“I’m sure.”
He held me tightly in his arms, and half an hour later he walked me home.
And as I turned the key in the lock, I dreaded seeing Chris.
When I walked in, Chris and Samantha were roughhousing, her toys spread all over the living room floor.
“Hi, Sam. Hi, Chris, how’d it go?”
“Okay. They’re a funny bunch though. Very ‘Nyeww Yawwk.’ And they’re still trying to get their heads straight and figure out what they’re making a movie about. It’s all fucked up.”
“Watch the ‘forks and spoons’ with the little people around please!”
“Yes, ma’am. How was your day?”
“Okay. Nothing special. Looks like I’ll be pretty busy for the next few weeks though. I might have to work late.” Which meant I wanted time with Gordon.
“No sweat. Once this thing gets started I probably won’t be home till eleven or twelve most nights.”
“That’s okay.”
“Maybe it’s okay with you. But it’s not my idea of a swell time, but bread is bread, and in this case the money’s good.” I noticed that he wasn’t offering to pay the grocery bills with it.
“Hey, listen, you didn’t unpack the small suitcase, Chris. Want me to do it?” It was cluttering up the room.
“Okay, just dump it all in a drawer.” As though I had twelve empty ones just sitting around, waiting for Chris. He really was incredible, in New York for three days and I was beginning to feel as though I were visiting him.
I went into my bedroom with the package of soap I’d bought at the drugstore and unwrapped it, waving a mental farewell to my gardenias from Magnin. I stooped down to open Chris’s suitcase and fiddled with the catch for a minute before it opened. When it did, I saw that the bag was full of sweaters, and some extra underwear, and his ski clothes, and little yellow slips of paper—“i love you, m.” . . . “who’s kissing you now? m.” . . . “more than yesterday and less than tomorrow, m.” . . . “come home soon, m.”—I gathered them up and put them in a pile on Chris’s bedtable. There she was again. Marilyn in my bedroom, in my bathtub, in my kitchen, ramming herself down my throat incessantly. Chris walked in and said, “What’re those?”
“Take a look. Messages from your lady.” It was almost as if Chris had left that bag for me to find them.
“Hey, you don’t think . . . ?” His voice trailed off.
“No, I don’t think . . . but I don’t enjoy them anyway. There are about a dozen of them. I only read four or five. Sorry.”
He didn’t say anything but read them, tore them up, and threw them in the toilet. He had to read them first though. Each and every goddam one.
The time I spent with Chris that first week was odd. We alternated between heading straight into the subject of Marilyn, and rather delicately trying to stay off it. Either way she was right in the forefront of our consciousness most of the time, or mine at least. I realized too that I had changed, that I had in fact gotten a little more independent. I had depended on the idea of Chris, but had stopped leaning on the reality of him. The flesh and blood reality of him was a little harder to live with than I had remembered. I saw him in a different light, a light which was not always flattering. I also realized that Gordon had spoiled me in a number of ways. He was easy to be with, he was thoughtful, took care of me, spent a good deal of time smoothing over rough spots rather than creating them. But in spite of it all, I still continued to glow and grin and love Chris, and feel foolish, falling all over myself, loving the fact that I was able to reach out and touch him again. In spite of how I felt about Gordon. Chris was Chris.
On Thursday of that week, Julie was operated on again, and the hospital would only say that her condition was satisfactory and that she was in the Intensive Care Unit and could have no visitors. My knowledge of hospital language was meager but nevertheless adequate enough to make a reasonable translation of what they were saying. Satisfactory didn’t mean a whole hell of a lot, but the Intensive Care Unit meant plenty. You didn’t go there for a broken toe, you went there with a good chance of not coming out again, and you weren’t liable to enjoy your stay while you were there, if you even remembered it. It was a highly specialized unit, for very, very sick people, with monitors that told the staff exactly what your body was doing and what the chances were that your body would go on doing it. They didn’t relay that kind of information to anyone except each other, so there was no way of knowing how Julie really was, other than “Satisfactory.”
On Friday, John Templeton called me into his office, with Jean, Gordon, Eloise Franck, and three other people who looked familiar but whom I didn’t know. I realized once we were seated and John started to talk about Julie that we were the select elite who knew the truth about Julie. And we were about to get the next bulletin.
“Julie was operated on yesterday, as you all know. They did a biopsy of the bone tissue. She has . . . (pause; count on John for a little drama) . . . bone cancer. The prognosis is a little vague. It could be a year, or even two years, or it could be a matter of weeks. They just don’t know. A lot depends on how she rallies from the shock of the operation. She’s very weak, and we’re keeping close tabs to see how she’s doing. She can’t have visitors, but as soon as we know something I’ll let you know. In the meantime, all we can do is pray, and once again I’d like to ask you not to share this information with the rest of the staff. There will be time enough for that later. And if she rallies in the next few weeks, then she’ll enjoy as many visitors as possible. Until then, I don’t think there’s much point in talking about it. Thank you, and I’m very sorry. I feel just as rotten about this as you do.”
With that, there were murmurs of “Thanks, John,” and a shuffling of chairs, there were a lot of cigarettes lit, and we all walked out of the office, without speaking to each other, looking somber, feeling alone.
Gordon walked me back to my office, and walked in with me, closing the door behind him. He took me in his arms, and we rocked back and forth together. We were both crying. Gordon Harte, the man who had seen everything, who had lost Juanita, the girl that he hadn’t minded finding out had been a prostitute, was crying for Julie Weintraub, and we stood in each other’s arms, crying also for each other.
26
Surprisingly, the relationship with Gordon suffered little from Chris’s sudden appearance. Thanks to Gordon. He was making a tremendous effort not to change the pace. There were no mercurial ascents, or descents, no pressure, despite the fact that we saw each other less. And, inevitably, slept with each other less.
In contrast to things with Gordon, life with Chris was stormy, up and down, subject to hourly changes, as always. There were beautiful moments, followed by anger, and tears, and bitterness on my part about the recurring theme of Marilyn. We spent increasing amounts of time discussing our problems, and it was apparent that the situation needed action, either repair or commitment to one alternative or another. It had stood too long in one place and, whereas Chris was willing to let it stay there, I was not.
As for Julie, she stayed in a coma for two weeks following the operation and then proceeded to rally beyond everyone’s hopes and prayers. She looked thin and wan but sounded wonderful. Her sense of humor was the same as ever, her interest in the magazine continued, she gave us some very good suggestions for the next issue, and she ran a sort of Rest & Recreation Club, cum bar, for everyone at the magazine. People were in and out of her room all day long, and at any given time you could find at least five or six editors sitting by her bed. And, to be honest, Eloise Franck was unbelievable. She was there every day, not hanging on like the hospital ghouls who come to sniff the ether-flavored air and watch the dying, but she was there being herself: tough, cheerful, efficient, and bitchy. She organized a blood donors’ committee at the magazine, and at other magazines where she knew the editors, to minimize the cost of the constant transfusions they were giving Julie. Eloise may have been a tough number, but I respected her, and there was a hea
rt somewhere beneath it all. She surprised me, and so did some others. It’s amazing, who crawls out of the woodwork when the chips are down. The people you expect to surface first sometimes let you down, and the guys way out in left field come in and knock you off your seat with a whole lot of loving. It was nice to watch. Eloise became human, and so did the rest of us. We all stood around in a magic circle, trying to keep Julie buoyed up, giving blood, and trying to give her something more, that magical life serum which makes you want to keep going.
I had asked Chris to come up and see Julie with me, but he wouldn’t.
“What’s the point, Gill? It’s not going to do anything for either of us, and she doesn’t even know me. Besides hospitals and funerals are against my principles. It would be hypocritical, like going to church, which you know I don’t believe in either.”
“It’s called humanity, Chris. Or don’t you believe in that either?” . . . And there was one more thing to bitch at each other about.
Nothing is ever cut and dried, however, and neither was the situation with Chris. Had it been all bad, had he really appeared as the Villain from the Far West, it would have been simple. But it wasn’t. He was good and bad, lovable and hateful, beautiful and ugly. It was all very gray, and even if it had been black, the fact was that I loved him.
As our month together drew to a close, I hadn’t come to any further conclusions about it, and neither had he, but he hadn’t come East for me to come to conclusions anyway. It would just have been nice if I had.
The last few days had a kind of tenderness to them, because we didn’t know when we’d see each other again and once again I was trying to drink it all in to hold onto it in memory. It was like twilight, like a beautiful summer night when the fireflies begin to come out once again. I loved Chris as much as I had in California, and the bitterness about Marilyn was momentarily forgotten. I was resigned to the fact that he was going back to her; there was nothing I could do.
Gordon seemed to sense what was happening and didn’t ask me to see him the last five or six days before Chris was to leave. He steered a wide berth, and I was grateful. I just wanted to be alone with Chris. I took an extra day off from work and we took Samantha to the country after the first snow, had snowball fights and walked in the snow, kissed and laughed and sang Christmas carols.
Christmas was the following Wednesday, and I had hoped to spend it with Chris, but he seemed to want to go back. His job was over and he had no reason to stay on, except for me. That never played much on Chris. Whenever he decided to go, he went.
I expected him to leave that weekend, though he hadn’t said it, and I was bracing myself for the impact. I had Christmas shopping to do but was putting it off until after he left. I didn’t want to waste a second of our time together.
On Friday, I woke up and Chris was already dressed. He had that “I’ve got something to tell you” look on his face, and I braced myself to hear that he was leaving that afternoon.
“I’ve decided when I’m going.”
“Okay, hit me with it quick.”
“Christ, Gill, will you please not look like that. You make me feel like such a bastard. You almost make me think I should leave now, just to get it over with.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that . . . well, you know how I feel.”
“How could I help it? I was going to tell you, you big worrier, that I’m going to leave the day after Christmas, Thursday, the twenty-sixth. Sound okay? Hope I’m not messing up any plans.”
“What plans? Christopher Matthews, I love you!!! Hurrah!!!! Hallelujah! Let’s go Christmas shopping today.”
“Oh Christ . . . I’m leaving . . . in New York? Do you know what the stores look like? And you shouldn’t be in crowds like that.”
“Come on, don’t be such a drip, we don’t have to stay long. Anyway, I want to take Sam to see Santa Claus.”
“Why does she have to see Santa Claus? Don’t you know it’s not healthy to fill kids’ heads with all that bullshit?”
“Come on, Chris, be a sport. Please???”
“Okay, okay, but after that we get to do what I want.”
“Deal . . . Chris? . . . What about Marilyn?”
“What about Marilyn?”
“Well, I mean, with Christmas and all?”
“Look, you seem to forget that I’m not married to her. And it’s my problem, and Gillian I’m just not going to discuss it with you anymore. I mean it. The subject is closed.”
“Okay, get me a cup of coffee will you. I’ll be dressed in half an hour.”
I bought Chris a Patek-Phillippe watch, which was insanity on my part, but I knew he’d love it. He loved fine things, and the watch was beautiful. Like a Salvador Dali painting, it was as flat as they could make it, and had a beautiful simple face, and a black suede watchband. For my mother I got a dressing gown, for my father a humidor, which I knew he’d have twelve of, but I couldn’t think of anything else. For Hilary and Peg I got small, silly things. For Julie, the sexiest bed jacket I could find and three dirty books. And for Gordon, I bought an old leather-bound volume of Don Quixote. I had ordered a rather spectacular doll house for Samantha a few days before. I knew Chris would disapprove of it and she would love it.
I had decided to send John Templeton some Scotch, unimaginative, but it seemed okay and for Jean Edwards and the girls at the magazine I had gotten funny hats in a thrift shop weeks before, thinking we’d have some good laughs out of them.
On the twenty-third, Gordon and I went up to see Julie at the hospital, and she didn’t look well at all. She had that bright, glittering look that people get with a fever. We brought her a bottle of champagne, and our presents, and there was something so unbearably sad about the whole scene that I had to turn away once or twice to pull myself together.
Afterward, I gave Gordon his present and he gave me a lovely hand-wrought leather box, “a magic box for your treasures, Gillian . . . and old love letters.” In it was a card with a poem, signed “Love, G.” . . . and I was touched. It was an odd gift, not personal and yet terribly personal . . . very much like Gordon. . . . I had always wanted a box like that, something to put eucalyptus nuts in, and dried flowers, and buttons from shirts, and things like that, things which mean nothing to anyone because they’re so ordinary, except they mean everything because of what they stand for. Gordon was going to be with his sister in Maryland for Christmas, which made things easier for me.
On Christmas Eve, Chris and I stayed home and made popcorn in the fireplace and chased Samantha back to bed every ten minutes. We decorated the tree and kissed, and he did the top while I did the bottom, because ladders were off limits to me.
“Well, little fat girl, want your present now?” He had a gleam in his eye.
“Yup. How about you?”
“Sure.”
I brought out the Cartier box and began to worry. Maybe it was the wrong gift for him after all, the wrapping looked so pompous next to the little box wrapped in cheap paper that he put in my hand.
“You first,” I said. Chris agreed, and began to tear off the paper, while guessing what might be in the box. He sat there with it in his hand, unwrapped, and the box still closed, while I held my breath and wished I had bought him something for his stereo, or a ski sweater, or new ski boots. . . .
He opened the box and his wide little-boy grin appeared and he just chortled. I felt like Santa Claus. He liked it! He liked it! Hip! Hip! Hooray! He had it on his wrist and was winding and checking, polishing, and looking at it, and he almost squeezed me to death he was so pleased.
“Your turn. . . .”
“Okay, here goes.” I began tearing the blue foil paper off the little box. Underneath the paper was a silver and red cardboard box, the kind you get at the dime store. I pried open the lid and there was a midnight blue velvet box that snapped open on a stiff hinge to reveal bold letters saying “Tiffany & Co.,” and an unbelievable flash of blue-white diamond lying on the velvet. It lay there staring at me, attached to
a thin gold chain. It was a pendant. I could hardly breathe, I was so stunned, and it made me want to cry.
“You sneak. You big fraud, you phony shit. I love you so much, how could you give me something like this?” and I hugged him and squeezed him and gulped. “It’s so beautiful, darling . . . wow!”
“I don’t know. I might take it back and sell it some time.” Typical Chris remark.
“You will not. Put it on for me. My hands are shaking too hard.”
And I headed for the mirror and saw it staring back at me, like a headlight. Wow!
We turned off the lights and looked at the Christmas tree for a while, and then went to bed and made love, and lay there, holding hands, almost asleep.
“Hey, Gill. . . .”
“Yes, love?”
“Let’s get married sometime before the baby’s born.”
“You mean marry you?”
“Uh huh. That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
“I accept!” I didn’t ask about Marilyn, but I thought it. I didn’t think he meant what he’d said. But I hoped to hell he did. As I hugged him closer, I saw that he was wearing his watch, and I smiled and touched the diamond around my neck before I fell asleep.
27
The next morning was Christmas, and it was chaotic, and full of squeals from Samantha. As predicted, the doll house got rave reviews from Sam and a disapproving look from Chris.
At the end of the day, we went for another long walk in Central Park. There was more snow on the ground, and the park was empty. Everyone was busy with family and friends. It was nice to have the park to ourselves
“Chris?”
“Hmmmm . . . ?”
“Did you mean what you said last night?”
“Yeah. Why not? You only live once, and it’d be too bad to have the kid be a bastard.”
“Is that why you’re doing it?”
“No, you ass. What do you think? I’m not made that way. I just figure maybe I better keep you off the streets before that guy, Gordon, decides to marry you from his wheel chair.”
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