by Alice Adams
But he hasn’t brought her anything, no wine or flowers, just himself. Himself just out of the shower and just, just crazy, out of his mind in love with the most beautiful, most exciting, most everything woman. He could cry, for the sheer enormity of his love, his whole heart turning on one name, his whole soul crying out Eva. Eva, very softly. Eva, a whisper.
Strangely (and this is really crazy, probably), he would like to tell Stella about this great new adventure of his: this fantastic rich young woman from the Munich magazine who is basing herself here in San Francisco for the next three months. This wild, world-class, state-of-the-art, internationally sophisticated fabulous person who fell madly in love with him, Richard Fallon, from Nowhere, New Jersey, at first sight. Who had to have him, she said, right away. Right after kissing. In his small sexy bedroom that they almost tore apart.
If this were a story that he could tell about someone else, Stella would love it, she would be extremely interested. She likes stories, gossip; after all, it’s more or less what she does. Reporting. “Human interest.” He can imagine her eager face listening, with that absorbed look she gets, imagining and feeling what she hears. But of course it is not a story about someone else—and in fact this is probably the very last story in the world that Stella would like to hear. Especially today.
Driving slowly along Union Street (and why has he chosen to come this slow way?), Richard is still thinking that he should have brought something. Some present. What might be a sort of diversion, as well as a token of sympathy and love, a sort of love.
Then, at the same moment, he sees both a parking space, a good one, and, next to it, a pet store. Not having been thinking of pets, Richard nevertheless brakes, stops, gets out and walks into the store. And there it is, the perfect solution to his problem: the palest-brown, wide-blue-eyed, most beautiful small cat. Three hundred dollars; well, what the hell—if his MasterCard can stand it, he can. For good measure he also buys a peaked-roof cardboard cat carrier, four cans of cat food, and a bag of kitty litter.
“Well. Richard, she’s so beautiful. I never saw such a lovely cat. But Mr. Wong. Are you sure?”
“I talked to Wong. It’s okay.” What Richard means is, he will talk to Mr. Wong. Very soon. Before that Chink has any idea about the cat.
“She’s lovely.” Kneeling down to the cat, Stella strokes her back, and the cat (thank God!) responds, arching her back against the friendly hand, beginning to purr. “What’s her name?” asks Stella.
“Who? The cat? Oh, Eva. I mean Eve.”
“Eve. I like that.” Sitting on the floor, Stella cradles the small cat in her lap.
She looks bad, Stella does. Un-made-up, disheveled, in her old jeans and old green Shetland sweater, her tattered brown espadrilles. Richard feels a small, quick flash of resentment at how she looks: doesn’t she know that if she pulled herself together to look a little better, put on lipstick, she would feel better too? How can she expect to be loved—by him?
“I’m really sorry about your dad,” Richard says.
Her eyes tear up. “Thanks. I feel worse than I should feel, I think.”
For an instant Richard’s heart contorts with tenderness for this wounded woman, his Stella, his love. And then he thinks, Oh Christ, how could I? How could I make love to someone else, someone new, on the very day that her father died?
But then he remembers Eva; he recalls her totally, her skin and her smells.
He looks at his watch. “I’m really sorry about dinner,” he says.
“Do you really have to? I mean, could you come over later or something?”
“Uh, I don’t really think so, sweetie. Just not a good idea.” He grins. “For one thing I may be drunk.”
“Oh Jesus, Richard.” She frowns, fighting tears.
“Stella honey, why don’t you call Justine, or even Margot?”
“I don’t particularly feel like seeing either of them. That’s why.”
If he doesn’t get out of there right away there’ll be terrible trouble, Richard can smell it coming. He can hear it in Stella’s voice, the rising note of hysteria, rage. He can feel accusations. (He can hear his mother’s voice, and the note that all women sound, sooner or later.)
He reaches down to pat the cat, now curled, sleeping and purring, against Stella’s inner thigh. Such a beautiful cat. Small Eve. In almost the same gesture Richard kisses Stella warmly and gently on her soft and needy mouth.
He says, “I’ll call you tomorrow,” and he smiles.
And is gone.
Out of there.
11
Margot’s Weapon
Sometimes, in her narrow, often-dark apartment, overcrowded with her treasures—her books and her silver and her porcelain, her “things”—sometimes, despite everything that is or is not going on in her life, Margot is perfectly happy. On a sunny morning, say, when she takes a delicious cup of coffee back to bed, with the papers, then she is happy. In the mirror across the room she does not look too bad; she looks, in fact, like a most elegant and interesting woman; someone told her so at a party last night, the new French cultural attaché. Of course she knows—their hostess told her before the party—that this man, this small and bald but handsome M. Pineau, has a wife and family at home in Paris, who will join him momentarily, but in the meantime it was very nice to hear him say, “You are a woman I would much like to know more, a most beautiful and elegant woman. You must tell me, is it possible?” Well, maybe. But what he said was quite true: especially here in her own boudoir, leaning into a froth of ruffled pillows, her dark hair falling just right, eyes large and clear, a suggestion of pale-pink silk beneath her rose silk robe. She looks great; well, if not great, very good, very good indeed for a woman of—of her years (even in her own mind Margot does not like to be too specific). The point is, probably, that today Margot feels truly happy, both because she is looking good and because she is possessed of her favorite thing: a perfect piece of gossip. A jewel of gossip, so valuable that Margot is not quite sure what to do with it; she plans to show it around in tiny glimpses, perhaps to bargain with it.
This is how it came about, her possession of this marvelous piece of news: three nights ago she was having dinner with Denny, a young friend (her hairdresser, in fact, but very presentable; they go to the opera together). In any case, she and Denny had gone to dinner at a rather stylish place on Jackson Street, and there, in a booth not far from theirs, Margot saw: Richard Fallon and an absolute knockout of a woman, one of those giant European blondes, with their perfect skin and teeth (but the skin is always tanned and will surely be leather, if not something worse, by the time they’re fifty). But definitely Richard, and definitely Another Woman. About as far from dark dowdy little Stella as you could get. Ah, delicious! Margot instantly thought of uses for this development: how could Stella be so smug, imagining that Richard Fallon was in love with her?
First off she thought of telling Andrew, of course, and she thought of what they, she and Andrew, could do with this piece of news. Very Liaisons Dangereuses, Margot thought.
And in the meantime she watched. Oh, how she watched every gesture that passed between those two, who were fortunately seated in a booth more or less in front of Margot and Denny’s booth, so that she could observe without being herself observed; she was quite sure that Richard had not seen her.
That woman, that huge blonde, was all over Richard, Margot saw that right away. Her hands—and such very large hands too—were touching Richard’s hands, her face was leaning forward, close to Richard’s face. She was huge but extremely thin, the blonde was, and wearing a super dress of dark ruffled silk. Ungaro, Margot thought.
Suppose she told Stella? Margot for an instant wondered that. Would that be a bad or a good thing to do? Not that she is a feminist, of course not, but what is the feminist line on such things: are you supposed to tell a friend about a man who cheats? It does seem wrong, in a way, to let Stella continue in this dazzled dream of love, to let Stella believe that Richard really a
nd truly loves her, and only her. On the other hand, it would be cruel indeed to tell her. Margot would have to discuss it with Andrew, she decided. She could hardly wait.
In the meantime she could not resist mentioning to Denny that she knew that couple over there, who were making rather a spectacle of themselves.
“Oh, I know Richard Fallon, I mean I’ve heard of him, I mean who hasn’t?” Denny told her. He laughed. “Once at a party there was this big, fierce argument, a fight, I guess you could call it, about who was the handsomest man in town, and your Richard certainly had his supporters.”
Margot giggled. “Hardly my Richard, thank heaven. But what about Andrew Bacci? Don’t you think he’s pretty?”
Margot could have sworn that Denny blushed as he said, “I sure do.”
Margot paused, and then asked him, “That woman, the one with Richard, with all that blond hair—is that all hers, that color?”
Denny squinted forward. “Sorry, babes, it’s hers, and it’s real. She’s some kind of northern Kraut, I’d bet on it.”
“You can tell from hair color?”
“Sometimes. Some places. You know. Some guys are good at accents. I’m hair.” And he grinned up at Margot.
Cute little Denny. Her pixie. A sudden out-of-character gust of kindliness induced Margot to say, “You know you’re really one of the cutest of all, darling Dens.”
She looked up to observe a long passionate kiss between Richard Fallon and his German blonde.
* * *
Now, in bed with her coffee, in its beautiful French cup, Margot turns over possible uses of this gossip; not even gossip, actually—this is fact. Richard Fallon is cheating on Stella.
She would like to tell Andrew right off, but at the same time she wonders, Would telling Andrew make him mad at her, for telling? would he somehow blame her for Richard’s bad character? Men can be like that, as Margot is well aware—even queer ones, or maybe especially queers; they can be very eager to team up with each other (“bonding,” she thinks it’s now called). They like to blame poor women for everything bad in the world.
Also, there is the risk that Andrew might tell Richard himself, as a way of uniting himself, Andrew, with Richard, which Margot well knows is what Andrew would most like to do. So that there would be Andrew and Richard, bonded, combined against Margot and even against poor Stella, whom Richard of course will blame for making him feel guilty. Men!
Margot runs over alternatives to telling Andrew, other places to spend her currency of gossip, so to speak. The trouble is, as she soon realizes, that no one else would much care: Richard Fallon is cheating on Stella Blake, so what? What else is new? Don’t you know what’s going on in Somalia, or right here in San Francisco General Hospital, in the AIDS ward? (Margot has only the vaguest knowledge of these things herself, but at least she knows the names.)
There is obviously nothing for it but to call Andrew, which of course is what Margot has all along pined to do, just to see him. Beautiful Andrew. She forgets that their last encounter was less than pleasant; in fact Margot has a most useful capacity for forgetting what is inconvenient, or what in any way thwarts her purpose, or purposes.
However (amazing!), just as she is pulling herself together to telephone Andrew, arranging sentences in her head and arranging herself more comfortably on her bed, the phone rings, and it is Andrew himself!
Who, with no preliminaries, says to her, “Margot, baby doll, I’d like to come over. Okay?”
“But, darling, I’m not dressed. Give me twenty—”
“Who gives a shit if you’re dressed. I’ll be right there.”
Bridling—she loathes ugly language—Margot nevertheless jumps out of bed and hurries into her bathroom. At least there is time to do something with her face—she hopes.
As she might have known, there is more than enough time: much more—at least an hour before Andrew shows up.
And when he finally does he is so … so odd that Margot almost wishes he had not come.
First off, and totally out of character for Andrew, he asks for a drink. A drink! at ten-thirty in the morning. Margot very much dislikes drinking, she thinks it smells, and so often it makes men boorish, and God knows it interferes with sex. An occasional perfectly chilled glass of champagne is her idea of pleasant drinking—and even then she takes only a few small sips. And so she cannot help saying, “But, Andrew darling, so early?”
“Don’t be so fucking conventional.”
A horrified “Oh” from Margot.
“And, baby, I can’t believe you haven’t heard that very word in your parlor before.”
A stiff pause, and then Margot asks, “Well. What kind of a drink would you like, Andrew?”
“Some gin. On ice. Please, ma’m.”
Is it possible that Andrew has had a drink, or drinks, already this morning? He looks much the same as always, but then again, not quite: his shirt and his hair are not quite as perfect as usual; both show some muss.
Oh, queers, thinks Margot. Why do I spend all my time with them? They’re so utterly unreliable. Just when you think how nice and pretty they are, they go off and do some horrible butch thing, like drinking. Using ugly words.
Back in her living room, she hands Andrew his drink, in a heavy (Bohemian) glass, with a tiny linen napkin.
“Honestly, Margot, you’d think you were giving me medicine. Thanks, Mom,” and he grins in an evil way, before gulping down the gin.
“Well, you don’t have to drink it like medicine.” Margot could not help saying this, and wishes she had not.
“You’re wrong, I do have to. Can’t you tell?” Andrew stares out at her, from gorgeous dark long-lashed eyes. Italian. Ravishing. And even though his hair is indeed a little messy, and his shirt not perfectly fresh, he is so beautiful, and so distracting to Margot, that she finds it hard to concentrate on a conversation. With an effort she asks him, “You’re not feeling well?”
“Oh, I feel fine. I feel randy-dandy so far. But I had to go and take the test, you see? I had to be tested.”
“Tested?” Margot knows that she has lost some important thread. This tends to happen when she and Andrew try to talk seriously.
“The HIV test. Good Christ, Margot, surely you’ve heard it’s around?”
“But, darling, you don’t have AIDS.” Only lower-class people get AIDS, has been Margot’s thought. Awful men who go out to public baths. Polk Street prostitutes.
Andrew laughs in a horrible shrill way. “We don’t know that. We won’t know that until next week. But I’m sure a prime candidate.” He turns on her. “And what will you do then, Miss Garbo? When I’m covered with big dark blotches and gone half blind and lame? Will you still be thrusting your offers of hospitality on me? How about it, Margot? Are you up for a stint of nursing?”
Margot forces a laugh. “Well, in the first place you don’t have it, of course you don’t. And in the second I’m a much nicer person than you think. Of course I’d always take care of a friend who was sick. A good friend, I mean. But, Andrew, you’re not sick.”
Andrew laughs, a short ugly bitter sound. “If you say so, lady. A more expert view might be that if I’m not, I’m goddam lucky so far.”
And before Margot can say anything to stop him—though what it would have been she is not at all sure—Andrew is out of his seat and up and gone.
Why, then, did he come over? Margot has a puzzled sense that Andrew wanted something of her, something that she most clearly failed to provide. She has disappointed Andrew, gorgeous Andrew. Margot frowns, then remembers how bad frowns are for your face, and stops.
Well, she thinks, if (God forbid!) Andrew does get sick, sick with anything at all, even with that horrible plague that he surely will not get, not only will she take care of him but she will insist that he stay right there with her. She will buy all the right clothes for nursing, and she will buy lovely fruits, and she will make delicious soups to make him well. She will be the best nurse, the most devoted, that anyone ever h
eard of. She will show everyone what she is really like.
Happier now, as in the kitchen she washes out Andrew’s glass, Margot reflects too with some pleasure that she did manage not to tell Andrew about Richard and his German blonde after all; she kept that bit of news to herself, and so she has it still to tell, at some opportune time. Like having money to spend.
Just to test herself, she decides to call Justine, who after all is Stella’s very big friend. She will call Justine and not tell the awful news of Richard, not even hint.
But almost the first thing that Justine tells her is that Stella’s father is dead; or rather, Justine asks if Margot has heard this news.
“Well, no. You know how bad I am about reading the papers.” Not reading the papers is actually a pose of Margot’s, part of her air of not quite participating in the contemporary world, of which she in so many ways disapproves. The truth is, she spends a lot of time reading newspapers, though in a very selective way: she does not read about famines, wars, or pestilence (and thus she is somewhat ill-informed about AIDS). She often skips the obituaries; too depressing. And so she easily missed the news of the death of Prentice Blake. (But why didn’t Stella call her? Does Stella think she is not really a sympathetic person? She resolves to send Stella some very expensive flowers.)
“Oh, poor darling Stella,” she says to Justine. “Poor girl. But I hope he’s left her something nice; he must have a little money, and she was his only daughter, wasn’t she? I think actually an only child. Oh, poor Stella! I must call her, and of course I’ll send flowers. So lucky she has that handsome Richard to take care of her, don’t you think?” And then, as an afterthought, she asks, “Tell me, Justine. I know you’re a true-blue feminist. If you know that some man’s been cheating on his wife, or his lover, are you supposed to tell the wife, or the lover? … Well, Justine, I honestly can’t see why you think this is funny. I meant it as a very serious question.”