The Seducers

by Martin Shepard

  “I see.”

  “You don’t see at all. If you did, you wouldn’t be standing there judging me so severely.”

  Jonas’ icy and remote stare frightened her. With Carlo gone, with no prospects in mind, with a week of sleeping alone in a double bed, she was not inclined toward brusqueness. Particularly if there was any chance of making their marriage work.

  “Can I fix you something?” She gestured toward the kitchen.

  “I didn’t come to eat. I came to find out whether there was any reason to continue.”

  “And is there?” A soft, imploring tone masked whatever challenge her words implied.

  “You tell me. Tell me what I don’t understand.”

  It was too intense—his standing there in tight-lipped, silent accusation—and her eyes sought the comfort of the floor.

  “You have to understand what Carlo meant to me; why, after so many years of being Mrs. Jonas Lippman, I could entertain another man.”

  “Try me.” He reached in his pocket, took out a pack of cigarettes, tore it open, and stuck one in his mouth. Missing matches, Jonas strode toward the lighter that sat on the glass and chrome coffee table in front of the couch. At least he’d entered the room and sat down. That was some sign of progress.

  “May I have a cigarette?” she asked.

  “I didn’t know you’d taken up smoking.”

  There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Phoebe thought. “I haven’t ordinarily. But this is an extraordinary situation.”

  Jonas tossed the pack on the table and Phoebe lit up, puffing hurriedly, disappointed that he hadn’t extended the smoke with more chivalry. Silence awaited her explanation.

  “It was something different. That was the big thing about it. Something to break the sort of deadly tedium I was in.”

  “Tedium? You never complained about that. I assumed that with the houses, your dance lessons, Liza, friends, you had plenty of outlets.”

  “Yes. I did, but it was all so overwhelmingly routine. Here I was, approaching forty, married to a decent man, living a very comfortable life, and yet I was being ground into the dust of sameness. And I didn’t feel I could complain to you about that. It wasn’t your fault, really.

  “I was bored, don’t you see? You could have been Robert Redford, Aristotle Onassis, Rudolph Valentino, or Prince Rainier, and I would still have been bored.

  “You had your work. You were involved. I had nothing other than as your wife. I was an extension of you, that’s all. At least it felt that way.

  “But when I met Carlo, and he pursued me, my God. What flattery. What a delicious feeling to be entering middle age and have another man find you irresistible. What a change from playing housewife, mother, second fiddle to a psychoanalytic practice.…”

  Her voice trailed off as she ground the cigarette out, arose from her chair, and began pacing behind the sofa. Jonas turned to face her.

  “And.…” His look was skeptical, but more accepting.

  “And I felt a great excitement at first. I felt more sexual than I had in a long time.” Seeing Jonas wince, she quickly sought to reassure him. “Again, it had nothing to do with you, for you had always satisfied me as a lover. It was the novelty; the romance of it all. And I needed that desperately.

  “Then, of course, the complications set in. The weighing, judging, comparing. The irritability that flowed from trying to juggle two relationships; from not knowing which offered the best hope of fulfillment. And I hated that, hated what I was doing to me and to you.” She leaned against the mantelpiece, looking imploringly at him, hoping he understood.

  “When you left, I didn’t know what to think; what to do. At first I was strangely elated—the relief one feels from having a situation resolve itself. At the same time I felt lousy about it. Terrible that we couldn’t talk it out, be more grown-up with one another. I called the house a number of times but you weren’t in. Eventually I left a message on your office phone.

  “I was worried, didn’t know where you were, felt too embarrassed to look for you. Carlo sensed it and got me off the hook when he went into the city today.”

  She caught her breath, noticed a look of discomfort cross Jonas’ face, and asked, “Where were you all that time?”

  “Out. With someone.”

  Her eyes widened with surprise as she attempted to digest this news. “I’ll be damned,” she laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “That you’ve been carrying on, too, and are making such a fuss about me.”

  “You didn’t expect me to join a monastic order, did you?”

  It relieved her sense of impropriety to know that he was guilty of the same crime. Who, though, was the other woman? Phoebe was aware of her jealousy and curiosity but felt she’d delay any further inquiries for a later date. This was his night to press for answers. If he stayed, she’d have her turn tomorrow.

  “It’s nearly eleven,” she said, looking at the wall clock. “You’re not planning on going back to the city tonight, are you?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  It was one of those questions that went far beyond the specifics of this night. What should she tell him? Go? Stay? Indecision or neutrality would not work this time.

  “I think …” she hesitated, “I would like you to stay.”

  “Why?”

  My, but he was playing hard to get. What was this, an inquisition? Still, she guessed he was entitled to greater specificity.

  “Because of our history together,” she continued, settling back into the green velour armchair that flanked the sofa. “Twenty years is not something to dismiss lightly.

  “Then there’s Liza. She feels the strain of our separation.

  “And the affair with Carlo is over.”

  Two clichés, real nonetheless, and a third event that she had no control over. Yet she hoped they would be accepted. Wasn’t that peculiar, too. Phoebe had wanted her freedom for months, finally gained it, and found the experience no more satisfying than marriage. Maybe, if she stuck with it a bit longer.… But tonight, seeing him once more, she was not prepared to do that. Matrimony was like a drug addiction. It numbed her senses, led her nowhere, but when the dealer knocked upon her door she found it hard to reject a fix.

  “And love?” Jonas asked. “Do you have any love left for me?”

  “As much,” she answered, regretting that question more than any of the others, “as I can love anyone right now.”

  This vague truth, implying some future hopefulness yet promising nothing, was sufficient cause for Jonas to remove his jacket. She believed she’d turned the corner.

  “And you?” Phoebe asked. “Do you see any reasons to go on?”

  He leaned forward, talking flatly, as though he’d thought of the answer many times before.

  “If there is some affection and respect, yes. For all the reasons you’ve mentioned. But if it’s going to be more bullshit, more lies, more short-temperedness and unavailability on your part, no.”

  Funny. When he was abrupt or made demands, she warmed toward him; when he was pliable she felt resentful. Rising, she moved behind him, felt a sexual rush, and placed her hands gently on his shoulders.

  “I’ve missed you. Come to bed. Let’s see if we can work it out.”

  14

  It was the last week of August, a month of endless days and rainy weekends that made escape from the city impractical. And if Arlene had managed to leave New York’s sweltering, trash-filled streets behind, would that have made a difference? Unlikely, for she could not avoid the clutter in her mind. Striking workers did return to clear the refuse. But who would clean the first week of August from her memory? Replays of love-filled nights encroached upon her. It was impossible to enjoy current realities.

  Too many barbiturates made waking up a chore. She didn’t particularly like the idea of taking two or three Seconals a night. But what other choice did she have? If not for those capsules she’d never get to sleep. If she didn’t sleep she w
ouldn’t be alert enough to work. And if she lost her job? The thought made her shudder.

  It wasn’t only the morning-after drug effect that made rousing so difficult. Aside from her work, there was little to look forward to during her waking hours. Nor was her job as fulfilling as it used to be. The week she’d lived with Jonas had introduced new feelings and new experiences. Sharing dinners, daily contacts, a common bed—all the little acts of caring and being cared for—made a return to her former level of austere isolation even more difficult.

  Arlene’s present reverie was of that first night he spent at her home. It was all so unexpected. How different their lovemaking had been. This was not laboratory sex as therapy where reactions were studied with microscopic vision and the caring onesided, sterile, and under professional auspices. She was touched by his needs and her need to give. Holding, kissing, comforting—all with seemingly unlimited time—was a far cry from their fifty-minute copulations. The luxuriousness of it, the tender moments interspersed between passion, made her melt as never before, made her.…

  Persistent ringing from her extension phone snapped her back to the present. She put the receiver to her ear.

  “Hello. It’s Al.”

  “Al?” She knew it was Newfield but resented his calling.

  “You know more than one?” he answered with good nature. “It’s your neighbor and constant admirer.”

  Time stopped as she tried to formulate her response. She appreciated his kindnesses and interest but ever since Jonas, she had no desire to see other men. Arlene disliked feeling either obliged to physically respond to his attentions or guilty for taking his favors and his time while keeping at arm’s length. Even if he wished nothing more than companionship.

  “How are you?” was the best she could come up with.

  “Okay. But I’d feel even better if you’d have dinner with me tonight.”

  “Tonight?… That’s rough. I’ve got a book I’m working on and a deadline.”

  “Well,” he tried again, undaunted and understanding, “how about tomorrow?”

  “Same problem.”

  “When will you be free?”

  A trace of pain in his voice caught her ear and against her better judgment she suggested that he call her Friday.

  “Okay. I don’t want to keep you. The sooner you finish your work the sooner we can celebrate.”

  Arlene could picture Al’s bearing; like an aging, unsuccessful Tupperware salesman who’s just managed to book another houseparty.

  Why was it Al? Every time her phone rang, she expected to hear from Jonas. Another reason not to leave her apartment evenings. She knew she was caught, like an adolescent schoolgirl, waiting for calls that never came.

  Retraction. Seldom came. He’d phoned her once, each of the first two weeks, to ask how she was doing. “Fine,” she’d answer, reluctant to act the part of a jealous woman. After all, she had initially proffered a simple friendship. If her feelings were now getting in the way, she would conquer them with logic. He’d never proposed anything more permanent. He was her friend, too. Why introduce poisonous attitudes into their comradeship?

  As a friend, though, she’d ask how he was doing. “Tough going,” would be the essence of his cryptic replies. He wasn’t really enjoying himself but had, “for everyone’s sake,” to see how it worked out.

  And so she remained with one foot propped upon the hill of hope and the other mired in a bucket of despair.

  Today was Wednesday, August twenty-eighth, three weeks since she’d last seen him. Next Wednesday, on September fourth, she’d resume her therapy sessions. Perhaps she ought to increase the frequency of these meetings. Thrice weekly? Four times? Therapy, hell! She’d see him. That was the important thing. Soon she’d get a better sense of what was happening, share reactions face to face, question the nature and future of their relationship.

  The realization that this long and lonely separation would shortly end buoyed her on this muggy afternoon as she sat, editing a manuscript on The Meaning of Intimacy, in her air-conditioned office on the twenty-seventh floor.

  Intimacy n. 1. the state or fact of being intimate; intimate association, familiarity 2. an intimate act, especially illicit sexual intercourse: a euphemism.

  Webster’s New World Dictionary

  So began the book. And what type of intimacy was she involved in? One of great closeness or merely illicit sex? The question reached to the heart of her preoccupations. Does a close friend suddenly stop calling? Could a psychiatrist turned lover become a therapist again? Would she have to pay for personal conversations that were freely exchanged this summer?

  “Stop the distractions,” she ordered herself, “and get back to your editing.”

  At five-thirty, she walked the four long blocks to Fifth Avenue and caught a bus back to the Village. The subway would be faster but it was too suffocating. Besides which, what did she have to do other than prepare her supper, read a bit, watch the eleven o’clock news on television and, hopefully, sleep? Buses, too, were conducive to daydreams. Daydreams and night dreams were, presently, the only life activity that interested her.

  Permanence. That was her favorite one. She and Jonas would be reunited and live happily ever after. An idle fantasy? Who was to say? Hadn’t Elaine May married her analyst? Improbable things happen all the time. That was one of Jonas’ concepts. “If you doubt that,” he once told her, “just read the daily papers.” Yes. Why not. Perhaps he’d even be waiting for her when she returned home.

  “It couldn’t work,” he’d say as he met her. “I’m no longer in love with Phoebe. You’re the one I want to be with.”

  Downtown, she stopped at the grocery, picked up a six-pack of beer and a frozen chicken pot pie. Tonight’s dinner. Nothing fancy, just shit food. Then to her building. No Jonas. Check the mailbox. A letter. From him! The adrenalin flowed, a rush of color came to her face and she ran up the stairs smiling, package tucked under her arm, like some exuberant tomboy carrying a football.

  Out of breath, she fumbled for her key, opened the door, shut it behind her, placed the groceries and her purse on the kitchen table, poured herself a stiff gin and tonic, sat down, opened the envelope and read.

  As fog, by the seashore, can suddenly obscure the moon, her expression was replaced by a dark and disbelieving look. She put the letter down, crumpled it, took another drink, unfolded it, and read again; as if, by this act, she might change its content.

  Dear Arlene,

  Nothing I’d say could possibly express the gratitude I feel. Your patient counsel and understanding affection were mainstays during the most difficult period of my life.

  I’m sure you’ll also understand that part of the process of working things out, for Phoebe and me, involves respecting one another’s jealousy. You became a threat to her, and she made a persuasive case for me giving up a relationship just as I expected her to.

  At first I worried that discontinuing our therapeutic sessions might be unfair to you and I was going to suggest you call Dr. Ned Kauffman (MU9–1381), a colleague of mine. But lately, having come to know you as a poised, intelligent and responsive woman, I’m convinced your days as an analysand are just as well ended. Still, Ned can handle any remaining problems. I trust him and have told him everything.

  You are a most complete person, a very special and loving person, and I envy the man you’ll eventually choose.

  Perhaps, someday, our paths will cross again. I should like that. In any case, know that I think of you often.

  love and friendship—now and always,

  Jonas

  What was this?

  Dear Arlene. I love you. Good-bye forever.

  Jonas

  or

  Dear Arlene. You’re much more balanced, intelligent and passionate than my wife. Still, we’ll have to go our separate ways.

  Friendship always

  or

  Dear Arlene. Phoebe’s a pain in the ass. You’re lovely and special. I’m going back to Phoebe. Mora
l: Nice girls finish last.

  your pal,

  Jonas

  or.…

  There was another finger of gin left and Arlene finished it straight from the bottle. Then she went to the bathroom, swallowed two Seconals, and gargled with undiluted mouthwash.

  Unfair. How could he? Why?

  She looked in the mirror. Who was it she saw? What was wrong with her? Nose. Mouth. Eyes. Hair. Not unpleasantly arranged. Wasn’t it good enough for him?

  The image started to crumble. That frightened her. What was happening? She ran from the bathroom back to the kitchen.

  Again, her senses played tricks. The room seemed unnaturally small. Was it the pills? The booze? The devastating news?

  Grabbing her cigarettes, she lit one after another, as she numbly left her apartment and wandered eastward. Disoriented, she was approached by a gray-skinned, white-haired derelict, bearded and foul-odored, who drunkenly offered to exchange five dollars for a blow job. To his great surprise and hers, Arlene accompanied him to a hallway where she got on her knees, opened his fly, sucked his flaccid cock, gagged on his ejaculation, and received her five dollars along with a two-dollar tip.

  Disgusting. It was her childhood all over again. And she had brought it on herself.

  Shaken, feeling degraded and bizarre, she returned home, swallowed a handful of pills, unplugged her alarm clock, removed her shoes, climbed into bed fully clothed, and with a peculiar smile pulled the covers over her head.

  15

  Hal Robbins, chief medical resident, was in the doctors’ lounge in the middle of his eighth game of Ping-Pong when his beeper sounded. The score was fifteen to nine, his favor. He’d never beaten Miki Tatara before and was not about to answer any phone calls until play ended. Orientals were tough opponents.

  Sixteen to nine, as he slammed a winner to the house surgeon’s forehand. Miki’s serve.

  Holding the paddle behind its head, the young Nipponese sliced his first two serves in for points while Hal’s beeper sounded again.

  “Aren’t you going to answer?” Miki asked in his flat accent.

  “As soon as I avenge Pearl Harbor,” Hal answered. “Just keep them coming.”