suspicious and jealous for the entirety of their marriage, and even before.“Is this why you asked me to come to the city?To ask me these questions? ”

He is silent.She can feel him retreating, but it doesn’t feel like he’s going veryfar.

The Sleeping Giant is a huge white clapboard hotel, with shuttered win-dows and rickety iron fire escapes.The first time they arrived, just a few weeks into their relationship, it was on one ofthose dark-blue autumn evenings, when the last ofthe sunset outlines every hill.But today, the sky is cement, there will be no sunset, and their original room, which Kate has requested, is not as they remember it.Daniel and Kate stand there, looking at the four-poster bed, which looks noisy and uncomfort-able, and which takes up more than halfthe room’s space, and at the lit-tle secretary desk, and the grim little GE television set on a metal rolling table, and the beige wallpaper with its pattern ofoverly vivid, practically rapacious peonies.Daniel sees the disappointment on Kate’s face.“I think there’s something sort ofnice about this room,”he says.

“It’s changed,”says Kate.

”Well, we’ve all changed.The room’s probably having a hard time recognizing us. ”

She feels the generosity ofwhat he is saying and for a moment it draws her to him, but quickly it crosses her mind:he can afford to be gen-erous, he is that happy, that full oflife.

Now, at the Sleeping Giant, they leave their room, first for the main desk, where Kate uses the fax machine to send her article in to Lorraine, and then on to the Dragon’s Lair, one ofthe hotel’s two bars.It’s a dark room, with old scarred tables and poster-sized photos oftheThree Stooges on the wall.The free happy-hour snacks have a contemporary flair—little chunks ofsesame chicken and fried plantain simmer in the aluminum warming trays—and the music is supplied by a heavy, open-faced young man in a turtleneck sweater singing songs by U2and REM and accompanying himself on the guitar.

“Sit, sit,”Kate says, pointing Daniel toward an empty table.“I’ll get us some drinks.What do you want?A Heineken?”She barely waits for an an-swer.As she hurries toward the bar, she calls to him over her shoulder,“Score us some apps.”She cringes at the sound ofher voice—she sounds to herself like some office flirt.Still, she is glad she is the one talking to the bartender; she doesn’t want Daniel involved in how much she will be drinking.

TheTV above the bar is tuned to a Saturday afternoon football game being played in Florida.The male cheerleaders are tossing the women high into the dark-blue air.The bartender is a man in his sixties, tall and stately, with delicate broken veins in his hollow cheeks and thick author-itative eyebrows.He looks like a New England Protestant patriarch, he should be a county judge, and Kate wonders what wrong turns have brought him to this place, standing behind a noisy bar wearing a red cut-away jacket and a black bow tie.

“I’d like a largeTanqueray martini, no olives, no ice, very dry, and a Heineken,”Kate says.