24
The plane came to a stop just in front of the window, and rumpled looking passengers began to disembark. Mostly men, carrying suits on hangers covered by plastic bags, and attaché cases. And a few women. One woman with two small children. People. And more people. And no Chris. Where was he? Had he missed the flight? Had I heard the wrong airline? Would he be on the next flight? . . . And then there he was, smiling, looking a little sleepy, and more beautiful than I remembered him. Had he stopped walking, I would have thrown myself into his arms, but he just walked up to me, and we kept right on walking, never breaking stride.
“Hi, Gillie, how’s it going?” . . . How’s it going? . . . After almost three months? . . . You big shit. . . .
“Fine.”
“Don’t I get a kiss?” and he held out a cheek for a peck as we neared the baggage claim area.
“Wait till we get home.”
“Oh is the young lady playing it cool now?” and he looked amused.
Everything amused him, mostly me, and I felt silly, in my fur hat, looking for something to say that would pass for conversation.
He was totally engrossed in collecting his bags. The flight had been fairly full. I stood watching him, wondering what it really was that held me close to this man. Why did I still feel the way I did, how could I still feel as though the world stood still for him, how could I still believe in dream princes when I looked at Chris? But I did.
I was frowning as I looked over at him. He seemed taller and wider than I had remembered. And he looked so brown and healthy. So different from the pale, city-looking people you see in New York.
He picked up the last of his bags and we headed for the exit to look for a cab. The ride into the city was a little uncomfortable because it seemed odd not to have a phone resting between us. I had grown accustomed to dealing with a disembodied voice, not to looking into the eyes of this big, suntanned man. He noticed my hat and liked it, and commented briefly on the fact that I didn’t look pregnant:
“What’d you do, get rid of it?”
“It’s the coat, Chris. My clothes still hide it pretty well.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you’re not even pregnant.” I knew he didn’t mean it, but it was a typical Chris remark, which annoyed the hell out of me, but somehow I managed not to snap back.
When we got home, Chris walked in, dumped his bags in the hall, and headed for the kitchen where we could hear Samantha expounding on the virtues of her teacher.
“UNCLE CRITS!” Screams, and yells, and hugs, and much tossing around, and more yelling. It was so nice to watch them together. The two people I loved most in the whole world crawling all over each other, and hugging, and laughing. It made me laugh too, and brought back all our days in California. It was sunshine and beaches and love.
“Uncle Crits, I’m going to show you my room, and you can’t come in, Mommy.”
“Okay, I’ll make breakfast.” They disappeared down the hall, hand in hand, with Samantha telling him all about school and Chris asking if she’d been a good girl, and had she been putting honey on her corn flakes like he’d shown her?
Poor Sam, she needed Chris almost as much as I did. He had been the closest thing she’d ever known to a full-time father, and our days in California had been the closest thing she’d had to a normal home life.
“Breakfast! Come and get it!”
“Okayyyy. . . .” came back, muffled, from down the hall. And then Chris appeared with a jump rope tied around his head and Samantha shouting “Giddyap horsey” as she skipped behind him.
“Horses don’t eat at my breakfast table, Mr. Matthews.”
“Since when? Things must have changed a lot in the last two months,” and we all laughed and ate eggs and waffles, and toast, and bacon. We ate and talked and joked with each other, and I knew how terribly I had missed Chris. Just as much as I had thought, and then multiplied by twenty.
My mother’s helper appeared when breakfast was over, to help clear up and take Samantha to the park. . . .
“I don’t wanna go, I wanna stay with Uncle Crits.” She looked as though she were going to cry.
“Come on, podner. Your mother and I are going to talk. You go to the park and see if you can’t find some hay for the horses. I’ll be here when you get back, now giddyap, there. . . .”
She looked dubious, but she went, waving back over her shoulder, “Gabye, Uncle Crits, see you later. Bye, Mommy.”
“Bye, sweetheart.”
“You’ve still got her spoiled rotten, Gillian. Nothing’s changed.”
“Look, she needs a lot of love.”
“She’s got a lot of love, she needs a lot of time. And spoiling isn’t going to make up for that. If you didn’t have your goddam alimony you wouldn’t have that girl taking her to the park and you’d both be better off.”
“I have to work for chrissake.”
“That’s not the point. . . . I’m going to take a bath. Which way’s our room?”
“I’ll show you,” and as I walked down the hall I was annoyed at Chris. What did he know about children?
“Run my bath, will you, Gill? I’m going to open the bags.”
I turned on the taps full blast, and felt a little balkish about taking orders again. . . . Yessir, Mr. Chris, sir. Yo baff is fillin up dere, yo honor, sir. . . . Run your own goddam bath. . . .
He walked back into the bathroom, stark naked, and I noticed the bathing suit marks which hadn’t quite faded since last summer.
“You’re peeking.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Come on, take your clothes off, and let’s take a bath.”
“I had a bath before I went to the airport. I’ll unpack for you.”
“No, I’ll unpack for me. Take your clothes off and get into the bath. I want to see that belly of yours.”
“Chris, I don’t want to take a bath.”
“You’re taking a bath. Now, move your ass, girl. . . .” He was stretched out in the tub, looking up at me, with that look of his. . . . “You can take your hat off now, too. I said I liked it, but I think you could take it off now.”
“Thanks. Yeah, okay,” and I was pulling my clothes off, feeling silly about it, as Chris watched.
“I was standing naked next to the tub, and Chris held out a hand to help me in. “Yep, you’re pregnant.”
“Who told you?”
“Wash my back, will you Gill?”
“Sure,” and there I was, lathering his back, with my gardenia soap, smiling at the moles and freckles.
I could have drawn a diagram of where every spot was on his body. I knew him, his soul and his body, every inch of him. It was a happy thing to be doing. . . . If anyone had told me that week that I would be washing Chris Matthews’ back the day after Thanksgiving, I’d have laughed in their face. But there we were, and I was grinning from ear to ear.
“Watcha smiling at, little fat girl?”
“What do you mean, ‘little fat girl’?”
“I mean little fat girl, now what are you smiling at?”
“Nothing. Us. You. It’s so nice to have you back, Chris. It’s just not the same on the phone, it’s no good. I get hung up on the words, I forget the looks that go with things, and you can’t squeeze them into a telephone. I’ve missed you so terribly.”
“Yeah, I know.” And for some reason, there was Marilyn again. I could see him thinking of her too, and she was there, blowing bubbles up to the surface of our bath water, like a fart.
“Okay, now wash my chest.”
“Come on, Chris, you can do that yourself.”
“No, I can’t, I want you to do it. Wash my chest. And listen, will you do me a favor on Monday? Get some decent soap, will you please. Get rid of this orchid crap.”
“It’s not orchids, it’s gardenias. From Magnin’s.”
“Well get rid of it, try something from the grocery store.”
“You plebe.”
“I may be a plebe, but I am not a fag,
and I don’t want to go around smelling like a goddam gardenia. Now wash my chest.”
So I soaped up his chest and leaned over to kiss him . . . he was smiling again.
“Come here, little fat girl . . . come here, you,” and there we were slathering soap all over each other, like some ridiculous French movie, and trying to make love, slipping around, slapping water all over the floor, and laughing hysterically, like two kids.
“Come on . . . ,” and Chris pulled me out of the tub, still half-covered with soap, and we lay down on the bathroom floor and made love.
Afterward, we lay there and grinned at each other. . . .
“Chris?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“I love you.”
“I know. I love you too,” and then he squeezed me a little and stood up. “I’m going to take a shower to get this soap off. Get me a glass of milk, will you?”
“Sure,” and life was back to normal again, Chris was singing his lungs out in the shower, and there I was with soap drying on me, my pregnant belly, standing naked in the kitchen, pouring him a glass of milk. As I stood there I thought of Gordon. This was a far cry from what I had with him. He was my old side, this was my young side. This was the side of me that still had all the dreams left in it, and they just wouldn’t quit.
I left the glass of milk on the bathroom sink and walked back into the bedroom while Chris continued to steam up the bathroom, when the phone rang.
“Gillian? How about some lunch?” It was Gordon . . . oh, Jesus . . . what could I say? At least Chris was in the shower, so he couldn’t hear.
“I can’t. Something has come up, the weekend is kind of screwed up.”
“Anything wrong?”
“No, but I really can’t go into it now. Let’s have lunch Monday.”
“You’re sure nothing’s wrong?”
“No, really, I’m sure. Don’t worry. And Gordon . . . I’m really sorry.
“That’s all right. I have some work to do anyway. See you Monday. But I’ll give you a call later. Good-bye.”
“Who was that?” Chris’s voice, between gulps of milk. I hadn’t heard the shower stop.
“A friend from the office.”
“Oooohhh . . . does little fat girl have a lover boy?”
“No. And stop calling me little fat girl.”
“Okay,” and he blew me a kiss.
It struck me that he seemed to feel totally at home, which was a quality Chris had. And I headed for the tub to rinse off the soap and wash again. I was thinking of Gordon and what I had said to him, and to Chris. No, Gordon was not a “lover boy.” And no, “nothing was wrong.” Except that I had lied to both of them, and I didn’t like doing it. Chris’s stay was going to be an interesting month.
Chris slapped my ass as I walked back to the bedroom. . . . “Put on your grubbies, Gill. I want to go for a walk.”
“Okay, love,” . . . and the door slammed and Samantha’s shrieks of “Uncle Crits” reverberated through the apartment. “Uncle Crits! Uncle Crits! . . . Hi, Mommy. Guess who I saw on the way home? Gorrrdon,” She rolled it around her mouth like a marble. “I told him Uncle Crits is here, and he said that was very nice. He said to say hello.”
Oh shit. Happy Thanksgiving . . . and at that point in time I felt an overwhelming kinship with the turkey.
25
I stood before the door to Gordon’s office, and hesitated for a moment. What in hell was I going to say?
“May I help you with something, Mrs. Forrester?” His secretary eyed me curiously as I stood there, and I no longer had any choice. I had to go in. I turned the knob carefully in my right hand, as I knocked with my left, and then stopped with one foot in the room. He was in the middle of a meeting. As he saw me, the look he gave me chilled me to the bone.
“Yes, Gillian?” His eyes were cold and blank, and his face looked taut beneath the beard.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were busy. I’ll come back later.”
“I’ll call you when the meeting is over.” His eyes moved away from me then, and I felt unwelcome in the room. I closed the door softly behind me and walked slowly back toward my office, wondering what lay in store.
Distractedly, I bought a cup of coffee and a Danish from the coffee wagon and sat down at my desk. Whatever was coming, I could tell it wasn’t going to be pleasant. And I couldn’t blame him. I know how I’d have felt in his shoes. Rotten. And pissed.
The phone rang almost an hour later, when I was absentmindedly trying to get into my work, without much success.
“Gillian, meet me downstairs in ten minutes.”
“Gordon, I . . .”
“I don’t want to talk about it, we’ll discuss it downstairs.”
“Fine.” But the word went unheard, he had already hung up. I closed my eyes and tried to clear my head, and then got up to go. It would have been ironic had we met in the elevator on the way down, but we didn’t. He was waiting on the street when I got there, and as soon as I reached his side he started walking uptown on Lexington Avenue at a pace I could hardly keep up with.
“Why didn’t you tell me he was coming? Did you think I couldn’t take it?”
“Of course not. I didn’t know he was coming. He called right after you left, and a few hours later he was here.”
“By what right?” That was a tough one to answer. And we were crossing streets against the lights, taunting traffic and moving along at breakneck speed. It was obvious that Gordon was livid.
“It’s not a question of rights, Gordon. He’s making a film here and he doesn’t realize how things stand.”
“And precisely how do they stand? I’m not sure I understand myself. Is he your lover or am I?”
“He’s the father of my child. I lived with him. And we left each other under difficult circumstances.”
“How terribly tragic. And if I recall, the difficult circumstances you just mentioned were that he threw you out? Have you forgotten that? Or doesn’t it matter? All he has to do is get on a plane and arrive and everything’s fine. I imagine he’s staying with you.” My “yes” caught in my throat, and Gordon grabbed my arm and spun me around “Isn’t he?”
“Yes! He is! So what for chrissake?”
“So plenty. I don’t want that sonofabitch near you, Gillian! Not for an instant!” People were beginning to stare at us in the street, and the grip Gordon had on my arm brought tears to my eyes.
“Gordon, I’ve got to get this thing sorted out. Please.”
“Grow up for God’s sake, and be honest with yourself. There is nothing to sort out. The man doesn’t want you. Don’t you understand that?”
“Maybe he does.” And then I was horrified at what I’d said.
“So that’s it, is it? Well at least now I understand. I make a good fill-in when he’s not around. You bitch!” He pulled back his arm and for a moment I thought he would hit me, but he restrained himself. “Well, I’ll tell you something. Do you want to know why the men in your life have treated you badly? Because you want them to. You wouldn’t know what to do with them if they didn’t. You eat it up. I’m the first man who’s ever been decent with you, and look at what you’re doing. Take a good long look, because it’s the last look you’ll take.” He stared at me with fire leaping from his eyes and a sense of horror grew within me as I realized what he was saying.
“Gordon, there’s nothing I can say. I don’t want to be dishonest with you. I loved the man. But you mean so much to me too. I love you. I need you.”
“You want to use me. And I’m not up for that. It’s too goddam late for that. I’m too old for that bullshit. I haven’t gotten this far to play games with some hippie film-maker and his fucked up girl friend. Because that’s just what you are. Fucked up!” He had a grip on both arms then and was shaking me until my teeth rattled, and with sudden shock I saw a policeman approaching us from across the street.
“Gordon! Let’s talk about this someplace else . . . there’s . . .”
&nbs
p; “There’s nothing to talk about.” He gave me one last shake and then pushed me away. “To hell with you!” And then he walked away and turned the corner, just as the police officer reached me.
“Lady, are you all right?”
“Yes, Officer, I’m fine thank you.”
“Looked like that guy was giving you a bad time. I thought I’d check it out.”
“Just a little misunderstanding.” And feeling shaken, I started back toward the office. The whole scene with Gordon had been awful, I had lost him, it was over. And for what? In a few weeks Chris would be gone again. Maybe this time for good. What in hell was I doing?
The prospect of returning to the office was dismal.
I had no desire to face the tasks of the business day anymore. I just wanted to go home and hide. But I didn’t want to see Chris, so I was better off at work.
The day crawled by, and my heart felt like it was sitting on my feet. And suddenly I couldn’t stand it anymore. I put my head down on my arms and sobbed. The phone rang and I didn’t answer it, I didn’t give a damn who it was, it could wait, and the tears just wouldn’t stop. Goddam Chris Matthews, all he ever did was screw up my life.
“Gillian?” I heard a voice, but before I could look up to see who had come in his arms were around me. “Darling . . . I’m sorry.” He pulled me gently to my feet and I went on crying in his arms.
“Oh Gordon . . . I . . . I . . .” I couldn’t find the words.
“Sshh. . . .”
“I’ll tell him to go away, I’ll tell him that . . .”
“Quiet. You won’t tell him anything. We’ll wait till he goes and see how you feel.” I looked up at him, stunned.
“You can’t do that!”
“I can do anything I want. And I think you’re right, you’ve got to get it out of your system. So if you can put up with an occasional fit of the glooms on my part, let’s just let it ride. How does that sound?” He kissed me tenderly above each eye, and the tears began to flow again. He was so incredibly good to me. Always.
“That sounds beautiful if you’re sure.”
Going Home Page 18