Seduction by Ian Colford
Outside in the backyard my daughter and her friends play
badminton beneath a bastard of a sun. It scorches my eyes to
watch them for even a moment. I don't know how they can
endure it. This brutal heat. It occurs to me that they'll
all sleep well tonight. They've paired themselves off for
the sake of the game. A boy and girl versus a boy and girl.
I've learned the names of most of Sharon's friends. Sharon
and Troy are playing against Natalie and Randall. They are
all either sixteen or seventeen, limber and spirited with
the transient splendour of youth. Arms jab the air with
effortless precision; athletic legs propel supple bodies
skyward. Each is a pleasure to watch, but the one who
seizes and holds my attention is Natalie. Natalie Mercer.
There's no point trying to resist her innumerable charms. I
find it impossible to deny to myself that I love her as
dearly as anyone I've ever known. With her blossoming
woman's flesh she inflames my vagrant desires, incites the
mutinous dreams of a fifty year old man. Her image is
forever stalking me.
John? Will you hold this? Please!?"
I murmur a few words of apology and receive the curtain from
Diane's rigidly extended hand. We could easily have hired
some tradespeople to take care of this tiresome chore, but I
suppose she didn't trust anyone else to do it right, or she
wanted to do it herself, or wanted us to do it together. I
don't know why. We've been at it for only a few minutes and
already I've received several of her withering scowls, a
couple of pointed reprimands, endured more than one sigh of
weary forbearance. It's enough to cause me sharp pricklings
of guilt, though I've done nothing to deserve any of it.
It's simply too hot. And a simple lapse of attention is not
lechery.
With age, the lines of Diane's slender face have coarsened,
taking on a measure of severity that in the past has caught
me by surprise. I seldom see her smile, but when she does,
her mouth curves itself around two rows of solid, fearsome
incisors. On either side of her face tiny rivulets spread
outward, forming soft fanlike creases that in playful
fashion heighten the expressive quality of her eyes, which
engage the onlooker with their stark beauty. I have no
trouble admitting that my wife is beautiful. I'm not one of
those men who justifies his neglect in the traditional
manner, asserting that she no longer cares about her
appearance, or that she's let herself go. My consulting
firm has been more than moderately successful, and Diane has
quite rightly taken advantage of our financial security
(indeed affluence) to purchase only the finest clothes and
to lavish attention upon herself to a degree that some would
argue is excessive. She's active in the community, chairing
committees, overseeing projects, contributing time and money
to deserving charities. Without any help from me she's
attained the stature of, to quote the local press, "leading
citizen," and, emboldened by the respect conferred upon her
by allies and adversaries alike, she's begun moving in the
direction of political office. In a very short time she has
become a persuasive speaker and is willing to express her
opinions at length. Her leadership skills enable her to
inspire others to achieve more than they would normally be
able to. Moreover, she is a caring individual, a paragon of
civic virtue. It's truly remarkable, what she has been able
to achieve in only a few years.
I watch intently as Natalie slices the air with her racquet,
my eyes battling the fierce glare of the sun until they boil
over with tears. Natalie's legs are young and tan and
strong, yet her bare feet seem to lightly brush the surface
of the earth without actually touching. I feel my breast
dilate with longing, and, as I reluctantly look away, my
seared eyes catch Diane's piercing glance, which questions
but does not insist.
Later, Diane corners me in the kitchen where I'm mixing yet
another drink, my fifth if I'm counting correctly. Usually
she's in bed early, leaving the house, and the booze, to me.
But tonight I feel her eyeing me, her silent scrutiny
disparaging and relentless. I suspect she's had a few
drinks herself. The children have wisely gone up to their
rooms and the day's heat lingers like the echo of sharp
words spoken in haste. I feel a similar sharpness on my
wooden tongue, as if words are waiting to escape my mouth,
ready to injure.
"There's no need for you to be so cruel," she murmurs at
last, after watching me replace the Gordon's bottle in the
cabinet, a quarrelsome edge to her voice.
I ignore her. It's been years since I could guess what she
wanted of me. These days I don't even try. She's as remote
as the setting sun, as foreign to me as the patter of
teenagers.
"John--"
"Yes, there is," I reply evenly as I leave the kitchen, and
her, and weave a cautious path to my chair in the living
room where I can devote my waning powers of concentration to
completing last week's Sunday crossword. On the way I
stagger slightly and to steady myself I grip the side of one
of the taller cabinets. The cabinet wobbles on its clawed
feet.
"John, for heaven's sake be careful!" I hear from behind me,
as the contents of the cabinet-- Diane's beloved collection
of Doultons and crystal figurines--quiver and rattle on
mirrored shelves.
"Sorry," I mutter, and instantly regret the weakness in my
character that compels me to utter that hateful word again
and again. But when I glance over I see her standing
staunchly, arms folded, that indecent smile playing at her
lips. I smile back. Maybe now she'll leave me alone.
I know I go too far sometimes. We all feel a need to rebel,
to flaunt the rules, especially when we're young. But when
I think back to my childhood the only prank I can recall
taking part in was one that involved a group of us sneaking
into old Simkin's house, plugging up the drain in the
kitchen sink, and turning on the water. The old fellow used
to holler at us to get off his property whenever he caught
us cutting across his backyard. I can still see his stained
and baggy overalls, his stubbly chin. I remember, that day,
someone brought along a lump of ground meat to bribe
Simkin's dog, a nasty mutt that bared its stumpy yellow
teeth and snarled at us when we woke it up. We all crept in
through the front door--in those days never locked--slunk
past Simkin snoring in his chair in front of the TV, and
beat it into the kitchen. The old man was half deaf and so
the TV was roaring. Someone stuffed a wad of paper down the
drain and turned on the water, and in a few seconds we were
all back out in the street, stifling giggles and pushing
each other into the bushes. When news about what had
happened began to drift around the neighbourhood, my parents
naturally asked if I'd been involved. I lied. And if one
of my companions hadn't bragged to his sister about what
he'd done, that would have been the end of it.
Everyone got into trouble. Everyone, that is, except me.
When I heard at school that those responsible were being
rounded up, I sat frozen in my desk, waiting for the hand on
my shoulder. At the very least I expected to be summoned to
the office. But nothing happened. Not that day nor any
other day. I was never accused of anything. I wasn't even
questioned. Even the other boys who had been my accomplices
didn't seem to recall that I'd had anything to do with it.
I suppose, having been neither prime instigator nor chief
perpetrator, their collective lapse of memory about me can
be explained. But to this day it remains a mystery to me
that my presence should have gone completely unnoticed. My
companions were all suspended from school for a month, and
when I later met one of them downtown I took the time to
remind him that I had been in Simkin's kitchen with the rest
of them. Unimpressed, he squinted at me and turned this
over in his mind for a moment before speaking.
"Oh, yeah. You were, weren't you?"
What I'm getting at is that ever since I can remember, I've
enjoyed a peculiar state of immunity from the consequences
of my own actions. I'm not by any means a dishonest person,
but occasionally I've had to deal in deception. We all want
to make life easier for ourselves and sometimes lying and
cheating are the only ways to achieve this goal. My own
transgressions have been of the trivial sort. For instance,
I've purchased expensive presents for myself and told nobody
about them. I've lied about working late in order to avoid
unpleasant social engagements. I've told people who don't
know me well that I possess university degrees in subjects
that don't even interest me. Once I invented an entire
business trip simply to get away from everything. I flew to
Toronto, took in a few ball games, soaked up the night life,
met some people. I maintain that these deviations from a
normally steady course have hurt nobody. In fact, I'd argue
that I've been abundantly magnanimous, sparing those close
to me needless suffering. I admit my own pleasure comes
first. But on the other hand, I've never cheated on my wife
and I've never lied for personal gain. I may not be
perfect, but I'm by no means incorrigible. My eyes are wide
open. I know exactly what I'm doing every step of the way.
I am also particularly sensitive to other people, and I
understand now that yesterday Natalie was conveying a
message, ever so subtly, as is her way with things. I was
able to watch her play badminton most of the afternoon, and
I sensed her pleasure at being observed. And so today I've
begged off my customary Sunday round of golf, telling Lester
and the others that I don't feel well. Of course, I've
informed Diane of no such thing. Instead of remaining at
home, where I would likely be put to work on the final
stages of hanging curtains, I sit in my Mercedes keeping
close watch over a familiar house on Cherry Street. Puccini
is on the radio, and I've with me a thermos full of coffee,
which is exactly what I need after last night's excesses.
It's a small, plain, grey house: fastidiously maintained,
but oddly stunted, as are most of the houses in this
outlying corner of the neighbourhood. A short detour takes
me through here almost every day. Nearby is a strip mall
with a drug store and a donut shop. There's also an
unemployment office. People hang out there, the sort you
would cross the street to avoid meeting. Welfare bums on
the prowl for a handout. However, I'm also a scant three
blocks from Cornwall Street, where I live, a five-minute
walk if you feel like hurrying. Anyone of my acquaintance
could come along and recognize me in my car and wonder what
on earth I am up to. It could lead to embarrassing
questions, evasive action, duplicity. But life at its best
is always a gamble. Today I'll risk anything in order to be
with Natalie.
I realize I'm acting purely on impulse, endangering myself
and my community standing for the sake of a whim. Of
course, I have taken some necessary precautions. I've
parked down and across the street, and at this angle a large
chestnut tree conceals my presence somewhat. When I drive
through here I often slow down and occasionally stop, just
to get a feel for the neighbourhood. The idea for this
excursion came to me last night in a moment of spontaneous
desire, as if sprung from a dream, and to this point I've
avoided analyzing my motives. For all I know, Natalie may
not even be at home. Even so, I'm content to linger and
imagine that she's in there: upstairs in her room, doing
something, trying on clothes, perhaps taking a bath,
preparing to go out. The fact is that in recent weeks my
desires have taken on an impetuous disposition and are no
longer so easy to control. I'm compelled by mounting
pressure within to grant them a voice, to put my love on the
line, so to speak. Given an opportunity, I may go so far as
to confess to her, from out of the smouldering crucible of
my soul, how I feel.
I've known Natalie Mercer almost all of her life. Diane and
I are on cordial terms with her parents, though we're not by
any means close. Natalie and Sharon attend school together.
They're best friends and I intend to do everything in my
power to ensure they remain so. From the very beginning I
noticed something about Natalie that was special: an
undefinable, ethereal, transcendent quality. I admit I was
envious. My own children seemed to suffer miserably by
comparison. They exhibited early signs of alarming
mediocrity. They were in every way ordinary, lethargic,
earthbound, dull. Somehow Natalie shone, as if a light
blazed within. I'm speaking metaphorically of course, but
even as a child she moved with a seductive poise that
suggested an innate adult knowingness. I suspect her of
using her body even then to attain certain ends. People
gave her things, myself included, and I never heard a word
spoken against her. To observe her playing with my own
daughter launched me into spasms of ecstasy. There were
times when Sharon announced that Natalie was coming over and
I'd secretly rebel against this craving to be close to her.
After all, she was only a child, and I didn't see why she
should matter so much. But resisting her for even a few
minutes was aching torture. Soon, armed with a double gin
and tonic, I'd venture downstairs to the children's room--
which conveniently doubles as my workshop--and, as I planed
or hacked at some twisted fragment of home-made furniture,
watch her until my heart stung from throbbing. I was in
love with a child. A child! To give myself some credit, I
was ashamed. And, I must confess, frightened. Ashamed by
what I perceived as a moral defect and frightened by the
lurking suspicion that I had become some sort of pervert.
Yet all during those years my longing for Natalie never
degenerated into lust, I never spied on her with a lover's
desperate ardour or in order to induce pathetic erotic
stirrings. My feelings toward her have always been of a
nobler breed. If anything, I believe I simply wanted
her to be my child instead of someone else's. I needed to
be able to take her freely into my arms and hold her, feel
the delicate flutter of her childish heart, provide the kind
of shield that a child such as she needs against our corrupt
world. Years passed and my devotion never abated. I
dreamed of her at night and mused upon her during the day.
Long ago I concealed in my wallet a photo I'd taken one
afternoon when all the children were playing together in our
backyard. Carefully, I snipped away the grinning faces of
my own children until only Natalie's image remained.
All of this gives some indication of the emotional disorder
with which I struggle each and every day. I share my life
with assorted individuals, acting out a ritual harmony,
serving professional and domestic proprieties, while each
moment wishing my life were something else altogether. If a
hypocrite is someone who shamelessly feigns contentment day
after day, night after night, then I suppose a hypocrite is
what I am. And perhaps this is mildly reprehensible. But
if my deception causes only myself to suffer, where is the
harm?
Lately, however, my suffering has been sharpened by the
inexorable ripening of the human body. Natalie is growing
up. My gravest misfortune is that she bypassed completely
that awkward stage of early adolescence, metamorphosing into
a young woman of astounding beauty. She entered puberty
with succulent ease and grace, and when she's with us in the
house I can detect her sexual awakening in the rapid blush
of her cheek, sense it in each fluid movement of her body.
To witness her in motion is to see a work of art blossom
into life. She can no longer be captured in a single moment-
-a snapshot conveys nothing of her true essence. I have to
be with her to feel the pulse of her young life, and
sometimes when she's with Sharon I insinuate my way into
their youthful pastimes. She usurps my dreams more boldly
than ever before. And when I notice her casting a timorous
glance in my direction, I presume it's meant as a subtle
communication. I want her to understand that I share her
fears and uncertainties. I long to ask her if she has
sensed, in my manner or in my words, the tenderness I feel
for her. I want nothing to come between us. At night I
simmer with a lunatic rage that tempts me to action.
So what am I to do about this? It is not by choice that my
passions have been kindled, and yet I suspect it would bring
me little pleasure to surrender to my longings and thereby
cause my family grief. I want to behave rationally, yet I
can easily see that by clamping a lid on my emotions I would
succeed only in driving myself mad. Diane would
soon detect some abnormality in my conduct, and I would doubtless betray
myself with spiteful words and mean-spirited actions.
Likely I would come to despise every aspect of my life
instead of just some. Worst of all, I would be depriving
Natalie of the opportunity to experience an authentic and
mature love. In cases such as this, reticence is infinitely
more corrosive and hurtful than whatever sentiments are
unleashed by words. I could never forgive myself if I
denied nature its true course.
So on this late summer Sunday afternoon, instead of
indulging in a round of golf with my associates, I take up a
position across and down the street from Natalie's house.
Maybe it would be safer out there stomping the fairways,
beneath what could very well be the last of our summer skies
for this year, but, believe me, I'm fully alive at this
moment and cognizant of what I have to do. My eyes absorb
the neighbourhood at a glance. I take mental note of each
car that passes by: I want to know if any drivers return for
a second look, or if anyone seems unduly curious about my
presence. In this state of heightened acuity I recognize
the fierce clenching of nervous indecision in my abdomen, I
feel a ridge of upholstery dig into my buttocks, I suffer
beneath a burden of passing time as if it were a dense
blanket of heavy, humid air bearing down on me. It's nearly
five o'clock; I've spent four hours of my life on this
vigil. I'll refrain for now from calling Diane because
Sunday is the one day of the week I'm not held accountable
for my time. After golf we generally proceed to the
clubhouse, where one thing leads to another. Drinking is
one sure way to obliterate the hours. Normally I'm a placid
drunk, neither mean, quarrelsome, nor even very talkative.
Drinking has always been a recreation that, for me, carried
little risk. However, last Sunday evening I awoke to the
rhythm of a vicious throbbing in my cheek and was surprised
by several rough abrasions on my forehead. I must have
fallen down or bumped against a door, for nobody can
remember an incident, such as an altercation. But I don't
normally lose control to that degree. We all look out for
one another and make allowances in the clubhouse. We all
say things, make drunken admissions of one sort or another.
Yet a fear is taking hold that one day before I'm ready I'll
let slip a few inadvertent words about my love. For the
present this passion is best keep hidden. It may be too
much to expect even my closest friends to understand.
So even though I may have done something crass or stupid
last Sunday, I didn't give myself away, and that's what
counts. In fact, over the course of this week I've grown
quite fond of my scars because I can see them as tokens of
my devotion to Natalie. What discomfort or inconvenience
would I not willingly endure for her sake? After all, I've
been sitting in my car most of the afternoon, though I have
to admit I'm not suffering any terrible discomfort at this
moment. My Mercedes, generously equipped with every
accessory imaginable, boasts among other things a superb air-
conditioner. I don't deny that this automobile is a symbol
of prosperity, intended by its very existence to impress,
perhaps to intimidate. For me, such luxury is a source of
pride, and this pride isn't something I shrink from. I'm
fully aware of all the years of hard work that went into
being able to afford it. Nothing provides more pleasure
than watching someone whose opinion I value, in reverent
silence running a careful hand over the hood of the
Mercedes, taking the measure of my success in its contours.
Despite this, I've so far avoided showing it to Natalie,
possibly out of deference to her limited experience with
such things. I have no wish to make her feel ignorant. But
today I would like her to admire it and ride in it with me.
I don't believe this is asking too much.
All afternoon the street has been active, but not to an
unusual extent. There's been little movement at Natalie's
house. The car is still in the driveway. A short while ago
her younger brother burst out the front door and dawdled up
the sidewalk kicking stones into the street. He looks like
a troublemaker to me, much like his parents: snub-nosed,
loutish, common. Whenever I spot Natalie's parents in the
grocery store--Ethel and David, a carpet-salesman and his
preening wife--I slink away toward the gourmet section,
where they, with their vulgar tastes, are unlikely to
follow. Diane seems to find them amusing, but I can't
endure them, her sham modesty and witless chatter, his
morose, inarticulate earthiness. Natalie resembles none of
these people, seems in fact to have issued forth like an
emissary from another world. Given her unremarkable origins
and routine upbringing, her beauty and refinement are all
the more miraculous. For me it's a continuing source of
amazement. Her superior grades, her talent for music (I've
heard her play piano), her manner of speaking, not in the
muddled teenage vernacular of the day, but with an elevated
sensitivity to the power of language. She's attained so
much in a short time, it's unthinkable that these crude
surroundings should now be permitted to corrupt her. If I
have a mission, it's to rescue her from what could become,
if I fail to act, a life of obscure and insipid drudgery.
In a daydream that's recurred more times than I can count,
she's beside me, laughing, her hair ruffled by the wind as
we speed along the highway out of town, never to return.
She parts her lips to speak and there before me are her
perfect teeth, her pink glistening tongue. She questions me
about life, and I find it so easy to divulge to her all the
odd and intimate secrets that I've never before revealed to
a soul. She attends closely to my words, and before I know
what's happened she's holding my hand, whispering timidly of
a profound and hidden love.
This image, and the sensations of affection that accompany
it, are at once dispelled when an old Chevy, clunky and
pitted with rust, rolls up and shudders to a stop in front
of the house. Natalie swings open the door and alights on
the passenger's side. I glance at my watch. Five-thirty.
Where has she been all day? Then I see the towels. The
picnic basket. Over a lavender one-piece bathing suit she's
covered by an open shirt. Her legs and arms are brown, and
beneath dark glasses her face is smiling as she reaches back
into the car to retrieve something.
I switch off the air-conditioner and the radio. My hands
are shaking. I feel my body submit to a peculiar vertigo.
Should I speak to her? In this raw state am I really
prepared to declare myself? But how can I question my
intentions at this late hour? There should be courage in my
step and a buoyant confidence in my heart as I prepare to
cast aside my burden of secrecy. However, I find myself
instead measuring the distance between here and there,
between her youth and my age, and concluding it's too great
a gap to be bridged. But this is foolish. How will I ever
save her if I can't save myself? Finally I get out of the
car and almost stumble as I set out across the street.
By the time I reach the curb she's seen me. I approach
casually, shaping my lips into a smile. I notice that her
own smile dissolves for an instant, then reappears, somehow
transformed.
"Mr. Driscoll?"
"Hello, Natalie," I say, projecting my voice toward her.
"How are you?"
"I'm okay," she says, and seems to observe me in a curiously
detached manner. "What are you doing here?"
I recognize the boy in the Chevy as Todd Reiner, a friend of
Sharon's, a hulking, muscular youth with a bull neck and
dull eyes. I've met him before and have no wish to renew
the acquaintance. As he opens his door my legs carry me
past the Chevy, close by Natalie, within a scant three feet
of her. Her hair is heavily aromatic of sea-salt. I want
her to remove the glasses so I can see her eyes, but she
doesn't. And I have to content myself with a glimpse of her
exquisitely upturned nose, her delicately rounded chin.
"I'm just out for a walk," I tell her. I wonder for a
second if she could have noticed me getting out of my car,
then decide it doesn't matter. If she did, it can be our
secret. "It's a nice day, isn't it?"
I don't wait for an answer. Quickening my pace, I am soon
far down the street and around the corner out of sight. I
pause here for an instant to look back, but all I can see is
Todd lifting something from the trunk of the Chevy. For
now, Natalie is gone. The fact that she's chosen so far
beneath herself causes me some concern. Naturally I fear
for her. But I console myself with the thought that even in
the grocery store you select from what's available. This
moronic young man will not be Natalie's companion for very
long. As I complete my circuit around the block I derive
comfort from the veiled delight of her greeting. Of course,
she had no choice but to conceal the breadth of her passion
before the likes of Todd Reiner.
When I get back to Cherry Street, the Chevy has driven off
and Natalie's house is shut up and appears dark, though this
is only a trick of the late afternoon light. I seem to have
squandered my afternoon to little purpose, but this is not
really true. I spoke with Natalie. And I can see now that
she needs more time to get used to the idea of us being
together.
For a few moments longer I sit in the car and watch the
house. I know she's inside, peeling off her bathing suit,
taking a shower, combing her hair. Certain details of her
personal life are familiar to me because I often question
Sharon about her friends. Discretely mind you, so she has
no idea what I'm really after. I know Natalie's favourite
perfume, what music she prefers, the colour scheme of her
bedroom, the sort of thing she likes to get for her
birthday....
On the way home I stop at the drugstore. I purchase a pack
of Marlboros and then go to the phone. The quarter rattles
all the way down the slot.
I dial and wait. After two rings, as if she's been
anticipating my call, Natalie answers. This is her own
private unlisted line. I copied the number from Sharon's
address book.
"Hello?"
I remain silent. Her voice is all I need.
"Hello?"
Then she cries out, "Why are you doing this? Why do you
keep calling me?"
I replace the receiver. Would she have picked up the phone
if she didn't love me? Of course not. She knows as well as
I do that today we've been closer than ever before. It's
only a matter of time.
My wife and I are hanging a new set of curtains. On this
warm and luminous Saturday afternoon my body tingles with
summer sweat. A breeze through the open window feels
delicious against my skin. Rejuvenated, I lift the curtains
in my arms as Diane clenches a metal hook between her teeth
and searches among the folds of material for the crease that
will receive it. We don't speak; in our house unnecessary
discussion rarely takes place, even at a time like this.
We're not in the habit of wasting words, not like some
people. As always, Diane's face is grave, her manner
solemn. She concentrates her entire being on the task at
hand. I have every confidence these curtains will hang
straight and true.
...................... 
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