The cats stroke themselves on Megan’s ankles while she hangs her shawl in a closet by the door. “How about a glass of wine?” she says.
“Sure. Thanks.”
The cats follow her into the kitchen. You read the bookshelves In the examination of personal libraries is an entire hermeneutics of character analysis. Megan has functional blond maple shelves with a little bit of everything in them. The shelves themselves are just untidy enough to suggest actual use and just neat enough to indicate respect for the equipment. The books are organized according to broad categories: a shelf of poetry, a cluster of oversized art books, a long row of livre de poche French novels, music and opera books, scores of thin Samuel French drama scripts, and half a shelf of memoirs of life at the magazine. The latter is an entire genre. You pull out Franklin Woolcraft’s chatty volume, Man about Town; the flyleaf is signed: “To Meg, who keeps me honest, with Love.” Putting the book back, you catch sight of a spine that reads Exercise for Better Sex.
Megan returns with two glasses of red wine. “Give me a minute to change,” she says. “Then I’m going to teach you how to make the world’s easiest meal.”
Megan goes over to the freestanding wardrobe beside the bed. Where is she going to change? Just how casual are we here? As she digs through the wardrobe, you can’t help noticing that she has a terrific ass. You have worked with her for almost two years without noticing her ass.
How old is she anyway? She removes something from a hanger and tells you she’ll be right back. She goes into the bathroom. The Siamese massages its head on your shin. Exercise for Better Sex.
Megan comes out wearing a maroon silk shirt with puffed sleeves which is not open to immediate interpretation. One less button buttoned might mean sexy, but what you see suggests casually dressy.
“Sit down,” Megan says, gesturing toward the couch.
You both sit. “I like your place,” you say.
“It’s small, but I can’t afford to move.”
You hope the conversation improves. A few minutes ago you were colleagues headed out for a bite to eat. Now you are a man and a woman alone in a room with a bed.
One of the photographs on the end table beside the couch is a large glossy of a younger-looking Megan onstage with two men.
“That was my last play. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? in Bridgeport, Connecticut.”
You pick up another picture, a boy with a fishing rod holding a trout, cabin and woods in the background.
“Old boyfriend?”
Meg shakes her head. She slides across the couch and takes the picture, studying it earnestly. “My son,” she says.
“Son?”
Megan nods, looking at the picture. “This was taken a couple of years ago. He’s thirteen now. I haven’t seen him in almost a year, but he’s coming for a visit as soon as school lets out.”
You don’t want to appear too inquisitive. This sounds like a dangerous subject. You haven’t heard about a son before. Suddenly Megan seems much less scrutable than you had imagined.
She reaches across your chest to put the picture back on the end table. You can feel her breath on your cheek.
“He lives with his father in northern Michigan. It’s a good place for a boy to grow up. They do boy things- hunting and fishing. His father’s a logger. When I met him he was an aspiring playwright who couldn’t get his plays produced. It was hard. We were broke and it seemed like everyone else had money. And I wasn’t the greatest wife in the world. Jack-that’s my ex-husband-didn’t want his son growing up in the city. I didn’t want to leave. Of course I didn’t want my son to leave either, but when the decision was made I was in Bellevue stupefied with Librium. Obviously in no position to fight for custody.”
You don’t know what to say. You are embarrassed. You want to hear more. Megan sips her wine and looks out the window. You wonder how painful this is for her.
“Did your husband commit you?”
“He didn’t have much choice. I was raving. Manic depression. They finally figured out a few years ago it was a simple chemical deficiency. Something called lithium carbonate. Now I take four tablets a day and I’m fine. But it’s a little late to become a full-time mother again. Anyway Dylan-that’s my son-has a wonderful stepmother and I see him every summer.”
“That’s awful,” you say.
“It’s not so bad. I’m okay now, Dylan has a good life. I call that a good deal. How about some dinner?”
You would rather fill in the gaps of the story, hear all the details, the shrieks and moans of Bellevue, but Megan is up and she is holding out her hand.
In the kitchen she passes you a paring knife and three cloves of garlic which you are supposed to peel. The skin is hard to remove. She explains that it’s easier if you whack them a few times with the blunt edge of the knife. Then she notices the bandage. “What happened to your hand?”
“Got caught in a door. No big deal.”
Megan goes behind you to wash lettuce in the sink. When you step back to get a better angle on the cutting board your buttocks meet. She laughs.
Megan moves around to the stove. She reaches up to an open shelf and pulls down a bottle. “Olive oil,” she says. She pours some in a saucepan and turns on the burner. You pour yourself another glass of wine. “Is the garlic ready,” Meg asks. You have succeeded in peeling two cloves. They look nude. “Not too efficient, are we?” Megan says. She relieves you of the knife and strips the third clove, then chops it all up. “Now we dump the garlic in the pan and let it fry. Meanwhile, I’ll chop the basil while you open the clams. You know how to operate a can opener?”
You mostly stand and watch as Meg flashes around the kitchen. She moves you occasionally, whenever you’re in the way. You like the feel of her hands on your shoulders.
“Tell me about Amanda,” Megan says over salad. You are sitting at the table in the dining alcove in candlelight. “I get the feeling that something bad happened.”
“Amanda is a fictional character,” you say. “I made her up. I didn’t realize this until recently, when another woman, also named Amanda, shed me with a collect phone call from Paris. Do you mind if I open another bottle of wine?”
You eventually give Megan the gist of it. She says that Amanda must be enormously confused. You will drink to that.
“You’ve had a terrible time, haven’t you?” she says. You shrug. You are looking at her breasts, trying to determine whether or not she is wearing a bra.
“I’ve been worried about you,” Megan says.
You move from the table to the couch. Megan says that we all project our needs onto others, and that others aren’t always capable of fulfilling them. No bra, you decide.
You excuse yourself to go to the bathroom. You switch on the light and close the door behind you. The bathroom has a cluttered, homey look. Dried flowers on the toilet tank, white sheepskin on the seat. You pull back the shower curtain. Inside the shower is a shelf loaded with bottles. Vitabath, Bath & Shower Gelee. You like the sound of that. Pantene Shampoo. Pantene Conditioner. Doubtless this should not make you think of panties, but it does. Lubriderm Lotion. You pick up a luffa and rub it against your cheek, then return it to the shelf. A pink disposable razor is cradled in the soap dish.
You open the medicine cabinet over the sink: cosmetics, the usual assortment of noneuphoric home medicines. A tube of Gynol II Contraceptive Jelly. Odorless, Colorless, Flavorless. This is good news. On the top shelf there is a cache of prescription bottles. You remove one: “Megan Avery; Lithium Carbonate; four tablets daily.” The second bottle is tetracycline. So far as you know you are not suffering from bacterial infection. You replace it. You score on the third try: “Valium, as directed, for tension.” Tension you’ve got. You hold the bottle up to the light. Nearly full. After a brief struggle you master the childproof cap. You shake a blue tab onto your palm and swallow it. You consider. The last time you dropped a Valium you didn’t even feel it. You take another. Of course, the last time you took a V, yo
u were wired on C. Anyway. You replace the bottle, take an L and flush.
Megan is making noises with the dishes in the kitchen when you return. “Be right out,” she says. You sit on the couch and pour another glass from the bottle on the coffee table. A bouquet with a hint of migrant-worker sweat.
“Just thought I’d get the dishes out of the way,” Megan says when she returns.
“A good policy,” you say. “Want some more wine?”
She shakes her head. “I’m not much of a drinker anymore.”
“That’s a good policy, too.” You are feeling magnanimous.
“Are you doing any writing,” Megan asks.
You shrug your shoulders. “I’ve been working on some ideas.”
“Do it,” Megan says. “I want to see you walk back into that place someday to pick up a check in Fiction. I want to see you walk past Clara’s office into the Department. I’ll have a bottle of champagne waiting.”
You don’t know how Megan has come to believe in you, since you don’t even believe in yourself. But you’re grateful. You try to picture the scene of your triumphal return to the magazine, but instead you find yourself admiring Megan’s bare feet drawn up beside her thighs on the couch.
“What will you do in the meantime? Any job prospects?”
“I’ve got some leads,” you say.
“I could put you in touch with a few people,” she says. “What you’ve got to do is make up a good resume-wide enough for journalism and publishing. I know an editor at Harper & Row who’d be happy to talk to you. I’ve already talked to Clara, and she says as far as the magazine is concerned, the parting was amicable and you’ll get a good recommendation.”
You appreciate Megan’s wonderful efficiency, but getting fired really wore you out and you would just as soon put the question of new employment on hold. Right now you would like to drink some more of this wine and sink a little deeper into the upholstery. You would like to show Megan how grateful you are. You reach over and take her hand. “Thanks,” you say.
“And don’t be afraid to ask for a loan to tide you over.”
“You’re terrific.”
“I just want to help you get back On your feet.”
Not now, you think. You’d rather lie down. Bury your head in Megan’s lap and stay there for a week or two. The bed is just a few feet away. You lean over and place your free hand on Megan’s shoulder. The silk slides back and forth across her skin as you massage. No bra strap. You look into her eyes. She’s a rare woman. She smiles, reaches out and strokes your hair.
“Everything’s going to work out,” she says.
You nod.
Her face registers a shift of thought, and then she says, “How’s your father doing?”
“He’s fine,” you say. “He’s terrific.” You pull her toward you. You slide a hand behind her head and close your eyes as your lips find hers. You press her head against the back of the couch and run your tongue along her teeth. You want to feel her tongue. You want to disappear inside her mouth. She turns her head away and tries to withdraw from your embrace. You reach a hand under her shirt. Gently, she grips your hand and holds it there.
“No,” she says. “That’s not what you want.” Her voice is calm and soothing. She is not angry, just determined. When you try to advance your hand she stops it.
“Not that,” she says. When you try to kiss her again she holds you off, but she remains on the couch. You feel like water seeking its own level, and Megan is the sea. You put your head in her lap. She strokes your hair. “Calm down,” she says. “Calm down.”
“Are you all right now,” Megan asks when you lift your head from her lap.
The level of the room keeps changing. All of the surfaces swell and recede with oceanic rhythm. You are not quite all right. You are somewhat wrong.
“I think maybe I’ll get up and go to the, uh, bathroom.” This is you speaking. Testing: one, two, three.
Megan is helping you to your feet. She holds your elbow as she leads you to the door. “I’ll be right out here if you need me.”
The black-and-white tiles on the floor keep moving. You stand in front of the toilet and consider. Do you feel sick? Not exactly. Not yet, anyway. You might as well take a leak, though, as long as you are here. You unzip and aim for the bowl. There is a poster with some kind of print in front of you. You lean forward to read it, and then you lean back, so as not to fall forward.
You try to grab hold of the shower curtain as you go down but you can’t get a grip.
“Are you all right?” Megan says from the other side of the door.
“Fine,” you say. You are mostly in the rub. Only your feet stick out, way down at the far end of your body. It’s not uncomfortable, really, except that you are a little damp around the midsection. You will have to investigate this. Find the source. In a minute.
The door opens. Help is on the way.
SOMETIMES A VAGUE NOTION
You wake up with a cat on your chest. You are on a couch, wrapped in a quilt. After a few minutes you recognize Megan’s apartment. Her bed is empty. The clock on the nightstand says 11:13. That would be A.M., judging by the sunlight. The last thing you remember is an amorous lunge at Megan somewhere in the P.M.; presumably unsuccessful. You have the feeling you have made a fool out of yourself.
You sit up in bed and marvel at this strange pair of pajamas. You stand up. There is a note on the kitchen table: Eggs, English muffins and orange juice in fridge. Your clothes are hanging in bathroom. Give a call later on. Love- Megan.
At least she doesn’t hate you. Perhaps you did not entirely disgrace yourself. Better not to think about it. You find your clothes in the bathroom. Everything is stiff and clean as if freshly laundered. The calico cat jumps up on the sink and rubs its head on your hip as you dress.
You should leave a note for Meg. You find a pen and a fat pad in which every sheet has MEMO written across the top.
Dear Meg-Thanks for the bed and board. Dinner was delicious. Now what? Should you acknowledge loss of full recall? I guess I nodded off a little early. The question is, what did you do before that? For that matter, what about after? What you need is an all-purpose apology. Something to cover each possible misdemeanor. Please excuse my lapse from gentlemanly comportment. Let’s get together soon, maybe for lunch.
You rip this up. On the new sheet you write: Dear Megan-I’m sorry. I know I’m always saying that, but I mean it. Thank you.
The phone is ringing when you get back to your apartment. Living dangerously, you answer. It’s Richard Fox, the reporter. He says he heard a rumor about your recent loss of employment. He says he liked a book review you wrote for the Village Voice a while back. Nobody reads book reviews in the Voice, but you admire the diligence exhibited by Fox’s assistant in tracking the thing down. He mentions an opening at Harper’s that might be right for you, and says that he could put in a good word. He is too kind. He wasn’t nearly so friendly when you met him at the publication party for his last book.
“I met Clara Tillinghast a few weeks ago,” he says. “No man I’d care to drink with could put up with that for long. My sources tell me she had it in for you from the start.”
“Short honeymoon, long divorce.”
“Would it be accurate to say that she is something of a bitch on wheels?”
“I think she has treads, actually. Like a Sherman tank. But it would be a tough thing to verify.”
“I guess you know I’m writing a piece on the magazine.”
“Really?”
“I was hoping you might be able to give me some background. You know-human interest, anecdotes.”
“You want smut?”
“Whatever you’ve got.”
A baby cockroach is working its way up the wall next to the phone. Should you crush it or let it pass?
“I was just a little worker bee. I don’t think I could tell you anything of national interest.”
“Let’s face it. The stagehands have the best view in
the house.”
“It’s a pretty dull place,” you say. Already it seems so far behind you, the office politics and the broom-closet affairs no more interesting there than elsewhere.
“Why feel loyal to them? They threw you out on your ass.”
“The whole subject just bores me.”
“Let’s have lunch. Bat some ideas around. Say, Russian Tea Room at one-thirty?”
You tell him you don’t have any ideas. Your information is imperfect. Everything you thought you knew turned out to be wrong. You tell him you are an unreliable source.
He appeals to the public’s right to know. He appeals to your sense of vengeance. He gives you his phone number in case you change your mind. You don’t write it down.
You go out for a bite and the Pest. It’s almost two o’clock. Not for the first time, you wonder why all the coffee shops in the city are run by Greeks. The take-out cups have pictures of seminude classical Greek figures.
O Attic shape… of paper men and maidens overwrought …
You spread the newspaper out on the counter and learn that Coma Baby was delivered six weeks premature in an emergency Caesarean and that Coma Mom is dead.
Coming up West Twelfth from Seventh Avenue you see someone sitting on the steps of your apartment building. It looks an awful lot like your brother Michael. Whoa! You slow down. Then you stop. It is Michael. What is he doing here? He should be home in Bucks County. He doesn’t belong here.
He sees you. He stands up, starts toward you. You turn and bolt. The subway entrance is half a block up. You take the steps two at a time, dodging the zombies trudging up the stairs. An uptown train with open doors waits at the platform. A line at the token booth. You vault the turnstile. A metallic voice issues from the speaker on the booth: “Hey, you!” You dash inside as the doors close. People are staring. When the train begins to move they return to their Posts and their private sorrows.
Looking out the sooty windows at the receding platform and seeing Michael standing outside the turnstiles, you duck away from the window. You don’t want to see him. It’s not that he’s a bad guy. You feel guilty of everything. Even now, a transit cop with a walkie-talkie may be striding through the cars to arrest you.
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