Janine. Meets her at a New Year’s Eve party. His brother invited him to it but said not to get there too early: “That way they won’t think I invited everybody I know.” Gone to a movie with friends, drink and a hamburger after with them, they left for home to get there before the real street reveling began and he walked uptown for half an hour, stopped at a bar for a beer and then took a cab to the party and was in it when twelve came. “Happy New Year,” the driver said when lots of horns and shouting went off around them. “You too. May it be a great one for you.” Seated on a couch, legs crossed showing short muscular calves, seams running down the stockings. Who wears seams? Doesn’t like them, make her legs look cheap. Holding a mug of something, coffee or tea, because it’s smoking. Blond hair put up in what she later says is a chignon, animated pretty face laughing at something a woman in the chair nearest her says, catches him looking at her, he smiles and bows his head, she smiles back and turns to the woman. He walked into this reading or sitting or television room, since in addition to walls of books and lots of sitting furniture there’s also a TV, looking for something to do or someone to talk to, foremost an attractive free woman, when he saw her, no men around, in a seated circle of several woman. He’ll look at her till she looks at him again. If she seems interested, by her look, he’ll smile and leave the room and make his move later. She doesn’t seem interested—no smile back, a look of “So what seems so interesting?”—he’ll still make his move later but less confidently. Other women are discussing a movie, she looks at him, raises her eyebrows as if saying “Something you want to say?” he smiles, she smiles back and then looks at her mug as if contemplating something inside it. Maybe the way the smoke twirls, milk in the coffee curls. He looks at his glass—what could she be thinking? that he make his move now?—it’s half full but he holds it up and nods as if it needs refilling and leaves the room without looking at her again. Finds his brother; he can’t even place the woman by Howard’s description. “Actually, beautiful, little pug nose, sort of dirty blond kind of wiry hair up in a twisted pile in back, tweed skirt, I forget what color blouse or there might be a sweater over the blouse, seamed stockings, very lively face and plenty of hand motions, with not noticeably large breasts and seems a tiny waist. She could be a dancer.” Looks around for her. While admiring the paintings in the living room of larger-than-life-sized nudes, the host says behind him “Something, huh? And they were done by my mother. It’s an amazing story. She’s only at the League for a year, took up painting for recreation after my dad died, never held a brush other than a scrub or tooth one, and look at what she can now produce: paintings that are both art and can give you a hard-on. The change in her, like her art, came almost overnight. Now she only wears dungarees and smocks, paints all day, dreams of painting and paintings all night, haunts the art museums weekends when she never went to any but Natural History and Historical Society before and only because they were around the block, and thinks of herself as a serious artist with a so-far unclear mission and her teacher’s even thinking of solo-exhibiting her.” Still can’t find her so he goes back to the sitting room, she’s on the couch, now in a corner of it because two other women have sat down, legs crossed same way, seams don’t seem as bad, big knees, hairy thighs, bulging calves, sees them squeezing him and his breath puffing out, shuts his eyes and shakes the thought off, she doesn’t look at him, at least when his eyes are open, and he leaves. If she had looked he would have gestured with his head to the door and then left. If she didn’t come out in a minute or so he would have made another move, though he doesn’t know what, some time later. Fifteen minutes later, after looking though the apartment for her, he heads for the sitting room to talk with her if she’s there and not occupied or gesture with his head if she’s busy, and sees her standing outside the sitting room talking to a man. Now or you’ll never, and he says hello to her, hi to him, gives his name, “How are you, Happy New Year,” and puts out his hand and shakes theirs. “I don’t mean to be forward but I suddenly felt like talking to someone, and it’s not out of mania or drink, so I thought I’d barge in on you two. Kind of awkward and awful, but do you mind?” She smiles as if what he’s doing is funny, man’s about to say something serious when he says “Don’t worry, I’ll be quiet, I’ll just listen, won’t contribute till my not contributing makes you nervous or I’m asked or obliged to speak.” “No no, the man says, “please talk. Our conversation isn’t really anything we can’t continue next time we meet, since we’re in the same class once a week.” He asks and their names are Willie and Janine. Asks and it’s an acting class. Asks and it’s run by a well-known director in a couple of rooms in a dingy Broadway office building, but strictly for professionals. Asks and several prominent actors are in it. The most famous one sits in back in the dark in sunglasses and a fifty-thousand-dollar schmink, but is as sweet as can be. Want to hear a funny story? Janine’s heard it from the source so don’t cut in with the punchline. “One of the actors gets a call from her last week. She says hi, gives her first name and wants to do a scene with him. He doesn’t know who she is, some older woman he recently met while bartending and who’s making a play for him?—no pun intended and the actor said it with a straight face, showing how dumb he is. She wouldn’t give her last name, didn’t want to unnerve him I guess, just kept saying ‘This is Marilyn, Marilyn,’ and finally ‘You know, from class,’ and that they were all asked to pick a partner and do a scene for the class, weren’t they? They’re rehearsing it now. She serves him hot cocoa, it’s all very nice and he says she’s got talents up her ass.” Asks and he’s been in stock, on daytime TV, off-Broadway and some movie bits, while Janine here was on Broadway in a major role up to a month ago. Two months, she says. Asks and she says and he says he never liked that playwright’s work, though he hasn’t seen this play. Too traditional, homespun, unadventurous, with half the scenes around the kitchen or dining room table and half of those when the characters are in bathrobes getting ready for or having just got out of bed. There was a bathrobe scene in her play, she says, and her best scene too, but midway upstairs. “Oh boy you just blew it,” Willie says, slaps his back, laughs, goes. Was there a signal between them? Looks to see and she seems annoyed, no doubt by his comments, apologizes, she says it’s OK and he’s probably a writer or wants to be one, and he says he’s been doing little fictions and short plays but how’d she know? Because they’re usually trying to negate a skillful older writer’s work or just shoveling it into the grave. Asks and her father writes plays and television scripts and he even gets hate mail from young playwrights starting out or about to, damning the little success he’s had, belittling what he’s still very hard doing, praising only the not-written new. Apologizes and she says let’s forget it but still looks angry. He did blow it. What could he do to make up for it? Mind, face, body, glamorous life, artistic father, probably her own apartment, says what she thinks, would love being close with her when that anger’s for someone else. Says half his literary judgments are dumb and uninformed and he’ll never shoot from the hip like that again. She says why’s he making such promises to her? She’s still angry. Afraid she’ll say it’s been nice talking to you but she’s got to go. Asks and the mug only held tea because she has a cold and sore throat and what she really needed was honey in it which the host has but couldn’t find. Wait and comes back with no tea because he couldn’t find the honey when he thought he could but does have two aspirins and water if she needs. So kind and he says misguided overconfidence and he liked the way she was protective of her pa, not many people are. Suggests and they go out for sandwiches and tea with honey for her, she puts her arm around his on the way back, she’s cold, didn’t dress warmly enough tonight, but it still means something. Asks, if she doesn’t mind, is surprised to find she’s nine months younger than he, thought she was twenty-five. Looks that old? and says it’s because of her maturity and range of experiences so he thought she was a very young looking twenty-five. Tries kissing her at the door, not that she wouldn
’t like to but someone might come out of the elevator or party, leads her around to where he thinks the service entrance is where they kiss, sit on the service steps and hold hands, stare into each other’s eyes dreamily, hug, help each other off with their coats, stare, kiss, hug, kisses her hands, starts crying, says he loves her, isn’t that crazy-stupid? and something never to be said so soon, she touches his tears, guesses she feels the same about him too, bizarre the way it started out or right after that went down and then so quickly changed. When? and she says when he told her to wait for she didn’t know what and brought back aspirins and water. Wants to go home with her, she says someone brought her, anyway it wouldn’t be a good idea, just a good friend who knows the host and lives a block from her and who’ll be disappointed if he has to subway home alone. She giving him a line? Not something to ask. Could say it’s because he loves her he’s asking if she sleeps with this guy, she still might get offended and give up on him as fast as she got close. Here, take my sweater, when she’s going, but she says she’ll survive. Then his scarf, it’s warmer than hers and that way he’ll know she’ll have to see him again to give it back, says she can always mail it but of course she’ll see him, not tomorrow because she has scene run-throughs for class all day and things like that but the next night. Dinner at her apartment. Opens the door wearing an apron and lobster oven mitt she pretends to bite his nose with, framed impish photo of Churchill on her kitchen wall, Picasso boy with horse repro he doesn’t tell her he dislikes above the couch, lots of poetry books, cookbooks, Nancy Drews and how to raise dogs, carnation soap smell from the bathroom though has to ask what it is, family photos all around, parents and siblings very handsome and animated then and now, louvered doors to the kitchen—louver, new word he learns—brought wine and napoleans—napoleans, she’s always heard but never saw or had them—slips her hands into his back pockets when they kiss, holds his palm up when they’re standing and rests her thigh on it, his look what’re you doing? and says that’s what Harpo always does, hasn’t he seen their films? lets him sleep with her if he promises not to try to have sex, sleeps in what were then called baby dolls, he in pajamas too large her brother left when he slept over, later finds the same line in a recent play he reads from her bookshelf where the pajamas were the character’s ex-lover’s, sees her breasts through the baby dolls, says if he continues to peek she’ll sleep with a bra underneath, her behind and a little trickle of pubic hair when she turns her back to him next day to dress, lets him hold but not rub her breasts in bed the third night, week to the day they first went to bed she says she’s putting in her diaphragm, is it OK? he says he knows what that means, she doesn’t want to have his baby, she says what in the world does he mean? holds her through the night, she says almost every man she’s known has turned his back on her right after and slept by himself on his side of the bed and usually even after the first time they made love, remembers to fall asleep holding her every night even when he wants to curl up alone, she says they’ve had sex at least once a day for two weeks so tonight could he give her poor poopie a rest? After they say goodbye outside they keep looking back to wave and blow kisses, sometimes from more than a block apart, two abortions with a young playwright she wanted to marry or not marry but have kids with but he dropped her, that’s why she left the play and was taken aback by his remark that first time, came pretty close to killing herself with poison over a much older actor two years ago, which was when she first thought of giving up the stage for something less frenetic and more cerebral, slit her wrists very slightly over a play director three years back, such a dumb profession where they’re all only amateur therapists for the characters they play, wants to sculpt, pot, perhaps write poetry, learn Russian, German and French so she can read all their nineteenth-century literature, holds her tight when she spills all this, says he’ll never drop or hurt her for what could ever stop him from wanting to be with her and making her happy forever, says same with her but they’re probably a couple of naifs and they cry, kiss, hug and make so much love that night that next day they both ache. Two months after they meet he can’t reach her. Said goodbye to her at her door, tried calling her that night, phone doesn’t answer for days. Calls her folks and they haven’t heard from her in a week but say don’t worry as they’re sure she’s OK. Her friends have no idea. Tries letting himself into her place with the key she gave him but the cylinder’s been changed. Something’s up but doesn’t know what. A guy probably but who could it be and when that she could have hidden it from him, so it’s not possible. Waits in front of her acting class day she has it and she doesn’t show. Calls the school next week saying he’s from a flower store with a delivery for her and what day will she be in since she wasn’t there last week to receive it and the receptionist says last week she was away but she notified them she’ll be there today. Sees her leaving the building laughing and then putting her arm around the waist of the actor she said she used to date between the two men she nearly killed herself over but found him too rigid and Christian-religious so it could never have gotten serious and broke it off. Everything in him goes cold and drops. Wants to run away without them seeing him, get drunk in a bar and write her the bitterest letter he can and send it care of the acting school’s address. But talk to her. Maybe it’s just friendship with this guy, like actors are always behaving, so affectionate and full of bullshit, and the lock and not being in touch with him and all that is something she can completely explain. Lincoln sees him crossing Broadway to them and pushes her behind him and grabs her hand. “So I was right,” Howard says. “To myself I mean. I mean between you two, I can’t believe it. I hate saying the obvious, Janine, but I should have known—at least that you were screwing me good by keeping me on the hook and making me miserable while fucking some other guy.” “Listen, Howard,” Lincoln says, “you want to get it out, you probably have every right to, but it’s not what you think at all. I don’t know if she told you, but Janine and I used to see one another—” “You saying you now don’t?” “No, we’re together again, that’s obvious as you said, but much closer than before, I’m afraid, and we wanted to tell you—” “What about her telling me?—How come you didn’t? Come on, get out from behind him and speak to me, don’t I deserve it?” “Of course you do,” coming out from behind Lincoln and letting go of his hand. He tries grabbing it back but she cups her hands. “I’m sorry, very sorry, there’s no excuse for the way I handled it with you.” “She was wrong, Lincoln says. “She knows it, she admits it, I asked her to talk to you and she didn’t know quite how to and I didn’t want to do it for her, but I swear she was getting around to it and has felt rotten over it from the start.” “Who cares what you have to say? I want her to speak—Tell me, was the whole fucking thing with me an act? Were you acting for two months or only the last month or two weeks or what?” “That’s not really a question, and I wasn’t,” she says. “Acting at the party I met you at with your stupid headache or whatever it was? Acting when you told me what a madwoman you once were but how with me everything changed?” “No, really no. I was serious. You were wonderful. But something just happened.” “With what? Him you mean? When? How could it have? I was seeing you almost every day, fucking you just about every night.” She shuts her eyes, seems to grit her teeth. “Don’t get coarse,” Lincoln says. “We understand how you feel, and your anger, but if you want to talk reasonably we can all go to a coffee shop and do it there.” “I don’t want to go to one,” she says. “OK, we won’t, but I don’t know how good an idea it is to have it out here. It isn’t a good idea, Howard.” “So it wasn’t an act with me, you’re saying?” “No, never, but let’s stop this on the street as Lincoln said. Now that we started talking, I’ll phone you and we’ll meet for a chat or talk on the phone about it some other time.” “But it’s all over, right?” “You’re saying—wait, us two?” “Us, yes, That that’s it, we’re finished, done, ‘Goodbye, Howard, you big fool, you stupid chump, you haven’t a chance now and I won’t say it but I don’t
give a shit what happens to you after this’?” “That’s not it, and I’m sorry, deeply, but I don’t know what else I can say.” “Honestly, Howard, we should stop this,” Lincoln says. “You want me to start putting on the act like you, Janine? To say it’s all OK, easy come, go, good luck and all that crap and just walk away whistling so you’ll feel better?” “No. And I truly do wish there was something I could do about it but I can’t.” “You can marry me. I want you to marry me and for you to have my babies. I always did. Do that, please.” “I can’t. I’m in fact actually marrying Lincoln, if you have to know.” “What are you, kidding? You know him two weeks and a short while before a few years ago or whenever and you’re getting married? Or maybe I did get it all wrong. That you were banging him for the two months I knew you. Saying ‘I love you deeply, Howard,’ and then turning around and saying ‘But I love you even more’ to him.” “No. No—Lincoln, really,” as if they have to go and he should lead the way, she can’t, she’s about to get sick or faint or start screaming at Howard or just start screaming and he takes her hand, puts his arm around her shoulder and they head downtown. “Where you going? You running away? Can’t take the fucking thing? It’ll last a week with him, a day. A year, let’s say. One great year, you rotten slut. Then who you going to act that you love next? What new putz?” Lincoln stops—that’s what he wanted, them to stop—and starts back. “Lincoln, no,” she says. “Now take it easy, Howard. I’m telling you, you’re going too far and you’re also being ridiculously unfair.” “You’re a witch,” he says over Lincoln’s shoulder. “I hate your guts, his guts, the fucking sidewalk you’re on and phony fake school you go to—I hate you all.” She’s crying. “Go on, cry,” moving around Lincoln to talk, who moves with him so he doesn’t get right up to her probably. “Cry your baloney-living life out. And forget chatting. Oh chats, oh chats! No chats, calls, nothing. I never want to hear your ugly voice again.” “You really don’t have to act like this,” Lincoln says. “Believe me, you’re going to regret it later, but seriously.” “You didn’t have to see her. You knew she was seeing me and how I felt about her. Don’t talk about natural forces either. You could have stayed away or waited till she dropped me if she did and then moved your big prick in.” “That’s not how it happened. Anyway, I’m sorry too as to the affect on you and I’ve said so and you simply have to believe me,” and puts his hand on Howard’s shoulders and for a few seconds rubs it. The director leaves the building with the famous actress and a few students, says “That the guy you told me to watch out for, Lincoln? What’s he, drunk? coked up? Emily said she saw it from the window and is up there looking at us now, so if you want me I’ll signal her to call the cops.” “No, he’ll be OK. He’s just a nice guy in a tough spot.” “Oh Jesus,” Howard shouts. “Everybody,” looking at Janine, “isn’t Lincoln beautiful? Isn’t he just wunderbar great? What a heart he’s got, what a soul. I think we should all applaud him—come on, everybody, applaud,” and claps. “I’d step away, Lincoln,” the director says, with a hand wave getting one of the students to put the actress in a cab. “One swing from him and hell spoil your gorgeous nose.” “No, I’m fine,” and puts his hands back on Howard’s shoulders and digs his fingers in and starts massaging them and Janine comes up and holds Howard’s hand and looks at him and smiles. “Fuck it, I give up on you,” and pulls away and runs downtown, could make a right at the side street and disappear but runs across Broadway so they’ll see him and down into a subway station. Gets drunk at a bar soon after and calls Lincoln’s apartment from it. She answers and he says “It’s me, don’t hang up, I can’t live without you, piesie, I can’t,” and starts crying. “I’m sorry, Howard, I’m really very sorry. I told you why. So please don’t call again. Then, if you still want, we can meet in about two weeks. Send a letter to my old address. I’m still collecting mail there or I have someone pick it up almost every day and I’ll phone you and we’ll meet and talk some more. Now I’m putting the receiver down, sweetie, and please, for both of us, do what I say,” and he slams the receiver down before she hangs up. Tells himself not to but calls several times later and line’s always busy. Gives up his modeling job at the League because he can’t pose for twenty-minute stretches without going crazy thinking of her. Can’t read or write or paint or draw or do any of the things he once liked to. Goes to movies, leaves after about fifteen minutes; museums, hoping he’ll bump into her and she’ll see how sad he is and one thing will lead to another and they’ll start up again. Every time the phone rings at home he thinks it might be her saying she wants to see him, at least speak to him to see how he’s doing, even that she loves him and didn’t know how much till now, or just that she wants to explain some things she didn’t so they can part as good friends. Calls in a week, Lincoln answers and says he doesn’t think it’s the right time just yet for him to speak to Janine and to understand he’s upsetting her every time he calls and try not to again for a while. “But she told me to call her,” and Lincoln says “If she said that then she’s changed her mind.” “Let her tell me that,” and Lincoln says “She asked me to speak for her,” and he says “How do I know you’re not talking for her without her permission and that she might want to speak to me but doesn’t have the chance to decide yes or no on it because you’re not telling her I’m here?” and Lincoln says “You’ll have to take my word, there’s no other way.” “Well, let’s say it’s so, how long’s a while when you said not to call again before that?” and Lincoln says “Few months, possibly more. I won’t spin out the reasons why it should be that long. And I also hate doing what I’m about to, Howard, since I actually like you and can appreciate your passion and I know this hostility is only anomalous behavior on your part, but I’ve got to go so I’ll have to cut off,” and hangs up. Anomalous. Would look it up but can’t even stand these days opening a dictionary. Calls a few hours later hoping she’ll answer. Lincoln does and Howard says “Listen, I’m sure she’ll speak to me if you tell her I’m here and absolutely calm and peaceful and it’ll only be for a few seconds and nothing nasty,” and Lincoln says “Believe what you want on that, Howard—believe anything, if it makes you feel better, because all that can be helpful in a way—but I swear to you, it’s not true,” and he says “What isn’t?” and Lincoln says “What you said, what you asked,” and he says “I forget what that was,” and thinks He’s probably right, it’s probably so, I can understand why she wouldn’t, and says “you still there?” and Lincoln says “Still here,” and says “Anything more you have to say?” and Lincoln says “Nope, you?” and he wants to curse him out and say the whole situation stinks and he still feels Lincoln’s a pig but thinks maybe the moderate approach will help, for once he won’t act on his first impulse, and Lincoln will go back to her and say “He seemed so polite, reasonable, pleasant, well adjusted the last time we spoke,” and she might then think she can talk to him again and might even think better than that in his favor, that he was distraught before but for good reason, and also passionate, as Lincoln said, which she might like if Lincoln isn’t, but now he’s mature and congenial, gracious and calm, and says “So, nice talking to you, Lincoln, and thanks so much for your attitude through all this, and I mean it,” and Lincoln says “Good,” as if he doesn’t believe it, and he says “You know that I’m being serious now. I don’t know anyone who would have had the character, if you don’t object to my saying this, to handle the whole thing the way you did. And best to Janine and much happiness to you both,” and Lincoln says “I’ll convey it,” and hangs up. Few days later he waits across Broadway, sees them leaving the school, they don’t see him and don’t seem to be looking around for him, nobody at the second-floor window, ducks behind a parked car, looks through its windows at them, both with serious faces on, angry or peeved at something, maybe at each other or how they performed in a scene today or expressions that might seem like anger but are apprehension or alarm he might be around—he is seeing them from a distance and through two windows—holding hands, cross th
e avenue at the corner, he moves around the car as they get nearer the sidewalk till he’s in front of the hood looking around it, follows them though he thinks he knows where they’re going, they go where he thought, down the uptown IRT station, no doubt for Lincoln’s place. Drinks a lot in a bar for a couple of hours, same subway station uptown, pictures where they stood, sat, stands in front of Lincoln’s building, six stories, rundown, mangled garbage cans in front with no lids, first-floor apartment windows with gates across and towels on top of the lower windows’ upper sashes to keep out the cold, vestibule has that dead roach or insecticide smell, never been able to identify it but most of the old tenements have it, maybe just mildew or wall rot, one of the mailbox doors ripped off and another almost twisted in half, first-floor hallway, through the frontdoor window, dirty, needing painting bad. So cheap rent probably, romantic little rooms he bets and which she’ll give her special touch, roaches around and maybe mice but so what? Just bang them with paper or your hands or feet and the mice with a broom and make love under lots of covers, because probably insufficient heat. Get a cheap heater, sit by it while you work and stick it by the bed on her side or in the bathroom when you go to sleep. Lincoln’s name on the bell roster and in the mailbox, 4C. Doesn’t know if it’s the front or rear. Her name taped above the regular name space in the mailbox but not on the roster. Goes outside and looks up at the fourth-floor windows. Shades up in two, down in the three others, lights on in all but never sees anyone. Gives up in an hour. Cold out, some people passing on the sidestreet look at him as if he’s about to commit a crime. Calls up friends of hers who seemed to like him. Several say what can he do? She’s in love, getting married soon, best thing is to accept it or forget her. One invites him for coffee. Lincoln’s been a Christian Scientist since he was a kid, he’s told. Janine used to be one when she was a girl, and her mother still practices it sometimes. Lincoln brought her back into the church. She’s given up alcohol, little she drank, does the Mary Baker Eddy and Bible exercises every day, is already distributing old Monitors and religious magazines and leaflets to barbershops and places like that. She’s never been happier or healthier. She not only says it but looks it. She’s even given up coffee and regular tea. They’ve visited the mother church in Boston twice since they got together and for their honeymoon they’re flying to Paris to see avant-garde plays for a week—Lincoln speaks fluent French—and then to study there for a month with what she guesses could be called a Christian Scientist guru. Lincoln’s bought an Italian motor scooter and they zip around town on it like a couple of kids and they both got jobs on the same soap for this fall. The wedding date and place are a secret except to their guests, this woman says, “presumably to keep it from you and another of her past suitors. She certainly knocked off a few.” Calls her at Lincoln’s, she answers and he says “So how are you?” and she says “I’m fine, what do you want?” and he says “Oh God, gruff voice, I thought you said you wanted to talk to me in a couple of weeks,” and she says “Lincoln explained it to you once; that should be enough,” and he says “Please don’t ride on motor scooters; they’re dangerous. Oil slick comes, it’ll skid and you’ll crash or fall off. Get a helmet at least,” and she says “You’re probably right about the helmet; I’ll get one for Lincoln too.” “And you gave up coffee and tea that has caffeine, I heard. You used to love coffee, made the best I ever had. Ground it fresh every morning, mixed it with whatever you mixed it with—chicory, sometimes two different beans.” “It became a fetish. And it’s a stimulant. I happen to love herbal teas or vegetable broth first thing in the morning, at least as much.” “Good, all that makes you feel better, live longer, you don’t need doctors anymore, but he’s twelve years older than you, someone said.” “So what? I wasn’t hiding it.” “But when you’re twenty-eight, he’ll be forty. Thirty-eight, he’ll be fifty, and so on. By comparison to you, he already looks old.” “He looks as young and is probably in twice the physical shape you or any man your age is, including professional athletes. He never drank, smoke, did anything to poison his body, and because his principal theatrical interest is mime, just practicing it hours a day keeps him incredibly fit. He can stand upside down on a single finger and then walk on two—you know what it takes to do that? As for his mind, it’s clear, imaginative, and youthful as they come.” “Religion is the last refuge of a dumbbell or whatever someone once said. Who needs to bow? Who needs to pray? Like a bunch of beggars the way they hand around that dumb money tray. And who needs to read some wacko whose hip bones stitched naturally after a break but starts up her own religion from it.” “You haven’t read her. We don’t bow. Other than for what we think are its practical benefits, praying can be like meditation, which you loftily once said you thought there could be some value to and you might want to try. You ought to witness a Science testimonial some Wednesday afternoon or night at any of the churches around town or go to a Sunday service. Everyone’s lovingly invited, even tourists, and you’ll see we’re not robots and there are no ministers. It’s entirely run by laymen and women, services and church. I could lead a service if I wanted to and knew enough.” “You’ve been brainwashed. Your mind’s hanging out to dry and is getting bleached by the sun and holes in it from the wind.” “I knew you’d get around to that business eventually. Insults and ignorance. We’ve seen it before. Please don’t call again, Howard. You were once sweet and caring but you’re now a headache. Right after this I’m having our phone disconnected,” and hangs up. Calls back a few minutes later to apologize and the phone’s busy. Calls the next day and it’s busy and day after that the number’s been changed and new one’s unlisted. It’s an emergency, he tells the operator and she says “Not even for emergencies it says.” Writes her letters, apologizes in them, says he was feeling crazy and depressed before, so because of it bitter and unloving, but he’s now over it, pleads for her to meet him so he can ask her forgiveness in person, but they’re never answered or sent back. Wants to get away from her, hitch and train around the country, have adventures, more experiences, meet lots of women, work at various places to make money to continue traveling. Goes to D. C. to say goodbye to his oldest brother. In an elevator at the Press Club an acquaintance of Jerry’s steps in, they’re introduced, says “He the brother who wants to be a writer?” “Both,” Jerry says, “but the older one’s actually getting published.” Remembers Jerry telling him Howard worked as a copyboy at CBS when he was in college, wonders if he’d like to fill in for a vacationing reporter for three weeks. Does, stays for two years. Year after he has the job he gets Lincoln’s number from Information. Calls a few times over the next months. Lincoln always answers and Howard always hangs up. Once though he says in a muffled fake voice “Hello, this is Balicoff Studios in Los Angeles, is Miss Austin in?” “Hold on, please,” and in the background Lincoln says “It’s fantasyland; what do they want?” and she gets on and says “Janine Austin speaking,” and he says nothing and she says “Hello, what studio in L. A., my husband wasn’t able to catch it so fast?” and says nothing and she says “Have we been cut off? Could you speak louder, if you’re speaking, or do you want to call back? Yell yes and I’ll hang up.” Nothing and she says “I think I hear someone there; is anyone there?” and waits a few seconds and says “Oh well, if it is some studio, try to call back, thanks,” and hangs up. She sounded the same, maybe a little artificial because she thought it was an important professional call. Pictured Lincoln seated beside her on the bed, holding her hand, ear near the receiver. Then them both waiting for the studio to call back and after a half hour or so dialing California information for Balicoff Studios or any name sounding like that, and then realizing it was a prank and maybe even Howard calling, or maybe they realized it right after she hung up or Lincoln realized it before, or there could be a new guy carried away by her and they thought it might be him. Calls her folks a couple of weeks later when he’s drunk and depressed and says “Howard Tetch, you remember me,” and her father says “Sure,” and says “How’s J
anine?” and he says “Fine,” and says “Good, any other news about her?” and he says “None we know of—take care of yourself, Howard, nice speaking to you,” and says “That’s great, and nice talking to you too, sir.” Wrong thing to do, thinks next morning. They’ll tell her, they’ll all say how immature he still is and doesn’t he realize how disturbing it is getting a drunken late-evening call like that? Writes her folks an apology, saying he’d gone to a party, too much to drink, got sloppily sentimental—doesn’t know why, Janine hasn’t been on his mind for a year—it’ll never be repeated, wishes them well, doesn’t hear back from them. He and another reporter quit their jobs to form their own radio news service, running it out of the radio-TV gallery in the Capitol. Month after they start it his partner has a stroke, partially paralyzed and can’t type or speak on the air anymore and Howard can’t run it alone or bring in anyone else as his partner was the brains behind it. Could go back to his old job but returns to New York permanently because just around then the freighter his brother Alex was on disappeared in the Atlantic and he thinks he should be near his sister and folks. Moves in with them, job, calls up one of Janine’s best friends, doesn’t mention her name but hopes she and her husband will and tell him something about her. They’ve heard him on radio several times, seen him on TV asking questions at the political conventions and of visiting dignitaries like Khrushchev and Macmillan and Mrs. Roosevelt at Washington airports and in the Capitol and such and once on a panel show on some news subject, glad he’s found something he likes doing and is good at and he says he doesn’t much like it, still wants to write and actually gets some lines down now and then. They invite him for dinner, wonder if they should invite Janine. “Why,” he says casually, “she still in the city?” “You didn’t know? You’re some reporter. They got divorced. Incompatible. Nothing brutal. Simply couldn’t live with each other after a while. Maybe it was sex, or with actors, more likely ego. And more with Lincoln than her, because she was never much that way, was she?” “Ego? No, not that I saw.” “She’s still very involved with Christian Science and they see each other at the same Sunday church service sometimes, but that’s all. She got a Mexican quickie. So you wouldn’t mind?” “Me? It’d be nice seeing her again, if she can stand being in the same room with me.” “And why wouldn’t she? She once told me she understood why you did what you did, though at the time found it unbearable, but harbors no ill feelings.” Goes to their apartment, hopes she’s been invited and comes, brings a good bottle of wine, expensive pastries, combed his hair this way and that to try to cover his growing baldness, tie? no tie, but shine your shoes, tried ironing his pants but his mother took over: “You’re too nervous. Men can never do it right anyway unless they worked in a cleaner’s. Where you going?” and when she hears Janine might be there: “Too bad about her divorce. I always liked that girl. Real lively, but how you let her get to you I never approved. Never be a fall guy. Sensitivity’s fine, but make the women come to you. Remember what everyone knows and has told me: with your looks and brains you could have almost anyone. Give her our best.” It’s winter, old snow on the ground, sees her wet boots on the doormat. His pulse; number of other physical reactions which were also with him during his twenty-block walk here. She answers, big bright smile and loud hi as she used to open the door with when things were good with them. Happy to see him, says it, looks it. He pretends to be subdued: “Thank you, nice seeing you too,” but sweat on his face a giveaway. “Look at me,” wiping. “I ran from the bus stop for exercise, which I didn’t get today, and because I thought I might be late. I hate hanging people up, and I see I’m not,” looking at the wall clock. “Hope you didn’t shake up the wine and cake too much.” Oh God, how could he run with the wine and cake? “No, I held them both to me, cake straight,” and demonstrates. “Anyway, hi and hello,” putting out his hand. She shakes it and puts out her cheek. “This is fun,” she says, “five minutes of greetings.” Where’s the couple? Hears them in the kitchen. They must have planned, or she said “Let me get it,” so she planned, but why the plans if it wasn’t that they were busy and she was just helping them out by answering the door? But why wouldn’t they be out here by now? Maybe a good sign. No older, hair up and even blonder, as beautiful, body seemingly unchanged. She says “We’re having champagne—I’m not but they are and I hope you will too—to celebrate a belated happy new year. I was supposed to go to a party with the Lipsatz’s but never made it. The flu.” “You OK now?” “Of course, it was weeks ago.” “Sometimes they linger on,” knowing he’s showing too much concern. How to undo that? Thinks; can’t. Just says “You’re right.” Lipsatzes come out with hors d’oeuvres and the champagne and tray of champagne glasses, one filled with club soda and ice. “Happy New Year,” Janine says, holding her glass up and they all say Happy New Year and he intentionally starts the kissing by kissing Naomi’s cheek first, then goes over to her and she puts her lips out and he gives what he thinks she expects, a peck, then kisses Mel’s cheek and right after he does realizes Mel just wanted to hug. “It’s really wonderful being here,” he says—they’re still in the foyer, he hasn’t taken off his coat yet—“old friends, really,” and thinks, taking off his coat, switching the glass from hand to hand instead of putting it down on a sideboard which seems new or highly polished and he doesn’t want to stain, if he could only say something funny, true, untrite. He’s still nervous, pulsing in spots; relax, try to avoid eye contact with her for most of the evening and see how she reacts. Much better at dinner: words there when and where he wants them and often big ones but where it’s not obvious they’re said to impress. “What’s ‘extrapolation’ again?” she says at the table. Lipsatzes in the kitchen cleaning up, though the plates and utensils were throwaway paper and plastic and there was no salad or bread and the entire dinner came out of one pot. There to leave them alone? If so, only planned on their part. “Why,” though he knows, “in something you read?” “You used it, don’t you remember? When you were saying President Kennedy’s a charming lightweight compared to Mike Mansfield who you said is the one senator there qualified to run the country.” “Sure, in decency, dignity, speaking ability, modesty, intelligence, world experience and things like that. His face is pockmarked and he comes from little Montana, so maybe that’s what killed it. But Jesus, I totally forgot using the word. Just came and went. At least you know I didn’t say it to impress you. I won’t even try defining it I’m so bad at that,” and then gives one straight from the dictionary, as he’d looked it up last night for about the fifth time in a year. She says “Talking about impressions. I’m impressed the way you’ve changed in almost every aspect. It must be your work, people depending on you and all the interesting types you met, living away from home and in your own apartment, holding down a demanding position and what any two years would do to someone our still impressionable age.” “I don’t know. To me I’m just the same old schmo, but thanks.” “Oh come off it.” They leave together. Said at the table to her “I’ve got to go—work tomorrow—but you stay.” She said no, the Lipsatzes have to get up for work too. In the elevator she says “I’ll get the number 10 bus downtown.” “Take a cab. It’s late and your neighborhood I’m sure isn’t the safest.” “Money money money,” she says, “but I’ll be all right.” “Here,” and he fishes out a five. “I’m working and I don’t want you going home except by cab.” “Always so protective,” she says. “I’d do it for almost anyone, honestly.” Opens the cab door for her, tells himself not to attempt even an innocent kiss goodbye, says “May I call you?” “I hope so, if just so I can give you your five dollars back.” “Precious cargo,” he says to the driver, who nods, doesn’t turn around, and thinks another trite familiar remark; when she’s driving home she’ll think I’m even a worse schmuck than I was. She waves through the back window as the cab pulls away; he gives a brief wave and then pretends to be fingering his coat and pants pockets for something, eyes where his hands are, anxious look. Before the cab left she said “Want to
be dropped off on the way?” and he said he’d rather jog home—“exercise again”—but walks, interpreting all the signs he could remember and what she said, punching his palm several times, not believing his luck. Phones, they meet, kiss the first night, meet, doesn’t want to sleep with him till she feels they’re ready, he tells himself don’t push it, ruin it, she’s not saying she doesn’t want to be with him. Takes a week. Night of the biggest snowfall in years. Maybe it contributed to it in different ways. They’re walking home from a movie in the Village. Nonessential cars, radio says the next day, weren’t allowed into the city. Several horses with sleighs down lower Fifth. Cross-country skiers, no traffic noises, so voices from blocks away. “Hiya, neighbor,” a stranger says. Throws snowballs at lampposts, lobs one at her and she quickly turns around and it smacks her back. “You-u-u,” and comes at him with a handful of snow as if she’s going to mash it into his face, drops it when she gets close and either he hugs her and she falls into his arms or she falls into his arms and then he hugs her, and they laugh, brush the snow away from the other’s neck, nip at each other’s lips and then kiss. “I’m going to get even with you one day for that snowball, mister,” she says when they separate, and he gets down on one knee and says “No, please, have pity, don’t,” and makes a snowball down there and threatens to throw it at her and she screams and runs off. Arms around each other’s waists rest of the way, kissing, saying things like “I’m gonna say it: I love you, always have, always will”; “I love you too, sweetie”; “You do? You mean romantically? Then I love you too-too.” “Too-too what?” “Too-too much which isn’t enough.” “Never too-too much, never enough; by George, what do I mean?” “Never ever have I loved you more, never have I loved anyone more or as much. Seriously, I’m being serious, though I bet you don’t want to hear it.” “You’re a darling and a dearie,” she says, “and I mean it.” “I’m gonna say this is the happiest night of my sappy life; day or night, happiest sappiest anytime, day, dusk, dawn or night.” “It isn’t mine but it’s one of and that’s sufficient, isn’t it, or not?” “It doesn’t always have to be equal so long as it’s close.” “It is; it’s going along perfectly; we’ve lots more time.” Apartment’s warm, radiators knocking, windows steamed up, doesn’t want to push, ruin it, though now isn’t sure he could, still, she’s a changeable sort, gets down to his jockey shorts as he does whenever he sleeps over—fresh pair every day; they’re white, doesn’t want her turned off by stains—kisses her goodnight, “So good night then, my dear, sleep well, pleasant tights,” saluting her, bowing, shaking her hand, then the other, wants her—knows he’s going too far—to pick up on the irony of their passionate kissing on the street and now going to separate beds, heads for the couch hoping she’ll call him back if just for another kiss, when he gets there wonders if he shouldn’t have tried necking with her just now, massaging her back, maybe curling his arm around to brush her breast, “Excuse me,” somehow maneuvering her hand to his fly. No, but at least to have said “You know I’d love sleeping with you—perfect night, the snow, hissing radiators, rising risers, chained tires clanging outside, besides what I’ve said is the deepest besides the ruttiest kind of love I’ve ever had for anyone including you. But I can understand why you’re not tempted—no, that’s not the right word—so I’m not going to push it, ruin it. We’ve time as you say, right, so who’s complaining?—not I,” and then, as he did, to walk to the couch without looking back. She says, when he’s making the couch up, pretending not to notice her going back and forth from bathroom to bedroom, trying to push his penis back between his thighs because it’s sticking straight out, “Listen,” in a short nightie, nipples and pubes seen through, “why don’t you sleep with me tonight, if you promise to take off those godawful shorts.” “You want me to wear boxer shorts instead of briefs?” “Anything. Nothing, under your pants, if I had the choice between those and no underclothes.” Engaged in a couple of months. Proposes in her building’s basement while they’re taking clothes out of the washer and sorting them and putting most into the dryer. “I know this is the wrong place but would you, if I asked, marry me?” and she says “Why, what other place would be more memorable to be asked that except maybe the toilet? and I’d love to.” “Let me get it straight—for the record as we reporters like to say—I never did but I heard about it—you’d love to marry me?” “Yes, I would.” “You will marry me then?” “Yes, I’ve said it.” “We can tell people, we can start planning for it? I can start considering your apartment my home?” “We might want to get a larger one, but for the time being, sure, it’s ours. As for telling people, let’s digest it for now and, to mix it up a bit, sit on it for about two weeks, but don’t you worry, I won’t change my mind.” Their folks meet at a restaurant and her father says “I can see who he resembles,” looking at his mother, and she says “Oh, Simon was very handsome when he was Howard’s age—all the women went for him and I felt fortunate he chose me. But he got plump and now you can’t see the likeness except in the strong chin, but I’d say he resembles him.” “Don’t ruin it for the boy,” his father says. “I was a born eater while he’s mostly hated food and has stayed thin. But you’re the bathing beauty—you know she was Miss New York, or was it Rockaway, before I met her and she danced in the Scandals?—so let them think he got his good looks and sleek physique from you.” “With Ziegfeld. And I would have won the Miss America too if they had talent then as part of the competition. But it was all rear ends and no brains and they chose some Pennsylvania Slovak who everyone said slept with the two main judges when they couldn’t get me.” “You never told me about the hanky-panky,” Howard says. Starts reading the daily Christian Science exercises from Science and Health and the Bible because he knows it’ll please her, going to church with her almost every Sunday. She’s usually one of the ushers: standing at attention at the door when you first come in, passing around the plate, always smiling because she believes it’s infectious and in ways curing, white flower pinned to her dark collar; he can’t stand looking at her she seems so fake and once thinks if she ever breaks up with him he’ll use that image of her smiling and ushering in her ugly prim suit and pumps to lessen the pain. Says “I’m finding the readings very interesting, lot to learn from it, she’s a very smart woman, and the Bible’s such a beautiful book; I wish my folks had read it to me as a kid as yours did,” though finds it all a drag, too much like school was, but will continue doing it enthusiastically; then he’ll quickly give her a kid. She doesn’t want one so soon, he’ll inseminate her somehow: stick it in before she says “Wait for my diaphragm,” all out of passion; then say let them do it that way a while, he never gets to be inside her without the smelly cream, he can control it till the last moment but he’ll take it out long before that, while secretly leaking little by little in. She says “You don’t have to read or attend any of it if you don’t like, though of course if you really want to, it’d be very nice.” Wedding set for May. They want a small city hall ceremony and the reception in a Chinese restaurant on 103rd and Broadway but her parents say their house. She’ll be accompanied downstairs. Her favorite flowers everywhere and about forty guests. He’ll be waiting for her and they’ll walk the next few steps together to the judge in front of the fireplace, lit if it isn’t a hot day. Two-day honeymoon at the Sturbridge Inn, which they’ll get to by rented car. In April, morning after a lot of evening lovemaking, where it’s so bright and crisp that he jumps out of bed an hour before the alarm’s to go off, half hour of energetic calisthenics, shower, reads by the kitchen window while having coffee and toast, kisses her hand and nudges her instead of letting the alarm go off, from the kitchen catches her through the bedroom mirror getting out of bed naked, holding up her breasts to inspect and slipping into her bathrobe, he’s dressing for work while she’s putting on hose when she says “I have something to tell you.” Way she says it. And doesn’t look up at him. Immediately shouts “Forget it. Don’t say anything, I’ll just pack my clothes. Because it’s ha
ppened again. But this time you drew me in nearer to give me even greater disappointment. You’re cutting it all off, right?” “No. Don’t jump the gun, Howard.” “Ah, fuck it. Ah, screw it. The whole thing’s obvious. You’re never going to go through with it even if you say now you only want the wedding postponed.” “I do only want it postponed. I’ve no doubts about my feelings for you but think we need more time to sanctify it.” “Sanctify, horseshit.” “It was the wrong word. And wrongly worded. I meant—” “You meant, you meant—we’re over with, don’t tell me. You’re booting me the fuck out, for can you actually tell me you want me to continue living here?” “True, I do think it’d be better if we had separate living places for the time being. A month or two. Maybe through the summer, though we’ll still see each other, of course; just a bit less. But this will give us time and room to think if we truly do want to go ahead with it.” “I truly do. There’s nothing I want more.” “But I’ve been married. Getting divorced was devastating and I don’t want to—I want to make absolutely sure I’m absolutely sure about marriage again. If we decide to go ahead with it, then it’ll only have been a few months’ delay.” “Nah, you’re soft-pedaling me out of here. It’s always the same. Whenever you want something that bad, it never turns out OK. Whenever I want—not you.” “That’s not it.” “It is it. You know goddamn well we’re done with, done with,” banging the couch with his fists. His untied tie starts to slide off his neck when he bangs and he grabs and twists it and tries tearing it in two and then throws it across the room. “You know what you’re doing?” she says. “You’re making me think why have I put up with you so long and your terrible tantrums?” “That was the first with you ever. But excuses. I’ll give you real ones. Our different religions. You’re a Christian Scientist and I’m an idiot trying to please you by reading it till I’m sick and blind.” “Well that’s news.” “I’ll give you more. You think you don’t love me enough or maybe realized you never did.” “You know that’s not so.” “It is. You hate even being mentioned as my fiancée. I saw it on the street with that guy Weinberg or Weintraub or whatever his name is—Ned, my brother Jerry’s friend. After I introduced you—” “I only said later—he the one by Rockefeller Plaza?” “Yes.” “I didn’t like being introduced as your appendage but by my name.” “But I was proud of it, wanted to tell everybody—” “I still didn’t like it. It’s demeaning, outdated, a step away from ‘my betrothed’ or ‘intended’ or ‘future slave.’ Maybe not that bad, but do I go around calling you my fiancé?” “Do, I’d love it; then ‘my husband, my beloved, the love of my life.’ What the hell else is it for? But you didn’t like it because it was the realization that by the designation people had the expectation we’d eventually get married, and at that moment it sunk in.” “You’re being silly. But we’ll talk later, or we’ll be late for work.” “I’m being realistic. If I can see, then I say what I see, and I can see it, on the wall, the freaking end-of-getting-married and end of everything else between us, so stop hiding it to make it so-called easier for me. Because if I’m to start getting the jitters about you dumping me, I want to starting today.” “All I can say—” putting on her coat, “Don’t you want something to eat?” “No.” “Is that you’re acting all out of proportion to the situation. But after the way you acted, perhaps it would be best if you got your things together this weekend and moved out for the time being.” “And you’re saying you weren’t going to tell me that before we had this rotten talk?” “I probably would have, if you didn’t leave on your own in a week or so.” “Bullshit. Horseshit. I could kill you. Sorry, I don’t mean that, but I hate you for what you’ve done. Sucking me in, leading me on…” He’s punching his palm, biting his knuckles now. “Go yourself. I’ll throw my junk together while you’re out and that’ll be it for us.” “No, I don’t want you wrecking the place. Besides, I don’t want to leave it like this. Come on, Howard, really; stick another tie in your pocket and let’s go.” Does, muttering “Fuck you, you bastard, go screw yourself,” under his breath. They take the subway, don’t speak. Didn’t when they walked to the subway, he always a few feet ahead of her, “Boy, you really want to be rid of me,” she said. “Why don’t you just race on ahead?” I would, I would, if I didn’t want to, he thought. Didn’t know if he should stick the coins in the turnstile for her, as he usually does, but did, after he went through, without looking at her. She touches his hand while they stand hanging on to a pole during the ride, but he pulls it away, looks at the ads around, can’t stand looking at anything and shuts his eyes. I hate her. I’m going to go crazy without her. If it’s bad now, what’ll it be when my stuff’s all out of her place and I don’t have an excuse to see her? I’ll call, she’ll be nice on the phone, but won’t see me. Maybe in a few weeks, she’ll say. She’ll start with some other guy, probably one from her church. Seemed to be a lot of good-looking bright guys there and a lot more fun-making in the sense she likes than him. Jolly, healthy, gay. I’ll drink too much to get to sleep, wake up a few hours after I pass out and feel even worse because I won’t be able to get back to sleep besides being a little stomach-sick, so I’ll just think of her, the bitch, hours before with her apron on, cooking dinner for some guy, later on top of him in bed, at the same moment he’s thinking all this, that smile on her puss when she’s up there doing it that way, taking this subway with him next day. Shakes off the thought. “Anything wrong?” she says. “No,” closes his eyes again, recalls her as the smiling usher, escorting one of the elderly congregants down the aisle, that phony and fake. “Aren’t the stained-glass windows here beautiful?” first time she took him. No, they’re not, he thought, they’re churchy, depressing, but said yes. I should be glad to be rid of her. If they had children, what fun would it be bringing them up if she led them to church every Sunday? This business with medicine. Dinner with her boring church friends, no wine, or a bottle only in front of him, and after, Sanka or herbal tea, though if he likes, real coffee. What’ll I say to my folks, brother and friends? Who am I going to move in with? I’ll have to get my own place quick. That’s not easy. Everyone wants a cheap place in the Village. But I want it to be near hers but not in the same neighborhood, so I can bump into her or plan it so it looks that way. Forget that. I’ll get one, anywhere in the city that’s cheap, show her I don’t need her. Show her nothing. Tell friends it’s over and you want to go out with other women and then go out with them, find someone else—that’s the best cure, and staying away from her. Opens his eyes, looks at her. So goddamn beautiful, it kills him. Would love for it to be like it’s been, handholding on the train, if they get seats each reading a different section from the same newspaper and occasionally commenting on it, parting kiss. “Listen,” he says, and puts his mouth to her ear, “I love you too much, that’s the problem.” “That’s not it,” she says, “believe me.” “Then what is?” “Let’s talk about it later,” as it’s her stop they’re pulling into, and she puts out her cheek, he says “Oh shove it. I’m not going to just take everything you dish out,” and she shrugs and goes. He’s at work but can’t work, calls her after lunch and says “So where do I stand? Can I come by later to at least pick up the stuff I need?” “Hold it. Don’t go to extremes again. We should talk, Meet me after work?” Meet, dinner out, grabs her hand when they walk to the restaurant, she clutches his, puts her head on his shoulder, over dinner she says she was much too hasty this morning and didn’t think through lots of what she said, his reaction didn’t help matters but she takes part responsibility for that, she still wants the marriage postponed, she doesn’t know till when, but please stay, she’s almost sure it can all work out. “I’ll stay, no question about it,” kisses her hands, she kisses his, stare at each other and cry. Few weeks later, while they’re dressing for work, he says “By the way, have you had any more thoughts, either way, about the marriage being postponed or anything regarding it and us? Just asking, you don’t have to answer.” “Truth is, after careful consideration, corny as that has to sound t
o you, and talking it over with some people good for that—” “Your practitioner?” “Among others. That’s all right, isn’t it?” “Really, what more important decision could you make, so anything you say.” By her expression and she’s looking right at him and that “corny as that has to sound” remark, he thinks everything’s going to be OK. “Anyway, you asked, so I’m saying, though I hate for it always to be the first thing in the day—I don’t know when the right time for it could be—” “Wait, what are you saying?” “You must have sensed something’s been wrong between us since the last time.” “No, nothing, what?” can hardly speak, “everything’s been great.” “It hasn’t. Quite the opposite. I’ve been withdrawn from you, melancholic to downright depressed most times the last two weeks. It’s because it isn’t working, and I also knew what I’d be saying now would hurt you, which made me feel even worse.” “Why? You’ve been happy, gay, moody occasionally, but not for long and no more than me—natural moodiness, comes and goes. And we’ve been fine together, same as ever whenever it’s gone well, and it has, joking around, sleeping together—” “Not fine; not happy or gay. If I seemed liked it then it was an act not to show how I felt but one I wasn’t even aware of. And sleeping with you is what you wanted so I gave in but not with any enthusiasm or joy. You had to know that too.” “I didn’t. That’s not at all what I caught.” “Then I’m not saying any more. We’ll talk tonight. I don’t want to ruin your day or mine as I did the last time.” “You saying you definitely can never think of marrying me?” “I think so. Or at least that’s what I think now. And without that direction, we shouldn’t live together. Something isn’t clicking with us, I don’t know what. You’ve been wonderful, have put up with me and my moods, but I need time to be by myself and think things out. Maybe, but I doubt it, I’ll discover—” He pushes her, wants to hit her, she sees it, fist up and his face, and backs away. “Don’t worry, I never would. Never you. Not that precious face. Oh no, I couldn’t,” and smashes his fist through a panel of the closet door. She says “Now who’s going to pay for that?” “Fuck it, you moron, your goddamn door.” “All right, I will fuck it. I’ll fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, you fucking fucking curser. You crazy man. For the first time, though you’ve given signs, I’m truly afraid of you,” and goes into the bathroom and locks it. He listens at the bathroom door. “You crying in there? Well if you are, cry all you want; just think of what you’ve done to me,” and runs water over his hand, wants to put antiseptic on it but that’s in the bathroom, wraps it with a dishtowel and leaves. Calls her at work and says “Sorry about the door. Tell Mrs. Young I fell with such force or something that my head went through it, but that I’ll pay for it.” “I saw blood in the kitchen. How’s your hand?” “My hand deserves what I did to it, so don’t worry. I also want to say, if it’d help things, and I don’t think it’d be a bad idea for me—I’m interested in it and I need—you saw—some additional spiritual discipline in my life like this—I’ll convert to Science.” “Do it only for yourself, not me. It won’t change anything between us. It’s not the issue. Be Jewish; even be Orthodox Jewish.” “But I need you to stay with me and guide me in it. I’m serious about it. It’s not just for you.” “Go to any Science church other than mine and ask them for advice. But nothing related to me.” “Ah, you just don’t love me, that’s all. You maybe did a little once—now and then—but not enough.” “Anyway, I’ll stay somewhere else tonight and you can start moving out. I’ll give you till around six tomorrow. But please go? And promise you won’t wreck anything else or take whatever’s not yours?” Gets an apartment. Gets drunk a lot. Calls her late at night a lot, for anything. “The Auden book I said I didn’t want? I need it back. Not only because I’m starting to love his work again but there’s something in it I have to find and copy down to go into my own writing.” “I’ll send it.” “I have to have it by morning. Can I come right down?” She’s on her stoop with the book. “Here. Please don’t bother me with little things like this again. You want anything more of yours I might have, tell me now and we’ll go upstairs and get it and that’ll be all.” They go upstairs. He grabs her on the third-floor landing to kiss her. She puts her hand between their mouths. “Please. I feel nothing but sympathy for you now.” “Fuck you, you rat. You can have whatever I’ve left up there, or throw it out the window for all I care. Plus this book,” and heaves it downstairs, kicks it out of his way as he leaves the building. Weeks later wishes he hadn’t; one about Yeats and another about suffering he wanted to go to; also the shortie where children die in the streets. He was drinking and in a sad serious mood. Meets her two years later at an art gallery she’s working at. Saw the review and that afternoon had nothing to do. “Fancy this,” he says and she looks up from a textbook and that smile and big hi. “I didn’t mean to just spring up on you. You’re I swear a complete surprise.” She’s no longer a Christian Scientist, is living with an artist who exhibits here but nothing of his up this moment, courses in anthropology, paleontology, ancient Greek, given up theater for good. News quit him when the show went off the air and he’s living on unemployment and writing a book. They kiss each other’s cheeks goodbye. “Wait a sec, I haven’t even looked around,” does, says he wasn’t disappointed and it’s a nice walk back through the park. “By the way,” and invites him for dinner. Accepts but hour before just can’t see himself there, sitting, wanting, coming back, and calls to say he suddenly got a stomach flu. The artist answers, says she’s in the can now, he’ll relay the message. “Too bad, it would’ve been interesting. Most of our pals can’t talk anything but dealers or painters, when they’re not descanting on Chinese food and movies. In fact I’ve tried to bring some writers onto the scene to change that, but another time, hey? and feel good,” and he says “That’s very kind, thanks.” Months later goes out of his way to pass their building. Looking through all the store windows around there just in case and sees her on one of the checkout lines of the supermarket on her block. Goes in, says he was heading for the subway, looked left just for a second and couldn’t believe his eyes. “Watch out,” she shouts as the conveyor belt moves her food and she jokes how she sometimes thinks her hand’s going to move with it when she’s thinking about something else and disappear under the belt. “Who knows what’s under there; I imagine teeth.” Laughs, at the same time realizing he’s being phony since he doesn’t think it funny. Invites him upstairs for coffee; Ricardo’s in Germany for an opening of his work. Carries both bags, despite her protests, and remembers shopping with her when they lived together; always liked it. Coffee’s rich, ground just for this brewing; king-or queen-sized mattress on the floor behind a screen. Very little furniture, all the lighting fluorescent except for two student lamps by their bed pillows, most of the place seems to be his studio. “Where do you work when you’re home?” and she says in bed or at the kitchen table. “Ricardo pays the bills and is the at-home artist and it was his place so gets most of the space.” Lots of expressionistic nudes, still lifes, sunsets or rises over some Mediterranean fishing village it seems with mountains in the back and big storms boiling behind them. None of the nudes look like her except a little in the face: heavier breasts, larger aureoles, bigger bushes, darker hair, thinner legs, squarer buns. “Interesting; nice; good; exciting; terrific color, any of you?” and she says “Zillions, in every kind of pose, clothed and unclothed, including some frankly pornographic ones and a few unerotic nudes with him—’Artist and His Model’—but they go straight into the gallery or on the road. These are all early works to hide the cracks.” Books piled up against the walls, bunches of tiny dried flowers throughout the loft, bathroom smells from her soap; in it a life-sized mirror-image self-portrait, he supposes, looking as if he’s about to break the mirror with his brush; dark, handsome, bearded, angry, long fat semierect penis; only painting so far he really likes. “That him in there?” and she says “It’s embarrassing, that one. I like to tell people it’s his nonexistent identical-twin brother, but maybe that doesn’t h
elp,” and he laughs when she does, again thinks he’s a phony. Wants to throw her down and rip her clothes off and rape her. Give her time only to put her diaphragm in if that’s what she still uses—looked for the case in the bathroom but didn’t find it—but to tape her mouth if he has to and flatten her to the mattress, grab her ass from behind with both hands and push her up to him as far as she can go and to come fast and for the whole thing to be over with forever. Maybe for them to stay locked like that for a few minutes but without him looking at her and then if he can to come again the same way or with her turned over. To go to jail for it, long as they’d want to stick him in it—he wouldn’t give any resistance. Kiss on the cheeks goodbye. “We really should do dinner,” she says. “Ricardo would enjoy meeting you.” “Sure he would.” “Why wouldn’t he? He’s interested in anyone with a serious purpose, doesn’t have to be art, and says the two of you are much alike. He’s punched his hand through a door and wall a few times too.” “I only did it that once and would like to forget about it.” He calls and they meet twice in the next two years, for coffee, the next time lunch. Ricardo sold the loft and went to Paris to live and work and she’s following him in a month. She’s studying art history now, also figure drawing. He says he’ll take her to the airport by bus; she says she does have a lot of luggage so it would be a great help. In the flat she’s staying at when he picks her up he says he has something he doesn’t know if he should tell her. “Paris has evaporated,” she says. “I’m still madly in love with you, I’m sorry,” and chokes up. She looks consoling while busily getting last-minute things together. “I didn’t know that and wish it weren’t true. We’ve become good friends and I’d hate for anything to spoil it.” “Don’t worry, nothing will; I’m not about to make a move on you.” Kisses her hands, just before she’s going to board he hugs her goodbye. She keeps her head stretched to the side so he can’t get at her lips when he kisses her. “Oh, I forgot,” though he intended it for now, and pulls out of his coat two gift-wrapped paperbacks and a jar of instant tea and she says “Gosh, where am I going to stash these? I haven’t an inch of space left,” and he says he’ll send them to her and takes them back. They correspond about once every other month. Tells her he’s coming to Paris to live, always wanted to and isn’t it the thing for a young writer to do? and he can’t take another day of substitute teaching in junior high schools but put away enough money from it; maybe he’ll get to see her, take her to lunch. Who you kidding? he tells himself. He’s going because she’s there and in her last letter she said things weren’t going well with Ricardo; their relationship’s often been tempestuous but now it was getting uncivilized. He thinks: she’s usually broke, has no job there, they’ve been living outside of Paris and not going in much, she’s written, so maybe she’ll want to move into the hotel with him and let him support her awhile. At the least, if she’s living off him, she’ll let him screw her from time to time and maybe eventually something deeper might develop and maybe right away. Certainly if he learns French fluently, which he plans to, and gets a job there with some American firm or French firm needing Americans in editing or news or something like that—just writing anything—things will even get better for them. He calls her day after he gets there and Ricardo says she left today for New York and is probably this minute at the Luxembourg airport. He calls Icelandic there, they get her and she says “I didn’t leave because you were coming, though I knew you were and wanted to see you, but because Rick and I had the worst fight of our lives and I didn’t want to be in France or even Europe another second.” “Cash in your ticket, get your luggage off the plane if it’s already on. And if you can’t, don’t worry, I’ll buy you new clothes and reimburse you for your ticket some way if they don’t refund it, but come stay with me at my hotel here or in your own room at the hotel—I’ll take care of all of it for as long as you want and I won’t make any kind of demands on you.” “Write me,” she says. “It’ll give me surrogate pleasure reading about the wonderful experiences and people you’re meeting in Paris.” Doesn’t know anyone there, writes a little, walks around a lot, studies French at the Alliance Francaise every morning but gets to meet no one in his classes—Bulgarians, South Americans, Israelis, who only want to be with one another, and Africans who only want to meet girls-goes to bars young Americans and Scandinavians hang out in but can never open a conversation and nobody starts one with him. Calls Ricardo a month after he gets there and says he got a letter from Janine “and she said what a great cheap area yours is to live in, so I’m coming out by train to look around and wonder if I could stop by to get advice on what the good blocks are and so on,” which is all a lie: no letter so far and only wants to see where she lived, bed she slept in, guy she slept with, any new paintings of her, just any trace of her, and maybe Ricardo will also introduce him to some people, or give him names and addresses of Americans in Paris, who could become acquaintances or friends. Ricardo’s short—he thought him tall from his self-portrait—muscular, rough looking, talks tough, New York, paint clothes, paint flecks in his hair and on his nose, place smelling of oils, polite, laughs loud, gives him a beer, bisquits, hard salami, the best chair, hovel a mess, parakeet flying in and out of its open cage, two pussycats she took in and left behind, says “She’s a complex creature—we both know that—with no ambition or focus, which I didn’t mind—did you?—since it meant she was always here for me when I was hungry or horny or hungover or boorishly talkative or things like that—but which other men might not like, her always waiting on or for them, and she hated. That the case, she should’ve stuck in acting; she could’ve made a potful and name at it with her magnetism and face—the eternal childknockout—and she was superb at it I heard. Anyhow, years of my shit, she wanted someone gentler, quieter, she said, and who’d ultimately want to marry and give her little snotnoses and help her raise them, and I guess I fooled around on the side a little too much too, even giving her crabs once, but put that burning lotion on you and you get rid of them quickly enough, and she knew that part of me from the start but it all must’ve built up. She’s something though, right?—great cook, great in the sack, intuitive and ethereal and bright as they make them and with that right zing of cheer and throaty voice that gobbles you up—no wonder men at bars punched one another out and in every language just to have the privilege of buying the next bottle of mineral water for her.” No new paintings of her since for a year now he’s only been doing old or decrepit nudes and mad people and idiots of both sexes when he isn’t doing imaginary cityscapes. Wants to take Howard to a bar where she used to play darts and pinball and write poetry but he pretends to have a stomachache, “I think something to do with the water at my hotel which the propriétaire, if that’s for the man, said was safe to drink,” thinks why the hell don’t I tell him I can’t stand him and am immensely jealous because he knows all he has to do to get her back is phone her and act nice and apologize and say everything’s going to be peachy-keen between them from now on in and that even though he understands her all right she’s too fucking good for him and that she only lived with him and stayed in love this long and would go back to him because she’s a bloody self-destructive putz. Every time he gets a letter from her he goes to the small fenced-in park across from the hotel to read it, and if it’s raining, to the café a street away to read it over coffee and a brioche, even if it’s delivered in the third mail. Gets a writing fellowship to California and she says she’ll meet him at the ship when it docks in New York. She’s not there. Calls her at the apartment she’s sitting for and she says “I phoned your home for the exact arrival time and your mother asked me not to meet you, that I’ve done enough harm and shouldn’t even try to see you because if I do you’ll probably stay here and forget the fellowship. I’m sorry she feels that way but I can see what she means. My changeability has had a long string of messing things up.” “You really think so? Ah, we’re past that. Can I come over now?” “Love for you to.” “Where you going?” his mother says and he says �
�Janine, I have to give her something somebody gave me for her in Paris and was too breakable to send,” and she says “You’re nuts,” and his father says “A glutton for punishment; let him out of here, he won’t listen to us anyway.” Kisses her at the door. It was just to be on the cheek from his part but she puts her lips out, arms around him—he follows but lets his hands droop—and pulls him in, keeps him there. Gets an erection, backs away and says he’s sorry, “thought I could control it though it used to happen all the time when I was a kid—could barely get on the dance floor with anyone,” and she says “It’s natural so who’s worrying about it? And so many men are homosexual these days or letting it all come out what’s always been hidden or stifled, that I’m glad to see you haven’t changed. Just because it’d be so surprising, I think I’d become a nun if you became a homo, I mean gay.” They go out for dinner, hold hands on the table, say little, gaze into each other’s eyes, laugh about that, “What’s come over us, monsieur?” and he says “Compression, dilution, shrinkage, the aging process, Irma the Girl in Wraparound Body Plastic, the Little White Cloud That Cried, good ole Yankee soil, light and loose summer clothes, but don’t listen to me since I don’t know anything, but probably nothing, niente, yenta,” kiss hands (hers), rub cheeks against knuckles (his), knock off a bottle of Chianti, later make love. He thought it could happen and at the table devised a plan for the walk back and after to help it take place: act the way he did when he saw her at the Lipsatzes two years after their first big breakup: indifferent, distracted, uninterested, looking at everything but her (store windows, passersby, traffic, sky), talking—little he did and which had to be extracted—about uninteresting things: weather, world, hands in his pants pockets. At the door he said what he’d planned to: “Well, I’ll see ya,” waved (planned), turned (unplanned) to the elevator (if she didn’t say anything he was going to turn back to her and say “Oh, good night,”) when she said “This might be impertinent and maybe completely undesirable to you, but would you like to spend the night here?—you can,” and he said “Where, on the narrow couch?” She was shaking her head and smiling but he said “No offense meant, but after that tiny bunkbed aboard ship for nine days I need a real box spring and mattress,” and she said “With me; I wouldn’t have asked otherwise, but if there’s to be a discussion about it then we should forget it because I don’t want to have it in my borrowed public hallway.” “No problem, I’d like to,” and went around her before she could change her mind, which he thought she was thinking she might, inside, said he was very tired, “I’m going straight to the bedroom if it’s all right,” she said “Good idea; I’m pretty tired and a bit tipsy too,” no kisses, made sure not to touch her or smile, till she came out of the bathroom naked, turned on the fan and climbed into bed—he was already in it, wishing they’d shared a beer on the couch and he’d slowly taken off her clothes and then she’d helped him off with his. Thinks it’s going to be just this one time: way she turned over after they were done, no good night kiss, and moved away during the night each time he pressed up to her or put his foot on hers. “Something the matter?” he asked once and she said “Nothing, why should it be?” and he said “I hope it wasn’t my disinterested attitude before we went to bed and possibly even on the street—I was just thinking about other things then: ship this morning, being back, flying to California in a few days—I don’t even have a place there to stay yet or know how I’m going to get from airport to campus housing office,” and she said “You were fine, everything’s all right, and I can understand: moving around so much can do it.” Nah, something’s wrong: gaze and stuff at dinner were an act (not on his part) or the wine, or plus it, and going to bed with him, and he’s being realistic here, not self-pummeling, was probably the first of her every-third-year gift to him for being such a dopey faithful friend. He should know by now nothing he does will work with her; even if she said she loved him he wouldn’t believe it; he doesn’t know what she’d have to do for it to take; if she said she wanted to come to California with him, he’d let her, but still wouldn’t believe she’d stay. What would he care? She’d help him settle in, take away the jitters of a new place, few days’ lays, fellow fellowists or whatever they’re called would see he came with someone of substance or just beautiful and engaging and after she left there’d be other women out there: bigger, blonder, less something, more something, younger, fresh. If she said “Let’s get married,” he’d say OK and if she actually did it—he’d never push—only then would he say it took, but maybe even then he’d be suspect. So maybe after a couple of years of relatively untroubled marriage; probably only then, and also with a baby or when she was visibly pregnant with the first. So he tries making the most of it when he wakes up and she’s still sleeping. If there’s one time he’s going to remember her, this is to be it, but that’s never worked much either. Slowly pulls the sheet off of her. She’s on her back, knee up before it settles and rests, eyelids for a few seconds fluttering. Loves her body: hard, soft, no tan or extra bulge, light fuzz on her arms and legs; never shaved, freckled chest. Gently puts his face up to her pubic hair and skims his lips through it. Smells: no odor; inhales: there’s something, more of urine and vaginal cream, but not much; wants to lick it but doesn’t want to wake her. Could be she’s awake, curious what he’s doing, peering at him through the thinnest eyeslits. Maybe wants him to do what he wants to but doesn’t want to show she’s awake for it might stop him. If they only had a signal. Inspects her breasts, area around the aureoles, nipple tips, as much as he can see inside her vagina without parting it, legs, neck, arms, armpit, hair there, curves, midriff. To see if he can detect any change in her body since he saw her naked years ago. No new lines, scars, bumps, weight gain, gray. Face next to hers now; she’s smiling while sleeping but no fluttering. Is she up, maybe waiting for him to just get on top of her and stick it in? He’s ready and probably won’t have another chance, maybe ever. Her reasoning: doesn’t want him to think she wants it a second time when she does, long as he’s here; then he might think she wants him to stay. No, not how women feel or think. Time he wanted to rape her; glad he didn’t, her participation better than any forced lay, and of course other things: stigma, prison, her rage. And once in, which should be easy with last night’s semen and grease and if need be his spit, even if she objected and didn’t want it, he thinks she’d let him finish if he was quick. In a way rape but all she’d have to do was say get off and if he wasn’t coming at the time or in a few seconds, he would. Oscillating fan lifting her head hair up and moving her pubic hair every time it blows her way, plus the horripilation on her legs. “You up,” he whispers, “or just your goose bumps and hair?” Smile doesn’t turn smilier; she’s asleep, lids fluttering again, or is that a trick? Only that once last night, he wanted it again but she said kind of drowsily “My poor pussy’s conked out before I have, so not possible.” Wanted to say “You don’t have to do a thing, just stay there, asleep if you want,” but caught himself moment before he was going to say it, also dropped the grin. “What do you mean ‘poor’—I was too rough or went in too far?” “I think I have the beginning of a yeast thing in there, but nothing that should spread.” “Then maybe in the morning if you’re feeling better,” and she said “Fine… nice… what’re we talking of?… really, sleepy, sweetie, OK?…” and then seemed to be asleep, that kind of breathing. Kissed her shoulder, erection jammed against her behind, hoping she’d make a little wiggling move or something suggesting he stick it in. Bet if he had, halfway or less, quarterway or just the head or tip, she wouldn’t have noticed it. Should have, then moved the way he would and jerking it with his hand; probably so little left, wouldn’t have been a mess. Six-thirty but bright out; puts his arm across her, sheet up and feels himself getting sleepy. Next thing: she’s nudging him awake with her toes, sitting on the bed stretching, saying she’s been writing a play these days, neglected to tell him because she didn’t think he’d be interested, and is dying to get at it, so he’ll have to leave right
after a quick continental breakfast, and jumps out of bed. “You see?” he shouts and from the bathroom she says angrily “See what?” and he says “Nothing, something to myself how I should try to get some writing time in today too,” and wonders what did I mean? but glad he caught himself again. Over coffee and rolls she says she’s going to her folks later for a few days, but they’ll write. At the door he wants to say “One question only; why’d you sleep with me if you were planning to give me the quick heave?” and going down in the elevator thinks “I hate being so fucking mature,” and slams the wall with his palms, hoping she heard it and knows what the sound means. That night thinks of calling her at her folks and saying “One question only; why’d you even want to meet me at the ship?” Next day thinks of calling her there and saying “Listen, what are you doing that’s so important in New York? You haven’t your own apartment; you’re living out of a suitcase; come to California with me. Not for loveydovemaking but because we’re pals. We’ll be around writers, you can write there and maybe even better than here. You say your play’s about out-of-work stage actors? Well, distance does it, I learned in Paris, writing better than I ever did about New York.” Goes to California. Lots of things happen. Comes back to New York for Christmas to be with his family, didn’t plan to but calls her, they go to a party, dance, holds her close and moves them slowly though not that kind of music, pot passed around but she won’t touch it or even pass it so neither does he, her head against his chest, eyes closed he sees, when out of nowhere he says “You of course know I’ve never stopped loving you since I met you, but didn’t I say almost the exact same thing last time I was in?—I forget,” and she looks up and says “Why do you?” and he says “Love you?” and she nods, kisses his chest, looks up again and nods and he thinks is he on to something here? maybe she wants to be convinced before she says she wants to go to California with him without him even asking her: personality, voice, looks of course, her hair, their sex, intelligence which he should have listed first, perceptiveness, humor, playfulness, even her changeability, her size, breath, shape, smells, kindness, gentleness, how she is with people, those she doesn’t even know, upbringing, way she drives, folks, everything, he can’t think of anything about her he doesn’t admire or like very much or love, her searches, curiosity he means, all the things she’s done and does, oh, they’ve had their differences, let’s face it, but her background, foreground, middleground, she’s laughing, ‘It’s true, I just feel tremendously good with you, holding you like this, dancing, sitting, just knocking on the door here before, and things that can’t be explained: biology, chemistry, psychopathology,” she’s laughing, prospect of babies, brushing her hair, cutting her toenails, sudsing her back, kissing the top of her head like this, does it, she’s laughing, “You name it; the full gamut; that’s why, now that you asked,” and she says “Thank you, sweetie, all very nice, really, I appreciate it, needed it too, but I don’t deserve it from someone so loving and good and after the way I’ve treated you,” and he says “Ah shucks, ma’am,” and she puts her lips up and they kiss and he thinks is this going to be it, tonight, tomorrow, she’s finally decided on him or at least for the time being and who knows till when? don’t say anything; no hopes up; just see. They dance some more, kiss, hold hands while sitting, woman she knows who wants to talk with her alone says “Boy, don’t you two ever separate?” they laugh, later she says “Why don’t I see myself home by taxi?” he says “No, I’ll take you, but by taxi,” when the cab pulls up to her building she says “You don’t want to take it while you have one? They don’t come around here much,” he says “Nah, too expensive; I’ll take the subway,” she says “I have money upstairs if you need,” “No, I’m happy with the subway,” at her door she says “It’s awfully cold out and the whole trip home for you an hour minimum if you don’t take a cab, want to sleep on the couch here?” and he says “With you?—oh, I shouldn’t have said that,” and she says “If we keep our clothes on,” “Then why not in bed if we keep our clothes on?—say, great idea, Howard,” “Because I know you,” and he says “Well, I know you too, so there— ah, I’m acting like such a kid,” “Because I know what you’ll want to do and why wouldn’t you?” and he says “Well, why not then?—it’s cold, we’re warm, I love you, you don’t hate me, we’ve made naughty-naughty together before and a couple of times swore we wouldn’t do something and then did and enjoyed it—hey, I’m making a bit pitch here, baby, a really big one,” and she says “Just the couch, with clothes, I’d love holding you all night,” so they get on it, no pullout, blankets over them which keep falling off and she picks up and both of them put back on, he on the inside holding her tight for one reason afraid she’ll fall off and then give up on it and sleep alone in bed, he can’t take his pants off, though asks, because he has no undershorts, she just in underpants and bra and socks, once puts his hand down her pants, she slaps his wrist lightly and pulls his hand out, “Too bad, for I swear it’d be wonderful if you let it or just left my hand in there, I wouldn’t let my fingers do anything,” “I’m sure so but no thanks, let’s go to sleep,” breakfast, kiss before he leaves, says he’ll call her, she says she’ll be around all week, doesn’t, not the next three weeks he’s in New York, hated the horniness, his cornballness, didn’t really sleep, tired entire next day, raised hopes though told himself not to, rest of it, no more, forget it, whole thing’s such delusory nonsensicalness, seeing her, wanting to see her, dying to sleep with her, pining away for her, walking the streets thinking of her and hoping he’ll bump into her, to have her love him, what shit, crock of, he could never understand her ever, get that, he’s sure of it, so good luck to the next guy, and in a way a lucky guy, her face, shape and spark, et cetera, for it could only be with a new guy, his with her is marked, and if she calls he’ll tell her or politely as he can say to her to get lost, no, that it’s best they don’t see each other, for him, her, in the long run and no explanation if she asks for one, which he doubts she will—she won’t, she’ll just say all right if that’s how he feels or what he wants—but thanks, he’ll say, and after he hangs up: but no thanks, you little skunk, none. Goes back to California. Lots of things happen. Writes her care of her parents three years later when he’s working for a big systems analysis firm in L. A. doing technical writing. Just to say how are you, been a long time, was thinking of her, what’s been happening, curious. Gets a letter from her from some small town in Northern California saying she’s been on the coast for a year, thought he might still be in California, wanted to write his old school on the Peninsula but wasn’t sure what department or that if she got the right one it’d forward the mail of one of its former grad students, didn’t want to ask his mother because of how she’s felt about her contacting him, living with a logger/master woodcarver and never been happier: California’s a dream state: the ease, people, nature, weather, opportunities and room—she doesn’t see how she could live anywhere else. If he’s ever around here, stop by; they’ve a guest cottage Milton built overlooking the ocean and mountains and she’d love showing him the area; though she can no longer stand the East, she still gets a craving for intellectual easterners with something to say, and he might like it so such he’d move up here. Few months later he’s flying to San Francisco for a job interview and calls her, thinking he can rent a car and spend a day with her. Man who answers gives him another number to call. She says she got married last month—not to the logger-carver but to someone, if he can believe it, and it was the greatest mistake of her life, she’d only met a few weeks before, and left him a day after the ceremony and is now getting an annulment. She’d rather not see anyone now and once this is over she’s driving straight to New York; she’s already got a sublet and gives him the address and phone number, years later his first book’s reviewed in a New York newspaper; she sends him a letter care of his publisher, congratulating him on the book and being reviewed in such a prestigious place, “even if she impaled and then poleaxed you before dragging your body through the mud�
��the stinker; imagine doing that to a first book and one, between her lines, that sounds so promising,” asks him to call her if he gets a chance. Calls: she’s married, husband’s a filmmaker, no kids but they’re trying, renting a house in New Jersey, taking courses in botany and library science at a state college nearby, doing volunteer work for the town library which she’ll become the paid librarian of once she gets her degree; since she hardly ever gets into the city, invites him for dinner out there. He borrows a car. Her husband’s not home when he gets there and they sit on the grass in the backyard, beer and cheese and crackers, she tells him the names of all the trees, flowers and shrubs and even the grass and weeds around the place and what bird and insect sounds they’re hearing, he says he always wanted to know things like that and about mushrooms and rocks and how to navigate a boat just by the stars, asks if she’s read any good books or new poets or seen any plays lately and she says she ordered his book for the town library but it hasn’t arrived yet so she hasn’t read it. “Of course I could have ordered it for myself from the bookstore—I looked for it just to browse through but they didn’t have it—but the price was a bit steep; we’re always short so never buy new hardcovers, even by good friends.” “I should have brought a copy for you and Braxton, but I felt that’d be pushing it on you.” “Good news is there are already six people on the library reserve list for your book—four from my pep talks about you—but since I work there, my name’s on top. After I read it I’ll give you another review.” “I don’t know if it’ll be favorable, since one of the pieces is about when our engagement busted up and is pretty close to the original.” “I’ve been written about before but nobody’s come near to getting me the way I see myself. I’d almost write about myself to get it right, but I found out I’m a lousy writer. Anyway, so long as you didn’t use my name or my parents’ names and disguised me a little—more to show you’re just not a reporter—write what you like.” “I forget what I called you. Jackson, and where the reader never knows if that’s your first or last name.” Wonders how come she never changes? Face, manner, temperament, same high pointy breasts and tiny waist and bouncy gait and so on, while he’s lost most of his hair since they first met, jowls and deep face creases, little heavier and slower but not much, less sensitive and responsive, darker, grimmer, more downbeat a person—almost everyone says so—doesn’t try as hard for good fellow-feeling or jokes. Phone rings and she goes to answer it, comes back with more beer for them and sits. For a moment he saw her white panties and he thinks a patch of hair sticking out there; skirt’s above her knees; same fuzz on her legs. Braxton, asking her to extend his apologies to him for being late and saying he’s leaving the office in half an hour and it takes him, she says, another half-hour to get here. Wants the phone to ring again so she can get up to answer it and then sit down opposite him again so he can again see her panties. What if, no this is ridiculous. But what if she said now, though she’s given and is giving no sign of it, “You think we can quickly make love?” Of course saying something a little before it. “You’re probably not going to like this idea, Howard…” “You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been thinking, Howard…” He’d do it, is sure of it, since almost all he can think about now is putting his lips on her lips and then on her legs. After, he’d say to himself he’s such a bastard, she’s the only married woman he’d do it with who’s trying to get pregnant by her husband. He’d carry on with her in the city if she wanted, and for as long as she wanted, but always asking her to divorce Braxton before she gets pregnant by one of them—he wouldn’t want any doubt as to whose kid it is—and marry him. She did get pregnant and wasn’t sure whose it was but wanted to marry him, he’d say to get rid of it or prove through some tests it’s his. She didn’t want to get married but wanted to have the baby one of them had got her pregnant with, he’d have to assume it was Braxton’s or if it wasn’t that Braxton would be the father to it, and that would probably be the end of their relationship. Braxton’s nice, polite, tall, broad shoulders, build of an ex-college swimmer, big mop of hair, plain-looking, little fat in the face, pinholes on the nose, pants keep sliding down because he has no behind, quiet—maybe because Howard’s there and been so talkative—not very intelligent, it seems, though maybe he’s holding back there too. But one knows: way he responds, lack of questions, choice of words, things he picks to discuss, flat expression, nothing in the eyes; it’s surely what he’d like to believe. They seem close. Howard and she were inside by then and she rushed to the door when he came in and kissed him; before that, when she heard a car pulling up in front, she said “That’s Brax, I recognize the muffler,” and beamed, looked out the window, stopped their conversation cold. Braxton likes to skydive—“That’s his biggest passion,” she said; “we take vacations around it”—water-ski, rock climb, camp out, snorkel, chop logs into kindling, takes boxing lessons, used to fence, his reading’s mostly work research and magazines about these things. “Do you play chess?” she said in the backyard; “I forget, but if you do I bet he’d love to whip through a couple of games after dinner.” Go; “he’s become something of a master at that game too.” Writes and shoots industrial films and commercials for a New Jersey company but hopes to do serious filmmaking in the future. “Maybe you and Howard can team up on one of his stories or unpublished books.” “You never know,” Braxton says, “but it’s got to be something you can play in—I’ve never seen her in anything, so I want to get her back into acting one last time.” “I’ve lots of things for women; mostly, though they’re all pretty intriguing, they’re not very nice.” She tried skydiving once, she said; got so frightened that she felt she experienced death. “I saw myself splattering on the ground and everything after that, even my funeral, while coming down.” “Was I at it?” Howard said. “Just faces and my family and Braxton, but it was just one of many things, so very quick.” “It was a stupid question to begin with; I wasn’t being serious, though the thought of it makes me shudder.” She patted his knee. The house is small, simple, comfortable, but lots of art work she acquired when working in the gallery years before, some of it the painter’s. One of her by him, he thinks, frontal nude, but doesn’t ask and tries to keep from constantly looking back at it. If it were in the gallery or a museum and nobody was around he’d go right up to it to get a close look at the face and genital area. They have dinner. Time to shut up, ask a lot of questions that’ll take time to answer and just listen. At least stop trying to impress her, which he knows he’s been doing—“Publishing is an eleemosynary venture when it comes to my works…. The next book, which I’ve already got my advance for, promises to do even worse”—and by contrast trying to make Braxton look bad. It’s hopeless and wrong. “How come so suddenly silent?” she says. “My food no good and you don’t want to say?” “No, you’re the same great cook. Could be I drank too much beer in the sun and I’ve also been working late a lot, so I’m tired and should probably go while I can still drive.” They insist he stay the night; they don’t want him cracking up on the road. They give him the guest room, which will be the baby’s room, she says, “that is, if we ever have one.” “Sure we will,” Braxton says. “Three, four if you want—We’ve gone in for tests, everything’s clear, count’s up to par, the doctor says it’s a shoo-in—so don’t be surprised if you’re carrying in a year.” “I know, and one at a time please, sweetie—Braxton’s family’s noted for its twins and triplets every third conception. Both his sister and brother and also his parents with the three of them.” “Triplets? Jesus, I’ve never met anybody who was one,” and is sorry he didn’t know sooner because he’d like to hear about it. They share a common wall. He listens through it—then his ear flat against it with his hand over his other ear—but only hears mumbling for speech, the word “filibuster” from Braxton very loud, a light switch clicking on and off several times, no sex sounds. He shakes his penis a little, thinks he should do it into his handkerchief—maybe there’s even some good cheesecake in the magazines on the shelves above him�
�then thinks he’d only be doing it to say to himself he did it in their house, and goes to sleep. He has a quick dream of her coming into the room in a nightgown and holding a towel, sitting on the bed and jostling him awake: “Up, you up?” That was inevitable, he thinks, and wishes it had gone on longer. He goes to the bathroom late at night, when he comes back stands in front of their door thinking of them sleeping close, maybe a little entangled, after probably having made quiet sex—all the talk of conception and semen might have led to it or maybe they try doing it every night to up the chances of them conceiving. “Lucky fucking stiff,” he whispers, low. Braxton’s gone by the time he washes up in the morning and goes into the kitchen for coffee. She’s reading the paper there, in her bathrobe. They talk a little more and then he kisses her cheek, hopes they can do this again some time, she says “Without doubt we will. Braxton really liked you, thought you a very stimulating person and would like to get to know you better.” “I liked him very much too,” and goes. That’s the last time he sees her. Neither calls or writes again. Bumps into an actor friend of hers from when they first met who says he still speaks to her about twice a year and was out to her house a year ago; she and Braxton have two children and decided that’ll be it, though he wants more. Braxton’s still making industrial films and television ads but owns his own company; she’s a language arts teacher in a private school and writing children’s books, but none have sold so far and she’s done about a dozen. “She read me one; about a horse and a cow who get married because of some dumb farmer’s blunder; it was hilarious and ends with them producing some animal called a how.” He’ll give her Howard’s regards next time he speaks to her, whenever that’ll be. The gallery she worked at is having a twentieth anniversary party. He knows a woman—met and became friends with her at an art colony he went to that summer—who’s represented by the gallery and she told him about the party. “Look out for a beautiful blonde woman named Janine. Maybe not as blonde and beautiful anymore, I’m sure lovely features still, an intelligent kind of dignified look, and about so high. She used to work there—receptionist, hanging up paintings, writing some of the catalogs—fifteen years ago—but became close friends with the owner, even stayed at her apartment when she couldn’t afford a room or was between this place and that lover, and long weekends at her beach house, so I’m sure she’ll be there. Last name was Austin but now it’s Jameson or Jimson or Johnson—her husband’s first name is Braxton—and I only remember one of those was her last name or something like it when I read an obit of her father last year and it gave that name as one of the deceased.” The woman says “Maybe you’d like to go; I’m sure I can bring more than one friend,” and he says “Nah, I don’t know if I want to see her again like that—wangling an invitation. And I hate gallery parties; jug wines in fancy carafes and no chairs, and how would I tell it to Denise—that I’m going to a party where I’m almost sure to see an old girlfriend, love of my life till I met her?” The woman reports back to him. She did see a beautiful blonde woman, in her early forties but looked ten years younger, “asked about her, was told her name was Janine, went up to her and said I knew you. She was immediately all interest; asked me questions about you for an hour. In fact most of my talking time there I spent with her and was taken up by you. What are you doing? How do you support yourself? What do you look like? Where do you live? Is your mother still alive? Are you married or have you been since she last saw you and do you have any children?—somehow she felt you would by now, in or out of marriage. What’s my relationship to you? When I said ‘friend’ she gave me this double take, for she didn’t think you could ever know a single attractive woman long, as she put it, and just be friends. ‘Well, he’s changed—people do,’ she said, and then she asked what’s the woman like who you are involved with. She said you two were once engaged, but so many years ago that she forgets when. You never told me that. And that you were on and off with one another for a while after that, and much in love as she was with you at times, it never seemed to work out. She obviously has a high impression of your intelligence and talent and character and thinks you were the nicest man she ever was close with, other than her husband, who wasn’t there, by the way, or never came over to her while we talked, and she never looked around for him. Never for no one, in fact. She wasn’t one of those people at parties who are always darting their eyes about while you’re talking to them or standing with their backs to the wall so they can see everyone and be seen by everyone too. That says a great deal about her. When I told her of all you’ve written and also got published lately, she said she was going out the next day to buy everything of yours she could. That she hadn’t known you had stuck with it, but didn’t see why you wouldn’t, and what are some of the book titles and so on? I couldn’t remember one, not even the newest. But you know me; I’ve little to nil interest in books except for the art ones and if I did ever read one of yours I probably wouldn’t understand or like it, which is possibly why we stay friends—that I only talk about the covers.” “What’s she doing—she say?” “I think teaching. Or maybe she said she’s the principal of an all-girls’ school, or dean, or in admissions—head of it or assistant to head. I’m sorry, I forget. Also some artwork too, she’s doing—besides devoting lots of time to her children, of course—which she seemed too embarrassed to talk about, the art, maybe because I’m a professional painter and she thought it presumptuous talking to me of it. I should have pursued it because I knew you would have wanted to know what exactly in art she was in.” He wanted to ask about her hair, what style was it in and the color, but that would have sounded funny and he didn’t quite know how to phrase it, though he tried a few times in his head. And her body—was it still slim, with that tiny waist and strong legs, and energetic, or had it grown, got a little fleshy and slowed down? but he’s sure she would have said something like “You men—only interested in our bods, or mostly, and after we reach a certain age, go for the younger flesh and throw us away; I hate that,” and not answered it. Also what she smelled like—from the carnation soap she was famous to him for? Doesn’t remember even thinking of it last time he saw her, and forgets if it was in the bathroom of their house when he slept over? If it was, wouldn’t he have thought of it then? He doesn’t know. But he does remember that every time he did smell it—at her place or someone else’s—after he hadn’t seen her for a while, he thought of the smell and of her. But what’s he talking about? That soap wouldn’t smell on a person an hour or so after she washed herself with it; it’s perfume he’s thinking of, which he doesn’t think she ever used, and it’s someone else he’s thinking of who always had on one particular identifying kind. He says “Did she show you any pictures of her kids or say what sex they were or how old?” and she says “No, only that she has them; two, but I said that. What else about her? Nothing, except that she’s a lovely woman in every way. I felt immediately at ease and in rapport with her and could see myself becoming good friends with her if I had the chance, and of course why you were so attracted to her.” “In love with her. I could have killed myself over her. I think I almost did once. No, that was over someone else, much earlier on.” “Well, you were young, with her and all of them before her, and since no person’s worth killing yourself over, good thing you didn’t.”
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