“Bald!” said Lois triumphantly. “Bald as a Ping-Pong ball. And fat—whew. He must have three chins!”
“All those Knutsen men get heavy,” said Ida. “Would anyone like more coffee?”
“I would, thank you,” said June and handed Ida her cup. She was trying to manufacture some satisfying response for Lois, who looked a little disappointed, but the truth was, June didn’t have any feelings about Dwayne Knutsen at all. They had gone together senior year, which had been preordained since June was head cheerleader and Dwayne the quarterback, and they had been briefly engaged, and Dwayne had even taken June’s virginity, if one could call that brief stab of pain in his pickup truck a sexual encounter. But a month later June had gone up to Minneapolis with some girlfriends to the modeling auditions at Dayton’s, and that had been that. “I knew it’d never stick,” Dwayne had said sadly, coming to get his ring back the morning June left for New York. “But it was fun while it lasted.” June hadn’t thought of him in years.
“Guess you had a narrow escape, June Ann,” said Minnie. “Ow, now why are you kicking me?”
“Just for fun,” said Lois.
“Is he married?” said June, because some response was expected of her, and when Lois said “Of course,” she asked, “Kids?”
“Five,” said Lois, “and one on the way.”
“Wow,” said June. “Six kids. Imagine that,” and she smiled into her cup. A farmer with six kids. She’d have to remember to tell Peter.
* * *
As if she had summoned him up, the phone rang. Ida went into the kitchen to answer it and came back saying, “June, honey, it’s for you, long distance.” Awwwww, all the ladies chorused again, and Minnie said, “Somebody’s husband misses her. That’s sweet! Tell him hello from us.”
June promised she would and went into the kitchen, where Ida had left the receiver on the stool she sat on while she took calls. “Hello? Pete? How are you?”
“Hi,” said Gregg. “Do you miss me?”
June was so startled she nearly dropped the phone. She glanced toward the living room; the ladies were entangled in some new conversational topic, and from the sun porch Julie Andrews was singing, “All I want is a room somewhere!”
“Hello?” said Gregg. “Are you there?”
June walked across Ida’s kitchen as far as the phone’s curly cord would stretch, which was to the refrigerator. “How did you get this number?”
“I just asked the operator for Bouquet, in New Heidelberg. No sweat. Anyway,” said Gregg, “I’m here.”
“What?” said June. “Where?” She looked wildly out the window over the kitchen sink, as if Gregg might be lurking in Ida’s lilac bushes.
“In Minnesota, silly. Minneapolis.”
“Why?”
“Why d’you think? Because I want to see you.”
“Oh,” said June.
“I wanted to see you in gingham,” Gregg said. “And if you’d baked me a pie.”
“Not exactly,” said June.
“Well, that’s disappointing.” He laughed. “It’s nice here,” he added.
“I’m glad you like it,” said June. She walked back to the threshold; her mother was doling out coffee cake now, but Lois looked up and winked. June winked back.
“So when can I see you?” said Gregg.
“I really don’t think that’s possible.”
“Anything’s possible. Can you get away for a night?”
“I’m with my mom,” said June, “and my daughter.”
“Sure, I know. I figured your mom could watch Elsbeth for a night or two. So we could have a sleepover.”
“You’re nuts,” said June.
“Nuts about you,” said Gregg. “So are you coming up? Or should I come down there?”
“You don’t know where I am,” said June, but then she realized if he’d found her number, he could have Ida’s address. Sure enough, Gregg was saying, “That’s what maps are for.” Would he really do it? Would he show up here? June could invent some cover story, but the town would talk about nothing else for years.
“Listen,” Gregg said, “I dig if you really can’t, but it’s an awfully long flight out here just for room service, and I do miss you. One night? Please?”
June had knotted the phone cord around her hand; her fingers were turning purple. She loosened it and said, “I’ll try.”
“Really?”
“Maybe tomorrow. Just for one night.”
“Far out!” said Gregg. He sounded surprised, as if he hadn’t expected this plan to succeed. “I’m excited to see you, Mrs. Robinson.”
“You too,” said June.
“I’m at the Radisson,” he said. “Don’t stand me up, baby,” and the line went dead.
June hung up and went to stand by the sink, watching the clothes turn on Ida’s spinning clothesline until her heart rate had gone back to normal. Thank God Ida no longer had a party line! She went back into the living room.
“Mom,” she said, “I have to run up to Minneapolis for a night. Can you watch Elsbeth?”
“Sure, honey,” said Ida. “But why? Who was that on the phone?”
“An old friend,” said June. “A photographer I worked with in New York. He shoots for Dayton’s now, and he offered me a day’s work.”
“Well, what do you know,” said Lois. “Weren’t we just talking about that?”
“We’re psychic,” said Minnie. “We should open a palm-reading business.”
“How did he know you were here?” said Ida.
“I ran into him at the airport,” June said, “didn’t I mention that?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
“That’s funny. I was sure I had. Well, anyway, it’d be fun to see him again, and it’d be nice pocket money, but if it’s too much bother . . .”
“Oh, heavens,” said Ida, “it’s never a bother to spend time with my granddaughter. You run along, honey. Have fun.” She cut a slice of cake and set it in front of June with a fork, but behind her glasses her eyes were troubled.
* * *
The Radisson was in downtown Minneapolis, near the Foshay Tower, which was the tallest structure June had seen before going to New York, and the new IDS Center, which when completed would be taller. June consigned Ida’s Buick to the valet and stepped through the revolving door with her overnight bag. She was perspiring, her stomach churning, full of anticipation and dread. On the drive up here, she had half convinced herself the whole thing was a practical joke. Now she almost hoped it was.
She scanned the lobby, seeing several businessmen, in chairs and on couches and by the elevator bank; she saw them seeing her too, but she didn’t spot Gregg. She walked to the reception desk. If he really wasn’t here, June would have one martini in the bar, do a little shopping at Dayton’s to make the trip worthwhile, and drive straight back to Elsbeth and Ida.
“Santorelli,” she said to the girl at reception, who had a toothsome smile and a name tag that read mims. “Is there anyone here by that name?”
The girl leafed through the reservation book. “No, ma’am, I’m sorry.”
“It’s Ms., please. How about Bouquet, or Rashkin?”
“Let me just check. No, I don’t. . . .”
“Actually, it’s Robinson,” said Gregg at June’s elbow. “Mr. and Mrs. Robinson.”
June turned and stared in astonishment: Gregg had been totally transformed. He was in a suit, sober pinstriped black; he had a striped red tie and shining new shoes. Most surprising of all, his shoulder-length hair had been cut short. Only his size and his large glasses were the same.
June started to laugh. “You look like a banker.”
Gregg grinned. “You dig?” he said and revolved in a slow circle.
“I do,” said June. “No wonder I didn’t recognize you!” She was shaking a little, from the surprise and the strangeness. “Are you really here?”
“I really am.” He bent to hug her. “You look gorgeous,” he said in her ear, “as us
ual. I missed you, Mrs. Robinson.” He smelled of new cologne, too, spice and lime.
“Your room has been cleaned, Mr. Robinson,” said Mims, “and I have an extra key right here. May I get a signature?”
“Of course,” said Gregg. He signed the register for both of them: “Mr. and Mrs. Gregg Robinson!” He nodded to the clerk, took June’s overnight bag, and guided her across the lobby with a hand on the small of her back, the very model of decorum until they were by the elevator, whereupon the hand slipped down to her buttock and remained there. They watched the bronze arrow descend.
“I’ve never stayed here,” said June. “It’s swanky.”
“Isn’t it?” he said, and then the elevator went ding! and the doors slid open. They stepped inside, and Gregg pressed 14.
As soon as the doors slid closed, he dropped June’s bag and picked her up off her feet; she wrapped her legs around him to keep from falling over. They kissed deeply, violently, Gregg’s hands kneading June’s buttocks, hers running over his new short hair. He fumbled up the hem of her dress, trembling; he used his thumb to push her underwear aside and hooked it inside her. June gasped and he made a noise deep in his throat.
The elevator dinged, and June slid back down to the floor just in time for two more guests to get on, a middle-aged couple in matching aqua leisure suits. “Going down?” the man said.
“Up,” said Gregg and leaned forward to press the Close button. The woman and man glanced at them suspiciously; June fought the urge to fix her hair. They rose.
“I like your outfits,” said Gregg. “Nice day for a jog.”
The man coughed; the woman cleared her throat disapprovingly. “I like your dress too, miss,” Gregg said to June.
“Thank you,” said June, “it’s Pucci.”
“It’s short,” said Gregg. “I like that in a dress.” He was standing behind her, and on June’s right side, the one the couple couldn’t see, he slid his hand under her shift and pinched her thigh. June bit the inside of her lip. The bell pinged, and the doors slid open.
“Have a nice day,” said Gregg; “Enjoy your visit,” and they tumbled out into the hall, laughing.
“You’re incorrigible,” said June. “Couldn’t you wait?”
“Obviously not. It’s your fault. Temptress.”
“Sex maniac.”
“Hussy.”
“Child.”
“Child molester.”
He laughed as June hit him on the shoulder. “Mr. Robinson,” she said. “Really. So clever. Like they’ve never heard that one before,” and she shimmied away from him down the hall, backward, doing a little can-can and flipping up the hem of her dress. Gregg put on a burst of speed and caught up with her, grabbing her elbow and spinning her around to frog-march her to their room.
“Here we are, Mrs. Robinson,” he said and opened the door.
“Wow,” said June, surprised. The room was more contemporary than June would have guessed from the lobby’s traditional marble floors and chandeliers; up here the furniture was modular, the hanging lamps white globes, one wall mirrored in smoked glass. There was a wet bar and, framed by open Levolor blinds, a view of the Mississippi.
“This is nice—,” June started to say, but that was all she had time to get out before Gregg propelled her to the window. He pulled her dress over her head and tossed it aside, and June felt his breath on her neck and the clink of a belt buckle and then he was inside her, pressing June against the glass with each thrust so every nude inch of her was splayed like a starfish, the whole of the city spread at her feet.
* * *
When June woke, it was to a darkness so complete, it felt as though she were floating. She was frightened for a moment, not knowing where she was—Ida’s? the guest room?—and then Gregg’s arm tightened around her, and she remembered. His grip must have been what awakened her; his muscles contracted around June’s rib cage, seizing so hard she cried out. It was like being crushed by a python. Gregg was making a noise too, whining in his throat; he kicked out with one foot, and June realized he was dreaming.
“Gregg,” she said, “Gregg, wake up.”
He didn’t, but his breathing changed; his big body went slack, and his arm fell away. Then one hand slid up the backs of June’s thighs and inserted itself between her legs. It eased forward, slowly, slowly, inch by excruciating inch, until he found what he was seeking and pushed first his fingers and then himself inside.
“June,” he said. “Ah, Jesus.”
Afterward he catapulted from the bed full of energy; he went naked to the window and opened it. “Helloooo, Minneapolis!” he called into the evening—June was surprised the digital clock read 7:30; she’d thought it was the middle of the night. Gregg laughed at something on the street. “Come check this out,” he said.
“In a minute,” said June. She was flattened, pulverized by the same dread she’d felt walking into the lobby, the fear she’d felt in the dark. Only it wasn’t for herself—or rather it was because of her, what she was doing here, that something bad was going to happen to her loved ones. She was suddenly sure of it. They might not know; Ida might not suspect that June wasn’t on a shoot nor Peter have any idea June had a lover, but fate would even the score. Nothing like this could go unpunished, and whatever it was wouldn’t happen to June; her sentence would be to remain fine while her family suffered. Even now Elsbeth might be slipping in the tub; Peter would have a terrible migraine that would turn out to be a stroke, or a car would run over him, or a boiling vat fall off his stove.
“You’ve got to see this,” said Gregg, beckoning to June. She made herself get off the bed and go look out the window: far below, in the fountain on the Nicollet Mall, a band of naked hippies was frolicking nude in the water; they had put dish soap in it, for it foamed with bubbles. They cavorted happily, splashing and shouting, until there was a whistle and the clop of hooves and one of them yelled, “Scram, man! Fuzz!” And they scattered, nude behinds bouncing off into the night as a mounted policeman galloped along the pedestrian zone toward them.
“I like Minneapolis,” said Gregg. “It’s a happening place.”
He reached over to draw June to him, but she said, “I need a shower—and do you mind if I make a couple of calls?”
Gregg yawned and scratched his chest. “Not at all. Want company?”
“For the calls?”
“In the shower.”
“Oh,” said June. “Well—give me a minute, okay?”
She carried the room’s phone into the bathroom and called New Heidelberg first, her stomach sinking with every ring that went unanswered—but when Ida picked up, she assured June that Elsbeth was fine; they had made cookies and listened to My Fair Lady, and Elsbeth had gone down like a dream, and was June having a good time?
June said she was; she thanked her mother again and hung up. She sat on the side of the tub with her finger on the disconnect button for a moment, then released it and dialed the Claremont. There was no way Peter would be at the house; he wouldn’t be there even if June and Elsbeth were home.
The hostess put June right through to Peter’s office, but June waited another two minutes before her husband said, “Good evening from the Claremont, this is Peter, how may I help you?”
“Hi, Pete. It’s June.”
“Yes, I recognize the voice,” said Peter. “What is the matter?”
“Nothing—why would you think anything’s wrong?”
“Because I am in the middle of dinner service,” said Peter.
“Right!” June said heartily. She was messing this up already. She went to the door and peeked out at Gregg; he was sitting on the side of the bed, rolling a joint. She shut the door as far as it would go.
“Well, I’ll say good-bye then,” she said, and added idiotically, “I’m in Minneapolis.” What the hell was wrong with her? But maybe it was better this way; what if Peter had called New Heidelberg tomorrow asking for June and found she wasn’t there?
“Why are you in Minneap
olis?” Peter asked.
“Because I got a job. I met a former coworker on the plane, a photographer who lives here now, and he offered me a catalog shoot. For Dayton’s,” she added, not that Peter would know what Dayton’s was.
There was a pause. “You’re working in Minneapolis now?” Peter asked.
June laughed. “Oh, no no no no. Just for a day.”
“I see,” he said. Another silence, longer this time; the line ticked and hissed. June desperately wanted to know what it meant: Had she said something wrong? Did Peter suspect? Was he furious? Or was he looking over the night’s tickets, checking to see which specials had run out?
“Is Elsbeth with you?” Peter asked finally.
“No, she’s at my mom’s,” said June.
“You left her with your mother?”
“Jeez, Pete, it’s not like she’s in a gutter or something. My mom is probably spoiling her rotten.”
“That is true,” Peter admitted. He sighed. “All right. Have a good time, and I will see you—remind me, what day are you coming home?”
“Thursday. Three days from now.”
“Very well. I will call the airline and meet you at Teterboro.”
“Thanks,” said June. “Pete?”
“Yes?”
June clung to the phone. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to say—I’m sorry. I miss you. I love you. Won’t you love me back? Can’t you even try? She couldn’t speak, but she couldn’t hang up.
“Are you still on the line?” said Peter.
“Yes. Sorry. I just . . . how are you doing?”
Peter laughed, or maybe it was a huff of exasperation. “I am fine, thank you, June. Now I really must go—we have a full house tonight—”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“Give Ellie and your mother a kiss from me,” and then he was gone.
June hung up. The restaurant, always the goddamned restaurant! Although of course the Claremont was just Peter’s excuse for staying away, for his perennial absence. June opened the door.
“I’m starved,” she announced. “What time’s dinner?”