Making Love

by Norman Bogner

  “I've been hustled by experts at La Gorse, so don't think....” He had a sudden power failure and lit a cigarette. She watched him puff away, embarrassed by her lack of knowledge about his personal habits.

  “I didn't know you smoked.”

  “Someone left them,” he replied, his mouth tightening.

  “But you don't inhale.”

  “Jane, what the hell's the difference? Do I have to explain ... ?”

  “I'm sorry.” She was contrite. “But I don't know anything about you.”

  He pulled off the freeway and into a Howard Johnson's Motel parking lot.

  “It's your tomorrow, Howard Johnson,” she said.

  “What are you talking about?” He cut the engine.

  “Can you leave the music on,” she asked.

  A moment of conflict for him while he played with the key.

  “I don't know if I'll be able to start the car. We're in the middle of nowhere.”

  “God, you must've laid a lot of women in Mustangs.” She waited for a reaction but he turned away. “The guys are always worried about the goddamn battery. I'm something of an expert on the subject. I've spent a lot of time in the passenger seat.”

  He lashed out and hit her on the bridge of the nose.

  “Dear God, thank you for answering my prayer. I thought you'd never do it.”

  “You provoked me.” He wrapped her head in the crook of his arm, a lover with no love. He whispered silly childish conciliatory words and she loved him for the exquisite fraud he was. His weakness had brought him to the point of success, and she wanted to encourage him. Speechless and shocked he failed her, turned placatory, and she despised him for what he was, the world's most beautiful bum. He switched on the radio, winked at her the way men did across rooms in those forties movies, and so that he was forced to push her hand way. Having conceded, there was no reason to go on.

  “Tell me about my mother. Why you've stuck it out.”

  “Oh, Jane, why do you want to go on with this?” he pleaded. “What the hell do you want?”

  “Turn the radio off. I don't want to be stuck here with you.”

  He did as he was asked. The car windows fogged, he found a rag and wiped the windshield, then opened the window. It was sour California smog drifting invisibly past the permanent arrangement of winter stars. He closed his collar button and his small round eyes, lighter than her mother's, had that furtive look of a sadness that could never be consummated because they couldn't understand. The small old boy begging forgiveness, admitting guilt, immune to complications.

  “Why do I like you so much?” she asked. “You just shoved it into the wrong place at the wrong time. So why should this bring us together at Howard Johnson's?” He laughed without intending to. “Why do we feel?”

  He lit the filter end of a cigarette, pulled a face, then stuck a piece of gum into his mouth. She touched his smooth face, one of those lucky men without nubs on his beard. She kissed him on the chin.

  “You're a little teaser, aren't you?”

  “My problem is I never tease.”

  Fidgety, he offered her coffee and an English Muffin in the coffee shop. Men from trucks came and went. In front of them a girl was reluctantly persuaded into the back seat of a Buick Electra. They watched the girl hit the light in the back seat, but then her face vanished, covered by her dress. Her head sloped down out of sight and the man's hand switched off the light. Her father blinked.

  “It's so wild. I had lunch with Nancy today. Seeing both of you in the same day.”

  “Do you want to go back?”

  She looked at her watch. The three-hour time difference began to make her drowsy. She switched on the air conditioning and pushed her face close to a vent.

  “I vomited at lunch with her.”

  “Stealing her thunder. I've been drummed out of more restaurants in New York than I can remember.”

  “I'm her daughter.”

  He looked at her for telltale signs of identification.

  “She's much weaker. You're not like either of us.”

  “Oh, I don't know about that. She's still floating along.”

  He'd chewed the sweetness out of his gum and dumped it into the ashtray. The toes of the woman in the Buick crept across the back window of the car. They moved back and forth like an old rhumba step that had become a reflex.

  “I wonder how she got herself in that position,” Jane said. “That car's got an enormous front seat. Maybe they borrowed it for this performance. Oh, let's see, he stole it. Professional thief. Christ, I hope he did.”

  Jim started his engine and inadvertently switched on the headlights, and Jane saw the woman's toes bending to pick up something that wasn't there.

  “She's a terrible lay,” Jane said.

  “How do you know?” Jim asked, his curiosity genuinely aroused.

  “The polish on her toenails. Real problems. She needs floor-to-ceiling mirrors to get there. She wants to see the expression on her face.”

  “Where've I been all my life?”

  “Making seventy-nines at Firestone.”

  His room, even for a motel, even for the Buccaneer, was obviously the best they had to offer. She wondered how long he'd had to put up with curtains that didn't close, bellhops with plastered hair, club sandwiches woven with slimy cold bacon, bedside lamps designed for people suffering from cataracts, furniture built for endurance, everything virtually unbreakable, and the weighted bases cemented to the table which could defy a drunken Shriner. Why had he put up with this? Senseless. He explained that it was the best place on this leg of the tour, but that explained nothing, except his capacity to put up with the intolerable conditions only a lost, exhausted motorist would tolerate. His fortune, and great name, meant nothing. On tour he was one of the boys. She tried to understand, then dozed on his vertically striped bedspread which matched the curtains. He wanted to tuck her under the covers, but was afraid that she'd awake, accuse him of exactly what was crossing his mind and slap his face. Had she ever been an infant, a small girl he'd fondled, held in his arms without danger or concupisence? He pulled off her fat-heeled shoes and averted his eyes when they rested that uncomfortable second too long on her breasts. Her body contracted with exhaustion, forming a bent scissors; he sighed, peeled off his socks and peered at the crumpled panty hose drifting silently down her legs. Asleep he was her champion, but when she was awake, her eyes looking into his, his only instinct was to run.

  She stirred, rubbed her eyes and sat upright, disoriented.

  “Sorry. The time jump always knocks me out.”

  “You don't look very well.”

  “I'm going back tomorrow.” She straightened her dress and swung her legs over the side. “So I guess this is it for a while.”

  “I thought you might come around with me.” He sounded disappointed and relieved; an opportunity to showboat and freeze, both of which she'd bring out, undoubtedly leading to a disastrous round. “Back to school?”

  “I don't think so.”

  He wanted to argue, but he was a man of lost inclinations and well-powdered feet, she observed, an athlete who took many precautions to prepare himself for a victory that had never come. The silly poignancy of playing to lose was a subtlety that evaded her.

  “You're old enough to make up your own mind.”

  “While I'm at it, I may as well relay a message.”

  “Really? Who from?”

  “Mother wants you back....”

  “That's a crazy way to put it. I've never left.”

  “I think she's put a slightly different interpretation on it. Why don't you get a divorce? I asked her the same question.”

  He was genuinely astounded by the suggestion, and small red spots emerged from under the deep tan that coated his face permanently. She hadn't intended to disconcert him.

  “This has really turned into a delightful little visit,”

  “I'm only asking out of simple human interest.”

  “Since you p
ut it that way, I'll answer you in the same spirit. Our marriage was arranged. It was one of those awful dynastic matches that looks great on paper and in gossip columns, but in practice never works. Yet in spite of it, I loved her, still do, but it was never any good you know where. Now why didn't I divorce her or she me ... ? You're entitled to know. She'd have been committed to an institution and I couldn't let that happen to her. I had to move around, Jane. I've been an indifferent husband and an absent father. I admit it. Apologizing for what's done is a form of stupidity that even I'm incapable of. It's all such a godawful mess that you've inherited along with your money.”

  He faltered but had the courage to remain unemotional and contrite at the same time. She wanted to hold back, but could not control her instincts and sat on his lap, and he wrapped his arms around her waist and felt for the first time in years that he was the father of a small girl.

  “I'm sorry if I've hurt you.”

  “I'm not hurt,” he replied. “Look, let's plan to spend Thanksgiving together. Either at home or in Florida. You decide where.”

  She put on her shoes and sat down opposite him, patted her hair down.

  “I didn't come all this way to ask why your marriage wasn't working. I accepted that a long time ago.” She waited in vain for him to question her, but he refused to be lured. “Am I a horror if I tell you the truth?”

  “I don't seem to have any choice, do I?”

  She saw him grasp both arms of the chair, a passenger on a bumpy flight unable to accept the hostesses’ assurances. He forced himself to look at her. His eyes remained steady, but when she said, “I'm pregnant,” he winced. His head moved back on the pillow of the chair.

  “Why did you have to tell me?” he protested. “I just don't understand.”

  “I went to bed with this man and ... well, that's how it happened.”

  “Why do you feel this need to confess?”

  “I guess I assumed that children did that sort of thing with parents. I assumed wrong.”

  “You just wanted to hurt me.”

  “No, not really. If I had cancer or pneumonia, wouldn't you want to know about it?”

  He dropped his chin on his chest and sat immobile, hardly breathing, she thought. What an accomplishment, she'd made him aware of her existence.

  “What about the man?” he asked. “Aren't you going to marry him?”

  “No, I don't like him.”

  “That doesn't make any sense.”

  “Why? Haven't you gone to bed with someone and the minute it's over, you wish you were a million miles away? I mean you'd never dream of spending your life with that person, would you?”

  “I'm a man.”

  “That's very helpful.”

  “Well, I suppose you'll have to get it fixed. Was it a white man?” he inquired nervously.

  “In this instance. Does that make you feel any better?”

  “You know, Jane, if you weren't in your condition, I'd beat you.”

  “I wish you'd made that offer a few years ago.”

  He hung his head on her shoulder, gave her a slippery kiss and droned futile apologies which made her helplessly regretful. He was such a boy, in over his depth, so frightened of life touching him that she found herself consoling him. It was too big a job for her, making a man of him, and even if she undertook to try, succeeded, would he be any happier?

  “I'm going back east in the morning,” she said.

  “I'll come with you.”

  “I'd rather you didn't. My roommate will call you.”

  “Jane, I want to help.”

  She snuggled against his hard lithe body, the body of a beautiful, mindless stud who'd fallen in love too late.

  * * * *

  Abortions can be troublesome but Jane's was a straightforward affair. She found herself ineligible for tragedy at the moment but still capable of bowel movement, and had, as such events go, an easy time. A friend of a friend of Conlon's similarly afflicted had recommended Dr. Bruce Charney who had offices on East Fifty-sixth Street a clinic in a brownstone on the same street, and judging from the photos and trophies in his office was a spectacular skeet shooter. He was neither butcher nor crank and his office was antiseptically clean and staffed with three pleasant nurses who hadn't worked in women's prisons. Dr. Charney offered no wisecracks or friendly advice; and there was no horseplay during the examination.

  The procedure was so mechanical that Jane found herself shocked. An event of this kind in the late nineteeth century, or even in the mid-1960's, might be expected to mark the victim indelibly for life; but now it had become as respectable as lancing a carbuncle. No stigma, Jane realized, only temporary discomfort. Blood was drawn from her left arm, a urine sample deposited with the lab nurse, and a date was made for Friday at three so that Conlon could be with her, since there was a definite absence of next of kin.

  An orderly person, and with an American Express card at her fingertips, Jane checked into the Regency Hotel, developed a solid rapport with the room-service waiter, a paternal Greek, and waited.

  Saranac authorities were informed that she had come down with bronchial pneumonia and would return when the miracle drugs had done their work. She sent a letter to this effect on Dr. Charney's office stationery to the dean of women, with the suggestion that a recuperative period in Arizona might be necessary.

  Jane had a few nervous flutters. She hadn't been under the knife since tonsils and adenoids at seven, but green-gowned Charney and his informative nurses, who answered every question she could think of asking, gave her confidence. Ether for pain, and pethadine for forgetfulness, brought her some confused dreams; she woke up in a sunlit room at the back of the brownstone with a tree branch, not entirely bare, fluttering outside her window. Conlon, wearing dark vigil glasses, sat under a lamp reading a copy of Playboy.

  “Is it over?” Jane asked, dazed, but relaxing with the assurance that she was able to ask a question.

  “Yes, how do you feel?” The magazine dropped from her lap.

  “I'm thirsty. Can I have a drink?”

  A glass of water was held for her with a glass straw.

  “What's stuck in my arm? It hurts like hell.”

  “That's intravenous something.” Conlon examined the label on the bottle. “It's a glucose solution. I guess it's low blood sugar or something equally unfatal.” She put the glass back on the night table. “How are you, Janey? I was worried.”

  “God, I'm glad this is over.” She pushed her hair back from her eye. “No bittersweet memories, just a belly ache.”

  “I spoke to your father in California after it was over.”

  “That got him off the hook.”

  “I had a different impression. He sounded concerned.”

  The room was passively anonymous and Jane cast her eye around at the metal cabinets, the green chair, a no smoking sign under the opened transom. A half-eaten hero sandwich with congealed tomato gravy on the dresser made her retch. A nurse she vaguely remembered came in and placed a small metal bowl under her mouth. Her stomach was empty and the dry heaves made her throat raw and brought a searing unlocalized pain in her chest.

  “You ought to try to sleep,” the nurse said.

  “I don't think I can.”

  “I'll get you something.”

  “Jane, I don't understand why you didn't tell me about this weeks ago ... ?” Conlon's voice carried a sense of shrill grief. “Don't you trust me?”

  “It wasn't that. I wanted to work it out myself. I didn't even tell Alan he was the prime suspect. It just didn't make any difference.”

  “He wants to marry you,” Conlon said a bit nervously. “I told him the truth.”

  “I wish you hadn't.”

  “He kept calling me and following me around. I had no choice.”

  Her eyes rested on Conlon's worried face and she extended her hand. Her recent encounters with her parents had made her aggressive toward everyone. Her dangerous ability to wound possessed the impersonal impact of a b
omb.

  “You did the right thing,” she said. Conlon's face lightened.

  “Jane, I'd never do anything to hurt you.”

  The nurse came in, slipping between the two. She rubbed alcohol on Jane's arm, then pushed a syringe in.

  “I want to start a new....” Jane muttered, closing her eyes and falling off into a dreamless sleep almost instantly.

  She awoke at around nine. Darkness and faint rumblings from the street. Two men argued about a car double-parked and a woman protested about a lost key. Conlon had dozed off with the transistor on her lap, and Jonathan Schwartz's voice promising softness along with musical oblivion paused to identify WNEW-FM.

  “Con—”

  “What? Thought I was sleeping? Just resting my eyes. Any better?”

  “Hungry.”

  “I think all you can have is beef bouillon.”

  Conlon got up and opened the door and found the duty nurse. Words were spoken but Jane was still too fuzzy to make any connection. Beef boullion was brought and Conlon spooned it to Jane. It was the best beef boullion she'd ever tasted.

  “I feel like shit,” Jane said.

  “That's the road to recovery. I went to mass and lit a candle for you,” Conlon said, blushing. “I think it helped, Janey. You're going to be all right.”

  “I knew I would be,” she said sourly.

  “What, death wishes from you? I don't believe it.”

  “I don't know ... just feel terribly messed up.”

  “That's normal.” She disapproved of Jane's courage.

  Jane bit into an apple and picked some skin out of her teeth. She pushed herself up on an elbow, pulled out a Kleenex from the box, and blew her nose and looked at Conlon.

  “What day is it?”

  “Still Friday. You can go tomorrow if you're well enough.” She paused, then came and sat on the edge of the bed. “Jane, I think you should come back to school.”

  “I couldn't face it now. I don't know if I'll ever go back.”

  “Then what do you think you'll do?” Conlon asked. The prospect of losing Jane, finishing her year marking time, was unbearable. The routine of classes, bleak weather, and sneaking down to New York to see Mel (once a month at the most) depressed her. Leaving school would bring a break with her parents, giving up the scholarship, the floating sensation of uncertainty. Jane propped up her pillow and lit a cigarette. She coughed when she inhaled.