The Pillow Friend

by Lisa Tuttle

  When they got around to exchanging names, she did not reveal that she knew who he was. He touched her left hand very lightly. “Married?”

  Her heart pounding very hard, she turned the ring on her hand so that the key was visible. “No. You?”

  If he recognized the ring he gave no sign. “Never. Women never stay with me for very long. I can't blame them. I'm a selfish bastard, and my work comes before a relationship. No woman likes to feel she's second-best, not even those who seem the most sympathetic, even those originally drawn to me by the work.” He hesitated, as if expecting her question, and then explained, “I'm a poet, you see, and one with a rather old-fashioned attitude toward the Muse. Oh, don't feel embarrassed because you haven't heard of me! I'm quite successful as a poet, but I know how little that means in this country today!”

  When closing time was called, he gave her a look shifty and shy and invited her home with him.

  This was the invitation she had longed for, the answer to her dreams, yet she hesitated at the intrusion of an unwelcome memory. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  He gazed at her with unbelievably guileless eyes. “Not yet. But I'd like to.” He put out his hand and caught her fingers. “What do you say?”

  She said yes. They were up most of the night, making love. She was ecstatic. They were so right together, their bodies a perfect fit, and they understood each other so well. He was the perfect lover she had always dreamed of.

  In the morning they went back up to the King's Head to get her things, and she moved in with him. It was only supposed to be for a week, but when the time came for her to fly home, she forfeited her ticket and let the plane go without her.

  Tears of joy shone in the poet's eyes as he pulled her back into his bed and made love to her again. But as they rested, still joined together, in the warm afterglow, he told her gently that she would have to find a place of her own. “I love you, but I can't live with you. How would I ever be able to work, knowing you were in the next room, knowing I could be making love to you? I need time to myself, to commune with the Muse. I can't live with anyone. Poets shouldn't.”

  She had never told him that she was a poet, too, although she continued to write, usually early in the morning while he slept, and was producing a complete poem nearly every day. Each one she left as a love offering on his desk. Neither of them ever spoke of this.

  She believed that she would be the exception, the one woman he could live with, but obviously it would take him some time to come around to this realization. In the meantime, she was determined not to be a drag on him in any way. It turned out to be surprisingly easy to tap into the black-market world of low-paying jobs, despite the soaring unemployment figures currently making headlines, and soon she was working as a cook-waitress at a cafe in South Harrow. She found a room to rent nearby, but spent little time in it. Now that she had a place of her own, the poet discovered that he wanted her as much as ever, and they spent every night together in his bed.

  Two months passed, then three. She was still happy, although no longer writing. It might have been lack of time and energy—it was difficult, between her job and her lover, to ever get two consecutive hours to herself—but she felt the real reason lay deeper, that the well of creativity she had magically tapped into had run dry. Or maybe it was just that the need to write had gone. She didn't really regret it. Once she had wanted to be a great poet, but now she just wanted the poet to be her husband. She'd be legal then, she could give up the smell of stale fat frying that always clung to her clothes and hair and get a decent job, she could give up that poky furnished room in South Harrow and live honestly with her husband, maybe they would have a baby. . . .

  One day after work as she let herself into his house she was aware of a charged atmosphere. The skin on her arms and back prickled. She thought she smelled something in the entrance hall, like a woman's perfume, but when she sniffed it was gone. She went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea and found the kettle still warm from recent use. Yet he never drank tea. The last of a pot of coffee, well-stewed by now, still simmered away on the hot plate of his coffeemaker.

  It was at that moment, sensing the recent presence of some possibly threatening stranger, that she realized the key ring was gone.

  She clutched her left hand in her right, tightly, as if she'd cut it and had to staunch the flow of blood. She couldn't remember the last time she'd noticed it, but surely it had been there this morning?

  More than three months, almost more than four now, since she'd first walked into this house, a stranger, and found the ring and put it on. She had never taken it off since, she was sure she hadn't taken it off, and it had always been a perfect fit, so how could she have lost it?

  She began to search, frantically, crawling around on the kitchen floor, then rummaging through the cushions of the sofa and the easy chair in the lounge, aware even as she did so that she was more likely to have lost the ring at work. Maybe she had taken it off to wash her hands and left it beside the washroom sink.

  She didn't find it, not that day and not ever, no matter where she searched. Her lover was no help. He said he hadn't noticed that she wore a ring. When, indignantly, she described it, he said yes, he remembered something like that, but she hadn't worn it for ages. He also denied that he'd had a visitor that day, gazing at her with his unbelievably guileless blue eyes, and she was afraid to insist. She had the sudden cold unwelcome thought, as he kissed her gently and told her not to worry, commented that she looked tired and perhaps should have an early night tonight, that he had fallen out of love with her.

  She got up early the next morning and tried to write. It was the old, nearly forgotten struggle in the dark once again, and she knew, in the certainty of despair, that it would always be like this from now on, since she had lost the ring.

  That evening he took her out to dinner at the Indian restaurant at the bottom of the hill. Over the naans and the curry he told her he needed to go away for a while, by himself. He thought he'd probably go to the Lake District, or to the Highlands of Scotland. He needed to do some walking and some thinking. The Muse hadn't been answering his call lately; he was in a rut. And while on the subject, he rather thought the two of them were in a rut as well; some of the magic had gone. A little time apart would be good for them. When he got back, they'd see how they felt. He'd phone her when he got back.

  She clung to the fragile hope he offered, struggling to believe that when he got back all would be well, that all was not yet lost. He made love to her that night as one who performs a familiar task, his thoughts far away, yet she still tried to tell herself that it was as good between them as it had ever been.

  The next morning she woke before he did, and wondered as she lay there beside him if there was any point in getting up and trying to write. She had just about decided there was not when she heard something fall through the letter box. An image came into her mind as she heard the sound, of a large, brown envelope containing a sheaf of unsigned poems. It was hours still before the postman would come—this had to be a personal delivery, and the person who delivered it, she knew with absolute certainty, would be wearing a gold key ring. Her name didn't matter, only her function as the poet's Muse.

  MEETING THE MUSE

  What is it men in women do require?

  The lineaments of Gratified Desire.

  What is it women do in men require?

  The lineaments of Gratified Desire.

  —William Blake, “The Question Answer'd”

  I must marry a poet. It's the only thing.

  —Elizabeth Smart

  No, it didn't happen like that.

  Agnes wrote a story, making use of her fantasies about Graham Storey, and she sold it to The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. When it appeared in print and she read it, nearly a year later, she realized that she felt differently about “her” poet now. Writing the story had cured her of her fantasies; she had moved on.

  But she was still living in the same
place, leading the same life, although the very comfortableness of it all was making her uncomfortable. She was twenty-eight, nearly twenty-nine, and she was still just playing at living. It was time to move on in reality, not just in her mind; time to make some commitments, time for marriage, or foreign travel, time for a more demanding job in one of those cities she had always dreamed of but never even visited—London or New York, Paris or San Francisco. Time to go out there and find her real life.

  Walking up Guadalupe Street, the Drag directly opposite the university, she was scarcely conscious of her surroundings, the warmth of the spring evening, the storefronts and street vendors. Imagination put her in a cooler climate, strolling through the streets of Bloomsbury, searching for the British Museum. With part of her mind she considered her savings account: there was certainly enough to fund a vacation in England this year, but should she spend it on a two-week vacation? Maybe she should pick up a copy of the New York Times in the University Co-Op and check out the jobs. If she found something and wanted to move, she'd need all her savings then. She'd nearly reached the Co-Op, moving easily, unseeing, through the crowds of students and street people, when one of the blur of faces suddenly burst upon her like a vision, with hallucinatory clarity.

  It was impossible; he was, he must be, just some seedily handsome stranger, but he looked astonishingly like the author's photograph on the back cover of Graham Storey's latest collection of poems.

  His eyes were large and blue, wide and wondering as a baby's, behind round, wire-rimmed glasses. His hair, cut very short, was gray, and there were deep lines, like brackets, from his nose to the corners of his narrow mouth. He was a slightly built man who walked with a subtle stoop, like someone much taller.

  As she stopped, staring at him with wonder close to fear, she heard a woman's voice speak her name.

  There, standing beside her vision, right in front of her, was Lynne Haden, a local writer who had once been her creative writing teacher. “Just the person,” said Lynne. “I know you'll be eager to meet our distinguished visiting poet. Agnes, meet Graham Storey. Graham, this is Agnes Grey.”

  “It is you! I thought I was dreaming!” With laughter, his face changed, became real, alive, more ordinary. His mouth was larger than it looked in repose, and his front teeth were slightly crooked, like her own.

  If we ever have a child, she thought, it will have to wear braces.

  “A pleasant one, I hope.”

  “Huh?”

  He gave her a quizzical look. “Your dream.”

  “Agnes is always dreaming,” said Lynne. “She's a writer, too.”

  “Only a children's book,” she said, shaking her head frantically.

  “Only?”

  She heard a mocking stress on the word and was seized by apprehension. What did he know? Had he read anything of hers? She felt herself blush. “Uhhh, and a few short stories, that's all, nothing very impressive.”

  “You don't find books for children impressive?”

  Too late, she remembered he had written a children's book. “Some are, of course. Not mine. I loved The Village of the Cats.”

  “You've read it? It wasn't published over here; I couldn't sell it.”

  “I ordered a copy from England. I really did like it; it was so simple, but perfect, every word. Like a poem with pictures. The pictures were great, too. Was there ever a sequel?”

  He gazed into her eyes. “There was supposed to be, but unfortunately the artist and I split up shortly after that book was published. She had been my girlfriend, and afterward it wasn't possible for us to work together. Not my wish, but she—”

  “I hate to interrupt,” said Lynne, “but there are other people waiting to meet you, Graham.”

  “I'm terribly sorry. But—would it be possible for Agnes to come along?”

  Lynne shrugged, looking at her. “Sure. If you want. It's only drinks in the faculty lounge.”

  “I'd love to, thanks.”

  She floated along beside them, dazed by her magical good fortune. Not only to meet him, but to be allowed more time with him. “You're my favorite living poet, you know,” she said.

  He looked comically alarmed. “Thank you. You don't have to say things like that!”

  “I'm only saying it because it's true. Well, it's between you and Adrienne Rich and Marilyn Hacker.”

  “The only Brit. I'm flattered.”

  “The only boy,” Lynne pointed out. “Here we are. Brace yourself.”

  “Trial by sherry, I call these things,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth to Agnes as they followed Lynne from the warmth of the street into air-conditioning.

  She had expected that he would be swept away from her by the others—mostly English Department faculty and graduate students—who had assembled here to meet him, and he was, periodically, but after every time he made his way back to her again, to turn the full, blue beam of his attention on her, flatteringly interested in whatever she had to say. After about an hour, when the party was visibly declining, he said, “It's a bit unfair of me to ask, but would you have dinner with me this evening?”

  Some of the wine in her glass sloshed out. “I'd love to! Why is it unfair?”

  “Because I'm about to lie, and make you party to the lie. Lynne's expecting to take me out to dinner, tête à tête, and the only way I can see of getting out of it is to plead jet lag exhaustion and say I'm going straight back to my room, to bed, alone. She'll offer to drive me back.”

  “I have a car.”

  “Of course you do, bless you. I'm going to break the news to her. She won't be pleased, so put that glass down and get ready to scamper when I signal.” As they left together she caught a look from Lynne which made her shiver and all at once feel more sober.

  “Don't you like Lynne?” she asked when they were outside.

  “She's all right. Just another lonely lady. Is she a particular friend of yours? I'm sorry. I shouldn't have involved you. I know it must have seemed particularly cruel, to dump her and go off so obviously with her younger friend, but I don't like predatory women, and I didn't fancy going to bed with her at all.”

  “Lynne's married.”

  “Of course she is, and intends staying that way. Which is why I'm the perfect lover: I come equipped with a comfortable hotel room and a guarantee that I won't be around long enough for things to get messy. I don't flatter myself that it's really me she's attracted to—I'm a poet, and even poets have their groupies.”

  She felt as if she'd swallowed something heavy. “Well, I'm glad I could help you escape. My car's just a couple of blocks away. What hotel are you staying at?”

  “Oh, don't.”

  He stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop, and bent down anxiously, peering into her face in the gathering dark. “Why do women always think that everything a man says about another woman is meant to refer to them? You're about ninety-eight percent of the reason I wanted to get away from her. I'm not completely helpless; a firm no thank-you and a handshake at the door of my hotel would have saved my virtue. But I'm not actually interested in an early night alone. What I am interested in is you. I'd like to get to know you properly, have a conversation which isn't interrupted by someone else every three minutes. Please say you'll have dinner with me. If you don't find the prospect too revolting?”

  She took him to her favorite Mexican restaurant and there, over the sopa de elote and fish cooked in banana leaves, they talked about themselves. Some of the things he told her about his life she already knew, or had guessed, from the poems and the research she had done—his affinity for the west of Scotland, the travels in India, his love of sailing—but she didn't let on. She soaked up every detail he let spill, as compelled and fascinated by this secondhand life as by some long-anticipated novel. When he asked, in turn, about her life, she was impatient, answered as briefly as possible, and pressed on with her questions. She wanted every crumb, every morsel about his childhood in Liverpool, the years of blue-collar jobs after leaving schoo
l at sixteen before going to teacher training college, and his life now, as a primary school teacher and a poet. She was fascinated by every detail, whether it was gossip about literary figures he had met, or the facts of his daily existence. She might never have such a chance again and couldn't bear to waste a minute of it by talking about herself.

  “Now look here,” he said sternly. “I've already been interviewed by someone from the Austin American Flag Stateswoman Blatt or whatever the thing is called, and there's a student reporter coming to grill me tomorrow morning—I'm sick and tired of talking about myself! I want to hear about you.”

  “My life is so boring compared to yours.”

  “Not to me.”

  “I could sum up my life history in about two minutes. I've never been abroad, I've only ever had the one job—well, apart from waitressing—you've just done so many more things, known so many more interesting people, been places . . . I've never even been out of Texas!”

  “There's time,” he said. “I must have at least nine or ten years on you.”

  “Eleven.”

  “There, you're not even thirty yet!”

  “Twenty-nine in two weeks. But when you were twenty-nine—well, you'd had two collections of poetry published, and been to India.”

  “I was twenty-nine when I went to India. I thought I had to change my life. You know the poem by Rilke?”

  She nodded, her heart pounding.

  “I had it by heart that year. I was—it was a strange time. Being thirty seems nothing now, but then . . . back then it was all ‘never trust anybody over thirty,' and I'd spent most of my twenties absolutely certain I'd peg out before then, and there I was, twenty-nine and in rude good health, living in a squat, it's true, and smoking dope and conducting affairs with two women at the same time, but with my certification in hand, just about to get a proper job—the sort my parents would approve of—as a teacher, and . . .” He shrugged. “The women found out about each other and they both dumped me. I had a falling-out with someone who'd been very important to my career. . . . I thought there might never be a third book. Off I went to India, in search of my fate. I had to do something.”