“Is Dad going to marry his mistress?” asks Billy.
The sherry sputters. “You’re not supposed to know about that.”
“I’m not a kid, Ma. For Chrissakes.”
“William Marshall. I don’t care what sort of language they allow you at college these days, but in this house, we speak like civilized human beings.”
He picks himself up abruptly from the sofa. Billy’s always moved around like that, in sudden, sharp movements like the chop of an axe. I don’t know where he gets it from. There’s nothing sharp about Sylvo, unless you count the pressed edges of his clothing, and his valet’s responsible for those.
Billy jolts to a stop before the enormous gilt-framed Church landscape that hangs on the wall opposite the fireplace. Some Adirondack view or another. “It’s sort of rich, in a way. You two getting a divorce, at the same time that Uncle Ox decides to get married.”
“A reversal of the natural order, you mean?”
“Something like that. I guess you could call it irony.”
“Modern life is packed with irony, I’m told.”
He lifts his hand and fingers the bumps and swirls on the gilded frame. “Nothing’s the same. Not since Tommy died.”
“No.”
“Things used to be happy around here. We used to have people over. You and Dad and all those dinner parties. Remember those parties you used to throw?”
“Such fun.”
“Everybody used to come. Isn’t this a grand place for a party? All these rooms, all this space. All this pretty art. Now it’s all going to waste. Everything’s going to waste, the whole world.” Billy whirls and points a pair of accusing eyebrows in my direction. “You’re letting it rot, because you can’t get over Tommy being gone.”
“That’s not true.”
“When was the last time you threw a party around here?”
“We’ve had people over, all the time.”
“But a party, Ma.”
I set down the empty glass and unfold from the sofa, as I used to do, except it doesn’t offer quite the same effect, now that he’s so much taller than I am. “That’s got nothing to do with your brother.”
Billy meets my eye for a second or two, and then he hangs his head down toward his drink. Swish, swish. “I’m sorry, Ma. I didn’t mean it that way. I just miss the old days, that’s all. Just wish we could go back to how things were, before the rotten war came along and ruined everything. Go back to when we were happy.”
“Darling, parties don’t make people happy.”
“Well, they’re a start, aren’t they? At least a party gives you the chance to pretend you’re happy.”
He swallows down the last of his martini in the flick of an elbow, and I observe him minutely as he strides back to the cabinet and pours himself another. He’s very good at it. Coats the ice with vermouth, strains it back out, adds the gin. Probably had lots of practice, and yet he’s only just nineteen. About the same age as Ox’s girl. Wasn’t Prohibition supposed to put a stop to all this expert drinking? I distinctly remember one of those dour firebrands promising something like that: a return to a godly, sober family life, everyone gathered by the matrimonial fireside, sipping their . . . well, whatever it was you sipped, when you couldn’t have a real drink. Milk? Lemonade?
Now look at us, a couple of years later. We’re a nation of incipient alcoholics, even the youth. Even especially the youth. I suppose that’s irony, too.
“Maybe you’re right, darling,” I say.
“About what?”
“Maybe this apartment could stand a good party.”
THE TELEPHONE JINGLES JUST AS I’m headed for the door, valise in hand. I attempt to sneak out anyway, but the housekeeper pounds after me. It’s your brother, Mrs. Marshall! He says it’s important!
“She wants to break off the engagement, Sis,” Ox tells me, tone of disbelief.
I close my eyes. Refuse to panic.
“Oh, Ox. What did you say to her?”
“Nothing! I did exactly as you said. I brought flowers and chocolate. I talked about a honeymoon in South America, sunshine, the works. I asked her to set a date. And do you know what she did? She practically threw me out the door.”
“Maybe she doesn’t like South America.”
“I can’t believe you’re joking at a time like this.”
“Ox, there’s nothing to worry about. She’s just young, that’s all. Maybe she’s had a chat with her mother about the duties of marriage, and it’s given her a case of nerves.”
“Her mother’s dead, Sisser.”
“An aunt, then. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
A whooshy sigh at the other end. “You’re certain?”
“Absolutely. It’s a terribly nerve-wracking idea, for a sheltered girl like that.”
“You don’t think she’s frigid, do you?”
“Frigid? What on earth does that mean?”
“I mean maybe she doesn’t like sex.”
“Ox, my goodness, she’s a virgin of nineteen years. How does she know if she likes sex or not? For heaven’s sake. That’s your job. Make her like it. You’ve got a couple of decades worth of know-how, I should think. Use them to your advantage.” I tap one fingernail against the base of the telephone. It’s the ancient Western Electric candlestick we keep in the hallway; not nearly so nice as the Grabaphone in Sylvo’s study, and certainly not as private. There is a niche in the wall, specially designed for telephone use, but you’ve got to stand against the wall and make it snappy, because there’s nowhere to sit. My diamond bracelet slides down my wrist to clink against the nickel plating, and I add (inspired): “A bit of jewelry wouldn’t hurt, either. Jewelry works wonders on the female nerves.”
“I can’t afford jewelry.”
“Ask Mother for some of hers. She never wears it, anyway. Tell her it’s for the party I’m going to throw you.”
“What party?”
“Didn’t I promise you two angels an engagement party? It’s going to be the show of the season. One week from today. No! Two weeks. Everyone’s going to be there, and I’d just like to see your little bird slip her traces after that. Now I really must be off, darling. Keep your chin up. Loss of confidence is fatal in these matters. Take her out on the town, show her a ripping time or two. Jazz conquers virtue, I’ve heard.”
There’s another despondent sigh. “I don’t know, Sis. I was thinking maybe I should give her some room to breathe. Think it over, realize she can’t do without me.”
“No!” The word bursts straight into the mouthpiece, causing a static fizz to fill the wires, causing operators up and down Manhattan Island to jump right out of their seats. “Absolutely not, Ox. Don’t even think of it. You’ve got to keep her right under your wing, do you hear me? Don’t let her spend a single evening alone.”
“Sis, she’ll be sick of me!”
“Now, what kind of talk is that? You’re getting married. You’ll have plenty of time to ignore each other after the ceremony, trust me.”
“But—”
“I’m not going to hear another word of this, Ox. Now’s not the time to give up. You just march right back there and take the girl in your arms and kiss her senseless.”
“But I—”
“Good-bye, Ox.”
I drop the earpiece in the cradle and press my back against the wall. But just for a second or two. I wasn’t raised to slouch.
THE FIRST TIME I VISITED the Boy in his brand-new Village apartment, I was horrified. He picked it out himself, of course; he wouldn’t hear of me tramping around the Village on his behalf, and the result, I suppose, was exactly what you’d expect.
I didn’t say anything. As far as the Boy knew, I was charmed by the bohemian furniture and the fin de siècle draperies, the what-once-was burgundy velvet and the more-hole-than Oriental rugs. Anyway, the furnishings weren’t the object of the exercise, were they? And who needs plates when you’re too busy to eat.
But I took note, nonetheless—a co
mprehensive mental inventory, you might say—and over the course of the next year and a half I’ve smuggled in various household comforts, one by one, like a modern-day Ram Dass, pretending not to do a thing while the Boy pretends not to notice. Satisfactory on all sides, wouldn’t you think?
Why, even now, packed inside my valise, I’ve got a stack of fresh linens and some fine French soap, which I intend to distribute discreetly before the Boy arrives home from work, so we can maintain our pleasant little pantomime. But the Boy, it seems, has beaten me to it. The door is already unlocked, and when I push it open and peek around the corner, he’s standing in his shirtsleeves by the window, looking over the jagged Himalayan range of rooftops as if contemplating a possible crossing.
I set down the valise next to my shoes. “Hello there, Boyo. You’re home early.”
“As ordered.” He turns away and leans over the lamp table to stub out a cigarette. “How are you, Theresa?”
I remove my hat and gloves and toss them on a credenza that used to decorate the back hallway at Windermere. “Billy’s heard the news. He stopped by to console me.”
“So it’s decided, then?”
“Of course it’s decided. Sylvo isn’t the kind of man who second-guesses himself.” I unbutton my coat and slide it down my arms, and it’s uncharacteristic of the Boy that he doesn’t cross the room to assist me in this maneuver. There’s a hat stand near the door, and I place the coat on one of the hooks and turn to my lover, straightening my dress, patting my cheeks, like a nervous young bride.
The Boy, naturally, hasn’t moved a muscle. One hand sits on his hips, knuckles first, and the other, I now perceive, holds a drink of some kind. Nearly finished. The light is already dying behind him, and a terrible shadow crosses his face, as if he’s transformed into stone. Maybe he has. Maybe it’s just a granite Boy who confronts me now, a carved statue without blood or bone or beating heart. Maybe I’m too late for him.
I nod to the glass. “I don’t suppose you’ve got another one of those?”
“Of course.” He speaks! He moves! He makes his way to the kitchen, leaving me to contemplate the vast difference between his style of movement and Billy’s, and how strange it was that two young men born less than five years apart could evolve along such divergent paths. The apartment is chilly, and I realize that the Boy hasn’t lit a fire. The radiator bangs fruitlessly near the window. I cross my arms and tell myself it’s because of the cold.
Such is the miniature nature of the kitchen, I catch glimpses of the Boy as he goes about his work, moving precisely between icebox and cabinet. When he returns, I extract one hand to accept the drink, and I clink it against the Boy’s own glass, which is newly filled. “To fresh beginnings,” I say, and to everyone’s shock, my own most of all, a pair of tears springs in tandem from my eyes.
“Oh, Theresa,” the Boy says, and he sets down the drink and gathers my poor sobbing self into his arms, against his chest, which is so much larger and warmer and substantial than my own, a thick rock shelter of a chest. “Oh, Theresa,” he says again, caressing my back while the tears continue to fall, inexplicable and unchecked and entirely—I swear it—unstudied. “You’ll be all right. We’ll be all right.”
YOU MAY OR MAY NOT have believed me this morning, when I told the Boy he was my first love affair. Regards the truth, I’ll let you decide for yourself. But I will say this, beyond all doubt: I was the Boy’s first lover.
He didn’t actually say so, of course, and I didn’t ask. (One doesn’t ask a man a question like that, if he doesn’t volunteer the information beforehand.) But I couldn’t help noticing the hesitant way in which he unfastened my dress for the first time. The wondering way in which he beheld each new fragment of exposed skin, as if he were translating an ancient and unknown poem into his native language, with the aid of a secret dictionary. Why, he hardly even knew how to kiss, at first. I had to nudge his lips open and demonstrate the tender inner workings of the caress, though—to be fair—he caught on like lightning, once he got the general idea.
I unwrapped him carefully, like the gift he was, and he shuddered when my fingertips encountered his skin, as if he thought I might hurt him. I don’t think either of us said a word. The bedroom was hot and quite small—I can’t quite remember how we got there—and I sat down on the bed and kissed his stomach, and that was when his muscles convulsed. That was when he came, helpless, into my possession. The moon was full and blew straight through the window onto his skin, and I thought I had never seen anything so new and perfect, so utterly clean, as the naked Boy before me. I kissed his ribs and the scars on his chest, I rose on my knees and kissed his ropy shoulders and warm neck, while my hands slid downward to encompass the curve of his buttocks.
He’s mine, I thought.
I told him to open his eyes, and he did. The pupils were dilated, the encircling irises gray in the moonlight. I took his hands and showed him where to touch me, and how to touch me, but when his poor starved fingertips shook against the tips of my breasts, I could see he wasn’t going to last another minute. So I drew him down on the bed and opened my merciful legs, and here’s the funny thing about Nature: the Boy knew what to do with me after that. He found the rhythm in an instant, he drove and drove in the manner of a tender machine, watching my face the whole time, expression of wonder and torture, and my God, I can still feel the way my flesh hurtled at last. I can still perceive the dampness of his skin. I can still hear my cry, and his.
Afterward, in the silver quiet, I knew regret, the way you feel when you walk across a field of snow and ravage its immaculate surface, and yet your regret cannot quite swallow your primitive pleasure in the act of desecration. I suppose it helped that the pleasure was mutual. When at last he lifted his head, I was relieved to see that he was smiling. Thank you, he said, and I replied—what else?—Any time.
Any time turned out to be fifteen minutes later, and then twice more before the early midsummer dawn. By then he was practically an expert. Immensely pleased with himself, like the Boy he was. Immensely pleased, too, with the snowy multitude of footprints now corrupting his formerly pristine skin, and when I woke, rather groggily, I discovered that the smell of bacon and coffee had roused me. A new day had crept over the horizon, and the Boy was making me breakfast.
BUT MIDSUMMER IS LONG PAST, and now it’s the middle of winter. The cold drives us under the covers, and the Boy’s shirt still dangles from his shoulders as he hovers above me, eyes closed, in the familiar old rhythm. The silence afterward isn’t because there’s too much to say, but because there’s too little.
Still, I nestle myself into the warmth of his side. The heaviness of his arm comforts me. There’s no smell on earth I love more than the scent of his skin, and the tobacco that burns at his fingertips into the solemn air of the bedroom, and I cannot lose all this. I cannot lose the Boy, because then there will be nothing left of me.
I suppose we fall asleep. I’m considering how hungry I am, and how I can’t possibly move, can’t willingly extract myself from the Boy’s embrace in order to rummage dinner from the shelves of the kitchen. A terrible conundrum. Then I’m opening my eyes, and the air is much darker than it should be, and that sound in the other room turns out to be a ringing telephone.
I ought to nudge the Boy awake, but he’s sleeping so peacefully I haven’t the heart to disturb him. (Or so I tell myself, anyway.) I lift his arm away and rise from the bed, taking the dressing gown from the chair as I go, and the telephone is still jangling by the time I reach the living room.
“Hello,” I say, just that single word, and the first thing I notice is the sound of jazz in the background, a tune with which I’m familiar. The band at the Christopher Club plays it all the time. The trumpet player—a man I much admire—favors that very riff, up and down a minor scale, ending in a mournful question.
Somewhere inside the music lies a sweet young voice that hesitates before it replies. “Hello? Hello? I’m sorry, I think I have the wrong connection. I
was trying to reach SPRing 5682.”
I wrap the cord around my hand and stare out the window at the purple twilight, the small and desolate lights flickering from the surrounding buildings. “No, you have the right number.”
She hesitates again. “Is this Mr. Rofrano’s residence?”
“Yes, it is. But I’m afraid he’s fast asleep at the moment, the little dear. Would you like me to wake him for you?”
“No, thank you.”
“Shall I give him a message?”
“No! No, thank you. Good—good evening.”
The line goes dead, and I replace the handset in the cradle. The lamp is still burning on the nearby table, and beneath the lamp sits my drink, golden, untouched, the ice chips melted away. The bedroom door stands ajar, about a foot of black space.
I cross the room and close the door.
When I return to the telephone, I lift the handset and wait for the operator, ever so patiently.
“Exchange and number, please.”
“ATWater 2203.”
My brother answers right away, for which mercy I thank God. I speak softly. “Ox, darling. I don’t suppose you’ve got your armor all shined up, have you?”
“My armor?”
“Because there’s a damsel in great distress down here at the Christopher Club, probably crying into her juice this very instant, and I think you’d better ride on in to rescue her at the earliest possible opportunity.”
“A damsel? Do you mean Sophie? At the Christopher Club?”
“It’s my best guess, I’m afraid.”
“But how—”
“How isn’t the point at the moment, darling. The poor little thing. What’s important is that someone rescues her, the sooner the better.”
A Certain Age Page 19