She looks at me in silence for a moment, and then says, “Before you came on the scene, Sara never expressed any desire to make love to anyone. She often talked about certain boys she wanted to kiss or even cuddle with. But when she met you, she started speaking to me about you immediately. She said she thought y0ll were wonderful, that she was in love with you and wanted to make love to you. I wasn’t sure exactly how I felt about you back then. You’re not exactly run of the mill. I thought you were rather strange, no offense, especially when you first came to my studio to pose. I saw blood in your mouth. It scared me a little. I thought perhaps you were a bit disturbed. I always wanted to ask you about that. How did your mouth get full of blood?”
“I was resting my tooth against the tip of my pen,” I explain, “and it slipped and stabbed my palate. The blood came out quickly, but I thought I was swallowing it fast enough for you not to notice.”
“Well, that’s a simple explanation, much less spooky than I feared. When I got to know you better, I realized that I had been right. You are not the run of the mill. But I also realized that you were better than the run of the mill, that you were gentle and kind, and that there was no one I would have preferred my daughter to fall in love with than you. Nevertheless, I thought that her interest might fade. To tell you the truth, I even hoped it would, because although it seemed perfectly clear to me that Sara should do whatever she felt like, there remained a part of me, from the old days, that thought that maybe I was still too young to understand why children shouldn’t have sex. Anyway, Sara’s interest in you certainly did not fade; it became a passion. By then I had gotten used to the idea that she had made up her mind to charm you. I started worrying about how disappointed she would be if you did not reciprocate her affection. I was virtually certain that you could never be interested in her because she was so young and because you were interested in me. I told her this many times. I didn’t want her to get her hopes up. I told her she should set her mind on someone her own age, but she wouldn’t give in. That’s when she came up with the idea of Disney World. It was her idea, and she spoke in such a rational, intelligent, and mature way that she convinced me to let her go with you.”
The more I listen to Lady Henrietta, the more I feel my guilt and tension leaving me.
“How old were you when you first wanted to have sex?” she asks me.
“About ten.”
“How old were you when you did?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Was the wait bothersome?”
“Yes.”
“Frustrating?”
“Yes.”
“To say the least?”
“Yes.”
“May I go so far as to say that it was a form of torture?”
“Yes.”
“Children should be educated, not kept in ignorance. The only danger for them is pregnancy and disease.”
“I don’t want to see or hear from Sara anymore,” I reply. “Tell her to stop calling me. You may not think that what happened was wrong, but I don’t want to live my life this way. I was hoping you’d put an end to it. In a way, you did. I can never again do what I did with Sara, knowing that you know about it.”
* * *
I feel much better, but I realize I do not like Lady Henrietta as much as before. As a result of having been traumatized, I crave normalcy now.
I go back to my apartment. Charlotte’s there.
“You called my mother,” I accuse her.
“You told me I could.”
“But you said you wouldn’t.”
“I changed my mind.”
“So did I,” I say. “I think we should not see each other for a while. I would like you to leave my apartment. I want to live alone again.”
“Oh.”
“I want you to be gone by tomorrow evening. I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.”
The next day I am in the supermarket, buying food. I’m at the lemon stand, looking at all the plump yellow lemons. Whenever I see lemons I get a strong feeling of identification, and now, as I gaze at a whole pile of them, I get a feeling of belonging, of acceptance. It’s only with lemons that I feel this way, because we share bitterness. A woman stands next to me and says, “You’re tall; could you please grab me a box of those garbage bags up there?”
“Do you want the tall kitchen garbage bags or the bigger kind?” I ask.
“The tall kitchen kind.”
I hand her the box.
“Thank you so much,” she says. “I’ll use these garbage bags tonight to teach my daughter how to throw things away. She’s eleven, and she never throws anything in the garbage. Yet she’s n0t dumb. She’s quite mature for her age, but of course not mature enough to go to bed with a man.”
The woman turns around and walks away. I stand there staring at her back. I have never seen her before.
When I get home, I ask Charlotte, “Have you been sending a friend of yours around to bug me?”
“No; why? Has someone bugged you?”
“A stranger came up to me and spoke to me about little girls and sex.”
“It’s your guilty conscience punishing you.”
That evening, Lady Henrietta calls and invites me to visit her the next evening. I hesitate.
“Why are you inviting me?” I ask.
“Because I want us to remain friends. I don’t want what happened to spoil our friendship. Laura will be there. I’m sure she’d love to see you.”
I am exasperated. Will this Laura thing never end?
“Laura and I don’t click,” I say. “She is the dullest person I’ve ever met.”
“You’re wrong. She’s just shy. Once you get to know her better, she becomes downright interesting. I promised her you’d come over again soon. See her at least once more, and then we’ll drop it.”
“Will Sara be there?”
“Yes.”
“Then I would rather not come.”
“I think you should see her. I think there are things she wants to tell you.”
“I’m sure.”
“It won’t kill you. See her at least once.”
It’s 10:00 p.m., and Charlotte is still in my apartment, reading peacefully in bed. I confront her.
“I asked you to be gone by this evening.”
“I don’t agree,” she says.
“We’re broken up now. We’re not boyfriend-girlfriend anymore.”
“I don’t agree that we broke up.”
I’m too tired to fight her. I’ll wait till she’s in a better mood. I sleep on the couch.
My mother calls me just as I’m falling asleep.
“Did you enjoy my lemon woman?” she asks.
“What are you talking about?”
“My supermarket lemon woman with the garbage bags?”
“You’re the one who sent that woman to talk to me?”
“Correction. I hired her.”
I feel relieved that I’m not going insane. But I don’t feel the anger she probably expects me to feel. I am indifferent and tired. “What do you want?” I ask.
“What I want is to know if you enjoyed my lemon woman.”
“No, but obviously you did.”
“You’re wrong, Jeremy. This is not a game I’m playing. I’m spending my life savings to hire people to punish you. This is the only way I can help you and save you. You need to be taught a good lesson.”
“Don’t waste your money on me.”
“Nevertheless, that is what I will do, which should prove to you how much I love you.”
“I appreciate the gesture, but really it’s not necessary.”
“I think it is.”
“Then do as you wish.”
The next day, as I’m walking home from work, a man bumps into me in the street. He turns around and says, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say.
He starts talking: “I always feel so bad when I bump into people, especially men, because I’m afraid they think it’s a threat, like in the
movies. Especially western movies, I think. I often see those movies with my stepdaughter. She’s twelve. So pretty and affectionate, but I could never be sexually attracted to a little girl. No normal man can.”
And he rushes off. I stop walking and stare at his figure as it disappears behind a corner.
When I open the door to my apartment, my phone is ringing. I pick up the receiver.
“Did you enjoy that one?” asks my mother.
“Clever. Do you write the scenarios?”
“Yes.”
And she starts criticizing me, telling me how horrible what I did in Disney World was, how could a child of hers do this, etc., etc. I say I know, it’s true, it was horrible, unforgivable, I am a monster, etc., etc. And I mean it. We hang up. I smell pee. I look around, but I don’t see anything. Then I see. I am sitting on it. Minou began her third heat by peeing on my couch. I spend the next hour trying to wash it out, first with hand soap, which doesn’t work, then with too much Woolite, which I can’t rinse out afterward. It’s slimy and keeps foaming up.
That evening, I go to Lady Henrietta’s place. Laura is not there yet, but Sara is. Her mother leaves us alone.
Sara speaks first: “I’m afraid that maybe I made a mistake.”
“I made a mistake too,” I say.
“No, you didn’t. I did. I put our friendship in danger. Our friendship means more to me than anything, and I would never have tried to... charm you if I thought it would ruin things.”
“I’m very sorry about what happened,” I tell her. “I’m a weak man, and what I did was very bad.”
“I’m not sorry. Being with you those times was wonderful.” I stare in silence. She continues: “I understand that you feel embarrassed with me now. I should have thought of that beforehand, but I didn’t. I know you can’t love me the way you would an older woman, so all I ask for is your friendship. We can forget about what happened, and I promise I won’t try to charm you anymore. I’ll just be very frank and very direct. There won’t be any more teasing or flirting. There won’t be anything that will make you uncomfortable. So will you still see me sometimes, when you come visit my mother?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you,” she says.
We then carry on a bit of small talk, and she leaves. Henrietta comes back, and Laura arrives. The moment I see Laura, I realize she is exactly who I need. The very traits in her that I had found unpleasant before, I now crave. Her sanity, her normalcy. I love every word she utters. I love it when she says, “How’ve you been, Jeremy? I haven’t seen you in a long time.”
“I’ve missed you,” I tell her, barely believing that I’m saying this. I glance at Henrietta to see if she heard me. She is staring at me with surprise. I won’t let it embarrass me.
Laura looks at me with surprise too, but mostly with pleasure.
“How have you been?” I ask her, as we go to sit on the couch.
“Fine, thank you.”
I ask her about her show and rack my brain to think of other things to say, but can’t come up with anything, and she can’t either, because we don’t have much in common. It’s wonderful to find someone to whom you have nothing to say. It’s so normal and sane. Much better than exchanging dozens of twisted little comments with Henrietta.
The next day I’m with Tommy (my crotch brooch friend) in a bookstore. We’re buying Cliffs Notes for him. An old woman with an umbrella walks toward us. We watch her coming, not really paying attention. She stops in front of us. She takes the handle of her closed umbrella in both hands and holds it in the air like a baseball bat. She swings her umbrella and gives me a tremendous blow on the hip.
“Ow!” I say, holding my hip.
Tommy steps back, expecting that he’ll be next, but the old woman pays no attention to him; all her interest is focused on me. She stares at me viciously and says, “You are an abomination to your family! You are a monster.”
A few people are looking as she walks away.
“Do you know her?” asks Tommy.
“Not really.”
“What do you mean, not really?”
“No—I mean no.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that you were an abomination to your family?”
“I don’t really have a family.”
“Except for your mother.”
“Yeah.”
“Poor Jeremy. Things like this only happen to you. She seemed to know something about you. Did you do anything very naughty that could cause such a venomous reaction?”
“I’ve never even seen her before. She’s insane.”
“You didn’t answer my question, so I must assume that you did do something very naughty.”
An hour later, I am back at my apartment, kneeling on the floor, scrubbing the newly pee-drenched couch, when the phone rings.
“What about that one?” says my mother’s voice, which has become nauseating to my ears.
“It hurt,” I answer. “Was the violence included in your scenario, or did your employee improvise?”
“Nothing is improvised.”
“What are you going to do next? Have one of your agents run me over with a car?”
“How dare you speak to me that way. How dare you even insinuate such a thing!”
She hangs up but calls me many more times, bugging me. I waste practically my whole evening talking on the phone with her. I finally warn her that I will change my number if she doesn’t stop phoning me.
Notice that I do not make a wish on my little white elephant for the agents to stop coming. Why? Because I know it’s pointless, gut then why am I so filled with hope when I make a wish for certain people to love me? And more important, why am I not repelled by the idea of making a certain person love me unnaturally, against her will, by using magic? Wouldn’t I prefer it if her love for me was genuine?
Charlotte is not moving out of my apartment. I keep asking her to, ordering her to, but she doesn’t do it. She refuses to acknowledge that we’re broken up.
I try to explain to her the concept of breaking up. “You don’t need two people to do it. In a couple, if only one of the people wants to be broken up, then the couple is broken up.”
“I don’t agree.”
“Anyway, I’m involved with someone else.”
“Is it a little boy this time?”
I’ve been thinking a lot about Laura. The thought of her normality soothes my mind. I often go to Lady Henrietta’s apartment to see Laura.
One day I invite her to have dinner with me at a nearby restaurant. As we walk there, a woman passing us bumps into me lightly. She turns around and says, “I’m sorry.”
“Leave me alone!” I growl.
She walks away, looking bewildered. Laura looks no less bewildered. “What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Oh nothing, I’m sorry; I made a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
I try to think of an explanation. “Oh, I don’t know. I was in a daze, and she caught me by surprise.”
Laura raises her eyebrows at my unconvincing explanation and stops questioning me.
At dinner, we talk of nothing interesting whatsoever, and I love it. I learn that she is one year younger than I am. I did think beforehand of a few things to ask her, so we could make a bit of conversation. I ask her how many students she has. She says ten. She also tells me that recently, to her disappointment, three children dropped out when their parents found out what it was, exactly, that they were paying for.
I tell her my childhood story of the little white elephant, thinking it might interest her since it has to do with magic. She thinks it’s sweet. But I don’t tell her that I still keep the elephant on my night table. We’re not close enough for that.
After dinner, as we walk in the street, an old man stops us and says, “Excuse me, but could you please tell me where Bloomingdale’s is?”
I stand there gritting my teeth, while Laura gives him directions. I look at him with tentative hatred, dying to tell him to fuck off but
knowing I can’t risk a second mistake in front of Laura. After giving him the directions, Laura tells him, “But Bloomingdale’s is closed right now.”
“Oh, I know,” he says. “I just want to make sure I know where it is, because I’m taking my granddaughter there tomorrow. She’s eleven, and I can’t let her go there alone, or some pervert might try to pick her up and have sex with her. Do you think I should let that happen?” he asks Laura.
“No,” she says, and starts pulling at my arm, to get us away.
I yield with great joy to her pull.
The man calls after us, “Wait a minute, mister, what about you? Do you think I should have sex with an eleven-year-old girl?”
I am perspiring as we walk away. The rest of the evening unfolds very pleasantly. We get heavily involved romantically that very night, because it feels too right to wait.
Back home, the ordeal begins again.
“What about that one?” my mother’s voice crackles.
I hang up. Ring. I pick up, hang up. Ring. Pick up, hang up. Ring.
Charlotte is obnoxiously serene, reading a book, paying no attention to the phone.
Notice that I do not make a wish on my white elephant for Laura to love me. This is because I feel she probably already does, and since this is the case, I would not want to think her love for me is caused by magic, that she’s under a spell. If, on the other hand, I did not sense that she already loved me, and I desperately wanted her to, I would not for one moment hesitate to use the white elephant, even though it never worked in the past when I tried it on certain people.
Ring. Pick up, hang up. Ring.
I escape outside, into the night, but I realize I can’t be alone, no matter where I go. Any of the people walking in the street, or shopping in a supermarket, or sitting in a movie theater, could be hired by my mother.
I must take control of my life. I go to a store, buy an avocado, walk to the park, and sit on a bench. I bite into the avocado, skin and all, and then I twirl the piece in my mouth, detach the skin from the flesh with my tongue, and spit out the skin. I once saw an Oriental woman eating a kiwi that way in the subway.
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