Their physical habits appalled her. Even after bathing they had a strong masculine odor, something deep and musky. They chewed cigars, sniggered over dirty pictures, smacked their lips. When they ate, drank, or fucked something pleasurable. They broke wind and laughed. Her father had.
She did not hate men. Oh no. But she saw clearly what they were and what they wanted. Every man she had ever known had acted as if he would live forever. They were without humility. They were so sure, so sure. Their confidence stifled her.
Worst of all was their hearty bluffness: voice too loud, smile too broad, manner too open. Even the sly, devious ones adopted this guise to prove their masculinity. Maleness was a role, and the most successful men were the most accomplished players.
She picked the wedding invitation from the floor and set it aside. She might send a gift and she might not. She would think about it. Would a gift shame Kenneth, make him realize the spitefulness of what he had done? Or would a gift confirm what he undoubtedly believed, that she was a silly, brainless, shallow woman who still loved him?
She undressed slowly. She showered, not looking at herself in the medicine cabinet mirror. She pulled on her old flannel robe, slipped her feet into tattered mules.
It was still early, barely ten o’clock, and there were things she could do: write checks for her bills, listen to WQXR or watch Channel 13, read a book.
She did none of these things. She took the Swiss Army knife from her purse. She had already washed it in hot water, dried it carefully. She had inspected it, then oiled the blades lightly.
Now she took the knife into the kitchen. She opened the largest blade. Her electric can opener had a knife sharpening attachment. She put a razor edge on the big blade, touching it to the whirling stone lightly, taking care to sharpen both sides of the steel.
To test its keenness, she took the knife into the bedroom, and with short, violent slashes, cut the wedding announcement of Evelyn Jane Clark and Kenneth Garvin Kohler into thin slivers.
On Saturday, April 26th, at about 6:00 P.M., Zoe Kohler left her apartment house and walked east to Second Avenue. She was carrying a bakery box containing four tarts, two strawberry and two apple, she had purchased that afternoon and kept fresh in her refrigerator.
It was a balmy spring evening, sky clear, the air a kiss. Her depression of the previous week had drifted away with a breeze flowing from the south, bringing a scent of growing things and a resurgence of hope. The setting sun cast a warm and mellow light, softening the harsh angles of the city.
She took a downtown bus, got off at 23rd Street, and walked down to Ernest Mittle’s apartment on East 20th Street. As always, she was bemused by the infinite variety of New York, the unexpected appearance of a Gothic church, Victorian townhouse, or a steel-and-glass skyscraper.
He lived in a five-story converted brownstone. It seemed to be a well-maintained building, the little front yard planted with ivy, the cast-iron fence freshly painted. Most of the windowsills displayed boxes of red geraniums. The brass mailboxes and bell register in the tiny vestibule were highly polished.
Mittle was listed in Apartment 3-B, and he buzzed the lock a few seconds after Zoe rang his bell. She climbed stairs padded with earth-colored carpeting. The walls were covered with flowered paper in a rather garish pattern. But they were cheerful and unmarked by graffiti.
Ernest was standing outside his open door, grinning a welcome. He leaned forward eagerly to kiss her cheek and ushered her proudly into his apartment. The first thing she saw was a vase of fresh gladiolus. She thought he had bought the flowers because of her, to mark her visit as an occasion. She was touched.
They looked at each other and burst out laughing. They had agreed on the phone not to dress up for this dinner. Zoe was wearing a gray flannel skirt, dark brown turtleneck sweater, and moccasins. Ernest was wearing gray flannel slacks, a dark brown turtleneck sweater, and moccasins.
“His-and-hers!” she said.
“Unisex!” he said.
“Here’s our dessert,” she said, proffering the bakery box. “Guaranteed no-cal.”
“I’ll bet,” he scoffed. “Zoe, come sit over here. It’s the most comfortable chair in the place—which isn’t saying much. I thought that, for a change, we might have a daiquiri to start. Is that all right?”
“Marvelous,” she said. “I haven’t had one in years. I wish I knew how to make them.”
“So do I,” he said, laughing. “I bought these ready-mixed. But I tried a sip while I was cooking, and I thought it was good. You tell me what you think.”
While he busied himself in the tiny kitchenette, Zoe lighted a cigarette and looked around the studio apartment. It was a single rectangular room, but large and of good proportions, with a high ceiling. It was a front apartment with two tall windows overlooking 20th Street.
The bathroom was next to the kitchenette, which was really no more than an alcove with small stove, refrigerator, sink, and a few cabinets. A wooden kitchen table was in the main room. It bore two plastic placemats and settings of melamine plates and stainless steel cutlery.
There were two armchairs, a convertible sofa, cocktail table. There was no overhead lighting fixture, just two floor lamps and two table lamps, one on a small maple desk. Television set. Radio. A filled bookcase.
Ceiling and walls were painted a flat white. There were two framed reproductions: Van Gogh’s Bedroom at Aries and Winslow Homer’s Gulf Stream. On the desk were several framed photographs. The sofa and armchairs were covered with a brown batik print and the same fabric was used for the drapes.
What Zoe Kohler liked best about this little apartment was its clean tidiness. She did not think Ernest had rushed about, transforming it for her visit. It would always look like this: books neatly aligned on their shelves, sofa cover pulled taut, desk and lamps dusted—everything orderly. Almost precise.
Ernest brought the daiquiris in on-the-rocks glasses. He sat in the other armchair, pulling it around so that he faced her. He waited anxiously as she sipped her drink.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Mmm,” she said. “Just right. Ernie, have you been taking your vitamins?”
“Oh yes. Regularly. I don’t know whether it’s the placebo effect or what, but I really do feel better.”
She nodded, and they sat a moment in silence, looking at each other. Finally:
“I didn’t get any nibbles or anything like that,” he said nervously. “I was going to have hamburgers and baked potatoes—remember?—but I decided on a meal my mother used to make that I loved: meatloaf with mashed potatoes and peas. And I bought a jar of spaghetti sauce you put on the meat and potatoes. It’s really very good—if everything turns out right. Anyway, that’s why I didn’t get any nibbles; I figured we’d have enough food, and cheese and olives and things like that would spoil our appetites. My God,” he said, trying to laugh, “I’m chattering along like a maniac. I just want everything to be all right.”
“It will be,” she assured him. “I love meatloaf. Does it have chopped onions in it?”
“Yes, and garlic-flavored bread crumbs.”
“That’s the way my mother used to make it. Ernie, can I help with anything?”
“Oh no,” he said. “You just sit there and enjoy your drink. I figure we’ll eat in about half-an-hour. That’ll give us time for another daiquiri.”
He went back to his cooking. Zoe rose and, carrying her drink, wandered about the apartment. She looked at the framed reproductions on the walls, inspected his books—mostly paperback biographies and histories—and examined the framed photographs on the desk.
“Your family?” she called.
“What?” he said, leaning out of the kitchenette. “Oh yes. My mother and father and three brothers and two sisters and some of their children.”
“A big family.”
“Sure is. My father died two years ago, but Mother is still living. All my brothers and sisters are living and married. I now have five nephews and three nieces. H
ow about that!”
She went over to the kitchenette and leaned against the wall, watching him work. He did things with brief, nimble movements: stirring the sauce, swirling the peas, opening the oven door to peer at the meatloaf. He seemed at home in the kitchen. Kenneth, she recalled, couldn’t even boil water—or boasted he couldn’t.
“One more,” Ernest said, pouring a fresh daiquiri into her glass and adding to his. “Then we’ll be about ready to eat. I have a bottle of burgundy, but I’m chilling it. I don’t like warm wine, do you?”
“I like it chilled,” she said.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters, Zoe?” he asked casually.
“No,” she said, “I’m an only child.”
She watched him mash and then whisk the potatoes with butter and a little milk, salt, pepper.
“You said you can’t cook,” she commented. “I think you’re a very good cook.”
“Well … I get by. I’ve lived alone a long time now, and I had to learn if I didn’t want to live on just bologna sandwiches. But it’s not much fun cooking for one.”
“No,” she said, “it isn’t.”
It turned out to be a fine meal. She kept telling him so, and he kept insisting she was just being polite. But he was convinced when she took seconds on everything and ate almost half of the small loaf of French bread. And also did her share in finishing the bottle of burgundy.
“That was a marvelous dinner, Ernie,” she said, sitting back. “I really enjoyed it.”
“I did, too,” he said, with his elfin grin. “A little more pepper in the meatloaf would have helped. Coffee and dessert now or later?”
“Later,” she said promptly. “Much later. I ate like a pig. Can I help clean up?”
“Oh no,” he said. “I’m not going to do a thing. Just leave everything right where it is. Let’s relax.”
They sat at the littered table, lighted cigarettes. Ernie brought out a pint bottle of California brandy and apologized because he had no snifters. So they sipped the brandy from cocktail glasses, and it tasted just as good.
She said, “It must be nice to grow up in a big family.”
“Well …” He hesitated, touching the end of his cigarette in the ashtray. “There are some good things about it and some not so good. One of the things I hated was the lack of privacy. I mean, there was just no space you could call your own—not even a dresser drawer.”
“I had my own bedroom,” she said slowly.
“That would have been paradise. I shared a bedroom with one of my brothers until I went away to college. And then I had three roommates. It wasn’t until I graduated and came to New York that I had a place of my own. What luxury! It really was a treat for me.”
“Do you still feel that way?”
“Most of the time. Everyone gets lonely occasionally, I guess. I remember that even when I was living at home with my brothers and sisters, sometimes I’d be lonely. In that crowd! Of course, all my brothers were bigger. I was the runt of the litter. They played football and basketball. I was nowhere as an athlete, so we didn’t have a lot in common.”
“What about your sisters?” Zoe asked. “I always wished I had a sister. Did you have a favorite?”
“Oh yes,” he said, smiling. “Marcia, the youngest. The baby of the family. We had a lot in common. We used to walk out of town, sit in a field and read poetry to each other. Do you know what Marcia wanted to do? She wanted to be a harpist! Isn’t that odd? But of course there was no one in Trempealeau to teach her to play the harp, and my folks couldn’t afford to send her somewhere else to school.”
“So she never learned?”
“No,” he said shortly, pouring them more brandy, “she never did. She’s married now and lives in Milwaukee. Her husband is in the insurance business. She says she’s happy.”
“I suppose we all have dreams,” Zoe Kohler said. “Then we grow up and realize how impossible they were.”
“What did you dream, Zoe?”
“Nothing special. I was very vague about it. I thought I might teach for a few years. But I guess I’d thought I’d just get married and have a family. That seemed to be the thing to do. But it didn’t work out.”
“You told me about your mother. What is your father like?”
“Dad? Oh, he’s still a very active man. He has a car agency and owns half a real estate firm, and he’s in a lot of other things. Belongs to a dozen clubs and business associations. He’s always being elected president of this and that. I remember he was away at meetings almost every night. He’s in local politics, too.”
“Sounds like a very popular man.”
“I guess. I hardly saw him. I mean, I knew he was there, but he really wasn’t. Always rushing off somewhere. Every time he saw me, he’d kiss me. He smelled of whiskey and cigars. But he was very successful, and we had a nice home, so I really can’t complain. What was your father like?”
“Tall and skinny and kind of bent over when he got older. I think he worked himself to death; I really do. He always had two jobs. He had to with that family. Came home late and fell into bed. All us boys had jobs—paper routes and things like that. But we didn’t bring home much. So he worked and worked. And you know, I never once heard him complain. Never once.”
They sat in sad silence for a few minutes, sipping their brandies.
“Zoe, do you think you’ll ever get married again?”
She considered that. “I don’t know. Probably not—as of this moment.”
He looked at her. “Were you hurt that much?”
“I was destroyed,” she cried out. “Demolished. Maddie Kurnitz can hop from husband to husband. I can’t. Maybe that’s my fault. Maybe I’m some kind of foolish romantic.”
“You’re afraid to take another chance?”
“Yes, I’m afraid. If I took another chance, and that didn’t work out, I think I’d kill myself.”
“My God,” he said softly, “you’re serious, aren’t you?”
She nodded.
“Zoe, none of us is perfect. And relationships aren’t perfect.”
“I know that,” she said, “and I was willing to settle for what I had. But he wasn’t. I really don’t want to talk about it, Ernie. It was all so—so ugly.”
“All rightee!” he sang out, slapping the table. “We won’t talk about it. We’ll talk about cheerful things and have dessert and coffee and laugh up a storm.”
She reached out to stroke his hair.
“You’re nice,” she said, looking into his eyes. “I’m glad I met you.”
He caught her hand, pressed it against his cheek.
“And I’m glad I met you,” he said. “And I want to keep on seeing you as much as I can. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said. “Now … strawberry or apple tart? Which are you going to have?”
“Strawberry,” he said promptly.
“Me, too,” she said. “We like the same things.”
They had dessert and coffee, chattering briskly about books and movies and TV stars, never letting the conversation flag. Then they cleared the table and Ernest washed while Zoe dried. She learned where his plates and cups and saucers and cutlery were stored.
Then, still jabbering away, they sat again in the armchairs with more brandy. He told her about his courses in computer technology, and she told him about the unusual problems of hotel security officers. They were both good listeners.
Finally, about eleven o’clock, feeling a bit light-headed, Zoe said she thought she should be going. Ernest said he thought they should finish the brandy first, and she said if they did, she’d never go home, and he said that would be all right, too. They both laughed, knowing he was joking. But neither was sure.
Ernie said he’d see her home, but she refused, saying she’d take a taxi and would be perfectly safe. They finally agreed that he’d go out with her, see her into a cab, and she’d call the moment she was in her own apartment.
“If you don’t phone within twenty minutes,” he said
, “I’ll call out the Marines.”
They stood and she moved to him, so abruptly that he staggered back. She clasped him in her arms, put her face close to his.
“A lovely, lovely evening,” she said. “Thank you so very much.”
“Thank you, Zoe. We’ll do it again and again and again.”
She pressed her lips against his: a dry, warm, firm kiss.
She drew away, stroked his fine hair.
“You are a dear, sweet man,” she said, “and I like you very much. You won’t just drop me, will you, Ernie?”
“Zoe!” he cried. “Of course not! What kind of a man do you think I am?”
“Oh …” she said confusedly, “I’m all mixed up. I don’t know what to think about you.”
“Think the best,” he said. “Please. We need each other.”
“We do,” she said throatily. “We really do.”
They kissed again, standing and clasped, swaying. It was a close embrace, more thoughtful than fervid. There was no darting of tongues, no searching of frantic fingers. There was warmth and intimacy. They comforted each other, protective and reassuring.
They pulled away, staring, still holding to each other.
“Darling,” he said.
“Darling,” she said. “Darling. Darling.”
He went about turning off lamps, checking the gas range, taking a jacket from a pressed wood wardrobe. Zoe went into the bathroom. Because the door was so flimsy and the apartment so small, she ran the faucet in the sink while she relieved herself.
Then she rinsed her hands, drying them on one of the little pink towels he had put out. The bathroom was as clean, tidy, and precisely arranged as the rest of his apartment.
She looked at herself in the medicine cabinet mirror. She thought her face was blushed, glowing. She felt her cheeks. Hot. She touched her lips and smiled.
She examined her hair critically. She decided she would have it done. A feather-cut perhaps. Something youthful and careless, to give her the look of a gamine. And a rinse to give it gloss.
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