Group Sex

by Ann Arensberg

  Gus kissed Frances good night as a friend may embrace a fond friend, mouth to mouth, with closed lips, but applying no unlawful pressure. Frances walked taller from having spent time in his presence, from breathing his air, and from being exposed to sound principles. She had once read a survey compiled by a group of psychiatrists, a comparison of artists with subjects in normal professions. The artists they tested scored higher in psychopathology, and especially high in antisocial behavior. Gus Stafford’s example would puzzle these worthy clinicians, who believed people labeled “creative” can never be virtuous. As Frances ascended the five flights of stairs to Paul’s loft, she resolved to bring order and harmony into their lives. Paul might learn, if she taught him, to view mere events in perspective, and human endeavor as God or a jet pilot sees it, as the movement of dust motes, dark specks on a flat, colored surface. Every play Paul directed was like a casino roulette game, with Fate as the croupier and Paul as a desperate gambler risking all of his chips on one spin of the wheel and one number. Paul could profit from heeding Gus Stafford on growing through failure; every artist, said Gus, gains humility from his mistakes.

  Filled with zeal, like a pastor appointed to preach to the savages, Frances opened the door on a scene that would test her vocation. The lights were ablaze. The bedspread was littered with clothing. A suitcase lay open on the floor, strewn with female apparel. Paul was not at the theatre, displaying exemplary patience, persuading tired actors to rise to undreamed-of achievements. Paul was emptying drawers, tossing garments over his shoulder: some landed on the bed; others fell in a heap in the suitcase; a blouse and a knee sock had draped themselves over a lampshade. Frances crept up behind him, afraid for herself and her wardrobe. Paul had found a chemise, powder blue, trimmed with insets of lace. He crumpled it, stretched it, and tugged it between his fists. Paul turned around. The chemise caught her full in the face.

  “It better be good!” shouted Paul, flinging nightgowns and headscarves. “It better be medical. I don’t see you bleeding or limping!”

  Frances lowered her eyes, clasped her hands, and endured the eruption. Very soon she resembled a clothesline left out in a whirlwind. Compared to most women, her personal possessions were limited. Unless Paul began to throw shoes, he had run out of missiles.

  “Don’t come near me!” yelled Paul, a request she was pleased to comply with. He slammed the drawers shut and aimed a swift kick at the suitcase. In spite of his anger, she saw he was very near weeping. He was wrinkling his nostrils and pinching the bridge of his nose, as if he were quelling a sneeze during church or a concert. He collapsed in the armchair. His bulk was contained on three sides. Frances drew nearer, but kept a low bookcase between them.

  “I don’t need this,” said Paul. “I can’t handle a personal crisis.”

  “What crisis?” asked Frances. “Did something go wrong at the theatre?”

  “My career is at stake,” muttered Paul. “I need a calm mind.”

  Frances approached him, appalled by the flow of real tears. She stood by his chair. It seemed safe, so she reached down and touched him.

  Paul flinched at her touch. He covered his face with his forearm. “Why couldn’t you wait? Why couldn’t you wait till we opened?”

  “Wait for what?” implored Frances.

  “Where were you?” said Paul. “No. Don’t tell me.”

  Frances relaxed. Paul was harboring jealous suspicions. She felt guilt and remorse. She had tampered with Paul’s concentration. When Paul was directing a play, his composure was vital. Was it she who was jealous? Had she struck a low blow at Paul’s art? When he heard she’d had dinner with Gus, he would come to his senses. After all, he referred to Gus Stafford as “pious” and “tight-assed.”

  When Paul heard she’d had dinner with Gus, he rose up from the armchair. His fists were clenched and the look on his face was not friendly. Frances measured the distance between them (two feet and some inches). Instead of retreating or flinching, she held her position.

  “Dinner?” said Paul. “Or box lunch?” His face was a study: a compound of menace conflicting with rank curiosity.

  “You have dinner with Kip,” Frances said, trading challenge for challenge.

  “Did you come?” questioned Paul. He was taking his pulse in two places, at the vein on the side of his neck and the vein on his temple.

  Frances stared at him. Paul was a great one for sexual motives. He believed that a man and a woman, alone in a room, will have sex just as surely as smoke is a warning of fire. She had always kept thinker and theory in separate compartments, forgetting that theories reflected the theorist’s nature. The partition between the compartments gave way in an instant. She knew beyond doubt that Paul reasoned from special experience. Frances did badly at card games. Her face was too mobile. She played just as poorly in contests of love and diplomacy. Paul could read her expressions before she had ordered her thoughts, and before she had chosen to speak them or leave them unspoken.

  “I don’t want to deal with this, Frances.” Paul turned toward the window.

  “You might as well tell me,” said Frances. “Or I’ll ask direct questions.”

  “I did a bad thing,” answered Paul.

  “I don’t blame you,” said Frances.

  “It’s worse than you think,” Paul explained.

  “Do you love her?” asked Frances.

  She tugged at his elbow. He left her and went to the window. He blew on the glass, making circles of steam on the pane. He traced lines in the circles and lines through the lines, forming X’s. He rubbed out the lines and began blowing circles again.

  “She looked up my clippings,” said Paul. This time he drew crosses. “She went to the newspaper files and she read all about me.

  “Your reviews,” Frances urged, “and your interviews. She’s an investor.”

  Paul’s behavior alarmed her. Was he feeling the strain of his schedule? Was he losing his grip after nights without adequate sleep?

  “She approved of my genes,” Paul went on. “She decided on me. She had picked a black actor but he had notched ears and one kidney.”

  Frances approached him. At last Paul consented to face her. She took both his hands, which were hot. Was he running a fever?

  “She made me get tested,” said Paul. “The black actor was sterile.”

  Frances tilted her head. She banged on her skull with her palm, like a swimmer who tries to release water trapped in her ear. She heard noise from the street down below, honking horns and dogs barking. Her hearing was fine, but her heart had sustained an impairment.

  “Do you still get the money,” she asked, “if she can’t have a baby?”

  “She might be too old,” answered Paul. “Close to forty it’s harder.”

  While he spoke, Paul’s eyes widened as if in acute disbelief, like an innocent party arrested and tried on false evidence. He seemed to place Frances in the role of defending attorney, who needed to know the whole truth to obtain his acquittal.

  “She uses a timer. She makes me stay in for ten minutes. She lies on her back for an hour with her legs in the air.”

  Frances tried to recoil. She tried to display proper horror. Paul had betrayed her and every known code of morality. She must make a gesture that signified disapprobation. A woman deceived must take action or bear full complicity.

  “I’m a piece of salami,” said Paul. His pose was dejected. His shoulders were bent and he carried his hands as if shackled. Frances resisted an impulse to mop Paul’s poor forehead. The tables were turned, showing Paul more tormented than sinning: surely she was the victim and Paul was the double-dyed villain?

  “I did it for my art,” uttered Paul. “But I have to be punished.”

  “Straighten up,” ordered Frances. “You can’t let the play be a failure.”

  “Get me out of this, Frances,” said Paul. He looked at her sideways. From his glance she could tell he believed the rough weather was over. Frances, his Sancho, would follow him thro
ugh mud and quagmire while the villagers catcalled and pelted their backs with spoiled cabbages. She moved to the bureau. She turned and looked Paul in the eye.

  “You get out of it,” Frances instructed. “But you can’t live with me while you do it.”

  For the second time that night, drawers were emptied and suitcases filled. The belongings were Paul’s, though he borrowed the luggage from Frances. Like a faithful retainer, she saw to the folding and packing, stuffing tissue in the arms of his jackets and rolling his neckties. She remembered his bathrobe, his shaving equipment and nailbrush, and included a box of green gumdrops, his favorite candy. She had the impression of sending her firstborn to camp, and was tempted to tuck in a few stamped and self-addressed postcards. She picked up the suitcase and lugged it as far as the door. In fact, Paul resembled a child; he looked fretful and homesick. Frances opened the door, but he dawdled at the edge of the threshold.

  “She can’t cook,” he began. “She puts gingersnap crumbs in the pot roast. …”

  “Here is your key ring,” said Frances. “I’m keeping your house keys.”

  Frances took Paul by the elbow and led him outside. Before he could finish his speech, she ran back to the loft. She bolted the door, which was guaranteed fireproof and soundproof. Paul’s last words filtered through nonetheless: “She leaves hair in the bathtub.”

  Any heroine worthy of print is aware of her mission. She endures every trial with the knowledge that she has been chosen. In the eyes of the world she appears to be modest and wrenlike; in her own heart of hearts she is fitted with sword, shield, and armor. St. Catherine displaying the wheel that had broken her body was no prouder than Frances of the wrongs she had gallantly suffered. Saints die for God, whereas Frances was martyred for art. Like the saints, Frances never cried out or cast blame on her torturers. Far be it from her to entertain vengeance or spite, such as ordering a coffin and having it sent to Kip’s house, or lying in ambush for Paul as he left for the theatre, having coated the pavement with grease used to lubricate motors. She and Paul were both joined in a cause that was greater than either; she wished him the best and she hoped that his enterprise prospered. She kept her chin high as she walked through the hallways of Harwood, lit up from inside by her pain and her courage in stifling it. In the eyes of her colleagues she read new regard and approval. Her dignified carriage elicited interesting comments. Hammy Griner observed that she’d grown several inches in height; Ruthanne Marvin inquired whether Frances had need of a neck rub.

  For days, Frances lived in a state of exquisite transcendence, as if she had filled a prescription for strong analgesics. Like an engine in overdrive, Frances worked hard with no effort. She soothed ruffled authors; and accepted a prize for Gus Stafford, who signed the check over to an outfit called Pen Pals for Prisoners. When Adelaide Merlin came down with a case of pneumonia, Frances went by every evening to cook her a meal. Frances visited her aunt, who was caring for Lewis, the cat; and startled her badly by painting the porch and the lawn chairs. Ruthanne sprained her ankle and Frances took over the typing. “It’s my foot, not my wrist,” said Ruthanne. “Leave me something to do.” “It’s my pleasure,” said Frances, who also took over the filing. “You look sick,” said Ruthanne, “and you’re acting extremely peculiar.”

  Who can say where her zeal might have led her, unchecked by Paul Treat? She might have left Harwood and entered divinity school. It is likelier still that she might have developed a skin rash, an unexplained patch of eruptions related to nerves. Every impulse toward service is tainted by personal motives, and Frances’s spate of good works was both brief and impure. Her generous acts were intended to answer a question: How could Paul, how could he, forsake a fine person like her? As time passed, she grew wretched and glum and inclined to self-pity. Her devotion to others did not withstand Paul’s daily calls. These telephone calls were dramatic and often inaudible, since he spoke in a whisper or over the roar of the traffic. He was forced to sneak out to a telephone booth on the corner, or call from a room in Kip’s house when he thought she was sleeping. The audible part of Paul’s messages carried scant comfort; he seemed to believe Frances needed to share his experience.

  “I’m frightened,” Paul told her. “She says Mohawk Indians ate dogmeat.”

  “I don’t want to hear this,” said Frances.

  “It makes sperm swim faster.”

  “I’m going to hang up,” Frances warned.

  “That’s not all,” whispered Paul. “We have to breathe turpentine fumes and drink egg white and garlic.”

  “That’s it!” shouted Frances. “Don’t call me!”

  “I’m dying,” Paul answered.

  These short conversations, and others of similar kidney, gave Frances a fine sense of grievance and righteous resentment. Any court in the land would uphold her entitlement to outrage: Paul persisted in error without giving proof of contrition. The mantle of anger fit better than the trappings of sainthood, although Frances was frequently hobbled by pangs of compassion. In order to harden her heart, she wrapped anger around her and went forth like a pilgrim to canvass her friends and relations.

  Edie Childs was the first on her list: Edie hated Paul Treat. The feeling was mutual, but Paul’s grounds were purely aesthetic: “Your friend has no neck,” he declared, “not to mention fat ankles.” After one fatal dinner chez Childs, lit by stubs of red candles, which Paul had referred to out loud as “the dog dicks of Liège,” Frances and Edie had never exchanged social visits, preferring to meet at a restaurant for luncheon or coffee. Edie did charity work with disturbed adolescents, teaching them reading and writing and personal hygiene. She had taken a general course in abnormal psychology, and classified Paul as incipiently sociopathic. Frances confided in Edie at the Woman’s Guild tearoom, over cheese toasts with watercress salad and miniature cupcakes. Her tale aroused Edie’s attention as well as her appetite; she doubled her order of cheese toasts and added beet aspic. She ate the corn relish and finished the watermelon pickles, explaining that Paul lacked a conscience, like a child who is born mute or blind. As she warmed to her topic, she ate both their portions of cupcakes. She predicted the bleakest of futures unless Frances pulled up her socks. Drunkards or gamblers, she stated, would make better lovers than Paul. There were organizations that helped people deal with compulsions, but no social agency aided the morally void. By the end of their luncheon, Frances felt as grim as her future. “I’ve told you and told you,” said Edie, “and you know how I hate being right.”

  Next on her list Frances interviewed Gloria Cohen, who wrote funny novels that needed a minimum of editing. Gloria was brisk and reclusive. She lived by herself. “You’ll have to come here,” she announced. “I hate leaving the house.” Gloria went out once a year to her dentist and doctor. She arranged with the market to have all her groceries delivered. She collected the cookbooks of every state, region, and nation, but she hated to cook and ate foods that were frozen or canned. When her novels were published, she agreed to do readings in bookshops; she did not go to plays, and did not know Paul’s works or renown. Her apartment was furnished, but she slept, ate, and wrote in her bed. Her bed also served as an armchair when Frances came calling. She dressed in a nightshirt and wore woolen socks on her feet, which had poor circulation since Gloria used them so rarely. Frances admired her for paring her life to the bone, for needing so little from others and keeping her own counsel. Secluded or not, she was wise in the ways of the world; she gave the impression of having renounced a great love. Like most satirists, Gloria was kinder to persons than groups; people in herds were her target, not lone individuals. Frances never knew what to expect from disclosure to Gloria. Her reactions were bracing, original, and always impartial.

  Gloria got up out of bed during Frances’s recital. As she listened, she did a few knee bends and full Yogic neck rolls. She stretched toward the ceiling, bent over, and reached for her toes. She was limber and loose for a girl with an invalid’s habits, but she started to pan
t and her forehead was covered with moisture. Frances stopped talking. She felt she should make an apology.

  “Am I watching your regular workout or is it my story?”

  “I admit,” agreed Gloria, “it lacks soporific ingredients.”

  “Come back to bed,” pleaded Frances.

  “I’ll sit,” answered Gloria. “The last time I sat in this chair was in nineteen-aught-seventy.”

  “I’ll get you some water,” said Frances. “I’ll fluff up your pillows.”

  “Here’s my summation,” said Gloria. “You’re living vicariously.”

  Frances picked up a pillow and hugged it. She needed a buffer. Gloria’s cure might be harsher than Frances’s condition.

  “You’re in love with an artist,” said Gloria. “I have a pet theory. Women who hook up with artists have hidden agendas.”

  “I can take it,” said Frances. She drew up her knees and embraced them.

  “It’s easier,” said Gloria, “than being an artist themselves.”

  “I am not,” answered Frances. “I’d be one by now. I’m too old.”

  “I could give you examples,” said Gloria, “of famous late bloomers.”

  “I don’t have a talent,” said Frances.

  “Maybe not,” needled Gloria. “Take a lesson from Paul. He knows something about perseverance.”

  “I once kept a journal,” said Frances. “I’ve tried to reread it. I don’t like the person who wrote it. She didn’t like people.”