Looking for Mr. Goodbar

by Judith Rossner

  “I think I’ll take a nap.”

  “I suppose I’d better get back.”

  “Is that what you suppose?” Naughtily.

  “Do you mind if I leave you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “What would you like me to do?” he asked.

  “I would like you to come down here,” she said, patting the foam rubber, “and keep me company. Or sing me to sleep. Or something.”

  He came down to the foam rubber and sat on the edge of it—somewhat gingerly. He stroked her hair.

  “Are you afraid of messing up your good suit?”

  “Yes.”

  She let her free hand rest on his thigh. Beneath the hand his muscles tensed. She stroked his leg lightly.

  “Don’t,” he said.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “It gets me too excited,” he said after a moment.

  “Why don’t you want to get excited?”

  “Because it’s not the appropriate time or place.”

  “Appropriate time or place,” she mimicked. “Life must be so easy when you know all the rules.”

  “Do you think so?”

  She sat up. “All right,” she said crossly. “Will you kiss me, at least?”

  He laughed. “You said that as though you’ve been trying to seduce me for months and I’ve been cold and indifferent.”

  “I’ve been trying to seduce you for five minutes and you’ve been cold and indifferent.”

  He smiled again. He thought she was being charming.

  “Neither cold nor indifferent. I just have certain limitations. I think you knew that when you set out to seduce me. In the back of an automobile. At my cousin’s wedding.”

  “All right,” she pouted, scrambling to her feet too rapidly and banging her head on the ceiling of the van, “let’s go, then. I don’t care if I get wet.” But there were tears in her eyes from banging her head on the ceiling.

  Ever since I’ve known you I’ve had tears in my eyes.

  There were a couple of jokes when they got back to the table because everyone had sat down to dinner and their absence had become conspicuous. But it was pleasant enough, chatting about school with Patricia and Frank (without looking at James’s mother as Patricia interrupted her own meal to help her eat). They knew that Theresa was a teacher and treated her with a certain deference, like the parents of the poorer children in school.

  When they dropped her off that night James said good night to them as though he were going to come in with her but she told him she’d rather he didn’t; she was tired and she just wanted to go to bed.

  On Monday morning she told Evelyn that if there was still a share available in the house at Ocean Beach she’d be interested. Evelyn said that all the shares had been taken but if someone put her share up for sale she would let Terry know. Theresa was depressed by this news because that house had been in the back of her mind as a sort of escape hatch. The place she could go to if the situation with James became unbearable. The place she could go to if new men didn’t appear and she didn’t feel like hitting the bars. It was somehow the wrong season now for bars. When she took a walk now in the warm night air she didn’t want to close herself off into some dark, air-conditioned hole where she wouldn’t even be able to tell that summer was almost here. She called home and asked how her father was. Her mother, after a long pause, said that he was mostly tired. Theresa said she’d been thinking of coming up for a visit; maybe she’d come on Saturday and stay over. Her mother said that would be very nice.

  When James called she said she couldn’t see him Saturday night because she was going away for the weekend but she would see him Friday.

  On Friday night she told him the only thing in the whole world she really felt like doing, aside from having Chinese food, was going to the Fillmore, although she didn’t even know who was there or whether tickets were available. Fortunately it was three groups neither she nor anyone else had ever heard of (or would remember a week later) and so they were able to get in and sit in the deafening noise for a couple of hours without any possibility of conversation.

  She did her tired routine when they got back to the apartment, but he got her to let him come in by saying the music had made him thirsty and he must have a drink of water before the long trek home. She kicked off her shoes and sat on the bed, her back against the pillows that lined the wall, her knees up and her hands wrapped around them.

  “Well,” he said, bringing his water back from the kitchen, “what shall we fight about, then?”

  “Why should we fight about anything?” she asked. “I thought you were going right home.”

  “I can’t think of any reason,” he said. “But on the other hand, I don’t particularly want to go right home, so maybe we could have a little fight about that.”

  He looked a little scared—but determined—as he said it. She had to smile. He was really very dear. She would miss him if she went away.

  He set down the glass, took off his jacket and came over to the bed, sitting down on the edge—looking as though he were waiting for an invitation to come closer.

  “How did you like the music?” she asked. Naughty.

  “I didn’t. But I suppose it was an educational experience. I’ve never been to a live rock concert.”

  Neither have I.

  “How come you haven’t thanked me for the educational experience?” Naughty again.

  He laughed. “That would be going a little too far.”

  Cautiously he sort of edged onto the bed so that he too was sitting against the pillows. Next to her. He put his arm around her. She leaned over to turn on the radio but then came back to his arm. She was tense. She leaned forward again and fiddled with the dials until she found some hard rock, but when she saw that he looked amused, she switched to WPAT.

  “There” she said. “That’s probably more to your taste.”

  “At the moment,” he said, “no music at all is to my taste.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” she demanded.

  “I just did,” he pointed out.

  “Ohhhhhh.” She turned off the radio and petulantly came back to the pillows. She could feel him looking down at her, trying to see her face through her hair. She let her face rest against his shirt. She played with his striped silk tie, rolling it up and letting it fall out, then rolling it up again, thinking that if he complained that she was messing up his tie, she would kick him out pronto and never see him again.

  Still, she didn’t really want to do that. It felt pleasant sitting there, having him hold her. If she could pretend he were someone else . . . Tony, Victor . . . anyone, she might even get aroused enough to carry herself through sex with him. She was ready for sex again, that was for sure. She could feel the empty space where Tony had been. Maybe James . . . She shuddered, an almost convulsive motion for which she was looking for some explanation—excuse—when James turned toward her, gathered her into his arms and kissed her at length with a passion she returned because she was off guard. She’d met him with an open mouth and at first he’d sort of met her lips with his but then his tongue had gone into her mouth with an unexpected firmness and she had found herself sucking it with pleasure . . . and that was when her guard had come up again.

  “Aren’t you afraid of mussing up your tie?” she teased when he stopped kissing her.

  He unknotted the tie, took it off and tossed it aside on the bed, opening his shirt collar. Never taking his eyes off her. She grinned but she was anxious. He kissed her again. Very gently he cupped her breast with his hand, held it, murmured her name. She responded in spite of herself. He kissed her again, pressing his body against hers. She could feel his excitement and she could feel his nervousness; his excitement excited her a little but his nervousness made her very nervous.

  James, let’s stop before it’s too late. Let’s just be friends—anything else has to end in disaster.

  It wouldn’t be good. His erection would go away at the crucial ti
me, if he got one. Or he would come the moment he entered her. Or he wouldn’t even know how. She didn’t want him to lean on her! Let him practice on someone else and then come back to her in a few years. He would fumble and she would be humiliated. She squirmed and he moved back.

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “No,” she said, “I just—my arm’s falling asleep.” She changed her position. He looked not quite sure of what to do—as though he’d lost his place—and in a moment of compassion she held out her arms and he came to her, pressing his face into her bosom and then lying still. She stroked his fine, soft hair and thought of a Spanish lullaby Tom Lerner had taught her children, which she had asked them to teach her.

  Aru ru my niño, now what shall we eat?

  We’ve only a bowl, full of milk warm and sweet.

  She began humming the melody, thinking of the words.

  Aru ru my niño, now where shall we sleep?

  To serve for a cradle a box warm and deep.

  James sat up, blinking.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It was strange. I felt . . . I suppose I felt unmanly.” He laughed ruefully.

  “I don’t know why,” she said.

  “You don’t mind my lying like that?”

  She shook her head. “It was nice.”

  He was bashful now, less excited. He lay on his stomach, his arms folded in front of him on the bed. She smiled and began humming again. He asked what the song was that she was humming and she said she couldn’t remember the words. She pulled him toward her and kissed him tenderly—his forehead, his eyes, his nose, his chin. His skin was as fine as a baby’s. She kissed his neck.

  “Theresa.”

  He touched her breasts, groped under her T-shirt until he touched skin. Slowly he ran his hand over her skin until it rested partly on her brassiere and partly on the soft flesh above it. When they kissed again she reached around to her back and opened the hooks on the brassiere. He moved his hand so that it was under the loose cloth. Kissing her more urgently now. His body pressing against hers.

  She sat up and pulled off her shirt, then her brassiere, as he watched her. She felt languorous and graceful, as though she were in an underwater ballet. She felt him wanting her. She was sure. Everything was easy. She lay back again. She opened the fly of her jeans. He was watching her face, now; she smiled. He kissed her. While he was kissing her she pulled down her jeans and pants and kicked them off. He ran his hand down her body, slowly, hesitantly, stopping when he got to her pubic hair. He half sat, leaning on his elbow, without taking his other hand away from her. He looked at her—at her face, her breasts, her stomach, her pubic hair; she wondered if he noticed it was not quite as red as the hair on her head. She stretched. She felt very beautiful.

  James took off his shirt and undershirt. If he didn’t toss them on the floor he didn’t fold them, either, but sort of dropped them carefully. He stood up to take off his neat blue pants, seemed to be fumbling with something in the pocket, put the pants carefully on the floor. His skin was so fair. His body wasn’t bad, although it wasn’t exactly an ad for muscle-building. His shoulders were too narrow, but he was taller than she’d ever realized, now that she saw him naked. Or almost naked. He started to take off his briefs, sat down on the edge of the bed to slip them off. He had very little hair on his body; what there was of it was light and fine. For a brief moment he sat in seeming indecisiveness, and then he turned around and stretched out beside her, his arm resting across her middle, his penis resting firmly against her thigh. He kissed her cheek but didn’t move otherwise; he seemed to be waiting. With her index finger she slowly traced a line down his nose, across his lips to his chin, down his neck, then his chest, down to his stomach, playing in his belly button for a moment then continuing down, touching his pubic hair—even that was almost fine—touched the base of his penis, slowly began to run her finger up along it but felt something strange which she at first couldn’t—

  Oh, Jesus, no!

  He was wearing a condom! She’d never even seen one before and it threw her. She continued playing with him but she was aware that she was touching rubber, not skin. He wilted slightly for a moment as though responding to her own slight withdrawal, but then as she stroked him he recovered. He started kissing her again but he didn’t do anything else. She wanted him to play with her, to stick his finger in her, to do something, but she couldn’t just tell him to do it, she couldn’t, so she squirmed in frustration, getting angry at him, wishing she’d never let him come this far, wishing she’d never kissed him, never met him until maybe ten years from now, until finally he got on top of her, sort of kneeling over her, wanting to get into her but not sure how. Still resentful she rubbed his penis against her vagina, began to guide it in, but then realized that she was dry and closed, not at all ready to receive him. She let go of him, hoping he’d withdraw, but instead he slowly pushed into her until he was all the way in. And the pain was nearly excruciating. She closed her eyes so he wouldn’t see how she felt. Slowly, tentatively, he began moving inside her. But it didn’t get better; it remained dry and painful. She couldn’t believe how much it hurt when he pushed up against the very back of her. There was no pleasure at all mixed with the pain. When he finished, in minutes that seemed like hours, she felt only relief.

  He went to the bathroom and got rid of his condom. When he came back and got into bed he asked if it were all right with her if he stayed the night. She said she had to be up even earlier than usual to pack to go away. He said that was all right with him; he really didn’t want to leave her now.

  She said, “How come you use condoms if you’re such a big Catholic?”

  He said, “Isn’t it necessary?”

  She said she guessed so, rather than attempt to explain to him her deep certainty that she would never become pregnant.

  In the morning he acted as though they were husband and wife and she avoided looking at him. He said that he would call her on Sunday night and she made up her mind to come home as late as possible on Sunday.

  Her mother worked a great deal in the garden. They’d always had a garden—flowers in the front of the house and vegetables in the back, growing so profusely there were plenty for the neighbors. But always the garden had been an obligation; you did it, her mother made it clear, because you had to, grumbling about it the whole time, and if you sat on the porch when you thought you’d finished for the day and your eye fell on some tomato plant desperately in need of staking which you’d somehow missed when you were down there working, then you might mutter or groan or defiantly announce that nothing would make you go back into the garden before tomorrow morning.

  Now, though, her mother seemed to pick a different excuse, each time they settled on the porch, to run out to the garden—a little section she’d failed to weed; she hadn’t picked enough peas for dinner, which was hours away—anything. And from the moment she came back and sat down she seemed to be looking for another excuse to go down.

  While her father watched with tired, amused eyes and said that this year she would surely get the horticultural award for the entire Bronx.

  He had cancer but Katherine had to come back from India before Theresa found that out.

  Why did you have to tell me?

  Why didn’t they tell me earlier?

  The two thoughts came into her mind at the same moment, right after the first panic. The wish to have been left in blissful ignorance, combined with resentment that even from India Katherine had managed to remain closer to him.

  “Why wasn’t I told?”

  “They didn’t know whether to tell you, Tessie,” Katherine said. “They said you didn’t seem to want—you didn’t even ask if the tumor was malignant.”

  Resentful. Defensive. “I thought they’d tell me if there was something I should know.”

  “But everyone knows how you’ve always been about sickness, Tessie.” Soft. Cajoling. “Not wanting to talk about it.”


  “He’s my father, too,” she said, her voice cracking.

  “Of course he is.”

  Silence.

  “Theresa? Is there anything else you want to know?”

  What else is there to know? How was India?

  Nick was staying in India another couple of months. Katherine was going out to East Hampton for the summer with some friends, but would be in to visit their parents. A malignant tumor had been removed but the malignancy had spread to the lymph nodes. It was a question of time. How much time? It could be a fairly good amount of time. He might live five years. Then again . . . Katherine wished she’d come out to East Hampton for part of the summer.

  “I can’t. I’m busy.” Her head was heavy, as from a hangover.

  “Once school’s finished, maybe,” Katherine said. “You could come out and stay. I’d love to get to really talk to you. We can drive in every couple of weeks and see Daddy.”

  Daddy.

  “I can’t,” she said. “I’m . . . there’s someone here I’m sort of . . . involved with.”

  “Tessie! How nice! Tell me!”

  Drop dead, cunt!

  It was so inappropriate, so savage; she stared at Katherine as though Katherine had been directly responsible for her thoughts.

  “There’s nothing to tell, Katherine, I just . . . we’ll talk about it later on.”

  School ended. Katherine was in East Hampton. Evelyn went off to Fire Island. Summer had really come. Once or twice a week she went up to spend the day with her parents.

  She saw quite a lot of James. He would come down and have dinner with her at least twice a week. If the air was reasonably cool they would take long walks; if it was hot they went to the movies. Usually he stayed over. They made love. Usually it didn’t hurt. Usually she had no feeling at all while he was in her—as though she’d been given a local anesthetic. The part before sex was nice, though, except for the negative anticipation. And it became very comfortable to fall asleep with him. She was comfortable with him, in general.

  She didn’t tell him about her father.

  On sunny weekends they spent a lot of time at Orchard Beach or Jones Beach, depending on whether they went alone (Jones) or with his sister and her kids or some of his friends (Orchard). Most of James’s friends were less interesting than he was. Low-key, good-natured, they talked about baseball, football, occasionally some politics. But they were pretty much off politics since Robert Kennedy’s death the year before. James’s best friend was Donald, an accountant with whom he played chess. With the others he often played poker; he was apparently an excellent player.