by Jane Juska
I am a club virgin. In my growing-up days my parents belonged to the country club so they could play golf, and sometimes they hauled me along, not to play golf, for heaven’s sake, but to . . . I don’t know. I suspect they wanted me to hang out by the pool where similarly clubbed kids gathered, but I never did, because I was ashamed of how I looked. I never wanted those kids to see me in a bathing suit, mine being the only one with a skirt designed to hide my beefy thighs, and abnormally wide shoulder straps to hold up my way-too-early breasts. So mostly I sat in the car with a book or drank a lot of Cokes in the 19th Hole until my parents came to drink their own drinks. So that doesn’t really count. My life after that never called for club-joining, since I never learned to play golf at all or tennis very well, and since I had no idea what else went on at clubs and no interest in finding out. In college I belonged to that sorority, which, if you want to get picky, could be called a club. At the end of my junior year, after the political science department at Michigan finished turning me into a socialist, I decided my sorority was something to be ashamed of, and I spent my senior year, not moving out, as I would have done had my principles been genuine, but staying on in my sorority house and making fun of it. Shame on me. And about to be deflowered at last, I had no idea what I was in for.
I scarcely notice the small man pacing the floor of the vast and marbled lobby. I should have worn a dress. But then there he is, here he comes, smiling warmly and, dare I say, wetly. “We meet at last,” he says, and I smile a smile that will occupy my entire face for the rest of the afternoon. Smiling is better than ogling this incredible building, this incredible dining room. Smiling is better than talking, which I seem to have forgotten how to do. No matter. Barrett talks. And I watch. He must be of Scottish ancestry. That would account for the redness of his face and hair, which, probably, there used to be a lot of. He talks and talks some more. I am a champion listener; I can appear to be listening when I’m not, and I’m not—in this incredible dining room that opens onto a library with books up and down the walls and comfortable chairs to read them in. MEMBERS ONLY, reads a small brass plate bolted onto one of the columns. Do they take women? I am assured they do. This is a totally classy place.
Barrett points out a few illustrious people who have come to lunch. And then my cell phone rings. It never rings, so I never think to turn it off, just leave it there at the bottom of my purse, which it seems I cannot get to, for the phone continues to ring. The headwaiter appears quickly, and before he can cut off my hand, I rise and follow him into the marble foyer, mumbling my apologies as I go. He consoles me politely in French.
Back at the table I order a cheeseburger with mayonnaise, take a look at Barrett’s face, and switch to crab cakes avec un sauvignon blanc, s’il vous plait. “You’re wearing your red jacket,” Barrett says. He is enamored of me because of my book. He has read it and fancies himself in love. Watch out. Apparently he skipped the part where I warned readers against falling in love with writers, where I argued that it is unfair to hold the person to the standards of her writing, that writers can revise themselves as people cannot, that the real person is sure to disappoint. However, from the look on his face he is not disappointed, not yet anyway. He says, “Have you noticed what I’m wearing?”
No, I had not, but I am touched when he explains. “I’m wearing all Brooks Brothers because you say in your book you like that kind of men’s clothing.” Indeed, he’s spanking new in a blue blazer with gold buttons, a rep tie and button-down shirt, gray trousers below. In his enthusiasm he is winning me over. Barrett is like the bright little boy eager to please the teacher, the kid whose hand is always up and who usually has the right answer, who can be an example to the class, a help to the teacher, and an utter distraction to everyone. By the end of the crab cakes, Barrett is endearing and exhausting. And I am flattered that such a fascinating man wishes me for a friend. On the street, Barrett puts me into the taxi and says, “I adore you.” Safe and alone in the backseat, I breathe a sigh of relief. Wonder of wonders, while I am close to cherishing his friendship, I do not want to sleep with this quite charming man. I am not a slut, after all. Instead, I am happy, because this very night I am going to cook for Graham.
And I do. I have borrowed a friend’s apartment, she having escaped to the country for the weekend. Barrett has taken up more time than I had expected, so I have not had a chance to grocery shop, or even to find a grocery store. In California greengrocers thrive on every corner, organic foods line the shelves of groceries large and small; farmers’ markets clog the streets; Whole Foods is everywhere, grains and fruits and berries spill from baskets, fresh fish and aged cheese and olives of every size, shape, and taste are to be had for the asking and a sizable amount of cash. Where the hell do New Yorkers buy their food? They don’t. Well, they do, but they buy it at the deli. Or they go out. Graham and I are going to stay in if I have anything to say about it. So . . .
I figure that at thirty-six Graham does not worry about (1) cholesterol, (2) hypertension, (3) arteriosclerosis, (4) gastric occlusions. So I buy meat and potatoes at the deli, likewise a salad, and—I should be ashamed—a little apple pie. Now, I happen to make the most sensational pies of anyone in this day and age still making pies. My crust is to die for, my filling to live for. My pies are auctioned off at charity affairs. Rich ladies pay me to bake pies and smuggle them into their kitchens during their dinner parties, where they will pass them off as their own. Unaware of my expertise, New York is not supporting my artistry: My friend’s kitchen is too small for a pastry board; neither does it hold a rolling pin, and the grocery stores must all be in Queens. So Graham will have to forgive me for going native. He does, even raving over the pie, though only out of ignorance of what a pie made by a true artist tastes like. Poor fellow.
We have a vertical evening, Graham and I. By the end of it I am close to screaming. Jesus, there he sits over there on the couch—How come the living room is so large?—not patting the cushion next to him but smiling over at me sitting stiffly in the chair. He is more wonderful than ever to look at—his eyelashes are longer, his nose slimmer, his lips plum-perfect—and to listen to: He is full of complaints about John Milton’s poetry; he brims with admiration for London’s Exposition of 1849; he is reverential toward Proust, nastily critical of Kafka, scornful of Hemingway, affectionate toward Turgenev. I feast on my young man. But I never get to dessert. Without ever mentioning his wife, he has made it clear that infidelity, at least on this night, is not on his menu. At the door he kisses me and says, “This evening was good for us; it proves we can transcend the carnal.” WHY? I want to scream.
Graham takes his leave, and I take a cold shower. It is time to get sensible, to stop this churning inside whenever I think of him. It is time to give up hope that this wonderful man and I will ever again share the horizontal. It is time for me to transcend the carnal. But I don’t: Alone in my lonely single bed I imagine that the next time will be different, I tell myself that he was tired after a long day’s work; I am utterly unconvincing. An evening with him and at the same time without him has taken its toll, and my tears drench my friend’s pillow and dampen the blanket United Airlines lends me on my return flight.
Barrett, not one to avoid the carnal, remains smitten and, after I return to Berkeley, writes an e-mail that, written by hand, would have set the stationery on fire. It makes me blush, his description of a position he learned in Nepal, in which I’m supposed to kneel with my legs parallel to his chest and then he can fondle—Well, I’m not doing that. First of all, I have glass knees, so the kneeling part is out because even on a soft mattress I can hear them crunch. Second, there I’d be fully frontally naked, no pillow, no nightie. Well, maybe if it were dark. Barrett assures me that I could then control when and how deeply he would enter me. He intends his description to arouse me, I suppose—at least to interest me. But it doesn’t. I don’t want to do it.
I write him my truth: “I live three thousand miles away and will not . . . cannot
begin another long-distance relationship. I am emotionally stretched to the limit and now am stuck with loving three men who are far, far away. None of them is you, and I will not risk another sadness. I like writing to you; I like reading what you write to me, but I must not add the other dimension which seems to be so important to you. I understand if you choose not to continue this correspondence.”
He chooses to continue. And on and on we go. His e-mails are frequent and ardent, full of advice about writing and publishing (sound), descriptions of his house in Paris (yum), compliments to me (I blush). He signs them “A kiss in the night . . .” and “Abrazos y bezos . . .” and “me soeur.” Jesus.
I don’t know why I don’t just tell him the truth, that I do not want to sleep with him. I should want to, I suppose. He’s certainly willing and appears able. Maybe it’s just chemistry. Maybe, just maybe, I’ve had enough sex. Maybe, after all this time, I’m calming down. Celibacy could be kind of restful if I could keep the memory of Graham at bay. In any case I sit atop the horns of a dilemma (a fun place to be sometimes): I do not want to make love with this man, but I do not want to lose his friendship. And here comes an e-mail inviting himself to California, to Big Sur, to a long, slow drive down the coast. This is not good.
Fortunately my book has created something of a stir in London, and my publisher flies me to the city that will give New York a run for its money in my affections. Barrett is in Paris. Shall I tell him my travel plans? If trouble does not find me, I tend to go looking for it. I fancy myself in control. I truly believe I can have exactly what I want: friendship sans sex. I am fooling myself, because Barrett plus me in London equals trouble; how else to read his e-mails but as invitations, increasingly impassioned, to make love. And well, okay, I am flattered. It’s nice that a rich and successful man seems to adore me. I like it. I don’t want it to end. I write to him the times and the places of my travel. “I shall be with you soon,” he breathes into my e-mail.
We have a wonderful time in London. The museums, the theatre—Barrett knows tons about everything, and as long as it’s daylight, I am as happy as I’ve ever been. We dine at his club, even grander than his club in New York! While Barrett goes into an antechamber where he will put on a tie beneath his jacket, I stroll to the small bar at the far end of the oak-paneled room—big, big room; very, very quiet. The man in a stiff white jacket behind the bar bows stiffly and says, “Good evening.” I nod and say, “Good evening.” Interrupting the silence that ensues, I say, “May I have a sauvignon blanc, please?” And he says, “Are you a member, madame?” and I say, “No, but I’m with a member who will be here shortly.” And he says, “Then we’ll just have to wait, won’t we.”
The food is good. We read all the newspapers in the world in the book-lined room, in chairs with footstools and little tables on which white-coated waiters set a little port or perhaps a flute of champagne. Nobody is smoking. How about that? And this is London, too, where Californians go to smoke. Barrett and I, having years before transcended the need for tobacco, are off to the theatre. It is Stoppard, his Jumpers. On our walk to the theatre, across Waterloo Bridge (my second favorite movie—though I recommend the 1931 original with Mae Clarke), I can see how Vivien Leigh (in the 1940 remake) would have been able to jump from it had not Robert Taylor stopped her. The lights from all the other bridges brighten the sky and my mood, and Barrett says, “I want to give you a present. I adore you.” Now look, I want to tell him, I am seventy years old and far from adorable. But I don’t because he is indeed smitten, and I must admit that his mind is so quick and so filled with information and learning and wit that I lose about ten years and talk right back at him. “You can buy me a house,” I say. My goodness, what hemming and hawing, and finally, “It’s a bit beyond my capacity at the moment,” he says. Drat.
At intermission I tell him, “I love Stoppard but not Jumpers.”
“How can you not love a play about logical positivism?” he asks.
“Logical positivism does not a play make. He should’ve just written a book.”
“It’s a play about something,” he says, “which is more than you can say about most contemporary theatre.”
I agree. “However, would you agree that Jumpers is not Stoppard’s best.”
“It’s an early play, 1972.”
“So we agree.”
“Of course we do; I want to make love to you. I want to give you a night you’ll never forget.”
“No,” I say, “you want to give yourself a night you’ll never forget.”
“That, too.”
If I didn’t want to sleep with him, why did I agree to stay with him at his club? Well, one good reason is that I am off my publisher’s grid. That is, my publicity duties are over and done with, and I am my own financial advisor and, as such, I tell myself I can’t afford London hotel prices, which is true. So what is a fully adult woman to do? Go home. Had I been then—or ever—fully adult, that’s what I would have done. Instead I accepted Barrett’s offer, and now it’s time for him to collect. The play is over, nobody in it ends up happy, and there is only one thing left for me to do: get drunk.
For the first time in my life the word “nightcap” does not sound dated, like something out of Noël Coward; for the first time it is useful, as in when I say, “Shall we stop somewhere for a nightcap?” We do, and now that I’m used to the word, I say, as we draw nearer his club, “How about a little nightcap?” There we are at his club, the stiff-coated man still behind the bar and, “Why not a nightcap?” And another. With each succeeding nightcap, I get soberer. Instead of the interior dullness I’d hoped for, instead of unconsciousness, I am alert, steady on my feet. Hell, I could drive. And up we go to Barrett’s room.
Inside the room, Barrett in silk dressing gown, me still fully clothed, I think, Why not? Sleeping with me can’t be that big a deal. Why am I fussing as if it is? I do my lightning-flash disrobing, slide beneath the covers, and here he comes on top of me. Jesus, I hate this, and after a decent interval I claim orgasm, and soon after, thank god, so does he. “My favorite time to make love,” he murmurs into my hair, “is in the morning.” Jesus Christ, he’s going to want to do it again.
In the morning I moan and groan over the hangover I do not have. Barrett isn’t feeling tip-top himself so I am spared. He says, “You like my body, I like your body, so we’ll do this again.”
At last my dilemma is over. No, we will not do this. I feel like shit. We say good-bye; Barrett goes back to Paris and I go home to California. Barrett writes and I don’t write back. Soon all is silence.
I stayed too long at the fair, didn’t I.
FROM THE SAFETY of my desk I write to my friend Lisle: “Did you ever sleep with someone you didn’t want to sleep with?” She answers immediately, “Yes, my husband. For ten years. Any cock in a storm.”
Men are probably different, so I write to Graham the same question. He replies, “Yes, once. She wanted it so badly.”
I ask John. His reply: “I never didn’t want to.”
I tell all this to my friend Jenny, who has just turned forty and so must be smarter than I in matters of this sort. I explain that I felt I had to. She answers quickly: “No, you didn’t. You did not have to do that.” It is not a reprimand, she does not explain, but I feel she is right. Yet I am a part of my history, part of the books I have read, books in which women marry out of the need for economic survival, and submit to the desires of their husbands in payment for social acceptance and financial security. A woman alone lived in great danger. Jane Austen’s Elizabeth and Darcy, two fine and beautiful people united in love at last, are fantasy; more real is Charlotte, Elizabeth’s best friend, “who accepted [the ridiculous Mr. Collins] solely from the pure and disinterested desire of an establishment . . .” And even Elizabeth’s mother is more real, addled as who wouldn’t be, giving birth to five daughters, one after another, in short order, by way of a husband who ridicules her for the silly woman she has become?
Edith Whart
on, in her novels of New York, showed us what happens to women who do not have the sense to marry and stay married, who are foolish and independent and prideful: They die as does Henry James’s Daisy Miller, Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, and Flaubert’s Emma Bovary. Of all these writers only Mrs. Wharton uses the word “money,” and frequently, too. Behind Tolstoy’s Anna and her icy-cold count of a husband, behind Eliot’s Dorothea and the dreadful Casaubon in Middlemarch, and behind the beauteous Gwendolen and the sadistic and ironically named Grandcourt in Daniel Deronda is the matter of money. By the turn of the century, when Wharton, clear-eyed and imperious, writes about American society, she puts money where it really is: up front. Young women of social position are for sale and so are bought by men unworthy of them, men who by virtue of marriage exercise conjugal rights regardless of the feelings of their wives.
But then comes Ibsen, who, with the exception of Hedda Gabler, keeps his women alive. His heroine Nora leaves her husband and family, casts aside the safety net of her marriage, gathers up her pride and honor and goes . . . where? Ibsen doesn’t tell us, but wherever it is, Nora is not going to have it easy. Look at the benighted Mrs. Linde, an old friend of Nora’s: Husbandless, bedraggled, and poor, she serves as a warning to women everywhere.
Yet come on, Jane, you cannot blame history—growing up in the forties and fifties. Well, maybe a little. We weren’t called the Silent Generation for nothing. And you can’t blame your lifelong absorption in nineteenth-century literature. Well, maybe a little. Look at what literature did to Emma Bovary. And you can’t blame your mother, who did her best to bring you up a lady, who wanted you to marry someone who would give you the life she had led you to expect. “What if I married a Negro?” I asked my mother one day when she was showing me how to miter the corners of sheets. “Marriage is difficult enough without the added problems a marriage of that sort would bring with it.” Made sense to me.