by Alice Adams
“Crazy about.” Like many people, Lucretia tends to think in the argot of her youth, in her case the forties. However, in this instance, the instance of Simon, the phrase seems accurate. At her age, to harbor such feelings is crazy indeed, and so, for that matter, are Burt’s feelings for her, at his advanced age. Lucretia sighs. If only Simon were gay and in love with Burt the circle would be perfect, Shakespearean, she thinks. She sighs again, at what seems the silliness of it all. Simon is not gay, and the two men have never met. And she only confused their voices because she was expecting a call from Simon, sort of.
She did not do anything so crude as calling Burt “Simon”; she was only a little cool at the onset of the conversation, cool with disappointment. But then poor Burt was probably used to cool, from her.
This living room of Lucretia’s, though comfortable and exceptionally pretty, too often called “charming,” in a sense resembles an archaeological dig; there are layers, and remains. Traces of former husbands, three of them, two divorced, one dead. Tokens and presents from former lovers, quite a few of those, and from good friends, even more. And clear signs of a long and steadfast career: Lucretia is a reporter, a dedicated newspaperwoman. She has always worked in that way. The driftwood mirror is, in fact, a present from her longtime editor, now an elderly gentleman, who is gay—a much-loved friend; Lucretia is less sure how she feels about the mirror.
Thus the room, which has never exactly been “decorated,” is full of trophies, of carefully, tastefully selected objects, and of whimsically, impulsively bought things. A jumble of books and pictures, lots of framed photographs; anyone can see that Lucretia, young, was quite ravishing, and that most of the men she knew were tall and good-looking. Pots and vases of flowers stand about, more carefully arranged than they look to be: a great clump of growing gold chrysanthemums, smelling of earth, and of fall—and a slender silver vase of yellow roses, unscented but beautiful, chosen by Lucretia, for herself. She sometimes wonders how she could feel lonely in such a room, and, for that matter, in such a house, but sometimes she does.
Souvenirs, then, of love and friendship, but also of work. Lucretia has done a lot of travel writing for many years, as the assistant travel editor of her paper; shelves of travel books, as well as atlases and stacks of maps, attest to those years, along with one wall’s collection of masks, from Mexico and from Haiti, from India and Africa and Egypt. For idle pleasure Lucretia sometimes picks up a map of Italy, say, and goes over it carefully, naming out favorite towns to herself: Orvieto, Todi, Arezzo, Fiesole, as another person might read a familiar novel, happy to recognize Barsetshire again.
She was working throughout all those marriages and love affairs, which no doubt kept her sane (she herself is sure of this), but these days her work creates certain problems in “relationships” when the men involved are retired, as Burt is—Burt especially, demanding, intrusive (more “in love”), does not like to hear about Lucretia’s deadlines, her work obligations. He has often suggested that she retire. What he means is, marry him. But Lucretia plans to postpone retirement for as long as she can, and in the meantime to take whatever assignments the paper offers. She has gone back lately to doing more interviews than travel writing, although last December she wrote a long piece about Christmas in Venice, lights in the Piazza San Marco, processions of gondolas. Extremely handsome gondoliers.
Lucretia’s first marriage took place when she was eighteen. There should be a law against marriages under thirty, she has sometimes thought, and said. Surely under twenty, and probably twenty-five. Jim, the young husband, was in law school; her second, Tommy, a reporter. Years later, speaking of marriage, she also said, “I married the first two times for sex. How dumb can you get?” Sometimes adding, “Tommy was dear, well, really they both were, Tommy and Jim. But Tommy drank so much, and besides, I really needed to get out of Boston.”
She divorced poor, dear Tommy in Reno, and continued to San Francisco, where, with some money from a grandmother who providentially died around that time, she bought a small house in an alley on Telegraph Hill—with such a view! And she got a job on the Examiner.
There then followed for Lucretia many happy years. Telegraph Hill and, indeed, the whole city were seemingly full of the relatively young and unmarried. There was great cheap Italian food and wine in North Beach restaurants, and great cheap Chinese along Grant Avenue, Chinatown, with wonderful jazz at the Blackhawk, the Jazz Workshop. And good bars all over the place. Not to mention the prettily romantic city itself, a perfect backdrop. Lucretia had quite a few very pleasant but not serious love affairs; to herself, she thought, Well, good, I’m beginning to take sex not quite so seriously; it’s just very good, very affectionate fun.
Sometimes, though, she was assailed by much darker thoughts, one of which persistently was: I’m really too old for all this silliness; my friends are doing serious things like bringing up children. (In those days thirty-five was viewed as too old for almost anything, including love affairs and certainly children.) Also, the fact was that she still did take sex seriously. Her affairs were never so casual as she tried to make herself believe; she sometimes suffered extreme pangs of missing whoever was just gone. Pangs of longing to hear from someone who did not phone. (In those days women were not supposed to telephone men.)
In those blacker moods Lucretia tended to forget her own considerable professional success. She was extremely good at her work; she had won citations and prizes, along with the occasional raise. And she liked it very much, especially the interviews, which she was more and more frequently assigned. She liked the work and mostly she liked her fellow reporters. But as she waited for her phone to ring, waited for him to call, she forgot all that.
Jason was first described by Lucretia to her friends as “this terribly nice man who lives next door.” A tall, skinny young (her age) architect from Tennessee, Jason had a serious girlfriend, Sally, who was not around much. Jason and Lucretia went to movies at the Palace and to the New Pisa for long, half-drunken dinners together; when she broke up with whomever, Jason was always comforting. And she was nice to him, making homey meals and listening a lot when he broke up with Sally, although by then Lucretia was seeing someone else.
By the time they fell in love and decided to marry, Jason and Lucretia had been friends for several years. So sometimes she wondered, Why didn’t I know all along how I felt about Jason? Why did we waste all that time?
In both earlier marriages, to Jim and then to Tommy, sex had been the greatest bond. Especially with Tommy, a true sexual explorer, an inspired and tender lover—when sober. But then, he was so often drunk. With Jason, after the early raptures of mutual discovery, when in effect they both said, “You’ve been here all along, and I didn’t know?—after some months of that, the sexual energy between them seemed to taper off to a twice-a-week nice treat. Lucretia often felt that she was more enthusiastic than Jason was, that perhaps she was basically a sexier person, which she found a little embarrassing, although she still liked Jason better than anyone in the world. And for the three years of their marriage they were mostly happy, both busy with separate work, and enjoying vacation trips together.
Then, cruelly, Jason, who was still a relatively young man, was diagnosed with colon cancer. Invasive. Inoperable. But he took a long time dying, poor darling; near the end Lucretia moved him down to the living room, where he could see the friends he still wanted to see, and she could more easily bring him trays. He complained sometimes about sleeping down there alone, and so Lucretia would cuddle against him, there on the couch.
Unhappily, that is what she most clearly recalled of Jason, his dying. How pitifully thin he was, his eyes so huge and needful. His bony hands. She remembered less of his good jokes and general good sense. Their trips. Lovely Italian wine and, at times, good sex.
Mourning Jason, a truly loved and irreplaceable friend, Lucretia mourned, too, what she felt to be the end of love in her life. By that time she was in her early fifties; even to think of love af
fairs was ridiculous, despite what she read here and there. And so she did something very ridiculous, or worse: she fell violently in love with a man almost twenty years younger than she was, a beautiful Italian, Silvio. Not only twenty years younger but married, and a Catholic, of course.
Oddly enough, it was he who loved first. Or he who said it first, pressing her fingers as they held a wineglass, at lunch, in Fiesole. Looking up at him, she saw him laugh in a slightly embarrassed way as he said, “You mustn’t laugh, although it is a little funny. But I find myself seriously in love with you.”
She did not laugh, but she smiled as she said, “Oh Silvio, come on—” even as her heart began to race, her blood to surge forward.
She was aware that they looked a little alike, she and Silvio, a northern blond; some people must think them mother and son. Many people must think that.
Lucretia was staying at a small hotel on the Arno, not far from Harry’s Bar; she had a penthouse room, with a lovely view of the river. From her balcony, in early evenings, she observed the long ovals formed by the bridges and their reflections in the water. She and Silvio had drinks there the first night he came to call, quite properly, to take her to Harry’s for dinner. He was the friend of a friend; his wife and children were off at Viareggio. After they became lovers, they had drinks on that terrace every night.
“You have the most marvelous skin in the world,” he told her. “Your back, and here. Like hot velvet.” He laughed. “My poor English. I sound like the TV.”
“Your English is fine.”
“You are fine. However can I let you go?”
But he did. They let each other go at the end of Lucretia’s two weeks: a week of exploratory friendship, another of perfect love. Or, vividly recalled by Lucretia in San Francisco, that is what it seemed, all perfect. Beautiful, sexy Silvio made love to her repeatedly, over and over, at night, and then again in the morning, before driving off to his own house across the river. Just love and sex; they never spoke of anything foolish and alien, like divorce. Only, once or twice Silvio asked her, “If I should come to San Francisco, you will remember?”
She laughed at him. “Always, my darling.” She feared that that would indeed be true. And she thought, Suppose he calls when I’m really old, too old to see him again, although I still remember? (She forgot that at that time he, too, would be much older.)
In her pretty Telegraph Hill cottage, then, with the doleful sound of foghorns strained through her dreams, Lucretia often woke to a painful lack of Silvio, a missing of him that was especially sexual. And none of the obvious solutions to this crying need appealed to her at all. Only Silvio would do, and at times, at the worst and most painful predawn hours, she thought of flying back to Italy. To Florence, where she would say to Silvio what seemed at the moment to be true: I can’t live without you.
Of course, she could and did live without him, and all the prescribed cures worked. She joined a health club and exercised fiercely; she walked whenever and for as long as she could. She intensified her efforts at work; she took on more assignments. And she thought, Well, that will have to be that. Enough of sex and love. I’ve surely had my share, and maybe more. Except that every now and then she would read some tantalizing, romantic account of a woman even older than she was falling in love, getting married. Or an article about the sexual needs and activities of the old. “Geriatric Sex.” Lucretia’s very blood would warm and flare, and she would think, Well, maybe. Even as a more sensible voice within would warn her, Oh, come on.
“He’s not exactly your type, but he’s nice,” said a friend, by way of introducing Burt McElroy into her life. “He’s dying to meet you.”
“Good Lord, why?”
“Oh, don’t be like that. You’re sort of famous here, and he likes blonds. His wife was blond.”
“Old blonds.”
“His wife was older than you. They were married forever.”
“I just don’t feel like meeting anyone. I’ve given up all that stuff. Or maybe it’s given me up.”
“Well, just come for dinner. I won’t lock you up in a closet together or anything.” She added, “He was a trial lawyer. Now retired.”
The lawyer, Burt McElroy, was a very large man, at least six three, and heavy. Thick white hair and small bright-blue eyes, a big white beard. Jolly, at first glance, but on second not jolly at all—in fact, somewhat severe. Censorious. And a little sad.
At dinner that first night, at the house of the friend, Burt talked considerably about his wife, and a music foundation that he was establishing in her honor; apparently she had been a noted cellist. As he spoke of this dead woman, this Laura, Burt often looked at Lucretia, and she understood that he was announcing his feelings: I will never be really untrue to Laura.
And so she laughed, and was flirtatious with him; she, in her way, was saying, “Look, don’t worry, I’ll never be serious about you either.”
A few days later he called and asked her out to dinner. They went, and again he talked a lot about Laura and his children. At her door he said, “You know, you’re really a knockout lady. As we said in my youth, ‘I could really go for you.’ ”
“Oh, don’t do that.” She laughed up at him.
Later, thinking over the evening, Lucretia saw that she did not like him very much, despite his good qualities. He talked nonstop and rather self-importantly, a man accustomed to having the floor. To delivering opinions. And he did not listen well; in fact, he showed very little curiosity about her or anyone else. In short, he bored her; it was true, he was not her type at all. Except for being tall.
But she recognized, too, with some shame, a certain sexual pull in his direction. She looked forward to when he would kiss her. She put this down to sheer sexual starvation—it had been a long time since she had kissed anyone.
Their next dinner was less boring for Lucretia, because of the kissing that she now looked forward to. Just that, kissing, for the moment.
They went from a good-night kiss at the door to some very enthusiastic kissing on the sofa, and then, because such adolescent necking seemed ridiculous at their age, they went to bed.
Where, after several long, futile minutes of strenuous efforts on his part, and some effort on hers, Burt said, “I’m sorry. I had this prostate surgery, and I was afraid, but I had hoped—”
He was breathing hard, from exertion rather than from lust, Lucretia felt, as she thought, Poor guy, how embarrassing this must be. And depressing.
“Here,” he said. “Let me—” He moved heavily, laboriously, down her body, positioning himself.
This is not something he usually does, Lucretia thought. Oral sex was not on the regular menu with Laura, the wife. Though, of course, Lucretia could have been wrong.
Feeling sorry for him, she pretended more pleasure than she actually felt; also, she wanted him to stop.
He moved up to lie beside her; he whispered into her ear, “It’s wonderful to give you pleasure. You’re wonderful.”
Without spelling things out, without saying, “Look, I’m sorry, but I just don’t like you very much. And sexually, I know it’s not your fault and I’m sorry you have this problem, but it just doesn’t work for me. I’m sorry I pretended,” Lucretia hoped he would somehow understand. It did not occur to her until later that she could just have not seen him again, without apology.
Because he did not understand; he seemed now to want to see her all the time.
He took her to a banquet at which he was the guest of honor, long tables at the Fairmont Hotel, important political people. Men whose names, at least, she knew.
Lucretia, in her proper, “appropriate” black dress and her proper pearls, felt fraudulent; she wanted almost to announce: I’m not his lady friend, we are not, not, not getting married.
Burt’s friends were roughly the same age as Lucretia was, like Burt himself, but they all seemed considerably older. She thought this could be delusional on her part, a delusion of youth, although she knew that she was generally a
realist in that way. Vain, perhaps, she surely was that, caring too much about how she looked. But not kidding herself that she was a kid anymore.
She was not quite sure what this “older” quality consisted of; the best she could do was to describe it as a sort of settled heaviness, in both minds and bodies. They all looked pleasantly invulnerable, these people, Burt and his friends. No longer subject to much change. Or to passion. They did not much mind being overweight. Or that their expensive clothes were out of style.
Lucretia was not exactly smug about looking younger, and better; she knew it was largely accidental. She had been born pretty, and most of it had lasted. She ate almost what she wanted to, and nevertheless stayed fairly thin. She exercised, but not immoderately. She had not had anything “done” to herself in a surgical way, although she had thought about it.
“You’re the sexiest women I ever met. I’m crazy for you,” Burt breathed into her ear.
“But—”
“Maybe a little cruise somewhere? Alaska, maybe, or Baja.”
“Cruises—”
“Look, forget you’re a travel writer. Just come along. Enjoy.”
At the time of the cruise conversation (she had been on a number of cruises and very much disliked them all) Lucretia was much involved in writing a series of articles on shelters for battered women. She tried to tell Burt just how involved she was, how she cared about this particular piece.
Which did not go over well with Burt. “You should throw your weight around more,” he told her. “Such as it is,” and he laughed at his own mild joke. He often teased her about being what he called “underweight.” “You’ve been there long enough and won enough prizes,” he scolded. “You should be calling the shots. Not taking these really tough assignments.”