“You already know how to behave,” I smile, still seeking to dispel Tallulah’s mounting agitation—still believing it possible to return the smile to her eyes, playfulness to her voice and choice of vocabulary, easefulness to her gesticulations—even while her words are unavoidably reminding me of last year, when she was dead set on being taped up on the kitchen floor. “Your behavior leaves nothing whatsoever to be desired, you’re an angel, my perfect girl—our shower alone was divinity, your touch is so sweet. So please have no doubts about what I think, Tallulah—I wouldn’t want to change a single thing about you, there’s absolutely no room for improvement, not in a thousand years. And, aside from that, it’s certainly not necessary for you to do the maid’s job and I don’t want you doing her job. I’m not in the habit of asking guests to clean my apartment, especially those I hold in the highest regard. What sort of host would I be if I expected guests to scrub my floors? A disgraceful host, that’s what—unworthy of the name, or of having people over again. I wasn’t brought up to be stingy with my hospitality and wouldn’t be able to look at myself in the mirror if I tried it, especially with you. The maid will take care of the carpet, let her earn her money for a change. I’m not exactly a slob, she usually has it easy.”
“So she’s an easy maid, is she?” Tallulah snaps, abruptly releasing my hands, as if they’re covered with a foul substance, and slowly looking me up and down with highly critical eyes; then, stamping her foot and raising her voice to a shout, “I bet you think I’m easy too, a pushover to be pushed away when it suits you! Selfish creep! You’re so selfish you won’t accept my apology and allow me to make things right! But wait: you think I’m spoiled, don’t you? You in fact called me spoiled and I take offense to that! You had the nerve to say my dad turned me into a spoiled brat! How dare you presume to know how I was raised, what my dad taught me, what happens in my family! Listen to me: would a spoiled brat want discipline? Would a spoiled brat insist on cleaning up after herself, making amends for the mess she’s made? Would a spoiled brat promise you she’s going to make this carpet look as new as the day you bought it and tell you to bear down on her and make sure she does? When I offer to help you should accept my help, instead of pushing me away like you did last year! You’d rather dole out trite flattery, spout rote stuff about angels and perfect girls, than actually listen to me and give me a chance to show how sorry I am! You’d rather hold a petty grudge, so you have a convenient excuse to dump me! Convenience is the name of the game, isn’t it? It’s all a game to you and heaven forbid I become inconvenient and expect you to be a man and bring me to heel! I’ll be shown the door and shut out again, won’t I? That’s your weapon and cruelty in a nutshell! I want to cry now, do you hear me? Just cry! Does that please and amuse you? Huh? Does it, little man? But guess what? I’m not going to cry because that will only give you another excuse to feel superior! You’re not going to make this girl cry and if you try it you’re going to get clawed! I’ll gash your cheeks but good if you try to make me cry, so help me God!” Raking her spread and arched fingers through the air for emphasis, she spins away from me and shows me her profile, very deliberately tightening her muscles and heaving her chest.
It’s at this point I realize, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that we’ve ventured too far down the path towards conflict to turn back. And I was actually entertaining the idea I’d be able to overcome Tallulah’s discontent, as if there was the remotest chance she’d stop acting up and be happy to snuggle in bed? The edge in her voice alone should’ve alerted me to the true state of affairs, banished delusional thinking: it’s a sure warning shot, which infallibly heralds impending strife. Not to mention experience has taught me that when Tallulah mentions punishment and discipline it’s not a request but a demand rooted in need and she’ll not back down, allow her determination to be diverted for an instant, until I do her bidding and that failure to do so will result in highly memorable demonstrations of displeasure. This is a lesson I learned only too well last year, so why was I supposing it possible to change her mind and calm her, particularly when I was recalling the events of last year at the same time? And of course I’m kicking myself for having called her a spoiled brat, but of what use is doing so? If I hadn’t called her a spoiled brat she’d be incensed at me for having done, or neglected to do, something else. A girl who wants conflict is going to find it—there’s no escape when a hellcat’s thirsting for a fight. Silly me for assuming our heavenly interval of lovemaking on the carpet, delightful post-sex dalliances, and happy shower were sufficient to soothe Tallulah for the remainder of the night, disincline her to indulge in confrontation—for assuming the lingering resonances of those delightful activities were pronounced enough to enable me to conjure the creases from her brow, bring peace to her thoughts. Be that as it may, I’m saying with extreme urgency, “Tallulah, how could I possibly want to make you cry? I’d sooner die than deliberately distress you—such a thing is far beneath contempt, I’ve never done such a thing and never will. And feel superior if you were to cry? How can you believe that of me? How could you want to be with me for a second if you believed that? I know you don’t believe that! But as for last year, you’re right: there’s no excuse, no acceptable explanation! I can say nothing in my defense, only assure you again I consider it to be utterly ignorant and short-sighted emotionally suicidal behavior on my part and hope you’ll forgive me. And certainly you know I’ve been beating myself up over it all night, wondering how I could’ve been so blind and insane. Why would I lie? I can’t be happy without you, pure and simple—it’s crystal clear to me and I’d certainly never make such a thing up. The second I saw you at the Met I realized avoiding you was the stupidest thing I’ve done in my life! You know that’s true, don’t you? What do I need to do to convince you? What do you want me to do?”
“How dare you presume to tell me what I know!” she responds with a shriek, facing me again, pointing a furious finger at me, rapidly shifting her weight from foot to foot to offset the degree to which she’s shaking. “I know a lot of things you don’t think I know and that you wish I didn’t know! I know you’re afraid to be a man! I know you’re a baby who gets scared and makes pathetic excuses and wants to run and hide whenever I expect you to pay attention to me and take me seriously!”
“How can you say I don’t take you…”
“I’m speaking, if that’s all right with you!” Tallulah cuts me off, still shrieking; then, apparently tongue-tied on account of the intensity of her anger, she simply stares at me, ashen of face, her eyes glittering with malice—her lips are vaguely moving, no sound’s issuing forth; then, quite beside herself and as if but half aware of what she’s doing, she darts forward, rakes a couple nails across my chest, her full hand not having reached me, and springs a few yards away. Before I have time to fully register what’s occurred she’s frenziedly crisscrossing her arms, shaking her head no, shrieking again, “Don’t even think about it! You keep away from me—I’m warning you! You stay there and listen to me for a change!”
“I’m listening,” I say in a flat tone, doing my best to drain my voice of emotion, give Tallulah nothing to seize upon and twist around and exaggerate, while readying myself for another attack. I’ve decided that if she runs at me again I’m going to wrestle her to the floor. I’m resigned to the fact her unrest has hijacked our night and that I’m not going to be remotely at ease in mind or body anytime soon—that, as far she’s concerned, it’s open season on my mind and body and peace is something to be slain.
“So you’re listening?” she hisses. “How gracious of you! Crown me, I must be a queen if you’re taking the trouble!” She takes a quick step in my direction and raises her hand, but then stops, smiles mockingly, and resumes her place. “Poor baby, you thought you were getting scratched again, didn’t you?”
“Is there a point to this?” I snap, losing my composure despite myself. I know irritation, far from being in the least bit intimidating to Tallulah, is only going to fan the fires of h
er ire and encourage her to irritate me further; but I also know there’s no correct way to behave at the moment—that, regardless of what I say or do, we’re going to be tussling again at some point, in a very physical way: it’s as inescapable as mosquitoes in the park on a summer night. My only course of action, if it can be called action, is to seek to steel myself against, mentally and emotionally prepare for, the inevitable moment when full-fledged conflict, instead of merely the prelude to it, arrives. I don’t mind admitting it’s scary when I realize an inescapable hellcat-storm’s brewing—when I don’t know precisely when or how the storm’s going to break and reveal its full fury or what its full fury will entail, only that it’s going to do so and won’t be pretty. But I’ll add that, on account of my newfound enlightenment with regard to my preferences, there’s now exhilaration intermingled with the fear: it’s stirring to be faced with unknown danger and wonder to what degree rationality will be put to the test; and it’s doubly stirring when the danger’s lurking within my sweetheart’s beautiful eyes—when it’s as if raw nature, as ruthless and violent as she is bountiful and nurturing, lives within my petite darling’s lissome frame—when it’s as if the freshness and savagery of the wilderness has come to life within the walls of my apartment, promises of a self-strengthening adventure I’d not otherwise have. But enough commentary—on with my narrative proper.
“It might be way too much for your poor undeveloped mind to grasp but, yes, there’s definitely a point to this,” Tallulah snarls, stretching herself up to her full height, tightening her curves, and thrusting out her chest (utilizing her attributes, as girls inevitably do, to assist with battering me into submission), “and I don’t appreciate the question or your dismissive tone! You seem to think it’s unreasonable for me to be upset! You act as if this is all a big joke, but that’s because you’re too immature to see it isn’t and why I have more reason to be disappointed! I let you touch this to your heart’s content and get your fill (Here she slowly, and very expressively, slides her hands up and down her thighs and rear end and waist.), like all the boys would kill to do, and what’s my thank-you? Insults and sarcasm! Willful denial of who I am and what I expect of you! What’s the problem? You don’t think I’m good enough? You think you can do better? You think I’m commonplace, as if the boys wouldn’t come laden with presents just to get me to go out with them, never mind that I’d never promise them anything? Wait, strike all that—it’s way too flattering for the likes of you! You’re not deserving of questions like that! The real questions are: you don’t think I’m pathetic and docile enough? You don’t think I’m enough of a submissive ditz, who’ll put up with your insecurities? You don’t think I’m commonplace enough? You think I’m too pretty and exotic and smart, and feel threatened? You want to dump me in favor of a doormat who’ll lick your feet?”
“Whatever gave you the idea that…?”
“Hush! You be quiet and listen to me! What’s the point, you ask? Well, that’s a nice vague nonspecific question, worthy of your baby mind that can only handle generalities and evasiveness, but I’ll answer it anyway! The point is this: you want it easy—way too easy! You want things to be rosy all the time and for there to be no challenges because you’re still a little boy! You don’t want to grow up and deal with a real woman who takes the time to be with you—you want maids! Maids are docile, just like you like your women—easy to boss around and lord it over and control! Maids are less bother—no energy, no self-esteem, no pride! You want a tame maid to be stupid with, don’t you? A maid will wait on you hand and foot without question and never expect anything serious of you, won’t she? A maid won’t know the difference between true and false involvement and that suits you just fine, doesn’t it? Dating a princess is too much exertion, so you want to be with a housekeeper! That’s it, isn’t it? You want to be pampered by a domestic! You want to be a lazy slob! A maid will flatter you so you can feel superior and forget about how insecure you are! She’ll obediently stroke your ego so you can stay infantile for the rest of your life!”
“Have you completely lost your mind?” I ask, my astonishment unfeigned. “I sure hope you’re screwing around with me, because if you really believe that then you’re just plain nuts!”
“So I’m nuts now,” she says quietly and ominously, glancing at the floor and testily kicking at it. “I see.” An instant later she rushes at me with eyes ablaze and arms aflail, the towel unwinding from her head, her hair falling free.
I’ve said it before: when handling infuriated girls, who’re in full-fledged physical attack mode, the idea’s to exercise gentle but firm restraint—to seize ahold of them in such a manner that they can’t harm one, all the while being careful not to harm them: not always the easiest balance to strike when they’re hell-bent on clawing one to ribbons. Advancing to meet Tallulah, I tackle her, as it were, in slow motion—wrap an arm around her back, press a shoulder to her belly, wrap my other arm around her legs, and ease her to the floor. Not to imply it’s a smooth ride: I might execute the maneuver slowly, but she’s thrashing about, scratching and slapping, wielding her elbows and knees, seeking to bite. Tallulah might be a full-time law student now, with a schedule that disallows her from dancing professionally, but she’s still a dancer through and through, extremely fit and flexible: she strikes me rapid-fire from all directions during her journey to the floor, employs her nails all too effectively, comes close to scraping with her teeth. Sometimes I wonder to what extent an enraged darling would harm me if I failed to restrain her—whether she’d flail away, claw and kick and bite, for all she’s worth or content herself with a slap or two and toss in a scratch for good measure. It’s true no girl’s ever attacked me in my sleep but I have to say that as long as I’m awake and alert there appear to be no guidelines as to what’s unacceptable in combat. There’s generally plenty of warning—glares, yelling, threats—in advance of an attack so this would seem to indicate they’re counting on me to be on my guard and able to defend myself but that’s still no guarantee they won’t exert themselves to the utmost to inflict maximum physical distress. In some cases it’s obvious I’m being counted on to counter their attack so they can have the experience of being restrained and that they’d never wish me serious harm but it’s not close to always being that way: I’ve been knocked dizzy by flung objects, gashed savagely enough for the wounds to sting for days, had my toes stomped on hard enough to bloody their nails, my legs and torso kicked such that they turned black and blue and gave way to festering sores. At any rate, I’ve never turned my back to an enraged girl, allowed my attention to lapse during a tussle: I believe such a course of action would end badly and have no desire to be proved right. And sometimes there are moments during the heat of battle when it occurs to me a girl’s infuriated enough to be incapable of exercising any amount of self-restraint and is going to go all out, regardless of the circumstances, to see to it I need to visit a doctor. But enough of these musings—I’ll return to tonight’s scuffle.
Once I’ve brought Tallulah to the floor I, still as gently as the situation will permit, maneuver her onto her back and flatten her out, sit on her stomach, and pin her wrists to the carpet with my hands. “So you think you can manhandle and control me?” she shrieks. “You think you’re dealing with a scaredy-cat priss, who’ll surrender?” No sooner do the questions reach my ears than she strikes my back with her knees, repeatedly and hard—seemingly a half dozen hits in two seconds, such that I pitch forward and my left elbow grazes her shoulder, whereupon she lifts and twists her head towards it, baring her teeth: the muscles of her neck are so taut it’s as if they’re about to burst through her skin. “Better keep that arm clear!” she taunts. “If I get my teeth on it I’m not letting go!” Within split moments I’m scooting back to straddle her thighs, immobilize her legs; at the same time I yank her arms down and press them against her torso, never ceasing to keep a firm grip on her wrists, so as to remove my arms from the proximity of her mouth. “Think I’m impressed?” she his
ses after I’ve executed these maneuvers and she’s no longer able to kick or bite or otherwise attack me. “You might be on top, but you have to stay on top! If you let me go, I’ll kick you dizzy and tear your eyes out! I’m in control of you, because I can wait all night and all day! I’m not letting it go—not going to get tired—not going to whimper and go limp and give up and say I’m sorry! I’m not a brainless bimbo who can be pushed around, especially not by the likes of you!” Triumph’s glinting in her eyes—she’s clearly enjoying the situation, which comes as no surprise: I know only too well that conflict’s more precious to hellcats than gold.
“Look, Tallulah,” I say firmly and evenly, seeking to steel myself against the throbbing of several of her well-placed elbow- and knee-jabs, shove it into the background of my awareness, bury it beneath my nerves, “I’ve said I’m sorry for avoiding you last year, not giving us the chance we deserve—said it’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever done and told you how much you mean to me, made no excuses, been absolutely sincere. How many times do I need to say it, assure you of my sincerity? Are we going to revisit and drag out the issue forever, endlessly waste our energy and expend ourselves in quarrels? Well, let me tell you something right now: you’ve got to learn to trust me at some point, as in very soon. I don’t need endless scenes and drama—don’t need to be attacked at every turn, constantly worrying about what’s going to set you off. And I’ll tell you something else: attacking me and threatening me isn’t the way to go about seriously getting to know one another. You say you can wait all night, are ready to tear my eyes out? Is that a way to speak to me? Have I ever spoken to you that way? I’d sooner die than speak to you that way! Goddammit, Tallulah, I adore you but you’re going to need to accept my apology so we can move on! You think I think you’re a bimbo? Well, that’s, excuse me, just plain ridiculous. I’ve never had doings with bimbos and never will, and you’re the last woman I’d ever think of as being one, you’re as far from being one as a woman could be. I like you a great deal, Tallulah, get it through your head—I respect you and think you’re as bright as anyone can be. I’ve done nothing tonight to warrant these attacks and you know it. You’ve got to let last year go and focus on the here and now, so we can get to know and trust each other and begin to lay the foundations of a lasting relationship. I want to do so with all my heart and so should you. So what do you say we stop quarrelling and go back to having a wonderful night? There’s nothing I’d like more.” Am I aware of ignoring the fact Tallulah’s still hungering for discipline as I speak these words? I’m not wholly sure: given the stress of the situation, what’s uppermost in my mind is endeavoring to place her at ease the best way I know how, by assuring her of my commitment to our future; and also, on a purely physical level (never underestimate the ability of such to overpower one’s thinking), I’m failing in my efforts to ignore my wounds and very much want to be at liberty to tend to them, as well as not receive additional ones. All I can say is that I simply want the fury to depart from her eyes—even if unrealistically so, while heedless of other components of the situation.
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