“Richard, you think about these things in a destructive way. Nobody ignores you. If anything, people are a little frightened of you.”
“You’re frightened of me,” he said, laughing. “The others aren’t.”
“Why should anybody be frightened of you? I mean, why do you want that?”
“Honey, you’re making me sound like a gangster. I want respect, not fear.” He tried to smile at her winningly, but his expression was more like a plea. She looked shyly at him and then impulsively hugged him.
“I respect you,” she whispered. “Even though you’ve given yourself to me.”
He laughed wildly at her joke and was excited by even this pretense that she could compulsively get him to bed. He immediately began to take her clothes off but she took over that task so that they could quickly be naked. He was delighted by the recklessness of their acts and it inspired him to dive toward her cunt. He had always hesitated to put his mouth there; there, at the center of the world—hairy, odorous, full of an unconquerable desire. He thought of it this way while crouched before it: in overwhelming, alienating metaphors.
She lay back and enjoyed his kisses and tonguing as if he were a dutiful pet. What he imagined her feelings to be while she touched his genitals were really his: he resented her pleasure, her passive acceptance of his self-abnegation. He worked carefully, methodically, at bringing her to a climax. And finally entered her for his own, by now jaded, ecstasy. But she was much happier after they had intercourse this way, even though it was clear to her that he didn’t enjoy it. Richard concluded that fucking was one-sided in this peculiar sense and understood why so many people seemed to be flailing about intellectually on the subject. He felt it was to his credit that he had faced the truth so quickly.
Early fall was Richard’s happiest time. He and Joan had their honeymoon, financed by his novel’s advance: their life was lazy and occupied by fucking.
But, in late October, his career reached a climax that lasted for a month. His novel appeared in the stores and was reviewed in papers around the country, including those he had read daily in what he came to think of as that other miserable obscure existence.
At last—all anyone talked about was his life and his novel. His parents called every other day to hear the latest review or tell him of someone else’s praise. At first it seemed as if there would be no limit to his success, but finally boundaries appeared—after a month his book began to be missed from the shelves and there were no more reviews in the morning mail or friends to tell him how good his novel was.
It was an exhilarating high, like nothing else he had experienced, and its collapse was terrible. He took it, physically, as badly as if it were a hangover. He woke up in the late afternoons with a grogginess it took hours to fight off. He felt stupefied until late at night when nervousness and regret over the wasted day kept him awake talking compulsively to Joan about his ideas for the “future of literature.” He would promise himself that he’d get up early and write, but Joan’s efforts to rouse him were shrugged off angrily until she refused to try any more.
Everyone else was pleased by his novel’s results and thought his life well taken care of. He could go to college if he wished or just get an advance on his second book and write.
Richard couldn’t accept that a year’s work and a year’s wait—a whole life of anticipation—were over in four weeks.
The change in people’s attitudes toward him was at first a delight, a delicate revenge. When he saw Mark at his brother’s apartment during the week his book was published he nearly burst out laughing at the humble manner that Mark adopted while telling him how “Joycean and painful your novel is. You deal really correctly with middle-class alienation.”
Richard had to look long at Mark’s face, and even then he couldn’t believe it. “Do you mean that or are you just kidding me?”
Lisa interrupted Mark’s answer. “Kidding! He’s been talking to me about it for two days.” She began saying something about how funny his book was but he heard only his own thought, like a voice-over in a movie: “So it takes a capitalist publishing house to stamp my ideas with approval so that you’ll respect them.”
Later, a man asked Richard what he did in a bored tone, and when Richard said he was a novelist the man seemed even more indifferent. Richard pictured how he appeared to this stranger: his hair long and unwashed, his shirt wrinkled, his jeans almost thoughtfully splashed with paint stains, and above all, the boyish face. “Have you published anything?” the man asked.
Richard had thought he wanted a final proof of contempt, because he could shatter it so effortlessly, but this acting out of what he knew intellectually, that he was nothing unpublished and everything once in print, was depressing. “Yes, my first novel was just published.” Richard had flashed his credentials but the man, after a start, wanted a closer look.
“Who published it?”
This was still asked with a trace of condescension, and Richard needed a moment before realizing that the man expected a university press or something equally small and comforting. Richard snapped his publisher’s name like a whip and at last brought the stranger to attention.
This scene was repeated so often that he forgot why it depressed him and would feel only a dulled embarrassment—as if he were merely too sensitive and should bear the blame for the small shocks that information of his career caused. People asked him, shortly after being introduced, how much money he was earning. On one occasion, when he responded by saying it wasn’t enough, he received a lecture that he would end up vulgarizing his novels in order to make enough money.
So the family gathering in Vermont was a relaxing prospect. He would not have to explain himself. Richard and Joan went up with his brother and Louise, and he was surprised by Leo’s comment as the car pulled away from their apartment house. “Well, here we go, like lambs to the slaughter.”
“No, no,” said Louise, looking at Richard. “It’s going to be nice, won’t it?”
“I’ve really been looking forward to it,” he said so solemnly that Leo laughed, thinking Richard had meant it sardonically. After a moment of confusion, Richard said, “I mean it. I expect it to be great.”
Leo seemed embarrassed and Louise said, “Yes, I hope so. I think we’ll have fun. We’ll try to, right?”
Her tone was suspiciously pointed, and Richard glanced at Joan to see if she was having the same reaction. But she just looked tired from rising early. It was a miserable gray morning, the sky unfinished and disgruntled. He felt a chill and leaned back against Joan, falling into a fitful sleep while they swung gracefully through the moody slopes and turns of the Saw Mill River Parkway. Richard thought intermittently about Louise’s puzzling comment, and when he finally sat up to waken fully, he asked, “You two aren’t looking forward to this, huh?”
This was greeted with a pause that endured too long to be meaningless. Leo glanced at Louise before answering. “You know, man, with all of us together—John and Naomi—it could become one of those psychodramas.”
“You know how Aaron gets when he has all the kids together,” Louise said, and then addressed Joan: “Aaron is one of the most intelligent and sophisticated men I know, but when he gathers his dear children—”
“He becomes a basket case,” Leo said.
“No,” Louise said quickly, “he becomes”—she moved her hand in the air several times, searching for the word—“neurotically self-important. You know, that parent thing where he tries to make everything reflect on his being Big Daddy.”
Richard watched Joan’s neutral reaction to this information and remembered the romantic picture he had given her of his relationship with Aaron. He had turned Aaron’s casually arrogant judgments on literature into a massive intellectual domination that would fit nicely with Louise’s comments. It would be useless to try to wipe all that out with a one-liner like, “We’re the neurotics, because we can’t admit we are his children.”
After all, he realized later when they ha
d almost reached their destination, I’m sensitive about it because I feel guilty that I unfairly criticized Dad. I wouldn’t argue with them for his sake.
But it took the warmth out of the hugging when they arrived. It seemed sinister to Richard, watching Leo and Louise embrace his father, particularly since they did so with more enthusiasm than he could muster.
The routine of arrival—the hellos, the tours of the grounds to see improvements, a series of bathroom visits, and the eating—had this difference: Joan. Richard was excited for the first time while the house and grounds were toured. He wanted her to love them, to think of the property as he did, the home where they would eventually live, the first sanctuary for the long line of peasants who made up his ancestry. But he was not disappointed when she obviously thought of the place as his parents’, behaving politely and wearily. He still had the pleasure of someone’s hand to hold while they sat around the kitchen table snacking.
They were expecting John and Naomi in a few hours, and when every one of the travelers, except for Richard, decided to take naps, Richard followed Betty while she cleared the kitchen table and wrapped the leftovers.
“Well, Mom, do you like the girl I’ve brought home?”
Betty smiled naturally at his blunt and foolish question. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to her.”
“I know,” he said. “You hate her. Well, it’s only my first try.”
“Oh, I see. You’re in a silly mood.”
He paced about the kitchen trying to figure out what state he was in. “I’m restless,” he announced after some thought. It seemed profound.
“What about?”
“Don’t ask hard questions. Maybe for John and Naomi to arrive. I haven’t seen them for almost a year.”
“That’s right,” Betty said. She had put the dishes, after a pretty thorough cleaning, in the dishwasher and had finished wiping the counters. “Well, now that I’ve cleaned it all up, I’ll make dinner.”
Richard laughed. “I can appreciate that now, Mom. If I were you, I’d suggest going out to eat.”
“Are you eating out a lot in New York?”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s bad. I know. You’ve seen John and Naomi recently?”
“Oh! Change the subject, did you? Yes, I saw them in the fall. I went there for a week.”
“And is their relationship—well, how did it seem?”
She stopped her activity and looked at Richard. “You know, Naomi says you’re the only one who understands why they separated.”
“They didn’t separate. Isn’t that part of why I understood it.”
“What?”
“Naomi told me that everybody in the family insisted on thinking of it as a separation. You know, in the sense of divorce. To divide, etc.”
“All right, don’t be such a wise guy.”
“I’m not. That’s the way she felt. That people presumed their vacation from each other was just the first step toward divorce.”
“But nobody said anything like that to her.”
“Oh, come on, Mom. Leo said to me once, ‘That fucking brother-in-law of ours better not pull a WASP on Naomi and try to leave her without a penny.’ ”
Betty shook her head in irritation and Richard saw a warning signal he had learned to fear over the years: her eyes clouding with tears and anger. He was taking this subject too lightly. “Oh, that’s just Leo’s nonsense. I never said—”
“Mom! Mom,” Richard said quickly, hurrying over to Betty and patting her arm. He knew the gesture showed his terror of her feelings more than it really comforted her, but he never realized that until he found himself stroking her arm hurriedly, wishing he could withdraw what he had just said.
“I never said anything like that to her,” Betty said, and then smiled knowingly, perhaps a little bitterly, at him. “It’s all right, Richard, I’m in control of myself.” She compensated for this cut by kissing him on the forehead and then returning to the dinner’s preparation.
They were silent until Richard heard Leo’s voice announcing that he was taking a shower. “What did he say?” Betty asked.
“He’s taking a shower so don’t use the hot water.” The subject seemed closed, but Richard, watching approaching gloom of a winter’s night at one of the windows, felt chastised for his frivolous attitude. He couldn’t understand why he had cared so little about Naomi’s crisis, and it only made him feel more shallow that his casualness had been mistaken for understanding by Naomi. The rest of the family had buzzed about, gossiping and steeling themselves for a massed rejection of John, because they assumed Naomi would need all the support—including malice toward John—that love can give a young divorced mother. He conjured up the image that they must have had then: of Naomi, almost collapsing from her child’s weight, trudging off manless in the snow.
“It’s very hard being a mother with a little baby,” Betty said in the middle of tasting a sauce. She replaced the lid of a pot on the stove and bent over to check the flame. “There’s a terrible amount of pressure on you. It makes your marriage very difficult.”
“I know,” Richard said, his irritation surprising him and Betty.
“Don’t be annoyed,” she said, not commanding.
He wanted to yell self-righteously about his needs, but he’d learned the value of cautious statements. “You don’t need to sell me on having consideration and sympathy for my sister, Mom. She’s done a pretty good job of that.” Betty looked at him with her expression changing slowly from apology to disapproval. “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he said. “I haven’t had a shot at oppressing anybody, do you know that? I was never allowed to be unconsciously racist, sexist, or just plain unconscious.” He stopped because it was turning into a tirade.
“Oh, you’re just being silly and cantankerous.”
There was always this moment in disagreements with members of his family. The rush of fury, like a car engine flooding, the wheels racing uselessly. I have to understand this too, he thought. It’s her daughter, her self reincarnate. His parents had fought when Naomi was a teen-ager, and Aaron had insisted she wash the dishes. “No daughter of mine is going to wash dishes,” Betty yelled. Oh, how boring people really were, Richard thought. This is my mother’s mysterious inner life—she doesn’t want her daughter to be a victim of male chauvinism. How could he tell his mother how tough it was for him, without whining or belittling the profound nature of his sister’s problems? “There’s a lot of pressures on me too,” he said, and knew immediately that it was inadequate.
“Well, of course, it’s very hard being a writer. I told you not to be one.” She smiled at him with an embarrassing and comforting love. “But it’s nothing like having a child. Another living being who depends on you every hour of every day. You’re never free of it.”
He stared at her, at it. The feeling, the scene. “I’ll see you later,” he said, and walked through the pantry, leaving the house.
“You don’t have a coat,” she called after him.
There had been no snow for weeks so it was cold and empty outdoors, the ground gray and frozen, the trees, except for the evergreens, bare. He stared at this scene for a moment before deciding to run the length of the driveway. It was too cold to walk. His feet were hurt by the hard matted ground and his steps echoed loudly in the forest. He had a feeling that he would meet John and Naomi on the driveway and, indeed, their car turned in it just as he began his slow trot back.
John stopped the car and they did their hugging and kissing out in front of it. Richard pretended interest in his young niece to avoid conversation, but after holding her in his arms he became hopelessly sentimental and kissed her repeatedly on the forehead so that Naomi said, “Oh, you’re necking. That’s what I do with her all the time.”
Richard had no chance to respond because they had reached the house. It was funny to watch the family all come out through the door together, almost fighting to reach them first. He remembered Joan was a stranger and would need his escort, so he handed N
ana to Betty and hurried into the house. He found Joan standing in the pantry brushing her hair self-consciously. She smiled with relief when he appeared and he loved her deeply for that.
He led her outside and toward the family group, and only then did he become aware of how nervous he was about his family’s judgment of Joan. And from the expression on Naomi’s face, she was voraciously interested in what he had come up with. Naomi broke in immediately after Richard introduced them, “So this is my little brother’s girl friend.”
“Yeah,” Richard said. “We fuck like grownups, you know.”
His remark caused a commotion but it was nothing like the shock he had expected, and despite the embarrassment that instantly overwhelmed him, he wished it had upset them more. Joan saved him from both feelings, however, when she said, “It might be better if we were more childish about it.”
“Oh, dear,” Aaron said. “I don’t think I should be hearing this conversation.”
“But you’re just the person who I’ve wanted to talk to about this,” Joan said amidst the now relaxed laughter.
“Well,” Aaron said. “Don’t blame me for any sexual problems. It’s his mother’s fault, I’m sure.”
“The same old story,” Betty said.
Joan got along so well with his parents and Naomi and John that he was a little disappointed. She fit in perfectly with their casual teasing, and he watched in disbelief as his mother actually brought out his baby pictures. He was genuinely charmed by this foolish exhibition of love: all of them laughing and smiling at photographs of him, looking up every few minutes to check on the final product. But he felt, with an acuteness and distance he hadn’t achieved ever before, the irritation of being young, of being cute, of having easy problems, of having a quick access to talent.
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