Free The Last Lovely City by Alice Adams Page A

that. Enough of sex and love. I’ve surely had my share, and maybe more. Except that every now and then she would read some tantalizing, romantic account of a woman even older than she was falling in love, getting married. Or an article about the sexual needs and activities of the old. “Geriatric Sex.” Lucretia’s very blood would warm and flare, and she would think, Well, maybe. Even as a more sensible voice within would warn her, Oh, come
on
.
    “He’s not exactly your type, but he’s nice,” said a friend, by way of introducing Burt McElroy into her life. “He’s dying to meet you.”
    “Good Lord, why?”
    “Oh, don’t be like that. You’re sort of famous here, and he likes blonds. His wife was blond.”
    “Old blonds.”
    “His wife was older than you. They were married forever.”
    “I just don’t feel like meeting anyone. I’ve given up all that stuff. Or maybe it’s given me up.”
    “Well, just come for dinner. I won’t lock you up in a closet together or anything.” She added, “He was a trial lawyer. Now retired.”
    The lawyer, Burt McElroy, was a very large man, at least six three, and heavy. Thick white hair and small bright-blue eyes, a big white beard. Jolly, at first glance, but on second not jolly at all—in fact, somewhat severe. Censorious. And a little sad.
    At dinner that first night, at the house of the friend, Burt talked considerably about his wife, and a music foundation that he was establishing in her honor; apparently she had been anoted cellist. As he spoke of this dead woman, this Laura, Burt often looked at Lucretia, and she understood that he was announcing his feelings: I will never be really untrue to Laura.
    And so she laughed, and was flirtatious with him; she, in her way, was saying, “Look, don’t worry, I’ll never be serious about you either.”
    A few days later he called and asked her out to dinner. They went, and again he talked a lot about Laura and his children. At her door he said, “You know, you’re really a knockout lady. As we said in my youth, ‘I could really go for you.’ ”
    “Oh, don’t do that.” She laughed up at him.
    Later, thinking over the evening, Lucretia saw that she did not like him very much, despite his good qualities. He talked nonstop and rather self-importantly, a man accustomed to having the floor. To delivering opinions. And he did not listen well; in fact, he showed very little curiosity about her or anyone else. In short, he bored her; it was true, he was not her type at all. Except for being tall.
    But she recognized, too, with some shame, a certain sexual pull in his direction. She looked forward to when he would kiss her. She put this down to sheer sexual starvation—it had been a long time since she had kissed anyone.
    Their next dinner was less boring for Lucretia, because of the kissing that she now looked forward to. Just that, kissing, for the moment.
    They went from a good-night kiss at the door to some very enthusiastic kissing on the sofa, and then, because such adolescent necking seemed ridiculous at their age, they went to bed.
    Where, after several long, futile minutes of strenuous efforts on his part, and some effort on hers, Burt said, “I’m sorry. I had this prostate surgery, and I was afraid, but I had hoped—”
    He was breathing hard, from exertion rather than from lust, Lucretia felt, as she thought, Poor guy, how embarrassing this must be. And depressing.
    “Here,” he said. “Let me—” He moved heavily, laboriously, down her body, positioning himself.
    This is not something he usually does, Lucretia thought. Oral sex was not on the regular menu with Laura, the wife. Though, of course, Lucretia could have been wrong.
    Feeling sorry for him, she pretended more pleasure than she actually felt; also, she wanted him to stop.
    He moved up to lie beside her; he whispered into her ear, “It’s wonderful to give you pleasure. You’re wonderful.”
    Without spelling things out, without