by Betsy Berne
The perpetrator had been due, at four o’clock, to discuss the predicament. The early genes and I were hunched in a not-so-dignified pose over a dignified corner table. I’d lost my dignity too many times this week—too many publics. It had been an abyss of too many tables in too many bars and too many restaurants with too much talk. I’d done it all—midtown lunches, downtown dinners, afternoon teas, six o’clock drinks. I was having publics all over town.
A sordid saga can get anyone’s blood up, particularly during a listless city summer. Listless city dwellers love nothing more than to participate in someone else’s sordid saga. But most are too buried in their own skins to slip into another, even momentarily, so the wisdom they offer is usually about their own skins. I was expecting the chorus of “Have the kid” and “Don’t tell him” (and then the pause, and “Who is he, anyway?”) from the squadron of bachelorettes. “It’s your body,” the hard-nosed feminist upstairs had decreed, just as predictably. “Why are you thinking about him? He wasn’t thinking about you. Did he take responsibility?”
“I didn’t either.”
“Take responsibility now!” she yelled.
But when a smaller squadron of bachelors echoed these sentiments, I was astonished. After all, the perpetrator was one of their own. “But how would you feel?” I’d ask, and they’d shrug. Traitors.
My neighbor just repeated, “Fuck him. He’ll never know.”
Even the young marrieds said it. In their eyes he’d done me dirty; they assigned me the role of maiden in distress, and the perpetrator had won the part of the mad killer/rapist. Perry was unsparing: “He’s obviously not from the South. One of our gentlemen would never have shirked his duties. He would have called the next day at the very least. He would have sent roses. Or a telegram. At the very least he would come to your aid now. Through telepathy, if need be. It is his duty. You gave him your prize possession. And you gave him his credit card back! And what did you get? This lover boy—he did you wrong! He should be locked up!” In her eyes I was entitled to revenge. I didn’t agree. I’d been a wildly consenting maiden. Perry just needed to get out more.
I sought out a married elder a decade and a half away from the pack I wasn’t running with—an elder with grown kids and an estranged mate. I anticipated sobering words of wisdom. When I heard yet another “Have the kid” and “Don’t tell him” . . . “You’ll figure it out,” I sagged in my seat and choked on my mint tea.
Only stalwart Victor, cool and comfortable in his wrap trousers and gauze blouse (I was haggard in a limp and soggy sundress) addressed my practical concerns over drinks at a steamy garden bar on the Lower East Side. Sipping rum to the beat of his loyal walking stick tapping against the gravel, he offered his services as au pair, at a bargain rate. I trusted Victor because he was the kind of fatherless son who sought vindication through fierce attachments to children, thus conveniently bypassing fierce attachments to adults. I’m certain that day was a yes day, and we staged big plans.
I seesawed doggedly through yes days and no days in sweaty pursuit of not just a decision but of someone to make the decision. I was having trouble hearing my own mind over the incessant din of my heart and body. My heart and body didn’t usually speak up, much less hold any weight. My mind was trapped in the same circle of thought skipping around like a roulette wheel. The wheel slowed down at yes but never came to a complete stop. And it continued to circle repeatedly back to the perpetrator, to “I have to tell him,” then back to “I know what he’s going to say,” and then to a cowardly “Maybe he’ll help me decide.”
“How would I tell her?” I mused during a six o’clock rerun session with my brother. He’d surprised me, too. It was another giddy yes day, and he was willing to go along.
“Maybe it’s time you two had that little talk. Judging by the situation, you should have had it years ago.”
But my brother had his own problems, and he was losing patience. The overseas concubine had recently joined a cult, the genuine article, and our cult emphatically did not sanction rival cults. When I made the obligatory circle back to “Should I tell him?” my brother answered wearily, without hesitation: “This isn’t a made-for-TV movie. Christ, just tell him.”
So I called the perpetrator. Not just like that. I dawdled. I rehearsed. I wasn’t quite sure who I was going to get or if he’d want to be reminded of me. This was not just a tap-on-the shoulder-at-a-crowded-party kind of reminder. It was an elbow-crack-to-the-head reminder. And what if he thought I was one of the desperate bachelorettes; that I’d calculated this conception?
When he answered the phone, I didn’t stumble over my name, but I did need to pause before continuing cheerfully: “Remember me?”
“Sure I do!” It was a salacious “Sure I do,” and so was the “How are you? What’s going on?” that had followed. An illicit thrill pricked my relief. I scolded myself silently and kept going.
“Well . . . I’m okay. But there’s this problem.” I clung to another pause. “I don’t think I need to spell it out.”
“Oh. I see.” His voice had dropped down to smooth and steady, closing in on hard and polite.
“And, I’m—don’t panic and don’t be mean—but I’m kind of considering keeping it.”
“Oh. Well, that is a problem. I’m—”
“Oh, don’t worry, you wouldn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Is that so? I, ah, I don’t think this sounds like a very good plan. I . . . I couldn’t handle . . . you see, it would haunt me.”
“I know, I mean I knew, I knew how you’d feel, you did mention . . . I haven’t decided what I’m going to do. Everybody told me not to tell you. I didn’t think it was fair.”
“I appreciate that. Oh, wait a minute. Damn it, goddamn it—another call—hold on, wait, I’m expecting an important call, don’t go . . . goddamn it . . . Hello, hello, are you still there?”
“Yes.”
He had regained his composure. “That would make things very, um, uncomfortable for me. I couldn’t live with that. I . . .”
“You wouldn’t consider it, not even as a kind gesture?” What had come over me? This was serious. Blame it on the hormones. I heard a laugh, a soft, dry sound. The wavelength was still intact. I continued in a rush. “Do you think we could get together and discuss it?” That was not in the script either.
“Yes. Listen, I have to be downtown at six for an appointment. Oh, Christ, another call, this may be . . . Christ . . . just a minute, just a minute, hold on. I apologize for the interruptions. How about four-thirty . . . ah, no, make it four. Where would you like to meet?”
“I don’t know. I’m not very good with decisions.”
•
The rain had become a drizzle. A couple of dripping shoppers had come in with their packages and had caused a slight stir among the few regulars in the bar. I sucked down a soda to steady myself. I was dealing with a pro. I had to remember it was up to me, as the hard-nosed feminist upstairs had repeatedly pointed out. I had the upper hand. And I mustn’t forget to brace myself against the insidious charm.
He was standing there when I turned from the window, slightly damp in a loose linen suit, carrying—not a briefcase, not him—but a crumpled tabloid. He smiled a warm, rueful smile involuntarily. I tried to disguise my own. He was slight, maybe even shorter than me. He’d loomed giant in my mind because I was accustomed to giants, I preferred giants. He looked older, too, closing in on the fifth decade rather than the fourth. I’d forgotten his worn face with the jagged planes not quite connecting, but I hadn’t forgotten his stance, the belligerent, chin-jutting stance of a little boy that did me in. I hadn’t forgotten his eyes either, dark and steady. They no longer looked so steady; they looked wary.
“Sorry I’m late. The rain.” He said, still standing.
“Oh, don’t worry. I could tell you were the late type.” I laughed, more to myself. “I’m the early type, you know, my people. Your people are usually the late types. It’s a genetic thin
g. Even if you have mixed genes, late genes dominate. And I know some other things about you. I could tell you’d be late—”
“Wait a minute. The rain, midtown—I couldn’t get a cab. I mean it’s true there was a time when I could get away with—rather I used to be . . . and that’s why I’m never—”
“It doesn’t matter. I just got here anyway.” I laughed again. Nervous laughter—one of the family traits I may have neglected to mention.
He sat down in the hard chair at the end of the table and ordered wine for both of us. I was still hunched over on the red leather banquette, and I straightened up to make moving away from him seem less obvious. He looked at me quizzically.
“Why are you laughing?” he said finally.
“Aren’t you glad I’m not crying?”
“I can handle a woman crying.” He reprimanded me with the long gaze I couldn’t forget. I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t nervous anymore. I was just woozy. “I was going to call you,” he continued. “I’ve been away for three weeks, back in Paris, you know, doing some business. I’m talking to some people about starting a record company, so I’m back and forth a lot. Have you been trying to call me? There were quite a few hang-ups on—”
“It must’ve been some other girl.” He did the gaze again, and I blushed. “No, I wasn’t sure I was ever going to call. I thought you’d be mean. I thought you’d blame me. Everybody told me not to tell you.” It was happening all over again, the loose-lipped phenomenon.
“It’s hardly a question of blame. We’re not exactly teenagers. But what led you to believe I was going to be mean? What’s that about? And who is everybody?”
“I don’t know why. And everybody, I don’t mean everybody—just a couple of people.” I took a long guzzle of wine, and something came over me. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“Would you care to be specific? Who exactly are these people? And my reputation, that’s bullshit.” The soft dry laugh. “Christ, you’re talking when I was a kid, mid-thirties, for God’s sake, right off the boat from Paris, in the middle of a divorce and arrogant as hell. Well, sure I played around.” He studied me with the eyes that had become more darkly inscrutable, and his mouth tightened.
“I just told some friends. I had to. They wouldn’t even know who you are anymore—you’ve been gone a long time by New York standards—don’t flatter yourself.” I giggled nervously. “I wasn’t trying to . . . I wasn’t thinking about it like that. You can trust me.” The words kept coming, but they were as much of a surprise to me as they probably were to him.
“I do trust you. I trusted you instinctively when we met.” He murmured it in the lullaby voice.
My control snapped. I watched helplessly as my body sidled closer to his braced in the hard chair. “You know, you should be careful. You must have an extraordinarily high sperm count, and there are a lot of women my age out there on a sperm hunt.” I went on. I told him that my neighbor had warned me about him, how we’d laughed so many laughs over that night, about the imaginary plan we’d hatched, the blackmail plan when the love child was an imaginary love child. I thought he’d appreciate a blackmail plan, but I may have been mistaken. He managed the soft dry laugh, but it was turning sour and it didn’t last long.
When he spoke, it was in a taut voice I didn’t recognize, and he looked past me to the door: “I think I told you. I never found out who my father was. When my parents split, he became a nonsubject—persona non grata. My mother’s family, they didn’t approve of him, he wasn’t ‘a professional’—they were an old bourgeois family entrenched in academia. Stultifying. They cut her off when I was born. We never talked about it.” I could only see his profile. He’d raised his chin higher. “You seem to think you know all about me, but you don’t. Marriage was not on the agenda, I can assure you . . . it wasn’t . . . well, for one thing, it didn’t make sense as a musician, especially back when I was on the road. But when children became involved, it became something else. My second marriage—both of my marriages—were results of pregnancies—errors. I can live with that. I couldn’t live with the idea that there was a child of mine out there I couldn’t . . . couldn’t protect.”
“Come on. What you’re most interested in protecting is your marriage. But I don’t think anyone would necessarily have to find out who—”
“Don’t be absurd. You know how people talk in this town. And you may be right. It might . . . create problems in my marriage. But I’m not just talking about myself. Or my family. Or you. What about the child? Are you prepared to impose this on a child? Are you aware of the consequences? Oh, never mind. It would ruin me. For many other reasons. Personal reasons, reasons you also don’t know about, reasons you couldn’t possibly know about.” He’d forgotten, or he was counting on me to forget? I was one of the few people who did know the story. About the original other woman, the singer in Paris. The one with the kid he never knew he had until he didn’t exist anymore.
My own face was blank, but the bottle of olive oil I was gripping under the table had been stripped of its tissue-thin identity. I relented. “I haven’t decided anything. I can’t really afford it. But this may be my last chance—my heart and everything. Then there’s painting. I don’t know. I still don’t know what I’m going to do.” An abbreviated version of the two-week-old morass shifting back and forth in my head followed.
“Why don’t you adopt? Why don’t you adopt a Chinese baby?”
“I don’t want to adopt a Chinese baby, and I don’t have the stupid twenty thousand dollars anyway.” I couldn’t focus with the racket in my head, and the wine wasn’t helping. “You already have everything you want. I don’t yet.” I looked at him half accusingly and half pleading.
“That’s not true. I don’t have nearly enough dough. Not with a kid in New York, an ex-wife, and another kid in Paris. You can never have enough money, can you? Your people know about that, don’t they?” He laughed sardonically. “You’re not stupid. You’ve been around. You think I enjoy running a club that’s jive, hiring charlatan musicians?”
For a moment he let me look into his eyes, and I detected damage—and hurt—no matter how impenetrable they seemed. They made me docile. Our eyes made a silent pact right then. Silently, we stowed away the same layers of subterfuge that had vanished instantly that first night—when we’d glimpsed something of ourselves in each other. We didn’t stop talking. No, we gained momentum and we danced back and forth in our natural rhythm. I floated and forgot, and he joined me gracefully. It was too easy. We became masters at self-deception, masters at denying what drew us to the courtly bar at four o’clock on a rainy afternoon in May. We rolled out our common obscurities, and we judged our judgments. We went back to the old days: He talked about his glory years when he was based in Paris; I told him about following my fledgling brother like a lapdog to the concerts in the ramshackle lofts and the shoddy clubs that weren’t yet crammed with sleek people and cash registers louder than the music. I confessed that I never could go the distance at those clubs—even in my twenties I had to be rudely awakened at four A.M. when the music finally petered out—and he confessed that he’d never felt so right as he had in those early years in Paris, when the music was starting to really happen and he was never in one place for long.
“One night in the early eighties, it was one of the last gigs we played,” he was saying. “My band closed down this club in Paris—it wasn’t the trio, it was the five of us, cello, sax, trumpet, drums—we were just hanging afterward, and Prince before he wasn’t Prince came in with his boys, they started playing, and we fucked around.”
Why didn’t you just keep playing? I knew better than to ask. Instead I supplied enthusiastic “Really?”s at the appropriate pauses until he stopped short and looked at me. Cocking his head sideways, he said flippantly, “Today, did you remember what I looked like?”
I froze. “No. Sort of. A little. Oh, I don’t know. Not really.” Of course I remembered him, maybe not so much the jagged angles of his face,
but I remembered his eyes and I remembered his every word and I remembered how he made me feel.
“Did you?” I said. “Remember what I looked like?”
“Oh, yes, I remembered what you looked like. I haven’t spent a night like that in a long, long time. Have you?” His eyes were on my fidgeting hands.
“Kind of, but it was different, I didn’t even like the guy, I was just . . . oh, I don’t know, it was different.” Trying not to believe that the night had meant something to him, I only half listened, overcome by hopelessness and fear.
“You bite your fingernails.” He took my hand. “I didn’t notice. You bite them so evenly.”
“So?” He shouldn’t have touched me. My hopelessness became petulance. “Don’t you?”
“No. How come they’re so even?”
“Practice, hours of practice. In the hierarchy of habits, I wouldn’t call it a particularly harmful one, would you? Don’t you have habits?”
“Yes,” he answered softly. “Maybe one or two. Not too many left anymore.” He looked at his watch, then abruptly signaled for the check. “I have to get going; it’s close to six.” Then he softened again. “Well, we managed to have fun, didn’t we?” He was still unable to look at me.
