Dry Your Smile

by Morgan, Robin;

  “Oh, do I know!” Charlotte, too, settled into the excitement of airing emotions stamped Classified. “See, you want the understanding and the sympathy. But you also want to know that the friend you’re bitching to knows you love him. I can’t stand the oversimplifications of the movement anymore. They drive me bananas!”

  Julian toyed with her chopsticks.

  “Well, I know you love Zach. And I know I love Larry. It’s just that it gets so … exhausting. If only this thing we call ‘consciousness’ didn’t expose every level, from housework to jobs to sex to—”

  “—to everything, let’s face it. Maybe men are hopeless. At least at this point in history. At least to live with. Maybe the separatists are right. Maybe we should all become lesbians. Or just use men and discard them, like Kleenex, the way some men use women.”

  “Well, I can show you scars from years of Q–and–A after lectures, when some of my lesbian sisters made me feel like a walking oxymoron: the married feminist. I’d hate to admit they were right. I’d hate to give up. Anyway, I seem to be hopelessly heterosexual. Or hopelessly … Larryosexual. See, it isn’t ‘men’ I want, it’s Larry. He was the first person I went to bed with, you know. When I was all of, oh, nineteen. It’s been Larry all along. For keeps.”

  Charlotte looked up, her mouth full, shocked.

  “You don’t mean to tell me he’s the only man you’ve ever screwed!”

  “No,” Julian shifted uncomfortably in her seat, “there was one bona fide affair.”

  “Does he know?”

  “Larry? Oh, of course.”

  “How’d he take it? When was this? Did I know you then? Who was the guy?” The new respect in Charlotte’s voice made Julian even more uneasy, but was seductive enough to compensate for the prying.

  “About two years ago. Yes, we knew each other then. My month at that artists’ colony, remember? A painter. Tall, dark, handsome, good in bed—that is, I think so, out of my hilariously vast non-experience—and staggeringly dumb. Every time he opened his mouth, he confirmed that what I was feeling was plain lust, that I was in no danger of love.”

  “But it—Was it—”

  “It was quite pleasurable. Lots of getting carried away, so long as we didn’t try to talk about anything challenging—like art, politics, humanity, the weather, or that the world was round. His paintings were masterpieces of boredom: splashy blobs of gray hurled against white. ‘Me Tarzan, you canvas’ seemed his way of relating to his work.”

  “Oh, who cares about his work. What was—”

  “Yes. It was delicious in bed. Breath knocked out of my lungs and all that. Maybe because it wasn’t complicated by loving? Because he was my first, in fact my only, ‘affair’—with all the abandon that implies? Because it wasn’t weighted by years of marriage? Or because it felt so … adult? I dunno.”

  “You overanalyze everything, Julian. What happened?”

  “What do you think happened? He went on to his next art-colony affair and I went home to Larry.”

  “And he found out?”

  “No. I told him.”

  “Omigod. You and your truth tyranny. You told him?”

  “Yeah. The premise of the marriage has always been honesty. Oh damn—” Julian grabbed her napkin and began mopping up tea from the glass she had overfilled. “I mean, I knew Larry sometimes had lovers. Nothing serious. More in the early days when he still used to go on organizing trips, to movement conferences, stuff like that. As we both got more serious about feminism, I think that sort of thing dwindled for him, and then stopped. I don’t mean I ever demanded that it stop, nothing like that. We always tried to live our life together on some free level of … I don’t mean ‘open marriage’ or swinging, either. It’s hard to explain,” she wound up awkwardly, wishing she’d stuck to trashing Maxine Duncan Brewer, whatever different dangers that entailed.

  “So Larry understood, then.”

  Charlotte seemed to know precisely which buttons to push.

  “No, my friend, Larry did not understand. That was the stunner.”

  “The rules changed when you entered the game.”

  “Well … more complicated than that. I think it was one more thing he felt he’d ‘given up’—for me, for feminism—only to see me get it. He said he could have understood and wouldn’t have minded if it had been a woman, but another man—”

  Charlotte would have none of it. Julian could see from her expression that she was about to solve a conundrum with a stereotype.

  “Julian. I have to tell you that I don’t think it was any of this political purity or complexity stuff, the two of you as a 1980’s version of Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman.”

  “Well of course when you put it that way it sounds ridicu—”

  “I have to tell you, sweetie-pie, that it was a husband’s freakout that his wifie made it with somebody else, when straying was supposed to be reserved for him. A number one cliché double standard.”

  “Charlotte, I have to tell you that’s bullshit. Larry believes in feminism; he’s had to sacrifice too much for him not to. I can’t think of any other man who—”

  “Spare me. I’m sure he believes and I know he’s paid his dues. But resenting you for that is just another facet of the same double standard. You say you didn’t ask monogamy of him. So who raised it then, my dear Emma? Who asked him to give up his extra-marital goodies? And then impose his newfound chastity on you?”

  “Nobody asked. He decided to—”

  “There. I rest my case. Oh no I don’t,” she pursued, “because you’re only assuming, you don’t even know for sure. He may still wander now and then, but when you do—wham!”

  Julian was tempted to ask whether Charlotte really was talking about Laurence or Zach, but she restrained herself.

  “I do know, Charlotte. I’d feel it. Larry’s been voluntarily monogamous for years now.”

  “So? Should we send him a hero-worker medal? You were faithful for years, too, just a little out of synch. He strayed early, you strayed late. Do the rules have to follow his behavior, his timing? Besides, how can we be sure it was voluntary on his part? He kind of paled from public view, remember. Less travel, fewer chances, and more women out there who thanks to his wife were feminist and therefore less vulnerable to the Red Menace. Maybe he just got turned down more. Maybe his charisma pheremones dried up. Maybe he entered middle-aged male menopause and got less interested in women. Hell, maybe he’s gay.”

  “Charlotte! Now you’re talking heterosexist bullshit!”

  “And stop laying the ‘ists’ and ‘isms’ on me. You once told me you were as surprised as I was when Larry turned househusband with such alacrity. Maybe he’s a closet case who always wanted to wimp around keeping house and being supported. And that’s not meant as anti-gay. Some of the closest—”

  “—friends you have are gay, I bet. I can’t believe you just said that.”

  “Well, it happens to be true, even if it’s now become an off-limits sentence. Anyway, whatever the reason, Larry felt threatened when you struck out on your own. Threatened, sweetie.”

  Julian closed her eyes for a moment to gather strength for what had to be a convincing rebuttal, especially since all of Charlotte’s theories had a disturbing ring of familiarity, having been whispered by voices in her own brain.

  “What you don’t seem to understand, Charlotte, is that the affair was a symptom, not the problem, for god’s sake. Oh I know everything overlaps, but the affair was two years ago; last weekend’s fight wasn’t about any of that. It’s … it’s a grief, a fatigue, a kind of obstinate despair-in-loving I think Larry and I share with most other women and men who love each other at this insane moment in history when men and women speak different languages. Christ, if anything, his having the courage to ‘wimp about,’ as you put it, has helped keep the marriage together rather than hastening its demise. I mean, at least Larry had the guts to opt out of the John Wayne image before the he-man became unfashionable. The truth is I wou
ldn’t have stayed with any man other than Laurence Millman all these years. And I sure as hell never plan to live with another man, if this marriage goes on the rocks. I’ve been married over half my life. The idea of starting from scratch is … beyond masochism.”

  “There I know what you mean. The barbarous ritual of ‘dating’ I endured between the end of marriage number one and Zach: incredible. I got so fed up with all that getting-to-know-you crap with each new guy—my likes and dislikes, his likes and dislikes—it got so I felt like sending a cassette of myself instead, with a form-letter: If the background, preferences, insights, and general tone of this tape appeals to you, mister, send me a cassette in return. If that appeals to me, then perhaps we can take things from there. Who had the time for this bizarre rite?”

  “But you wanted to be married again, so you did it. I don’t want to be married again, ever. With Larry at least I feel I’ve had the best that men have to offer in this century, somebody gentle and principled, brilliant, intense and … and, well, rebellious against all sorts of odds. Somebody with the guts for that matter to have wanted to be—and stay—married to me. Quite a challenge, that: from fugitive child-star right on up through shrill women’s libber. Oh no, it’s Larry or no man for me.”

  “You might surprise yourself, Julian. What else does that leave? Celibacy? Women? Poodles?”

  “Oh, sex isn’t important. To hell with sex.” Julian tried to shift the subject. “Think they have lichee nuts here?”

  “Well, women certainly don’t attract me. Sexually, I mean. There’d be too much sacrificed by feeling erotic about women. That wonderful friendship you can have with women—like we’re talking now—that confidence and understanding about love-hate toward men—all that gets lost when the tension of sex rears its head. I feel it whenever I’m around lesbian women.”

  “Oh Charlotte, really.” Julian began to fidget for fortune-cookie time. “You cannot generalize so deplorably: a househusband must be a closet gay man; lesbian women come on like Casanova. Christ, it depends on the individual, haven’t you learned that yet? We’re talking 101 here.”

  “That’s movement rhetoric again. Don’t you ever get off the podium? Frankly, I like the ‘otherness’ of men. Women are too … too familiar. Going to bed with a woman would be like masturbating with a mirror. Like incest. Like … loving yourself.”

  “I wish you could hear yourself. If you’ve seen one woman you’ve seen them all? Women are too familiar to feel erotic about but lesbians are too different to be friends with? Are we going crazy here? Look. Years ago I was in a consciousness-raising group—my very first group—with a woman named Iliana de Costa. She defined herself as a lesbian woman, but she also had had a number of affairs with men, in three cases longish relationships. She’s an art photographer. An Argentinian exile, radical, lively, smart. Speaks five languages fluently. She’s one of the most intelligent, warmest women I’ve ever known. I could name at least three other examples right off the top of my head—Laura Wilton, who does your political books, for one—but Iliana happens to come to mind because she just surfaced again in New York after five years in Europe. When we had lunch it was as if we picked up where we’d left off. Exactly the kind of close, immediate comprehension you mentioned. There’s never been any sexual pressure from her whatsoever. She’s a friend—like only women can be.”

  “All right all right, I hope all the speeches are over.”

  “I didn’t mean to make a speech. But stereotypes make my teeth grind by reflex. For a minute there, you were one step away from saying all gay men are weak and effeminate and all lesbian women are macho.”

  “Oh no. On the contrary. I think all men are weak and all women are strong. The opposite of what both sides give off.” Charlotte, chastened by Julian’s vehemence or bored by her polemics, relaxed into the banquette as the waiter cleared away the remains of her kosher chicken with broccoli.

  “There we are in total agreement.” Both knew it was wiser to stick to criticizing men than arguing about women. “I know exactly what you mean. The movement has denounced the he-man image because that’s so obvious, but it’s time we got down to examining what lies under that image—and not just pitying it. I mean, looking at the dependency men have on women, not the other way around. I see it in Larry, the chronic weakness you’re talking about. I’m no moron. But I’ve also seen it in gay men, old men, young men, reactionaries and revolutionaries, black and white. Always—whether we dare show it or not—the women are stronger. The terms must have got bifurcated: men think strong means tough, so they act like lethal klutzes. But most women affirm their strength through beast-of-burden endurance, as if it’s got separated from assertiveness. What a mess.”

  “Well, that brings us full circle, doesn’t it? Maybe neither men nor women are intelligent life forms,” Charlotte groaned, pouring more tea into the glasses.

  The two women sat in silence.

  “So did you and Zach patch it up?” Julian lit a cigarette.

  “Not really. You’ve got to stop smoking. But it usually gets better during the week. I have the office and he has his nicely successful practice with plenty of loony patients; they must make even me look good. And dealing with women as I do all the time, in the evenings even he looks good. However. Of late the happy little weekends when we’re alone with no distractions have been nightmares.”

  Julian snorted. “Familiar. At least during the week there’s work, colleagues, friends—”

  “—reality-checks. People who think you’re a decent human being, not some neurotic inept. Not for me lately the Thank God It’s Friday sentiment.”

  “Charlotte! How about you and I form a Thank God It’s Monday Club? You know, women who can’t wait to get back to their jobs and away from their cosy husbands and homes after the weekend.”

  “Love it! TGIM! Think of it. Women will flock to join. Our membership will run into the millions within weeks. Except of course for the odious few, like Angela Stanley-Marks, my nemesis, who—”

  “Wait, I missed a beat. Who’s she?”

  Charlotte gave a vicious crack to her fortune cookie and beamed a Pollyanna smile.

  “Angie is our new editor. You haven’t met her yet. She does health, fitness, nutrition, all that hearty stuff. Angie,” her tone growing more sarcastic, “is a tall, willowy WASP who is somehow always tanned, who tosses her mane of russet curls about and reeks with good health. Angie has a perfect marriage to a perfect anti-sexist tennis-pro husband who even changed his name so they could be perfect hyphenates together.” Charlotte saw Julian catch and return her own wicked smile. “Angie ‘shares’ tips for perfection with the likes of me. They consist of ‘Only fifteen minutes a day’ of back-brushing your hair, flossing your teeth, certain exercises, gargles, creams, meditation—like that. Add up all her fifteen minuteses and you’d have a thirty-hour day in which there’d be no time to run Athena. But Angie”—Julian began to giggle helplessly as Charlotte wound toward an inspired climax—“is straight out of Brewer’s Supergal. She and her hyphenate husband and their four perfect children eat only proper things and go every weekend to perform perfect jock seizures in which they flail their sixteen collective perfect limbs in perfect unison. Angie probably conditions her pubic hair. Angie is perfectly maddening.” Charlotte dumped a seditious amount of white sugar into her tea.

  “Maybe life will be kind and spare me meeting her. I never work on your sports books anyway.”

  “You could if you wanted to.”

  “No, thank you. I’m the sedentary type who thinks a football is something you hit a home run with, remember? I may be the only forty-year-old woman you will ever meet in this culture who doesn’t know how to ride a bicycle.”

  “Well, that’s because of your kooky childhood, Julian. Otherwise, you survived it fairly sane.”

  “Yeah … and a lot of that, like it or not, is due to Larry. All the other kid actors I knew wound up addicts of one sort or another, or on their fifth marriage, or in th
e funny farm, or having attempted suicide. Nothing so dramatic for me. I wanted art. And revolution. I got Larry and the women’s movement. Pretty good.”

  “Julian, my dear. That you survived your childhood is due not to Larry but to your plucky self. I remember when I first met you. I thought, ‘Yoicks! That’s ex-little Julian Travis, whom I used to watch every week as I was growing up.’ You were my idol. I wanted to be you. So I was positive you must have become some kind of twitching flake as an adult, I mean having all that adulation as a kid.”

  Julian obligingly began to twitch.

  “No, but that’s the point,” Charlotte laughed, “you were … normal. Well, a little ‘intellekshul’ and snobbish about books and politics, maybe. But a human being. With a sense of humor, yet.”

  “Thanks, Charlotte. The older I get, the more I value a sense of irony and a sense of humor. Maybe they’re two sides of the same coin. I swear I don’t know how people without a sense of humor survive. I mean, what do they do?”

  “They turn into Larry or Zach.”

  They both burst out laughing again. Charlotte wiped her eyes and read out her fortune in a sonorous voice.

  “‘To respect the mother is to enter the heavens.’ Zack’s kids should’ve got this. What a crock of shit.”

  “You think that’s the Chinese influence or the Orthodox Jewish?”

  “Jewish first part, but ‘the heavens’ plural is decidedly Chinese.”

  “Well, mine is more mundane, but just as preachy: ‘Talent is not Wisdom.’ As if I needed to be told.”

  “Whatever happened to the good old days when fortune cookies prophesied things like fame, wealth, and a gorgeous stranger?” Charlotte made a face and then signaled for the check. “How is your mother these days, speaking of entering the heavens—or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “No, it’s okay, you can ask. I can’t answer, that’s all. I haven’t seen her in, oh, almost eight months now. Last September. She still won’t see me, ever since she flew at me the last time she was in the hospital. Slams down the phone on me, had the locks to her apartment changed. At first I kept track of her indirectly via her broker, her doctor, and two women—old friends of hers from way back. But then about three months ago she apparently stopped speaking to them, too. And changed doctors and brokerage houses. So my observation routes have dried up. I still call about twice a week, thinking it might change, but no. The minute I say hello, bang down goes the telephone. At first it drove me up the wall with worry, but then at least I learned from Mrs. Dudinsky—she’s the woman who used to come in to bring groceries and make an attempt to stir the dustballs around—that even though she was fired, too, Hope has hired a part-time companion. Somebody Mrs. Dudinsky just happened to know, from the same agency. It seems this woman comes in less often than Mrs. D. used to—only about three times a week—but gets on all right with Hope. So at least I know somebody’s looking in on her.”