She lowered her eyes. “Not all at once. I stayed for a while to get some money to go to college with. I didn’t stay long and I haven’t got enough, so I have to work in the cafeteria.”
“When did you finally quit?”
“In three months, when I got arrested.”
He asked about that.
“My apartment was raided by two San Francisco bulls. But it was my first offense so the judge paroled me. I’m paroled now and for one more year.”
“I guess you’ve been through the mill,” Cronin said, toying with his glass.
“I sure have,” said Mary Lou, “but I’m not the same person I once was. I learned a lot.”
“Would you care for a last drink before we leave?” he asked. “It’s getting late. We’ve got an hour’s drive.”
“No, but thanks anyway.”
“I’ll just have a last drink.”
The waiter brought Cronin a Scotch.
“Tell me why you told me this,” he asked Mary Lou after he had drunk from his glass.
“I don’t know for sure,” she said. “Some of it is because I like you. I like the way you teach in your class. That’s why I got the idea of telling you.”
“But why, specifically?”
“Because everything’s different now.”
“The past doesn’t bother you?”
“Not much. I wanted to tell you before this but I couldn’t do it in your office without a drink to start me off.”
“Do you want me to do anything for you?” Cronin asked her.
“For instance, what?” said Mary Lou.
“If you want to talk to anybody about yourself I could get you the name of a psychiatrist.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I don’t need one. The guy I talk to about myself will have to do it for nothing, for kicks.”
She asked Cronin for one of his cigarettes and smoked while he finished his drink.
As they were getting ready to leave, Mary Lou said, “The way I figure, it wasn’t all my fault, but it’s dead and gone now. I got the right to think of the future.”
“You have,” said Cronin.
On the ride home he felt more objective and not unsympathetic to the girl, yet he was still disappointed and, from time to time, irritated with himself.
“Anyway,” Cronin told her, “you can work for a better way of life now.”
“That’s why I want an education for,” Mary Lou said.
2
It took Cronin a surprisingly long time to get over having been let down by Mary Lou. He had built her up in his mind as a woman he might want to spend some time with, and the surprise of her revelation, and his disillusionment, lingered so long he felt unsettled. “What’s this, Marge all over again?” He didn’t want any more of that, and not from this girl. He saw her in class, as usual, three times a week. She seemed to listen with the same interest, maybe less interested, but she didn’t approach him and no longer waited at his desk to walk with him to his office. Cronin understood that to mean he was to make the next move now that he knew, but he didn’t make it. What could he say to her—that he wished he didn’t know? Or now that he knew, sometimes when he glanced at her in class he pictured her being paid off by the last guy she had slept with. She was in his thoughts much of the time. He wondered what would have happened that night they were out if she hadn’t made that confession. Could he have guessed from the way she performed in bed that she had been a professional? He continued to think of having her and sometimes the thought was so wearing he avoided looking at her in class. He found his desire hard to bear but after a month it wore down. She seemed not very interesting to him then, and he was often aware how hard her expression was. He felt sorry for her and occasionally smiled, and once in a while she seemed cynically to smile back.
Cronin had made friends with a painter, George Getz, an assistant professor in the art department, an active, prematurely bald man, with whom he went on sketching trips, usually on Saturday or Sunday afternoon. George sketched or did watercolors as Cronin looked on or sat against a tree, smoking. Sometimes he wandered along streams and in the woods. When the painter, married from youth and the father of three girls, was tied down during the weekend, Cronin drove off by himself or tried walking alone, though generally he cared little for walking in town, and wasn’t sure which direction to go next. One fine Sunday in April, when George was busy with his family, Cronin started on a walk but it soon began to seem like work so he returned to his apartment and sat on the bed. Wanting company he searched in his mind for who, and after some doubts looked up Mary Lou Miller’s number and dialed it. He wasn’t sure why he had, though he knew it bothered him a little. “Hello there,” she said. She had hesitated on hearing his voice but seemed cordial enough. Cronin wondered about a drive and she said she wouldn’t mind. He called for her in his car. She looked a little distant when she came out and he was surprised at how attractive. He noticed she seemed to be prettier on warm days.
“How are things with you?” Cronin asked as he held the door open for her.
“All right, I guess. How are they with you?”
“Fine,” Cronin said.
“How’s the teaching?”
“Fine. I’m enjoying it more than I was.”
Not much more but it was too much trouble to explain why.
She seemed at ease. They drove toward the mountains along some of the side roads he had explored with George, until they came to a long blue lake shaped like a bird in flight. Cronin parked the car and they went through a scattering of pine trees, down to the water. At his suggestion they walked part of the way around the lake, and back. It took more than an hour and Mary Lou said she hadn’t walked that much in years.
“Life’s pleasures are cheap,” Cronin said.
“No, they’re not,” said Mary Lou.
He let it pass. They had said nothing about last time, there was nothing to say really. The beauty of the day had lightened Cronin’s mood—he remembered having dreamed of Marge last night and had awakened uneasy. But Mary Lou’s company, he admitted to himself, had made the walk around the lake enjoyable. She was wearing a yellow cotton dress that showed her figure off, and her hair, to the large thick knot on her neck, was for once neatly arranged. She was rather quiet, as though a word too much might defeat her, but once she loosened up they talked amiably. She seemed to Cronin, as he sat by her side gazing at the lake, no more nor less than any woman he had known. The way he presently saw it was that she was entitled to her mistakes. He was to his. Yet though he tried to forget what she had told him, the fact that she had been a whore kept nagging him. She had known many men, how large a crowd they would make following her now, he was afraid to guess. He had never known anyone like her, and that he was with her now struck him as somewhat strange. But Cronin thought what an unusual thing present time was. In the present a person is what she is becoming and not what she was. She was this heavy-but-shapely-legged girl in a yellow dress, sitting by his side as though she belonged there. Cronin thought this was an interesting lesson for him. The past interfered if you let it. People feared it because they thought it predicted the future. It didn’t if you realized how much life changed, and concentrated on what it had changed to, and lived that. He began again to think of the possibility of friendship with Mary Lou.
She got up, brushing pine needles off her dress. “It’s hot,” she said. “Would you mind if I peeled and went in for a dip?”
“Go ahead,” said Cronin.
“Why don’t you come in yourself?” she asked. “You could keep your shorts on and later get dry in the sun.”
“No, I don’t think so,” he said, “I’m not much of a swimmer.”
“Neither am I,” Mary Lou said, “but I like the water.”
She unzipped her dress and pulled it over her head. Then she kicked off her shoes, stepped out of a half slip, and removed her white underwear. He enjoyed the fullness of her form, the beauty of her breasts. Mary Lou walked into the water, shiv
ered, and began to swim. Cronin sat watching her, one arm around his knees as he smoked. After swimming a while, Mary Lou, her flesh lit in the sunlight, came out of the water, drew on her underpants, then let the sun dry her as she redid her damp hair. He was moved by her wet body after bathing.
When she had dressed, Cronin suggested they have dinner together and Mary Lou agreed. “But first you come up to my joint for a drink. I want to show you how I fixed it up.”
He said he would like to.
On their ride back she was talkative. She told Cronin about her life as a child. Her father had been a small wheat farmer in Idaho. She had one married sister and two married brothers. She said the oldest brother was a big bastard.
“He’s pretty rich by now,” she said, “and he talks a lot about God’s grace but in his heart he is a bastard. When I was thirteen one day he grabbed me in the barn and laid me though I didn’t want to.”
“Oh, Christ,” said Cronin. “You committed incest?”
“It all happened when I was a kid.”
“Why don’t you keep these things to yourself?” Cronin said. “What makes you think I want to hear them?”
“I guess I felt I trusted you.”
“Well, don’t trust me,” he shouted.
He drove to her house and let her off at the curb. Then he drove away.
The next morning Mary Lou did not appear in Cronin’s class, and a few days later her drop-slip came through.
3
A week had gone by when Cronin one day saw her walking with George Getz, and his heart was flooded with jealous misery. He thought he was rid of his desire for the girl; but seeing her walking at the painter’s side, talking animatedly, George interested, Mary Lou good to look at in a white summer dress and doing very well, thanks, without Cronin, awoke in him a sense of loss and jealousy. He thought he might be in love with her. Cronin watched them go up the stairs of the art building and, though he had no good reason to, pictured them in each other’s arms, naked on George’s studio couch. The effect was frightening.
My God, thought Cronin, here I am thinking of her with the same miserable feelings I had about Marge. I can’t go through that again.
He fought to put her out of his mind—the insistent suspicion of an affair between her and the painter—but his memory of her body at the lake, and imagining the experience she had had with men, what she would do with George, for instance, and might have done with Cronin if they had become lovers, made things worse. Thinking of her experiences was like trying to stop the pain of a particular wound by stabbing yourself elsewhere. His only relief was to get drunk, but when that wore off the anguish was worse.
One morning he was so desperately jealous—the most useless of emotions, and especially useless in a situation where the girl really meant little to him, almost nothing, and the past, despite all his theorizing and good intentions, much too much—that he waited for them for hours, in the foyer of the school of architecture across the street from the art building. Cronin did not at first know why he was waiting but that he had to, perhaps to satisfy himself they were or weren’t having an affair. He saw neither of them then, but on the next afternoon he followed the painter at a distance to Mary Lou’s apartment. Cronin saw him go in shortly before 5 p.m., and was still unhappily waiting under a tree across the street, several houses down, when George came out at half past ten. Cronin was wakeful all night.
Terrified that this should mean so much to him, he tried to work out some means of relief. Should he telephone the girl and ask her back into his class so that they could once more be on good terms? Or if that meant trouble with the registrar’s office, couldn’t he just call and apologize for acting as he had, then offer to resume their friendship? Or could he scare George away by telling him about her past?
The painter was a family man, a careful sort, and Cronin felt sure he would end it with Mary Lou if he thought anyone suspected he was involved with her; he wanted to go on feeding his three girls. But telling him about her seemed such a stinking thing to do that Cronin couldn’t face it. Still, things were so bad he finally decided to speak to George. He felt that if he could be sure the painter wasn’t being intimate with her, his jealousy would die out and the girl fade in his thoughts.
He waited till George invited him on another sketching afternoon, and was glad to have the chance to bring it up then, rather than to have to seek the painter out in his office or studio. They were at the edge of the woods, George at work on a watercolor, when Cronin spoke of the girl and asked whether George knew that Mary Lou had once been a prostitute in San Francisco for a couple of years.
George wiped his brush with a rag, then asked Cronin where he had got his information.
Cronin said he had got it from her. “She was married to someone who set her up professionally and cut in on the take. After he left her she quit.”
“What a son of a bitch,” said George. He worked for a while, then turned to Cronin and asked, “Why do you tell me about it?”
“I thought you ought to know.”
“Why ought I?”
“Isn’t she a student of yours?”
“No, she isn’t. She came to my office and offered to model for me. It’s hard to get girls to pose in the nude around here so I said yes. That’s all there is between us.”
He seemed embarrassed.
Cronin looked away. “I didn’t think there was anything between you. I just thought you would want to know, if she was your student. I didn’t know she wasn’t.”
“Well,” said George, “I know now, but I still intend to use her as a model.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Thanks for telling me, though,” George said. “I’ve sometimes felt there’s a bit of the slut in her. It wouldn’t pay to get involved.”
Cronin, feeling some repulsion for himself, then said, “To tell the truth, George, I’m not entirely innocent in this. I’ve wanted to take the girl to bed.”
“Have you?”
“No.”
“I almost did,” George said.
Though Cronin wasn’t sure the painter had or hadn’t, he was certain he wouldn’t dare be intimate with her now. When he got home he felt relief, mingled with shame that had him talking to himself, but he slept better that night.
4
A few nights later Mary Lou rang Cronin’s doorbell, walked up the stairs, and, when she was admitted into his apartment, said she wanted to talk to him. Cronin, reading in pajamas and robe, offered her a Scotch but she refused. Her face was pale, her expression embittered. She was wearing Levi’s and a baggy sweater; the hair spilled out of her bun.
“Look,” Mary Lou said to Cronin, “I didn’t come here for any favors, but did you say anything to Professor Getz about me? I mean what I told you about San Francisco?”
“Did he say I had?” Cronin asked.
“No, but we were being friendly and then he changed to me. I figure somebody must have told him something, and I thought nobody knew anything but you, so you must’ve told him.”
Cronin admitted it. “I thought he ought to know, considering the circumstances.”
“Such as what?” she asked sullenly.
He hesitated. “He’s a married man with three kids. There could be serious trouble.”
“That’s his goddamn business.”
He admitted that too. “I’m sorry, Mary Lou. All I can say is that my life has been confused and complicated lately.”
“What about mine?” She was sitting in a chair, then turned her head and wept.
Cronin poured her a drink but Mary Lou wouldn’t take it.
“The reason I told you those things is because I thought you were a guy I could trust and be friends with. Instead it was the opposite. I’m sorry what I told you got you so bothered, but there’s a lot worse than that, and one thing I want you to know is it doesn’t bother me anymore. I made my peace with my life.”
“I haven’t,” said Cronin.
“I don’t w
ant to hear about it,” said Mary Lou, and though he asked her to stay she left.
Afterwards he thought, She has learned something from her experience that I haven’t learned from mine. And he felt sorry for Mary Lou, for the way he had treated her. It’s not easy to be moral, Cronin thought. He decided, before he went to bed, not to come back to this college in the fall, to quit teaching.
On Commencement Day, Cronin met Mary Lou in the street, in her yellow dress, and they stopped to talk. She had put on weight but wasn’t looking well, and as they talked her stomach rumbled. In embarrassment she covered her abdomen.
“It’s from studying,” she said. “I got awfully worried about my finals. The doctor in the infirmary said to watch out or I might wind up with an ulcer.”
Cronin also advised her to take care. “Your health comes first.”
They said goodbye. He never saw her again, but a year later, in Chicago, he had a card from her. She wrote she was still at college, majoring in education, and hoped someday to teach.
1963
A Pimp’s Revenge
F, ravaged Florentine, grieving, kicked apart a trial canvas, copy of one he had been working on for years, his foot through the poor mother’s mouth, destroyed the son’s insipid puss, age about ten. It deserved death for not coming to life. He stomped on them both, but not of course on the photograph still tacked to the easel ledge, sent years ago by sister, Bessie, together with her last meager check. “I found this old photo of you and Momma when you were a little boy. Thought you might like to have it, she’s been dead these many years.” Inch by enraged inch he rent the canvas, though cheap linen he could ill afford, and would gladly have cremated the remains if there were a place to. He swooped up the mess with both hands, grabbed some smeared drawings, ran down four rickety flights, and dumped all in the bowels of a huge burlap rubbish bag in front of the scabby mustard-walled house on Via S. Agostino. Fabio, the embittered dropsical landlord, asleep on his feet, awoke and begged for a few lire back rent but F ignored him. Across the broad piazza, Santo Spirito, nobly proportioned, stared him in the bushy-mustached face, but he would not look back. His impulse was to take the nearest bridge and jump off into the Arno, flowing again in green full flood after a dry summer; instead, he slowly ascended the stairs, pelted by the landlord’s fruity curses. Upstairs in his desolate studio, he sat on his bed and wept. Then he lay with his head at the foot of the bed and wept.
The Complete Stories Page 46
