Making Love

by Norman Bogner

The center of Kew Gardens still maintains the quiet waywardness of a village. It is hilly, populated by small shops—chains have expanded elsewhere—and Jane always enjoyed going home with Conlon. In the center, opposite the train station, stands the Homestead Hotel in solitary decaying grandeur. Its back rooms face the Long Island Railroad and the faint though inconsistent thunder of trains can be heard throughout the village, and especially well from any part of the hotel. As they passed, Conlon said:

  “I never told you, but I had my first affair there when I was sixteen. Married man, too. I guess that's my destiny, going to bed with other women's husbands.”

  “There are worse things,” Jane said.

  “Like what?”

  She was on the point of saying disloyalty between friends, but caught herself. It wouldn't erase the mortifying scene with Alan. Christ, couldn't Conlon keep her mouth shut and stop interfering? Obviously she'd acted in Jane's best interests; she herself was responsible for not having taken Conlon into her confidence. For the moment, she let it drop, noticing that Conlon was going through her Irish blues, a phrase that covered everything from menstrual discomfort to the destruction of freedom in America.

  “Jane, something's very wrong ... it's so bad that I can't even cry about it.”

  No one, least of all Jane, could deny Conlon's talent for melodrama, and Jane felt a bit irritated, looking forward to a quiet turkey dinner with the Conlons en famille. She'd been in touch with her father and he hadn't let her down. He stopped in New York to change planes on his way to Palm Beach. He called from the airport—or rather his broker had, to say that Jim would be coming to the phone in a minute, and could she hold on. Apparently there'd been some confusion with his golf bag. Jim sounded strained when he spoke, avoided the subject of golf, and extended a halfhearted invitation for her to join him. Relieved that she turned him down—she'd only cramp his style—he then got onto the precarious subject of her health, which meant only one thing, and she went out of her way to reassure him that she was fine. A lost man, frightened of bad news, in search of a fairway.

  “My abortion was terrific. In fact it was sensational. One of the best abortions any girl ever had. The doctor was a humanitarian. In fact he was a cross between Albert Schweitzer and Christiaan Barnard. A fun guy, but with feeling. In his spare time, he teaches Good Humor drivers how to make change.”

  Jim didn't understand, but accepted his daughter's frivolity as a sign of good spirits and the superb recuperative powers passed onto her by his wife. She could find him at the Everglades if anything came up. No golf this time, maybe just a friendly round at The Breakers. He needed to relax after the tour grind. She agreed that sailing was just what the doctor ordered. His plane was called. Any message for the broker? He'd decided to unload some of his common stocks and go into Double-A bonds and advised Jane to do the same thing. She told him she'd think about it. Yes, she loved her apartment and Nancy knew where to get hold of her, but so far hadn't. She ended the conversation.

  “Listen, Dad, this call is costing you a fortune.”

  For a moment, he was disoriented. All airports and all countries were the same to him.

  “I never know when to take you seriously.” In the background she heard the broker yakking frantically, a commission at stake. “Bye, and please keep in touch.” The phone went dead and Jane stared at the receiver, wondering if she'd had a conversation or had absentmindedly picked it up and forgotten whom she wanted to call.

  Alongside her, a truck jockeyed for position and Conlon shouted:

  “Look out, will you. I don't want to die in Kew Gardens.”

  “It wasn't my fault.”

  “Famous last words. Can we stop off for a drink?”

  “I thought you didn't drink.”

  “Oh, shit, Jane, don't take me so literally. My mother's not expecting us for a while and if I get there early, I'll have nothing to say during dinner.”

  The Long Island Railroad was performing with astonishing regularity and the Blue Room, although on the street side of the tracks, provided a perfect acoustical listening post for its pathetic rumbles. A corner booth was deserted and they plopped down, ordered vodka gimlets, and nibbled on cocktail frankfurters and anchovy-paste canapes.

  “Have you got anything to smoke?”

  “Not now. But I can cop. Sonny's not much of an enthusiast.”

  “What do you expect? He's another generation.”

  “Conlon, what's bugging you?”

  “I'm going to leave school.”

  “I'm a bad influence,” Jane said, annoyed with herself.

  She turned to Jane with a bereft expression. “Haven't you even got a roach on you?”

  Jane initiated an instant search of the recesses of her bag and came up with two slightly tortured ends wrapped in cellophane which had been stored in the deep-freeze compartment under the mirror she'd never used and which still had on its sheath of flimsy brown wrapping.

  “Surprise, surprise.”

  “Holding out on me.”

  “They're souvenirs from Alan's day.”

  “Be right back.”

  A waiter directed her to the ladies’ room and Jane sipped her gimlet, thought of Joe Conlon for whom she had an undisguised fondness, his wife Sally, and all the other Conlons who in her view comprised something approximating a family. They were a unit of a kind that had the solidarity of the thirties behind them, and having been formed during a period of social consciousness, the idea of student revolt, marching, equal rights, were facts that they embraced. The only chink in their armor was that they called blacks colored people and had not time for other minority protests, which made them traditional Irish. They adored sheenies, wops, polacks, Germans, beer, corned beef and cabbage, political gab, ballgames, priests, boiled potatoes with parsley, Hubert Humphrey (because he never stopped talking), whiskey in all its manifestations, but soul food was inedible and black was decidedly not beautiful. They concealed their prejudices the way they did their front room, behind chintz curtains. But the obvious fact of life Jane could not ignore was that they treated her like a daughter and thought that her friendship with Conlon was a step up the social ladder, even though they'd never admit it.

  “That's a little better; not much, but I've got a mild buzz. I've lied at confession since I had my first affair. He was a tall man by the name of Donahue whom my father was grooming for councilman. He lost and runs a bar on Woodhaven Boulevard where Democrats drink.”

  “I can live with it,” Jane said, now puzzled by Conlon's mood.

  “How do you want it, Jane, bald or embellished?”

  “Any way you want to give it. And if you don't, it's okay, too.”

  Conlon took a deep breath, chugalugged her gimlet, and ran her hand through her short wigless red hair.

  “Mel was in trouble, big trouble. He's being investigated by the SEC, which is terrible to begin with; but he also owes money all over the place, which is called living beyond your means.”

  The waiter interrupted with two more gimlets, and Conlon dragged anxiously on a Salem.

  “Mel told me that he'd found a way out of his predicament. Two men from a mutual fund, directors or managers, whatever you call them, were going to buy some stock from him. It's called letter stock. Well, this was supposed to bring Mel in about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which meant that he could pay off his debts and float to the surface again, solvent.” She paused and smiled bitterly to herself. “The joke is that he got his money and I helped him to get it.”

  “That's marvelous.”

  “Is it? Mel explained that he'd have to entertain them. Champagne and caviar, dancing at Le Club, all his phony Mister Impressive tricks. I went along. We all had quite a bit to drink. Mel had a certified bank check in his pocket and he was ass kissing in a particularly disgusting way. Anything you two want is okay with me. Remarks like that all night.

  “While we're at Le Club, one of the men—God this is wild, Jane, I can't remember their names—star
ts sticking his hand on my leg under the table. He drops his lighter and starts kissing my thing. I turn to Mel and say, You're not going to believe me, but Mr. Mutual Fund is giving me a blow job—on my knee cap. He told me not to let it worry me, and wasn't I a part of his life, and weren't there things we all did for people we love. Jane, I'm stupid enough to believe this line that wouldn't fool a twelve-year old.

  “We get back to the hotel, like four in the morning. I can't say I was very lucid or sober. Up to the suite and Mel takes me aside and says he's got to meet his lawyer in the lobby with the check. It has to be put in the safe or something and they're opening the bank for him on Sunday. I don't know ... I was very confused and all this double talk is bouncing off my brain. Before he goes, he said, Conlon, give these people anything they want. No matter what it is. I need them like a pint of blood, so whatever you do, you're doing it for me, for us, and it'll make our future secure. Our future, Jane, which meant one thing to me. He's going to divorce Iris and live up to all his promises.”

  She was sweating now, and her mouth had a nervous twitch.

  “He's gone maybe five minutes, when the man who made the pass at Le Club gets a little more suggestive. Like kissing me on the mouth, while the other one is feeling my ass and sticking his hand between my legs. I got that slow panic feeling like I was about to be murdered. Frozen. Me, speechless, too scared to do a thing. I don't want to upset Mel's plans, our future. They start undressing me. They pull me into the bedroom and one of them goes down on me, while the other one tries to force my mouth open to put his joint in.

  “Jane, I gave in! They balled me for hours. Taking turns. Coming all over me. Trying to force me to masturbate. I just lay there numb, waiting for Mel to come back. He never showed up. At ten I got desperate and phoned him at home. No answer. I flew back to school on the afternoon plane and tried to call him all week. He wasn't at his office and there was no one at home.

  “This afternoon I waited for him outside his building. The chauffeur is in the limo by the curb and I say hello to him and get in and wait in the back seat. Mel finally arrives and gets in. He's shocked to see me, presses the button to close the partition and says; Fucking cunt, what the hell are you doing in my car? Jane, I'm in a state of shock. I see a blur, not a man's face. I'm too confused to even speak. I'm surprised that you've got the gall to show your face after that number last week. One thing about Iris, I can trust her with anybody, even five thousand miles away. But a shiksa cunt lets anybody screw her. I finally speak and it wasn't easy. I had no saliva in my mouth.

  “Mel, you set me up with those two men.”

  "Sure I did, because I read your character perfectly. It was a test."

  “To prove what?”

  "That you've got no morals, and women like that sicken me. He picks up the phone and talks to the chauffeur. Charlie, you let anyone in my car again, you're fired, now get this lowlife out of here."

  “I saved Charlie the trouble.... Happy Thanksgiving, Jane.”

  “You can move in with me whenever you like.”

  Once made, the offer stuck in Jane's throat. Why did they all come to her? Where had her strength come from? She also was finding her way in the tortuous curves surrounding her, and at best driving blind. Odd, how they'd reversed roles. Conlon, the stable scholarship girl who'd taught Jane how to study for exams, preached to her about the uses of money, social inequality. A platform of cliches, Jane realized, for Conlon really wanted everything she had.

  “Jane, I love you. I really do.” She squirmed in her seat, turned doleful eyes on her protectress. “I owe you an apology.”

  “About what?”

  “I told Alan. Not intentionally. He wormed it out of me. Said he was worried about the baby and you'd have to leave school for a while and ... well, seeing as he knew, I just came out with it.”

  “But why'd you give him my address?”

  “I swear I didn't. He started screaming at me right on campus and I walked away.”

  “You wouldn't hurt me.”

  “You know that,” she said, horrified by the suggestion.

  * * * *

  Nine people sat around the table while Joe Conlon carved the turkey, and Sally stood at his right heaping sweet potatoes, Brussels sprouts, and cranberry sauce on the plates.

  “I'm going to get you an electric knife for Christmas, Joe,” Jane said.

  “What'll they think of next? Electric teeth so that you don't have to chew.” He severed the drumstick, expertly, and handed the plate to Conlon. “Serve Father first, Patricia.”

  Jane heard the name as though for the first time, studied the freckled face as it smiled at her.

  “This is the last stronghold of the Church,” Conlon said. “The priest comes first.”

  “Thank the Lord for small mercies,” Sally Conlon said, inching closer to the exquisite sea resort which characterized her vision of heaven. Priests were human, but someday she might need the influence they wielded in some celestial lobby, not unlike her husband's back-room politics. Even in paradise something approximating logrolling might come in handy. Father also got an ample supply of giblet gravy, just to be on the safe side.

  “Father, do begin,” Joe said.

  “I can wait till you're all served.”

  Joe Conlon was a small man with a large carbuncular nose, given to catch phrases, uncompromisingly nationalistic, and impossible to argue with for longer than three minutes. He bore with ill grace the last papal housecleaning which removed several of his favorites from the list of saints, and prayed darkly for the day when he'd live to see an Irish pope. The faith needed one to inspire idealism, emotional and outgoing, who could speak English without an accent.

  Jane thought he seemed frail, smaller than she remembered. His skin had a pastiness and his hair gave off the aroma of Bay Rum. Was he simply getting older and disillusioned? Around her, on the walls, on the hutch, were pictures and images of his bedrock faith, along with too many photographs to count of him shaking hands with priests, kissing a bishop's hand, smiling out from a group of nuns like Bing Crosby. She found it overpowering but it was something solid to grab hold of day and night and in early mornings.

  “What religion do you practice, child?” the priest asked her.

  “Me?” She glanced about for another guest. They were all Conlons or cousins of Conlons.

  “Episcopalian,” she replied. “At least I was, the last time I attended church.”

  “When would that be?” Father Burns insisted. Turkey surgery had come to a standstill and Jane basked in the attentive glow of eight sets of unwavering blue eyes.

  “We sound like a really tolerant group,” Conlon said.

  “I think Father's entitled to ask a question.”

  “Let's leave it,” Father Burns said, backing off. The giblet gravy had congealed on his plate. If he didn't make a start now, he could use it to develop film.

  “I don't think my religion is relevant any longer,” Jane said. Then, to mollify the fuchsia faces, added: “Which isn't to say that being Catholic isn't relevant. And being Irish is very relevant,” she concluded, bringing them all back from the wilderness of Channel 13 to CBS, prime-time family-network entertainment. The nods of approval assured her that she'd done a sensational salvage job.

  “What's all the trouble at colleges about?” Frank Conlon asked. He was Conlon's older brother, and supervisor for expediting in a beer company.

  “Dunno, Frank,” Mrs. Conlon replied. The Daily News had never made it clear to her, nor had the miles of TV film coverage. She sat before the set in a stupor waiting for The Flying Nun to bring sanity and belly laughs to a nation without moral fiber.

  “I was meanin’ the girls, Mother.” Frank said.

  “I'm curious, too,” Frank's wife, Erin, asked. “I don't understand why they're occupyin’ buildings when surely they've got dormitories to sleep in.” In a world of self-help, beads, and yoga classes on TV, she had borne six children without the help of breathing exercis
es or natural childbirth, and had reached the age of thirty-two as ignorant of current events as she was of the intrauterine ring.

  “Students are tired of putting up with a lot of archaic senseless regulations that have been on the college books for generations. And they're enforced mindlessly, simply because they are on the books,” Conlon replied.

  “But with all the protestin', you're missin’ the reason for bein’ at college, which is to learn. Am I right, Father?” Caught red-handed with the drumstick in his mouth, Father Burns merely nodded vigorously.

  “The colleges simply have to accept change,” Conlon said peremptorily. “What was good enough for our parents isn't good enough for us. They had to have their freedom controlled and restricted because they didn't know how to use it. We do. We're wiser and more sophisticated.” She had a sinking queasy feeling. Was she talking just to talk, without conviction, hypocritical for the sake of controversy? She dropped her eyes, and thought of the mutual fund team who had come to her like pigs to a trough, and for a moment felt she was going to cry—not sentimentally, for lost innocence, but for simple human abuse, which she could no longer generalize about. It had been an event, a fact, personal and indelible in her life.

  “Going to college used to be a privilege,” Conlon added, “but now it's a right.”

  Difficult to pin down or define, but Jane sensed a slow change that had taken place in the Conlons’ attitude toward their daughter. Or was it the other way around? She hadn't seen any of them since the previous Easter and perhaps she had moved away from them. Affection is constant, love a whore. She didn't love the Conlons any longer.

  “There's no Freedom without Responsibility.” Joe nodded his head, affirming his capitals. “Everybody's complaining in this country—they want, want, but no one's prepared to work for what they want. Lootin', maimin', riots, give me, give me; not what can I give.”

  “Oh, Dad, you sound like one of Nixon's speechwriters,” Conlon said.

  An alarmed and irritated silence encompassed her.

  “I didn't vote for him, but I think he's proved he's worthy. And I'm not ashamed to echo his sentiments.” He waved an arm as though including the universe within the circle made by the knobbly twiglike fingers. “We're all the silent majority.”