My social life hadn’t picked up much, except for the invitation from Gil and one from Ann to come for dinner the following week. I went to work early in the morning—Mike was always surprised to see me there when he came in—and I stayed late. For a while he thought I was sleeping at the studio. We had a cot in the back, but I only catnapped on it now. It was where Janine and I had finally ended up that first time. I remember that it started rolling across the floor, and I had to put one foot down as a brake before we hit the wall.
Mike was sympathetic about Paulie’s leaving, but he was confused by the whole thing. Marriage itself was a marvel and a mystery to him—something like the existence of God—and the breakup of a marriage was even more mysterious. I told him to tell me right away if Janine ever came looking for me. I had to know exactly what she’d said to Paulie, before I could adequately defend myself, and I wanted to settle things between Janine and me once and for all. She’d never returned my phone calls. I’d considered going to her house to speak to her, but I was afraid she’d take it as an overture of love, and I couldn’t deal with another episode like the one at Blooming-dale’s.
We’d been unusually busy at the studio, which gave me less time to think about everything else. There was a run on cassette duplications and voice-overs, and everybody on the Island seemed to want to make a demo. I was even able to get some back-up work for Jason’s group. They came out to Hempstead in his guitarist’s van, which had Blood Pudding painted on its side in dripping red letters. Sara was starting to show, and in case anyone missed it, she wore one of those oversized T-shirts that say Baby across the chest and have an arrow pointing downward. I couldn’t imagine how they got any gigs—her pregnancy was such a bizarre note in their bizarre punk look. While they were tuning up, I noticed she had the same habit Paulie had when she was pregnant, of holding on to her belly with outspread hands, as if she was protecting it, or measuring it. I wondered if her scalp absorbed the pink stuff she used on her hair, and if it eventually got to the baby. Paulie used to worry about things like that in an almost obsessive way. It wasn’t common knowledge then that drinking was bad for the fetus, but she didn’t touch a drop for the nine months of either pregnancy. And she tried to get me to stop smoking the first time by insisting she heard a tiny, muffled cough whenever I lit up.
I got the fuzzy idea that Sara’s pregnancy was the key to my reconciliation with Paulie. I wasn’t sure how it would come about—she hadn’t seemed very impressed by the pep talk I’d given Jason. Yet here he was, still by Sara’s side. They weren’t married yet, though. I suppose the example of people like Mick Jagger made him think he could take his own sweet time. His kid would be an usher at his wedding if he waited long enough. In the middle of one of their hard-driving numbers—something about guts or butts—it hit me that I had to get Jason and Sara married, that somehow that would bring Paulie back. Since she’d been gone, I’d felt like the youngest son in a fairy tale, the one who has to perform some heroic task to win the hand of the beautiful princess. Nothing I could come up with seemed heroic enough until I thought about getting Jason married. And I wasn’t being totally selfish; it would be for his own good in the long run, and for the good of the family he’d started.
Paulie and I had both been very moved by Ann’s wedding, despite the wild extravagance of the thing. That night we lay awake for a long time in each other’s arms, recalling happy moments of her childhood. The circumstances would be different for Jason, but maybe they would work in our favor. Maybe his wedding would recall ours—the mad, makeshift rush of it—Paulie’s borrowed, let-out wedding dress, my symbolic nosebleed just before the ceremony. But did Jason love Sara enough for a whole lifetime? It was hard to know, probably even for him.
My days had a new meaning and purpose, once I’d made the connection between his troubles and mine. I’d started my campaign that afternoon at the studio, when the three of us had a few minutes alone. I didn’t beat around the bush; I came right out and asked them when they intended to get married. Jason blanched—there isn’t a better word for the way his face lost its color. I might have just dipped him in a vat of bleach. On the other hand, Sara flamed up under her white makeup, reminding me again of her stage name. Marriage was obviously a touchy subject, and I tried to back off from my direct approach. “Well, it’s something to think about,” I said, and I put a paternal arm around each of them. Jason flinched away from me, and Sara leaned her surprising weight against my side in a return of affection. I kissed her temple. It was still damp from the exertion of their last number, and she exuded a nice perfume of sweaty girl and strawberry shampoo.
After they left, I began to map out a strategy that would bring Jason around and win Paulie back. The first thing I did was take a thousand dollars out of our money-market fund. It was an either/or joint account, so I didn’t need Paulie’s consent, but I was sure she would have given it if I’d asked. I mailed a check to Jason and Sara with a note saying that it was a gift, sent with our love to them both. It was too late for an abortion by then, so neither of them could mistake my intentions. I got one of Sara’s cute little thank-you notes, and Jason called a couple of days later, sounding grateful and cautious. “Thanks a lot for the money, Dad,” he said. “But what’s the catch?” I told him there wasn’t any, that I was just feeling generous. “And there’s more where that came from,” I added, dangling the green bait.
He didn’t bite, though. I waited a week or so and then I called him. We talked about neutral things for a while, mostly work. Jason said he’d written a couple of new songs, that the money I’d sent had bought him the free time. That was my opening. I told him that he made me feel like a patron of the arts. Then I said I’d like to offer him some more financial aid, and that I had something really substantial in mind as a wedding gift. There was a silence, but I could hear him breathing. “What’s going on, Dad?” he said at last. “Is this a bribe or something?”
“No, of course not,” I said. “It’s just that I want to make an investment, instead of throwing my money away. And I’ve decided to invest in your future.”
“I can have a future without getting married,” he said.
“True, true,” I said, “but that doesn’t look like such a hot investment to me.”
“How about your marriage?” he said, going straight for the jugular, as usual.
“It’s rocky right now,” I admitted, getting a pained little snort from Jason. “But it’s not over yet.” When he didn’t respond to that last, I said, “You love her, Jase, don’t you?” A pretty belated consideration.
“Yes. Sure I do,” Jason said. “I’m just not ready for any big moves.”
“Jason,” I said, “when your house is burning down around you, you can’t say you’re not ready to jump.”
“My house isn’t burning,” he said. “Look, Dad, I guess I didn’t understand the game plan. If you want the grand back, I’ll try to get it somewhere.”
“Forget it, that was a no-strings gift,” I said. “Jasie, I know you feel pressured right now, and I don’t want to add to that pressure. But you can’t pretend Sara’s not pregnant, or that you’re not responsible. And you’ve got to do something about it. You’ve got to grow up sometime.”
“I’m working things out,” he said, the way he used to say that he was studying, with his stereo blasting and his eyes shut.
I decided to back off then, to give him room and time to think it over.
Now Gil’s bass man and pianist were coming down the stairs. We shook hands and they set up. In a little while, after some false starts, we were jamming. I took a solo on “Sweet Lorraine,” playing it legato and low at first, working up to double time on a middle register. The others stayed with me all the way, and then, without breaking, we moved right into “Satin Doll.” The bass and piano player—a dentist and a computer salesman in real life—worked very well together. And Gil had a nice lyrical style that was reminiscent of Dorsey’s; he did some fancy flourishes that heated us all up.
I kept thinking that there was nothing else in the world like this, like making music—the consuming concentration it took, and the rich, instant reward it gave back. If only marriage worked like that.
17
I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN what Ann was up to, but I didn’t. On the train to Larchmont, I only thought how nice it would be to visit her and Spence, and to have someone else cook dinner for a change. I’d forgotten Ann’s stubborn romanticism (“Now kiss Mommy”) and her inclination to take charge.
There were no immediate clues. Spence met me at the station, a good-looking, gangly boy leaning against his BMW and waving. On the ride to the house, he was as he’d always been—affectionate and polite. He managed to allude to my new living arrangements without seeming to pry or pass judgment. I thought how all that privilege hadn’t destroyed Spence’s essential sweetness.
The imposing grandeur of their house always struck me anew. It was a kind of miniature Tara, with a sweeping driveway and classical white columns. Inside, Ann glided down the circular staircase to greet us. She was so fair and pretty, a throwback to blond ancestors, probably, unless they’d given us the wrong baby. We had cocktails in the living room, in front of the fireplace, and I settled into the deep leather cushions of the sofa. The last weeks hadn’t been easy. My notion that I could sleep well in Mary and Jim’s bedroom was mistaken. I would doze off most nights and then wake startled, as if someone had touched me. Once I was fully awake, I’d realize how much I needed to be touched. And then I’d become aware of the unfamiliar room and all the strange noises from the other apartments and the street. I told myself I’d get used to them, as I’d get used to the roaches that sprang into a frenzied discotheque whenever I turned on the bathroom light. I was a city person, after all, although I’d been out of the city for almost half my life.
Howard had been driving me crazy, calling a few times every day. I thought about getting an unlisted number and decided that would be too isolating. What if I forgot to give it to someone I hoped to hear from? My friends were especially important to me now, and I had what seemed like a hotline connection to La Rae and Katherine. The day they helped me move, La Rae had snooped around, opening drawers and closets. “This is like baby-sitting,” she said. “Do you remember looking in people’s bedroom drawers when you were a kid?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, “although I never really knew what I was looking for.”
“The secret of life,” La Rae said solemnly.
“Once I found a deck of pornographic cards in somebody’s night table,” I said. “I think I blushed for a month.”
“I never did anything like that,” Katherine said.
“Then how did you ever learn anything?” La Rae asked her.
Sherry dropped by on her way home from work sometimes, and we’d have dinner together or go to a movie. She tried to get me to go out with some of her surplus NYR men. Her own experiences with them had been varied, but mostly she’d just been bored. I wasn’t interested in going out, especially with anyone like “Dutch Treat” or “Poet Laureate.” I kept busy enough, proofreading the engineering abstracts and writing my column. Sometimes I played with some of the engineering terms, like “avalanche oscillations,” “spin wave stiffness,” and “amorphous alloys,” trying, without success, to make poems out of their imagined meanings.
Many of the letters to “Paulie’s Kitchen Korner” seemed to be encoded cries for help with more serious matters. Women who wrote about carpet ants, and men asking what to do about wood rot in their beams, might have really been suffering deeper, human problems. Or maybe I was only projecting my own situation and feelings onto them.
The first hint I had of Ann’s subterfuge was when I peeped into the dining room on my way to the powder room and saw that the table was set for four. “Who else is coming?” I asked with apprehension when I was back in the living room. Their immediate exchange of worried glances gave them away.
“Oh, God, I can’t believe you did this to me, Ann,” I said. “When is the next train back to Manhattan, Spence?”
“I knew this would happen,” he told Ann. “I said this would happen.”
“Mommy, be reasonable,” Ann said, and at that moment the door chimes rang.
I could see right away that Howard hadn’t been in on the plan. He was genuinely surprised to see me, and he seemed just as embarrassed as I was. When he’d recovered, he said, “Hello, Paulie,” and for some stupid reason we shook hands.
I was as civilized as anyone. “Hello, Howard,” I said. “How are you?” The Duchess of Windsor wouldn’t have done better, greeting the Queen Mother. “I didn’t know about this,” I told him, “and I guess you didn’t, either.”
“No,” he said. “I didn’t. But I’m really glad to see you.”
“I don’t think I’m going to stay,” I said. “Spence, did you get a schedule?” I asked, although he hadn’t moved an inch since I’d come back into the room.
“Dinner is cooked already,” Ann said. “Just stay for dinner.” Now kiss Mommy.
Spence looked at his watch. “Well, you’ve missed the 7:25, anyway,” he said.
We all stood there before the blazing fire, like characters in a drawing-room comedy, until Lily came to announce that dinner was being served. I gave in, even though I couldn’t stand the flash of satisfaction in Ann’s eyes. I would have to speak to her later, in private. I’d murder her. In the meantime, I went into the dining room with the others and let Spence seat me in the chair to the right of his. Howard was sitting opposite me, and every time I looked across the table, he was looking back, forcing me to drop my eyes. He appeared healthy in the brief glimpses I had of him, although he needed a haircut badly. I wondered if Lily knew what was going on, and who she sided with. But why should she even care about us—she probably had her own problems. Yet she had always seemed to prefer Howard. At least she smiled more often at him than she did at me. If she knew the whole story, I thought, she might find him less charming. I realized with dismay that I wanted Lily’s sympathy, that I wanted everyone’s. But Lily was impartial as she served our dinner. How long had Ann been planning this reunion? Except for the uncomfortable guests, everything was perfect, from the pale Belgian table linen to the artistically arranged baby vegetables. I’d once lamented to La Rae that my daughter was becoming a yuppie. “Maybe we’d be yuppies, too,” La Rae said, consolingly, “if we were young and rich enough.” But we both knew that wasn’t true.
All that lovely food, and I wasn’t very hungry. I noticed that Howard’s appetite wasn’t so terrific, either; he kept picking his fork up and putting it down again. And the conversation was stilted and strained. Everyone admired the poached salmon, which we hardly ate, until there was absolutely nothing left to say about it. Spence kept the wine flowing—a Château something or other—and he and Howard talked that to death, too. In one of the clumsier pauses, Howard said, “Well, I guess I’ll commit infanticide!” and popped a whole tiny eggplant into his mouth. I was the only one who got it, and the others’ bewildered laughter quickly died.
Ann was clearly miserable—her plan had backfired, and she had to bear witness to the disaster. If I hadn’t been so angry, I might have felt sorry for her. Maybe I actually did feel a little sorry for her, for her innocent belief that ruined lives could be repaired by the grace of candlelight and good intentions. Poor little rich girl. Poor little everybody. I knew that I was drinking too much wine by how sleepy I was getting and the way my attention was flagging. God, they were talking about the dessert now. There’s something so desperate about eating and talking about eating at the same time, as if there are hungers that can never be appeased.
I stood up, too abruptly, I guess, because the wine and water glasses wobbled and chimed. “Excuse me,” I said, and fled to the powder room. There was a Greek chorus of murmurs in my wake. I washed my hands and face with the almond-scented guest soap and then I sat down on the closed toilet seat to think. The awful thing was that I wished with all my heart that I could g
o home with Howard right then. Not in our present circumstances, of course. What I wished was that nothing bad had ever happened between us, not Marie, or Janine, or any of the various quarrels that lead to the failure of love. I knew it was a silly, regressive longing. But I remembered what it was like to ride away together after a party, into the privacy of the night.
When I went back inside, Ann was snuffing out the candles, and Lily and Spence were clearing away the last of the dishes. Howard leaned in the doorway, watching me walk toward him. “I’d like to drive you home, Paulie,” he said. For a moment it seemed like an extension of my reverie in the powder room, but then I understood that he meant he would drive me to Manhattan, to my apartment.
“No thanks,” I said. “It’s a little out of your way.”
“I don’t mind, I’m wide awake,” he said.
I wasn’t—the wine had made me groggy, and it had softened my defenses, too. Otherwise, I would never have given him such an easy opening. I noticed that we were alone—Ann and Spence and Lily had disappeared. “Ann set us up, Howard,” I said, “but we don’t have to carry it any further.”
“I want to carry it further,” he said. “I’d carry it all the way to China if I had to.”
“Well, you don’t have to. I’m going to take the train back to the city.”
“Do you want a divorce?” he said.
The word was astonishing, spoken aloud like that when I wasn’t prepared for it. “Right now I just want some peace,” I said. “I want you to leave me alone. No phone calls, no ruses.”
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