by Rona Jaffe
Fittingly, he met Virginia at a party. She was very attractive; vivacious and thin in her simple black dress, her short, thick black hair like a shiny helmet with bangs, her large dark eyes circled and extended with black eyeliner and fringed with upper and lower false eyelashes, her face like a pale mask. She told him she was a part-time model for Rudi Gernreich, a designer so outrageous that he had created a bathing suit which completely exposed a woman’s breasts. But best of all, she was funny. Her conversation was peppered with a kind of slang he had never heard before and only partly understood; he thought perhaps she dated gangsters.
They stayed up almost all night, talking and dancing and drinking and smoking, and the next day he called to ask her out.
“Why don’t you come over tonight,” she said. “I have a color TV, and I like to watch Bonanza. I’ll give you a Mexican TV dinner, which, since I don’t cook, I serve right out of the tray it comes in. Could you bear it?”
“Of course,” Roger said. “I’ll bring the wine.”
She gave him the address, one of those large prewar buildings on Central Park West, overlooking the park. “And when you see me,” she added, “you won’t recognize me.”
He found that intriguing, but he was in no way prepared for how startled he would be. The girl who opened the door in a baggy sweater and narrow jeans had a scrubbed face, long light brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and smallish but pretty eyes. She looked about ten years younger than the Virginia he had met the night before. When she saw the expression on his face she smiled.
“It does shock people,” she said. “This is the other me.”
“You were right,” Roger said. “I almost didn’t know you.” But he was not at all disappointed, and he could tell she knew that, too. He thought she looked a little like Audrey Hepburn, who was his favorite actress.
“Paint is such fun,” Virginia said.
She showed him around the apartment, which had large leather furniture and a spectacular view. They watched Bonanza and ate their TV dinners out of the foil trays, and she drank very little and did not use any offbeat slang at all. He still didn’t know her well enough to know which was the fantasy, the girl he had met last night or this one, but they both fascinated him. He was very turned on, and spent the night. After that they saw each other all the time.
Sometimes she took him to all-night after-hours clubs, or to the kind of parties he had never known existed. She took him to the Factory and introduced him to Andy Warhol. At home she gave him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and taught him how to play dominoes. What he liked most about Virginia, even more than her looks and irreverent humor, was that she was two different women, and that he never knew which one would be waiting for him. When he was with one he always knew the other was there, too, hiding. In a time of outrageous masklike makeup, wigs and artifice, she was like a kind of geisha, or even a transvestite. He was simply a veterinarian.
He fell confusedly, besottedly, in love.
One June day they had a nice little wedding, attended by only their immediate families. His parents liked Virginia. His brother, who never agreed with him on anything, didn’t; probably, Roger thought, because he was jealous. What none of them knew was how much Virginia loved her little red and black pills. Seconals and blackbirds. . . .
Roger married her in awe, lived with her in growing disillusionment, frustration and acrimony, and divorced her in sad resignation. They had fought until neither of them cared enough to fight anymore. They had been married for four years, and the day he finally left she was too stoned even to say goodbye. He supposed he should have noticed from the outset that she was addicted, and that probably neither of the two people he was living with were the real Virginia, but he was used to the uncomplication of small domestic animals whose secrets were pure.
After his divorce from Virginia, Roger went out with many women, most of whom were easy conquests enjoying their new freedom. It was as if they and he were like loaves of bread lined up on a grocery shelf, dated for quick consumption. He didn’t know if he liked this or not. The part of him that had been hurt and made wary by his marriage preferred it to making another mistake. The part of him that thought longingly of stability was lonely. And the part of him that needed fantasy and newness, the part Virginia had tapped into, was taken care of by all this romantic turnover, and so Roger was hardly aware it existed at all.
It was ironic that he met Olivia in a line to see an Audrey Hepburn movie, but that was a long time after Virginia had stopped looking like his favorite actress anyway. Olivia was tall and beautiful, with long wavy auburn hair with gold glints in it and topaz eyes; and, he thought, quite sensual—but there was also something about her that seemed grounded and intelligent, as if those qualities could not often be found all at the same time. She was wearing an odd-looking, shaggy brown sweater.
He saw these things in an instant, with a kind of déjà vu. She looked unique but familiar somehow, as if he had been waiting for her all his life, and when he saw her he was so afraid of losing her that he didn’t have the courage to speak to her. But she smiled at him. Not just a polite smile, but a big, delighted child’s grin. Her life force and her joy poured out, warming and moving him.
“Where did you get that coffee?” he asked, as if he didn’t have eyes to see to the corner.
“Over there.”
“Will you save my place?”
“Absolutely.”
Luckily it was one of those little theaters that let you bring food and drinks inside because they didn’t sell any. When he raced back from the coffee shop the line was just beginning to move. He managed to sit next to Olivia, and since they were both alone and liked what they saw they made small talk while they were waiting for the picture to begin. They had both seen it before.
“That’s an interesting sweater,” Roger said. “What’s it made of?”
“Yak.”
It was obviously not; it was some kind of fabric. He laughed. “I don’t think so,” he said.
“Are you a furrier?”
“No. I’m a veterinarian.”
“Do you take care of yaks?” Olivia asked.
“Dogs and cats mostly. One spider monkey.”
“Do you know the chances of two veterinarians sitting next to each other in a movie theater?”
They bantered some more and exchanged cards, and his life began.
But now it was over a decade later, and he was afraid of getting older, which was inevitable anyway; afraid of death, which was equally inevitable; and afraid of his ambivalence in the dangerous tightwalk between Wendy and Olivia. He didn’t know why it had taken him so long to realize that Wendy, with her sleeping pills and faked suicide, had reminded him uncomfortably of Virginia. Virginia had never tried to kill herself, but she had seemed headed toward doing it accidentally and had refused to do anything about it. She was now so far gone from his life that after she remarried and he could stop sending her alimony payments he didn’t even know where she was and had no reason to care. But something remained; it had to. He hadn’t thought about her in years, and Wendy had brought it back.
Was he attracted to crazy women who lived on the edge? And if so, what miracle had brought him to Olivia, who wanted serenity and sanity? Why couldn’t he just let Olivia be who and what she was and be content and grateful for it? Was he self-destructive? No, he was just a man who needed adventure once in a while to feel alive. What was so unusual about that?
He called Wendy. It was one of those early spring days in New York that gives a seductive hint of the softness to come and then the next day disappears.
“Can I come over at six o’clock?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Surprise me.”
He rang the bell to her apartment instead of using his key, because he knew she was going to be a stranger. Wendy opened the door and smiled at him like a little mouse.
She had her hair tucked neatly behind her ears and was wearing small round horn-rimmed eyeglasses.
“You’re here to see the apartment,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Hawkwood.”
“Dr. Hawkwood.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Call me Roger.”
“I’m Caroline,” Wendy said. “Come in.”
There were cardboard cartons on the living room floor and it looked as if she were in the midst of packing her books. She was wearing a prim suit and blouse, corporate image, just back from the office. “You see the living room is quite large,” she said. Her voice was soft and sweet, her manner tentative and shy. She glanced at him and then looked away.
“Yes.”
“I hope the mess of packing doesn’t distract you from the really nice space.”
“Not at all,” Roger said. “Are you leaving New York?”
“No. Just moving downtown. To be closer to work.”
“Ah.”
“Let me show you the kitchen,” she said. She led him there. “It’s very well-organized for a small New York kitchen,” she said. “Do you or your wife like to cook?”
“I have no wife.”
“Oh.” She blushed, as if she had been fishing to see if he were available. “And this is the bedroom. King-sized bed, as you see, fits in easily, and two large closets.” She opened the doors to show him. The clothing hanging inside was all hers. He noticed the cat carrier next to the dresser. Two familiar hostile eyes glared out at him. “And the bathroom,” she said, moving on.
She had obviously straightened out the bathroom for his inspection; it had that look of being on display. She had even put paper guest towels on the side of the sink. The entire apartment, except for the packing, was very neat. “Did I show you the dining area?” she asked, sounding flustered.
“No.”
“Well, here it is. Right off the living room. You could make an office out of it if you wanted to, and eat in the living room. But . . . I guess you . . . don’t have dinner at home very often.”
“Not very often,” he said.
“Oh,” she said. “Well.” A little smile slid across her face and she looked at him wistfully. “Let me show you the sunset.”
She led him to the window. Between the buildings there was a red streak against the sky. Roger looked at her. She was doing the perfect impersonation of a demure young woman with hidden fire and longing inside. But he would have to woo her. He moved closer to her at the window and she shivered.
“It’s great,” he said. Actually, you couldn’t really see much.
“Would you . . . like a drink?” she asked.
“For the sunset?”
“Yes.”
“All right,” he said. “Thank you.”
She poured each of them a glass of white wine and they sat on the couch. “It’s a romantic apartment, don’t you think?” she said softly. “Especially for a bachelor.”
“I’m surprised you’re giving it up,” Roger said.
“Oh . . . I have some memories that aren’t so good. Time to move on.”
“A woman like you shouldn’t have painful memories.”
“What is a woman like me?”
“Beautiful. Intelligent. Sensitive.”
“I’m not beautiful,” she said.
“Caroline, believe me, you are.”
She looked down, embarrassed and pleased. “Thank you for saying that. Even though I don’t feel it.”
“Someone must have hurt you very badly to shake you that much.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Apparently not long enough.”
“These painful things linger. Not the person. Just the bad feelings he gave me about myself,” she said in a matter-of-fact and very vulnerable voice. She sipped her wine.
He felt a warm and wistful feeling, and then the stirrings of desire. He wanted to take off her conservative clothes and feel her body—even under that suit it was apparent how tempting it was. He laid his hand on hers, and when she didn’t pull away he enveloped it comfortingly. He touched her pulse with his thumb and felt it was jumping.
“No one has a right to hurt you,” he said.
“No one has the right to hurt anyone.”
“If you were my woman I would never hurt you.”
He heard the intake of her breath.
“I would cherish you. You deserve that.”
“You have such wonderful hands,” she whispered.
Roger ran his finger gently across the back of Wendy’s hand and she trembled. He took a few of the soft blonde hairs on her forearm between his thumb and forefinger and lifted them. She gave a desperate sigh, almost a moan. “Who are you?” she whispered, “Coming into my life like this . . .” Her head was back, exposing her long, lovely throat.
“I’m your destiny,” Roger said. Destiny! What idiotic things I say to her in these sex games, he thought, glad no one else could hear him. But it turns me on. He slowly began unbuttoning her corporate blouse, and where each button had been he laid his lips.
He had never before been so leisurely and caring when he had sex with her. He undressed her deliberately, kissing and caressing every part of her, holding himself back, fending off his intolerable pleasure, enjoying how out of control he made her. When he slipped inside her and she came for the last time, she screamed, and then he heard another voice, deeper, more primitive, crying out; and he realized it was himself.
They lay on the couch for a while, dazed and exhausted. Then Wendy got up and brought back two glasses of water, and they drank thirstily.
“This was the best we ever did,” he said. “It’s always been hot and fantastic between us, but this was unbelievable.”
“We’re good together,” Wendy said.
“Yes. And I love you.” He kissed her lightly and stood.
“Where are you going?”
“To take a shower. If I lie here a minute longer I’ll fall asleep.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I have to go home.”
“Oh,” she said flatly.
“I’m expected for dinner,” Roger said. He didn’t like the tone of her voice or the look she was giving him. She had never done this before. “Honey, you know how it is,” he said mildly, hoping she wouldn’t make him feel guilty. She knew the rules. She always had.
“Yes. I know how it is.” She went into the bedroom. He hurried into the bathroom, as much to escape her criticism as to wash away all signs of what had just transpired so he could return to his ordered life.
When he came out to dress Wendy was sitting on the couch hunched in a terrycloth robe, moodily drinking her wine. She didn’t look like a contented, relaxed woman who had just had four orgasms—she looked like a neglected waif.
“We need to talk,” she said. The sky was black outside the window.
Roger looked at his watch. It was, he noted nervously, after eight. “I have to go. Can we talk later?”
“When is later?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll call you from outside.”
“I need to talk face-to-face.”
“Next time.”
“Not next time. This time.”
“What is the matter with you?” he asked. He picked up his glass of wine and took a quick gulp. The wine had gotten warm. He began to feel the tension creep into the back of his neck.
“Take some fresh from the cooler,” she said, gesturing.
He wavered. “I have to go.”
“Hear me out.”
“All right,” Roger said. He took a glass from the bar and poured himself another.
“This isn’t enough,” Wendy said. “I need more of the real you. I need time for us together just doing the things normal people do.”
/> “We do that—”
“When she’s away. I don’t want to be second best.”
The tension squeezed the back of his neck and his jaws until his head began to hurt. “You’re not second best,” he protested. “You have the part of me no one else knows.”
“I appreciate that. I would also like to wake up with you on Sunday mornings.”
“No, you wouldn’t. It’s no pleasure.”
“I want to cuddle with you. I want to take a walk with you, go to a play, a party, show you off. I want to have a goddamn whole meal in a restaurant with you.”
“Oh, Wendy. Why are you doing this now?”
“Because I’m in love with you,” she said.
All the times she had told him that, he had enjoyed believing her because it was a necessary part of their affair. Now, suddenly, when she said it, it was ominous. He wished he didn’t have to believe it.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “I never meant to.”
“You tell me you’ll protect and cherish me and then you don’t.”
“But . . . it’s part of the game,” he blurted out.
Wendy’s eyes filled with tears, and then they overflowed. “I know,” she said quietly.
“Oh, Wendy.” He put his arms around her and held her. He was awash with tenderness for her, this wounded creature, and at the same time he felt choked and trapped. This was never the way it was supposed to be. “Please don’t,” he said, smoothing her hair off her forehead, letting her cry against his shoulder. His skin was crawling. She was so unpredictable. She could do anything. As soon as she stopped crying he stood up.
“Now I really have to go,” he said with authority, and this time she didn’t stop him.
When he got home the assistant was finishing up before closing the clinic for the night. He went upstairs to Olivia, who was in the living room watching television. “Oh, there you are,” Olivia said. “You’re so late.” He patted the dogs, who were overjoyed to see him.
“Buster, Buster,” he said. “Wozzle, Wozzle.” Now he could face her. “I needed to unwind,” he said, “so after I worked out I ran some laps around the track.”