“Should I deal you in, Joey?” Claudia calls from the living room.
Trapped. I go back inside, and everyone turns to hear my answer. I tell them about the early meeting with David, apologize, and drift toward the door.
“You’re going to miss Mickey,” Louis says with great disappointment.
“I’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon.”
“He’s doing some shows in New Jersey over the weekend so he’ll be leaving early in the morning. He’ll be here in less than an hour.”
“I can’t, Louis. I’m sorry, but I’m exhausted.”
Sweet Louis sees how much I want to leave and says, “Sure. Don’t worry about it. We’ll all get together for dinner on Monday night.”
“Terrific. Good night, everyone. And forgive me for that little tantrum. I guess I’m just overworked.”
Everyone says forget it, don’t worry, they know how hard I’ve been working, other kindly comments.
“Call me when you get a chance tomorrow,” Claudia says and gets up to kiss me good night.
I’m feeling a little better now that it’s over and I can go home. These are my best friends, and I love them. I must really be tired. Just as I twist the handle to open the door, the bell rings. I pull it open.
“David! What are you doing here?”
“Hi, Jo,” he says, bending down to kiss me. “I got done early and thought if I rushed I’d make it before the game broke up, and I did . . . Hello, group,” he says and taking me by the shoulders walks me back into the room.
I feel an instant bad mixture of disappointment and guilt, but when Louis says that I was feeling tired and was just about to leave I conjure up a cheery face and claim to have gotten a second wind.
We both sit down to play, and David’s pleasure has a genuine palliative effect on my nerves, and my game improves. We stay for another hour or so. Mickey never arrives. I begin to wilt noticeably, and David suggests we leave.
I can’t ever remember being so aware of my moods or having them swing in such wide arcs. Unexpectedly, for no reason, the easy pleasure I was feeling at Louis’ tightens to tension at my own front door. David must see it in my face because once inside he takes me in his arms and embraces me with great care and love. It comforts me, and I respond by sliding my arms around him and holding on tightly. As soon as he lets go I feel lost again, as if I’d slipped anchor and floated out alone. What’s the matter with me? I seem to be at the mercy of emotions I neither create nor understand.
While I stand like a stranger in the middle of my own living room, David pours us both a brandy and says, “Come on, Jo, we can drink this in bed.”
He carries both glasses into the bedroom. I follow obediently.
Wise man that he is, he asks me no questions, just hands me my glass, and together we lie back on the bed, sipping the brandy. It’s quiet except for the soft drone of the air conditioner. I watch its breeze lift the edge of the curtains, gently rippling the curls and waves of the lace. That graceful movement, the warmth of the brandy, and a loving body weighing down the mattress next to me all help soothe and ease my anxiety. My fears begin to quiet and seem less threatening. Now is the time to exorcise them. Say them aloud to David.
“Something’s wrong,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says. “Can you tell me about it?”
“I’ll try, but I’m not exactly sure myself. I feel different lately—very interior and not good. Without reason I’ll suddenly slip far down into what feels like a deep cavern of misery and unhappiness. It’s more threatening than depression. It’s as if some terrible revelation hangs over me ready to unfold and crush me. David, I’m so scared.”
“Talk to me about it, Johanna, let me help you.”
“I don’t feel in control of myself, and that unnerves me. I can’t stop the misery from taking hold of me, and it’s happening more and more often.”
“When does it happen?”
“Anytime. Even in my dreams.”
“Do you have any idea what the threat is?”
“No. None. Except somehow I know it’s always been there, but far away in the distance. Now, these last few months, I feel it here, with me.”
“Could it be connected to the book?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“You can’t eliminate the possibility so completely. Things were pretty good until you started writing this book.”
“Anything that’s bad is immediately the book to you. There are other things that have happened in the last few months. Our wedding decision is one example.” I haven’t even finished the sentence when I regret the words. And one look at David’s face, and I know how brutal the blow was.
“Well, Johanna, tell me. Is that it?”
I feel him draw away without moving.
“No.” I put my face against his chest. “It’s not that. I love you and I want to marry you. But it’s not the book either. I don’t know what it is. Part of it is a remote feeling as if I’m removed from everyone.”
“From me?”
I almost smile. Suddenly everything falls into normal perspective. Here I am worrying that I’m going mad, and my lay analyst’s feelings are hurt. The truth of it is I have been feeling somewhat alienated from David lately, but obviously he’ll be crushed if I say so, so I lie. “Not from you, but certainly from everyone else.”
And now I don’t feel like going on. I’m back where I started. Alone.
David wants to know more about my fears, but the trust I felt before is gone. I claim confusion and uncertainty. He persists, and I withdraw further. A new element of resentment has emerged, and we both feel it. Positions harden, and we find ourselves teetering on the edge of an argument. But neither of us wants that, and in an unspoken agreement we both manage to sublimate the growing passions into sexual expression.
As we make love, our closeness grows, and I feel a fullness of love for David and, with our bodies joined, a solid defense against any assault.
Clutching, I hold him into me, my fingers slipping over the sweat of his back, my legs wrapped and locked around his. And then from nowhere a frantic desperation that has no sexuality to it speeds my pace and I throw myself against him, driving him faster and harder until in one last great thrust he spends himself within me and instantly I panic. He’ll leave me now. He’ll take his body from mine, and I’ll be alone again and vulnerable. But he must sense the fear that stiffens my body and, still holding me tightly, turns onto his back, carrying me with him. We stay wrapped together until his closeness calms me and the fright fades.
“We have to talk, Johanna, there’s no other way.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Then start with the writing. Is it going badly?”
“No, not at all.”
“Are you enjoying it?”
“I’m absorbed by it. It’s extremely demanding. I’m looking into the characters of unusual people, characters with complex and sometimes dark and ugly sides to them. It’s, well, exhausting, emotionally, and yet there are times I get so caught up in them that I can feel the adrenaline pumping through my body, and it’s almost impossible to withdraw from them and return to me. Am I explaining it right? I don’t know. I suppose I enjoy it. I know it’s something I have to keep working at until the job is done.”
“Couldn’t you put it aside for a while?”
“Uh uh. You know me, David. I have to finish what I start. Besides, it’s never going to be any different, so putting it aside now really means abandoning the project forever. I can’t do that. I have a contract. I’ve taken an advance. It would be out of the question.”
“It’s not out of the question if it becomes self-destructive.”
“I admit it’s a strain, but it’s not that serious. Trouble is, I lead such a fat-cat comfortable life that I’m just not used to real hard work. The trick probably is to increase the Valium temporarily and stop talking about it so much.”
“You take enough Valium.” He sounds so serious that
I’m taken aback.
I sit up to see his face better. “Are you kidding?”
“No. I’m dead serious. I’ve noticed lately that you’ve been popping them like candy.”
“David! Since when did you become my Valium monitor?” I make no attempt to hide my annoyance.
“How many do you take a day?” he asks, ignoring my response.
“I’m not going to answer that. Not because I take so many but simply because I consider it a terrible intrusion.”
“Four? Five?”
“Stop it. Please.”
Now David slides up to a sitting position on the bed. Somehow, even in his nakedness, he seems to take on a starchy formality. Jesus, he looks like his mother. Incredibly he starts to lecture me about pills and alcohol and combining them with work, and I’m astounded at how closely I’ve been watched. And angry.
My voice has an edge to it. “To begin with, when I feel that I am exceeding normal functional use of any of these things I will deal with it as I have always dealt with my problems in the past—with self-control and intelligence and a strong will to survive. I really take offense at being called self-destructive because I am not now and never have been that way. As far as I’m concerned, the case is closed, and I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“Or Avrum Maheely either?”
“Why do you drag him into this? I never said I wouldn’t talk about Avrum.”
“Good. Let’s talk about him.”
“There’s nothing to say. He’s a character in my book, that’s all.”
“Tell me about him.”
“No, you’re too hostile to him.”
“Too hostile to a murderer? How could that be?”
I don’t answer. Instead I grab my robe and put it on. I would pour another brandy, but he’s made me self-conscious about drinking for the moment. With the cool silk of the robe against my skin, I feel a chill and turn down the air conditioner a notch. I don’t want to sit next to him in bed, and the only other chair in the room is covered with a week’s accumulation of discarded clothes. No choice. I flip the clothes on the floor and sit down. I must have enough anger on my face to make him feel uncomfortable about his own nakedness, and he pulls the sheet over his genitals. Now we’re both less vulnerable.
“What would you like to know about the fictional character in my book?”
“What does he look like?”
“What kind of question is that? You’ve seen his picture dozens of times. You know what he looks like.”
“I know what the real Maheely looks like.”
“David, what kind of a game are you playing?”
“You’re right, Johanna, I guess I do sound facetious. But I don’t feel that way. I’m concerned about you. I feel you withdrawing from me into some kind of secretive life. An unhappy life. Things are disturbing you and when I try to get you to bring them out—to help you—you close up even tighter. We’ve always trusted each other with everything, but now—I don’t think that’s true anymore.”
“Just be patient with me, David.” I go over to the bed and hug him. “There’s nothing seriously wrong. I swear it. And I’m not taking too many pills, and Maheely is just a fictional character to me, and the book isn’t anything but a lot of hard, sort of unpleasant work. But I’ve made the commitment, and you can help me by just seeing me through.”
“In other words, stay out.”
I shrug. It’s the time to be honest, for now at least. “Can you trust me?”
He’s silent for a moment, and still. Then I feel his hand on my hair, caressing it, giving me his answer, and I move up against his chest to his mouth and kiss his soft, sweet-tasting lips, and our mouths join, filling each other with love. How can I doubt this man? There’s no one else on earth who means more to me. Why am I not trusting him the way I should?
“I almost forgot,” he says.
“Ugh.”
“Not to worry, this is a nice surprise.”
“You got the paintings.”
“I had the boy from the office pick them up. But it’s not that.”
“Better?”
“I think so. My parents wanted to get you something special. And completely on their own, without consulting me, they invited Sephra, Wes, and the kids to the wedding.”
I shoot upright. “I told you they can’t come.”
“And sent them tickets. They’re something, aren’t they? I told them they couldn’t have given you a better gift. Right?”
It’s as though I’ve been punched in the stomach. How grotesque!
I guess my true reaction shows on my face because David looks shocked.
“What’s wrong?”
“They shouldn’t have done that.”
“It’s true, even with the reduced fares it’s still a lot of money, but that’s what they wanted to do. They really care about you, Johanna.”
“Then they should have asked me first.”
David looks confused. “They wanted it to be a surprise. In fact, I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
“Since when?” His face tightens.
“Not when it comes to people.”
“Hey, hold it a minute. What’s going on here? What are you talking about? This is your only sister. Is it the money, or don’t you want her to come?”
“I just wanted to be consulted first.”
“I asked you about Sephra a few weeks ago, and you told me she couldn’t afford to come. You didn’t want her to spend the money. Is that true?”
“Partially.”
“What!”
“Well, I had other reasons.”
“Goddamn it, Johanna! More secrets. Or is it just plain, simple lying?”
We’re standing on either side of the bed, shouting at each other. And it’s too late to stop it now.
I scream at him, “What do you want from me! There are some things I want to keep to myself. Jesus, you’re suffocating me!” With tears blinding me, I grab the first clothes I can reach, sweeping them up off the floor and throwing them on. David stands next to the bed, staring at me as I unleash a torrent of cruel, recriminating words at him. I hear myself telling him to leave me alone, to stop running my life—anything else that comes into my head. Still shouting, I zip up my jeans, grab the first pair of shoes in reach, and fly out of the room. My keys are on the hall table. I snatch them up without slowing down and head out the door, slamming it hard behind me. I can’t stop long enough to wait for the elevator so I use the steps, running down them as though I’m being chased. I’m still furious and crying when I hit the street, but the emptiness of it and the sudden realization of the lateness of the hour quiet me. I stand still for a couple of minutes just trying to catch my breath. Not thinking.
Chapter Fifteen
I start walking. Heading down Sixty-fourth Street toward Columbus Avenue. I’m so angry that I’m scarcely aware, much less afraid, of the dark, empty street. I look around a couple of times to see if David is following me. He isn’t. Good, I don’t want him to. I want to be alone.
At Columbus I turn uptown. It’s about 2:30 a.m. Saturday, and Columbus Avenue is swinging. In the eight years I’ve lived in this neighborhood I don’t think I’ve ever taken this walk alone at this hour. It feels good. Free. I’m feeling better, good enough to be amused at my outfit. The jeans are OK but hardly the right match for my best silk blouse, badly wrinkled from spending half the week under a pile of clothes. I wish I had been smart enough to grab my running shoes, probably a necessity for a sojourn down Columbus Avenue at this hour. Instead, I’m wearing killer heels. Well, at least they’re a match.
Thinking about what just happened with David will get me nowhere, so I focus on a more imminent problem. I don’t want Sephra to come. I’d made up my mind weeks ago, maybe years ago, and certainly this last time in San Francisco. I don’t want her in my new life, and there’s only one thing to do. It’s three hours earlier in California, only eleven-thirty, a
little late, but I decide to call. At the end of the block I can see a bar called the Windmill. I’ll call from there.
It’s dark inside, older and shabbier than it looks from the outside. One glimpse at the customers and I can see it’s not one of the four billion new singles’ places that have exploded up and down Columbus Avenue in the last five or six years. This is one of the leftover neighborhood bars. Good. I’m not likely to meet anyone I know.
And it’s old enough to have a closed phone booth. Though it’s been only a couple of weeks since I called Sephra on the Coast, I’ve forgotten the number and have to get it from information. I suppose that says something. Not to know your only sister’s phone number.
Sephra answers on the second ring. I hastily explain the abrupt change of plans that prevented me from seeing her in San Francisco, saying that I’d gotten an unexpected call from someone for a critical interview for my book and that I’d had to fly home immediately. She understands perfectly, she says, and I experience a twinge of dismay at how glibly I’ve learned to lie. She was, of course, completely surprised at the news of my coming marriage, gushes with congratulations, and promises to come East a day or two early to help me in any way she can. I will, she says, probably be overwhelmed with details of the wedding.
“And I think it’s incredibly generous of the Agars to have sent us tickets,” she says, “but we don’t feel we can accept such a gift. After all, Johanna, it’s not as though we can’t afford it. Frankly, we were puzzled. Why do you suppose they did it?”
“Sephra. . . . This is very hard for me to say. . . .”
“My God, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, really, it’s just about the wedding.”
“Johanna, don’t worry, we’re not going to take the tickets. Actually it made me very uncomfortable. . . .”
“It’s not the tickets.”
There’s a moment of silence, and then Sephra’s voice changes tone and becomes distant. “You don’t want us to come.”
Save Johanna! Page 15