I Love You, Stupid!

by Mazer, Harry;

  “You mean friend-friends?”

  He nodded. “We’ve known each other for years.”

  “That is nice. When I was in school, girls and boys weren’t friends, not that way. I always wanted a boy to be my friend.”

  He asked her where she’d studied. “Where did you learn about art? Is this your first museum job?”

  “I have a Fine Arts degree from Temple.” This was her first curator’s job. “I haven’t worked since Kevin was born, but after his father and I broke up I had to.”

  “Does Kevin miss his father?”

  “I’m sure. Divorce is always tough on a kid. A boy needs a role model.”

  “I never knew my father while I was growing up.”

  “Really?” She looked at him with interest.

  “It was just my mother and me. And Bill, my mother’s friend.”

  “Well, I should be encouraged. You seem to be solidly male.”

  Later, while Karen got ready to go out, Marcus bathed Kevin in the tub, conscious of Karen in the other room. He lifted Kevin to the toilet seat and wrapped the towel around him.

  Things had gone really well—supper together and the talk. She’d asked him questions about himself. She’d been really interested. All his impossible thoughts started to surface. Karen … her robe loose.… Damn, he was always making her robe fall open. But what had she said? You seem to be solidly male. That was real. He hadn’t made that up.

  “You won’t forget to put Kevin to bed on time?” She stood at the door, dressed to go out in a long dark skirt, boots, and a corduroy jacket. Her hair was up, silver at her ears.

  He dreamed of her neck, his lips in her hair … Stay, don’t go, stay here with me …

  “Wing-ding,” Kevin sang. “Wingadingding-dong”

  “What’s that, honey? Kiss Mommy.” And she was off.

  After Kevin was in bed Marcus paced the apartment. Karen … her head suspended like a thin piece of crystal … Should he write it down? He couldn’t decide if it was inspired or idiotic. Each time he reached the front windows he looked out to see if she was coming yet. When she returned he’d help her off with her jacket. His arms would be around her, she’d lean back … He wouldn’t have to speak. She’d see everything on his face. What could they possibly say? Karen … Marcus … Karen … Great conversation.

  In The Web and the Rock, a book he loved but nobody read any more (he’d read it six times), George Webber was a writer (like Marcus), alone and unrecognized (like Marcus). A beautiful society woman (Karen?) invites George to her house. George has just come to the city, his mind exploding with images, characters, stories. The beautiful society woman is older than George, but that doesn’t matter. She loves good books and tall young writers. The walls of her living room are lined with books, the draperies are drawn, the lights low, a fire burns in the fireplace. They talk about books, art, and literature. George Webber is passionate, outspoken in his opinions.

  Marcus flung out his arms. He was George Webber. And there was Karen on the couch, looking up at him. He knelt beside her. (Marcus knelt by the empty couch.) Her lips parted. She caught him in her arms, drew him down. They kissed. (Marcus embraced the pillow.) Oh, my darling, she said, make love to me. (He kissed the pillow passionately.) Make love to me. Now! (He lay the pillow down gently.) Rosenbloom, you incredible lover.

  Later he heard Karen on the stairs. “Hello, Marcus, how’s everything?” She walked in with a short, redheaded man. “How’s Kevin?” Marcus looked at the man in dismay. All evening he’d been waiting for Karen to return. Marcus alone with Karen. I’m older than you, but that doesn’t matter. I love young passionate writers.

  “Marcus, this is Sid Bauer, the artist.” She said “artist” as if every letter were capitalized.

  “Mmmm, hmmm, mmmm, glad-a-meet-ya.” The artist stood in the middle of the room, poking out his little round belly. “Well, this is some place, Karen. I see your hand everywhere.” There were paint flecks on his boots. Phony cowboy boots, phony cowboy shirt.

  “What do I owe you, Marcus?” Karen said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s see, you started at twelve.” She counted out bills. “It’s late. Sid will drive you home, won’t you, Sid?”

  Sid turned from examining Karen’s wall hangings. “Of course, if you promise me a cup of coffee afterward, and something sweet.”

  “I don’t need a ride.” Marcus spoke in a muffled voice.

  “You sure?” the artist said indifferently.

  Marcus didn’t look at him but snatched the money Karen was holding out, and rushed from the apartment.

  13

  “This came in yesterday’s mail,” Sally said, handing him a manila envelope. She was in her robe. It was Sunday morning. The envelope was creased in the middle, and Marcus saw at once that it was the same self-addressed envelope he’d sent Playboy with his story. Did it have an acceptance? Or was his story inside, rejected, come back to him? He went weak with fear and couldn’t open it. Oh, god, he prayed, let it be something good.

  Dear Mr. Rosenbloom. Dear Mr. Genius. Dear Incredible New Writing Discovery. And there would be a check. Usually we pay $500, but since your story was so outstanding we enclose a check for $5000.

  In his room he threw the envelope on the bed. Too fat to be just a letter and a check. The manuscript was inside. Open it! In the mirror he looked himself bravely in the face. Open the envelope. If you’re going to be killed, face it.

  He tore open the flap. There was a brief printed note attached to his manuscript. “Thank you for submitting your manuscript to us, but at this time …” Blah, blah blah. He crumpled the note, then kicked it under the bed.

  That night Marcus had his mother’s car. He wore a fawn-colored turtleneck and his old tweed jacket. He had pushed the rejection of his story out of his mind. Well, not completely, but he wasn’t going to think about it or talk about it either.

  Wendy sneezed when she met him at the door of her aunt’s house. She wore a skirt and heels and carried a leather pocketbook. “It’s my aunt’s and it’s full of tissues,” she said hoarsely. She sneezed again. “I woke up with this cold this morning.” Her nose was red. “Let me say good-bye to my aunt and uncle.”

  Aunt Ginny and Uncle Doug were in the living room playing backgammon. “Hello, Marcus,” Aunt Ginny said. “You look nice.”

  Uncle Doug, still in the white coveralls of the laundry company he drove for, gave Marcus an unenthusiastic look. “You go to that play tonight, Wen, and you’re really going to get sick.”

  “I have to go, Uncle Doug.” She sneezed again, then kissed her aunt and uncle. “Don’t you guys wait up for me.”

  In the car she kept the tissues in her lap. “How do I look, Marcus?”

  “You want the truth, or a nice lie?”

  “Forget it.” She reached for a fresh tissue and blew, then for another one to wipe her dripping eyes.

  “Maybe you should stay home?”

  “No. Alec called to see if I was coming, and I promised. What will he think if I don’t show up?”

  “Probably won’t notice the difference.”

  “Thanks a lot. You are a grump.”

  He grunted.

  Wendy reached for a tissue. “Well, how’s the fair Karen?”

  “No comment.”

  “Okay, how’s the writing going?”

  “I don’t want to talk about that either.”

  Wendy sniffled. “Nice day, isn’t it?”

  Marcus maintained a rude silence, remembering the rejection of his story. Every time he thought of it, it made him feel sick. “Playboy rejected my story,” he said at last.

  “What? My ears are plugged.”

  “Playboy rejected my story,” he said loudly. He’d be yelling in a minute. “They returned it, untouched, unread. They didn’t want it.”

  “I’m sorry.” Wendy touched his arm. “I know how much it meant to you.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Fine, I w
ill!” She drew away. Now they were both sitting in stubborn silence.

  Marcus felt he’d acted like a fool, and when they reached the theater he said, “Wendy, I apologize.” He put his hand to his heart. “Humbly and sincerely. I’ve acted like a crumb tonight.”

  “Did you say crud?”

  “I’m not the easiest person to be around sometimes.”

  “No comment.”

  “You have to admit I’m making a sincere effort to change.”

  “I’ve hardly noticed.”

  “Do you have to disagree with everything I say?”

  “Why should I agree with you when you’re always wrong?”

  They parked and walked toward the theater. Wendy wobbled on her heels, and clutched Marcus’s arm. “Isn’t that the ultimate? Wear heels and you’ve got to hang on to a man.” She bumped into him and he bumped her back in a friendly way.

  All through the first act of the play, Wendy muffled her sneezes, but during the second act she started sneezing so violently she had to run out. Marcus joined her during intermission. “Maybe I should drive you home, Wen. You really look beat.”

  “No, I’m staying.”

  She felt better through the third act, and they stood for the curtain calls, both of them saving their loudest applause for Alec. “I kept wishing,” Wendy said, “he’d make a mistake, so I could laugh at him, but he was wonderful.”

  “He was good.”

  “He was the outstanding actor, Marcus, and you know it.”

  It was true. Then why was he feeling so negative? Because all through the play he kept remembering his story, and how Karen had come back with that fat little artist last night.

  Backstage, Alec, still in costume, was hyped up, embracing and kissing everyone. The makeup made him look as if he were still acting. Terri came over and he gave her a long passionate kiss on the mouth. Then he noticed them and put his arms out. “Marc! Wendy!” He embraced Marcus, then caught Wendy around the waist and kissed her on the mouth.

  “You were wonderful,” she said. She was flushed and her eyes shone with excitement. She didn’t look the least bit sick any more.

  A woman threw her arms around Alec’s neck. “Sweets, you were wonderful.” A moment later Terri caught his hand and they went off somewhere.

  Marcus and Wendy stood on the side waiting for Alec to return. “How long do you think we should wait?” Wendy said.

  “I’m ready to go right now.”

  “Let’s give them a few more minutes.” She pulled Marcus out of the way of a ladder coming through.

  They stood around a little longer. “I don’t know what we’re doing here,” Wendy finally said. “Let’s go.”

  Outside they walked along in silence. Wendy removed her heels and walked in her stockinged feet. “Did you notice Alec just came up to my shoulder?” She gave a long sigh.

  “I thought you were off Alec,” Marcus said.

  “I’m trying to be.”

  Marcus knew what that meant. “Me too.”

  “Does that mean Karen?”

  “Yeah, it’s crazy.”

  “We both are crazy,” Wendy said, and put her arm around his waist.

  14

  Karen wore a gown decorated with tiny flowers, her hair loose. “If Kevin’s father calls, will you tell him to call me tomorrow?” Marcus nodded. “Bye-bye, baby,” she called to Kevin, who was playing on the floor.

  After she left, Marcus stood by the window. Across the street Bauer, the artist, held the car door open for her. Why was he hanging inside the door so long? What did she see in that potbellied, redheaded, little show-off? It was miserable being in love. Better to have a broken leg. Write it down, he told himself. The last conference he’d had with Sweeny, the teacher had told him he had to keep writing. Sweeny had had a fit when he heard Marcus had thrown away the Victor Gorman piece. “Wrong. I want you to retype that story and mail it to another magazine. If you’re going to be defeated by one rejection—” Sweeny went at him like a coach. “Get off your tail! I’ll expect you to have pages next time on that Isabel story.” He picked up his red pencil. Dismissed.

  So now Marcus sat with his notebook. “Isabel,” he wrote, “you’ll never know what you did to me.” He sat there and tried to remember how it had been in sixth grade when he’d sat behind Isabel in Miss Black’s class.

  Later, he was putting Kevin in his pajamas when the downstairs buzzer rang. A man in a red blazer, a box under his arm, was at the door.

  “I’m Bob Lambert.” He looked at Marcus curiously. “Where’s Karen? I’m Kevin’s father.”

  “Karen’s out right now. I’m the babysitter. Marcus Rosenbloom.”

  They shook hands. There was something formal and stiff about Bob Lambert. He didn’t look like he belonged with Karen. He looked like a minister or a principal.

  Lambert ran upstairs and lifted his son into his arms. Kevin pushed his father’s hat back and pinched his nose.

  “Don’t you want to kiss your daddy? Do you want to see the nice present I brought you?”

  “Are you my same daddy? Put me down.”

  “The very same.” Lambert opened the package and held out a large, gray teddy bear. “You can sleep with Teddy tonight.”

  Kevin took the animal. “What else?” he said.

  Watching them, Marcus felt something familiar about the scene, an echo of his own childhood. A father returning to his son. Not that his own father had ever been like this. No, this was the old dream of the way his father would return to him someday.

  It was past one o’clock when Marcus heard Karen’s steps on the stairs. “Marcus?” She was alone. “I thought you’d be asleep. How’d everything go?”

  “Fine.” He searched her face. As always, her eyes were elsewhere. “Kevin’s father came to see him.”

  “And you let him in?”

  “Yes,” he said, surprised at her anger.

  “Who gave you permission? He’s got no business here, do you understand? Not when I’m not here. And he knows it. You’re never to let him in without my permission.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I get it.” She didn’t have to pound him over the head. He felt wrongly accused, didn’t want her talking to him like that. “It won’t happen next time.”

  “Where’s Kevin?”

  “Sleeping. Karen, it’s all right. He brought Kevin a teddy bear.”

  She brushed past him. “I bet he did!” He followed her into Kevin’s room. She leaned over Kevin, straightening his blanket, then picked up the teddy bear. They stood in the dimly lit hall. “Is this what he brought?”

  “He was only here for a few minutes,” Marcus whispered.

  “He isn’t going to have things his own way. Comes when he damn pleases, thinks he can still bully me around. Well, he can’t.”

  “Look, I’m sorry. I really didn’t know.”

  She slumped against the wall and started rubbing her temples nervously. “I just hate the constant fighting.”

  In the narrow hall his hand was on the wall near her face. So close. He felt she wanted something from him. “I’ll never let him in again.” Ordinary words. “You can count on me.” Words couldn’t convey what he felt. More than words … he wanted.… His hands fell to her arms. He pulled her toward him, leaned toward her, tried to kiss her.

  She pushed him away.

  “Please … I mean … Let me …”

  “For god’s sake, Marcus!” She got away from him. “What do you think you’re doing? You catch me when I’m upset—Because I’m alone, you think—Oh, no! Oh, no! I can manage very well, thank you. I don’t need your kind of help.”

  “I didn’t—” He tried to speak, to explain. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Oh, you did! You did mean. Don’t tell me you didn’t! Aah, men! And I suppose you think I should be grateful. No, thank you.” She pushed him down the hall, hitting him with the teddy bear. “All right, go, go home now. Just go! And don’t bother coming back.”

  Marcus rode
through the dark, deserted streets, head down, wobbling on his bike from one side of the street to the other. He rode through the light cast by street lamps, then darkness, then light, then darkness. He choked up, groaned, hit himself. He’d begged her. How could he have begged? Please, let me. “Oh, oh, oh.”

  Wendy’s house was dark. He rapped on her window. “Wendy, it’s me, Marcus.”

  The shade came up, and her face appeared. “Marcus?”

  “I have to talk to you. Open up.”

  She opened the door, wrapped in a blanket. “What happened? It’s after two o’clock.” He followed her into the dark room. “Don’t turn on the light,” she said, “and keep your voice down or you’ll wake them. Wait a minute, I want to wash my face.” She went out.

  Marcus scrunched down in the chair. It was close inside, a close night smell, hair, something musky.… His eyes burned. Wendy returned, climbed into bed, and pulled the covers around her shoulders. “You cold? You want a blanket?”

  Marcus sank deeper into the chair, shutting his eyes. For a minute he couldn’t speak. Then he told her. “I blew it, Wendy. I made a pass at Karen. How could I have done it? How could I have been so stupid?”

  “It isn’t stupid to want someone, to love them, Marcus.”

  “You don’t understand! She didn’t want me.” He went to the window, looked out, then sat on the bed next to Wendy. “She hates me, despises me. I can’t go back there.” Tears squeezed from his eyes. Wendy put her arms around him. He let himself be held, aware of the scratchy blanket against his cheek, aware of the rise and fall of her breast. He was in pain. He was aware of his pain. He hurt. I hurt, he thought. This is pain, this is grief, this is what loving someone and not being loved in return feels like. He hurt, and in a part of his mind he gloried in his hurt. Now he knew pain, he could weep, he was experiencing something real and awful. And through all that he was also conscious of Wendy’s holding him against her breast, her hand on his head.

  15

  In the bathroom, Marcus, a towel around his waist, brushed his teeth. Yesterday, all day, he’d waited for a message from Karen, a summons to return. All is forgiven. Why had she gotten so angry? Because he needed her, wanted her? Was that so wrong? Was that potbellied artist better than him?