Naked Came the Stranger

TAYLOR HAWKES

From where he sat, looking out over Research and Accounting, Taylor Hawkes could see in all directions, except behind him. Behind him was wall, gun-metal gray wall, like the side of a battleship. Taylor Hawkes had wished for a long time that the wall was cyprus paneling, or leather, or maybe even burlap like some of the offices in the city, but he was a little uneasy about asking the Baron for that. Glass to his left and two secretaries; glass to his right and three secretaries; glass in front of him and the vast secretarial pool; long straight rows of girls with adding machines; rows of girls with typewriters; the alcoves housing two dozen account executives; the department switchboard girl with the fine round bottom.

Taylor Hawkes could see in all directions, all right, except behind him on this day, February 27th, at 4:20 in the afternoon, with four Beefeater martinis and three vodka and tonics under his belt. Taylor Hawkes was looking down, his sunglasses still on, looking down at his desk, picking through the papers and memos, picking at the spike with the yellow message forms, the forms that showed who had called while he was at lunch, the time of the call, the degree of urgency and, when possible, the message. Ringold (Research) 2: 10 p.m…. "Screw him," Taylor said out loud, "he didn't think I've got to eat?" Leonard (The Smellwell Account)

3:20 p.m. "Screw him, too." Mrs. Grace Belcher (a close friend of the Baron's, wanting some free advertising advice for Planned Parenthood in Roslyn) 12:50 p.m., 2:15 p.m., 3:55 p.m. "Well, the hell with you, Mrs. Belcher," Taylor said, wadding up the message form. The message forms were the real pain in the ass, the worst thing when you just got back. Who was trouble? And who wasn't trouble? At the sound of the buzzer on his desk, Taylor Hawkes picked up the phone. He looked as he always did, to his right, watching Emily, good lady, talk to him while he was listening to her voice on the phone.

"Taylor, there's a Mrs. Gillian Blake in the lobby."

"Bring her in, Emily."

As he said it, Taylor swung the swivel chair around, looking out over Research and Accounting, and Emily must have looked, too. She didn't buzz this time; instead, she came to the glass door of his office and opened it.

"The Baron, Taylor."

"I see him, Emily."

"He's rolling fast," Emily said., "Real fast."

"He sure to God is," Taylor said. He felt perspiration at the back of his neck. "That ol' bastard can really roll."

"Mrs. Gillian Blake?" Emily said.

"Yeh," Taylor said. "Hold her, Emily. Get her some coffee. Show her the new computer setup or something. Hold her until I get the Baron out of here."

The Baron was about a third of the way through the huge room, rolling now, as Emily said, fast, real fast. He spun the wheelchair deftly down the narrow lane between the account executives' alcoves and the adding machine girls, picking up speed in the wide stretch between Taylor's office and the first row of girls.

"He ain't stopping," Taylor said to himself. "He's coming on."

Trouble now. Copy of the Ladies Home Journal on the Baron's lap, bouncing on his lap, while he rolled with both hands in his wheel chair. The old skinny arms, pumping, pumping in his black suit, and the little silver round head pointed right straight at Taylor's office, and rolling on, the old skinny arms and the old little silver round head, rolling on.

"Old sonofabitch," Taylor said.

Can't get to my coat, he thought, no use trying to put it on. Straightening tie, smoothing papers on the desk. Take off the sunglasses, he see my eyes. Leave sunglasses on, he think I'm drunk? Phone buzzing.

"Yeh?"

"Taylor" – it was Emily – "Mrs. Blake doesn't want coffee. Doesn't want to see the computers. She wants to see you. She…."

"Jesus, Emily, tell her… tell her…" The Baron fifteen feet out now, slackening speed, rolling for Taylor's glass door. "Just hold her, Emily."

"Taylor, she…."

Then, another voice, this one in Taylor's ear.

"Taylor," Gillian said, "I'm not just another ordinary, dissatisfied customer. You know, dear…."

And another voice, in front of Taylor.

"You've seen this, Taylor?" The Baron was holding up the magazine. "This is your idea of a small joke?"

The Baron's voice, very sharp. And on the phone, Gillian - "Taylor, if I want to see a computer deck, I'd go over to IBM."

"No sir, Baron." Taylor said. "I haven't seen the magazine yet. However, if it's the Honest ad, I can explain –" He had the phone out in front of him, shoulder high, it was breaking his arm, he could feel his hand clamped on it, knuckles splitting. "Gillian, please look at the computers…. I'm sorry, Baron, but the Cigaret Advertising Board said that business about the microfilters couldn't go…. Mrs. Blake, yes, you'll find the computers fascinating….."

Knuckles splitting and the phone hanging out there like a big black airplane between him and the Baron.

"Gillian… Mrs. Blake… please look at the computers. Call you right back." Phone down, finally, and hand still cramped, knuckles going to split wide open.

"Mrs. William Blake?" the Baron said.

"Yes, sir," Taylor Hawkes said. "Lives out there in King's Neck."

"I know," the Baron said. "You seem to forget, the Blakes are my customers. My customers."

"Yes, sir," Taylor said.

"And I haven't even seen the Honest ad yet," the Baron said. "I'm talking about the Smellwell ad. Two pages in color, Taylor, and what do I see? Well?"

"You see the Smellwell research laboratories," Taylor said.

"That is what I see," the Baron said. "I see six men in white robes fussing, Taylor, fussing with test tubes. What I do not see is Vivian. I do not see Vivian Garland on a gondola in Venice. I do not see the slogan that I take personal credit for – 'Tonight's the night, Vivian, with Smellwell.' Perhaps this refreshes your memory."

"Yes, sir," Taylor said. "We photographed that, just as you suggested. It was all ready to go and it was killed."

"And who may I ask had the temerity…?"

"The old lady," Taylor said. "She said she thought the other one, the 'Tonight's-the-night' business, was… she said it was sinful. That was her word, Baron. She said we should bear in mind that Smellwell was a product of modern science, a scientifically manufactured deodorant, and not some aphrodisiac used by Italians."

"She said that, Taylor?"

"You were down on the ranch," Taylor was relaxing now, "and we didn't think you should be bothered by something that could be fixed on the spot."

"In the future," the Baron said, "call me. If anyone ever changes something I've assumed creative responsibility for, you call me. And if, by any chance, you cannot reach me, you tell the lady – or any client – that we don't need their business."

"Yes, sir," Taylor said.

"And Taylor, while you're at it," the Baron went on, "I want you to draft a letter to Vivian. To Vivian Garland. I want you to explain to her why this happened. You may tell her, just as you told me, that the decision was yours and that I was not consulted. The letter will be on my desk, with your signature, by tomorrow morning."

"Yes, Baron, of course."

"Taylor, how long have you been back from lunch?"

"Oh, some time now," he said. "Although, it was a long lunch. I had a meeting at lunch with…" – he tried to think of a name, any name – "with Mrs. Belcher, Mrs. Grace Belcher of Roslyn. Planned Parenthood. Fine woman. They're planning big things over there."

"A fine woman," the Baron said. "I suggested she call you. But anything you do for them, Taylor, you're on your own time." He rolled his wheelchair a foot backward, then a foot forward, warming up for the takeoff. "And at the conference tomorrow morning, Taylor, be prepared to tell me about the Honest ad. I will find time tonight to examine it. Be prepared to defend whatever action you decided to take. Good evening, Taylor."

A spin on the left wheel turned the chair around, a thrust. with the right hand sent it forward. And now, both hands pumping, the Baron was headed through Taylor Hawkes's glass door and out into the arena of business machines, picking up speed. Taylor watched the back of the Baron's little silver round head.

"Godamighty," Taylor said, "won't that old bastard ever die?"

Actually, he liked the Baron, got along with him well many days, respected the sharpness of the old man's mind, even when he was wrong, Baron Edward Osborne Morgan… one hundred and four years old… in a wheelchair since he was thrown playing polo at age seventy-one… fifty times, and more, a millionaire from investments and full owner of Morgan Advertising… but… but, and this was the part that always got Taylor Hawkes: Taylor's wife, Sarah, was the Baron's great-grandniece, his only living relative, and would Taylor be executive vice president of the agency today, if this was not the case?

Taylor didn't know. He thought so. He always told himself he would have made it anyway. He had beaten his way up through a string of southern agencies, had entered a Madison Avenue firm and made his way up through copy editing to account executive and, hell, all this was before he married Sarah, great-grandniece and the favorite person in all the world of Baron Edward Osborne Morgan. Hell, he had made it that far, he would have made it to the top, to a partnership, because he understood advertising. He understood the business and he understood the bullshit. You're damn right he would have. But executive vice president? If he hadn't married Sarah, would he…?

Taylor Hawkes watched the little round silver head nearing the far end of the room, then saw the hard pump of the right hand and the wheelchair turning out into the corridor that would take the Baron to his own office at the end of the building.

The buzzer. He reached for the phone.

"Taylor, I'm coming in right now," Gillian said, "ready or not."

"Sure, Gillian," he said. "I've been waiting for you." Taylor lifted the sunglasses from the bridge of his nose, squinted, rubbed his eyes, put the glasses on again. He wouldn't put on his coat. Standing, he sucked in his stomach and waited, watching as Emily guided Gillian Blake into the room.

She looks damn good, he thought. Not the greatest body in the world, but something there. Like she was proud of it. Would make you know it, too… crack your back with those good legs.

What does she want? Last week at the station's cocktail party, Taylor hadn't been sure. She had touched his hand when he lighted her cigarette, steadying his hand with her own, but a lot of women do that. And later she had backed that nice round behind against his forearm, hadn't hurried to move it either, he thought, but maybe that was because he had put his arm in a good place to get it backed into.

Still….

Well, Taylor hadn't been sure. If he'd been sure, he would have thought of a way before now to see her. He'd been considering a casual way, safe, where if he had been wrong it would only look like the courtesy an ad man might show one of the people he was responsible for sponsoring. And the fact that they were neighbors in King's Neck was almost enough reason in itself. But, hell, who would believe that?

She was at the glass door, coming in, Emily stepping back.

"Hello, Gilly," he said.

"God, don't call me that," she said. "It sounds like some Lake Michigan fish."

"You use it on the radio," Taylor said.

"Well, you don't have to use it," she said. "You pay me pretty well to use a name like that on the radio. I'm on my own time now."

On your own time, Taylor….

"Sit down," he said. "You want some coffee?"

Still standing, Gillian reached into her bag and pulled out a copy of the New York Times. She thrust it at him in much the manner of the Baron with the Ladies Home Journal.

"Have you read this?" she said.

"Sure," Taylor said. "Sure I've read it. What part?"

"This part," she said. "This part where their smart-assed critic rips me up."

"I didn't get that far," Taylor said.

"Pablum for breakfast," she said. "The worst show on morning radio. Makes you strangle on your coffee it's so bad."

"Hmmmm." Taylor said.

"Hmmmmm hell," Gillian said. "Do you advertise in this paper?"

"Gillian, everyone advertises in this paper."

"No more," she said. "I don't want you to put any more advertising in the Times until that critic loses his job."

"Well, now," Taylor said. "That may not be too easy. No one tells the critics what to write."

"Then, I suppose" – Gillian was still standing – "I'd better go see Baron Morgan directly."

"Well, now," Taylor said. "There's no need to bother him today. My don't you just sit down and have some coffee? Let's us talk about it."

Gillian sat down, crossing her legs, her sand-colored dress riding up, showing Taylor a nice three inches above those good knees.

"I've been meaning to call you," Taylor Hawkes said.

"You should have," Gillian said.

"About tennis … about playing tennis. I couldn't remember whether your husband played."

"No," Gillian said. "No, he's stopped. A bad back… or a bad knee or a bad wrist or a bad something. I forget exactly which. He's stopped almost everything." She looked directly at Taylor. "But I still play."

"Fine," Taylor said. "We'll play."

"Fine," Gillian said.

Her eyes left Taylor. She was looking over his shoulder, through the secretaries' office and toward the front driveway.

"What are they doing?" she asked. "That car, the back…."

Taylor looked out. "Oh, they're rollin' him in. You've never seen the Baron's car?"

Taylor had watched it a hundred times; hell, a thousand times; he'd watched it so many times he wasn't even aware any more that he was watching it. Louie, the Baron's chauffeur, was out there now, the same as always, letting down the back of the custom-built car. It dropped down just like the tailgate of a truck, except that it reached the pavement, making a ramp. The Baron, in his wheelchair, was back about twenty feet, getting ready to roll, getting ready to build up the speed that would take him into the car. And Old Lady Minnie, the Baron's secretary for forty-one years, was out there, same as always, her arms waving like an out-of-control kite, trying to help roll the Baron and he was waving back, same as always, saying, if you were out there so you could hear him, "Get back, Minnie! Get back, Louie!" Nobody rolled Baron Edward Osborne Morgan; he could make it himself.

"My God," Gillian said. "He almost sailed through the front seat."

"Naw," Taylor said. "He can stop it on a dime. That old bastard can really roll. He's just got to get up that speed to make the ramp. That's his special big-wheeled, high-speed chair."

"God," Gillian said.

"He's got about five wheelchairs," Taylor said. "Got a black one over at the estate. And a silver one for parties. And a couple around here. Got a little business wheelchair… comes down here in it…. I swear to God that's the fastest little wheelchair I ever saw in my whole life."

Gillian tapped a cigarette on her long left thumbnail and Taylor stood up. As he extended a match, she cupped her hand on his, letting her hand linger, he thought, after he had blown out the flame. He looked out into the big room and saw that three of the girls had turned around and were watching him.

"You're kin to the Baron, aren't you?" Gillian said.

"No," Taylor said. He looked out again at the room.

"No, it's my wife. She's his great-grandniece."

"Oh, yes," Gillian said. "I remember that. I met your wife at the station. I can't remember her name."

"Sarah."

"Oh, yes," Gillian said. "I knew it was something from the Bible. She seemed nice."

"Thanks," Taylor said.

"Yes, I remember all of it now," Gillian said.

"Somebody… a woman… she'd been drinking an awful lot… said the Baron just adores Sarah and that you wouldn't be where you are unless…."

"Well, that's a bunch of…", Taylor cut himself off. "I… ah, the hell with those bitches."

"Why, it made you mad," Gillian said. "I'm sorry. I thought it was funny."

"Yeah," Taylor said. "Funny."

Gillian stood up and walked around Taylor's desk. Her arm coming up slowly, her fingertips brushing across Taylor's jaw.

"I am sorry," she said. "It did make you mad." She stepped back and looked at him. "Well, I've done enough. I won't bother anyone about this smart-assed critic. Call me."

"No," Taylor said. "I mean, no, don't go. We'll talk about it." He stood, fumbling for a cigarette, trying to think of something. "Gillian, could we… Gillian… walk down to the Baron's office?" He indicated his own three walls of glass. "Quieter there. Great pictures, too. The Baron in the Spanish-American War and World War I and playing polo. And some of his most successful campaigns."

"Fine," Gillian said. "Only I have the strangest feeling you're going to show me those computers before we're finished."

They walked through the door of Taylor's office. Taylor paused at Emily's desk.

"I'm not expecting any calls, Emily," he said.

"Yes, Mr. Hawkes" – she always called him Mr. Hawkes in front of outsiders.

Not a way in the damn world except to go right through the middle of the room, Taylor thought. Together they started. Pointing to the adding machines, Taylor said, "The adding machines." And, further on, "Account executives' offices." Trying to walk not fast, but not slow, and make it casual. Feeling eyes fixed on his back as they passed girl after girl, and seeing the ones still in front of them and knowing that they were waiting for him to pass with Gillian Blake so they could stare, too. And the account executives peering out of their cubbyholes. Those eyes must be eating up the backs of Gillian's calves and eating up those good muscles of hers under the sand-colored skirt, rolling a little, flexing gently, as Taylor knew those muscles would be.

"Lots of various campaigns being mapped out here," Taylor said. "Lots of various campaigns." He motioned.

"This way." They were out of the room and into the hallway and now were standing, together, in front of the locked doors to the Baron's office.

Reaching into his pocket, Taylor brought out a chain and fumbled through the keys to every part of his life: front door of home, ignition key of station wagon, office key, trunk key of Buick, garage door, office desk, safe deposit box, ignition key of Buick…. Somehow, he was afraid that Gillian Blake was going to say, Ah, the hell with it, Taylor, don't bother… and then he found, and inserted into the lock, the key to the Baron's office.

"There you go," he said, opening the door, stepping aside, then quickly shutting the door behind them. He pointed. "Those are the pictures I told you about."

"Yes," Gillian Blake said. "And that's a wall and that's a chair and that's a rug." She looked at him. "My, you're nervous, Taylor."

"Well, I wanted you to see the pictures," Taylor said.

"There's the Baron in the Spanish-American War… and there he is on his hundredth birthday, when we shot off a cannon on the front lawn… and there's… well, there're lots of them. And the big campaigns."

He reached over her, pointing, his arm across her shoulders.

"My, God, you're a countryman," Gillian said, turning, facing him, standing so close that her breasts touched his chest. "Isn't there anything else you wanted to show me, Taylor?"

He pulled her against him, feeling her stomach and thighs press into him. His right hand was on her back, his left at the curve of her waist-buttocks, and his mouth was starting at her neck.

"You'll rumple my dress, Taylor."

"Sweet Jesus, Gillian, I've got…"

"But I'll take it off," she said.

With her right hand she ran down the zipper and in one motion, it seemed, she pulled the dress over her head. She stood before him in a half slip and a bra. Now, looking at him she unhooked the bra, bringing it free in her hand, standing erect, her breasts not large, but firm and white and straight out.

"Why don't you loosen your tie, Taylor?"

Taylor stopped staring and pulled at his tie as she walked across the room. She stopped beside the Baron's glass-topped desk, and on the desk she laid her dress, smoothing it out full length. She put the bra on top of the dress. And then the half slip. She was standing nude when she picked up the twin pictures in the single frame.

"This is the Baron," she said, "and your wife?"

'Yes," Taylor said. "Yes."

Gillian put the pictures back on the desk, placing them at an angle that left the Baron and Taylor's wife looking out across the room. Looking out at Gillian and Taylor.

"Taylor," she said, "do you love your wife?"

"Good God, Gillian, how do I know?"

He was undressed now. And he was moving across the room to her, sucking in his stomach and wishing he still had the old suntan. Gillian wasn't even looking at him.

"And this is the Baron's… what did you call it?… business wheelchair? The fast one?" Naked, she stood as easily as if she were in Lord and Taylor's at 11:30 in the morning, trying on a new dress. She picked her bra from the desk and hung it across the left shoulder of the Baron's fast wheelchair. "Wear it with honor," she said.

"Don't forget that goddam thing," Taylor said, "and leave it hanging there."

"Taylor, are you afraid of the Baron?"

"Ah, hell, Gillian, just remember to get the thing. I've got to be back here in the morning to explain something the Baron'll be madder'n hell about, and it's going to be bad enough without a goddam brassiere hanging on his fast wheelchair."

Gillian picked her panties from the desk and hung them on the right shoulder of the wheelchair. Taylor caught her from the side and pulled her around, feeling her body against his. Walking her backward, he moved her in front of him. "If you're so interested in the Baron's chair, Gillian, I'll show you something else." With three steps, he maneuvered her and then pressed her over and came down on top of her, feeling her legs come up.

"This is the Baron's vibrating chair," he said. "When he's not sitting in that goddam fast wheelchair, he sits in this one and… vibrates."

It was also a reclining chair, tufted brown, with a footrest, and Taylor dug at Gillian's breasts with his face and mouth.

"Start it up," Gillian said.

"Godawmighty," Taylor said. "Are you talking about the chair?"

"If it vibrates, then start it," she said. "Or do you want me to get up and do it?"

Taylor leaned over the side, feeling for the buttons and gears. With his right hand, he pushed a lever and he felt them start, he and Gillian and the tiny wire-nerves in the chair that made it vibrate. And he was inside of Gillian, too, now, warm. And it was Gillian and he and the tiny wire-nerves and he and Gillian and Gillian and the tiny wire nerves and he and Gillian and he and he and he and Gillian and He and He and GILLIAN and HE and GILLIAN and HE… and HE… and he and he and Gillian… and gillian. And gillian.

The chair, its fabric crinkly against Taylor's side as he rolled over, was still vibrating. He reached over, feeling for the lever.

"Leave it alone," Gillian said quietly. "It feels good."

As they lay there, with the left side of Taylor's body against Gillian, he could feel the vibrations of the tiny wire-nerves. On his right side, the vibrations were direct. On his left, coming first through Gillian, they were soft.

"You're good, Taylor," she said. Gillian realized, with a start, that it was the first sincere compliment she had paid a man since the beginning. She was quiet, reflective, the lines on her face easy. "Did you like me?"

"Damn knows," Taylor said. "You're something else, Gillian. How do I tell you? How do you describe it?" Unconsciously, his hand went toward his chest for a cigarette and then over the arm of the chair, as if he were reaching out toward the lamp table at home, the lamp table that separated Sarah's bed from his own.

"Why do men want to smoke afterward?" Gillian said.

"I don't know," Taylor said. "But you sure to God do. I guess if you didn't smoke, you wouldn't want to. But if you smoke, you sure to God want to."

Taylor got up, going across to his coat to get a cigarette, and wondering how he looked to her from the back, naked. He brought her a cigarette, too, and they lay there together in the vibrating chair, smoking and not talking.

Lightly, Gillian kissed Taylor on the neck and then on his chest.

"You're good, Taylor."

"I'll tell you one thing," Taylor said. "I've never felt so good in this office, not in the past fourteen years."

Again Gillian kissed Taylor on the chest and then, pushing with her hands, she was standing, walking toward her clothes. Taylor followed her. On the desk he could see the pictures of his wife and the Baron, both watching him, and they both seemed angry. He wondered how they liked him naked.

Gillian picked her bra from the left shoulder of the Baron's wheelchair, started to stretch her arms through the straps, but Taylor pulled her to him. She held the bra now in her right hand and, as her arms went around him, Taylor felt the bra skid once, gently, against his back as it slipped to the floor. Carefully, he lowered her back into the wheelchair.

With Gillian's arms around him, her body there just below him, Taylor Hawkes spun the wheelchair away from the wall. In the open room, on the deep green carpet, he gave a push with his foot and tried to jump aboard, as he'd jumped as a child on a rolling scooter.

"The old sonofabitch," he said.

They hit the brown leather couch and came to a stop there.

"My God, Taylor!"

He came down on her, pressing her legs apart, against the arms of the chair, and feeling his knees driving against the wheels. Almost. His knees off the wheels, closer, and he was there now, there, but they were rolling again.

"Goddam!"

"Make it stop rolling, Taylor!"

With his foot, he drove the chair into the angle between the couch and the wall and lunged. "Taylor! Oh, Taylor!" Gently, rhythmically, the chair skidded, forward, backward, gently rhythmically.

Taylor heard it, didn't hear it, thought he heard it, thought he didn't hear it – the click of the lock at his back. The click of the lock and no other sound as the rubber tires of another wheelchair moved silently across the deep green carpet. Glancing up, Taylor saw him, saw the Baron, rolling toward them. And now braking.

"Well, Taylor." The Baron.

"God, Taylor, don't stop!" Gillian.

And now all of them the three of them!

"Taylor! Taylor!" This was Gillian.

"Dammit, Taylor, if you break my chair…"

"Now, Gillian! NOW! Gillian, oh, Gillian!"

For a moment Taylor lay there. And then, slowly, they rose from the wheelchair, he and Gillian.

She made no effort to hurry or to cover herself. She walked to the spot where she had dropped her bra on the floor and bent to pick it up. The Baron, in his black suit, with his round, silver head cocked slightly, turned the chair an inch or two, Taylor thought, to watch her walk.

And then the chair and the black suit and the round silver head were directed again at Taylor.

"In a wheelchair," the Baron said softly. "That's something, Taylor." He rolled his own chair six inches backward and six inches forward. "Well, Taylor, you won't have to explain the Honest ad tomorrow. I'll mail you your check." His voice was still even, quiet. "And I'll have a car pick up Sarah tonight."

"Baron," Taylor began, "if you…."

"Good evening, Taylor." The Baron was starting to roll. Then he paused, a last look at Gillian. She had picked up the bra but she hadn't put it on. In her right hand, it swung at her knees.

"You have a fine body, young lady," the Baron said.

"Thank you, Baron Morgan," Gillian Blake replied. Stretching, she put her arms through the brassiere straps. The Baron made no effort to leave. "You don't live in King's Neck, do you, Baron?"

"Old Brookville," he said.

"Too bad," Gillian said. "I was going to ask why don't you roll over and see me sometime."



EXCERPT FROM "THIE BILLY & GILLY SHOW," MARCH 14TH

Gilly: Did you ever stop to realize how everything has become sexier these days, Billy? You know, movies, books, magazines.

Billy: I know what you mean. And without being a prude, I think it's something we have to watch carefully. Because in some cases, it borders on, well, smut.

Gilly: Exactly.