Lion's Share

by Rochelle Rattner

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Various Portraits of Women

  “YOUR EMOTIONS are strong and sensitive,” the fortune cookie prophesied. Jana stared at Marilyn sitting across from her. Marilyn’s Indian cotton blouse was cut low—you could see the top of her large breasts over the neck and the outline of her bra beneath the thin fabric. And here I am, prim in my Ship and Shore shirt, as if I’m trying to repress those strong emotions, Jana thought. She ought to take lessons from her outgoing if somewhat disheveled friend. Marilyn looked comfortable and relaxed, no matter what she was wearing; that was one of the things which had attracted Jana to her in the beginning.

  Reading the fortune aloud, Jana savored the sweet, broken pieces. “See that,” she said. “The baker had foresight to know I’m seeing Ed tomorrow night.”

  “I thought you came to town because of the DCA commission,” Marilyn chided her. The Department of Cultural Affairs was sponsoring an open competition for art in the subways, and Jana was one of the five finalists for the Lex and 86th Street station. If she got the commission, she’d work with a foundry, producing metal cutout figures, sculptures with a painting’s one-dimensional surface. Those long underground tunnels would provide the perfect backdrop for her streetwise figures—it was precisely the filthy, changing environment she’d give anything to capture on canvas. The program coordinator called last week, telling her she was a finalist and asking for slides of recent work. As luck would have it, one of the guys she’d gotten friendly with this summer, a photographer, was willing to take the slides for her. The paint wasn’t even dry yet when he’d photographed one. She got the slides developed, labeled them, and brought them into town just ahead of the August 27 deadline.

  “You know me,” Jana said. “Dropping off those slides will be the easy part.”

  “I used to know you pretty well. Lately, I’m not so sure. I’ve been trying for weeks to get you to talk about Ed, and you’ve carefully sidestepped the issue. Now you stand a good chance of getting your work in the subways, and all you talk about is Ed.” Marilyn focused her dark brown eyes intently, as if taking a closer look. “Don’t forget, this subway commission might come at just the right time to convince Nancy Hoffman to give you a show.”

  “I wish to hell I could forget,” Jana remarked in her obsessive, humorless tone. “It would be much easier if nothing else were riding on the commission.” She was coming close to succeeding as an artist: she’d had one-woman shows in major galleries in Philadelphia, Buffalo, Albany, Los Angeles, San Francisco, New Haven; she’d shown in small, out-of-the-way galleries in New York City. Nancy Hoffman had included her in four group shows over the past six years and had several of Jana’s paintings in the back room, but sold an average of less than two paintings per year. Reviewing those sales figures, Nancy had told her the work “wasn’t quite ready for a show yet.” There had been interest in the other paintings, but art buyers, particularly those who could afford Nancy’s prices, made their purchases following reviews and other signs that a new artist was becoming a solid investment. Gut feelings counted, reviews tipped the balance. If her work were installed in the subway station, if Jana could get enough publicity …

  “I’m nervous about that commission, I guess,” she continued. “Thinking about Ed helps take my mind off it. It’s depressing, though. Suddenly I’m starting to find fault with him again: he’s educated, corporate, polished. He wanted to be a jazz pianist as a kid, and I’m unreasonably annoyed that he didn’t stick to it.”

  “That’s part of the sexual game,” Marilyn laughed. “Haven’t you ever seen cats mating? They practically claw each other to death before they finally get together. Humans might be more subtle, but when they’re on the verge of something happening, it’s typical for people to start putting each other down. You should have heard me when I first met Andy. I was complaining to everyone about how he was a disgustingly macho common laborer. I told myself this was going to be a one-night stand, it could never lead anywhere. Protection, you might call it, covering your losses in case it doesn’t work out. I’m certain Andy was doing the same thing with me.”

  “But I have no way of knowing what Ed’s doing or what he thinks of me. I’m not even sure what I think of him. I was probably using the fact that he’s a capable executive, a master of the Dentyne smile, as an excuse for flirting with him. That’s what upsets me most.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with flirting.”

  “There is if you have no intention of following through with it.”

  “But you didn’t know that when you started flirting. You don’t even know that now.”

  I wasn’t flirting with that doctor at camp, yet look what happened, Jana thought. If she was unable to tell Marilyn about that experience, how could she tell Ed? She used her napkin to wipe the perspiration off her forehead. “I don’t know what I’m worrying about,” she said finally. “The last time we actually planned to get together we were both too tense to let anything happen. I probably am frigid.”

  “Actually, now that I’ve thought about it, I’m not convinced you’d be frigid,” Marilyn said. “A lot of people who’ve single-mindedly closed themselves off to men the way you have would probably have frozen when Ed first touched them. It might not mean anything once you two get together.”

  “It matters now, though. If I don’t get past it, there’s no way Ed and I will ever, as you put it, ‘get together.’”

  “Why don’t you focus on Ed instead of yourself? Pretend you’re talking to a buyer at The Paperworks Space—whenever you talk to people there you’re extremely perceptive about anticipating the buyer’s reactions. I told you before that if you let Ed in on your hangups it would give him the chance to help you through them, but that’s a two-way street—you have to be there supporting him as well.”

  Jana stared idly around the restaurant. Marilyn was probably right, and that only made her more tense about seeing Ed. Her eyes came to rest on a young woman across the room who shared the table with a four- or five-year-old boy. She wore heavy eyeshadow, matching the blue in her sundress, and a string of fake pearls. Her toenails were painted bright red, glaring out through sandals the same shade of red. Her right hand was folded across her left, so Jana couldn’t tell for sure, but she seriously doubted the woman wore a wedding ring.

  Jana couldn’t take her eyes off this woman whose femininity made her ugly. The past few weeks, certain things about being a woman were starting to appeal to her—she’d even caught herself standing before the mirror playing dress-up. If she gave in to her feminine impulses with Ed tomorrow night, is that what she’d look like? The thought haunted her.

  While Jana watched, the woman put on a dark, dull shade of lipstick. She stood up, arranged her skirt, and headed for the door. The little boy had managed to kick his shoes off.

  Ed kicked her shoes off, but that was much later. The evening began with a hug no different from other hugs: a simple, friendly greeting Ed might give any woman entering his apartment. Jana pressed her body against him—his chest was strong and firm, bending where she pressed, becoming an extension of herself. After the day’s events, she needed all the strength she could muster. The thought of seeing Ed was the only thing that had gotten her through the past four hours.

  “How are you doing?” he asked finally, softly.

  “Better now,” she sighed. She pulled away from him, but not very far away. “I found out that Francis Harriman is one of the DCA jurors. He’s going to make sure I don’t get that subway commission.”

  “Why would he do that? Why would anyone …”

  “I took watercolor and acrylic classes with Harriman at The New School when I first moved to the city. I worked with him for three years and learned an enormous amount—to this day I see the human figure as if through his eyes—but it isn’t in me to be a disciple. He wanted students who would follow his methods exactly. He started with watercolor, moved on to oil, and later learned to appreciate the effects of both mediums. He kept hammeri
ng at me that I’d never gain complete mastery over my lines, never capture a model’s bone structure, until I could work with oil, and at the time I wasn’t prepared for that messy involvement with materials.” Just talking about it, the image of Harriman’s bald head bobbing between the easels in that classroom haunted her. He was a small man but had, as if to compensate, a bellowing voice. When he attacked a student, everyone in the room couldn’t help but turn away in embarrassment, and he’d stood beside her, class after class that last term, berating her every stroke. “I dropped the class mid-semester, and he’s hated me ever since,” Jana continued. “My progression hasn’t been under his tutelage, so he’s refused to acknowledge it. Even if the other judges like my work, he’ll sway them against giving me that commission. I’ve come so close, and now it’s all going to fall through.” She leaned against Ed again for reassurance.

  “He probably doesn’t even remember you.” Ed kissed her ear.

  “Oh, he remembers me—when I’ve run into him at parties, he hasn’t even given me the time of day.”

  “You’re not easy to forget—you’re one of the most capable people I’ve ever met, and I’ve met several dynamic business people.” Pressing her so closely he could feel her heart beat, he searched within for an experience that would help him identify with Jana’s emotional state—all he came up with was not being accepted by Music and Art High School. But no matter how crushing that rejection had seemed, it had forced him to look closely at himself and realize he’d probably never have the spontaneity a jazz musician needed. Stuyvesant made him buckle down and channel his energy; in the end it had been much better preparation for the corporate world.

  “We’re putting the finishing touches on the exhibition,” he told Jana in a conciliatory tone. “A year from now your name will be on display all over the city.”

  “My name as a curator,” Jana wanted to scream. Couldn’t Ed see that wasn’t what she wanted? No, she didn’t want Ed to see. She didn’t want Associated Power and Light to see her lose her cool. She’d worked hard to be seen as the capable administrator. One evening, a few weak hours, and she could lose it all.

  Slowly, walking backward, Ed led her to the huge recliner in the living room. Jana pushed him to move faster. She didn’t want to be an administrator, at the moment she didn’t even want to be an artist, she only wanted to press against Ed’s sturdy, warm body. No, she was not some woman with dyed red hair sitting at a cafe putting on lipstick—she didn’t care what she looked like so long as Ed held her. Neither of them gave a second thought to dinner.

  “You realize I’m terrified, don’t you?” Jana asked in a voice that sounded, even to her, like a ten-year-old’s.

  “I know that,” he whispered. There was a harsh edge to his comment, that same gentle impatience she had detected in his voice the day he was on the phone with Kathe. He’s probably telling himself my fears are irrational, Jana realized.

  How much did Ed know? In that nightmare she couldn’t get out of her mind, the guy in the car recoiled in horror when he realized she was a virgin. The last thing she wanted was for Ed to recoil like that. Marilyn had commented that Ed might be frightened also. If she could get him to admit he was afraid, maybe she could overcome her own fears. “Does sleeping with a virgin frighten you?” she asked, quietly enough that, she hoped, Ed wouldn’t hear the word unless he was ready to.

  Ed heard. But he’d been waiting since April and could wait a little longer. “I’m not scared,” he said, “but I am afraid of hurting you.” He also said he obviously loved her right now, but he wasn’t going to say how he’d feel later because that would only hurt her. He managed, like a high school boy, to work his hands under her blouse. He kicked her shoes off.

  “Did anybody ever tell you what a wonderful body you have?” he asked. A wonderful body, yes, but at the moment she was stiffer than those metal cutouts in the subway station would be. He groped for something that would loosen her up. “Too bad you have no mind,” he teased, playfully kissing the side of her head.

  Jana tensed and drew back. Was this the same man who, not more than fifteen minutes ago, had called her “one of the most capable women I’ve ever met?” Even in her somewhat frazzled state, she knew he had to be kidding. Relaxing ever so slightly, she broke into a smile. “I can’t believe you said that,” she mumbled, burying her head in his chest. “I used to think all I had going for me was my mind. A year or two ago I would have killed you for saying that.” Tonight she didn’t want to be seen as “smart” any more than she wanted to be seen as an artist or a curator. It felt good to be told she had a wonderful body, even if she didn’t believe it for a second.

  “You’ve got everything going for you,” Ed whispered in her ear while she hugged him tighter. She recalled that other night, right before she left town, and how awkward Ed’s body felt. But tonight hugging it, winding herself around it, seemed the most natural thing in the world. She never realized her own body could be folded so small.

  “Want to spend the night with me?” Ed asked. Jana didn’t answer, and Ed interpreted her silence to signify reluctance. “Tonight’s probably not the best time for either of us,” he continued, not letting go of her. “It sounds like today wore you out, and you have to get back to Yaddo early tomorrow morning.” The exhibition wasn’t opening until May, and they’d have to work closely together over the next nine months, regardless of what happened in their personal lives. “I don’t want to push you,” he continued. “The longer I know you, the more I want our relationship to be more than a one-night stand. But that only works if both people enjoy being together.” He’d heard theories that some women don’t enjoy sex because they’re not introduced properly. Jana deserved better. In the meantime she was willing to fondle him, and he found her touch not only innocent but delightful.

  “Comfortable?” he asked.

  “Mmm.” Last night she’d fantasized Ed asking her to spend the night: she would tell him she was terrified and he would be shocked because she seemed strong and confident; she would ask if he minded if they spent the night cuddling and of course he wouldn’t mind and he would hold her in his arms all night and it would be wonderful. But the reality was even better than she’d imagined.

  “Promise me you’ll spend the night here one of these nights, soon. Even if we just lie next to each other with all our clothes on, I want to spend a full night holding you,” Ed said. He’d learned years ago that there was more to making love than fucking. At least for him there was.

  Promises, hollow promises, Jana thought. That doctor at camp had promised that if she stayed at the infirmary one more night, he’d drive into town and get a pizza better than the one they served in the dining room. And she’d stayed, except for some reason he couldn’t leave the camp that night. Tonight’s different, she told herself, Ed’s different. Ed would be the sort of man who kept his promises.

  “Call me,” she said when Ed walked her out to get a cab at three AM. He hugged her one final time, but didn’t say he’d call.

  “Well, look at you. You’re a painter now. Your mother always used to tell me how much she wished you’d become a teacher or a social worker; she didn’t think you could succeed as a painter. You certainly proved her wrong,” said a trouble-making aunt who’d cornered Jana after her grandmother’s funeral eight years ago.

  “My mother never said that,” Jana responded.

  “Of course she said that, dear. Your mother might not have told you, but she worried all the time.”

  “My mother always knew I could do or be anything I wanted. She might not have wanted me to become a painter, but she never doubted I could succeed at it.” Jana walked away under the pretense of getting more wine.

  “Well, I think it was your mother said that. Maybe it was someone else,” her aunt continued, talking to no one.

  The bus must have hit a pothole. Jana woke with a start, her aunt’s words making her head swim. She remembered Natalie saying, years ago, in one of those rare moments of i
nsight, that sometimes she felt as if her looks were all she had going for her. “My parents decided early on that I was the pretty one,” Nat said. “My sister was the smart one. I think we’ve both suffered—my sister was twenty-five before she had the courage to wear sexy clothes and jewelry, and look at everything I have to overcome before I buckle down and paint. Parents have no idea what they’re doing to kids when they say such things.”

  Was it possible? Jana’s parents had always encouraged her—they tacked her paintings on walls, gave her private art lessons, bragged to their friends about how creative she was. Yet she had no memory of them telling her she was pretty. They commented that she looked nice in one dress another aunt had bought her, a red Scottish plaid with false suspenders and a high collar; Jana could distinctly remember never wanting to wear that dress again. And her mother constantly complained that Jana didn’t know how to smile. Or was it that she never smiled? Maybe it was her mother who didn’t know how smile and, then, projected her insecurities onto her daughter; she’d done that with cooking, clothes, makeup …

  “You have a wonderful body,” Ed cooed in her ear. In vain she searched the half-empty bus for a way to discredit his words. She hadn’t stood on her head and done tricks last night, she hadn’t tried to manipulate Ed into praising her. Here was someone actually telling her how good she was for practically no reason at all, merely for doing what she realized for the first time must have come naturally.