Dagger Key and Other Stories

The idea that she was getting naked behind the door inspired a salacious thought or two—I was already more than a little smitten. When she came out, she was barefoot. She did a pirouette and struck a fashion magazine pose. I was dumbstruck. The dress was nearly diaphanous, made of some feathery stuff that clung to her hips and flat stomach and breasts, the flared skirt reaching to mid-thigh.

“You like?” she asked. “It’s a little short on me.”

“I didn’t notice.”

She laughed delightedly and went for another spin. “I could never afford this. Not that I care all that much about clothes. But if I had a couple of million, I’d probably indulge.”

Shortly thereafter she went back inside the closet, re-emerging wearing her jeans and a nondescript top. It seemed that she had exchanged personalities as well as clothes, for she was once again somber and downcast. “I’ve got to get back,” she said.

“So soon?”

She stopped by the door. “I come here most days about this time,” she said. “A little earlier, actually.” Then, after a pause, she added, “It’s nice having someone to wear clothes for.”

We started meeting every day in that room. It was plain that she was flirting with me, and I imagine it was equally plain that I was interested, but it went on for over a month and neither one of us made a move. For my part, the fear of rejection didn’t enter in. I was used to the man-woman thing being a simple negotiation—you either did the deed or you took a pass—but I thought if I did make a move, I might frighten her off, that she needed to feel in control. If I had been free of constraint, my own agent, I might have given up on her…or maybe I wouldn’t have. She was the kind of woman who required a period of courtship, who enjoyed the dance as much as the feast, and she caused you to enjoy it as well. Basically an unhappy soul, she gave the impression of being someone who had been toughened by trouble in her life; but whenever she was happy, there was something so frail and girlish about the mood, I believed the least disturbance could shatter it. I grew more entranced by her and more frustrated day-by-day, but I told myself that not getting involved was for the best—I needed to keep clear of emotional entanglements and concentrate on how to stay alive once Billy came back into the picture. That didn’t prevent me, however, from exploring certain of her fantasies.

I knew that she had been married when she was a teenager and one morning while we sat on the bed, her cross-legged at the head and me sort of side-saddle at the foot, I asked her about it. She ran a finger along a newel post, tracing the pattern carved into it, and said, “It was just…foolishness. We thought it would be romantic to get married.”

“I take it, it wasn’t.”

She gave a wan laugh. “No.”

“Would you ever do it again?”

“Marry? I don’t know. Maybe.” She smiled. “Why? Are you asking?”

“Maybe. Tell me what type of man it is you’d marry. Let’s see if I fit the bill.”

She lay down on her side, her legs drawn up, and considered the question.

“Yeah?” I said.

“You’re serious? You want me to do this?”

“Let’s hear it, cher. Your ideal man.”

“Well…” She sat up, fluffed the pillow, and lay down again. “I’d want him to have lots of money, so maybe a financier. Not a banker or anything boring like that. A corporate tiger. Someone who would take over a failing company and reshape it into something vital.”

“Money’s the most important qualification?”

“Not really, but you asked for my ideal and money makes things easier.”

She had on a blouse with a high collar and, as often happened when thinking, she tucked in her chin and nibbled the edge of the collar. I found the habit sexy and, whenever she did it, I wanted to touch her face.

“He’d be a philanthropist,” she said. “And not just as a tax dodge. He’d have to be devoted to it. And he’d have an introspective side. I’d want him to know himself. To understand himself.”

“A corporate raider with soul. Isn’t that a contradiction?”

“It can happen. Wallace Stevens was an insurance executive and a great poet.”

“I like to think of myself as an entrepreneur when I’m feeling spunky. That’s like a financier, but I’m getting that we’re talking about two different animals.”

“You’ve got possibilities,” she said, and smiled. “You just need molding.”

“How about in the looks department?” I asked. “Something George Clooney-ish? Or Brad Pitt?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Movie stars are too short. Looks aren’t important, anyway.”

“Women all say that, but it’s bullshit.”

“It’s true! Women have the same kind of daydreams as men, but when it comes to choosing a man they often base their choices on different criteria.”

“Like money.”

“No! Like how someone makes you feel. It’s not quantifiable. I would never have thought I could…”

She broke off, thinning her lips.

“You would never have thought what?”

“This is silly,” she said. “I should check on Josey.”

“You never would have thought you could be attracted to someone you met at gunpoint?”