“I guess he doesn’t mean it, but it’s terrible to come home and be greeted like that. You know, I can’t live my life your way forever. I have to be able to think on my own … to think out my own life. I’m very happy now.”
“Maybe. You’re young yet … you’ll see.”
“What do you mean, I’m young yet. I can think. I can use my head now. Is there a certain gift that parents get all of a sudden when they become parents that makes them so much smarter than anybody.”
“Are you starting in again?”
“I’m sorry,” she said guiltily. She had forgotten to duck. “Can’t you just let me live my own life, my own way, … and we can be friends … happy together because we just enjoy?”
“Sure … you know everything. Your parents are stupid. Such a smart girl.”
“Okay … Let’s not fight. I have to go now,” she said quickly, feeling the need of relief after the first almost successful encounter. “I’ll give you a ring next week, and come for dinner maybe.”
“Okay, dear, … but listen, don’t wear those black stockings. They make you look terrible. I mean, you know … they’re not for you, dear. Believe Momma …”
“All right, Mother,” Rita agreed in desperation. “Give my love to Poppa and Randy. And tell Randy not to be going out with too many girls. He’ll get to be a playboy.”
Mother chuckled appreciatively. “I’ll tell him, dear. Goodbye now. Give Momma a kiss.”
Rita puckered her lips and sent a short, audible kiss into the receiver.
“So long, see you soon.” Rita took the phone from her ear and turned to replace it on the cradle. Just then she heard Marc behind her, closing the door.
21
“Who were you talking to?” Marc asked as he walked toward Rita.
“My mother.” Rita walked toward him, her arms outstretched.
Marc lit the small lamp on the bookcase against the side wall and put his portfolio down on a chair. He removed his sweater, throwing it on the chair with the portfolio.
“Your mother?” He held Rita off, studying her face intently.
“Yes … why do you ask like that?”
“No reason, … no reason at all,” Marc said calmly yet curtly. He studied Rita’s face as he lit a cigarette. He snapped the cover of his lighter shut and blew out the smoke in a thin, steady stream before him. He walked to the kitchen and reached into the refrigerator for a beer.
“It’s crazy, you know?” He took the bottle opener from the drawer under the table edge. “… the way people are, and like sometimes they don’t like each other and refuse to talk to each other …” He popped the top off the bottle, lifted it, and took a long pull from it. “… and then they’ll call each other on the phone and kiss and say, ‘I’ll see you soon.’ Crazy, isn’t it?” A hard smile split his face.
Rita winced, realizing Marc was starting in on one of his tirades about being deceived.
“Oh, Marc, … please don’t start with that jealous stuff again. Jesus Christ, I can’t even talk to anyone on the phone now.”
“Who the hell are you kidding—me? You don’t even talk to your mother! So you tell me it’s your mother you’re talking to when I come in here and you’re kissing the shit out of the phone. Come on, baby, … this is Marc!” he yelled, tapping his chest with his thumb.
“I know who it is, … you jealous idiot,” Rita said calmly, smiling to reassure and calm Marc. “Come on, baby,” she tried to put her arms around his neck. “That was my mother. I’ll call her back and you can talk to her if you want.”
“I don’t want to talk to your mother. I don’t want to talk to anyone. God damn women! Can’t trust them for a minute. Turn around once slow, and they’re off making it in the closet with some other cat. What the hell’s the use? It’s always the same. Every one of you.” He turned and walked to the bedroom.
Tears welled up in Rita’s eyes. She had never loved anyone as she loved Marc; she had never been so fulfilled by anyone, and never before had it hurt so to be disbelieved. That he distrusted her fidelity was even more crushing. Through their love, the sexual act had become something more than a mere physical pleasure. It was a consummation, a blending, an embodiment of their love; it was warm and beautiful and sincere and harmonious. Thoughts of her past affairs didn’t fill her with sorrow as much as wonder. How could it be that she had cherished those fleeting passions snatched out of time, compared to this eternal beauty and serenity? Only this was making love—this physical sharing of eternity for brief seconds. Even the phrase “making love” made her pity her promiscuous friends, her former self for her past life. How could she have called that making love … when all it was was a pilfered physical act.
Marc’s jealous rages were beginning to weary her, however. She had been awakened to the beauty of love, of tenderness and kindness, but these were fragile, delicate qualities, new born in her, and easily crushed. And Marc seemed bent on a destruction of those feelings with his constant accusations and attacks.
Rita followed Marc into the bedroom. Marc was lying full length on the bed, his ankles crossed, his head propped up on the pillow. He held a magazine in front of his face with one hand, and the bottle of beer in the other.
“Marc … Marc … you stupid child. Can’t you understand I’m not any other woman? I’m me. The other’s, whoever they are, and whoever they go to bed with, don’t count. You’re persecuting yourself with straw-men possibilities; the Empire State building might fall tomorrow too, but worry about it when it happens. Can’t you see—understand—that I love you, only you, baby? How could you even think that I’d be going with anybody else?”
“It happens all the time, baby.” He did not look at her. “What do you mean, how could I think of it? It’s easy if you’ve seen all the God damn tramps I’ve seen other guys married to.”
“But I’m not one of them—not me, Marc. Can’t you ever believe that? Won’t you try to believe that? I’m me—Rita—and I love you and I don’t want anyone else.” She knew this mood by now. She knew she had to be gentle and warm, overly affectionate and demonstrative. He’d come off it shortly.
Marc finished his beer and put the bottle on the floor. Rita grabbed the bottle as it toppled and started to roll under the bed.
“There’s deposit on these bottles,” she said lightly, trying to change his mood.
“Fuck it! Who needs the two cents? Who needs anything?”
“Marc, baby,” she sat on the floor, next to him, clasping him about the neck. “Marc.… Please believe me, baby. I could never be with anyone but you. Baby, I love you.… Don’t you understand that? I love you.…” Her tears soaked warmly through his shirt.
Hesitantly, Marc slid his arms around her back and held her tightly. The sincerity of her pleading moved him. His hurt and suspicion were allayed.
“I want to believe in you, baby. I want to. Really. It’s just that you see so much crap around,” he exclaimed angrily. “Do you think I want to be this way? Do you think it’s fun?”
Marc removed Rita’s arms and stood up. He paced the floor, then stopped and stood facing the wall.
“God damn it, I wish I wouldn’t get like this. I don’t want to, believe me, baby. I know I get to be too much. Just think what a pain in the ass it would be to you if it was you who was racked by these nutty moods. It kills me to have to worry, to have to doubt you, but I can’t help it, baby. I really can’t! I just go crazy with jealousy sometimes. It’s more than that too, more than jealousy. I’m afraid you’ll leave me, afraid I’ll be alone—and baby, I need you.” He turned to face Rita. “Forgive me, baby, please forgive me. Help me.”
Rita stood and rushed to him, embracing him.
“That’s all right, darling,” she assured him. “I want you to be able to believe in me. I love you—I love you so much.”
Marc looked into her eyes, then kissed her needfully. His lips caressed her cheeks, her nose, her tears, tasting their warm saltiness. He smiled, his apprehension flyi
ng … as he clung to her desperately. They remained embracing silently for many minutes.
“Now come on; we’re going to a party tonight,” Marc exclaimed.
“Really? … Whose?” she asked excitedly, happy that his mood had changed and that Marc believed in her.
“I don’t know. It’s downtown. A couple of cats I met today are having a fling and asked me to come and like that. They said to drop down. So, we’re going to drop down.”
“Oh, good. You’re not mad anymore? …”
“No.”
“… and you believe I love you?”
“Sure.” He forced himself to smile.
She hugged him tightly, pressing her head against his chest.
“Now, come on,” he said, patting her rear end playfully.
“Hey! … Aww, don’t do that. You know I can’t stand it.”
“Okay,” he smiled. “Come on. I’ll take my shower and then you can have the entire washroom for the next two hours.”
“Thank you,” said Rita curtsying graciously low. Marc bowed and smiled.
22
The party was held in a photographer’s studio which had been fashioned out of an entire floor in a loft building. Its stone walls had been whitewashed and partitioned off into living quarters at the front, studio in the center, and darkroom at the rear. Two huge mobiles made up of the host’s photographs twirled from the ceiling in the living quarters. Other photographs—deep textured, grainy photographs of the city, and beaches, and girls—hung on the walls. Props and backdrops and spotlights filled the studio portion. The dark room portion was shielded from the party by heavy drapery. The furniture strewn about was mostly odd pieces picked up inexpensively in second-hand furniture stores, re-finished and reupholstered by the photographer—coffee tables with legs cut down to give them a low effect, and brightly covered cherry-wood couches and mahogany-legged chairs.
The party was the usual Village party. All varieties of people kept wandering in and out. One fellow had long, unkempt hair and a straggly beard, and wore jeans and old, beat-up shoes. With him was a girl with long, blonde, unkempt hair that hung below her shoulders. She wore a full skirt, flat comfortable shoes, and a sweater which allowed her unhaltered breasts to sag and sway. She had huge buttocks which rose up, quivered, and dropped convulsively as she walked. They were quite the couple—a poet and his appreciative mistress. They were intensely Bohemian and practical to the point of being impractical for the sake of Bohemianism. They typified the people who are too creative to do any prosaic work and who sit in Washington Square Park reading poems to each other in some unintelligible poetic language and think the rest of the world is a dull place which doesn’t appreciate the artistic ability of this bearded genius. She would probably carry their children strapped to her back in a gunny sack, or tied in a net sling around her side, so that she could shop and walk and not be impeded by the baby—nor be burdened with the obligation of purchasing a stroller carriage. They were the hiking type who’d walk from the Village to Central Park to save the carfare—besides, “walking is good for the body.”
Calypso music floated through the apartment. The guests filled the rooms with an accompaniment of lilting, clipped accents of native singing. The chanting and drumbeat mingled amongst the drinking girls, the sketching artists, the laughing Negroes showing their rows of white teeth, the dancing couples, the small groups of people clustered in conversation. Some guests sat on the floor. Others stood about, drinking and talking. One couple was executing a slow dance. The two held their arms extended rigidly at angles from their bodies, their legs lifting one after the other. They kept their eyes on each other and circled without touching each other.
A few outsiders entered the apartment with one of the Villagers. Some outsiders were already at the party by themselves, but nobody bothered them as long as they didn’t start any trouble.
The party had been going for some time and even the beer-and-coke combination was running low. Empty bottles were hoisted into the air several times every minute—eyes pierced their glass body—only to be dropped on the table or floor to deceive the next thirsty partier. The drink was scarce, but its effect was very much present.
Though Marc and Rita had pretty much satisfied their need for nocturnal wandering and searching in the maze of coffee shops and cafes of the Village, they continued to associate with the Village and its people for the sake of having something more to do than sitting in an Uptown movie house or sipping a soda in a neighborhood luncheonette. At least something did happen in the Village; there was life in the Village; there were conversations to be had on subjects more compelling than the weather or baseball.
Rita sat on a huge, stuffed hassock, a bottle of beer in her hand. She had just ended a conversation with two girls who now began dancing with a couple of fellows from Uptown. She turned to scan the party for any new people and conversations. Through the crowd, she spied Jeannie and Laura. This was the first time in two weeks that Rita had seen them. Laura was with Johnny. Jeannie was just setting out on an expedition with a tall Uptowner into the inner reaches of the dark room.
Rita was delighted to see Laura vibrant and changed from the little shy Laura with whom she had lived. Laura was dressed in a skirt and sweater and wore black, knee-high socks and flat shoes. He hair was even fixed with a little sprig of a flower and she wore a bit of lip rouge. She was smiling and seemed very happy and sure of herself. Johnny too was certainly happy to be with Laura. They were two different people, the released spirits of two captives that had liberated each other.
Laura smiled as she noticed Rita watching her. Johnny and she walked over to Rita.
“I haven’t seen you in weeks. Where’ve you been keeping yourself?” Laura inquired.
“You know, Marc, school, the house, all make Rita a busy girl”
“I guess so. Rita, you remember Johnny. He’s such a great guy.” She turned and grasped his arm, smiling warmly. “Johnny … this is Rita.”
“Hi. I think we met once before, a little fleetingly—at the party at your place, Laura’s place—remember?”
“Yes, you were there with a tall, skinny fellow with red hair—Paul—and you left rather suddenly, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, that’s it. You’ve got the picture.” He looked down and laughed.
“You two seem to be having a good time. What makes you so happy?”
“Oh, Rita … you probably know how it feels … but it’s like I’ve been released from solitary confinement inside my soul. Since Johnny and I have been going out, I feel like I’m alive.” She became a bit embarrassed by her own enthusiasm.
“That’s wonderful, honey. I know what you mean,” Rita assured her, glancing around the room for Marc. He was standing at the other end of the apartment with one of his buddies who was playing the guitar. They were singing a folk tune.
“I guess Marc’ll be off to school again soon, hanh?” Laura asked.
“He’s already started. But we’ve had the summer off together. I took off from school and work for a while so that we could be together for the entire summer without interference.”
“That sounds great. I wish we could’ve done that,” Johnny remarked.
“That’s all right, we’ll be together plenty,” Laura said smiling warmly. Johnny smiled too.
“What’s up with you two?”
Laura smiled at Johnny again and turned to Rita. “We’re going to get married.”
Rita was dumbstruck. “Really? … Oh, man, that’s great … that’s wonderful. I’m almost knocked out. When did all this happen?”
“It’s been happening right along,” said Johnny. “We get along good … and like that.” He smiled at Laura.
“That’s great! It really is—just wonderful.” Rita stood and kissed Laura and hugged her happily. Laura began to explain the coming event. She was more pleased and happy about this than about anything else that had ever happened in her entire life. At one point in the conversation, Rita glanced up and saw
Tom the Cat enter the party. Tom from so long ago, she thought to herself, so many years, so many ages ago. It had seemed wonderful to be with Tom that night so long ago—yet now, it seemed so dull, so meaningless—as if it hadn’t happened.
Tom saw Rita with Johnny and Laura. He walked over, swaying from drink that he had consumed before he arrived at this party. He was smiling broadly, with abandon, pulling a girl along by the hand.
“Hi, baby, how’ve you been?”
“Okay, Tom, how’re you?” replied Rita smiling, amused at Tom’s tipsiness. “You look like you’ve been doing all right tonight.”
“Oh, … this is Joan.” He turned to point at the girl.
“I didn’t mean her. I meant you looked like you’re already a little high.”
“Oh … Well, anyway, this is Joan.” He chuckled.
“Hi,” said Joan to Rita, Laura, and Johnny. Joan was a brunette, short, a little heavy, but cute. She looked like a girl who liked to laugh. She had a happy, big smile.
“You remember Laura, don’t you, Tom? And this is Johnny, her boyfriend.”
“Hi, John, this is Joan. I don’t remember meeting Laura. Hi. This is Joan.”
Joan began chuckling.
Tom’s face retained a constant, happy smile. “Whose pad is this?” he asked, looking around the apartment.
“Jimmy’s,” Laura offered.
“Jimmy? Who’s Jimmy?” Tom frowned, trying to recall a face to fit that name.
“That fellow over there.” Rita indicated the other side of the room. .
Tom turned around and looked across the room, his eyes not focusing well.
“That one, with the little black beard on his chin,” Rita explained, pointing across the room.
“Jimmy? His name is Tony. I know him, … but his name is Tony. I know him a long time.”
“Well, you don’t know him too well,” said Laura smiling, “’cause his name is Jimmy.”
“Jimmy … mmm … that’s sure not what I call him … but anyway, … this is sure Joan.” He pointed limply at his date and burst into a laugh.
What’s Happening? Page 23