by Rona Jaffe
She and Roger blew out the candles, locked the door and went upstairs to bed.
They lay on their bed and cuddled, in a state of such serenity it was almost a stupor. Olivia ran her fingers along his familiar skin. She loved the way his skin smelled, musky and toasty.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too,” she said. She was so relaxed she almost didn’t notice the cat scratch on his thigh. Then she did. She touched it lightly. “What’s this?”
“What?”
“This scratch.”
“I don’t know,” he said. He sounded annoyed.
“It’s a cat scratch,” Olivia said.
“Don’t be silly.”
“I know a cat scratch when I see one.”
“Well, probably one of the little bastards didn’t like getting his shots and attacked me.”
“Don’t you remember?”
“This is ridiculous,” Roger said. He pulled the sheet up over himself and turned his back. “I’m going to sleep now.”
She felt the ache of rejection beginning and she wanted desperately to go back to the calm and peaceful, almost infantile bliss she had felt in his arms just moments before. “No,” Olivia said. “Hold me.”
He turned around and looked at her. Then he smiled. “Okay.” He put his arms around her and she nestled against his chest. He kissed her hair lightly. “Go to sleep,” he whispered. His heart was thumping very hard.
She listened to the wildly leaping beats, counting them. She hoped he hadn’t eaten and drunk so much that he was going to have a heart attack. That was her greatest fear, that she would lose him someday to death. But his heartbeats finally settled down, and after a while she heard his breathing grow deeper and then he began to sigh his way into sleep.
At least it didn’t look infected, she thought.
She slept.
6
“YOU’LL HAVE TO LOCK your cat up the next time I come over,” Roger said to Wendy. He was on the phone in his office while Olivia was in surgery. “She saw where he scratched me.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Wendy breathed. “Gregory is really a nice cat. He’s just jealous.”
“I’m not interested in his motivations. She almost caught me.” Actually, Olivia had never mentioned the cat scratch again, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t thinking about it. All he needed was another mistake and he would be in real trouble. Unaccountably the tension only made him more excited.
“Oh, God,” Wendy said.
“Meet me at Julia’s tomorrow,” Roger said.
“Julia’s?” she said, sounding pleased. “That’s risky.”
“In Couture. You’ll be the house model.”
“Far out.”
There was a childish eagerness to her that sometimes made him feel vulnerable and afraid he was going to get too fond of her. She crackled through his blood like electricity. He had to keep reminding himself that all these Wendys didn’t really exist, that she had created them for him. But that ruined the fantasy that it was real. He thought of the old Meat Loaf song: I want you, I need you, there ain’t no way I’m ever gonna love you . . . He just had to remember that, no matter what he told her. His being in love with Wendy was her fantasy, her part of the game.
Julia’s was a very elegant store, quiet and airy, with an atrium, high-speed escalators overlooking a small courtyard with plants in it, which were changed seasonally, soft music and soothing colors. There was a restaurant which served popovers and cheese sticks instead of health food, and none of the clothes were bizarre or cheap or too trendy, even in the junior department. It was never mobbed with bargain hunters tearing things off the racks, but it did very well. It catered to the kind of clientele that rarely returned anything.
When Roger, carrying his gym bag, entered the couture section he noticed it was mercifully empty of customers, except for a toothpick-skinny woman who was having a fitting and complaining that her stomach was sticking out because today she had done something she never did—had lunch. A chic middle-aged saleswoman approached him.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m just going to look a little.”
“Call me if you need anything.”
“Thank you.”
She moved away out of earshot. Wendy was standing next to a rack of evening gowns. She was wearing a little black mini-dress with the price tag hanging down, and her gleaming butterscotch-colored hair was up in a neat French twist. “Hello,” she said to him in a pleasant, neutral voice, and smiled.
“Hello.”
“Are you looking for something in particular?”
You, he thought. You’re gorgeous. “A very sexy black evening gown,” Roger said. “Floor-length.”
“For a lucky woman,” she said. Her voice was warmer.
He smiled back at her. He touched one of the dresses in the rack. “Would she be lucky to have this?”
She took it out and held it up against her. It was long, black, simple, tight, low-cut and had a price tag that looked like a phone number.
“She’d be lucky to have you.”
He flicked the price tag. “I suppose so.”
“No, because you have the kindest face I’ve ever seen. And beautiful topaz eyes. Doesn’t she tell you that?”
“No.”
“She should. You’re an amazing-looking man.”
“Thank you,” Roger said.
“Would you like me to try it on for you?” she asked.
The saleswoman glanced over. She had seen these couples before—a younger woman with an older man, angling for something outrageously expensive, the man showing off, definitely going to buy her something—so she bided her time and went back to the skinny woman who had eaten lunch.
“Yes,” Roger said. “I would.”
“Wait here.”
Wendy disappeared into the dressing room, and came out a short time later wearing the long black dress, gliding and sensuous. “It’s not fair,” Roger said.
“What isn’t?”
“No one could look as wonderful in that dress as you do. It would only be a disappointment to see it on someone else.”
“That’s my job,” she said lightly.
“What’s your name?”
“Nicole,” she said, without missing a beat.
“I’m Roger.”
“Hello.”
“Hello.” Their eyes locked.
“Maybe I should look at something else,” Roger said.
“Of course.” She took another dress off the rack. It was thin and filmy with tiny black beads sewn on it. “This is very nice.”
“Yes . . .”
“Would you like to come into the dressing room?”
He nodded and followed her in. The dressing room was large, with a three-way mirror in front of a small raised platform where alterations could be pinned. There were shiny straight pins scattered on the thick peach carpet. There was a loveseat in flowered fabric, and a side chair with a small round table next to it. The door was made of heavy louvers, and it could be locked. Roger locked it.
Wendy hung up the beaded dress. “Sit down,” she said, indicating the chair. He sat, and watched as the long, simple dress fell to the floor. She was wearing tiny black lacy lingerie that he had never seen before. She bent gracefully and picked up the dress and hung it up. Then she put on the other one. It fit her like a strange and otherworldly skin. She looked distant, exquisite.
“Do you like it?” Her voice was soft, almost hypnotic.
“Yes. It looks very fragile.” He was having difficulty breathing, and the tone of his voice matched hers. They were beginning their dance, the steps of which they each knew separately, and which would have to bring them together.
“It is.”
“I’d be afraid something would happen to it.”
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“You’d have to be careful.”
“Always.”
“Are you a careful man?” she asked.
“Very. I never destroy. I only protect.”
“Why don’t you stand there?” she said, pointing to the platform in front of the three-way mirror. He got up and stood on the platform, knowing he was ready for her. She knelt on the platform in front of him, unzipped his pants and took him into her mouth. He looked at the reflection of the two of them, repeated and repeated: of himself on his pedestal, exalted, her avid tongue; and then he looked down at her moving, servile head; and then he didn’t look at anything at all. His orgasm was so forceful it was all he could do not to cry out.
She swallowed, very neatly, and then she lay back on the loveseat and as neatly folded back the delicate dress that did not belong to them and removed her underpants, and this time he knelt before her and buried his face between her legs. Her body shuddered and she made the tiniest sound in her throat when she came.
We could get arrested for this, Roger thought.
They stood and rearranged their clothes. Wendy turned in front of the mirror, inspecting the dress to be sure they had not done anything to it. “You leave first,” she said.
“I love you,” he said. He opened the dressing-room door, looked around and quickly stepped outside.
The saleswoman had a new customer. When he walked past them the woman turned around: head of thick, dyed gold curls, too-cute little upturned 1940s nose job, inquisitive bright eyes, and looked at him as if she couldn’t quite place him, and indeed, Roger almost didn’t recognize her either—and then he did. It was Olivia’s aunt Myra.
“Is that Roger?” Aunt Myra said. His legs turned to rubber. For once he was grateful for her piercing voice. He hoped she hadn’t seen him come out of the dressing room; he hoped Wendy would stay the hell inside.
“Myra,” he said with forced cordiality.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I thought I’d buy a surprise for Olivia,” he said. He felt dizzy and his head was beginning to hurt. “For the wonderful Thanksgiving dinner she made.”
“Oh, well, you had a good time?”
“It was superb.”
“Are you buying her a dress?”
What else, you moron, he thought with unaccustomed rage, this is a dress department. Why did she have to be here? What horrible luck.
“Yes.”
“I’m glad,” Myra said. “She wears those weird clothes—I’d call them shmatas but I don’t want to be rude—you should get her something presentable. And don’t forget to use the family’s employee discount; designer clothes cost an arm and a leg these days.”
He glanced around surreptitiously. Wendy came sneaking out of the dressing room wearing her own clothes. She put the two dresses back on the rack.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” the saleswoman said.
“So which one are you getting?” Myra asked. He glanced warningly at Wendy. Wendy kept her face completely blank and moved away to another rack.
Roger took down the dress Wendy had been wearing when they had sex in the dressing room. “This one.”
Aunt Myra seemed to think Wendy was a salesgirl and ignored her, concentrating on the dress. “Very pretty. Awfully formal, though. Do you think Olivia will wear it?”
“I hope so.”
“I guess you two go to black-tie affairs.”
“Sometimes.”
“Well, it was nice seeing you.”
“Nice seeing you, too, Myra.”
Myra disappeared into her dressing room and the saleswoman turned to Roger, who was standing there with the dress in his hand and his shirt wet with perspiration. “Will that be a house account?” she asked.
“No, I’ll write a check.”
They went to the front desk where Wendy was standing with a beatific look on her face. “That will be thirty-five hundred dollars,” the saleswoman said. “Plus, of course, the tax.” She glanced at Wendy, trying to decide whether she was Olivia, and then decided she had to be. “Enjoy your dress,” she said.
Thirty-five hundred dollars, Roger thought, feeling ill.
“It’s not mine,” Wendy said sweetly. “I’m just helping. Men have no taste. Don’t say anything to Myra. Roger wants to pretend he picked it out all by himself.”
“Of course,” the saleswoman said. She put the dress into a box and Roger handed her the check. “Here’s my card.” She gave it to both of them, Roger grabbed the box, and he and Wendy fled to the escalators.
“Why did you say that?” he hissed.
“Say what?”
“That you weren’t Olivia?”
“Would you rather she tell dear Myra how adorable I am?”
“I guess not,” he said.
“I’m better at these things than you are.”
“I know.”
“Sometimes I think you have a death wish,” Wendy said.
“No.”
“Yes, where we’re concerned.”
“Wrong.”
“Sometimes I worry.”
“Don’t ever worry. Just be careful.” They were safely down at the lobby level and he felt warmth flood through him. “I love you so much. I wish we could have lunch together.”
“Me too.” They looked at one another and sighed.
“We will soon,” Roger said. He handed her the box. “This is for you.”
“Oh, Roger . . .” She glowed. “That’s so sweet.”
“Whenever you wear it you’ll think of today and of me.”
“I’ll get hot.”
“Don’t get hot with anyone else.”
“No. I’ll just miss you. I’ll be hot for you. You’re the only one.”
“I can’t believe how lucky I am to have you,” he said, as they hailed two different cabs.
When he got home he dumped his unused gym clothes into the washing machine so no one would see them. The next day he was obliged to go to the gym in order to stay in some kind of shape—twice a week was maintenance—but afterward he rushed frantically to one of Olivia’s favorite funky boutiques and bought her the wildest, sexiest, most far-out thing he could find. The saleswoman, who had a shaved head and who knew Olivia, assured him she would be thrilled with it.
He presented the dress to Olivia over their takeout Chinese dinner and opened a bottle of wine. “This is to thank you for Thanksgiving,” he said, “and just for being you.”
“Oh, Roger! Thank you. I love it! It’s perfect.”
“I bought you a dress at Julia’s the other day,” he said. “But it was so conventional I had second thoughts and returned it. I ran into Aunt Myra in the couture department and she liked it, so I knew that was the kiss of death.”
Olivia laughed.
He realized it had been two weeks since they’d had sex, so after dinner when she tried to initiate it he responded. Lately he was always afraid he wouldn’t be able to get a hard-on, but he somehow managed even though it took longer than it used to; and whenever he succeeded in making love to Olivia he remembered again how beautiful she was, and how warm, and how safe he felt with her. She was there for him all the time, any time he wanted her. There was nothing about Olivia he could possibly complain about or want to be different. Except for one thing. . . .
He wanted their affair to be fresh and new, as if they had just met.
And even as he yearned for that, he remembered how nervous and uncomfortable he had been with her at the beginning, how afraid of exposing his vulnerability and being destroyed, and how relieved he had been when that anxiety finally went away. He had traded fear for happiness. But somewhere along the way he had also traded in excitement.
Why did peace cost such a terrible price?
7
ONCE A MONTH, usually on a Sunday,
Olivia accompanied Roger when he went to visit his mother in the old-age home. He had been forced to put her there when she accidentally set her apartment on fire for the third time because she forgot to turn off the oven. He had already removed the toaster oven and the coffeemaker, but he couldn’t take out the oven so he took out his mother. He felt very guilty about it.
His parents were not young when he was born, so his mother was now eighty. His father had been dead for ten years. He had one sibling, an older brother who lived in New York with his wife and two children, but the two brothers disliked each other and had always fought about anything and everything. They took turns going to visit their mother, ostensibly to spell one another but actually because then they didn’t have to meet.
Olivia thought it was sad that people who could afford to send their old parents away hardly ever took them in to live with them anymore, in a familiar house, with a large, close family to share the burden, but she was also relieved that Roger’s mother was not living with them, and she had been relieved when her own father had remarried after her mother’s death. Men, she thought, had it easier than women: if their first wife wasn’t there to take care of them they could fade away with a young second or third wife by their side.
The old-age home was on the Upper East Side, with a view of the river. There was always a long waiting list to get in because it was a relatively pleasant place, conveniently located for visiting. Roger and Olivia went in the early afternoon, bringing a plant and his mother’s favorite chocolate chip cookies, the kind his mother used to bake and now they bought at Mrs. Field’s.
Roger’s mother was small and sweet-faced, with thin white hair and heavily veined hands that had done a lifetime of work tending her family. She was a simple woman who had never gone anywhere or done anything, partly because she had an unadventurous husband and not much money. Whatever she and her husband could put aside had gone to educate their two sons, the doctor and the lawyer, of whom they were very proud.
