I had a thousand bucks, and Dr. Rising had the makings of an all-pro hangover. We left the bomb shelter, and he shambled unsteadily up the stairs. Weaving in the doorway of his study, he offered me a mint from a roll of Life Savers, popped one in his mouth, and said, “Do me a favor, will you? Tell the girls I’m under the weather and napping on the couch. And Gordon—this is the best afternoon I’ve had in a while, so you make certain my daughter knows she’s welcome to bring you any Sunday.”

“Will do,” I said, and hoped that I would never have to come back here again.

Chapter 13

GLENNA WAS STARING blankly out the windshield as we rode back to Spuyten Duyvil.

“Jets won,” I said.

“That’s nice,” she said, and then she said nothing else, which may have saved our lives because, juiced on the cognac, I needed all my concentration to avoid driving off the road.

In her room, she dropped her maxi coat with the clothes piled on the floor, and without a word, kissed me with an insatiable hunger, a furious hunger—furious, perhaps, because it was insatiable. Pushing me onto the bed and straddling me, she undid my pants and lifted her skirt, hooking her thumb in her black panties and tights and tugging them off. A fleecy patch brushed my knee, then went up over my stomach and chest to cover my face, and I got lost recalling summer days at the beach, the hot wind redolent with the tides. The curls receded, and Glenna flattened herself against my body as though she were trying to crawl inside me, and she began sliding up and down, back and forth, picking up speed, none of her sensually drawn-out moaning as she moved, but blunt, explosive shouts instead, and then rising to her knees, still rocking with that truculent cadence, a scream quaking in her throat as she pummeled my shoulders with her fists, releasing the hurt she’d brought back from Riverdale, another hurt heaped onto the years of hurt, screaming, “Fuck you, you fucking bastard!” and me straying through that turbulent darkness, lost now, disappearing into the terrifying uncertainty of where I began and Glenna ended, and no longer caring about the distinction, just surrendering myself to the ecstatic rhythm of her rage.

IN THE after-haze, we retreated underneath the covers. Glenna dozed against me while I clasped my hands behind my head, mesmerized by the moonlight shining through the bay window and crowning the rubber tree in the corner with an icy halo.

“Gordon,” Glenna said, her voice small, frightened. “Was that—was that—”

“Great,” I said, putting my arm around her.

Snuggling into me, she asked, “What did you and my father do?”

“Listened to the game.”

“You had a drink, too. I could taste it when I kissed you.”

I didn’t want to upset her further—she’d had enough for one afternoon—but she was going to be a doctor, and she might be able to help her dad. I said, “Your father had more than a drink.”