Save Johanna!

by Francine Pascal

  “Do you think you feel that kind of love for him now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then can’t you give it to him? Why let someone else have the chance.”

  “This is the natural result, the flow of our lives,” she says sadly. “I’ve caused it, and now I have to wait it out.”

  “No, you don’t.” I have to control a quick irritation. It’s an impatience I have, maybe a lack of understanding toward people who don’t take a firm hand in directing their own lives. I suppose it’s natural to the character of someone like Mary Gail, and quite possibly something else balances it out, but watching such meek surrender strains my tolerance. I suppose I show it because she gives me a small, indulgent smile that seems to say she forgives me for not being able to understand.

  Which I find a tiny bit offensive, and my irritation rises above my normal concern and love for her. “Look how miserable it’s making you,” I snap. “Forget about his needs. What about your own? This is the moment. You’re still fresh in his life. Do something strong and decisive now before she takes over. Confront the woman. Do you know who it is?”

  “I think so. I’m not sure. Anyway, I don’t want to cause him any more unhappiness than I already have.”

  I don’t scream, but I want to. Instead I just give up. “Then why come to me? You’re going to do it your way, anyway.” I’m sharper than I should be.

  “I guess I just wanted to say the words and . . .”

  She starts to say something. I wait, but she changes her mind and instead picks up her cigarettes and puts them into her pocket, carefully leaving the matches. I’ve hurt her, and I feel sick.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “I truly am.”

  “Don’t be. It was honest advice, and I appreciate it.” She starts to rise.

  “Wait. Sit for a minute. Let’s talk more. You were going to tell me something.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Please, Mary Gail, I want to help you. Let me try again.”

  Reluctantly she sits down. I can see she’s very uncomfortable.

  “Can I do something?” I ask.

  “Well . . .”

  “Tell me.”

  “I wanted to get away for a few days. . . .”

  “That sounds like a good idea.”

  “But I didn’t want to be alone.”

  Of all the things she could have asked me, that’s surely the most impossible. I can’t just pack up and leave my work to spend three or four days hanging in limbo. I can’t do that.

  “I’m sorry, Mary Gail, but I’m so piled up on my work I couldn’t possibly leave now. I know that sounds terrible, but I have a deadline. What can I do?”

  “I understand perfectly. I didn’t expect you to stop working, I just thought maybe we could go up to Claudia’s place in Vermont. It’s empty now, and you could take your work with you.”

  “No. Absolutely not.” We’re both sort of surprised at my strong reaction. And then embarrassed.

  “Johanna, it’s all right. It was just an idea. It’s not really important. . . .”

  I try to recover. “It’s the project. It’s very difficult and consuming, and I must be here—home—alone to do it. I can’t help it. It’s so intensely personal . . .”

  “Personal?”

  She looks confused. I regret the description and tell her that what I really meant was private. “It’s extremely demanding work,” I explain, “and any kind of distraction would be disaster.”

  “Of course you can’t. I shouldn’t have even suggested it. I think for a moment I just lost my perspective on things.”

  Mary Gail is standing behind her chair, looking at me. There’s a hint of a smile on her face, but it’s too private to be meant for me. “On some level it seemed crucial to be understood,” she says, and I’m feeling more and more depressed at how I let her down. “But that’s a personal indulgence I have no right to expect from anyone,” she continues. “Especially on demand. I’m sorry to have done that to you. I shouldn’t have put you in that position.”

  “Please, Mary Gail, it’s my fault.”

  “No. You should be able to say anything to a close friend. It was my failure, not yours.”

  But it’s too late because with her very sensitive antennae I think she’s picked up something closer to the truth. Kindly, she tries to make it easier for me by dipping into one of her vague abstractions that seems to mean that being alone is necessary and valuable. Somehow I come in for some unearned gratitude for pointing that up.

  But it doesn’t really help erase my guilt. I wasn’t willing to make the commitment necessary to help her. It would have demanded too much of my creativity, and that would have threatened my own project.

  I’ve always known about Mary Gail’s vulnerability and innocence. The very things that made me snap at her today are what have touched me most deeply in the past. It’s the same with Louis and Claudia, both people I care about, except that lately I seem to care less. It worries me; excuses aside, I know I’m avoiding them. Even David’s presence in my life seems more difficult, demanding that extra effort I often feel too drained to give.

  Mary Gail has gathered up her things and is at the front door saying good-bye when she stops and looks at me with concern. “You know, I didn’t notice before, but you look exhausted. Are you OK?”

  My God, now she’s going to comfort me. I can’t let her.

  “I’m fine,” I say, cutting off any further discussion.

  Mary Gail accepts it. As she leaves, she asks me not to say anything about what she told me. “No one else knows.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t. Are you coming to Louis’ tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Larry, too?”

  “He said he was.”

  “Are you sure you won’t change your mind and stay awhile? How about a drink? Or some tea?”

  But she shakes her head. “I’ll see you tonight,” she says. And leaves.

  I’m relieved that she’s gone. But it’s left a bitter taste. Friends are many things, and obligation is an important element in friendship. When everything is going smoothly, one’s responsibility to another is scarcely noticeable. But when somehow the relationship is thrown out of balance, as it is now, the sense of obligation seems to become paramount. I feel downright leaned on. By all of them. Tonight’s poker game at Louis’ is a perfect example. I said no last week, but I couldn’t say no again tonight because they needed me. David is in Philadelphia, and Roger is sick. For a while it looked as if there wouldn’t be enough people for the game. In fact, Louis asked me if I knew anyone to call, and I said no, even though I could have tried a couple of people. I was hoping it would fall through. With David away, I found myself savoring the night alone. The work I could accomplish. Possibly even finish the chapter I’ve been struggling with for almost two weeks. But Louis finally came up with someone, and the game is on.

  Part of the anxiety I’ve been feeling lately is justified, brought about by David’s intensely negative reaction to my book. It disturbs me greatly that I’ve been made to feel so defensive about my own work, something I chose with great excitement, which in my best professional judgment has the potential to be a winner. Because of David I’ve had to conceal my normal enthusiasm, leaving me with a strong residue of resentment. I can’t help it. It’s not as if I have to share this project with everyone. It’s just that they’ve forced me to bury it deep inside my life. And I don’t like that.

  I think I said that out loud. Here I am, still on the couch, sitting in the same place as when Mary Gail left, in an empty room getting angrier by the minute. These resentments have been building up inside me, but this is the first time I’ve given them any voice. And they’re turning rancid and hurting my work. I can’t seem to immerse myself with any ease. I must always keep a part of my mind alert to any assault from the outside world. No more. The first move I’m going to make is to cut them all off effectively from my work. No more discussions about Avrum or anything else
connected to the book. Not with any of them—with the possible exception of David. But only if he controls his hostility. As for tonight, I intend to leave as early as is suitably possible.

  Damn it. They have no right to put me in this position.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Though I know Louis is constitutionally unable to be ready on time, I act according to my constitutional imperative and arrive on the stroke of eight.

  Not only is he not ready, but it looks as though he hasn’t even sent out the invitations yet. I pour myself a touch of some new Chinese vodka which tastes exactly the same as any other vodka and makes me feel exactly the same—relaxed.

  I don’t offer to help because Louis’ confusion is decipherable only by Louis. Somehow, though, it always seems to come off—the food, the drinking, the game, and then when it’s over at least the confusion has a meaning I can understand.

  Louis is at his casual best, all spiffed up in his ten-year-old, faded, black-cuffed pants that have in spots begun to look varnished and a 1950ish, button-down, white dress shirt. Louis is the only person I know whose clothes could qualify for landmark status. He’s feeling extremely good tonight, and the combination of his high spirits, the Oxycontin I took earlier, and the vodka are beginning to soothe my irritation.

  “You’d better cut down on that smiling or you’re going to use it all up,” I say, following him into the kitchen and then retreating in stunned horror. I think there are dirty dishes from the last poker game—a month ago.

  “You haven’t heard about Mickey?” he shouts from the sewer.

  “No. Tell me.”

  “You’ll meet him tonight. Later. He’s working till one.”

  Obviously Mickey is the new love. I know before I ask he’s not teaching high school. They never do. I brace myself. “What’s he do?”

  Louis pokes his head out of the kitchen. “He’s a stripper at the Rod on Eighth Avenue. You have to meet him. He’s beautiful, with a very simple innocent charm. You’ll be very taken with him, I know it.”

  I smile my approval, but he’s already back in the kitchen. “How does he compare to Warren?” Warren was Louis’ last lover.

  “You know,” he says, coming back into the living room, “he’s a lot like Warren. They don’t look alike, but they both have that very gentle just-begging-to-be-approached quality.”

  Warren was a hairdresser who hustled between sets and washes, and he was very sweet. A lot like Eric before him and probably much like Mickey. In the beginning, all of us would take Louis aside and caution him about the danger of associating with such people. We were sincerely concerned. But we’ve learned that Louis brings out the best in these people. He gives them a home, love, and respect mixed with a generous dosage of religion. And they respond. I don’t know what they’re like in the street, but here they’re pussycats.

  By eight-thirty everyone has arrived, and, rather than the usual fix-a-drink, how-you-been time, we get right to the poker table. I’m delighted. It’ll make it easier to break away earlier.

  I seat myself between Bruce Morseman, a rewrite man for the New York Times, and his wife, Janet, an awful gossip and a nag whom I can’t bear. The only thing in her favor is that she’s a wonderfully bad poker player. But I must be tired because I can’t even work up the proper killer appetite. The others are the usuals— Claudia, Mary Gail, Larry, and, of course, Louis.

  Janet has eight to ten short, vicious stories about semicelebrity types. Her husband disapproves, but she steamrolls on, embarrassing him and leaving us all momentarily flattened by the heavy cruelty. I, for one, make a mental note never to invite her.

  Not having gotten the proper reactions, she concentrates her venom on the cards and, because there really is no God, starts winning. With Janet’s venom emptied, the group brightens and the game moves along nicely. Though quieter than usual. Perhaps everyone’s afraid to end up in Janet’s mouth at the next stop. I’m sure we will anyway. With less talk, the game goes faster, and it’s nine-thirty before we stop to eat.

  Dinner is a pleasant assortment of baked ham, chicken, potato salad, green salad, and one unidentifiable bowl of a white liquidy substance dotted with small pinkish lumps.

  With great pride Louis tells us that Mickey was responsible for everything but the mystery dish. “That is my own concoction,” he announces, dipping the ladle in for a magnanimous portion, but unfortunately everyone is safely out of reach, busy tying shoelaces, checking fingernails, or retrieving invisible lost objects from the floor. Everyone, that is, except for Janet who stands trapped as Louis generously covers her plate with his masterpiece. I take it back. There is a God.

  “No thanks.” I whip my plate away from under Louis’ ladle. “My doctor says I can’t eat anything white.”

  “It’s chicken,” Louis laughs and swooping past me dumps a glob on Mary Gail’s plate. She smiles sweetly and says kindly, “It looks interesting.”

  Dinner is pleasant and the white slime doesn’t seem to poison anyone.

  “How’s the work going?” Larry asks me.

  “Fine,” I answer, hoping that ends it.

  “Still so fascinated with Maheely?”

  “I’ve got to write a whole book about the man, I damn well better be fascinated.”

  “Easy, Johanna.” He has the nerve to look offended. “You don’t have to jump at me. I was only curious to know if he was holding up.”

  “In that case, yes, he’s holding up.”

  “Look, forget it. I didn’t know I was walking on sacred grounds.”

  “There’s nothing sacred about my book. I just resent your patronizing attitude. And I have from the beginning. You seem to get a kick out of bugging me about Avrum Maheely, and I don’t appreciate it.”

  “Joey, that’s unfair,” Claudia, the defender, says to me. “You really were jumping at him. He’s not bugging you, he’s only asking.”

  “I think Larry can take care of himself, Claudia.”

  She leans over to me. “My God, you really are just incredibly sensitive about that lunatic.”

  “In that case, dear friend,” I tell Claudia, and I’m not even trying to hold back my fury, “why can’t you be a little more considerate?”

  Claudia looks shocked and I expect her to snap back, but instead she says, “I’m sorry. I guess I just didn’t realize I was upsetting you.”

  Suddenly everyone’s very sympathetic, which makes me feel I must have overreacted badly. “Forget it,” I say and excuse myself from the table. How can they all be so dense? Why don’t they leave me alone about it?

  I go into the kitchen and pour myself a brandy, sip it slowly and try to calm down. These are supposed to be my best friends. Why are they picking on me this way? In all the years of our friendship nothing like this has ever happened before.

  Louis comes into the kitchen. Obviously they’ve all been talking about me, and, of course, Louis was appointed to go inside and soothe the temperamental baby.

  “I don’t think Larry meant to upset you, Johanna. He’s having some problems of his own . . .”

  “I know. I’m just tired of everyone’s attitude about my work. I think all of them, well, maybe not you, but all the others have said at least a dozen times that they think Avrum Maheely is a nut, or words to that effect. Obviously I think he’s more than that or I wouldn’t have chosen him for the main subject of my book. They’re questioning my professional judgment, and that’s a pain in the ass, and I’m tired of defending myself.”

  “You’ve chosen a popular and very controversial subject. That’s all to your credit as a writer, but you have to understand that everyone is going to have an opinion on someone like Maheely. It’s not a personal criticism. Don’t take it that way.”

  “How should I take it? I spend eight hours a day with him foremost in my mind. Actually it’s much more than that. It’s practically constant—last thing before I go to sleep at night and first thing when I wake up in the morning. I even dream about him sometimes. What they s
ay about him has to have an effect on me.”

  “It shouldn’t. He’s a character in your book, a fictional character, at that, not a real person in your life.”

  “When you’re writing about someone as strong as Maheely the line between the real thing and the character can get very faint.”

  “Maybe too faint, Johanna.”

  “Et tu, Louis? You think I’m hung up on Avrum too?”

  “Absolutely not. I just think you’re too involved in your work, and it happens you’ve chosen something that’s particularly demanding emotionally this time. Writing about Maheely and his followers can be wrenching to the soul. Isn’t that true?”

  “It seeps deep beneath the surface.”

  “Maybe too deep.”

  “No. It’s just very hard, and that’s why I expect my friends to be a little supportive. Is that so wrong?”

  “I don’t think they realized how they’ve upset you. Maybe if you let them in on . . .”

  “No.” I don’t even allow him to finish the question. The thought of sharing my thoughts on Maheely with someone like Larry, or any of them, of listening to them poke and probe and sneer, would be intolerable.

  “All right, Johanna. Let’s drop it for now. Come on back. This thing is getting blown way out of proportion.”

  “On one condition. Let’s just everyone forget it. I really don’t want to talk about it anymore. OK?”

  “Absolutely. Come on.”

  We go back into the living room, and I feel sort of foolish, like a little girl coming back to a party she’s stormed out of. Everyone pretends it never happened, which makes me feel even more uncomfortable. And worst of all, it’s not even eleven o’clock yet. I make up my mind I’m going to come up with some excuse to get me out of here by twelve.

  It’s hard to get my head back to the game. Half the time I go out with decent cards or stay on stupidly, betting losers. Janet is cleaning up, and I don’t even care.

  As inconspicuously as possible, I sneak peeks at my watch, and now, finally, the hands have crept close to twelve, and having no chips to turn in I rise as quietly as possible and bring my glass into the kitchen. I plan to mumble some quick good nights, say a few words about meeting David early tomorrow morning, smile, and escape.