But where was I? That’s more important. Because if I don’t finish this, then I wouldn’t have started anything going but this piece. I have to get back where I left off and finish that line or thought and then come to a finish in this entire piece. I was saying something about a distillate. Not that part that that word was close enough. That—that’s right—and don’t get off the subject anymore or you’ll never get back to that lost line or thought—that the twenty percent I finished a year or so ago was perhaps a distillate of the work I started—I think that was it—sure—and so finishing twenty percent of what I started was enough to make me feel that my work was going along okay. All right, that might not have made the sense I intended it to—started out to do—might not have been what I started out to say in that thought about the distillation of my work—but it’s enough. I can’t expect everything all at once if I’m going to get back to finishing my first piece in eight to nine months. Just to finish this one, that would or should be enough. It would be, and what I just said, well, something of what I intended to say must have got through. But where was I again? It was enough; finishing twenty percent was; eight to nine months ago and more. But now I can’t finish anything. No distillates. Not even one percent. If it was one percent I finished of all the work I started, would that be enough? Yes, anything—I’ll say yes to anything, I mean, just to finish this piece. So yes it would, yes it would. Because if I do finish this, well, I already said what I thought would happen. What was that? Just to remind myself what it was. Because I forgot. Maybe that’s my problem. Not only digression but forgetting what I start out to say. That’s perhaps why I can’t finish anything. Is that it? What? That I forget. Forget what? Now you’re just joking. No I’m not. What was I sayingjust now? Something about distillates. No, that was before. Then what? Something about twenty percent. One percent. That if I finish one percent, it wouldn’t be enough. I don’t think I said “wouldn’t” then, but it’s what I think now. Why? Well, it’s just not enough. Even to get started in finishing pieces? Yes. After all, think of all the work that went into that one percent. Ninety-nine percent work. Or rather, a hundred percent work, one percent finished. Is that right? I’m not sure. Figure it out mathematically. I’m not good with numbers. But it’s a simple problem. One from a hundred is ninety-nine. Still. Then what? What what? Let’s see, where was I? Something about work. No, that was from somewhere far off. Another piece perhaps. Even three pieces back, maybe four. Give it up. Maybe that’s the best idea yet.
Magna Out of Earshot
She calls and says “I just heard. It’s terrific news. Lilly just phoned and told me. I can’t tell you how happy I am.”
“Yes, I told Lilly a few days ago. I didn’t know if she’d tell you.”
“It’s just wonderful. That you could do it, and so easily. And she’s met the woman. She says she’s so intelligent and nice. I’m so happy. I know it’s what you wanted. I wish it would’ve worked for us as easily. After three years with her, and—well, it’s just beautiful. Five years with me and we still couldn’t do it, right? It was always bad timing, always that bad timing, that’s what did it. I’m sorry. But I’m glad it’s now going to finally happen for you.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“What you always wanted. Maybe we should’ve married. You wanted to so much—and the baby. You wanted that so much too. I didn’t. I couldn’t—it was absolutely the wrong time. Do I repeat myself too much?—but it was. You don’t want to have a baby when all you’re thinking about is breaking apart, right? And getting rid of the baby—well, not a baby, but it would’ve been much more than a baby by now—that was the real killer. But I’m so happy for you. Ecstatic, really. When’s it going to happen?”
“The marriage?”
“The marriage, the wedding—of course, what else?”
“We think around February. February 8th to be exact. A very small wedding. Just my brother and sisters and their spouses and my mom and Magna’s parents and her uncle and aunts.”
“Magna, that’s right.”
“Maybe her closest friend too—someone who was like a sister to her and still is—but that’s it.”
“Magna. I like it. It’s a great name. Sounds European, though that’s not why I’m saying I like it.”
“Her parents came from there. She was born here.”
“Well, that should make her a little closer to you and your family, with your background, and also the same religion Lilly says. That’s probably wise, not that we ever had any trouble that way. But I’m so happy for you. It’s just fantastic. I know I’m overdosing with the gushes here, but you don’t know how happy I am for you. I know how much marriage means to you. How much you wanted to marry me. At times I wanted to marry you too. Now I don’t think it’ll ever happen with me again—marriage. I’ve been in love all of four times, married once, I’m 41 and my last big love affair was with you which started when I was 32.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll happen again.”
“That’s nice of you to say, but I don’t think so. But I’m so glad she’s such a nice person. She must be a bit wild too, right? Because if I know us both, we couldn’t have anyone who wasn’t just a little wild. That’s what I think and there are so few wonderful and comfortably wild people around. But what are your plans after the wedding?”
“For her to continue teaching in New York, me in Baltimore, and then in May, when her contract ends—well, even if it didn’t, since my job is much better than hers—to get a two-bedroom apartment here and for her to move in with me. For us to move in together, I mean.”
“That’s wonderful. And you don’t know how much I appreciate, and Lilly does, your including her in your wedding plans. She says you invited her to it, but her winter break will be over by then, so before she goes you’re having a pre-nuptial party at Magna’s place for Lilly and your nieces and nephews.”
“We didn’t want—couldn’t have, really, all of them at the wedding. Lilly, yes, because, well, since I lived with you both, she’s a little more special than the rest. Maybe that would’ve been wrong, having her at the wedding and not the others—I’m not sure.”
“No, it’s wonderful and right. You’ve been like a second father to her. In some ways, better for her than her father. Oh, maybe you just balance him out. But I’m so lonely without her. What a change. For both of us—maybe you too. The place seems so empty. At first I’d come home and call out for her. ‘Lilly, Lilly.’ Nicky thought I was crazy.”
“Nicky?”
“Your ‘Licky Nicky’—the cat. I also called home a couple of times and wondered why there was no answer. Nuts, right? Why isn’t she home from high school? I thought. High school? She’s in college—in California—and has a serious love interest going.”
“No.”
“Yes. Don’t be upset.”
“I’m not. She’s just too young.”
“She’s not too young. She might even be a year or two behind. I’m not pushing her, of course, but I can’t be a hypocrite. I was doing it at sixteen. And by serious, I don’t know about how serious. It could still be innocent—a little hand holding, a kiss. I will be meeting him at Thanksgiving, though. I’ll be out there on business and arranged to stay a few extra days and Lilly says we’re having dinner at his apartment. He’s cooking it all himself, trimmings included.”
“He must be pretty capable then.”
“He’s nice, she says, and one of their brightest students, and I just love it that you react to it like her real father. It shows how much she means to you. And she’s really only a phone call away from us, right? So I’ve adjusted to it, but I still hate to be home alone. Hate it, but nothing I can do.”
“Come on, that won’t last long. You’re intelligent and attractive and very successful now for someone who changed her profession such a short time ago. You’ll meet someone. Some guy in your field, for instance, in New York, or when you do make these trips.”
“God no. They’re all in vests. But tig
ht vests, each trying to outdo the other to look like a high-powered exec, and they only read books and listen to music and look at art for entertainment. They tell me this. To my face. I think, Jesus, boy, they sure don’t know me. Oh, I got interested in a couple of them the last year, but after a month they get so damn boring. That’s what I mean about being a little wild. Not crazy, just loose. These men don’t say or do anything but what’s relevant to their profession or what you and I would never get seriously interested in. Football. Can you believe it? Picture me at a game—one guy took me to one. ‘Rah rah’ he wanted me to say. They think it’s unusual I don’t know anything about it—or cute, that’s the word one used, and he’s going to teach me. I’ll tell you. When I look around, and hear the same complaints from a dozen other intelligent attractive women, I realize what I had in you.”
“Gee, that’s—”
“No no, that’s no slight. You certainly weren’t perfect—I wasn’t in any way either—but at least you were devoted and faithful, a bit tortured sometimes, but you would have been okay. You would have been very nice to come home to after work. You were always sweet and concerned or mostly always. You cooked. You were clean. You had some humor and were a lot deeper and not pretentious and cold like these men. I suppose I should have stayed with you, but that awful bad timing always messedit up, right? It killed us. I was just coming out of a bad ten-year marriage, you were coming out of about five years of complete loneliness. All wrong. Too bad. Because I wish it had worked. It would have if I had let it I suppose. But I couldn’t have, so it’s not as if I mind now. And I’m thrilled the way it worked out for you. You’re happy now, and you have what you always said you wanted most.”
“In my personal life, yes—I’m very happy. She’s very nice.”
“She must be. You wouldn’t choose anyone else but someone extremely bright and wonderful, and someone like that would only choose someone like you.”
“Thanks, but that’s not quite exact. If anyone, you know that. I’ve been impossible with some women and some haven’t been too easy on me. I don’t mean you. That was something different.”
“How so?”
“Well, I mean, I was with you longer than with anyone I’ve known, and I was really in love with you and it was really reciprocated, so we had everything: good, great, indifferent and bad.”
“That’s what I meant, really. That when you finally choose someone permanent, it’d be, and same with her, like the way I said.”
“Then I guess I’d agree.”
“Terrific. We got that settled. So, and not because this is long distance—I’ve a company card for that—it’s been nice talking to you, Will. It’s actually been great. It made my day, when Lilly told me the news. Married, she said—can I believe it? Nobody—at your age—thought you ever would. And she loves Magna. Pretty and gentle and intelligent, etcetera, she said about her. I love it. Love everything about it. That you’ve been so kind and attentive to Lilly since we broke up I love most of all. You changed her way of looking at men, probably forever. She’ll know that one day. You did it by continuing to see her and love her as a friend, rather than till you stopped living with us, and putting her in your plans. That they have—men do—this other side to them—the female side—or can have it—or maybe they always do, but you just didn’t suppress it—so you made her see them as more complete people and with a stabler eye. That doesn’t make sense. As stabler, thoughtful, gentle creatures I mean, and rounder, more complete. I mean—oh—I love you. Marry me.”
“Uh, what?”
“Oh Jesus, I said it. ‘I love you. Marry me.’ I said it. But I mean it. This week. And you heard me. Don’t make it worse for me—harder. Do you think you can do it? Because I swear, I swear, it’ll work out. I’ll give you a child.”
“Now wait wait wait—”
“I’m older than Magna but I can still have a child. I’ve been tested, and I want one more in the worst way. I’ll be a great mother. You’ve seen me be one. And I’ll be much better with you than I was even in our best moments. I’ll honor us always.”
“Linda—hold on—listen to me.”
“A loving wife. I mean, within reason of course. Meaning, if we love one another it’ll be as near to perfect as a marriage can be. I’ll see to it. I’ll work as hard as I ever worked on anything for that. And I’d never forget what you were giving up, nor ever gloat over it. So marry me. Run away with me even. Tonight even. I mean it. Could you? Will you? And I’m not pulling your leg. And running away isn’t—aren’t the words I want to use. I can fly or train to Baltimore or you can come to New York, and if not tonight then sometime this week.”
“No I can’t. Thank you though for asking. Listen, how do I answer this?—but it wouldn’t be right. And I am—I’m very satisfied with Magna. Honestly.”
“Too bad. I just thought—well, just too bad. I gave it a shot. I wanted it to. It was on my mind. I still do. I’d still love for you to say yes, you’ll marry me. You know everything could be good. I’d be everything to you, which isn’t to say Magna isn’t now. And what else? Just that I love you, and it’s not just some craziness in my head that I do, and I can’t bear to think I’m going to be alone.”
“You won’t be for long. You’re really wonderful—truly so. You have everything.”
“I’m 41.”
“And I’m 46. And a man, so the age difference, I know—but so what? But whatever. I can’t. You understand. And if I’m flubbing in what I’m trying to say, it’s not my fault. I love you and did then when we were together as much as I love Magna now. I mean I love her as much now as I loved you then, and I still think the world of you. But Magna and I are working—together, we’re just together, very close—you know, and getting married.”
“Of course. I just thought you might go for it. No, that sounds too flippant. I just meant it, period. And if you had gone for it, I would have done whatever you wanted. Given up my job. I still would if you’d go for it. I’d go wherever you wanted. That’s a lot different an attitude than I had before.”
“It is, but please. We’ll get together when Lilly comes in. She is coming around Christmas time you said. She said so too.”
“Yes. That’ll be nice. We’ll have dinner. You’re not mad at me that I asked?”
“No. But it’s—well, you know.”
“It’s something you might have done, but about ten years ago, right?”
“Six, seven even. I guess. Yes. It is. Maybe.”
“Oh, I could kick myself that we didn’t work out. For all I know, maybe the timing wasn’t as bad as I thought then and as you said it wasn’t. I can be such a fool.”
“No, you were terrific then. I loved you and all that and you were right. It wasn’t the right time. It never would have worked.”
“Then why’d you think it would?”
“I was wrong.”
“When I got pregnant it would have. You wanted the baby so much. I should have had it. First of all, it would have been closer in age to Lilly and safer to deliver. And after a year, I still would have been able to do what I’ve done by now, or maybe just be a year behind. I can kick myself, kick myself. You were such a lovey aboutit. Terrible about other things sometimes, but never horrible. Just temperamental, but you would have become what you are now, mellowed, and maybe even quicker than it took you without the baby and me. And combining that with your overall loveiness, it would have been perfect. I’m sure of it.”
“Probably. I’m sorry. And I’m still fairly terrible at times. Honestly, it isn’t so easy for Magna, though it is easier than it was for you. It’ll be the same for you with someone else. Next man you land—that’ll be the best one.”
“I hope you’re right. But one more last chance? You won’t run away with me? I won’t ask you again.”
“Wish I could but I can’t.”
“Now you’re being just cutesy.”
“Then no, I really can’t, Linda. I’m getting married in two months, but your offe
r was certainly attractive.”
“Now you’re being charming.”
“Then I just can’t—what do you want me to say?—I just can’t. I love Magna too much. And I can’t just drop her—what the hell you think I am? And we want to have a kid. We want to do a lot of things. I’m deeply, deeply in love with her, and your invitation, if I’m supposed to take it seriously, is plain ridiculous, did you know? And if I’m not supposed to take it seriously, well, I don’t know. It’s either silly or not thought out or maybe even vindictive, but it’s something that sure the hell surprises me coming from you.”
Friends Page 7