PILLOW TALK

Sylvia bounced down the stairs onto the platform as an F train thundered into the station. She rushed through the crowd, barely reaching me when the subway doors opened. We were lucky to get the last two seats in the car. "Hello, sweetie," she said, hooking her arm around mine.

"Hi. That hundred-meter dash looked like the end of a bad day."

"You're right," she said. "Today was insane. Barbara started in when she walked through the door--`Sylvia, where is your forecast for the next three months? Where's your list of new advertisers? Why weren't you at your desk?' I'm glad I don't have a window in my office."

"You don't have an office. You have a cubicle."

"I'm still glad I don't have a window. Jesus--what a day." She shook her head and let her long black hair fly. She resembled a model in a shampoo commercial who swings her hair back and forth to show how well the stuff works. "So--what's for dinner?"

I gave the subway car a glance from end to end. No one was struck by the sight of us. "I don't know. What are we having?"

She fixed her eyes on me and tilted her head down. "Excuse me? It's your turn, kiddo."

I chuckled and kissed her cheek. Still no response from the other passengers. Thank God. "Well...we could have eggplant."

"Nope. We have none left over. Try again."

"All right. How about lasagna?"

Her face lit up. "Sounds good. You're on a real Italian binge lately."

"Not really. It's just easy to make."

"You're lazy."

"Uh-huh. It's also Friday. I could order in if I want to."

She laughed and put her head on my shoulder, locking her fingers in mine. I like it when she falls asleep on me. It's the only intimate thing we get away with on the subway.

The train rattled through the tunnel between Manhattan and Queens. The car was packed; the other commuters read, talked, slept, or even sewed. Everyone wants to get on the express trains, but the E and F are notoriously overcrowded. Sometimes things are so tense fights break out. I was involved once or twice, something that would make me drive into Manhattan. Sylvia, however, convinced me otherwise.

Most commuters packed off at Roosevelt Avenue-Jackson Heights. I looked around again when the train started rolling. A fiftyish woman at a window seat watched our reflection in the window. I caught her stare as the train passed between Grand and Woodhaven. She went back to her book, but she was at it again as the train raced out of the 63rd Drive station. I pulled out a piece of paper from my jacket pocket, unfolded it and turned it the wrong way so she read it in the glass:

IS THERE

ANY PROBLEM?

The woman sighed heavily and buried her face in her hand, guilty as hell. She got off with everyone else at the Forest Hills station. I chalked up another victory.

"You didn't," she said, scooping a forkful of lasagna into her lovely mouth.

I nodded.

"I ought to rip that thing to shreds. Do you have to embarrass people like that?"

"They're already embarrassed. Why do you think they stare at us, Syl?"

She took a swig of soda. "Why do you care what they think?"

"I don't care. That's the whole point."

For an instant she seemed helpless and lost, as if she tried to talk to someone who only spoke Russian. But she just rolled her tired eyes.

After dinner I strolled over to the living room window. Our apartment has a lovely view of the Interboro Parkway, New York City's most treacherous highway. It has four lanes and more twists and turns than a Sidney Sheldon novel. We take it for our monthly trips into Brooklyn for dinner with my in-laws, as we would do tomorrow. I memorized the turns, but I still wouldn't drive on it with my eyes closed.

Sylvia switched on the stereo and selected the CD player. "Whatcha looking at?" she said, dropping a disc into the carriage.

"Nothing—now,” I said. Sylvia cued the CD to the next-to-last song. A gently thumping beat surrounded by sparse instrumentation flowed from the speakers. It was a 1973 tune called "Pillow Talk," by a woman billed as, of all things, Sylvia. We stepped into the living room and began a slow dance.

We were only nine years old when the song, about a woman seducing a heavily inhibited

fellow, was a hit. Sylvia—my wife—still loves it to this day. I never heard it much because my parents, who found it disgusting, changed the station when they heard the opening notes.

The singer's low, breathy voice and the steamy lyrics could reduce any man to a puddle of hormones. But when my wife sings it, it's more like a spiritual seduction. Instead of making me want to strip off my clothes, she strips me of my troubles. Both of us, the stereo and our apartment are the only things on Earth for four minutes. My wife has a beautiful singing voice, and she looks deep into my eyes when she sings it.

Toward the end, the singer goes into a bout of sound effects that leave little to the imagination. Sylvia, however, doesn't groan along—we’re too busy kissing at that point. When the song ends, she starts the CD over and we dance to the other soul ballads, serenading each other. Man—what a way to start the weekend.

"Hi, folks."

"Hi, Dad," Sylvia said to her father. She kissed him and disappeared inside.

"Hi, James," I said, shaking his hand. Calling anyone else but my own father "Dad" was a little awkward. James understood, as did his wife Andrea.

The smell of rib steak wafted through their apartment. "It's almost done," Andrea called from the kitchen. "It should be another minute or so."

We sat down at the table as Andrea prepared the gravy. "Those kids bother you again?" James asked.

"Is the Pope Catholic?" Sylvia replied. "You'd think we know what to expect, and we'd ignore them."

"What happened this time?"

"They mouthed off to us. But Tom gave them hell like I never heard." She latched onto my shoulder and shook me affectionately.

"Yeah, well, they were just kids. I don't think I should’ve said anything," I said.

"Don't be silly," Andrea said. "They don’t respect for themselves if they shoot off their mouths at you. So you don't have to respect them either."

"That's right," James said. "They always get in trouble. They won't amount to a damn thing if they grow up. You go on with your lives and savor your little victory." He chuckled, and we laughed in return.

The dinner was phenomenal. Andrea is a super cook, but she outdid herself this time. Sylvia, also an excellent cook, says she never spent enough time in the kitchen with her mother. Andrea lights up at that.

After dinner we gathered around the Nintendo--a gift from Alex, the Daytons' son. They were reluctant to use it at first, but one day James hooked it up and bought a couple of games. He now has a small library of sports cartridges. He challenged me to play one evening, and since then it's become a tradition. I never played sports well as a kid, but on the Nintendo I can hold my own and sometimes beat him. Sylvia roots as if she were at the stadium; Andrea watches for an hour or so, then takes care of other chores.

Everyone should have parents like the Daytons. Early on they regarded me with skepticism, as any good parent would. They were especially wary of the obvious differences between their daughter and me, but time and understanding softened things between us. We look forward to these Saturday gatherings; given the pressures Sylvia and I deal with, we could use more of them. (As for my family, let's just say I made my decision and now must live with it.)

At 10 o'clock we said good night to the Daytons. We walked to Eastern Parkway, staying out of the dimmer areas along the sidewalk. We never find parking near the Daytons' brownstone; we usually wind up three blocks from Utica Avenue on the service road.

I'm not sure about Sylvia, but I'm scared to walk through this neighborhood at night. I always grope in my pocket for the car keys. But this night I pulled them out two blocks away—and caught Sylvia's attention. "What's with your keys?" she asked sharply.

"I'm gonna try an experiment," I fumbled. "I want to see how far we have to be before I disarm the car."

Sylvia rolled her eyes again. She didn't press the issue.

I probably looked stupid, playing with the arming device, as we walked down the street. Thankfully, a block away I heard the chirp—followed by a hideous roar. We stumbled backwards and crashed to the sidewalk. When we looked up, an orange fireball replaced our car where it was parked.

"Name, please."

"Tom and Sylvia Wyckoff," Sylvia replied. She gave the policewoman the personal information in a shaky voice. I couldn't speak.

Eventually she turned to me. It took every ounce of strength to tell the story, but I gave her the details.

"All right," she said , jotting something down. "Do you have any idea who rigged your car?"

And then it hit me. "Those damn kids."

The policewoman looked baffled. "Can you describe them?"

Sylvia obliged, then said, "Where would they get something to blow up our car?"

"I don't know, ma'am. They must know someone. But you and your husband are very lucky. We think they rigged your car with something called C-4. Nasty stuff."

Sylvia and I stared at each other for a long time. "Are you all right?" the officer said.

"Yeah, we're okay," I said, snapping out of my stupor.

"Do you have a place to stay tonight?"

We nodded.

"Get yourselves there. We'll get on this as soon as possible."

"Thank you, officer," we mumbled.

We threaded though the crowd and returned to the Daytons'. Their sleeper sofa was uncomfortable, but that was the least of our worries.

Sunday afternoon we boarded the 3 train at Utica Avenue and took it to 14th Street in Manhattan, where we caught the Queens-bound F. During the ride I stared out the window while Sylvia slept soundly on my shoulder. The other riders were sparse, but we still drew stares. That was the last thing we needed. If I wasn't so aggravated that it sapped my energy, I might have broken a few necks.

Between Queens Plaza and 36th Street, I turned to Sylvia. I couldn't believe she recovered so quickly. Although she was asleep, I sensed she wanted to live her life. I still wanted to find the bastards who tried to kill us, but she wouldn't let that stop her from being my wife. God, I thought, how I wish I was as strong.

I kissed her forehead. She stirred, stretched and turned her lips to mine. We pulled each other closer, unconcerned about anyone else watching. And we didn't need a stupid 21-year-old song to spur us on, either.