Other people

Twenty-three Francine

Phrases out of 1940s movies. We laugh at all those women who used to say, "I want a tall man" or "I want a guy that's handsome." What difference does it make how tall a man is? A man can be too short, a midget whose size would be in the forefront of your mind, you'd be making too much of it. Well, what about the man who's just a bit on the short side, say five feet two, if he were intelligent, attractive, a go-getter, and sensitive? At the same time, do you want somebody seven feet tall, you couldn't help feeling you were always looking up, that compared to other men, he was standing on something, an elongation of mankind, a freak? You see, it gets it down to something in between. You want a man to be not too short and not too tall because you don't want to be concerned about his tallness.

Yet when I saw Gary Cunham looming up there, I have to admit I was impressed by his tallness. What good is common sense if you react that way?

"I am the rapee," I said, shaking his hand.

I caught a reproving glance from Thomassy.

Cunham was one of those men who extend a finger or two along your wrist when they shake your hand. Nobody ever got their face slapped for it. Does it feel good?

"You'd be a temptation to anybody," he said. Then he added, "That's a compliment."

"I don't mind compliments," I said. "I don't want my apartment or my body trespassed on."

"I thought young people made light of body contact between strangers," he said.

"Well," I said, taking Thomassy and Cunham as a joint audience, "why don't we take rape off the books. For people under thirty. And over twelve."

"Rape is a serious crime, of course," said Cunham, his height shrinking with every syllable. "It is also — as I'm sure your counsel has explained — the most amorphous of all crimes, the most difficult to pin down with substantiated evidence."

Thomassy unchecked his tongue. "Well, we've solved all that for the future, Gary. Miss Widmer and I have patented a miniaturized version of the cameras in banks that start clicking when a robbery's in progress. It's smaller than a Minox, and you wear it around your neck on a chain. When rape is threatened, a touch of the hand over the heart starts its silent clicking, recording the attacker and the attack. When it's over, you rush to the hospital, get swabbed, and rush to a film lab and get it developed. Open and shut cases. Very little for us lawyers to do except indict and convict."

Cunham laughed. "A great invention, George. What do we do in the meantime?"

"We indict by the usual procedures, which I'm glad you've agreed to do. If the Grand Jury is unresponsive, I guess Miss Widmer'll just have to wear the camera next time the assailant comes around — he's been twice — and record the action."

"Sounds like entrapment."

"Where there's a will, there's a way," said Thomassy. "Come, Miss Widmer, Mr. Cunham runs a busy office."

"I'm very glad to have met you. Miss Widmer. I trust we'll be seeing you again."

And again the bastard shook my hand, his fingers extended along my wrist. A bit less sophisticated and he'd have tickled my palm.

Outside on the street, I turned on Thomassy and said, "What that friend of yours wants is easy cases."

"Right."

"What he wants is the rape of a forty-year-old Roman Catholic lady who goes to church every day and who was examined by a Roman Catholic physician the day before who would testify that she had her hymen intact. It makes me furious. Don't try to pacify me. What I would have liked to do in there is pull a gun on your friend and make him open his fly and pull his thing out."

"Using force."

"You're damn right. The only way you can identify with someone who gets raped is to feel it happening to you."

"Not true. Look, do you want to win or do you want to prove something?"

"Both," I said, "both, damn it!"

"I've watched plenty of professional civil liberties lawyers at work, and I'll tell you something. They're so intent on proving something they sometimes forget their clients want to win. I'm not a politician and I'm not a preacher. You wanted Cunham to take your case to the Grand Jury and I think he's going to. What more do you want?"

"You," I said.

I had wanted to fire him. The moment I saw him, I knew I had been racked with jealousy because I loved him.

After a moment, I said, "We've got two cars in the parking lot. Why don't we leave mine there. Drive me up to your place. Please?"

"You going to be merciful to the fellow who disappointed you?"

"You disappointed yourself. George, I'm grateful for what you did with Cunham, but this hasn't got anything to do with that."

"All I did was supply Cunham with a piece of information that will eventually show up on your bill for two hundred dollars."

"Please don't rob me of my idealistic youth all at once," I said. "Moreover, I'm not as naive as you think. I just wish our… relationship didn't threaten you."

"I don't feel threatened."

"Then please."

"Please what?"

"Take me home with you. Let's try again."

"No."

"I don't care if you get it up or not. You will when you sort out the marbles in your head. Please."

"I've got a better idea. Can I pick you up Saturday morning? I want to take us on a trip."

"If a change in environment will make a difference, sure. Where to?"

"LaGuardia."

"I hate to fly."

"Driving to where we're going takes too long."

"Where?"

"Trust me."

"Can you trust me in turn, George?"

He paused a second too long. "Sure," he said.

"There's a letter in the mail, from me to you. When it arrives, tear it up without reading it. Think you can do that?"