What Is This Thing Called Love?

by Gene Wilder

  “What is it you want, Charley?” she asked, not rudely, but as if she was expecting another request for her to wash his underwear and socks.

  “I . . . just want to know how you’re doing, honey. That’s all. I worry about you sometimes, you know?”

  “Do you, Charley.”

  “Yes, I do. More than you would ever imagine. Could I ask you a personal question, Georgia?”

  After a long pause, Georgia said, “All right.”

  “Why did you marry me?”

  “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “Please. I need a little help sometimes.”

  “Charley, I didn’t know much about you when we were married. I just knew that you were a gentleman, that you were gentle, and I believed that you would always take care of me. I also used to love all the different colored shirts you wore from your haberdashery, when you came to pick me up and take me out to dinner. That’s all.”

  “Did you love me?”

  “I did then, yes.”

  “Could I ask you one more question, Georgia?”

  “Charley—”

  “Please, Georgia. It’s very important to me. Just one more question.”

  “All right . . . if it won’t take too long.”

  “I just want to know . . . if you’d like to go to the ballet with me sometime. Don Quixote is at the Met tonight . . . and Thursday night . . . if you want?”

  There was a long pause.

  “I’d like that very much, Charley.”

  The King of Hearts

  I don’t want to sound like an egomaniac, but I do know how to win at hearts. Perhaps I’m not an expert, but I think I’m pretty good, and I’ve had an awful lot of experience. But I’m telling you now that it can be dangerous. When I’m with Pauline, for instance, I usually get burned more times than I enjoy it. Sometimes, when I’m with Michele, I make out all right, and once or twice I’ve even been with both at the same time, but I’ve found that they are both brilliant at using the same technique that I’m going to teach you right now.

  First of all, you’ve got to relax! Don’t tense up when you make your first pass. If you only have three clubs or three diamonds—get rid of one or the other.

  Secondly, if you’re dealt a hand that has five or six spades, including the queen, pass three clubs or three diamonds—whichever would make you void in that suit—and then drop the queen of spades on someone else. Why should you get stuck with thirteen points, bam, just like that?

  The last thing—at least for now—is this: If you’re feeling really confident, well then, keep all of your high cards and pass three of your smallest. The whole point of this game is to avoid taking the queen of spades, or to take the queen and all of the hearts. If this works you will have shot the moon—which means that you don’t get a single point while each of the other players gets stuck with twenty-six.

  Good luck from your King of Hearts,

  Robbie Sherman

  Twelve people who barely knew each other formed a small club that we’ve named “Our Hearts.” The only thing we had in common was that we all loved playing the game of hearts more than bridge. We meet every Friday evening at seven. Our little club is located in White Plains, New York, on the floor above our neighborhood ice cream parlor, Ciao Belly, close to where we all work and live.

  Apart from my love of the game of hearts, I’m a feature writer for Women’s Health, Westchester County’s most popular magazine. I do a weekly column on health issues, but when our managing editor learned about Our Hearts—and also, I’m sure, because he heard that more and more people in Westchester County are playing hearts—he asked me to write an additional weekly feature giving our readers tips on how to win at hearts. My name is Robbie Sherman.

  Pauline and Michele, the two women I referred to in my first column, are certainly the most cunning players in our little club.

  Pauline is a somewhat cheerless woman, with straight dull brown hair and no flair at all for how to dress attractively. She is pretty enough, but not at all sexy. She’s thin as a rail and cold as a cucumber. Michele, on the other hand, is a bona fide red-haired beauty and extremely sexy, especially in her multicolored skirts and her sweaters that emphasize her breasts. I don’t know what Pauline or Michele do for a living—dental hygienists I would guess, because both of them are always pristine clean and their teeth are shiny white. They even carry a toothbrush with them on Friday nights so that they can brush their teeth right after our coffee and donut break.

  Last Friday I decided to ask Michele—the sexy redhead—if she was free on Saturday night and if she’d like to go out with me for a movie and dinner. She was very gracious and even gave me a little hug, but said that she was busy Saturday.

  My wife died two years ago and last Friday was the anniversary of our marriage, so I was a little lonely. After mulling it over for several minutes—while everyone was saying good night to each other—I asked the cheerless thin woman with dull brown hair to go out with me. This may sound silly, but I think there was something about Pauline’s thinness that actually attracted me. I would have given you almost any odds that she’d turn me down, but I was wrong; she said yes immediately, with the slightest hint of a smile.

  Daylight saving had begun, birds were chirping and flowers were beginning to bloom as I drove up to Pauline’s house at a quarter to seven, which was plenty of time for us to see an early movie and then have dinner. I certainly didn’t have anything else in mind.

  I rang her doorbell and waited on the front porch. When she came out I was shocked, because this pale, dull-haired, drab dresser who wore straight, colorless skirts that never flared out at the bottom, was now wearing a beautiful lavender skirt that swished back and forth as she moved.

  “You look lovely tonight, Pauline,” I said as I gushed with surprise. Is this is the same woman? I asked myself. Even her dull hair had suddenly come alive.

  “I didn’t have to come straight from work tonight,” she said, “the way I do on Fridays when I race to get to Our Hearts.”

  While I was driving we got into a little dispute. Pauline wanted to go to our local art house to see the re-release of Bette Davis in Dark Victory, and I was hoping to see the new Bond picture with Daniel Craig. Pauline is forty-one years old, divorced, and can sometimes be very brusque, whereas I’m forty-three, polite, and sometimes stubborn, but she’s the girl and I’m the boy. My mother taught me to always walk on the curb side with a woman, always help her on with her coat, always open the door for her, and, if there’s a conflict, always let her win.

  In this case, the problem was quickly solved: We went to see Dark Victory.

  The tears came streaming down Pauline’s face when Bette Davis realized that she was going blind and that the end was imminent. Pauline took my hand and squeezed it, as if she were hoping against hope that there could still be a happy ending. But she and Bette both knew that was impossible.

  I must say that I was also very moved, especially by Pauline taking my hand. I thought for sure that this simple human gesture would be something she would never do, or that she would think it was immature, but now I saw her through different eyes: the cold scientist, ruthless in hearts, suddenly revealing that she also had a human heart.

  We went to Figaro—a small bistro nearby—and talked about the movie as we ate dinner.

  “So, Pauline . . . what’s your profession? I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that you’re a dental hygienist.”

  “I’m the chief of cardiothoracic and vascular surgery at Westchester Hospital Center,” she said cheerfully as she chewed on her broccoli.

  It felt like a full minute that my mouth was hanging open. To stop myself from looking like an oaf, I quickly stuffed a Brussels sprout into my mouth, but it got stuck in my throat and I couldn’t get it up or down. I began coughing.

  “Are you all right?” Pauline asked.

  “Wen down . . . wong pipe,” I tried to say as the coughing got worse. I think I was turning red.

&nbs
p; Pauline yanked me out of my chair and stood behind my back.

  “Raise your arms straight up,” she ordered and then gave a hard tug just under my ribs. She tugged again, even harder, and out sailed the Brussels sprout like a little flying saucer.

  “You’re very naughty,” she said. “You should eat slowly and chew your food before you swallow, like a big boy. Now sit down. Do you feel all right?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Doctor.”

  When I took Pauline home she just said, “Thank you for the movie, Robbie, and the dinner, and for my not having to rush you to the emergency ward.” She gave me a polite kiss on the cheek and said, “See you on Friday.”

  For our next lesson I want you to learn what you can do with a heart. You might think the best thing is to just get rid of it. But that can be treacherous, especially if you’ve got the 2, 3, 4, or 5 of hearts.

  Ben, for example, is a member of our club who always sits on my right when I’m playing in a foursome. I don’t think I’m paranoiac, but as soon as Ben sees me sit down, he runs to the table and sits next to me. Always on my right. Every time it’s Ben’s turn to pass cards to me, I know they’re going to be his highest hearts. So here is today’s lesson on how to avoid the trap: Always keep any small hearts that you’ve been dealt.

  Good luck, from your King of Hearts,

  Robbie Sherman

  On our next Friday get-together, Pauline the doctor, was at another table and Michele, the sexy redhead, was on my left.

  I thought I was imagining it at first, but it seemed that each time I passed three cards to Michele she would caress my hand very lightly as she took the cards. Friendly gesture? Perhaps, but after the third or fourth caress I think it was a signal.

  After I lost that game and during our coffee and donut break, Michele wiggled up to me and said, “I’m free this Saturday, Robbie—if you still want to go to go out with me.”

  On Saturday night I picked Michele up at her home. She lived at 23 Very Merry Lane. When she told me her address I assumed it was a joke . . . but it wasn’t.

  “What do you feel like tonight, Michele?” I asked.

  “There’s a new movie that came out this week that got great reviews.”

  “You mean Rachel Getting Married?” she asked.

  “Yes, that’s the one. Every paper is raving about it.”

  “I’m not in the mood for that one, Robbie. How about the new Bond picture? Feel like seeing 007 tonight . . . it’s supposed to be very sexy?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  After the opening action scene was over and the first female entered the scene, Michele took my hand and held on to it for the remainder of the movie. She squeezed my hand against her thigh during the very tense moments . . . and there were plenty of them. Michele was full of energy when the movie was over.

  “What do you feel like eating tonight, Michele? There are lots of good restaurants just around the corner.”

  “You pick, Robbie. Someplace romantic.”

  My car was in a parking lot, so we walked a short way to Da Pietro, a small, candlelit Italian restaurant with very good country-style food and wines that weren’t too expensive.

  After our appetizer of melon with warm figs, we each sipped some Chianti while we waited for the main course.

  “So, Michele . . . I want to know what you do for a living, but before you tell me, let me guess.”

  Michele smiled as her eyes glowed. “All right, guess!”

  “I would say . . . that you are . . . a well-paid fashion model who works in New York City . . . at Saks Fifth Avenue or Bergdorf Goodman.”

  Michele laughed out loud and covered her mouth with her napkin.

  “Did I hit it right on the nosie?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid not, Robbie—I’m a dental hygienist. But thanks for the sweet compliment.”

  Michele held my hand as we walked to her front door. She took a key out of her purse, gave me a really seductive smile, put her arms around my neck, and pressed her lips on mine, moving them up and down and sideways for—let’s say conservatively—two minutes. Then she said, “Good night dear, and thanks for the movie and dinner.”

  She opened her front door and threw me a kiss as she said: “Bye, Robbie. See you Friday.”

  On the following Friday night I was sitting next to Ben, who was on my right of course, and since both Pauline and Michele were at another table, I won the game easily.

  I kept looking across the room, hoping to see if either Michele or Pauline was looking at me, but both were too concentrated on their game. All I wanted was a little smile from one of them and I would have smiled back and given a little wave. I felt as if I were in an old British movie—some silly comedy where a man falls in love with one girl and then realizes it’s another girl he really loves, then changes his mind again and goes back to the first girl at the end of the movie. Silly, I know, but in those movies there was always a happy ending.

  On Monday, my managing editor called me into his office.

  “Robbie, I want a short profile as soon as possible on a gal who’s now the chief of thoracic surgery at Westchester Hospital—a Doctor Pauline Faxon.”

  This should be fun, I thought. In the hospital the next morning, a receptionist pointed to a short, thin doctor in green scrubs and cap who was standing at the end of the hall, talking to a nurse. The receptionist said it was Pauline, but the doctor looked like a man to me.

  I approached and hesitantly said, “Pauline?” It was her. She turned around and quickly took off her surgeon’s cap when she saw it was me. Her hair was pinned up. “That’s all, Liz” she said, to the nurse who was standing next to her. The nurse left immediately.

  “I was expecting you today, Robbie, but you caught me a little off guard. I’m afraid I had an additional surgery this morning.”

  “Someone else get a Brussels sprout caught in his throat?”

  “Oh, nothing that serious. This was just a quadruple bypass. Come,” she said as she took my hand. “We’ll go to my office. We can talk there and I badly need a cup of coffee.”

  After half an hour of questions about her training and how she had worked her way up to such a high position, I said, “Pauline, could I ask you one or two things that aren’t about medicine . . . a few more personal questions, just to fill out the profile?”

  “Go ahead. I can give you fifteen more minutes.”

  “You were married and divorced . . . is that right?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Were you married very long? You don’t have to answer that if you don’t wish to.”

  “I don’t mind. Nine years.”

  “Do you mind if I ask why you broke up with your husband just when you reached the top of your profession?”

  “Because I reached the top of my profession,” she said.

  “Help me with that, please.”

  “My husband was an insurance salesman with two bosses above him. He didn’t believe in a woman being the chief of anything. A doctor? Maybe. But chief of cardiothoracic and vascular surgery? No! So he and his physical affection went out the window and he took up with women who were office clerks.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t be.”

  I looked up from my notes and stared at her for a few moments.

  “Robbie—didn’t you once say that your wife died two years ago?”

  “Two and a half years ago. That’s right.”

  “What was the cause of her death? I know she was very young.”

  “Heart attack.”

  After a short pause she said, “Well, I hope I gave you a good interview. Anything else? You look so pensive.”

  “Don’t you get terribly lonely sometimes, Pauline?”

  “I’m very happy with my work, Robbie. And if I find that I have a burning desire for attention and a little comfort . . . I play hearts,” she said with a smile and then got up.

  WHO GETS THE QUEEN?

  Let’s say that you’ve passed
the queen of spades to Ben on your right and Pauline, who’s on your left, just passed you the ace and king of spades. That’s bad. BUT, you also have two smaller spades and you do know that Ben has the queen. So, when anyone starts leading spades and Ben plays a low one, you’ll be safe playing the king or the ace. There are only thirteen spades in the deck, so by the time Ben is forced to play the queen, you’ll only have a small spade left.

  Good luck, from your King of Hearts,

  Robbie Sherman

  The telephone rang one evening.

  “Robbie, it’s Pauline Faxon. It’s my birthday tomorrow night and I want to know if you’d go out to dinner with me.”

  “You mean just the two of us?”

  “Yes. You were very kind to me during that interview and I’d like to recognize my birthday with someone I feel comfortable with. Whaddya say?”

  “I’d be very happy to celebrate with you, Pauline.”

  We went to a beautiful French restaurant that Pauline knew. It was called Le Petit Bedon, which she said meant The Little Tummy. I was glad I had put on my best suit and most celebratory tie because tables of huge, gorgeous flowers greeted us as we walked in.

  The lights were low and the food was delicious. We both had duck with cherries and a wine called Chambolle-Musigny. For dessert, the chef brought out a lovely lemon tart with one lit candle.

  “From one chef to another chief,” he said, and gave Pauline a kiss on each cheek. Then he and I and the waiters all sang “Happy Birthday.” The restaurant was aptly named because, when we left, I did have a little tummy.

  “Robbie, please come in and have a drink with me,” Pauline said when we arrived at her home.

  The home wasn’t fancy, but the French provincial furniture and all the lamps in the living room had obviously been chosen with great care—simple and quietly tasteful.

  Pauline came back into the living room where I was waiting. She was carrying a bottle of frosty Poire William brandy and two glasses.