Paul, with quick skinny fingers, perfected his marijuana, a token of his staying here, his willingness to listen.
Canterbury, stiff again, sat like a man facing into wind.
Cavanaugh refilled his wineglass. He, too, was here.
Kramer slumped.
Terry talked.
Eight
‘… AT THE UNIVERSITY for years, like a faculty member, except she was in one department, then another. “I took professors,” she said, “not courses.” You know the type? Excellent student. Only she starts a dissertation in anthropology, then reads philosophy and wonders about going to law school; meanwhile, she applies for the programme in business administration. Nervous; smokes. Never inhales, just smokes, smokes. Talks her head off, too. If you clear your throat or glance away from her eyes, she stops and says, “What?” She was familiar with advanced work in half a dozen fields, and then – no goodbye – she takes a job with an insurance company and begins to speculate in real estate. She also had telephones with a computer hook-up in her apartment. So she could play the commodities market. Her father’s full-time work. She did it as a hobby. No real respect for any career. How could she have respect? Praise, high marks, fellowships – suddenly she’s making a lot of money. The only criticisms came from her father. She phoned him to say she was worth a million on paper. He said, “I’m delighted to hear you are thirty years old and without a husband. Listen to me for once. Come back to New York. Be with real people.” He depressed her. “I’m twenty-eight,” she said, “not thirty.” I never offered opinions about her life. What if she acted on them? I’d be responsible, no? Besides, I admired her brains and energy. I approved of her, envied her – at least in the beginning. An extremely busy woman who had time for dance classes and a Marxist study group. Bay Area Women on the Left. She herself organised the group. It met once a month in her apartment. She assigned readings in Marx, gave a talk, led the discussion. Another group she organised, the Anacreontic League of Women, would fly to different cities to eat in fine restaurants. Whatever she enjoyed tended to become a group. Lobster, pasta, Karl Marx. If she wanted to swim across San Francisco Bay, eighty-five women would jump into the water behind her. Her father would yell criticisms from the shore. Me, I’d be rowing behind with no opinions, but full of admiration. Plenty of people would be involved. Her address book was thick as a dictionary. Her phone never stopped ringing. She had an answering machine that said “Hi. Debbie Zeller speaking. I really want to talk to you, but I can’t right this minute …” She was always busy. Her whole body – fingers, mouth, hair, feet – was busy. She was never bored.
‘I met her through Nicki. When the divorce was final, Nicki started phoning every night, usually to talk about Harrison, her boyfriend. Why do women treat me this way? Because I’m bald, I think. I make a simple, basic impression. Anyhow, she phoned with a story about a woman at the tennis club. Nicki was sitting on a bench waiting for her partner when this woman asks if she’d like to warm up, hit a few back and forth. Nicki agreed. Just hitting a few, this woman begins slamming to the corners. Nicki said, “I was running my ass off.” She begins slamming back. Soon it was obvious Nicki could wipe her out. The woman quits, runs up to the net. “Hi, I’m Debbie.” Her exuberance was overwhelming. “She kept touching me,” said Nicki. “Mad to be my friend or something.” Nicki is a reserved type, a little shy. No defence against this kind of approach. When the woman invited her to the study group, Nicki said yes, she’d definitely be there. She wasn’t the least interested, she had doubts about the woman, but she said yes. So she asked if I would go with her. Harrison wanted no part of it. She didn’t want to go alone. She couldn’t not go at all. She was allowed to bring a friend, even a man. I said okay, I’d go. It turned out I was the only man. About fifteen women were in Deborah’s living room when we arrived. Others came later. I hoped a man would walk in, but none did. When everyone was seated, Deborah introduced Nicki to the women and said she was a fantastic tennis player. Nicki had to stand up and introduce me. She was blushing and trembling. I, at least, had political views and I’d been to many such meetings. Finally Deborah started things officially. She gave a talk about Marx’s idea of money. She made references to his work, early and late, and said he wasn’t a metaphysician, economist, or visionary, but a first-class businessman. She kept glancing and smiling at Nicki as if she hoped to impress her, but I was the one who was impressed. I was knocked out. When she finished, I applauded. Nicki was relieved when the discussion was over and we could make our exit. She said Deborah was obviously bright, but too aggressive for her taste, and the way she dressed was awful. “Did you see how short her skirt was? Years out of style.” Well, Deborah has a dancer’s legs. Exceptional definition. Each muscle an independent dynamo. Later I found out she didn’t think her legs were sexy, only delightful to contemplate. But when she walked down the street, hoodlums whistled and made sucking noises. She seethed with anger. I said, “Don’t wear short skirts.” She got angrier. She said, “Women are more attractive than men. Even to each other. They enjoy looking at each other.” This was our second or third date. The first was after the study group. Deborah phoned the next morning. I was very surprised. Also frightened. She said she was leaving town. Would I like to have a drink with her before she goes? You know what I said? It makes me writhe to think of it. I said, “Yes, thank you.” There was no reason to be frightened. Alone, Deborah was a little girl. When she sat on a couch, she flopped. I had to see not only her legs but also her underpants. She’d flop and begin a conversation, her knees a yard apart, her eyes on your eyes, as if she had no crotch. She could make money and lecture on Marx, but I had to look at her underpants. Her face was also something to look at. Close-together little eyes. They seemed never to miss your meaning, maybe to understand more than you intended. She’d say, “To spend most of one’s life thinking about money is intellectually degrading. Do you agree with this idea?” She never lectured when we were alone. She asked what I thought about this or that, then she’d ask why, then she’d repeat what I said and develop it. No phoney style, either. She’d make me feel my depths. As I was saying, she had close-together little eyes. A slightly hooked nose, wide mouth, sharply turned heavy lips, and fierce overbite. Extreme face. Fundamentally African, but white, really white skin. Some would say too dramatic, too keen. I wouldn’t argue, but it was an exciting face. Dark wiry hair and a fine long neck. Fine wrists and fingers. Very sensitive. Looking at her sometimes, I’d have a rush of pleasure. I’d laugh. Give her a hug. She’d say, “You like me?” Not coquettish. Curious. Really curious. She said other men reacted similarly. “Usually the blonds,” she said. She understood, but she didn’t. It upsets me to talk about her, but I’m going on and on. You know why? Because of Harold. Every time I remember another detail, I think Harold doesn’t believe me. I feel like I’m talking to a lie detector. I wanted to tell only one incident with Deborah and look, look what I’ve done. I’m producing a saga. Because of you, Harold.’
Canterbury, already stiff enough, stiffened more. I wondered if he’d been beaten as a child. He said, ‘Finish the story. Please.’
‘The story? I haven’t begun the story.’
‘It couldn’t have been so terrible as you think.’
‘It was terrible. I’m upset, really upset talking about her. You know what I’d like to do? I’d like to phone her. I have a pair of her earrings. She left them at my house one night. I should have mailed them to her long ago. I think this every day and I don’t mail them. What do you suppose it means?’
‘Nothing at all. Tell us why you’re upset,’ said Canterbury. He seemed anxious to get out of sight. ‘Is it because you didn’t marry her?’
‘It wouldn’t have lasted. I don’t know why I’m upset. Maybe it ended too suddenly. Before I was ready. Maybe I’m nervous, that’s all. The idea makes me nervous. The way relations between people fail, you’d think they get together to break apart and have something to talk about. Nothing to say about a suc
cessful relationship, is there? Who would want to listen? As for marriage, it’s a still life. Like this table of plates and glasses. Doesn’t move. You run into an old friend, you shake hands, you say, “What’s happening?” He says, “I got married last month.” Your heart sinks. Poor guy. Not only is nothing happening, but he’ll soon be miserable. “Wonderful,” you say. You’re already dying to get free of him. Not that you don’t like him, but it’s terrible to stand there lying – that is, unable to say truly what you’re doing. How you’re having six affairs, planning a trip to Rome, and you bought a new Porsche. He wants you to come to dinner. You’d love to come to dinner and meet his wife, but you can’t think when. You’ll phone him, you say. He pleads with you not to forget. You promise, but you’ll never phone. Never. You’d sooner phone the city morgue. Look, I’ll be completely honest. I can’t stand couples. I hope none of your wives ever invites me to dinner. So why am I upset? Deborah and I wouldn’t have gotten married. Neither of us really wanted it. She had too much to do. I’d just been divorced. When I woke up alone, really alone, the first time in ten years, I was in a narrow bed in the little suite for doctors at the emergency room, and I was happy. You know, I looked at white walls and I was happy. White walls, a TV set, a small cabinet, a narrow bed. It was abundancy. My clothes were in a suitcase in a closet and that’s where I wanted them to be. Later I bought a house. Ten rooms. All mine. So why am I upset? I was still seeing my former wife during the whole thing with Deborah. I talked about Nicki with her. With Nicki I talked about Deborah. If a complication arose with one, I could phone the other and discuss it. Maybe I miss Deborah. If so, what do I miss? Her face? Her legs? Other things, too. She could sing. I’m a sucker for singing women. You should see my record collection. Almost exclusively singing women, from all over the world. Every major race is represented. I remember one night after a movie, driving home, the two of us, she started to sing a blues. “Brother, can you spare a dime …” Naturally, a money blues, but I wasn’t listening to the theme. I drove slowly, hoping she wouldn’t quit singing. I had gooseflesh. I think she didn’t even know she was singing. You can love best what people have no idea about themselves. Maybe nobody ever praised her voice. She told me it was noticed, when she was a kid, that she had musical talent, but her father discouraged her from taking piano lessons. “You can play by ear,” he said, “so study mathematics, languages. Why waste money learning what you can already do?” He never praised her voice. Regarding that, she was innocent. She opened her mouth to sing. Beauty flowed out. She didn’t even know. She didn’t bring her big brain down on it. She let it happen, like a spell. As if there were two of her. One waited in silence until the other subsided. Then she sang. I had a dream about her voice, but in the dream I felt no pleasure. I remember it now. Everything connects for me now. Deborah was on the ground, on her back. I was kneeling beside her head, saying, “Deborah, tell me who to get in touch with. Hurry, hurry.” She was languid, wan-looking. A strange style for her, but in dreams you see the truth of a person. She was dying. I begged her to speak. “Tell me who to call.” She said, “Ginger, Mary, Tanya, Hortense, Helen, Nettie, Sally, Rosa, Franny …” I said, “Wait.” I took a scrap of paper from my wallet, started scribbling the names. She said, “Billie, Millie, Tillie …” Hundreds of names. I was soon writing on my flesh. I’ll say one thing. She yelled in bed. “Look, look at me.” I didn’t mind, but I was always shocked. She had a passion for publicity. No, I don’t mean that. I mean she had a desire to multiply things. Give her a dollar, she made it thousands of dollars. If she had pleasure, I doubled its value by looking. What didn’t multiply was nothing. I don’t consider myself so different. I had a wife, then a wife and a lover, then a former wife, a former lover, and Deborah. Still it wasn’t the same. Deborah had mirrors all over her apartment. Not sick mirrors, like over the bed, but little ones, big ones, round ones in corners or in the middle of a wall, so you’d always be catching sight of yourself. Also photos of herself on the walls. She wasn’t vain. She lacked some crucial evidence. As for the incident, the one thing, one little thing I meant to tell you about … I’m still ashamed of it. I’ll be brief. Harold has infected me with doubts. The more I say, the more uncertain I feel. Deborah exceeded herself in everything. I do the same, talking about her. She fixed on everything and nothing fixed her, you know what I mean?
‘We were having dinner with some doctors in San Francisco. About ten of us, including wives and girlfriends. I’d joined a gourmet society for doctors. Ordinarily, I don’t see doctors socially. They talk about their condominiums in Texas and Hawaii. Plenty of real estate is financed by malignant tumours. Ask Berliner. Maybe I joined to impress Deborah, show her doctors know food. The dessert I ordered that night was strawberries under flaming chocolate. Good as this pie almost. I was not just eating it, I was committing it to memory. Deborah noticed. She gave me looks of approval, like to say how much she enjoyed my happiness. But what does she do? Takes her fork, sticks it into my dessert – without asking permission – and hacks away a piece for herself. Many things about this woman I admired. But nobody sticks herself between my plate and my mouth. She hacked away a piece, shoves it straight into her mouth. Deep. Almost to her lungs. I was looking with disbelief.’
A look of disbelief entered Terry’s face. He held it, letting us appreciate it. His brows lifted, his mouth hung.
‘She looked back at me, rolling the piece of dessert around, a bulge in one cheek, a bulge in the other, and she is smiling as if we’re sharing this piece of delicious dessert. I felt a surge of hatred. Isn’t that terrible? It’s what I felt. All her qualities, everything about her, converged for me in this moment. This was Deborah Zeller. Her fellowships, her million dollars, her groups, her mirrors, and my food in her mouth. Well, fuck you, I thought.’
‘What did you do?’ said Paul. He listened visibly, the moment tearing at his features, hurting him. An outstanding appreciator.
Terry said, ‘Get the picture. Close-together eyes and dark wiry hair like a million bees. Her face projects from the middle of it, leaps at you. This face, these eyes, leaping at me, was eating my dessert.’
‘I get it, man. What did you do?’
‘I kicked her under the table.’
‘No shit.’
‘She yelped. She tried to wiggle back, but her chair was caught in the rug.’
‘Wow.’
‘I kicked her again. She stabbed her fork under the table at my foot. I was wearing thin Italian shoes. She could have pushed the fork right through. I got up, left the table, went home. It was the last time I saw her.’
Terry licked the tip of his index finger, pressed it down on scraps of pie at the rim of his plate, nibbled the scraps from the tip of his finger, mumbling, ‘I’m ashamed. Also guilty.’ Perspiring along the upper lip, mumbling, nibbling, he nailed down his conscience.
Kramer lifted from his slump, chuckling. ‘What a bitch. What a bitch.’
‘You know her?’ asked Terry.
‘No. Why should I know her?’
Terry shrugged and picked up his fork. ‘Maybe she was one of your clients.’
‘Yeah,’ cried Berliner. ‘Maybe you gave her some coffee.’
‘Maybe I’ll kick your ass,’ yelled Kramer, coming out of his chair, arms forward, pouring across the table through dishes and glasses to seize Berliner’s shirt front, both of them going over, dragging the table after them. Plates and bottles and bowls spilled to the floor, smashing. My plate hit my lap. I jumped up, the plate falling, smashing with the others. Kramer and Berliner grappled on the floor, grunting, twisting, rolling over each other. It looked bad. They were laughing. It still looked bad. They had wanted to kill each other. Now they were hugging on the floor. Better than killing, I’m sure, but there had been that rush across the table and their bodies toppling with the food and glass. For an instant, I had been filled with fright and violence, feelings difficult to dismiss, but they had no object, so I stood like a dolt, nothing to do but gape.
Then I noticed Terry holding his fork in the air, talking to himself. ‘I understand what upsets me,’ he said. His pie plate had been snatched away with the table. I supposed that’s what upset him. Man is what he eats, I thought irrelevantly, and, somehow, the food and wine on the floor seemed to make sense, to explain the murderous affection of Kramer and Berliner, the astounded look on Terry’s face. ‘What?’ I said, as if I were more interested in Terry’s mind than in the spectacle of Kramer and Berliner sprawled in the mess of plates, bottles, glasses, knives, forks, salmon head, chicken bones, wine. All in all, disgusting, yet happy in lights and colours, especially with the two of them laughing and hugging. Cavanaugh grinned down at them with contempt. He’d witnessed better fights, apparently. Paul tried to smile, but for him the violence was unpleasant and his smile looked sickly. Canterbury watched my eyes because I was the only one standing. He looked for what to think about this event, but I couldn’t tell him anything and I looked down at my feet, where I saw my plate in three pieces, half-moon and two jagged triangles. I wondered if they could be glued together again. Like Kramer and Berliner. No longer rolling, they lay flopped against one another, both wheezing and sweaty. I wondered if it was time for me to go home. Then Terry said, ‘I’ll phone her,’ and I realised what had upset him. Talking about Deborah, he’d begun to miss her. I said, ‘Tell her you want to return her earrings.’
‘Good idea. I’ll need some kind of opener.’ He seemed truly grateful.
‘What will you say if you get the answering machine?’
‘I won’t get it. She’s waiting for my call. I can feel it, how she’s waiting. I’m glad I talked about her. I wouldn’t have understood myself otherwise. I should call her this minute.’
‘It’s 3 a.m.,’ said Paul. ‘Give her another half hour. She might like to sleep.’
The Men's Club Page 9