Group Sex

by Ann Arensberg

  The glass door opened, banging the picture window. Paul stepped in from the garden with Madeline behind him. “It sucks!” he roared. “Cute as catshit! I want Oberon live.” Only Oberon, the actor, was pleased. The rest of the crew protested the change profanely. Oberon, the skeleton, chose that moment to fall off his chair, clattering to the ground, breaking one spiny foot as he tumbled. “Jesus Christ in a bucket,” swore Paul. “There goes eight hundred big ones.” “It’s an omen,” said Leo, the propman. “We broke him, we own him.” “I’m the director,” said Paul. “I say we go live.”

  Frances wanted to express an opinion. She caught herself raising her hand, like a child in the classroom. Why did the skeleton suck? The boys had bulbs in their crotches. Why did Paul keep yelling “Gimmick!”, if Puck’s skin was painted? Frances was naïve when it came to such fine distinctions, but she learned as she listened to Paul scorning his invention. It seemed that wiring the bones for sound did not serve the play; it just made the director look like a clever fellow. It was like doing Hamlet in blackface or Lear in zoot suits, and referring to your bright idea as a “production concept.” She recalled what she had read or heard of Paul’s previous works. The same critics who called him a genius said he went too far. Frances disagreed. It was clear to her now that Paul did not make mistakes: Peer Gynt ought to walk on stilts; the lovers in As You Like It needed seals for mascots. Frances was on the brink of a conversion. How benign Paul was, how wise, how democratic, letting his crew voice their uninspired opinions. Genius has no need to offer an accounting, but a good leader never stifles his subjects’ fervor. Did the crew give Paul due credit for his genius? Were they aware, from their short-sighted perspective, that he had pledged his life to the highest form of art? A tragic form, like sculpting in ice, since nothing was left of the most renowned productions but newspaper clippings, memories, and still photographs. Now that Paul had opened her eyes, Frances found little pleasure in books. For one thing, books came in such limited color schemes: white for the pages; black print; one stain for the binding. Books had no musical background and no lighting effects. To read that Peter Pan could fly was dull next to seeing him move by invisible wires across a stage. A writer could not do a forest with one potted tree. Writers described the bark, the leaves, the earth, the time of day, using up paragraphs that the reader skimmed or skipped. Writers drove their imaginations like work-worn mules. Modern writers took the quick way out, in fantasy, making up girls furred and clawed like beasts, men who walked on their heads, hermaphrodites of mixed religions, and other characters burdened with meaning, and hence faceless. No wonder writers needed endless praise and constant pep talks. They were playing for the pot of gold with a pair of deuces. Holding a loser’s hand makes the player nervous. Did Frances want to keep the job of backing losers? It was as insolent to say she would rather be backing Paul as to say she would rather back Etna or Mauna Loa. One light bulb basted at the groin was worth a thousand words.

  Frances put herself on automatic pilot in the daytime. She used the part of her brain reserved for menial chores. She worked faster because the work seemed unimportant, and was rewarded with extra tasks by her boss, Ham Griner. When she finished these tasks, she locked horns with Panda Wattel, who wanted an orchidlike vulva, or a vulvalike orchid, on her jacket. Panda changed her mind with the speed of a torpedo when Frances asked her to imagine saying “vulva” to Mr. Harwood.

  Frances lived for the nights and each night she drew closer, leaving her station by the living-room door and approaching the action, growing bold enough to take up space on the only sofa, in a seat that was usually saved for the assistant director. Seated where she was, she was drawn into the action. She was a pair of hands when the company was shorthanded. She hemmed the lovers’ wedding capes, though she was no seamstress, and glued false lashes on Bottom’s ass’s head. Once Paul dumped the promptbook in her lap and asked her to run the lines at a rapid tempo. Madeline, who sat by Paul in a zippered lounging costume, decided that Frances was being unduly favored. She took over the promptbook and sent her to make coffee.

  One night, Frances sat winding yarn for the lion’s mane. Paul was working with Lysander, who was apt to freeze during love scenes. Hermia had left; she only made things worse. Either Hermia—or Paul, who kept hounding him: “Two bosoms, man, two bosoms and one troth! That’s her tits—forget Shakespeare, think tits! Take a feel, go on, she’s got nice ones, you don’t mind, do you, doll?” Hermia, yawning from boredom, had clapped his hand to her breast and held it firmly. A brief struggle ensued until Lysander broke out of her grasp. “Are you a virgin,” said Paul, “or a faggot? Clear the room! He can’t do it for a crowd.” Frances picked up her yarn and started to leave with the others. “You stay here,” said Paul. “We can use you.” He turned to Lysander. “Look at her. She’s built like a kid. No knockers to scare you.” Lysander smiled bravely at Frances, as if to make up for Paul’s churlish appraisal of her measurements. Frances smiled back. This was professional theatre. Professionals had to grow hardened to personal remarks.

  Madeline walked in with a glass and a bottle and sat in Paul’s chair. An injunction to empty the room did not include investors. Paul was pacing, clasping his wrist, and pressing three fingers of his free hand on the vein in his temple. Frances observed him. Plugging into two major pulses must make his mind sharper. “O.K., sit,” ordered Paul. “Hold it. Frances. Douse those lights. Wait. I’ll do it.” With one corner lamp burning, the lighting was dim, but kinder. Frances and Lysander waited mutely for further instructions. “On the rug,” Paul said. “Green rug equals grassy turf.” Paul sat down with his back against the wall, about twelve feet away. It was the distance, if the room were a theatre, from the front row to the lip of the stage. “You’re an actor,” said Paul to Lysander. “Anything you do in private, you can do in public.” Lysander nodded, or twitched. His eyes were shut, like a patient getting an injection. Frances felt sorry for her timid partner. He had a sweet face, with an undeveloped nose. For a small nose, it harbored a lot of reddish spots.

  Nothing had been heard from Paul for several minutes. There was no sound except wine glugging into Madeline’s glass. Frances began to wish he would bark directions, but Lysander took some courage from his silence. All at once, Lysander made some sneaky moves: a hand on her thigh; a buttock eased against her; breath on her cheek; a definite change in breathing. Frances had heard that the kind of exercise they were doing was called an improvisation, or an “improv,” in which the actors are given a theme, but no plan or script. Improvs gave proof of an actor’s imagination; anything might happen if both partners could free their instruments. It was clear that Lysander was involved in freeing his. He was kissing Frances on the ear and inching toward her mouth. He was kissing her on the lips and tilting her backward. He was working on her buttons and trying to unhook her waistband. Frances wished, in the clinch, that she had taken instrument lessons. He had captured the lead and she might never get it back. If she had the initiative, how could she swing things her way? What was her way? She had none, only pleasing Paul. Paul ought to be pleased. Lysander had lost his shyness. Lysander had his hand on the tab of his own zipper. The sound of the zipper unzipping could be heard in China.

  “Paul?” It was Madeline talking. “Paul! Make them stop!”

  “What?” answered Paul. His voice was rough and distant as if he had been roused from a catnap or a trance.

  “Not in my house,” said Madeline. “You make them stop!”

  “Good,” said Paul. “Very real. You both did good.”

  Lysander spit on his hands and smoothed down his hair. He zipped himself up and went over to get his knapsack. He walked with an upright spine and a springy step. As he left, he clapped Frances on the shoulder, by way of thanks. Thanks to Lysander, Frances’s skirt was on backward. Her shirttails were showing and her tights sagged in folds at the knees. She never regained full control of her twisted clothing. She did not say good night to Paul when she left the room.<
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  Frances prepared herself to run the gauntlet, but nobody was sitting in the hall or on the stairs. She felt, nonetheless, that a thousand eyes were upon her, so she looked straight ahead and walked with her chin up high, like the Scarlet Woman being led to the stocks in Salem. The closer she got to her rooms, the more she slumped. When she reached the top floor, her chin had dropped to her chest. She sat on the bed, in her creased, disobedient garments. She made no attempt to undress and change into her nightclothes, since her physical discomfort matched the confusion in her mind. A professional actress would not have conflicting reactions; she would straighten her clothes, go home, and gargle with mouthwash. She might ask herself what she had learned from the improvised love scene; she would not keep replaying the scene with corrected endings involving the discovery of an ice pick or a dagger on her person. She would never expect the director to cut the scene short, or to respect the maidenly modesty of one of his cast.

  On the whole, Frances thought she was safer in the world of letters. Writers thought things up by themselves. Writers’ minds might resemble a spook house full of cobwebs and severed limbs, but writers never invited live people to come into their studies and act out bloody scenes. Writers might ill-treat themselves and their nervous systems; they did not push volunteers or hirelings past the breaking point. Frances knew some tall male writers. She knew some handsome ones. Some of these manly writers wished to know her, too. The better she knew them, the more she observed a likeness. They were her brother worms. They were hypocrites and hiders. They bit their nails and ground their teeth while sleeping. They never got revenge, except in stories. They took no risks, except on ruled white paper. Paul was of another species altogether. If he kept a list of enemies in his wallet, he would not read it over and over again, in secret, until the paper was split from folding and refolding. He would punish his enemy, cross his name off the list, add new names, and strike them out in turn. Eventually he would need a fresh sheet of paper. Her name had no chance of appearing on his enemies list. If it did, it would mean she had managed to attract his notice. Why would a ruddy lion take stock of a worm? Frances wished she could be content with her own kind, but a worm may look at a lion, like a cat at a king. She might look at the king of beasts, but she might not yearn. In a contest for grotesque mismatings, the prize would go to worm and lion.

  Frances wanted a bath. She pulled off her clothes and stuffed them into a trash bag. She leaned over the tub and adjusted the hot and cold faucets. She stepped in, armed with brushes and cloths, like a housewife embarked on spring-cleaning. She turned red from the heat of the water and the effort of scrubbing. She brushed the soles of her feet, her knees and elbows. She scoured her bosoms and buttocks, using three different lathers. When she emerged from the bath, she had shed several layers of skin.

  Frances had left her bathrobe in the bedroom. She noticed that a light was burning in her kitchen. As she started toward the kitchen, she heard stairs creak behind her. The tread was heavy. The footfall was not Madeline’s. She wheeled around.

  “I want to see your fruits,” said Paul.

  As if to oblige him, Frances lost control of her towel. One of her fruits was uncovered, and before her numb fingers could gather the corners of the cloth, the other was exposed.

  “Pink nipples,” said Paul. “Not brown.” He was clutching his wrist. He held it so tightly that the veins in his hands stood out.

  “What are you doing?” asked Frances, pointing at his wrist.

  “Taking my pulse,” he said.

  “You do it all the time.”

  “I might be dead,” said Paul. “I have to check.”

  Frances approached him. His complexion was pale by nature. If he was able to speak, it argued he must be breathing. Perhaps he had a phobia. She had heard of a painter who was frightened by a shade of blue, and a poet who believed his pen was made of glass. She wondered if her fruits had induced a phobic reaction. She had less to fear if Paul was afraid of her.

  “Madeline,” said Frances, naming one object of dread.

  “Asleep,” said Paul. “Tanked up.” He looked disapproving.

  “She’s a very poor sleeper,” said Frances, peering over the railing.

  “Can I feel them?” asked Paul. He backed up, instead of advancing.

  Frances was surprised. This was the very person who had shamed Lysander, and taunted him for having girlish scruples. She lowered the towel and tucked it around her waist.

  “All right,” said Frances. “You’re going to need both hands.” She offered up her breasts on her palms, like pears on plates.

  Paul resembled bashful Lysander as Hamlet was mad—north-northwest. At every other point of the compass he needed no coaching. The prevailing winds favored loss of inhibition. Her towel was not tied to survive such a lusty gale. Paul handled and tasted her, choosing the sweetest sections, like a restaurant chef sampling produce at a market garden. “Choice,” he said, between mouthfuls, praising her mound. “Small but delicious,” he said as he savored her globes. Frances wondered why Hemingway had written that no man can make love very long in a standing position. Did the blood leave their heads as it rushed to their pleasure centers? Paul showed no signs of dizziness or faulty balance, although sometimes he kneeled, which might keep him from feeling light-headed. Nothing was required of Frances except standing still. Her guest was doing the work. Was she a proper hostess? Wasn’t she remiss, detaining her guest in the hallway? Wouldn’t it be friendlier to lead the way to the bedroom? Etiquette books drew a veil over cases like this one, though tradition decreed, in the matter of sexual exchanges, that it was up to the man to take the first step toward the bed. It was typical of Hemingway to ascribe greater urgency to men. It was Frances who was giddy, and Paul who had perfect equilibrium. She was ready for closure, but he seemed content with preamble. She wondered if Paul kept Madeline on short rations. Did Madeline need to drink wine in order to sleep? Madeline was altered lately, subdued and moodier. Perhaps Frances’s temperature went down, when she thought of Madeline, or perhaps Paul had thought of her, too, since he straightened his tie and brushed off the knees of his trousers. Frances watched him preparing for departure. She had no clothing to adjust. Her damp towel was lying on the floor. Paul picked up the towel, folded it in thirds, and gave it back to her.

  “I’m not finished,” he said, molding her haunches and squeezing them. “Perhaps you’re the girl of my dreams. You’re not like other women.”

  “I am too!” she retorted, as if Paul had meant to insult her.

  “No, you’re not,” answered Paul. “I see through you. You’re only pretending.”

  Frances opened her mouth to protest her mediocrity more loudly. Paul was already making an exit, attempting to cross the hall silently. When he reached the top stair, he dropped out of sight very fast. While he made his way down, she did not hear the staircase creak once.

  The next day was Saturday, the day Frances kept for Edie. Edie liked to turn every activity into a tradition, so she knew what she was doing for weeks, even months, in advance: Saturday for Frances, Sunday dinner with Hill and his parents, Monday at the fertility clinic, Tuesday evening for subscription tickets, Thursday for errands. Her calendar never varied except for Wednesdays, though she had tried many times to beat Wednesdays into shape. Frances disliked making plans, so she fit into Edie’s. Sometimes she looked down the years and saw a chain of Saturdays, unbroken unless she left town or changed her identity. Saturdays began at noon, in Edie’s apartment. They ate tuna-fish salad; then Frances watched Edie do chores: bits of ironing or mending; flushing clogged fountain pens with water; chopping up vegetables for supper; mothproofing winter clothes. Today Edie was polishing spoons with salt and vinegar. Frances sat on a kitchen chair and drank black coffee. She had sat up most of the night on a softer chair, reading the later poems of Wallace Stevens, in an effort to purify and elevate her fevered mind. Edie was never distracted by domestic tasks. When her hands were busy, she was freer to c
lose in on Frances. Frances felt it coming, but she saw it from a distance; her fatigue was a buffer, like sandbags piled around a fort.

  “Hill’s brother knows Paul Treat,” said Edie, rinsing out a sponge. She had finished the silver spoons and started on the knives. “I mean, he knows a girl he dumped. He owes her money.”

  “Hill’s brother?”

  Edie sniffed. “She says he owns a shotgun.”

  “Who’s ‘he’?” said Frances. “What’s the antecedent?”

  “You ought to know. You said you let him kiss you.”

  Frances made a show of blowing on her coffee. Each confession she had made to Edie came back to haunt her, though it was more important to know what not to tell her. Frances paid out information like a tithe, little disclosures as a cover for the big ones. Over the years, the minor confessions had mounted up until Edie could be said to have the goods on Frances. Edie recorded information and played it back distorted, with her bias or approbation factored in. Edie kept a file on Frances, under rigid headings. The person in the file was like, yet not like, Frances. The dossier described her fears, her quirks, her failures; it did not include her triumphs over weakness. Was kissing Paul a triumph or a failure? Did Frances need Edie to tell her which was which? Was Frances, who was unmarried, a speeding car, and Edie the voice of reason, or braking system?

  Edie had been watching Frances during this rumination.

  “Is that all he did, is kiss you?”

  “Yes,” said Frances. She didn’t even have to cross her fingers, since Edie had not asked where or how, but only whether.

  “Does Madeline know?” asked Edie, pouring more vinegar.

  “That’s the last thing I’d do.”