Their lovemaking was better: they were both more relaxed (they even tried to read The Joy of Sex together, but Nina admitted it embarrassed her); they had become altogether less tense and solemn about the whole business and could laugh when things went not as expected.
Not only had Nina begun to enjoy making love, she was also glad in a general sense that she was now doing what everyone else (or so it seemed) had been doing for years. She was nearly twenty and had been uncomfortably aware of what she thought of as her backwardness. Her country mouseness. But now, at least, when Sonia and Lynell made certain little remarks or jokes, she knew what was meant and could even put in a word or two of her own.
In the middle of the afternoon she fell asleep curled up on the bed, clutching a pillow to her stomach.
“It’s these late hours,” she said on waking up, as if in answer to a question. Outside the sky had darkened. Rain spattered the windows. “I’ve got to get on a better schedule, Mitch, do better.… Maybe only stay out late on weekends or something. What do you think?”
“Sure,” he said, putting a finger in his book.
“What’re you reading?” She pulled the blanket around her, yawning.
“A book on European architecture. If I ever go back to school, I think it would be for architecture. Buildings and cities fascinate me. If you could live in any city in the world, which one would it be?”
“I never thought about it.”
“I think about that all the time.”
“Well, which one would you live in?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ve got to visit them all first.”
“You could paint houses in every city in the world.”
“Not such a bad idea. Hey, I really like that.”
Nina stretched pleasurably. A fine moment. The rain, the music, herself curled under the warmth of the blanket, Mitch sitting opposite her, his voice warm and dreaming. Perfect, she thought, perfect.
She must have dozed off again. He was kneeling over her. “Going to let me come in with you?”
She blinked, then looked at his watch. “Mitch, look at the time!” Outside it was dark.
“Don’t go yet, Nins. I don’t want you to go.”
“No, I told you …” She got up, put on her sneakers, combed her hair. “I promised myself I’d study today.” She looked around for her scarf, jacket, keys.
“Wait, wait … listen to this song. I want you to hear this one song.” He dropped a record on the turntable and Janis Joplin’s husky, sensuous voice spilled into the room. “Isn’t that great?”
“Mitch—See you tomorrow?” Nina went to the door.
“Nina. You can wait till the song is over.”
“Come on, don’t do that to me.”
“What? Do what?” There was an obstinate expression on his face.
“What? You’re doing a number on me!” She walked out, slamming the door. By the time she got to the last flight of stairs, she was remorseful. Did she have to blow up? Did she have to be so impatient? She could have waited another two minutes, listened to the song. Her big failing—one of them, anyway. Once she got an idea in her head, it seemed as if nothing could dislodge it. Said she was going to leave, so she had to leave. No flexibility. Okay if the idea was right: like wanting to go to college, or living off campus, or getting together with Mitch. But the other side of that stubbornness, of deciding on a path and following it without bending, was that, one of these days, she was going to follow the wrong path. Come up against something she couldn’t crash through. Not just stub her toe, but bang her head. Hard. Get herself into a mess of trouble.
Was she in trouble already—with Mitch? Halfway there. Back off, she told herself and decided that, outside, she’d call Mitch to his window, wave, smile, let him see she wasn’t mad. Blow him a kiss. If she was lucky, he’d grin, make a circle of thumb and forefinger, let her know he wasn’t mad.
But outside, looking up to his window, she was startled to find him sitting on the sill, legs dangling into space. “What are you doing?” she yelled.
“Come on back up here.”
“Go inside!”
He hitched himself casually around on the sill. “Look, Ma, no hands.” Nina screamed with fear and ran back up the four flights of stairs. She burst into the apartment. The window was closed. Mitch was eating an apple. “Hi,” he said.
“You creep,” she yelled. “You idiot. You could have fallen.” Her heart was racing from the dash up the stairs. “You could have been killed.” Crying, she pummeled him with her fists.
“Nina. Nina!” He put his arms around her, restraining her. “I didn’t mean to scare you, Nina! Not like that. It was just a joke, really.”
She wept stormily for a few minutes, her insides knotted, as they had been so often that year of her father’s surgery. It had occurred to her that since then—or at least until she met Mitch—her life had never again been quite right. Had never been, as Mitch would say, centered. Was it because then, when she was fourteen, she had recognized that her father, with his thick shoulders and short powerful legs, might have died?
“Did I really scare you?” Mitch said contritely. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” They stood rocking together, their arms around each other. Nina didn’t get back to her own place till late that night. Too late to do any real studying.
Chapter Seven
The weather turned cold, and they spent more time in Mitch’s apartment. Nina brought her books with her more often and, driven by her fear of failing, gradually caught up with her backlog of work. Sometimes Mitch read while she studied, and sometimes he helped her, and sometimes he played devil’s advocate to shake her up. “Horse balls,” he would say to some idea she’d taken straight from her text.
“Why? It says right here—”
“Yes but, Nina, think. Is that what you really believe?”
“Why should my opinion count? The person who wrote this book—”
“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you! Of course your opinion counts! What’s the point of going to school if you’re not going to think for yourself!”
She liked being shaken up that way, liked fighting and yelling over books.
One night, sitting on Mitch’s bed, drinking cups of cocoa fuzzed with marshmallow whip, they told each other about the worst years of their lives. The awful year for Mitch had been when he was fifteen and was taken to the detention home. “I’ll never forget it. I spent three days there. I was sure my parents were so mad at me, they were going to leave me there.”
Nina hugged him. “I hate to even hear you talk about it. Why didn’t they come get you out?”
“I don’t know. They’re not mean people. I guess they thought I needed to be taught a lesson. But all I was, was terrified. And I didn’t really talk to my parents again for years. I told you all that. Tell me about you.”
“My worst year was when I was fourteen, but compared to what happened to you—”
“That’s when your father had his operation.”
“Right. I used to dread going home. He’d always be in his pajamas, looking out the window. You know little girls sometimes adore their fathers? That was me. I adored him. He was Superman to me, I guess. And I’d get home and he’d be crying. Just quietly crying. I got real crazy. I think that’s why I went to the cemetery with Bobby Sadler.” She stopped. “Do you want to hear this?”
“If it’s about you—yes.”
“Well, this thing with Bobby Sadler was really strange. He was a boy in my class. I knew him from around school, the way you know a lot of kids. You just see them around, and you know their names, but it doesn’t mean you ever have anything to do with them.”
“What was he, a bluebird?” Mitch asked.
Nina laughed. “Bobby Sadler? No, no. But the thing was we had never even talked to each other, and then one day when I was walking home, he came driving by in his car. He had a little yellow VW with two black fenders—and he asked me, Did I want a ride? And I said, Okay. I reme
mber thinking that if I went for a ride with him, I wouldn’t have to go straight home and see my father. We drove around for a while. Didn’t say a word. He was just gripping that steering wheel, staring straight ahead. And I was thinking, Well, what’s going on here, Nina? And just about then Bobby said, ‘Wanna go to the cemetery?’
“And I knew. So that’s what I’m doing in this car.”
“The cemetery?”
“You know. And I knew. I knew what going to the cemetery meant. But I didn’t care. That’s the way I was that year. I thought I didn’t care about anything. And so we went there … and we did it. In the back seat.”
After a moment Mitch said, “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why’d you do it?”
“I told you.”
“I mean, why’d you really do it? Some creep comes along and asks you to go to the cemetery. And you say okay. Just like that? You knew what he wanted.”
“I didn’t say it to myself in so many words, Mitch—”
“But you knew.”
“Yes.”
“Fourteen. That’s too damn young.” He held his cocoa cup in front of him, stiffly, not drinking.
“I didn’t know that when I was fourteen. I told you what a crazy year it was for me. And besides everything else, when I look back now, I think I was curious. I remember being really afraid that I’d die and never know what sex was all about.”
“Curious?” Mitch gestured, spilling cocoa. “That’s a hell of a reason—curiosity!” He mopped up the cocoa with a sock, then threw it into a corner. A silence fell between them.
“Well … I better go.” Nina got up and began dressing. Avoiding her eyes, Mitch, too, got up and pulled on his pants.
Outside it was snowing—light, stinging flakes. Nina wound her scarf around her head. “I don’t know why you’re so upset,” she said at last.
“Oh, you’re not that dumb.”
“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m a lot dumber than you think. Spell it out for me.”
“Can’t you guess?” he said.
“The only thing I guess is … jealousy.”
“Okay, you guessed.”
“Mitch! You told me about those two girls, Shelley and Muriel. I didn’t like hearing about them, but I didn’t get mad at you for what you did before you met me.”
“Good for you. You’re a better person than I am.”
“I can’t believe this,” Nina said quietly. “This is so ridiculous. I told you I wasn’t a virgin. Remember? I told you that the first time we ever went out. Besides, it was years ago.”
“Yes, but hearing all about it, every detail. Did you have to tell me every detail?” He sounded as if he were going to cry. Her heart softened. Then he slapped his hand against the wall as they went up the stairs in her building and said, “You just opened your mouth, and it all came out. Niagara Falls.”
“Look, don’t talk to me like that.” The back of her throat burned. “I don’t like your jealousy! You’re unfair! Go away!” She pushed him, then ran to her door, key in hand.
Inside, she fell across her bed with her clothes on and was asleep at once, as hard and deep as if someone had hit her over the head.
Chapter Eight
Bent over her books as she left the library, Nina almost ran into Professor Lehman who, on this fresh cold day, wore his usual tweed jacket, but with a red wool scarf looped around his neck. “Easy,” he said, steadying her. He had a racquet under one arm.
“Sorry!” Nina’s face reddened. “I guess I didn’t see you,” she said unnecessarily. But her embarrassment turned to muted pleasure as he continued to hold her elbow.
“You’re the girl who asked me about typing work. Yes? You’re, ah”—he snapped his fingers—“Bloom. Miss Bloom, are you still interested in working?”
Nina nodded. “Yes, yes, I am. Very interested,” she added emphatically. She needed the money, always needed money, and right now had plenty of time on her hands. Might have plenty of time on her hands for the rest of the school year. Four days since their quarrel and she still hadn’t seen Mitch. Who should make the first move? She didn’t think the quarrel was her fault. Let him come to her. Niagara Falls. A fresh wave of anger came over her. Sure she had talked. Sure she had told all. Because she trusted him. Did he think she went around telling her life history to any willing ear?
“How much work are you looking for?” Professor Lehman said. “Would a few hours a day suit you?”
“That would be perfect!”
“Do you want to come along to my office right now? Are you on your way somewhere? I can show you the work I have in mind, and you can get started tomorrow or whenever suits you.”
“Now is perfect,” she said again. Emphasis on now. Because she didn’t want to go home. Didn’t want to face the too-long, Mitchless evening, and Sonia’s curiosity, and Lynell’s half smile. (Maybe Lynell was glad to have company in her misery? She and Adam were still battling over his other girl friend. Despite that, Lynell appeared, as always to Nina, admirably cool and restrained. She, on the other hand, apparently showed everything on her face. Before she ever said a word, Sonia had guessed that she had had a fight with Mitch.)
The sun was going down behind the tall spires of the music building, spreading great fans of red, orange, and pink along the horizon. The glowing colors of the sunset seemed to spread inside Nina. Out of all his students, Nicholas Lehman had picked her to work for him. But, wait. Had he really picked her? First she had asked for the work, and now she’d almost run him down on the sidewalk. You might say she had brought herself to his attention. She gulped in a mouthful of cold air. Wanted to say something. But what could she possibly say that would interest someone like him? Trotting along at his side, silent, mute as a table, she sneaked a look at his profile. Stern, remote, devastatingly handsome.
Kim Ogun called him Lover. “He makes love to you with his eyes. I know ten girls who would give their right hands to have a chance to be alone with Nickiepie!”
“Do you play racquetball?” he asked, glancing at her.
She shook her head.
“Great game. You ought to try it.”
“Oh, I will. I like games. Is it like tennis?” How naive and silly she sounded. But he smiled at her warmly.
“It’s a lot faster game than tennis. You use your arm differently. Tennis is stiff-armed, whereas racquetball is a wristy game.” And he demonstrated, raising the racquet, flexing his wrist.
“I see,” she said brightly. They were talking. Tra-la-la, she was talking to Nickiepie.
His office was a tiny room in the basement of the Language Arts Building. A single window looked out on the sidewalk, and in the distance, a bit of sky. “Don’t call it small,” he said. “It’s cozy.” Papers and books were everywhere—covering the desk, shelves, and a green filing cabinet. Even the window ledge was stacked high with unsteady piles of books. “Make yourself comfortable.” He cleared a student chair and sat down opposite her at the desk.
On the wall a bulletin board was covered with newspaper clippings, letters, and pictures. A half-page “Peanuts” cartoon in full color was bordered with green tape. “I love Peanuts,” Nina said, studying the cartoon. In the first frame Sally asked Charlie Brown to help her with her homework. “You mean do it for you, don’t you?” Charlie Brown said as he reclined suavely in a beanbag chair. Next, Sally leaned over his shoulder and told him, “When Leo Tolstoy was writing War and Peace, his wife copied it for him seven times!”
Charlie Brown got up and left the room. Sally followed, saying, “And she did it by candlelight! And with a dip pen! And sometimes she had to use a magnifying glass to make out what he had written … and she had to do it after their child had been put to bed and the servants had gone up to their garrets and it was quiet in the house.”
Smiling, Nicholas Lehman said, “You’ll understand why I put up that strip after I tell you about the article I’m planning.” He took several long yellow legal pads from a drawer.
“These are my notes. This is what you’ll be typing for me.” He loosened his tie, a gesture Nina recognized from class. “Let me tell you the background of this project,” he went on. “It started a few years ago when I found an old paperback copy of some of Robert Louis Stevenson’s stories in a second-hand bookstore. It was all fairly standard except for one story called ‘The Body Snatchers.’ A nice, ghoulish little tale about medical students who do a bit of grave-robbing. The introduction to this story mentioned that R.L.S. wrote it with his wife, Fanny Osborne. It seems that Fanny, before marrying Robert, had herself been a writer of the macabre. Well, Stevenson had recently had one of his stories turned down by an editor. Then this story he and Fanny wrote together was accepted enthusiastically by the same editor. Must have been a bit of a shock for Stevenson. When he received payment, he sent back part of the check, telling the editor the story was second-rate.
“It’s true the story isn’t one of his finest, but what I think was at work with him was ego. By sending back the money he was implying that had this story been pure R.L.S. it would have not been second-rate. What interested me particularly was that Fanny didn’t get any credit for being cowriter.”
“How unfair,” Nina said.
Nicholas Lehman nodded. “Exactly. Actually, years later R.L.S. did give Fanny credit. Anyway, that story started me thinking about spouses who are, or have been, closet writers. That is, have worked in anonymous collaboration with the writer who received public credit. I wondered if Fanny and R.L.S. were an aberration. One of a kind. I’ve dug up numbers of cases, mostly of women, wives and sisters who have worked behind the scenes and let their husbands or brothers have the glory.”
“And now you’re going to write about them?”
Nicholas Lehman nodded. “I’m thinking of calling the article ‘And Special Thanks to My Wife.’ Or perhaps, ‘Without Whose Help.’ My ex-wife would appreciate this. She used to do my typing and edited everything I wrote. Once in a while she wrote a sentence or two—or three. Maybe I’m doing penance with this article for my own ego,” he said, giving Nina a wry smile, as if the two of them understood him perfectly.
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