I don’t know that our thirty-six-hour frolic cured my cold. It was probably departing anyway. I was not so deep into Irish melancholy that I could not enjoy it. Still I was badgered by the thought that this might be the last time.
When Shovie came back, she informed us, “I love Patti but I love Chookie and Rooshie more.”
“First person singular,” my wife said sadly. “The poor little thing is growing up.”
The phone was ringing when we arrived home in Oak Park in the midst of a blizzard and with the promise of subzero temperatures the next day. Rosemarie beat me to it as she always does—a missed phone call could arguably be a matter of life or death.
“Yeah hi, Ed. Your partner picked a good time to get out of town. Chucky and Siobhan were homesick for Chicago … They did … Let me get Chucky on the phone.”
“Our friends in New York played it cute,” Ed told me. “They published the letters as we insisted. However, they also published a story about a ‘Demand’ made by a group called the Lower SoHo Women’s Faction. I’ll read it to you: ‘We the Lower SoHo Women’s Faction express our strong support for our member Ms. Diana Robbins, whose freedom of speech has been impugned by Charles C. O’Malley. We firmly believe that a woman art critic who is sensitive to the most advanced feminist theory need not physically view oppressive art to render a revolutionary opinion about such degenerate material. Because of this position we demand that the proposed exhibition of O’Malley’s obscene art at the Photography Gallery be canceled. If it is not, we call upon our feminist sisters to rally against this male chauvinist oppression and storm the gallery to destroy its obscenity.’”
“Interesting,” I said, more delighted by this idiocy than angered by it.
“Any idea about the size of this particular faction?” Rosemarie asked.
“Some of my friends in New York tell me that it’s seven or eight women who are angry at their rich parents. Not very big, but they could still make a lot of noise.”
“Would that be bad?”
“We know that the Gallery is already feeling timid about the exhibition.”
“They have to pay us if they cancel, don’t they?” I asked, knowing full well that when my scheme began to work they would uncancel.
“Sure, though the litigation might cost something … They’re scared shitless. They don’t realize that it’s the late nineteen seventies, not the late nineteen sixties.”
“Ah,” I said, “to quote someone who was never mentioned at Mount Carmel High School, O Tempora, O Mores!”
“M. T. Cicero, as I recall.”
“I won’t ask you what it means … Do you suggest that we take any action?”
“We could continue our suit against the Blast on the grounds that they violated our agreement. We could seek an injunction against the Gallery to prevent them from canceling the contract.”
“That would look petty, Ed, wouldn’t it?” Rosemarie asked.
“I think so too … Chucky?”
“I agree. No point in giving them any free publicity.”
Especially since, unless I didn’t understand how things work in the New York art world, they were about to give us priceless free publicity.
Then Shovie woke up and Moire Meg appeared to embrace her little sister. The child would grow up spoiled. Again I had more sense than to express my opinion.
Rosemarie
1979
When we returned from Tucson, I began to worry about Chuck. It was not the kind of worry that I ordinarily feel—the constant background fear that your husband will not act right and hence harm himself some way or other. Now I feared that Chuck might be edging toward a nervous breakdown or psychotic interlude as Maggie Ward would have called it. Max Berman had told me that Chuck didn’t need tranquilizers. What if he was wrong? I could ask Maggie, but she would deflect the question as inappropriate.
So what if I told her flat out that I was worried about Chuck?
She would want to go into the reasons for my worry.
“Well, he was mercurial during our time in Tucson. His moods shifted back and forth. He spent more time than was appropriate on the prints for Conclaves. Normally he makes decisions about such matters and sticks with them. He seemed more thoughtful than usual some of the time.”
She would demand to know how different all of this was from normal behavior. I would say that it was hard to tell. I was never quite sure about what normal is in him.
Sex?
A little erratic, but good enough. Sometimes he didn’t seem altogether there when we were making love, but nothing I can put my finger on.
Interesting language, she would say.
I would flush and laugh.
Harsh to you?
Chucky? He wouldn’t dare!
Another woman?
Not a chance!
Was I sure of that?
I would think for a moment and say, yes, I was sure. No mysterious phone calls, no going out in the car by himself, nothing at all.
In truth a woman can never be completely sure on that subject. Yet it was absurd to distrust him.
Maybe, Maggie would say, he’s still coming to terms with mortality, something you did long ago.
Maybe.
Then she’d say that it was time and that would be that.
I might go through this dialogue with her sometime. I didn’t have enough to go on now.
“No lunch with Dr. Berman today?” I asked him on Friday.
“He’s gone to Florida to play golf.”
“Psychiatrists play golf?”
“He’s a doctor, isn’t he? Anyway, I’m still not satisfied with the prints for Conclaves.”
That would make me uneasy all over again.
Chuck
1979
The Photography Gallery canceled the show because of fear of violent protests. Ed Murray told them that he had a contract. The director of the Gallery said that the cancellation was our fault because of the controversy we had created in the Blast.
“No one in New York knows anything about the law,” Ed complained.
“Not in the art world anyway.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Hassle them.”
I smiled with satisfaction when I hung up the phone. All the pieces of the plan were falling into place. The story had a marvelous inevitability. Greek tragedy, though I didn’t think the director of the Gallery was a tragic figure.
To change mythologies a bit, I was Puck. Or maybe, given my recent sojourn in Arizona, Coyote. A Coyote who was always hungry but in this instance simply sat and watched.
I conveyed the news to my wife.
“You almost seem happy about it, Chuck.”
“Who, me? I think it’s great comedy. Who cares about New York anyway?”
She frowned uneasily. Still worrying about me, poor dear woman.
Was I worth worrying about?
I supposed so. I was the only husband she had. However, she would certainly do much better the next time around.
I was alone in the house the next day when Charlotte Antonelli called me on the phone.
“Uncle Chuck,” she complained in her Sicilian voice, “why am I suddenly the press spokesperson for our clan?”
“Intelligence, charm, good looks, an instinct for the jugular? What can I tell you?”
“Yeah, well this woman from the New York Times called this morning to ask if you had any comment on the cancellation of your contract for a show at the Photography Gallery because of the controversy over the obscene picture of Aunt Rosie.”
BINGO!
“Let me think about it, Charley … Well, first of all the picture is not obscene, secondly the Gallery may certainly decide not to show photography that it deems inappropriate, thirdly they are violating their contract.”
“Yeah, I got that all down.”
“What do you think?”
“It’s you.”
I had no idea what that meant.
“I’m glad you
think so.”
“She’ll want to know whether we will go to court.”
“This is Ms. Freeman?”
“That’s her name. She seems real nice.”
“First rule of being a spokesperson for the Crazy O’Malleys: never trust anyone who is a journalist.”
This one we could trust, however. She had an agenda of her own, which doubtless included putting the woman who had cadged her work firmly in her place.
“Got it!”
“You can tell her that we are considering our options.”
“This is all a direct quote from you?”
“Absolutely.”
After Charley had hung up, I reflected on my comment. Any gaffes that might ruin my plan?
No way.
The next morning, I crept downstairs quietly so I wouldn’t wake Rosemarie, opened the front door gingerly, winced at the blast of Canadian air which invaded our house, and rescued the New York Times newspaper from a snowdrift.
As I flipped through the pages to the Arts and Leisure section, I realized that if the virtuous Rosemarie knew I had opened the door and, indeed, gone outside in my pajamas and without anything on my feet, I would be severely reprimanded.
I didn’t worry very long, however. The aforementioned wife, in her University of Chicago sleep shirt, leaped out of a full quarter page to wake up readers of both genders on this bitter winter morning.
The headline read,
WIFE’S PICTURE CREATES CONTROVERSY OVER
O’MALLEY’S NEW YORK SHOW:
DOES A FEMINIST CRITIC NEED TO SEE
PORTRAIT TO JUDGE IT OBSCENE?
BY CHRISTINA FREEMAN
I rearranged the paper into its proper form—I hate to read a paper which has been pulled apart—and placed it on the table in our breakfast nook. Then, shivering from my imprudent charge into the elements, I slipped back upstairs, brushed the snowflakes out of my hair, and donned a robe and slippers. The article had to be savored over a cup of hot tea and toast with raspberry jam.
I opened the Arts and Leisure section again while the tea steeped.
The Photography Gallery has canceled the long-awaited opening of an exhibition of portraits by the Chicago photographer Charles C. O’Malley because of opposition from a downtown feminist group. The SoHo Women’s Faction denounced as obscene a photograph of O’Malley’s wife, the author Helen Clancy. Diana Robbins, art critic of the Gramercy Blast and member of the Faction, denounced the portrait as obscene in a review in the Blast. The Faction also denied that a feminist critic needed to actually view a photograph to know that it was obscene and oppressive.
Subsequently Dr. O’Malley’s attorneys charged that Ms. Robbins had never visited the exhibition at Chicago’s Art Institute. They pointed out that her review seemed to be based on an earlier New York Times review from which she concluded that portraits of John Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Richard Nixon, Maureen O’Hara, and Ms. Clancy were in the same room. In fact only the pictures of Ms. O’Hara and Ms. Clancy were in the same room of the five-room exhibition. The Blast apologized to Dr. O’Malley for a number of false statements about his life made in Ms. Robbins’s article and admitted that it had no evidence that Ms. Robbins had seen the exhibition.
Nothing daunted, the Faction issued a statement in the Blast asserting that a “woman art critic who is sensitive to the most advanced feminist theory need not physically view oppressive art to render a revolutionary opinion about such degenerate material.” The Faction also threatened to storm the Gallery and tear the picture from the wall.
Lucien DePlante, director of the Gallery, said he decided to cancel the O’Malley show because the “Gallery does not wish to offend women.” Asked if he personally considered the portrait to be obscene, Mr. DePlante refused to comment.
However, Mathilda Martin, a New York photographer, disagreed sharply with the Gallery’s decision. “It’s a wonderful shot,” she said, “respectfully and chastely erotic. The woman in the picture defies the photographer and us. O’Malley has managed to present an erotically appealing woman who is not an object but a challenging person. The portrait is an amazing achievement.”
Dr. O’Malley was not available for comment. However, a spokesperson, Charlotte Antonelli, pointed out that the Gallery was in violation of its contract with Dr. O’Malley. “In Chicago,” Ms. Antonelli said, “we’re old fashioned. We think you should see a work of art before you denounce it.”
Ah, Charley, you’ve learned too much from listening to Uncle Chucky. It’s a line I should have used but didn’t.
The line under the copy of the portrait read, “Obscene or an amazing achievement?”
The shot dazzled me as it had since the instant I saw it falling into place as I squeezed the camera button. It was my Rosemarie to perfection. I imagined the letters that would appear: a monsignor somewhere in the New York suburbs would denounce the Times for printing pornography; a woman with an Irish name would describe my wife as “shameless”; a couple of Jewish folk would accuse the Gallery of censorship; and several women and men would praise me for an artistic breakthrough.
I smiled happily. Who needs to pay for publicity when your enemies give it to you for nothing?
I glanced at Rosemarie again. Was the picture sexually arousing? No, I decided, but the woman in it was definitely arousing. A lot of men who would glance quickly at the picture as they opened the Arts and Leisure section would glance again and yet again and wish to themselves that this woman was theirs. However, she was not. She was mine. All mine.
That was, I warned myself, a sentiment which bordered on oppressive male chauvinism. So what? It didn’t quite cross the border.
I was very satisfied with myself.
I folded the Arts and Leisure section so that the picture was on top of the newspaper, the first thing someone would see when she bounced into the breakfast nook.
Then the real-life Rosemarie bounced into the breakfast nook. She was wrapped in a peach silk robe.
“Why up so early, Chucky Ducky? … Oh, no! Not HER again! I figured this would happen! Whada they say! …”
She grabbed the paper and read the article with fierce concentration. I poured her some tea and prepared a piece of raspberry toast for her.
“Well!” She held the page up triumphantly. “I guess we showed that Feminist Faction bunch of bitches!”
“I guess we did!”
“That Charley is a clever little brat, isn’t she?”
“It was her line. I wish it were mine.”
“This Lucien fellow will change his mind?”
“Bet on it.”
She sighed and folded the paper so her picture was still on top.
“She’s me all right. I knew that from the time you pushed the shutter release. At first I tried to pretend it wasn’t. But I knew it all along. I don’t understand it exactly … She must be hell to live with …”
“Always challenging, like the woman says.”
“Sexy?”
“Yes, but that is only the beginning.”
“Passionate?”
“True enough.”
“Wild?”
“On occasion.”
“Seductive?”
“Generally.”
“You’re my husband.” She frowned. “You should have a good one-word description.”
I prepared another slice of raspberry toast and handed it to her.
“Exhausting and enchanting?”
“That’s two words, but I’ll settle for them. For the moment.”
“Good. You’ve always been that. Since you were ten anyway.”
“Not really!”
“Yes, really!”
Quick change of subject.
“I’ll have to call the magazine. They’ll want to use it. Maybe on the cover.”
“You’ll tell them not to?”
“Why? Better to be damned for a goat than for a sheep!”
This was not quite the reaction I had expected. I had thought I might b
e Pygmalion. Now I wondered if maybe the Baron von Frankenstein might be a better metaphor.
“What will people think about me?” She extended her teacup.
“Women will tend to envy you but many of them will be won over and will identify with you, like most of the women around here do.”
She nodded.
“I hope so … And men? Will they lust after me?”
I took a deep breath.
“I assume that they will glance quickly at it and turn the page. They’re not really interested in art controversies. Then they’ll remember the image and turn back to look at it again and yet again and wish to themselves that this woman was theirs. However, she is not. She is mine. All mine.”
“That’s very arousing, Chuck,” she said, lowering her eyes.
I had not meant it to be so.
“I am all yours,” she continued, her eyes still averted. “Always have been.”
“I think I know that.”
Even in my depressed state, I couldn’t take any more. I leaned across the table and pulled the robe off her shoulders. The sight of her exposed breasts, as always, hit the pit of my stomach with a jab of wonder, desire, pride.
“I think we’d better go back upstairs,” she said hoarsely.
We did.
After I asserted my mastery again … or maybe only succumbed to her again … it occurred to me that this was not an outcome for which I had planned.
Indeed, I had only seen it coming. It wasn’t my scheme at all. Rosemarie had seen it coming too. Instead of being upset and perhaps even angry as I had expected, she was delighted.
Big deal, Chucky Ducky!
In the midst of the phone calls and congratulations the next couple of days, I steadily grew more morose.
The women of the clan—the monster regiment—had swarmed over to our house by ten o’clock to celebrate, bringing their babies along as necessary. Poor little Shovie wandered around with a copy of the NYT to show to everyone.
“MY mommy!”
“Cool, Chuck!” Moire Meg observed.
“I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Sure!”
There were two offers of film contracts, which my wife modestly declined without consulting me.
Second Spring Page 33
