The Truth About Lorin Jones

by Alison Lurie

  “No thanks.” Polly sat for a moment frowning at the shimmer and glow of paint, fading now with the daylight; then she followed Jeanne into the kitchen. “What did you mean by that? Why do you think Garrett gave me Lorin’s painting?”

  “Well, isn’t it obvious? If the thing is worth as much as you say, it surely must have been intended as a bribe. Jones must have thought that after that you couldn’t possibly say anything nasty about him in your book.”

  “I don’t think — It wasn’t, not for a moment —” Polly began to sputter. “Garrett gave me the picture because he’s glad I’m writing about Lorin, and anyhow he didn’t want to look at that landscape. It upsets him, I told you why —” She tried to ignore Jeanne’s skeptical smile. “Anyhow, I’m not going to say anything nasty about him.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “I’ll tell the truth, that’s all.”

  Jeanne laughed for the first time, and Polly realized her meaning had been mistaken. In fact, she wasn’t planning to write anything unpleasant about Garrett Jones, because she no longer blamed him for Lorin’s problems with the New York art world. No doubt he did leave his wife alone too much, and fail to understand her. But can any man, let alone a critic, really understand a gifted woman? And he supported her professionally and financially; he loved her, in his way, and allowed her a fair amount of independence.

  “That’s the spirit,” Jeanne said, still giggling softly.

  “I haven’t got anything against Garrett Jones,” Polly insisted. “He’s been very decent to me, considering everything.”

  “Oh, come on. What has he done for you, when you get right down to it?” The kettle had begun to boil, and Jeanne’s temper was evidently also on the simmer. “He’s given you a dirty old half-finished picture —”

  “It’s not dirty.” Polly flushed; it was true that there was a crease and streak of dust down one edge of the paper; but now that it had been framed the damage was scarcely visible.

  “— and he’s tried to con you into ghostwriting his ridiculous self-important memoirs.”

  “Well, he didn’t succeed.” Polly was getting angry herself. They had had this conversation before, though in politer and vaguer language. “Anyhow, he thought he was doing me a favor. New York is full of art history graduates who would jump at the chance.”

  “Uh-huh.” Jeanne poured boiling water into an antique Japanese teapot, a gift from Betsy in happier days. “You’re kind of a pushover, you know, Polly,” she added. “All any man has to do is be a little polite and you’re convinced he’s a nice person.”

  Polly didn’t answer, though the retort sprang to mind that giving someone a painting worth several thousand dollars was not just being a little polite.

  “I’m surprised he didn’t try to seduce you into the bargain,” Jeanne continued. “He’s supposed to consider himself God’s gift to women.” Polly did not respond. “Or maybe he did?” she suggested.

  “Of course not,” she declared, adding an outright lie to an earlier lie of omission. If Jeanne heard the whole story she would expect Polly to forswear speaking to Garrett Jones again, which would be professionally very inconvenient, and she would probably blame her for not having slapped his face. Polly imagined herself slapping the face of Garrett Jones, a sleepy, half-tipsy, romantically foolish elderly man; the idea was unattractive. “But I think he liked me, that’s partly why he gave me the picture.”

  “I expect it was because you’d already softened him up so well. You’d sweet-talked him, the way I told you, and won his confidence.” Jeanne smiled, silently taking the credit.

  “Mm,” Polly murmured a little distractedly. It had just occurred to her that what had happened that night in Wellfleet might also be credited to Jeanne’s account. Because of her Machiavellian advice, her talk about staying cool and pretending to agree with whomever she was interviewing, all that first day Polly had acted falsely, suppressing her opinions, playing the passive, admiring female. No wonder Garrett had assumed that she admired him, that she would want to help write his memoirs; that she would welcome his wet kisses. She sighed aloud.

  “You sound exhausted,” Jeanne said.

  “Yeah, I’m a little tired.” She yawned; she had slept only about six hours the night before.

  “Why don’t you take a break?” Jeanne set her teacup in the sink. “You were up so early, you must be worn out.”

  “I could use a nap, maybe,” Polly admitted.

  “That’s a good idea.” Jeanne, in her turn, gave a little yawn and sigh. “I think I’ll join you; my students were exhausting today. And maybe we might tumble about a bit first,” she added, smiling, alluding to one of the couplets about the Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat that had now taken on a private erotic meaning for them:

  ... The gingham dog and the calico cat

  Wallowed this way and tumbled that...

  “Okay.” Polly only half smiled. Jeanne’s comments about Garrett had rubbed her pelt the wrong way.

  Half an hour later they lay entwined in a rumple of tan plaid sheets. Jeanne had fallen into a doze; but Polly was not at all sleepy, for some reason — hell, for the good reason that she was not satisfied.

  As they made love, Polly had suggested that Jeanne help her out a bit more vigorously. Jeanne had agreed at once: but soon her gestures became mechanical. Then her hand faltered and forgot its stroke; she lay back and began to purr, “Mm, that’s nice. Yes, lovely,” rising to a low crescendo of pleasure and gratitude. “Oh, wonderful,” she sighed finally. “Thank you, darling.” Then, sleepy and sated, she sank into a trance.

  Polly raised herself on one elbow and stared at her friend: her pale-lashed eyes, her fine tousled hair: her plump, satiny skin; her large soft white breasts and her small pink half-open mouth, from which an audible breath, too slight to be called a snore, issued rhythmically. Unlike Polly, Jeanne had an enviable ability to doze anytime and anywhere.

  It was natural to drift off after sex anyhow; when Polly was fully satisfied she too wanted to float away. Most women felt that. Men too: Jim Meyer sometimes — Polly stopped in mid-memory, annoyed that she should even think of Jim at a time like this.

  Of course, ever since he left she had been troubled with occasional heterosexual fantasies; but since she’d been to bed with Jeanne they’d been perversely more frequent. Maybe it was because she was aroused and not satisfied that she kept thinking about what sex used to be like. Even in the act of love with Jeanne, she would recall in vivid color some moment in her past, or even from her recent visit to Wellfleet.

  Why did she keep remembering that embarrassing evening, that awkward, undesired embrace? She wasn’t interested in Garrett Jones, that sad, pretentious old man. She hadn’t liked kissing him, didn’t want to kiss him again. What haunted her was what he reminded her of: the sensation of a man’s body pressed against hers, the flat, heavy hardness; the willingness to take charge, conveyed not in words but through gestures and murmurs of pleasure.

  It would be so much better if she could really love Jeanne, or some other woman. And maybe she could, Polly thought; she loved Lorin Jones, after all. But she couldn’t love Jeanne in the way she loved Lorin. Among other things, Jeanne wasn’t a genius.

  On the other hand, she was alive and here. And she was warm, affectionate, loyal. She loved Polly; she was thoughtful and kind, bringing her flowers and baking her sponge cakes. It’s true that the flowers, usually bought in subway stalls, never lasted very long, and that lately the cakes tended to be lopsided or sink in the middle. But the impulse was fresh and whole.

  Maybe it was all Polly’s fault; maybe she was basically a cold, guarded person, incapable of real warmth or intimacy even with another woman. Maybe that was why Jeanne was still depressed, untidy, touchy, and preoccupied. She sighed and flopped face down beside her friend, trying in vain to sleep.

  “Hey.” Jeanne yawned, slowly opened her eyes, and raised herself on one elbow, gazing at Polly. “It’s no good really, is it?” she said
after a moment.

  “What?”

  “I mean, it isn’t working. You’re still all tensed up.”

  “I — yeah. I guess it’s just the way I am.”

  “It’s not only you.” Jeanne reached down to stroke Polly’s forehead, smoothing back her crisp untidy curls. “It’s not right for me either. The problem is, I really love you as a friend, but you’re not my type.” She sighed.

  “What?” Polly turned on her side.

  “If you were, I would never have agreed to come and live here back in September; it would’ve been just too painful.”

  Startled, Polly half sat up, looking at her lover. “You mean you’re not attracted to me?” she said, her mouth remaining open in surprise.

  “Well, no. Not really.” Jeanne smiled apologetically, and shook her head. “The thing is, I mostly always go for thin confused young redheads or strawberry blondes, like Betsy. You’re much too sensible and grown-up for me.”

  And too old and too fat, Polly thought, wanting to laugh miserably.

  Jeanne must have noticed some change or spasm in her friend’s features, for she hastened to add, “I don’t mean you’re not awfully pretty, Polly dear. I’m sure there’s lots of women who would be interested in you. Ida said to me once —”

  “Then why did you suggest —” Polly cried, sitting up to face her friend, repelled by the idea of having been discussed in this, way with Ida.

  “Well, I suppose because I was so miserable and frustrated. And so were you. But it really wasn’t a good idea, you know. You’ve been wonderfully nice to me. The trouble is, I’m still horribly in love with Betsy, even though I realize I’ll probably never see her again. But anything else feels as if I was being unfaithful to her.”

  “I see.” Polly still wanted to laugh or cry; the whole thing seemed to her like a bad joke.

  “Anyhow, darling, you’re not really all that attracted to me either.” Jeanne smiled.

  “I am, but — At least —” Polly gave a long nervous sigh. “I just have a different idea of what it’s like to make love, I suppose. But I thought you —”

  “I know.” Now Jeanne laughed out loud, lightly and a little sadly. “We were both being polite to each other.” I guess so.

  “I tell you what. Let’s get out of bed and go to a really silly movie. Something with wild animals in it, or aliens from outer space.”

  “Okay. I’ll find the Times and see what’s on uptown.” Polly stood up.

  “You know what, though,” she added, turning back in the doorway. “If you’re really still in love with Betsy, maybe you should call her. I mean, it could be that’s what she’s waiting for.”

  “Maybe,” Jeanne said, her expression darkening. “Or maybe not.” She picked up the pillow on which she had lain and thumped it meditatively. “All right. I’ll think about it.”

  KENNETH FOSTER,

  Painter

  Yes, I checked my records: Laurie Zimmern was in my second-year painting class in the spring of nineteen-forty-five, at Bennington.

  I recall her perfectly. My legs may be shaky, but my mind is quite clear. Besides, I always remember my gifted students.

  There weren’t so many as you might think. If I had one or two out of a class of twenty I counted myself lucky.

  No, you don’t know right away. It’s not as easy as that. You see, it’s not just ability that makes for success. If you teach for as long as I did, you realize that in any year a few of your students may have real talent, and a few may have real ambition: the passionate drive to be an artist. In my second-year class at Bennington most of them usually didn’t have either, not so as one could notice.

  They were nice enough girls. Several of them went on to marry well, and collect paintings fairly intelligently, because people like me and Garrett Jones had taught them a little something. But they weren’t artists.

  Yes, talent and drive; to make it in the art world you need lots of both. If you only have the one, it’s a tragedy. I’ve known so many young people who wanted desperately to be painters. They’d have done anything for that, given up anything, worked night and day for years, but they simply hadn’t sufficient gift. You could see that their entire lives would be a misery.

  Oh yes, I’ve tried to tell them, especially at the beginning. It doesn’t do any good; all that happens is that they class you as an evil life-destroying philistine. They add you to the list of the people who killed John Keats and let van Gogh die penniless, and so forth.

  And then sometimes, what’s almost worse, you get the ones who have the talent but not the drive. They let their parents or their wives or their husbands talk them out of trying to become serious painters, because it’s not safe or respectable. They go to law school instead or into business or just have babies. The hours of my life I’ve wasted talking to those students! It’s awful to contemplate.

  No, with Laurie Zimmern it was different. She had the ability: a wonderful, very subtle, color sense, and her drawing was exquisite. And she wanted to paint tremendously; I think that was almost all she ever wanted. But the world outside of the studio terrified her.

  Well, for instance, I remember the reception for the Bennington student show at the end of that term. There was quite a crowd. Everybody in the department was there, naturally, and a fair number of relatives and friends and townspeople. It was the first time Laurie’d ever exhibited, and she was so frightened she literally couldn’t speak.

  Yes, she did gain a little more confidence over the next year or so. But I didn’t think she’d ever have enough to make it. Only, you see, she was smart. She wanted to be a famous painter, and she wanted it fast. And she was intelligent enough to know what she was like, and that she desperately needed somebody to promote her work and stand between her and the world.

  Well, that year, her junior year, she had three paintings in the student show, and it was clear to anyone who had any sense that they were by far the best of the lot. Garrett wanted to meet the artist, so I introduced them. I still blame myself for that, rather, though of course how could I have known? Anyhow, they met. Laurie saw her chance, and she took it.

  Single-minded. You can say that again. She certainly didn’t let anything stand in her way. Or anyone. His wife meant less to her than an old paint rag. You know he was married then, I assume.

  And I suppose you also know that he was married to my present wife.

  Oh yes, he was.

  No, if you want to know, that doesn’t surprise me at all. Garrett never mentions it now, but he and Roz were married for seven years. When he got the appointment at Bennington she gave up a first-rate job in New York to go with him, and took one in the dean’s office at half the salary.

  Oh yes, I knew them well. Until Laurie Zimmern appeared on the scene we were good friends, the three of us, we did everything together.

  I loved them both. They were fine-looking people, big and fair and full of energy. And extremely happy together. Roz had such warmth and wit and high spirits, she was always ready for anything, and Garrett was brilliant. I was only a few years younger, but I looked up to him intellectually: he knew so much, and his artistic taste and judgment were always impeccable.

  Well, you see, another thing I’ve learned over the years is that some men, even brilliant men, are hopelessly weak where women are concerned. And of course there’s a certain sort of woman who can sense this, and use it to her own advantage.

  I don’t think it had anything whatsoever to do with love, at least not on her side. If you want to know my opinion, the only thing Laurie Zimmern ever loved was her painting.

  Oh, I suppose she was beautiful. Well, she would have had to be, to interest Garrett, and she would have had to be gifted.

  Yes, it’s true people often say that. And I can’t deny there’s a similarity, especially in her early paintings. But even then Laurie’s work always had a kind of mystical, surrealist side to it that mine never had — that I never wanted it to have, either.

  No. It wasn’t
a matter of influence; it was something more basic, I think: a similar way of seeing the world. Of course I did teach her some technical things. And I suggested the names of a few past artists whose work she might look at. That’s really all you can do for someone like that. It’s ironic, you know: it’s not the best students one can actually teach, it’s those who are merely clever and talented.

  Very good. And if she hadn’t gone off the deep end and run away with that ridiculous young man — if she’d lived — I think she would be recognized now as one of the most important painters of her generation. Yes, absolutely.

  I don’t see any contradiction. Genius has nothing to do with character; some of the greatest artists have been saints, and others have been bastards.

  Oh yes. We see a good deal of Garrett and Abigail. At first Roz didn’t even want to hear his name, and one couldn’t blame her. But after Laurie left him and he remarried it was easier. We both like Abigail very much. Besides, it’s a long time ago now. And Roz is such a wonderful, generous woman: she doesn’t bear a grudge. As she says, an elephant never forgets, but who wants to be an elephant?

  Of course, it will never be quite the same, but what ever is in this life? The four of us get on very well. Last summer we went on one of those Swan cruises together. We toured the Greek islands, and I did quite a lot of watercolors.

  Yes, it was a great success. If my legs hold up we’re going to try one to the hill towns of northern Italy this coming spring.

  9

  ON THE NIGHT BEFORE Thanksgiving, in her stepfather’s house in Rochester, Polly lay in bed in the attic room that had been hers since the age of nine. The steep slope of the ceiling and its freckled, flaking whitewash were as familiar to her as her own skin, now also beginning to freckle and flake. Her childhood books were still on the shelves behind the door, her old posters — Monet and the Beatles — still on the walls. The burnt-sienna homespun curtains that she had hemmed herself were sun-faded, but they caught on the handle of the casement window in the same old way.