by Warren Adler
"And you like being married?"
"Yes, I do. Of course I do."
She was deliberately sparse in any answers that required more intimacy on her part.
One day he asked her: "Do you have fantasies, Mrs. Burns?" When she didn't reply immediately, he expanded on the question. "You know. About men."
"I wouldn't be normal if I didn't," she answered, deliberately noncommittal.
"Bob and Jerry were talking to me about that," Teddy said. "They asked what kinds of fantasies I had."
"And what did you tell them?"
Teddy shrugged. "I wasn't sure what to tell them."
"Why don't you tell them that it's none of their business. That your fantasies are your private property and that they don't have a right to ask."
"They keep asking."
"Of course they do."
Teddy seemed confused by her comment. But she had begun to imagine that Bob and Jerry were trying to get this boy to cross the line into their world. Still, she tried to maintain a level of neutrality. It was, after all, Teddy's life, and even Teddy had been told or had decided that you either were or you weren't that way from birth, which might or might not be true. Yet it bothered her to think that Bob and Jerry might be contributing to Teddy's confusion about his sexual identity. Worse, they might be manipulating him for their own nefarious purposes.
The idea began to gnaw at her, not only because of her fears for Teddy, but also because she hated thinking ill of people and, above all, treasured the concept of fairness in her judgment of other human beings. But this did not stop her from worrying about Teddy's naiveté and vulnerability being taken advantage of, of his being seduced into a life-style for which he might not be ready.
She turned such a possibility over and over again in her mind. She hadn't bargained for that kind of emotional involvement. It was burdensome and distracted her. Again she began to think that perhaps Larry was right in warning her not to get entangled in other people's lives.
"What is it?" Larry asked her one evening at dinner. "You seem worried about something."
"You're imagining things," she replied.
Call it a little white lie. The fact was that she was preoccupied about Teddy and his concerns, although she tried to block it from her mind when she was with Larry. It was so difficult to compartmentalize one's life, she decided. Yet she did recognize it for what it was, a disruptive force that should never have been allowed to enter her home. Unfortunately it was too late for such remorse. Naturally she blamed it on herself, not the idea of being a good neighbor, but the inability to control such an involvement. She began to think of disengagement.
She would, of course, have liked to discuss Teddy and his problems with Larry, but that was out of the question. He was not well disposed to Bob and Jerry and seemed blatantly homophobic, which ruled out any objective discussion of the subject. Besides, he would certainly admonish her, emphasizing rightly that Teddy's sexuality was none of her business. Nor had she meant it to be.
She determined to tell Teddy at the first opportunity that she had no wish to discuss the subject of his sexuality anymore and that if it came up again, she would bar him from spending his afternoons in her apartment. Hard-hearted, perhaps, but certainly practical.
One afternoon, after three weeks of coming to her apartment, Teddy arrived earlier than usual and without Peter. Jenny had just taken a bath and was wearing a terry-cloth robe when she came to the door.
"Something wrong?" Jenny asked.
He seemed nervous and harassed, and his eyes had a wild unhappy cast. "I ... I didn't go to school today," he said. "I just ... sort of walked around."
"And Peter?"
"He's still downstairs. I didn't want him around."
"Would you like a snack?" Jenny asked.
"Nothing," Teddy said. He came into the living room and threw himself on the couch. Tears welled in his eyes.
"What is it?" she asked, sitting beside him on the edge of the couch.
"I had this dream, Mrs. Burns."
"Now really, Teddy," she rebuked him. "Everybody dreams. You can't take them seriously."
"This dream was scary," he said, brushing away the tears that had spilled over his cheeks.
"We all have scary dreams."
"I dreamt ... I dreamt..." He couldn't go on.
It was obvious that the dream had made a profound impression on him. A warning flag went off in her mind. Perhaps this is something I should not hear, she told herself, standing up, crossing the room. She looked out of the window as if she were seeking the means of escape.
"I dreamt I was doing things..."
"Teddy, really, it was only a dream and probably not worth repeating."
She cautioned herself that if she let herself listen, she would be drawn in further. Except that it was too late.
"I was doing things with a man," Teddy said. "And I had a wet dream."
"God, Teddy," Jenny snapped. "Why are you telling me this? It's so ... so personal. You must learn not to be so ... so revealing. Frankly, I'm embarrassed."
"I'm sorry," Teddy said, turning his face toward the wall, his shoulders racked with sobs. He was forlorn and pitiful, and she felt awful for him.
"It was only a dream," she said lamely, sitting down beside him again. Turning toward her, he embraced her and continued to cry. "There, there," she kept repeating, patting his back.
"Does this mean..." he began, then dissolved once more into tears.
"I really don't know what it means, Teddy."
I mustn't be part of it, she told herself. This boy needs counseling from experts. This is none of my business. But he continued to cling to her, and she continued to pat his back.
"I'm so confused," Teddy whispered. "I don't know what to do."
"Just ... just live your life," Jenny said, equally as confused as Teddy. She continued to hold him. The sobs abated, and he partially disengaged. But as he did, she realized that the belt of her robe had become undone and the robe's flaps had opened, revealing her nakedness from neck to thigh. Teddy, too, became aware of it and began to pull away, averting his eyes.
"No," Jenny said. "You can look."
She wondered why she was doing this, yet she felt oddly content, as if she were doing someone a good deed. What harm could there be in this? Let him see for himself if he was capable of being aroused by a woman. It felt purely clinical on her part, sort of experimental.
The boy turned his head and studied her. His expression was one of dead seriousness.
"Would you like to touch my breasts?"
The boy nodded. Although she could feel her nipples harden under his tentative touching, she continued to feel no sexual arousal. In fact, she was inspecting the boy as he did so, as if he were an object to be studied.
"Have you ever seen a woman naked?" she asked.
"Only in pictures," he said, his lips trembling.
"Do you like what you see?" she asked gently.
"Oh, yes. Very much so."
She took his hand and guided it downward.
"Now you've touched the place," she whispered, allowing his hand to wander over her. Watching his face, she saw it redden, then she reached out to discover his erection. His first reaction was to move away from her touch, then he relented and allowed her to stroke him. She opened his zipper and stroked the bare flesh of his hard penis.
"Have I given you something else to dream about?" she asked.
"Oh, yes."
"Are you still confused?"
He shook his head. "Can I..."
He moved toward her, but she arranged herself so that any penetration on his part would be impossible. Instead she stretched herself lengthwise on the couch and held him against her naked flesh. His body trembled, his breath came in gasps. He had ejaculated against her thigh. She allowed him to embrace her for a long moment, then she got up and tied the robe together. He sat up and fixed his trousers. Then their eyes met.
"I would rather we didn't discuss it, Tedd
y," Jenny said. "Not ever." She wanted to dismiss it from her mind. "Call it a one-time experience, perhaps a lesson."
"I understand," he replied. "And I promise never to tell anybody."
"I know you won't, Teddy. Also, I would prefer that you didn't come here in the afternoons."
A shadow passed across his face. Then he smiled. It was the broadest smile she had ever seen him make. She smiled back at him.
"Doesn't mean we shouldn't be friends," she said.
"I'll always be your friend, Mrs. Burns. No matter what."
He started toward the door, then came back and kissed her on the cheek.
"I'll never forget this," he said.
When he was gone, she felt a giggly sensation bubble up inside of her. Assessing what she had done, she felt no remorse, no contrition, and no guilt, none. She was not even sure it would have any effect at all on Teddy's life, although she hoped it would.
"Can't say I haven't been a good neighbor," she said aloud, the giggle bursting out of her mouth.
6
MYRNA L. DAVIS had often wondered if the name her father had given her had profoundly influenced her behavior. The "L" stood for Loy, and Myrna Loy was his favorite actress. Her mother had objected to it, but then all of her mother's objections were feeble against her father's overbearing and demanding ways.
She took after her father. Everybody told her so, and she had become convinced that his strong genes had overpowered her mother's wimpy ones and that she was created in his image. Physically she was, with the same firm cleft chin, blue-gray piercing eyes, jet black curly hair. People said she had also inherited his charisma and his manipulative ways. Like him, she could turn on the charm when she had to but could be arrogant and demanding when that conduct was called for.
As for her name, once people realized that she was named after Myrna Loy, especially people from her father's generation, they always remarked that that's probably where she got her gift for clever banter, meaning that she took after the Myrna Loy of the Thin Man series, as if the real Myrna Loy made up her own sophisticated one-liners. Few people in her age group knew who Myrna Loy was, although the Thin Man series had come out on cassettes and younger people were rediscovering her mastery of light comedy banter. For years Myrna considered her name one of her father's cruder jokes.
He was a trial lawyer of awesome reputation in Los Angeles, where she had grown up under his thumb and tutelage. The divorce between her parents when she was sixteen had hardly fazed her, since she had expected it for years. Living with her father was impossible unless you were prepared to be a doormat for the rest of your life. This had not been her mother's original wish when she'd married, but that's what she had become, finally winding up a horrid life as an alcoholic who had choked to death on her own vomit.
This, of course, would not have been Myrna's fate even if she had chosen to stay in Los Angeles, living in her father's shadow. She was too much like him to fall into that trap. He had fully expected her to follow in his footsteps, joining the firm after dutifully finishing Harvard Law School, as he had done.
She did graduate from Harvard undergraduate as an English major and had opted to stay in the East and pursue a career in journalism, a profession her father detested but one that suited her just fine. His detestation, in fact, actually enhanced the idea. Although she and her father were constantly at war, neither of them had ever chosen the path of complete alienation from each other.
They talked by phone and in person when each happened to be in the other's territory. Their conversations were never less than contentious and argumentative, and he was always prepared to offer a critique of every aspect of her life, usually ending in his negative judgment.
It was almost an article of faith that they took positions that were exact opposites of each other's on every subject imaginable. Even if they didn't at first, they would quickly polarize. At times their arguments disguised themselves as political, since they were both passionately interested in "larger issues." The more conservative he became, the more liberal her position.
It had taken her ten years of therapy to exorcise the invasion of her father's demons, but even the painful acquisition of personal insight did not end the need to continue the war between them, although it did make it less painful and sometimes actually entertaining, as if their relationship had become a game.
This acquired insight had gone a long way toward explaining the reasons for the failure of her two marriages, each to a man who could not withstand the rigors of her demanding nature. Each had buckled within a year, even though each had begun with flaming passion. Her shrink, actually a series of shrinks, had differing explanations for her crippled relationships with men, but all hinted at some dark need of wanting to fuck her father to death. She found the diagnosis interesting and probably correct, assuming that this was exactly what he wanted to do to her.
Fortunately, time had withered the obsession, and the qualities of manipulation, charm, and nut-cutting ambition that made her father successful were doing the same for her. As an associate editor of Vanity Fair she was acquiring both power and cachet, and through her job she was meeting some of the most celebrated people in the country, putting her in exactly those circles in which she wanted to operate.
She enjoyed her job and she was good at it, both as an editor who could come up with exactly the right angle for a sugarcoated hatchet job on an important celebrity and as a personality who perfectly represented the trendy, sophisticated, know-it-all bitchiness that was at the heart of the magazine's persona. Also, it fitted precisely with her agenda, which was to surpass her father in everything, especially importance. With her job had come the opportunity to use every facet of her talents and personality, the good with the bad.
Now on the cusp of forty, she had, however, not given up the idea of finding a mate who could satisfy the requirements of her dreams, ambitions, and physical needs. She was not one of those people who ever gave up on anything, another of her father's inbred traits. But, unlike her father, she did not want progeny, certain that any child of hers would suffer the same fate at her hands that she had suffered at her father's.
Let's face it, she told herself, underneath all her hubris was a dyed-in-the-wool fourteen-karat bitch. Her moodiness alone would have tried the patience of a tranquilized saint, and it took massive self-control to keep that beast caged.
Since her last marriage she had entered into a number of affairs, only to find the same sense of disillusionment and defeat. She couldn't blame the guys. But for the last six months she had been carrying on a torrid affair with Jack Springer, the junior senator from the state of New York, a Democrat. At last, she decided, she had met her dream man. So far.
Since it was impossible for her not to compare any man she bedded to her father, she had concluded that Jack was as close to the real thing as one got, without the toxin-ridden personal agenda. He was opportunistic, charming, and charismatic, all essential tools of his occupation, along with hypocrisy and duplicity. His public positions were tailor-made for his constituency, which was an interesting mix of the liberal and the conservative. At heart he was the latter. Worse, a closet bigot.
"Better than being a closet fag," he'd said, chuckling, when she had first used the term. But his public hypocrisy by no means neutered their relationship. In fact, the arguments they engaged in added spice to their affair.
"Politics," he assured her, "is not about conviction. It is about power, and the most essential ingredient of that power is having it, which means getting elected, then reelected."
There were moments, though, when his pronouncements could be genuinely irritating. Like her father, he was a bred-to-the-cloth elitist, a product of old New York wealth, which was, aside from providing the money, a considerable advantage for a Democrat. The great unwashed, Jack had assured her, liked rich candidates on the assumption that the rich wouldn't have to cheat and steal. It was, he pointed out, a false assumption, since the rich were more likely than lesser-endow
ed mortals to have greed programmed into their genes.
She fully understood his paranoia about being discovered doing what would be perceived by voters as dirty business in his personal life. Voters' perceptions, they both knew, had little to do with the inner man, but he was married and had three grown children as well as an image, painstakingly manufactured for public consumption, as a strict family man with deep moral and religious convictions and a staunch upholder of traditional values. It was an image that allowed upstate conservatives to partially swallow some of his liberal positions, designed to win the needed portion of the city vote.
It was a source of enormous ego satisfaction to Myrna that Jack chose to spend every weekend possible with her, despite the risks and dangers, which to him were considerable. His wife accepted his weekend trips to New York from Washington as the usual business of politics, and his staff protected his privacy without question and without explanation. Naturally they speculated about his whereabouts. But they didn't know. Fortunately his wife was deeply involved in a career as a real estate broker, and weekends were especially busy for her.
It wasn't easy for him to carry on this affair. Everything had to be completely hidden. No financial records could attest to his whereabouts. No telephone calls could be made. He had to be anonymous and invisible.
He entered Myrna's apartment building, literally, in disguise. He had even refused to accept a key of his own to her place, afraid that if found in his possession, it might be traced to Myrna's apartment. It was an unlikely assumption, of course, but it did indicate to her the parameters of his paranoia.
With election coming up in less than a year, he had to maintain his public political persona to the letter, knowing that there were forces among his opponents that would love to get their hands on information that could destroy his career, especially anything that had to do with chasing women.
The media loved to crawl into a politician's pants. Not that he had been a notorious womanizer like Ted Kennedy, which was seen to be a traditional expectation for a Kennedy, or an arrogant womanizer like Gary Hart, who had deliberately triggered the media blood lust that brought him down.