the Third Twin

61

As SOON AS STEVE HAD FINISHED EATING HE STOOD UP AND said: “I need to turn in.” He wanted to retire to Harvey’s room as soon as possible. When he was alone he would be safe from discovery.

The party broke up. Proust swallowed the rest of his scotch, and Berrington walked the two guests to their cars.

Steve saw an opportunity to call Jeannie and tell her what was going on. He snatched up the phone and called information. They took a long time to answer. Come on, come on! At last he got through and asked for the number of the hotel. He misdialed the first time and got some restaurant. Frantically, he dialed again and at last reached the hotel. “I’d like to speak to Dr. Jean Ferrami,” he said.

Berrington came back into the den just as Steve heard her voice. “Hello?”

“Hi, Linda, this is Harvey,” he said.

“Steve, is that you?”

“Yeah, I’ve decided to stay over at my dad’s place; it’s a little late for a long drive.”

“For God’s sake, Steve, are you okay?”

“Some business to take care of, but nothing I can’t handle. How was your day, honey?”

“We’ve got him into the hotel room. It wasn’t easy, but we did it. Lisa contacted George Dassault. He promised to come, so we should have three, at least.”

“Good. I’m going to bed now. I’m still hoping to see you tomorrow, honey, okay?”

“Hey, good luck.”

“You too. Good night.” Berrington winked. “Hot babe?”

“Warm.”

Berrington took out some pills and washed one down with scotch. Catching Steve’s glance at the bottle, he explained: “Dalmane. I need something to help me sleep, after all this.”

“Good night, Dad.”

Berrington put his arm around Steve’s shoulders. “Good night, son,” he said. “Don’t worry, we’ll come through all right.”

He really loves his rotten son, Steve thought, and for a moment he felt irrationally guilty for deceiving a fond father.

Then he realized he did not know where his bedroom was.

He left the den and took a few steps along the passage that he guessed led to the bedrooms. He had no idea which door led to Harvey’s room. Looking back, he saw that Berrington could not watch him from the den. Quickly, he opened the nearest door, trying desperately to do so silently.

It led to a full bathroom, with shower and tub.

He closed it gently.

Next to it was a closet full of towels and linens.

He tried the door opposite. It opened into a big bedroom with a double bed and lots of closets. A pin-striped suit in a dry cleaner’s bag hung from a doorknob. He did not think Harvey had a pin-striped suit. He was about to close the door softly when he was shocked to hear Berrington’s voice, right behind him. “You need something from my room?”

He gave a guilty start. For a moment he was struck dumb. What the hell can I say? Then words came to him. “I don’t have anything to sleep in.”

“Since when have you taken to wearing pajamas?” Berrington’s voice could have been suspicious or merely puzzled; Steve could not tell.

Improvising wildly, he said: “I thought you might have an oversize T-shirt.”

“Nothing that will fit those shoulders, my boy,” Berrington said, and to Steve’s relief he laughed.

Steve shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” He moved on.

At the end of the passage were two doors, on opposite sides: Harvey’s room and the maid’s, presumably. But which is which?

Steve loitered, hoping that Berrington would disappear into his own room before Steve had to make the choice.

When he reached the end of the passage he glanced back. Berrington was watching him.

“Night, Dad,” he said.

“Good night.”

Left or right? No way to tell. Pick one at random.

Steve opened the door on his right.

Rugby shirt on the back of a chair, Snoop Doggy Dogg CD on the bed, Playboy on the desk.

A boy’s room. Thank God.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him with his heel.

He slumped against the door, weak with relief.

After a moment he undressed and got into bed, feeling very weird in Harvey’s bed in Harvey’s room in Harvey’s father’s home. He turned out the light and lay awake, listening to the sounds of the strange house. For a while he heard footsteps, doors closing and taps running, then the place was quiet.

He dozed lightly and woke suddenly. There’s someone else in the room.

He caught a distinctive smell of some flowery perfume mixed with garlic and spices, then he saw the outline of Marianne’s small form cross the window.

Before he could say anything she was getting into bed with him.

He whispered: “Hey!”

“I’m going to blow you just the way you like,” she said, but he could hear fear in her voice.

“No,” he said, pushing her away as she burrowed under the bedclothes toward his groin. She was naked.

“Please don’t hurt me tonight, please, Arvey,” she said. She had a French accent.

Steve figured it out. Marianne was an immigrant, and Harvey had her so terrified that she not only did anything he asked but also anticipated his demands. How did he get away with beating the poor girl when his father was in the next room? Didn’t she make a noise? Then Steve remembered the sleeping pill. Berrington slept so heavily that Marianne’s cries did not wake him.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Marianne,” he said. “Relax.”

She started kissing his face. “Be nice, please be nice. I’ll do everything you like, but don’t hurt me.”

“Marianne,” he said sternly. “Be still.”

She froze.

He put his arm around her thin shoulders. Her skin was soft and warm. “Just lie there a moment and calm down,” he said, stroking her back. “Nobody is going to hurt you anymore, I promise.”

She was tense, expecting blows, but gradually she relaxed. She moved closer to him.

He had an erection, he could not help it. He knew he could make love to her easily. Lying there, holding her small, trembling body, he was powerfully tempted. No one would ever know. How delightful it would be to stroke her and arouse her. She would be so surprised and pleased to be loved gently and considerately. They would kiss and touch all night.

He sighed. But it would be wrong. She was not a volunteer. Insecurity and fear had brought her to this bed, not desire. Yes, Steve, you can fuck her—and you will be exploiting a frightened immigrant who believes she has no choice. And that would be contemptible. You would despise a man who could do that.

“Do you feel better now?” he said.

“Yes.…”

“Then go back to your own bed.”

She touched his face, then kissed his mouth softly. He kept his lips firmly shut but patted her hair in a friendly way.

She stared at him in the half-dark. “You’re not him, are you,” she said.

“No,” Steve said. “I’m not him.”

A moment later she was gone.

He still had an erection.

Why am I not him? Because of the way I was brought up?

Hell, no.

I could have fucked her. I could be Harvey. I’m not him because I choose not to be. My parents didn’t make that decision just now: I did. Thanks for your help, Mom and Dad, but it was me, not you, who sent her back to her room.

Berrington didn’t create me, and you didn’t create me.

I did.