by Rona Jaffe
“Tiny Tombstones …” Nina read the paragraph and then read it again.
“It’s a subject I’ve been thinking about a lot lately,” Susan said. “And I wonder if this has anything to do with the answer. Once men had to move on to survive, to protect and sustain the family—but women don’t die young anymore, and men are still doing it; trading them in, only now they’re breaking the families up. A new marriage, new children … Is it biological, sociological, atavistic?”
“You should do a study on it,” Nina said. “It’s exactly the kind of thing you do so well.”
“Tiny Tombstones: Sequential Monogamy in America.”
“That’s your new book.”
Susan looked at her. “Do you think so?”
“Absolutely! I think it’s a great idea. I personally would like to find out.”
“Well, so would I,” Susan said.
“Then do it,” Nina said, excited. “You’ve been looking for a project. Give me a proposal and I know I can get you a contract. You’ll interview the men, the women, see the patterns, maybe even find a couple of those guys who have a modicum of insight about themselves.”
“They don’t have to have insight,” Susan said. “I’ll just let them talk.”
“How will you find them?”
“I’ll start with people I know. They’ll give me names of people they know. It’ll be like a human chain letter. Give me six months and I’ll have a list as long as your arm.… I don’t know, Nina—do you think I’m ready yet to tackle something as hard as this?”
“Yes. Think of it as therapy.”
“Answers are a kind of therapy, aren’t they,” Susan said. “And for me, my work is. It might even be fun. I’ll do it.”
It was the first time since before the hospital, no, even before that, at least a year before, that she had seen Susan look alive.
35
1987—NEW YORK
“My wife was a nice woman. I just got bored.” Susan had already interviewed two men for her survey, to begin to get the flavor of it, and she decided to use that line as a chapter heading.
She was going through her notes for the presentation of Tiny Tombstones. Two marriages didn’t count as real serial monogamy, she decided. Anyone could make a youthful mistake. But probably she should include those men as a kind of yardstick since there were so many. She would have to get statistics on how many men in this country had been married more than twice. Men who had had three marriages would be good candidates for an interview. One woman for each act of his life. Four marriages could be revealing too, depending on what the man said. More than four marriages was too freaky. She decided that living together for a long time in a serious committed relationship would count as a marriage. That might up the total of marriages for a man and it should be interesting.
All those people, meeting and falling in love and parting. She thought of the women. While you are living your life, some stranger somewhere is living hers, neither of you the slightest bit aware that she will enter yours and ruin it. In the hospital at this very moment there is a baby with your name on it, who is going to grow up and take away your future husband. On Bambi Green’s wedding day to Simon, she never dreamed she was going to end up with Clay.
She went back to her notes to pull herself back from being depressed.
Generational differences in male behavior? she wrote. Do men in their thirties trade in for contemporaries? Do the older men keep marrying the “same” woman, only a younger version? Do they try to make time stand still by finding a New One the age the Old One was when they met? “Trading in, trading up, trading down,” possible chapter heading.
She had decided to stay within the upper middle class, the area she had covered in Like You, Like Me, and one she felt comfortable with. It was the marriage she should have made when she was young—it was the one she had made. Maybe she would do some rich people too, not showy multimillionaires, but the very successful men who did what they pleased because they could afford to. Big alimony no obstacle, she wrote in her notes.
The man who had said he just got bored had been totally clueless about how he functioned. But maybe, she thought, what you see is what you get. Boredom might have been enough. Did she seem boring to Clay near the end? Should she have tried harder, been different? Her therapist said not to blame herself, that women blamed themselves for everything too much. Still, she couldn’t get the thought out of her mind.
She had learned long ago in her interviews never to have a preconception. She would just listen and the answers would come, a pattern would emerge. This would be the survey that would try to explain her life to her, and perhaps Clay’s.
She started thinking about Andy. He had called her a couple of times in the two weeks since their lunch, to touch base, he said; and they had talked about their work, and then he had flown to California for a few days of meetings. He should be back by now. She was still as much in love with Clay; she would be ashamed for Andy to know how obsessed she was. She was sure Andy also didn’t know that she was still so hurt that she was constantly afraid she was a loser and was going to say the wrong thing to him and drive him away. She didn’t know how to flirt anymore; she kept seeing herself only as the woman Clay had rejected.
Andy was twenty-eight; women his age and younger called men, they didn’t stand on ceremony as she always did. If she didn’t call him she would just daydream about him instead of working. She called him.
“Susan!” He sounded so pleased. “I was just thinking about you.”
“You conjured me up,” she said. It was a line Clay used to use.
“I just got back from L.A. last night. I’m going through a lot of stuff here on my desk. Do you want to have lunch today?”
“Sure.”
“Where should we go? I can never think of a place. Is the same restaurant we went to last time all right?”
“It’s fine.”
“Do you mind one-thirty?”
“No, that’s perfect.”
“See you then.”
Now that wasn’t hard, was it? she told herself.
She got there on time and he was late, but they knew he was coming because he had a made a reservation. She sat in the same chair as before, at the same table, feeling unexpectedly elated. When he walked in she was struck again by how appealing he was; she had forgotten. He grinned at her across the room and she grinned back, and then he was sitting next to her and they were still grinning stupidly at each other like two people in love. He made her feel happy; she was overwhelmingly glad he was there, and apparently so was he. Because it was late they ordered their virtuous Diet Cokes and an alternate kind of chicken salad without much attention to the menu, and then they just sat there and smiled.
“It’s so terrific to see you,” he said.
“You too.”
“My meetings in California went very well,” he said. “I have a go-ahead for a great script, set in New Orleans—lots of lush, exotic, dark brooding threat of violence, steamy sex, major drug dealing, cops, a respected doctor who’s really a villain, his neurotic wife who’s evil and sexy and always wears white …”
“Lana Turner in The Postman Always Rings Twice,” Susan said.
“I’m hoping for Jane Seymour.”
“It sounds great,” she said.
“I’m getting a polish on the script right now. It’ll be a two-pan miniseries on RBS. I’m hot,” he said, excited. He took her hand. We’re holding hands, she thought stupidly. Neither of them drew away for what seemed like a very long time. “What have you been doing?” he asked while he was holding her hand and she was pretending not to notice because she was afraid then he would stop.
“I’m trying to get my presentation for the book ready by next week.”
“Have you heard from him?”
“Well,” Susan said carefully, “you know we talk from time to time.”
“You should hang up on him. You should refuse to talk to him.”
“I can’t.”
“What does he say to you?”
“Not much.”
“I’m just being protective of you,” Andy said.
“I know.”
“And I worry about you.”
“Thank you.” And a little jealous? Is it possible?
“He probably wants the project you’re working on now.”
“Well, he’ll never get it,” Susan said. “He knows that.”
“Would you go back to him if he asked you to?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
She thought about it. “I’m positive.”
“I hope so,” he said.
The waiter brought their food and again she could hardly eat. When Andy had finished wolfing his down she gave him hers. He obviously burned up everything he ate.
“You’re going to work very hard on this book,” he said. “As I’m sure you do on everything you do. As I do. This time listen to your agent. Don’t give it to anybody just because he’s a friend.”
“I won’t.”
“I hope you mean that.”
“I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Good.”
As soon as they finished lunch he put her in a cab and went back to his office, which was nearby. When she got home there was already a message from him on her answering machine. “Thank you for joining me for lunch today. Your smile is … perfect. It lights up your whole face, it illuminates the room. I’ll talk to you soon.”
That was so nice. She played it back again, pleased and flattered, and then she looked at herself in the mirror. The tension and anger and pain were beginning to slip away. She could almost imagine herself looking the way she used to … someday.
And only a while ago she thought she would never smile.
Andy called her two weeks later and asked her to have dinner with him. She liked that he wasn’t rushing her; it would have made her afraid. “Come have a drink here first,” she said. She wanted him to see her apartment and know a little more about what she was like. “What do you drink? Do you drink?”
“Sure, just not in the daytime,” he said. “Anything you have is fine.”
She bought a bottle of champagne because she felt festive. He had paid twice for their lunches and she wondered if she should offer at least to split the check for dinner, or maybe pay for it all. What did you do with younger men? She had as much money as he did, maybe more. During the time she had stopped dating, men had stopped paying. Maybe she could let him take her because she wanted to think it was a real date, hope he wouldn’t mind too much, and then the next time she could invite him to her apartment for dinner and send out.
Nina called from the office. “I love your book proposal and everybody here does too. No surprise, of course. I’m going to call Glenn in the morning. I thought you’d like to be able to celebrate.”
“Oh, good,” Susan said, delighted. “It happens I bought champagne and I’m going to dinner with Andy.”
“Aha!”
“It’s just dinner, it’s not ‘aha.’ ”
“As long as you have a nice time. I’m glad I’m in my own apartment now and out of your hair.”
“Stop that.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow for a report.”
“Nina … who picks up the check?”
“He does. It’s a date. Not that I ever had one.”
“But I’m so much older than he is …”
“He’s not a baby, and he’s very successful. You’re a brilliant, beautiful, interesting woman. He’s lucky to be able to spend time with you, and I’m sure he knows it.”
“Thank you,” Susan said gratefully. “You’ve been a big help.”
“I try.”
She and Andy drank a champagne toast to her new project and then they went to dinner at a restaurant in her neighborhood that held only marginal memories of Clay. Andy complained about his problems with Standards and Practices and the censorship they wanted to impose on his script, she commiserated and told him a story about one of the men she had interviewed. They decided there were a lot of dreadful people in the world and that they were glad they were not among them.
“I had such a bad day,” he said, “that I would have canceled tonight if it had been with anybody but you.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” she said.
“So am I. You always put me in a good mood.”
They left the restaurant and he walked her to her apartment and came up in the elevator to her door. She opened her door and then, gently, dreamily, he kissed her good night. His lips were unexpectedly soft and sensuous, and suddenly she felt his kiss flash through her: she was pulsing with precisely located desire. The unexpected feeling astonished her.
“Wow,” she whispered. She thought that was probably a stupid thing to say, but she was glad she had. He smiled, flattered, and kissed her again. They touched tongues. He seemed to be shyly trying to see how far he could go. They kissed some more, and then he drew back and looked at her tenderly.
“Good night,” he said, and was gone.
She went into her apartment and locked the door, moving as if she were underwater.
It had been a long time since she had felt anything, and now in a few moments he had unleashed her sexuality and she could think of nothing else. She had to push the feeling away when she was working, but whenever her guard was down it came back. At dinner with friends she would drift away into silence and they thought she was thinking about Clay. She did not correct this supposition and tell them she was thinking about her vagina.
The holidays were coming. She had been invited to some parties. She and Andy called each other a few times and talked, and then he told her he was going to Rio for Christmas with some friends and would call her after New Year’s. She couldn’t escape the reluctant awareness that even though they were carrying on what was obviously a flirtation, she really didn’t know him so well. A part of him was elusive, private—involved with his own friends, his own plans, a young man who had had a life before he met her, who hadn’t just fallen out of a tree—and she felt left out, even though she was sure his friends were too young for her and they would spend their time doing things she hated, like surfing. She knew there would be girls along and hoped he did not have a special one. She didn’t know how to ask him and she was afraid to know. She would wait.
The holidays were always difficult. She tried not to think about Clay and Bambi and what they might be doing, she tried not to have memories. Once, unexpectedly, she found herself thinking about Andy, and the thought was sweet. Just knowing she could think of him for a while instead of Clay was an improvement.
Andy called her after New Year’s. “How was your trip?” she asked.
“Disappointing. Not what I had hoped.”
“Oh? Did you go with someone who broke your heart?” That was as close as she could come to asking the real question: Are you taken?
“I was with someone who didn’t make me feel either better or worse.”
Whatever that meant. “Oh,” she said.
“And how were your holidays?”
“Okay.”
“Did you work?”
“A little.”
“I’m glad to be back,” Andy said. “I’ll call you in a day or two and we’ll make plans to get together.”
“I’d love that,” Susan said. She wondered who he had gone to Rio with, if it had been arranged long in advance, if the “disappointing” trip meant the beginning of the end for whoever she was. Of course he had gone with a date; he was much too attractive to have to go anywhere alone. He called her at the end of the week.
“I’m going to Philadelphia for the weekend to see my family, and I’ll be back on Sunday,” he said. “I just had a good idea. I’m going down to New Orleans next week to look at locations. I don’t know if you can take the time off, but if you can, I thought you could join me there, maybe come for the weekend. I’ll be finished with the work part of my trip and we can just have fun. New Orleans is gr
eat. We’ll hear jazz, eat terrific food, go sightseeing …”
She suddenly realized the implications. “Yes, I could fly down,” she said. “But …” She was embarrassed but plowed on. “I don’t know anything about these things … Are we going as friends?”
“I guess we pretend we’re friends and then we see what happens,” he said.
She was filled with conflicting emotions: flattered, excited, nervous, and sure it was too soon for her. On the other hand she was already imagining the two of them in bed. “I want my own room,” she said.
“Okay. I’m staying at the Royal Sonesta Hotel; it’s very elegant and right on Bourbon Street. Why don’t you call and get a reservation, and plan to come on Friday early. You can look at locations with me if you want, if I’m not done.”
“I’d like that,” Susan said.
He was on the phone every day from then on, from Philadelphia, from New Orleans, making sure she had her reservations, her plane tickets, telling her about a restaurant he wanted them to try, who was playing at Preservation Hall, what clothes to bring. He was so enthusiastic, so concerned that everything be right. For the first time she began to feel comfortable with him, as if they really were “good friends, at the very least.”
She wondered if she should buy condoms. No, that would look too eager; he would have them. If not, they certainly sold them in New Orleans, it wasn’t the Sahara. She wished Clay were there to see her and Andy together, and fantasized a convertible with the top down, a romantic restaurant—Clay seeing her with such an attractive, so much younger man and realizing with a pang of jealousy that she had a life of her own.
But of course she didn’t; Clay was always there. She knew it would take years to get over him and wondered if she ever would.
“Why are you wasting your time with separate rooms?” Jeffrey said. “It’s money you could better spend on something else, like a present for me.”
“Or a present for me,” Susan said.
“You’re getting your present,” he said, and laughed.
When Andy called that night she said, “Maybe I don’t need my own room. I mean, I don’t mind if you don’t mind.”