Читать книгу The Footstop Cafe - Paulette Crosse - Страница 10

Egret Van Gorder can’t think properly. From the puckish tip of his upturned nose, which exists just below whey-coloured hair and two eyes as blue as God’s heaven, down to his sneaker-clad feet, fever grips him. Every inch of his lean, hard body effuses fever — in his sharp replies, in his constant activity, in his Tommy Hilfiger clothes and the snap of his torso as he powers off the board into a one-and-a-half pike. They all speak of fever. Pussy fever.

He has it bad. No amount of jerking off, no amount of partying or diving practice, can drive this wild, raging need from under his skin. As desperate as a junkie looking for a fix, he needs to plunge himself into the warm, wriggling wetness of a woman. This makes him intensely aggressive on the trampoline, makes him drive too fast in his dad’s car, makes him steal the Man’s custom-built Virago 1100 and take it for a spin around the block in the pouring rain.

Egret Van Gorder can’t be held responsible for his state; he is, after all, a teenager, and therefore a slave to his hormones. A virgin teenager, to be exact.

Not that Egret isn’t attractive. Sure, his fingers have slid into the mysterious salty depths of more than one gasping girl. His lips have closed around sweet, firm nipples while his pelvis has ground the attached, fully-clothed hips into the bleachers at Mahon Stadium. But he has yet to submerge his submarine into the waters of fair Atlantis.

He is certain that out of the 239 guys in Sutherland Secondary School, he is the only male virgin left. And the real bitch of that is his age; because of his intense training schedule, he is in a special half-time program at school. This decelerated learning plan makes him a couple of years older than his classmates, and so here he is, a fucking nineteen-year-old virgin.

Once, he could have had Lucy Ng. He was that close to breaking down. Instead, Lucy’s robust lips nearly ripped his dick from its roots during a vodka-laced blow job, and he actually enjoyed the ordeal, despite the alarming bruises that appeared the day after.

Why did he relish such brutish treatment?

Because while Lucy was trying to suck his intestines out through his cock, he had visions of another pair of lips doing the same thing. Lips that belonged to a slim, aloof creature with green eyes. Lips attached to a body that held a second set of lips nestled beneath a mound of red hair between smooth white legs. Lips that belonged to Candice Morton.

To those fleshy lower lips and those lips alone he vowed to lose his virginity.

With a complete absence of thought that is, in many respects, akin to the fever that grips young Egret, Karen sits at her kitchen table and stares blindly at a magazine. Since Moey Thorpe left her at noon, she hasn’t turned a page. It is now 3:15.

On rainy days such as these when nary a customer appears, Karen works in her shop creating Footstop merchandise. If she feels uninspired, she flips through magazines instead, combing the pages for ideas on new products. Today even that is beyond her.

She has a hundred other tasks crying out for her attention: as a volunteer for the North Shore Neighbourhood House, she has pamphlets to deliver; as a canvasser for the Canadian Cancer Society, she has doors to knock on and donations to collect; as a mother to a budding inventor, she has a list of peculiar hardware items to shop for. But again she is incapable of turning her attention to any of these tasks.

Instead, she tries to recall her conversation with Moey, but she can’t. All she can remember is his burnt-toast-brown eyes fixed so intently upon her, his pulse pounding so visibly in his thick neck. And that one phrase he used, which keeps tolling like a bell over and over in her mind: When I die, I don’t want to regret how I’ve lived, and I know if I don’t do this, that’s how I’ll die. Full of regret.

Her birthmarks still tingle at his words.

A thousand questions now whirl in her mind. Why does he want to dance for tips only at the Footstop? Why not at a Middle Eastern restaurant? Okay, okay, so he believes that the white hart wants him to dance here, at the teahouse, but still ... what makes a kick boxer want to belly-dance, anyway? And how on earth is she going to explain this to Morris?

“I shouldn’t have said yes,” she murmurs. “Why did I say yes?”

The front doorbell rings, jolting her out of her daze. Wondering irritably who it can be — only Jehovah’s Witnesses use the front door — she fumbles for her crutches and struggles out of the chair. The doorbell peals again as she lurches along the hall.

“Coming!” she shouts. “Hold your horses!”

Squeak, lurch, swing; squeak, lurch, swing — breathless and red-cheeked, she makes it to the end of the hall and fumbles with the door handle, crutches lodged under her armpits.

A rain-soaked teenager with startling blue eyes stands on the doorstep, hunched in an Adidas sweatshirt. Like all boys his age, he wears no coat and towers several inches above her.

“Uh, could I speak to Candice?”

“She’s not back from school yet. She usually isn’t home until four.”

“Oh.” He shuffles a bit.

A swirl of cold wind shoves the door from Karen’s hand, thumps it against the wall, and splatters her with raindrops. She shivers and gropes for the door again. “Well, I’ll tell her you came by .?”

“Egret. No, don’t bother. I’ll hang around till four.”

“Out here? You’ll catch pneumonia. Come inside and wait.”

“It’s no problem if I wait out here, Mrs. Morton —”

“Mrs. Morton is my husband’s mother,” she says reflexively. “My name is Karen.” He grins. “Karen.”

“Come in, come in, it’s freezing out here. Shoot the bolt across when you shut the door.”

She pivots and starts down the hall. A pause, then the door thuds closed at her back. The deadbolt snicks into its slot. Footsteps follow her as she staggers down the hall towards the kitchen.

“How did you bust your foot, Mrs. — uh...Karen?”

“I fell in the canyon. Trying to catch my cat.”

“Off a cliff?”

“Nothing so impressive. I slipped on the creek bank. Do you want some tea?”

“Don’t, like, go to any trouble.”

“I was making some, anyway.” She leans the crutches against the counter, hops on one foot to the cupboard, and takes out two mugs.

He scrapes a chair away from the table and slouches into it. “So you fell in the canyon, eh? You’re lucky you didn’t land in the creek. People die like that every summer.”

“I know. Sugar? Milk?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“So where do you know Candice from? You look too old to be in her class.”

“We’re in the same grade.” He bites the words off. She takes the cue and searches for a change of topic. He beats her to it. “She tell you I’m training for the Olympics? Diving. Won the bronze by a half point at the PanAm Games this summer.”

“Really? This summer? That’s ... incredible.” She stares over her shoulder at him as she fills the kettle.

He grins and flicks a wet lock of hair from his eyes. “Man, you look totally amazed. Like you didn’t think I could be good at anything.”

The kettle spills over. Karen hastily switches off the tap and plugs the kettle into an outlet. “Yes, well, you don’t look like you could ... I mean, you look so normal, so average...” She blushes.

The telephone rings, loud and shrill.

Saved by the bell, Karen thinks as she leaps to answer the phone, forgetting in her fluster her one-legged state.

As her full weight thumps down on her casted ankle, she slips, grabs for the counter, catches the kettle instead. There is a brief, fragile resistance as the plug halts her fall for a nanosecond. Then, with the alarming image of the silver kettle descending upon her forehead, she plunges to the floor.

Pain and blackness.

She couldn’t have been unconscious for long, for the first thing she becomes aware of is the sound of the answering machine clicking on. In fact, as she listens dizzily to her own recorded voice inviting the caller to please leave a message, she speculates that on the whole she couldn’t have been unconscious for more than sixty seconds.

“Yeah, Mom, it’s me. I’m over at Gloria’s, school project, you know? I won’t be home till later, so don’t make me anything for dinner. Besides, I’m on a diet, a totally serious one this time. Maybe a salad, but that’s all. Ciao.”

Click.

Then another voice, much closer. “Mrs. Morton? Mrs. Morton? Shit! Mrs. Morton?”

She licks her lips, tastes blood, and carefully opens one eye. She winces at the stab of pain produced by the kitchen lights.

“Karen,” she hoarsely whispers. “My name’s Karen. Mrs. Morton is my husband’s mother.”

“Shit! You all right? Want me to phone for an ambulance or something?”

“No, I’ll be fine,” she says quickly. “I can’t go to Emergency twice in two days. They’ll think my husband’s beating me.”

“Yeah, but —”

“Could you just help me up? I’ll be fine.”

“You sure about that? You got a real double whammy there. The kettle bounced right off your head. I mean, it totally flew across the kitchen. And then you cracked your skull on the floor.”

“No, really,” she says with as much reassurance as she can muster, for by now she is starting to feel ill. “I’ll be fine.”

He shrugs. “If you say so.”

“Could you help me up?” She extends a trembling hand. He frowns, shrugs again, grabs her hand, and pulls.

Kettle water all over the floor ...

Her feet skid out from under her as if she’s on ice, and she shoots between his parted, braced legs like a professional skater. He loses his balance, cries out, then topples onto her; this time, instead of seeing a kettle descend upon her forehead, she watches Egret’s crotch plummet towards her.

More pain, a great deal more, as his groin lands fully onto her face, and the back of her skull thunks against the floor again. It feels as if a truck is trying to take her head off; hot electricity courses down her spine.

“Fuck!” he yells, and scrabbles on top of her, slipping and sliding like a Jell-O wrestler, the fly of his jeans scraping against her lips. He gets off her, flustered and red-faced. “Slipped,” he mumbles. “Sorry.”

“S’okay,” she whispers, closing her eyes as the vise against her head tightens until she thinks she’ll faint.

“Maybe, uh, maybe I’ll just wipe up the water first,” he says.

She hears movement, followed by swishing sounds.

“Hey, you okay, Mrs. Morton? You aren’t looking too good.”

“Not feeling good,” she croaks, keeping her eyes closed, feeling dizzy, feeling vomit burn against her throat. “I think I should go to bed.”

“You sure you don’t want me to call the ambulance?”

“No. Bedroom.”

There is a pause. Her cranium could be an acorn in a nutcracker; her spine might as well have been scalded with hot oil. He mumbles something; she can’t concentrate on what he is saying and doesn’t much care to. Then his hands grope clumsily under her armpits and he hoists her into a sitting position. She feels his knees against her back, hears him suck in a deep breath, and then the kitchen turns bright orange and slanted as he whooshes her upright.

“Slower!” she cries hoarsely, and vomits across the floor.

“Shit!”

To his credit, he doesn’t release her but continues to hold her upright.

“This is not good! C’mon, Mrs. Morton, let me phone someone, a neighbour at least!”

“Stop calling me that! Karen, my name’s Karen!”

They stand in silence for a moment. Lightning and thunder rage inside her head. She keeps her eyes fixed on the splatter of vomit on the floor. At least no peas show up in it, she thinks inanely.

“Could you pass me something to wipe myself with, please?” she eventually asks.

Without a word — and still holding her upright — he stretches towards the paper towel rack and yanks off a ream. She accepts it without turning and gingerly wipes the sour flecks from her lips and chin. Crumpling the soiled paper, she lets it fall to the floor. Silence hangs between them.

“I’m sorry,” she finally whispers. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“Hey, no problem. You cracked your head. You’re not feeling too great.”

“It’s just that I’ve had a very strange day.”

“Understand totally. I mean, a blow like that would’ve knocked most people into last year. You must have one tough brain box.”

She lets that sink in for a moment, uncertain if it’s a compliment. “Yes, well,” she eventually says, “I’m sorry if I shouted at you. And vomited in front of you.”

“Forget it.”

His chest moves behind her — a shrug, she guesses.

“You still want me to take you to the bedroom?”

“Yes,” she whispers. And, unaccountably, she flushes.

As if handling a brittle, unpredictable jack-in-the-box, Egret carefully places Karen on her bed.

Shit, does she look white, a totally unhealthy sort of white, he thinks. The kind of white that floods the Man’s face if he goes without a drink for a couple of days.

Egret looks down at Karen as she lies there, still as a brick, eyes squeezed shut. The water from the kettle has plastered her hippie-style dress against her breasts — full breasts unencumbered by a bra. He can still feel the mellow warmth of them pressed against his hands where he reached under her armpits to haul her upright. Unwittingly, his eyes travel down the length of her.

Her legs, as smooth and white as shaving cream, shine in the gloom of the bedroom. Nice legs. Like Candice’s, only fuller ... Shit, I’m getting a hard-on! Quickly, he steps backwards, away from the bed. Her eyes flutter open a little.

“Thanks,” she whispers. “Sorry about this.”

“Don’t apologize.” He fidgets, rams his hands into his pockets. “Look, you want me to get you something? Aspirin maybe?”

“That’d be great. Bathroom cupboard, behind the mirror.”

“You want the light on in here?”

“No, definitely not. Thank you.”

He nods, she closes her eyes again, and he beats a hasty retreat out of the room.

Is he losing his mind, giving the once-over to someone his mom’s age? Not that Karen looks as ancient as his old lady — fact is, Karen and Candice look like sisters. Only Karen weighs more, looks like the older sister, the experienced one. The one who really knows what to do in bed .

“Fuck,” he mutters, shoving open a door and searching for the bathroom. He realizes his mistake and starts to back out. Then stops. “Candice’s room,” he whispers, shooting a look over his shoulder down the hall. Of course, no one is there. His heart beats a little harder, and very carefully he pushes the door all the way open and steps inside.

Posters of movie stars and rock bands cover blue-flowered wallpaper. On top of a white dresser a stack of Cosmopolitan magazines competes for space with a regiment of lipsticks. Dirty laundry overflows from a teddy-bear-shaped wicker basket. Ahead of him an unmade bed still holds the imprint of where Candice slept. A black rug with a clown on it sits in the middle of the floor.

Like the needle of a compass swinging north, Egret veers in the direction of the bed.

He can smell her, that heady scent of lemon shampoo, blue jeans, and lilac deodorant. The urge to lie on the bed and jack off overwhelms him.

Quickly, he diverts his gaze from the rumpled bedsheets. His eyes fall instead on the teddy-bear laundry basket. Specifically, on a pair of panties draped over its left eye like a pirate’s patch. Black lace panties.

A shiver ripples through him.

There, right in front of him, is evidence of Candice’s womanhood. It is nature’s statement that she is ready for him. And he wants her, is he ever ready for her. Stiffer than a damn crowbar.

He throws another look over his shoulder. What he wouldn’t give if the woman lying in the bedroom next door was Candice, Candice waiting for him, Candice all thigh-slippery with expectation .

“But it’s her mother and she’s waiting for you to get her some aspirin, so get your ass out of here,” he chides himself.

Yet he can’t. He can’t leave those panties there. Without thinking he steps forward, snatches them off the teddy-bear basket, and stuffs them in his pocket. For a moment he stares at the wicker bear, afraid its unwavering eyes are warning him to put the panties back. His heart bongs against his larynx.

“Forget it, buddy,” he whispers to the bear. “They’re mine now.” He turns and leaves the room.

More than once as he rummages through the bathroom cupboard for a bottle of aspirin, his hand dives into his pocket and he fingers the black lace cowering there. He sniffs his fingers and swallows against the saliva that springs into his mouth from the iron-ammonia smell of her crotch. Totally turned on and partially revolted, he suppresses the urge to lick his fingertips.

Never once does he even notice the microwave by the toilet.

Candice’s mother is still stretched out motionless on her bed when he returns to the darkness of her room. He stands for a moment in the doorway, looking at her legs exposed almost to the thigh, at her full hips, her big tits, her smooth neck.

He stumbles forward, slopping water from the plastic bathroom cup over his sneakers.

“Here’s your aspirin, Mrs. — Karen. I brought the whole bottle. I didn’t know how much you wanted. And water, I brought you some water.”

She shifts a little, and the rustle of her skin against the bedsheets makes him break out in gooseflesh. He keeps his eyes firmly averted, keeps talking.

“I’ll just open it up for you, okay? Then I’d better get going. My old man’ll wonder where I am. Look, I’m putting it down on this table here, right by your elbow. That okay with you?”

“Thank you, yes.”

He backs away, looking everywhere but at her. “You going to be okay?”

“I’ll be fine. Andy should be home soon. I’ll be fine.”

“Good. Well, then, guess I’ll be going.”

“Yes. Thank you, Egret. Sorry about ... all this.”

“No problem.”

He hesitates for a moment, then turns and flees.