Nude Men

come get me.
    You might think that this is a perfect opportunity for me to make a wish on my little white elephant. I could wish that Sara never tells Henrietta what happened. But I don’t. It does not really occur to me to make a wish regarding this problem. When one is hopeful that a certain bad thing will not occur, one does not use one’s white elephant, because to do so would seem too trivial, too pointless, childish, hopeless, which should demonstrate to you that I am not as empty-headed as I may seem, my head is not so very much in the clouds. I am a down-to-earth person when life gets serious.
    Henrietta doesn’t call that evening, and the police don’t come. The next day I wait. Sara must have hesitated before telling her mother. But she’s going to tell her very soon, I’m sure.
    The phone doesn’t ring that day.
    The next day I wait, and the phone rings. I answer. It’s Lady Henrietta. I am barely breathing, my eyes are closed, I feel that the end of my life has come.
    “Hi,” she says, cheerfully.
    Her tone surprises me. “Hi,” I answer.
    “How are you?” she asks.
    “Okay.”
    “I wanted to thank you for what you did.”
    “Oh.”
    “I know you really didn’t want to go to Disney World, and it must have been such a bore for you, but now things are going great between Damon and me. We’re quite involved. We had the most romantic weekend in the world. I owe you for life.”
    “That’s okay.”
    She talks a bit more. I’m not really listening. We hang up.
    Sara didn’t tell her mother. What is she waiting for? This is a new development I must deal with. But it makes sense. Children who have been sexually abused very rarely tell anyone. They are too ashamed; they think it’s their fault. Or maybe Sara simply didn’t feel like telling her mother because she thought she would get in trouble.
    I sit on my couch all evening, staring blankly in front of me. It gets dark outside. I don’t turn on the light. Sara could tell her mother any minute, any day, any week, any month, any year. The police could come and get me anytime between now and ten years from now, or even when I’m eighty, they could come. I don’t know what to do.
    I live, that’s what I do: meaning, I brush my teeth, I go to sleep, I wake up in the morning, I eat, I go to work, I file, I live. Charlotte notices that there’s something wrong with me. She makes a comment, and I make a comment, and we drop it.
    I live for three days. Then I live for a fourth day. Then I hesitate a little, and I make it to the fifth day. I then sit on my couch and live through a sixth day. And then I sit on my couch again, and I stop living. I cannot brush my teeth or go to bed anymore. I cannot go to work and file. On the seventh day, my buzzer rings. It must be the police.
    “Who is it?” I ask in the intercom.
    “It’s Sara.”
    I let her up. When I open my door, Mickey Mouse is standing there in front of me. It’s a nightmare, a punishment. Sara walks in and says, “Why haven’t you called me? I thought you would call me. I’ve been waiting for your call.”
    “What do you want?” I ask her.
    “The usual.”
    “What is the usual?”
    “Isn’t it obvious? Isn’t it written all over my face?”
    I stare at her mask and say, “No, that is not the usual.”
    “Well, it should be. It will be. And it is in my mind. Your girlfriend isn’t home?”
    “No.”
    “Where is she?”
    “Having dinner with friends.”
    “When will she be back?”
    “In a few hours.”
    “Can I have something to drink?”
    “What do you want?”
    “You choose. Surprise me.”
    I go to the kitchen and try to think of the most unsexual drink I know. Coffee? No, it excites one. Tea? No, that has caffeine too. Herb tea? Yes, that’s good. Mint? No, that’s also a stimulant. Sleepy-Time? Yes, it’ll make her drowsy. But on second thought, no, because “Sleepy” is too much like “Let’s sleep together.” Chamomile? Yes! There is nothing more unsexual than a digestive aid.
    When I come back out with the tea, Sara is not naked. Good. What a relief.- We’re off to a fine start. My spirits rise slightly.
    Sara is petting Minou, who’s rolling around on her back. “Why is your cat acting so strange?” she asks.
    I certainly don’t want to tell her that Minou is in heat, or it might inspire her. I could tell her Minou is distressed because my mother saw her fur balls on the floor. Or I could tell her she’s rolling around with happiness