Changing clothing now, with Betty dead to the world on the bed, I went over my options again and again, and among my other emotions I was surprised to find a growing sense of relief. The game had been fun at first, but as the stakes had risen it had become steadily less fun and more nerve-wracking. It might be difficult to go around pretending to be drab old Bart for the rest of my life, but nowhere near as difficult as pretending to be two people. The stunt was over, and good riddance to it.
AT ABOUT TWO IN THE morning, just after I’d ordered another round of drinks, Liz took a sheaf of documents from her purse, unfolded it, extended it across the table toward me, and said, “Take a look at that”
We were in a bar on the upper East Side, surrounded by advertising executives and television commercial actresses. For the last three hours or so I’d been under a considerable strain, trying to get Liz to join me in an argument. There was something strange about her tonight, muted and distant and almost mournful; whatever it was, it made her impervious to irritation. In fact, the only time she’d shown anything like her usual self was when she’d told me that Bart, after my phone call this afternoon, had said he was keeping away from me because I was nothing better than a crook. “You do bring out the best in people,” I’d responded, and she’d looked away and said, “I wish I did.”
What the hell was the matter with her? Was she onto me? Was that the purpose for these lies to the “brothers”? But it didn’t feel like that; I wasn’t sure exactly what Liz would do if she found out the truth about the con I’d been pulling, but cryptic remarks and withdrawn silences and an inability to get mad seemed unlikely modes of response.
And now this document. I’ve been served with subpoenas before, and I was hesitant to reach across the table for this thing. “What is it?”
“A proposal of marriage.”
“Ha ha ha,” I said.
“Go on and take it,” she said. “It won’t bite.”
I looked more closely at her and her grim face. What was this minor key melody she was singing? What was so serious? Reaching out at last to take the papers from her, I said, “Am I going to love this?”
“That’s up to you,” she told me, picked up her drink, and looked pointedly away.
I moved my own rum and soda to one side, unfolded the papers, saw they comprised a legal document of some kind, a contract or some such thing, and began to read:
We the undersigned, Elizabeth Anne Kerner and Arthur Drew Dodge, desiring a clear understanding between us prior to the solemnization of our marriage, have contracted and sworn with one another as follows:
What the hell? I looked up at Liz, but she was still gazing away, watching something on the far side of the room, the way a cat will look sometimes at an empty doorway. I said, “What is this thing?”
She gave me a quick cold look. “Just read it,” she said. “It’s self-explanatory.”
“And on the level?”
“Do I look as though I’m joking?”
She didn’t. But Christ on a crutch, both of them? First Betty gives me the most incredible rush of my life, and now Liz chimes in with the same damn thing, though of course in her own lovable style. I know I’m not a sad sack when it comes to women, but how irresistible can one man be?
More to the point, what was the story with this contract or whatever it was? Bowing my head, skimming the introduction again, I proceeded to read the thing word for word, beginning to end.
Incredible. Here in seven pages was a full-fledged contract outlining the financial and personal agreements between Liz and me which would become a part of our marriage bond, and which would be effective as of the date of our marriage. On the first page, following the preamble and some bits of legal boiler plate, Elizabeth Kerner’s assets were listed, turning out to be well beyond my previous dreams of avarice, and then my own financial situation was overestimated. So far, so good; their research may have produced my correct middle name, but the bookkeeping down there at Those Wonderful Folks had defeated them.
Onward. Beginning on page two, it was proposed I be given a subsistence of two thousand dollars a month for the period of the marriage, plus the salaries of two male servants not to exceed sixteen thousand per annum, plus unlimited use of the Kerner residences wherever situated. The subsistence and servant salaries might be increased from time to time at the pleasure of Elizabeth Kerner, but would not be decreased.
Moving right along, through clauses dense with extraneous words, Liz and I both renounced exclusive sexual or social privileges between us, agreeing—in legalese—that we could both do what we wanted where we wanted when we wanted with whom we wanted and no questions asked. I, however, was alone in guaranteeing not to do anything in public that might bring embarrassment or disgrace on Elizabeth Kerner, her family, or any business firm with which she might have a connection. “Says here,” I said, “you can embarrass me, but I can’t embarrass you.”
“That’s right,” she said.
“Ah.” Reading on, I found that next we both declared ourselves to be at the present time unmarried to anyone else—hmmm—and to be aware of no impediments to the proposed wedding.
Okay, where was the nitty gritty? At the end, of course. In the event either of us should ever want a divorce, the other agreed not to contest the action in any way, and I was called on to acknowledge that all financial arrangements between us would cease at the first filing of divorce papers. In the event of my predeceasing Liz, it was agreed that any legal interest I might have in the Kerner fortune or assets would be inherited by Liz, with none of it reserved for any other of my possible heirs or assigns. In the event of Liz checking out first, I agreed to make no demands on her estate, neither for a continuation of the monthly subsistence nor for any rights of inheritance, but acknowledged my wife’s desire that her total estate should go to her sister Elisabeth.
Anything else? Yes. Prior to the fact, I acknowledged paternity of any children that might be born to Liz in the course of our marriage and for one year after any divorce or separation. I held Liz and the Kerner family and all business firms connected with them blameless in the event of any lawsuit against me from outsiders, or in the event of any other social, sexual, financial, or other hassle that might come at me from the non-Kerner portion of my life. In the event of my being kidnapped—Jesus Christ!—it was my clear understanding nobody from the Kerner family or firms would pay any ransom. I would not use my position or any of my income—whether from the Kerners or not—to start, abet, contribute to, or otherwise deal in any business or firm which was in direct or indirect competition with any Kerner firm. I would leave all marriage announcements, from wedding plans to divorce and including any other possibility in between, to Liz. And I was signing this agreement of my own free will, prompted solely by my affection for Liz and our desire not to have financial or other extraneous questions interfere with our love for one another and our prospects for a long and comfortable united married life. Liz had already signed the last page, in what I thought of as a crabbed and greedy hand.
I put the document down next to my drink. Liz looked at me. “Well?”
“Well,” I agreed. I sat there nodding, tapping the contract with my fingertips and trying to think.
Liz said, “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Her lips were tight, her voice just slightly hoarse.
“Well, I don’t know what to say,” I fold her. “I’ve never been proposed to before.”
“It’s either yes or no. I won’t haggle over details.”
“There’s nothing in here,” I said, tapping the papers, “about love.”
“About what?”
“The point is, why me? Why not, for instance, that fellow over there with the sideburns?”
“You’re the man for the job,” she said.
“Why?”
She shrugged. Behind her hooded eyes, she peered through chinks in her armor. “You’re easy to be around,” she said. “We understand each other.”
Perhaps. I nodde
d, slowly, and tapped the contract some more. “Volpinex put this together?”
“He’s my attorney.”
“Mind if my attorney looks it over?”
“Yes. You decide now.”
Tap-tap-tap, my fingertips on the contract. “What’s the gimmick? What’s it for?”
“If I’m single by the end of this year,” she said, “it will cost me over three million dollars.”
“Taxes,” I suggested.
“My father,” she said, “thought because he wag Episcopalian the fix was in, and he wouldn’t have to go till he was ready. He didn’t leave us protected.”
“I see.” And I saw a lot more than that, too. I saw, for instance, why Betty had been so hot to get married. Even at the time, I’d thought Bart was a bit stodgy for the terrific results he was getting, and now I understood. In a very modern sense, Betty had had to get married.
But why hadn’t she told me the truth? She’d talked about love, but she’d never mentioned three million dollars.
Nor had she presented me with a contract. Which merely meant she felt safe, she didn’t think she had to protect herself from Bart the way Liz was protecting herself from me.
But what about all the secrecy? Why had Betty insisted on keeping the marriage a secret from Liz? Was there something else happening, something beyond the money, some feud or finagle between the sisters? I said, “What about Betty?”
“What about her?” Liz seemed surprised by the question, but not upset.
“Does she have to get married, too?”
“You don’t have to worry about Betty,” she said inaccurately. “Just about us.”
“I’m trying to get the overall picture.”
“Screw the overall picture.” She was doing some table-tapping of her own now; I could see she was becoming increasingly edgy. “Make up your mind, Art,” she said. “And do it soon. This is a one-time offer, and the deadline’s getting close.”
Well, of course, there wasn’t any question. I already had my access to the Kerner fortune, no strings attached, through Bart’s marriage to Betty. I’d only stalled along here for information’s sake, not because I thought for a second I could or should marry Liz.
Of course, on the other hand …
What other hand? I already had everything, I didn’t need anything more, and this whole charade was wearing itself out anyway. I would mothball Art and live for a while exclusively as Bart, as planned. Toward which end, nothing could be more helpful than this contract; all I had to do now was become insulted, righteous, what kind of boy do you think I am?, growing anger, a scene, and me stalking away into the night. Then Art would be safely out of the picture, and Bart would loll peaceably in luxury.
“Art? It’s now or never.”
The alternative? No alternative. Impossible. And unnecessary, goddam it Bart was married to Betty, wasn’t that enough?
“Art?”
And it wasn’t. Don’t ask me why, it just wasn’t. I wanted to marry Liz, I wanted to go on being Art, I even wanted to run this gauntlet some more. I’d rather do anything than live twenty-four hours a day as Bart, married twenty-four hours a day to Betty.
“Art?”
Shit. I raised my head and smiled across at my bride-to-be. “I think this occasion calls for champagne,” I said. “On you.”
MY DREAMS WERE FULL of mirrors, and when I awoke the room was backward. Or I was. Sunlight hummed beyond the curtained and draped windows, making an underwater glow in which I saw my clothing scattered about the carpeted floor. My head ached, and the air conditioning made my shoulders cold. Groaning a bit, though mostly in comfort, I wriggled down deeper under the covers, and beside me Betty murmured and moved, rubbing her warm hip against my side. I touched her near breast, she sighed and reached for me, and soon we were in marital conjugation, all legal and aboveboard.
Later, my headache came back, and my eyes seemed to be burning. I flopped onto my own side of the bed, damp with exertion, and Betty, fully awake now, rose up on one elbow to give me a lewd look and to say, “I must admit you make a first-rate fiancé.”
“You mean husband,” I said. Then I realized I was seeing her far too clearly, and I blinked. No wonder my eyes hurt; my contact lenses were still in. But that wasn’t right; as Bart I was a glasses wearer. I’d have to get into the bathroom and make the switch before she noticed anything. In the meantime, I tried squinting, like your average four-eyes without his specs.
“Husband?” Betty echoed, looking at me. “Let’s not rush things, lover.”
I stared at her, forgetting to squint. Betty? This wasn’t Betty, this was Liz!
Holy jumping Jehosephat! I won’t say it all came rushing back to me, but a lot of it did, and I could fill in the rest. Liz and Art: we had toasted our engagement in champagne, and then some more champagne, and then some more champagne. Then a cab had brought us here, I had come upstairs, I had entered this room and this bed and this woman, and all the time I had planned to leave right afterward, make my exit as Art, wait ten minutes or so, and then re-enter as Bart, who would tippy-toe to Betty’s bed and sleep the sleep of a husband. Instead of which, I had fallen asleep. Asleep.
And now it was morning. What time? Was Betty awake? How was I going to get Art out of here without leaving as Bart? With this head and these eyes, how was I going to do anything?
Betty—that is, Liz—was frowning at me. “Something wrong?”
“Bladder,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
“You’re so romantic,” she said.
The sisters had separate rooms and separate lavatories, but shared a room with a tub. I hurried out of Liz’s sharp-eyed presence, closed the lavatory door behind me, and pushed the lock button. Now what? Around me were toilet, sink, towels, mirror. Mirrors. “I could use you next door,” I told my reflection, and hurried through the next room past the tub and on into Betty’s lavatory, where my reflection recurred, but had nothing to say for himself. I paused, took a deep breath, considered my naked body in the mirror without noticing anything that might excite Betty’s suspicions, and pushed open the door.
Betty was sitting up, looking bleary-eyed and prodding the heel of her hand into the top of her head. “Oh, there you are,” she said, her voice fuzzy. “I have a horrible headache.”
“Good morning, sweetheart.” Squint, I reminded myself You are Bart, and you are not wearing your glasses. “How are you this morning?”
“I told you,” she said crossly. “I have a headache.”
“Oh, you poor thing. Wait right there, I’ll get you some aspirin.” And I turned around and headed right back into the john, closing the door behind me.
Betty was going to take a few minutes, I could see that already. Bare feet sprinting on the tiles, I headed through to Liz’s lavatory, reassured myself the door was locked, and turned on both faucets at the sink. Then I went back the other way again, closing the sliding doors at both ends of the central room with the tub, so that the water running couldn’t be heard by Betty. Panting slightly, I got aspirin from the medicine cabinet, put water in the toothbrush glass, and returned to Betty, who was half-propped up against the headboard, frowning into the middle distance. “Here you are, my darling.”
“Did I drink that much last night? My head feels just terrible.”
“Maybe there was something wrong with the coq au vin,” I said. Then I remembered it was the coq au vin I’d spiked with the sleeping capsules, and wished I’d kept my mouth shut.
But maybe not Looking at me, squinting even worse than I was, Betty said, “You know, you could be right. I thought there was some sort of, I don’t know, bitter taste or something in the sauce.”
“It was probably turning,” I said. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I solicitously fed my bride the aspirin and water. “You’ll feel better soon now,” I promised her. “Why not nap for a while, an hour or so?” Long enough for Art to get the hell out of here.
“Lie down with me,” she said. “You’ve spoiled me
, I can’t sleep alone any more.”
“Yes, dear,” I said. Would she be soon asleep? Was the drain working properly in Liz’s sink? Was Liz even now calling to Art through that locked door and wondering what on earth was wrong? My own headache thundering away, but a fixed smile of compassion on my face, I slid into bed next to Betty. “Put your head on the pillow now,” I said. “Close your eyes. Try to nap.”
“Yes, love.” She murmured and moved, rubbing her warm hip against my side. When I remained unresponsive, she took my hand and placed it on her near breast, then sighed and reached for me.
“Darling,” I said, “you should try to—”
“Silly boy,” she whispered. “Cure me, lover.”
So all right; that was marital conjugation.
My headache never went away. Later, I flopped onto my own side of the bed, very damp with exertion, and Betty sleepily stroked my belly, saying, “Oh, I feel much better already.”
“Bladder,” I said.
Her half-closed eyes opened. “What?”
“Go on to sleep,” I soothed her, and stroked her cheek, and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be right back.”
Another romp through the facilities, pausing only to turn off the water in Liz’s sink. (The drain was in excellent condition.) Then on into the bedroom, where Liz was pacing back and forth in a pale blue peignoir, her arms folded beneath her breasts. “You do take long enough,” she said.
“I thought I might as well wash up,” I said. “I’m sorry, did you—?”
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