Compromising Positions

by Susan Isaacs

  I felt startled that I was tempted by his offer, surprised that it didn’t really sound so terribly absurd. In case it doesn’t work out.

  “No,” I answered, somewhat hesitantly, my timing barely within the limits of propriety. I should have snapped out a brusque “No thanks.” Still, I managed a small, regretful smile and added: “But I appreciate the offer.” I headed back into the tide of Fifth Avenue pedestrians, savoring a feeling of wistfulness and elation as I moved toward Claymore—and his safe connection with Bob. But how extraordinarily pleasurable it had been, that ordinary pick-up attempt by an ordinary man, the sort of thing that must happen to other women all the time. Just Jonathan and me. For the first time since my wedding, I had spoken with a man who knew nothing about my background, nothing of my marital status. Jonathan had seen me naked and unformed; I could create myself.

  I had been married for ten years, nearly all my adult life, and for the first three or four I had viewed even a serious discussion with another man as an implicit act of faithlessness. Men became asexual beings who happened to wear their vaginas inside out. And soon after that, after leaving graduate school with its occasional tempter in Harris tweeds or washed-out jeans, I had only Bob. I met other women’s husbands at parties, at community events, but amidst the laughter, the gossip, I remained Bob’s wife. I chatted and chuckled with shopkeepers, doctors, dentists, and insurance agents, and paid them with Bob’s money. Thus he was, even by default, the only man in my life. Even my friend Claymore was a friend I saw only in Bob’s presence; this was the first time I was going to be alone with him.

  I paused at the corner of Fifth Avenue, waiting obediently for the light to change. My left hand, with its heavy gold wedding band, was stuffed deep into my coat pocket. Somehow, I thought, I had floated through a revolution in women’s rights; I had embraced its rhetoric, been deeply touched by its insights, and yet remained curiously unaffected by it in terms of my own life. Even Fleckstein’s women had managed to cut the umbilical cord between themselves and their husbands. They were able to sustain life and breath outside marriage. But I wasn’t completely certain of this. Weren’t they still nourished by a Shorehaven husband—albeit not their own? Wasn’t their adultery still within the normal range of response for middle-class, middle-American, nearly middle-aged wives?

  I ruminated on this, my eyes fixed firmly on the sidewalk, until I reached Fifty-Sixth Street. I spotted Claymore standing in front of Orsini’s, enveloped in a seal coat. From a distance, with his giant walrus mustache, he looked like an immense, squat Arctic animal that had hopped on an ice floe shuttle to Manhattan to satisfy some obscure mammalian curiosity. But instead of clapping his flippers together in glee at seeing me, he sauntered over and gave me a light kiss on the lips. Very Manhattan. Shorehaven men offer large, smacking cheek kisses, kisses loud enough to draw attention to their innocence.

  “Why is a magnificent creature like you kept like a caged animal in Scarsdale?” he demanded.

  “Scarsdale is in Westchester, Clay. I live in Shorehaven.”

  “Shorehaven, Scarsdale, Greenwich. They’re interchangeable. Terrible places. They stifle the soul.”

  He took my arm and led me into the restaurant, where we checked our coats with a rather irresponsible-looking young woman and walked upstairs. The maître d’ smiled at us and said “Good afternoon, Counselor” to Claymore. Claymore nodded at him with restrained dignity that would have impressed everyone in his old neighborhood in Flatbush. We followed the maître d’ to a small table in a corner. A delicate crystal vase of red and purple anemones stood on the white linen cloth.

  “I thought we’d sit out of the way,” said Claymore. “It’s more private.” I nodded, glancing around the room. Jackie Onassis and Lee Radziwill apparently were lunching elsewhere. The captain came to take our orders for drinks and I ordered a Lillet.

  “Judith, love, that’s a charming aperitif, but let’s order a bottle of Orvieto, shall we?” I nodded and peered around the room again. A few women were scattered about, all fairly chic, all bearing a faint resemblance to the fuzzy photos in Eugenia Shepard’s column. Most of the diners were men though, businessmen, talking intently to justify their expense accounts. “Is there anyone here you know?” asked Clay, interrupting my reverie. I shook my head. “Then you can relax and enjoy yourself.”

  I smiled at him a little vaguely. “This is so lovely, Clay. I know how busy you are and I really appreciate it.”

  “Judith, I hardly view this as a sacrifice. I see it as a rare pleasure.” A waiter brought the wine, and after the tasting ceremony, Claymore leaned back in his chair. “To us,” he toasted, lifting his glass and smiling. He really likes me, I mused. I’m not just one of his friend’s wives whom he has to humor. He really sees me as a person, a friend.

  “To us,” I echoed, and took a too-large swallow of wine. I coughed and sputtered for a few seconds.

  “Relax, Judith,” he murmured, slowly moving his index finger down the side of his mustache. “I’m on your side, you know.”

  I reached for his hand and squeezed it. Such a lovely man, I thought. “I guess I’d better tell you why I called this meeting.”

  “I can guess, Judith. And to say I’m flattered would be a gross understatement.”

  “You can’t guess. This is a biggie.”

  “Yes, I can. Don’t forget, I’m paid to be perceptive. And we’ve known each other a long time.” He raised his eyebrows slightly, just like Oskar Werner did to Simone Signoret in Ship of Fools, very caring and tolerant and loving. But they were lovers, I thought, suddenly. And we’re friends. Claymore and I have the warmest, closest superficial relationship I know of. We’re two people who have a great deal in common and who like each other a hell of a lot. He can’t think I want to start something with him, can he? I looked at him, with his eyelids lowered, his lips moist and opened seductively to display the even edges of his capped teeth. Can he? It seemed that he could.

  “Clay,” I began, speaking rapidly to avert mutual embarrassment, “this is a very sticky legal problem and you’re going to have to be extremely perceptive. I need a friend. Or actually, a friend of mine needs a friend. Can I lay it on you?” I wanted to add an “old pal” or a “good buddy” but felt it would be too jarring.

  “A very sticky legal problem,” he repeated, sitting straight up and resting his arms on the table. He smiled, a reflexive lawyer’s smile, but it took him a moment to speak. “When you said it was important, I knew it had to be some terribly knotty problem that only I could unravel.” He had made a quick recovery. But why had he instinctively assumed that my “important” meant sex?

  “Judith, my precious,” he continued, “talk to me.”

  As precisely as I could, I told him the story of Mary Alice’s affair, the photography sessions, and the murder. He concentrated, chewing the knuckle on his index finger, until we were interrupted by a waiter. We ordered lunch, and I gave him a quick sketch of Fleckstein’s reputation. “Wasn’t one of your partners representing him?” I asked.

  “Yes, but I didn’t know much about the details—just the usual office gossip. But, holy shit, Judith, this is terrific. Much better than an SEC fraud. I love it.”

  “Clay, be serious.”

  “Judith, I have a Nikon. Do you think she’d let me take some pictures of her feet? I’m partial to feet, you know.”

  “Clay, please.”

  “I’d waive my fee. Just for a few shots. I could get an interesting angle from her arch and...”

  “Look, this poor woman’s life is about to go down the tubes. You’re the only one who can help her.”

  “You’re appealing to my ego.”

  “Of course.”

  “All right, I’ll be serious.” The waiter came with our order, veal francese for me, osso buco for Claymore. “Judith,” he said, his fork poised for the kill, “she has to go straight to the police.”

  “Come on! How can she? What if her husband found out? And what if they don�
��t have the pictures? Wouldn’t that only implicate her unnecessarily?”

  “Judith, my angel, my life’s delight, shut up and listen. She should go to the police, but with an attorney. But, first, she has to take a lie detector test.”

  “What do you mean? I thought they weren’t admissible. What good would a lie detector test do?”

  “Judith, are you going to second-guess me or listen? Did you come here for fun and games or for professional advice?”

  “Sorry.”

  “All right. As I was saying, she should have a test. Now, you are correct in saying that lie detectors are not generally admissible in court, although there are exceptions that I won’t bother going into. How’s your veal?”

  “Delicious. Your osso buco?”

  “Adequate. But anyway, we’re not dealing here with a court proceeding. She should take the test with one of the better firms I can recommend. They’re up to about seven or eight hundred dollars now, but if you go to a less reputable place, the police will be far less likely to accept the results. Understand?”

  “Yes.” If he brought the same intensity to bed that he brought to the law, he’d be superb. The thought briefly flitted through my mind that maybe I had been too eager to avoid a misunderstanding.

  “Now, she has the test taken secretly, and if she passes, and note that I said if, we bring the results to the police. To the D.A., actually. I have a good working relationship with a couple of assistant D.A.s in Nassau County, and I’m sure they’d be courteous. The important thing here is to nip it in the bud. If they’ve found his pictures, and I’d say it’s quite likely that he held on to them, then it’s only a matter of time before they confront your friend Mary Alice.”

  “Can I ask you something now?”

  “You already have.”

  “You’re cute, Clay, cute. Now, look, are lie detector tests infallible?”

  “No, of course not. A person might be very emotional and that could give a misleading reading. Or a pathological liar might be able to get by entirely. I don’t know. Some lawyers swear by them, but I’ve seen a couple of cases that make me very leery. Anyway, your friend wouldn’t have to make a public announcement that she was taking the test. If she passes, then we take the results to the authorities. They know it’s not infallible too, but they’ll give it a lot of weight.”

  “Do you think it can be done without her husband finding out?”

  “Maybe. If she does it fast. You have to realize, Judith, that the cops aren’t children. All they want to do is solve the case, and they recognize the value of discretion.”

  At least, I thought, pushing a few grains of risotto around my plate, there’s hope for Mary Alice. I peered up at Claymore and realized he had been staring at me. “Judith,” he sighed.

  “Yes?” I responded, feeling a tremendous sense of foreboding.

  “Are you planning on finishing your veal?” I lifted the slice of veal onto his plate, and he ate it in two large bites. “Very nice,” he pronounced, and he passed the next half hour recalling the good times he and Bob had had at Columbia—rushing fraternities, getting drunk, double-dating. “You know,” he told me over espresso, “Bob always dated very bright, competent women. But you’re the only one who had a sense of humor. I wonder if he realizes it.”

  “Sure. Our marriage has been one long gale of laughter.”

  “Is everything okay, Judith?”

  “Everything’s fine, Clay. Really.”

  Then, as we stood up to go, he said: “Your husband is a lucky man.”

  “Clay, that’s right out of a grade C movie.”

  “I know. But being clever is so exhausting. I try to be trite at least once a day. It’s relaxing.”

  We walked downstairs, retrieved our coats, and strolled back to Fifth Avenue. The air was still and cold and heavy clouds of snow descended onto the sidewalk.

  “Thanks for lunch. And for your help.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Clay.” He looked deep into my eyes. “I’m glad you’re my friend.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “You know, they didn’t predict snow this morning.”

  We kissed and said goodbye, vowing to get together soon so Bob and I could meet his newest girlfriend, a textile designer who was six feet tall. Then, slightly woozy after two glasses of wine, I managed to propel myself onto the two-fifty train. In less than three hours in Manhattan, I considered, there had been more action for me than in all the years in Shorehaven. Jonathan. Clay. But so what? If I had married a Jonathan, he might still be loitering in front of Gucci’s, saying hi to strange women, while I wiped the kiddies’ noses or taught a seminar on New Deal agencies. And with Clay, I’d have a duplex on Central Park West and an overstuffed ass rubbing mine every night in an antique brass bed. Or a charter membership in the Former Mrs. Katz Club. Claymore had been married three times and would doubtless try and try again.

  So I had Bob. Fine-looking. Intelligent. Sexually competent. Pleasant to our children. I could have married a Bruce Fleckstein.

  Chapter Eight

  “The wages of sin,” Mary Alice intoned, as she trudged into my living room the next morning. She looked objectively rotten, her freckled face blotchy with no makeup, her small body lost in a pair of baggy black slacks and a loose gray sweater.

  “What are the wages of sin?” I inquired.

  “I forget the rest of the quote,” she sighed. “Judith, answer this question if you can. Why do we have this drive to destroy ourselves? Why can’t we be content to live a simple, peaceful existence, cultivating one or two really meaningful relationships?”

  “Damned if I know. Do you want to hear what the lawyer said?”

  “Yes, of course. Here I am, babbling on and on, when you’ve gone out of your way to help me. To be a friend. And you know what they say about a friend in need, don’t you?”

  “Right. Okay, Mary Alice, let me tell you about Claymore Katz.”

  “Is Claymore Katz really his name?”

  “No. It’s really J. Winthrop Aldrich IV, but he felt it wasn’t ethnic enough.”

  “Really? I’ve never heard of that. The other way around...”

  “I’m just kidding, Mary Alice. Now, let me tell you what he had to say.” Trying to sound as cool and rational as possible, as if we were discussing a minor legal problem involving a contractual dispute or a real estate transaction, I related my conversation with Claymore, including his suggestion about taking a lie detector test. She looked almost lost in the wing chair, a child with crow’s feet, staring at me intently. A fine imitation of intelligent concentration. Possibly the real thing. When I finished, she breathed deeply and said: “I have to think about it.”

  “Is there anything particular that’s bothering you?” I asked.

  “No, nothing special.”

  “Is it the money?”

  “No.”

  “Are you worried about Keith finding out?”

  “Not really. Not if the lawyer says they can keep it quiet.”

  “Then what’s the matter?” She shrugged her shoulders. “Look, Mary Alice, you’re the one who has to make the decision, but Claymore did say time was an important factor. The longer you wait, the more chance you have of the police finding the photographs and tracing them to you.”

  “I know. I know.” She tilted her head in the other direction. “Judith, would I have to tell the lawyer the whole story?”

  “Well, you wouldn’t have to count the hairs on Fleckstein’s chest for him, but you would have to go into some detail.”

  “How did you know that Bruce had hair on his chest?”

  “I didn’t. I made an assumption to illustrate a point.”

  “Well, he did have hair on his chest. Lots. Very curly.”

  “That’s nice,” I breathed. She had a gene programmed for digressions, a mind born to meander.

  “And would I have to tell the lie detector man everything? Or the lie detector woman. It’s interesting, isn’t it, that we insist
on sexually stereotyping every profession.”

  “Yes, you’d have to tell him.” I sighed. “Or her. But look, Claymore Katz is a very urbane human being. He’s not going to sit in judgment over you. He’s been divorced three times. I think he’s immune to shock.”

  “Is he good-looking?”

  “No, Mary Alice. He’s not good-looking.”

  “Then how come he was able to attract three different women?”

  Maybe Fleckstein took the pictures to blackmail her into silence, I mused. If you say one more word, he threatened, I’ll send these pictures to the Shorehaven Sentinel. Now shut up and fuck. “I’ll give you Claymore’s office number, Mary Alice. If you want to call him, you can. Now, would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “No. I’m off stimulants.”

  “Well, keep me company.” In the kitchen, I reached up into the cabinet and withdrew my mug with the big “J” on it. “Can I get you anything?” I asked.

  “Some water at room temperature with the juice of half a lemon.”

  “With or without pits?” I inquired.

  “Oh, Judith. I know when you’re teasing me. Without pits.”

  I began making small talk. Of course, with Mary Alice, anything but small talk was a waste of words, but I managed to make her feel more at ease. I was at an uncomfortable advantage. I knew her life, her fantasies. All she knew about me was what I chose to tell her. But, then, she had chosen to confide in me.

  “Did Bruce ever talk personally to you?” I asked suddenly.

  “Well, of course,” she answered, casting her eyes down in an attempt at modesty.

  “No, I mean about himself, his life, his family, his friends.”

  “Not really. A little, maybe.”

  “Did he ever say anything about Norma, his wife?”

  “I know her name,” she snapped. “Not much. Well, he did say they had grown apart and that she was cold in bed but that he couldn’t leave her because one of their children was hyperkinetic.”

  “Oh.” I’m generally confused by statements that are supposed to be self-explanatory but really aren’t. I decided to let it pass. “Do you think she knew about you and Bruce? Or that Bruce was having an affair with someone?”