Stolen Away

“The clock is ticking for Hauptmann.”

“Oh, fuck, spare me the violins. I’ve about had my fill of this screwball tragedy for one day and night, and maybe for one lifetime. It can fucking wait.”

She said nothing for a while. That was fine with me.

Then she said, “You know, people close to me over the years say that I am fey.”

“Fey? What does that mean, you like to sleep with girls, now?”

“No, you silly son of a bitch. It means…visionary. In the psychic sense.”

“Oh. So you believe in this spook stuff, too.”

“You asked Means about those supernatural doings at Far View, didn’t you? That happened a long time ago, to still be lingering in your mind.”

“There was nothing supernatural about any of that. Means was sneaking around in his socks doing a number on us. He all but admitted as much this afternoon.”

“That’s not the way I took it. Nate, there have been psychic elements in this case from the beginning.”

“A big case like Lindbergh attracts screwballs like shit attracts flies.”

“How elegantly said.” She sat forward, her hands folded in her lap, a demure posture for a woman in black pj’s. “In my life I’ve had premonitions, Nate, that have come to pass. It simply happens to me, from time to time that, without being able to say how exactly, I know that death impends for someone in my circle…”

“That’s bunk, Evalyn.”

“I had that feeling the weekend my son died. I heard the inner voice but I didn’t listen, and went off on a trip, and my precious boy died while I was away…. Ned and I at Churchill Downs, to watch the running of the Kentucky Derby. For which I never will forgive myself.”

She covered her face with a hand.

I went over to her, knelt by her, gave her my handkerchief, patted her knee. “I’m sorry, Evalyn. It hurts. I know it hurts.”

“If that child is still alive,” she said, and for a moment I thought she meant her own son but she meant instead the Lindbergh boy, “we should try to find him.”

“You want those notes? I’ll get those notes. Will that make you feel better, baby?”

She nodded.

I went up and got the notes.

When I came down she was standing in the black pool that was the discarded lounging pajamas; she wore nothing but the high-heel black slippers. The orange glow of the fire made her body look like something in a painting. A very sensual painting by an artist who wasn’t fey, if you get my drift.

She must’ve been in her mid-forties by now, but she had the body of a woman ten years younger, slender, smooth, the large breasts drooping a bit but so lovely, and waiting to be lifted.

“Come here, big boy,” she said. She held her arms out gently. “Come to mama.”

I fucked her on the Oriental carpet with my trousers down around my ankles; her stark naked, me half-dressed, there was something very nasty about it, and at the same time sweet. She made a lot of noise. I made some myself.

Then I was a puddle of flesh on her pajamas, half-unconscious, as tired as if I’d run a mile, while she was sitting, nude as a grape, in her overstuffed chair, lighting up a cigarette as she read the Cayce field notes in the firelight.

After a while, I started to put my clothes back on. She looked up from her reading and said, very businesslike, “Don’t get dressed. What’s the point? Why don’t you take the rest of your things off.”

“You mean, just sit here naked on the floor…”

“The servants have retired to their quarters. We won’t be disturbed. Now get your clothes off.” She returned to her reading.

I must’ve slept a little.

Then, having rolled over on my back, I looked up and she was standing over me. The exaggeration of the angle made her figure look more naked than naked, like looking at a living statue representing everything that made a man want a woman; I wanted to worship her and dominate her and be dominated and worshiped all at once. She smiled down at me over enormous breasts, her shape sharply outlined, the fireplace at her back. My dick stood to attention and she sat on me, easing herself down on me, with a subtle, shimmering motion.

This time we made love; fucking was part of it, but this time was far less urgent, far more sweet, and not at all nasty, churning to a slow, gradual, mutual release that lasted forever but not near long enough.

“Should I have used something?” I panted, after a while, as we lay entangled in each other’s nakedness.

“I’m not menopausal just yet, Nathan Heller.”

“Then maybe I should’ve used something.”

“Nate, if you made a baby tonight, he’s a rich little bastard. So don’t worry about it.”

“I won’t,” I said, and smiled. “Is that bodyguard, chauffeur, security chief-type job still open?”

Her smile crinkled her chin. “It’s not fair to ask me right now.”

“If it’s still open, I accept.”

“Can I get back to you on that?”

“Sure.”

I put my pants on and she put her pajamas on and I had another cocktail and she had another glass of wine and sat in my lap in one of the big overstuffed chairs while we drank.

“Those notes,” she said.

“Hmmm?” I said.