The Seducers

by Martin Shepard

  Jonas believed he was functioning commendably here, too. Wayne reported that he went to a dinner party the night before and insulted nobody.

  “I hope,” he quipped, “that this recent burst of compassion doesn’t adversely affect my job.”

  The rented car was delivered shortly after nine-thirty, just as Wayne was leaving. Great timing. This was a day where everything fell into place, broke right, had a happy ending. And to top it all off, he, Jonas, would slip quietly into bed and lie with Phoebe. Wouldn’t she be surprised to see him. Rescheduling his Thursday and Friday morning patients into the first three days of the week was worth it.

  The drive was fast and uneventful. A Dodge Charger didn’t handle like a Mercedes, but that made him appreciate his own machine all the more. Nor did the sudden, violent thunder squall that erupted when he passed the Hampton Bays exit slow him down. Rain wouldn’t dampen his spirits. Not tonight. He would be home before eleven-twenty. Perhaps Phoebe would still be awake.

  The lights were on in the house when he arrived, but the Mercedes wasn’t there. An anguished premonition overcame him: that the car was damaged in an accident. He walked swiftly upstairs, turned the key in the kitchen door, and heard Channel 8’s newscasters talking in his darkened bedroom. The door was ajar.

  Homing in on the sounds coming from the television set, he slipped into the room, saw his wife covered by the bedsheet, and was relieved that she, at least, was safe. He would wake her in his own way. Time to worry about the car later.

  He returned to the living room to switch off the lights. Then to the bathroom to brush his teeth and undress. Moving silently back to the bedroom, he draped his pants neatly over the high-backed chair, turned the sound down on the set but left the picture tube on. Its glow provided an intimate, soft light. Bending over the huddled figure, he pulled down the sheet and.…

  Liza!

  She awoke with a start. “Mommy?”

  Jonas pulled away—surprised and disoriented—but recovered sufficiently to quiet his daughter’s sleep-roused fright.

  “It’s only me. Don’t be scared.”

  “Daddy? What are you doing here? You weren’t supposed to arrive ’til Friday.”

  “Thought I’d quit work early and surprise you,” he laughed, going to the closet for a robe. “I sure did, too.”

  “Guess I fell asleep watching TV.” She rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Eleven-thirty.”

  “Oh. Mom told me not to wait up. Said she’d be home around midnight.”

  So that was it. That’s why the car was missing. He heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Where’d she go? The movies?”

  “No. Carlo called and said there were some new pictures he was painting and wanted you both to see them. She left after supper.… What time did you say it was again?”

  “Eleven-thirty.”

  “Mucho late for me,” Liza yawned, showing off her new vocabulary. “Glad someone’s back. I don’t like being here alone too much. The house makes so many funny noises. I think I’ll go back down to bed.”

  She threw her arms around her father’s neck, gave him a kiss, and shuffled downstairs to her room.

  Too bad he hadn’t called about his change of plans. He’d have liked to see Carlo again, too. It would have been easy to stop off in East Moriches as he drove out. Ah, well. Another time.

  Jonas turned off the television set. Late-night movies were not for him. Besides which, Phoebe would be back before the film ended.

  He walked into the kitchen, heated some water and made himself a cup of instant coffee. Then it was back to the living room, where he marked time by scanning several back issues of New York Magazine. At twelve-thirty he switched to The Village Voice.

  The copy was interesting. Funny how he rarely read any of the periodicals he subscribed to. He wondered if the same was true of other readers. Wouldn’t that be interesting. A study, perhaps. The Psychology of Subscriptions. But his mind was only creating diversions as he awaited her arrival.

  One-ten. Should he call Carlo? Find out if she’d left? Why shouldn’t she be late? She couldn’t know he’d be waiting and worrying and Liza, she knew, would be asleep. Might there be an accident? Don’t be silly. She’s probably just having some fun in adult company. It must be a bit boring for her alone out here, without him.

  Might there be another?… Stupid, neurotic thought. Jealous of his wife? Why? Life with her had also taken a decided upswing.

  True, for the past half-year she’d been morose, caustic, and generally unavailable to him. When he’d ask what was wrong the answer was always a curt “Nothing.” Eventually his inquiries ceased. Then, just as inexplicably as it began, her mood lifted. Since the gallery opening this past weekend she’d been marvelous. Phoebe was again her old self; cordial, conversational and loving.

  No. He’d definitely not phone. His surprise would stand. But he was getting tired. He rubbed his face, felt the stubble, and decided to shave. Phoebe always liked smooth cheeks and it would give him something to do; something active to prevent him from dozing off.

  He went to the bathroom, turned on the light, opened the medicine cabinet and reached for his safety razor. As his hand came out, it brushed against a container of talcum. Several items came tumbling out. He picked the talc and a bottle of aspirins from the sink. Then he noticed the blue plastic case that had fallen to the floor. It lay open.

  The surprise tonight turned out to be his, not Phoebe’s. Stunned and unbelieving, he realized that her diaphragm case was empty.

  Later, when he could think more clearly, he remembered sitting motionless on the edge of the tub, leaving the case on the dining room table, dressing while wondering whether to wear his windbreaker or corduroy jacket, giving his sleeping daughter a good-bye kiss, watering the plants, and the damp night air on his face as he left the house and started the car.

  But for the moment, Jonas was in a fugue state; moving without thought; idiosyncrasy and instinct replacing reason. Had he been able to consider the moves that followed with dispassion and logic, it is unlikely that he would ever have acted as he did.

  9

  How long Arlene’s phone had rung was uncertain. Equally doubtful was whether she would reach it in time. Roused from a deep sleep, she stumbled out of bed, stubbed a toe while crossing the transom of the bedroom, and limpingly made her darkened way toward the living room.

  Anger at the harshness of the intruding ring, fear that a call this late meant trouble, and wonder concerning who it might be propelled her. At this point, the greatest frustration would be if the caller hung up before the connection were completed.

  “Arlene?” It was a man’s voice. Familiar but not quite placeable.

  “Yes?”

  “Can you see me?”

  “Oh?” She stalled for time; too embarrassed to acknowledge not recognizing who it was. “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Where are you?” Sleep-ridden, she could think of no other response.

  “Sixth Avenue. By some grocery store … Balducci’s.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Ten after three.”

  What sort of lunatic goes around phoning for a date at this hour in the morning? But before she could say anything, the voice continued:

  “I know it’s late. Sorry about that. But you’ve always said you wanted more realness in our relationship; that you wanted something reciprocal. Okay. This time I need to see you.”

  She flopped onto the sofa, the receiver still in her hand, stunned, puzzled, delighted and confused. It was Jonas Lippman. But hadn’t she just seen him this afternoon?

  “Are you there?” he asked, when she failed to respond.

  “Yes … yes. Of course. You’ve got the address?”

  “120 West Third.”

  “It’s apartment 8. Up three flights and the last door on the right as you head toward the rear.”

  A pause. Then, “Thanks.”

  Balducci’s.
That’s on Ninth Street. Only six blocks down to her place. He’d be here before she could get her bearings.

  Arlene flipped on the overhead light, blinked, squinted, and shut it off again. Too harsh. She walked back to the bedroom and turned a tensor reading lamp on low. Much better. Then to her closet for a cotton shift, to the bathroom to brush her teeth and her hair, and finally back to the hallway to answer the buzz on the outer door, wait a moment, then open the apartment as she heard his footsteps climb the stairs.

  The sight of him threw her. It was not the self-possessed, softly smiling analyst but a rerun of a telecast she’d recently seen of a numbed and dazed father, his dress hasty and disheveled, who’d just seen his house and family destroyed in a fearsome blaze.

  “Thanks,” he said again, as he stepped inside and stood, dumbly and awkwardly, in the hallway. She moved behind him, closed and locked the door.

  “Let me take your jacket.”

  He reached for the zipper, pulled it down as if in a trance, and moved his shoulders back as Arlene removed the windbreaker. His shirttails were half out and his belt missing.

  “You look frightful. What’s up? I thought you were leaving for the Hamptons tonight. Aren’t you starting your vacation?”

  “Do me a favor, would you?” he asked in a hesitant, despondent tone.

  “Sure. Anything.”

  “Don’t ask me any questions. Just put me up for the night. If you don’t want to, that’s okay, too. Give me the word and I’ll go. But if you let me stay, let’s not talk. I’ll explain later.”

  “Want some coffee?”

  “No. Just some touching.”

  He stretched out his arms and that was the end of their conversation. Arlene pulled him close, granting his wish while avoiding his vacant, far-off gaze. She discovered a wellspring of protectiveness; a desire to shield him from whatever it was that threatened and to sustain him during this night of silence.

  Sleeping with Jonas as his patient was one thing. Taking a needful man to her bed another. But compassion emboldened her, allowing Arlene to transcend shyness and their sudden reversal of roles. Leading him to her room, she undid his clothes while he stood woodenly, removed her shift, and took him to bed.

  10

  Jonas awoke to the press of a full bladder and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. The alarm on the bureau registered nine fifty-five. He yawned, stretched, sniffed, got out of bed, plodded down the hallway to the bathroom and relieved himself in the sink. Rinsing the bowl with cold water, he splashed a further brace in his face, then ran his hand through his hair so as to arrange it after his short night’s sleep. Too short. His spirits fell as yesterday’s memories returned.

  A hanger, hooked over the bedroom door, held his carefully draped pants and shirt. Slipping into his clothes, Jonas removed his necklace, watch and wallet from the bedstand and headed for the living room–kitchen, the only other room in the small but neatly furnished flat.

  An electric percolator, its red light aglow, was plugged in on the counter. The round oak table was set for one. There was a glass of orange juice, a bowl of granola, an empty cup, a quart container of milk, one fresh apple, utensils, a sugar bowl, napkin, and a folded note. He picked it up and read:

  To Jonas Lippman

  for services rendered, July 31, 1975

  $50

  Dr. Arlene Lewis

  Affection suffused him, dissolving, temporarily, his early morning gloom. Her “bill” served to remind him of his own advice to despondent patients: Despair is a matter of focus.

  He would try to appreciate what he had, not what he’d lost. Last night, when he needed to be held, Arlene held him. He wanted comforting and company and she provided both.

  He poured coffee, drank his juice, sliced the apple atop the cereal, added milk, and ate. It was decided. He would think of Arlene, not Phoebe.

  But how could she deceive him so? And to invite her lover over to the house? Where were the warnings? It was so abrupt. So unexpected. So unfair.

  Another cup of coffee. That’s what he wanted. How kind of Arlene to leave breakfast for him. He pictured her rising, moving about carefully so as not to rouse him, and preparing his meal. Once more the fondness behind her efforts dispelled his mounting turmoil.

  He finished his second coffee, cleared the table, washed the dishes, and put the milk back in the refrigerator. What to do next? The telephone lay beyond the table alongside the faded olive velvet-covered couch.

  “McNaughton’s.” The receptionist’s cheerful tone seemed artificial.

  “Arlene Lewis, please,” he asked.

  “Ringing.”

  Then her voice. Measured and thoughtful.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi. It’s your boarder.”

  “Jonas.” It was said with a rush of delight. Then, more cautiously, “How are you feeling this morning?”

  “Better, thanks to you.”

  “Good.”

  “I owe you an explanation.”

  “You don’t owe me anything. I was glad to help.”

  “Are you free for lunch?”

  “I think,” she answered in a coy and inviting way, “that can be arranged.”

  “Swell.” He was genuinely relieved. “Where and when?”

  “How about P. J. Clarke’s at noon—if you can get up here that early.”

  “No problem. Should I make reservations?”

  “I’d better do that. After seventy-two editorial luncheons, the headwaiter finally knows me.”

  “All right. See you then.”

  There was just enough time to return home, shower, change his clothes, run downstairs to his office, and check the answering machine. No messages. Damn Phoebe! She didn’t even have the decency to call. He picked up the microphone and left a new recording, no longer giving a forwarding number in Long Island but simply stating he was out of the office “and if you leave a message, I’ll get back to you when I return.” Then he remembered the car. He’d left it in some garage last night. Time to turn it in after lunch. He retrieved the stub from his windbreaker and was outside once more, hailing another taxicab and arriving at P.J.’s five minutes late.

  Elbowing through the crowd that had started to assemble at the long wooden bar, he moved toward the back room. Arlene was there, standing beside the maître d’s desk.

  “Five minutes late,” she frowned, looking at her watch with studied seriousness. “Tell me. Could this be some resistance to therapy?”

  He smiled sheepishly, hearing an old line of his repeated, and shook his head no. Arlene took his hand and they followed a waiter to their table.

  “Will you have anything to drink?” he asked, seating them. Jonas nodded inquiringly toward Arlene.

  “A Bloody Mary.”

  “Make it two.”

  “So.…” she said, after the order had been taken. “What’s happening?”

  And it all came out. His trip home. The waiting. Being totally unprepared for what he found. Sitting at the small table, covered like the others with red and white checkered cotton cloth, Arlene asking the key questions, and Jonas supplying, as best he could, the answers.

  “How did you feel?… What did you think?… Why would she do it?… Have you tried to talk to her?”

  They were finishing their third drink when their lunches arrived. Alcohol and cathartic conversation had already worked their magic, enabling Jonas to thoroughly enjoy a most delicious omelette. Along with another Bloody Mary.

  He looked around the room, trying to focus. Couples at other tables were conversing, eating, laughing, or staring into space. What, he wondered, were they talking about? What was he talking about? His preoccupations seemed superfluous; one of many inconsequential dialogues exaggerated beyond proportion.

  Moving in his seat, he felt woozy. He stared at one particularly attractive blonde seated across from him. Then at Arlene. Equally beautiful.

  “And what are your immediate plans?”

  Her warm smile, friendly e
yes and full interest had his complete attention.

  “To spend more time with you.”

  When the waiter presented the bill to Arlene, Jonas reached for it. “No. This meal’s on McNaughton’s,” she insisted, equally tipsy and mellow.

  “Then I shall take you out for dinner.”

  “You’re on,” she answered.

  As they rose to leave she suddenly remembered a date she’d made with Al Newfield.

  “Who’s he?”

  “Don’t you remember? My next-door neighbor. The one I just went out with.”

  “Ah, yes. The attorney. Well, you’ll just have to cancel it.”

  “Just what I was thinking.”

  They stumbled and wove toward the phone and both clambered into the narrow booth.

  “Got a dime?” she asked.

  He handed her two. “One for Al Newfield and one for McNaughton’s. You’re too drunk to go back to work this afternoon.”

  “Just what I was thinking,” she said again, erupting in laughter.

  Arlene took a pocket-sized phone book from her purse, turned to N, gave the book to Jonas, dropped a dime in the slot, and dialed the number as he pointed to it.

  “Hello, Al?… It’s me. Arlene.… Listen. I can’t make it tonight.… No. I’m all right.” She covered the mouth piece and giggled at Jonas. “I’ve got a therapy session.…

  “Yes. I am through.… But this isn’t my session. I’m ministering to a sick psychiatrist.”

  Jonas doubled over with laughter as she cupped the receiver in her hand. Then, more somberly:

  “No. It’s not some strange psychiatrist. It’s my psychiatrist.”

  More hilarity.

  “Sure I’m fine … a bit drunk perhaps. But that’s all.… Okay.… Sure.… Speak to you soon.”

  Next came the call to McNaughton’s. It was Jonas’ turn.

  “This is Dr. Lippman. I’m calling for Arlene Lewis. She’s ill and won’t be in this afternoon.… No. Nothing that serious.… Gastritis. She should be back by Monday.”

  They were both laughing when they hit the street, united in the oneness of shared deviltry.

  A cab stopped in front of them and they got in. Jonas handed the driver the garage receipt. At the garage he arranged to have an attendant return the car to Avis, being in no condition to drive it himself. The Waverly movie house was at the end of the block. On impulse, they went in. It was a comedy. The Mad Adventures of Rabbi Jacob. They giggled, howled and cried themselves to exhaustion and sat through the film twice. The second time around they held hands and slipped into mild petting. Once, realizing what they were doing and where they were, they broke into another round of laughter.