by Susan Isaacs
I continued to study my watch. Jerry had protested, of course, telling me I needn’t miss work, especially during a campaign, but he also managed to grit his teeth with pain once and to turn white as he reached across the bed for the metropolitan section of the Times, so I knew he wanted me with him.
“All right,” LoBello said. “Where was I?”
“You were going to say something about Sidney Appel,” Eileen said. Her voice was slow and patient, like a teacher helping a slow but hard-working student. “Remember, Lyle?”
“Thank you, Eileen.” But he glanced at me as he spoke, as though suspecting we had plotted to undermine and emasculate him. “Okay, let’s get going. Sidney Appel is going to be a problem. No two ways about it. Now you may be wondering why I’m talking to you guys about Appel now. I mean, it’s before the weekend, Bill’s upstate, what can happen, right? Well, what I’m going to say will explain it all.”
A huge sigh followed LoBello’s sentence, a sigh of ennui so explosive that it commanded the attention of the entire staff. It had come from Joe Cole, Paterno’s minority affairs expert, one of Jerry’s oldest cronies.
“Anything wrong, Joe?” LoBello asked. He sensed insurrection. His voice was tight trying to transform his anger into nonchalance for the benefit of his upstate audience.
“Come on, man,” Joe urged in a slow, impatient ghetto voice. “It’s almost eleven fucking thirty.” Joe usually wore Brooks Brothers tones in the office, but he donned an uptown cadence when he wanted to intimidate whites. “I got things to do.”
“All right,” LoBello said, almost apologetically. Then he became brusque. “We’re all busy, you know. Now, Sidney Appel. Sidney Appel is going to declare his candidacy on Monday. Try to comprehend the importance of that. That’s a week before we thought he’d be ready.” He peered at me and said, “Our Sullivan County intelligence was faulty.” Then he cleared his throat. “Okay, how are we going to counter him? How are we going to direct our energies?”
“I’m going,” I announced, standing up.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Marcia?”
“I’m going to work at home. I have too much to do and I need quiet.” I left, my exit embellished by LoBello’s speechless rage and calls of “bye” and “see you Monday” and “best to Jerry” from Joe and Eileen and the rest of the City Hall contingent.
“I give it seven on a scale of ten,” said Jerry, rating the insurrection. Lying flat on his back, addressing the ceiling, he applauded Joe’s sigh, smiled at the unexpected backup from a snide Eileen, but was irate that no one had challenged LoBello’s remark that the intelligence on the Appel campaign was faulty. “You realize that that was a direct criticism of me, that he’s saying I didn’t do my job, that son-of-a-bitch muscle-bound jerk.”
“No one was taking him very seriously. Now, can we please talk about what’s happening to you? You just can’t pretend—”
“Enough. It’s not necessary. Listen to me for a minute, Marcia. I told Bill that Appel would be announcing before May first. I couldn’t say when because before I could get any more information, he sent me up to goddamn Buffalo. But my source was good.”
“Who was it?”
“Appel’s wife’s best friend.”
“A woman?”
“Sure. She hangs out at this bar in Monticello. The county chairman introduced me to her. Her husband’s a big real-estate guy up there and a buddy of Appel’s.”
“Doesn’t he mind that she hangs around in a bar?”
“How the hell should I know? Maybe he’s glad to be rid of her. She’s a real hard drinker. But she is a lot of fun, and I guess she keeps Appel’s wife amused with her stories about the men she scores with. Anyhow, I bought her a few rounds and it turns out she’s one of these smart alcoholics. You know, half whacko, never sober, but doesn’t miss a move. Well, turns out she hates Appel, thinks he’s the meanest son-of-a-bitch on wheels. Anyway, she knows that Appel’s been cheating for years and using her friend’s inheritance not just to bankroll his own projects but to buy trinkets for his little cuties. He seems to like high school girls who like sports cars. He never touches anyone over seventeen. So just to even the score for Mrs. Appel, she’s reporting everything she can find out.”
“Does Mrs. Appel know she’s talking to you?”
“No. Of course not.”
“So theoretically she—”
“Marcia, you know there’s nothing theoretical about a Democratic primary.”
“Did she make a play for you?” I was standing next to the bed and leaned over to gaze directly at him. “How come she was so willing to confide in you? I mean, you were a near stranger, a man—”
“Stop it,” he said sharply. I averted my head. “Marcia, it was the kind of knee-jerk flirtation that type goes through whenever she meets someone new, just to keep in practice.” I glanced back in time to see him passing his tongue over his lips.
Jerry lived in a tempting world, a universe of candy and cookies and ice cream, and although he seemed content with the sweets he got from me, he could, at any time, grab an extra little yummy without a thought: a bite from a rum-soaked bonbon in the Catskills. Every once in a while, I’d suspect he took such a nibble, but then I’d shrug off my suspicions. I had no proof, no clue, not even a hint. It could be my own fears projected onto him. Besides, what could I do about it? So much sex was offered to Jerry that he could—at least theoretically—take on a woman with no more thought than he would give to accept a stick of gum. Tasty. Thank you.
Naturally, sex was available to me too. There was always a Jack to play to my Jill, at least for a night. But the men I met were interested in mere coupling, a woman to provide the requisite friction. I knew from experience how tempting it would seem and how trivial or how humiliating it could be.
But with Jerry, the ladies wanted more than mere sex. They wanted to play and please. They wanted to poke their fingertips into the cleft in his chin and giggle. They wanted to feel his heat and see how much hair he had on his chest. They wanted to chat. They would present themselves forward or backward or upside down to get his attention. For a wink they would iron his shirts. For a smile and an afterwork hug, they would schlepp his groceries a mile. They might kill for a serious conversation.
He reached for my hand. “I hate to tell you this.”
“What?”
“The jar is full. It got boring here alone so I spent the whole morning peeing.”
“That’s okay.” I lifted the jar, recently for mayonnaise, and took it into the bathroom. I emptied it and then stood still, a little uncertain about how to handle the problem of jar, hands, and lunch.
Jerry called, “Bring the jar here, then go back and wash your hands.”
I did and then returned to the side of the bed. “You’re a born executive, Jerry.” I brushed the hair off his forehead. “Want lunch?”
“Sure. It’ll be the high point of my day. What’s on the menu?”
“Anything. I have to run out to the store, so I can get whatever you want. And don’t worry, I still remember how to cook.”
“Anything?”
“Well, I’m not going to make beef Wellington.”
“What’s that?” he asked suspiciously.
“Never mind. What do you want?”
“Scrambled eggs and sausages.”
“For lunch?”
“Okay. Peanut butter and jelly.”
“Don’t you want something more interesting? A salade niçoise? A nice roast beef sandwich?”
“Marcia, what do you want to make me for lunch?”
“A fines herbes omelet?”
“I can just hear your little domesticated motor humming.”
“Then you’re hallucinating. Listen, how about some cheese and pâté and I’ll get a French bread and some wine. Red or white?”
“Red. And I want you back soon.” I leaned over and kissed his mouth. “Before my jar fills up again.”
I dashed down the s
tairs and outside, clutching my keys and money in my fist, and strode over to Sixth Avenue with the anticipation and enthusiasm of a Washington hostess about to fete a British duke. “That brie is overripe,” I accused one shopkeeper. I rejected another’s selection of wine as uninspired. I wound up in a cold tiled store where the Greenwich Village rich shop and bought two pâtés—coarse and fine—two rich cream-logged cheeses from France, and a pale, thin blond one from Denmark. I picked out a long elegant French bread.
I went three blocks farther and finally found a store that sold me a blue-and-white checkered tablecloth. I would have bought daisies to strew on the bed, but, sensing that Jerry might construe any overtly romantic act as pressure, I scurried back to the apartment, the spring chill nipping at my arms and legs.
“A picnic!” I announced, spreading the cloth over the blanket that covered Jerry.
“Hey, this is really nice. What a fuss! I love it. I may become a professional invalid.” I tucked a soft paper napkin under his chin and combed his hair back with my fingers. “Will you darn my socks for me too?” he asked.
“Invalids don’t need socks. But I’ll buy you coloring books and Hershey bars.” I dragged two chairs in from the dining area, one for me, the other for the wineglasses.
“Marcia,” he said, “this is inspired.”
“Thank you.” I sat on the chair next to him and reached over for a fast stroke of his hand.
“Do I get lunch too?” he asked.
“Yes, of course. You’re just too distracting, lying there like that.”
“Helpless.”
“Stop it.” I hurried into the kitchen and returned with the cheeses and pâtés on a cutting board. I discovered a pear in the refrigerator and placed it there, water-beaded and glistening, and tucked the French bread under my arm.
“You’re trying to weaken my defenses with this home-maker routine,” he said.
“Right. Pretty soon I’ll make lace curtains for the living room, and maybe I’ll buy a pair of his and her madonnas for our dressers. You’ll be totally besotted, putty in my hands.”
“You really wouldn’t want that?”
“The only thing I want is lunch,” I remarked, and tore off a piece of bread for him. “Watch out for the crumbs. Now, do you want me to fix up a plate for you?”
“Sure. I’m going to milk this thing for all it’s worth.” I cut small wedges of cheese, little squares of pâté, even broke his bread into bite-sized bits. Then, tilting the wineglass, I let him take tiny sips. “This has to be one of the best lunches of my life,” he said. I leaned over and licked a crumb from his lip.
“Stand up,” he said, a few minutes later. “Take off your clothes.”
“It’s too bright in here.”
“Off.” I did, but turned my back to him as I unhooked my bra.
“Come on. Turn around.” I did, but with my arms hugged in front of me, as though I were cradling a litter of kittens. “Marcia, put your hands down.” I felt the warm flush on my face seeping into my neck and shoulders. I was embarrassed. I knew Jerry knew my breasts were small, but I didn’t want them viewed in bright afternoon sunlight. “Sweetheart, come on. Hands down.”
I complied, but looked away from him while he studied me. He examined me for a long time, not speaking, not breathing hard, and I felt stiff with anxiety over whether I would pass his test, but also soft inside, moist and receptive to the helpless man in the bed who was controlling me.
“Come closer,” he said at last. I stepped nearer, to the edge of the bed. I looked at him finally, but only at his hand; I could not meet his glance. His fingers reached out and began a feathery massage of my stomach. My muscles contracted in response. I placed my hand over his and tried to push it lower. “No, Marcia. Just stand there. Don’t do anything.” His light touch continued and finally his hand moved lower, but it was only to touch my legs, to run from my ankles slowly up my calves and all around my thighs. Each time I moved or tried to maneuver him, every time I moaned, he pulled his hand away.
He reached up, but the stretching made him wince. “Kneel on the floor,” he ordered. He traced my midriff and chest and neck over and over, until my breasts began to ache from not being touched. Finally he caressed them too, but lightly, as though he were immune from the roughness of passion. His fingers then reached for my face, probing my ears, moving around and around my lips and inside my mouth, over my tongue. “Stand up now. Come on, Marcia.” My knees wobbled and my legs shook a little, but I stood. “Open your eyes. That’s right. Now look at me. Not down at the blanket. At me.” I met his eyes, hard, cold, blue stars. He ran his hand across my hip but then withdrew it. “Keep looking at me. What are you going to do now?”
“What?” I whispered.
“My arm is tired. What are you going to do with yourself? Don’t move. Stand there. What are you going to do?”
“What should I do?”
He didn’t answer. His face remained somber, almost sullen.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Make yourself come, Marcia. That’s it. Slower. Much slower. And keep looking at me.” I watched him staring as my fingers worked. “Very nice.” Then he looked up and merely blinked as he saw the tears in my eyes. “Come on. Finish up. Finish up. That’s it.” I continued, his eyes holding mine, until the final releasing shudder that let me close my eyes. But still I stood there, waiting for him to tell me what to do. “That was fine, wasn’t it?” I nodded and began to turn away. “Come on now, sweetheart. Come into bed, under the covers. I want you next to me.”
“Jerry,” I said as I felt his warmth across the sheet.
“Touch me now…. Oh, that’s wonderful.”
Later I said “Jerry” again, after I had touched him to his satisfaction.
“Shhh. Close your eyes now. We’ll have a nice long afternoon nap.”
He slept until evening, occasionally letting his hand drift lightly over my bare skin in his sleep. “I love you,” I whispered when I was certain he was in a deep dream.
Jerry wanted everything light. Just as he would not commit himself to marriage, so he would not enter into a liaison where he might be pushed out of control, even for only a half hour. Maybe it was his latent Catholicism, his sense of sin, his feeling that great sweats and orgasmic shrieks and purple teeth marks would not benefit his immortal soul. He may have held back from me, specifically, because he knew all about me. Jerry was a politician; it was his business to know people. I have no doubt that when I visited his office for my job interview, he knew with nearly as much precision as I the number of men I had slept with. It was not that he was inquisitive and loved gossip, although almost all politicians do. If he was hiring a speech writer for Paterno, he wanted to know about any potential kinks that might interfere with her work, any entangling alliances that might divide her loyalties. He had not been forced to ferret out the information. No doubt he knew about me just as I knew about him before I met him, by sitting back and letting late-afternoon chatter flow around him.
He was too sophisticated to be shocked by my level of post-Plotnick promiscuity, for it was certainly not unusual among the women he dealt with. And I don’t think he recoiled at the thought of his friends, colleagues and adversaries who preceded him. I’d been around, and he took comfort in my ability to care for myself. We coupled casually. With me he had no fears about permanence or paternity. After three nights of drinking with the boys he would return to a receptive woman, diaphragm perpetually in place, always welcoming. He appreciated a woman who knew very well what other men had to offer.
But Jerry was conventional too. Even if he suddenly had dreams of picket fences and babies, he would have trouble trying to fulfill them with a fast woman by his side. He was too Irish to go the whole route with a divorced Jew with a racy past.
Perhaps he did not trust me. Why, indeed, should he give me his all when I might take up with a state assemblyman from Chinatown on a whim? Or when my family might finally succeed and convince me t
o run off with the first circumcised pharmacist who proposed?
But that evening was fine, and so was the next day. I lay beside him, talking, gazing at the black hairs rooted in the satiny white skin of his chest, making him meals and snacks, emptying his jar. He refused to discuss current events; Paterno, LoBello, his status in the campaign were classified objects. He wouldn’t contemplate his future.
“We’re not going to talk about any political shit,” he announced.
“Do you think that by ignoring the problem it will go away?” I demanded, smoothing the blanket.
“No.”
But since Jerry’s definition of “political shit” applied only to the current campaign, we chatted about old battles and old flames. Since we both reckoned our personal history by public events, we thought of the two together. For me, 1969 had been a horror: Procaccino ran for mayor against Lindsay and I had run through Mitchell Rosten, Harlan Falkowitz, and Michael Smiley; all four campaigns were disastrous.
For Jerry, the campaigns were far more memorable than the cuties. He could report how each election district in Queens had voted in the 1968 Humphrey-Nixon contest, but all he really recalled about 1968’s Joan O’Day was that she got sleepy by ten at night—a serious defect for a political operative—and that her sister had been a nun.
“Was she bright?” I asked, as if she were dead.
“Yes.”
“Pretty?”
“Yes. But I think she was too short.”
I, on the other hand, knew that Harlan Falkowitz was six foot two and three quarters, that Mitchell Rosten had the hairiest backside I’d ever seen, and that Michael Smiley was morose and hated his last name. If encouraged, I might have quoted entire conversations with Harlan or Mitchell or Michael—insipid as they were. But I wasn’t encouraged. Jerry wanted to know Procaccino’s media budget.
“Who remembers things like that?” I huffed.
“How could you forget something like that?” Jerry demanded.
“How could you forget whether Joan O’Day was short?”
“I said she was too short.”