Nude Men

are slow, there are so few of them that the crepe disappears quickly. His eyes and mouth droop, but his wrinkles smile, giving, one moment, the impression of happiness, cheerfulness, verge of laughter, sense of humor, and, the next moment, deep despair, sadness, must comfort him, want to ask him what’s wrong. He has big, dark, young eyes, a young, plump mouth, but wrinkled skin. The wrinkles are deep but somehow young. They are not dry, not thin. They are deeper folds. Fat, juicy wrinkles. Fresh folds of flesh.
    We sit in front of him, and I say, “We were wondering if you’d be interested in posing for a painter.”
    “Is he femooss?” he asks, in a voice that is not only heavily accented, probably from French, but also slimy, weak, and drawn out, creating an overwhelming combination.
    “It’s a woman,” I tell him. “A little famous. Are you interested? You have a good mouth.”
    “Sank yooo. Eats just the face, then?” Soft voice. It envelops you and touches you in private places with too much familiarity.
    “No, she paints the body also.” I try to make my own voice like a whip, to counteract his. “Nude,” I add.
    “Noood! Zat’s good. I’m flattered, but ma mouse is not a very good representation ov ma neckud bowdy.”
    He’s rubbing his body against mine, merely with his voice, and I am relieved when he addresses my mother in the same way.
    “When is eat?” he asks her softly, intimately.
    “Today or tomorrow.”
    “Zat’s good,” he tells me, with much breath in his voice. “Eat sounds interesting.”
    “It’s not.” Whip-whip. “You go there, you pose, and you’re done,” I tell him.
    My mother looks squarely at me. Her face is open and illuminated, as though she has seen a new side of me. Yes, I can be strong too, Mom.
    “I don’t know eef I shood,” he says. “On top of eat, I have a girlfriend.”
    “This has nothing to do with having a girlfriend. It’s professional. Nothing else.”
    “Ah, oui? Mon oeil!'" he says, which is about the only thing I know in French and which means, literally, “my eye,” which means “my foot.” I am exasperated.
    “All we need is a simple yes or no,” I tell him. “We don’t have all day.”
    “Eats yes.”
    I didn’t even mention money.
     
    T he Frenchman says he’s available immediately, so we all drive home. He undresses and lies down on Henrietta’s bed. I sit on my bed. I don’t want to be hovering over Henrietta, putting too much pressure on her. I make light conversation.
    The Frenchman seems to think that all this is very perverted. He giggles nervously and leers at us incessantly. He seems to enjoy all the attention bestowed on his flabby white body. He thinks that we think it’s beautiful. Henrietta works for about ten minutes, then stops. The painting she has made of him is scarcely better than the stick figure she made of me.
    “I don’t want to paint, Jeremy,” she says.
    “He’s not good enough?”
    The Frenchman glares at me.
    “He’s fine,” she answers. “I just don’t want to paint anything. I'm sorry.
    Before putting his clothes back on, the Frenchman insists on seeing what Henrietta painted. His eyes open wide in surprise, and he looks at Henrietta. She stares back at him, completely uncaring. He looks at the painting again. I can tell he is dying to say something—“You should take lessons,” or “You are a bad painter”—but ad he does is look at her again, raise his eyebrows slightly, look at me, frown, turn away, and bob his head forward once, like a hen, before disappearing into the bathroom to put on his clothes. If only he could see one of Henrietta’s old paintings, he would admire her skdls.
    We pay him and drive him back to town.
    You may have sensed that my mother is a bit subdued these days. I haven’t been telling any extravagant tales about her behavior. That’s because there haven’t been any such tales to tell; she stdl hasn’t returned to her old self, her Disney World self. But I must admit I don’t mind much. Her new self is quite pleasant. For now at least. Appropriate.
     
    H enrietta insists on dressing up in men’s clothes every day now. With a jacket and pants and shirt, and a very formal, tight tie, and men’s shoes, and sock garters.
    “Men’s clothes meant a lot to her,” she explains.
    “They only meant a lot to her because you omitted them from your paintings,” I tell her.
    “That doesn’t make any difference. She drew them and loved them,