by Anne Bernays
I told the publisher I’d write the senator a letter. I half suspected he had done me another kindness for suggesting I go after this politician with the rich father. He knew the chances of prying him from Harper’s were not at all favorable. But I figure he wanted to show me that he still considered me to be his best soldier, a man he would send to the front lines with complete confidence in his bravery and strategic abilities.
BARRY AND I live in a building on Astor Place in what had once been an architect’s studio. It consists of one very large, airy room and a smaller room where we put the bed. The landlord had graciously installed a kitchen so small that both of us couldn’t fit inside it at the same time. Because this landlord was a penny pincher—and probably skirted the law—he hadn’t converted the men’s room so we used what was left over: a public bathroom with two urinals, one stall, one sink, and one shower. And a cold tile floor. We share this bathroom with a painter who looks like Peter Lorre and gives me the creeps, and whose work consists of covering huge canvases with black paint. Occasionally, I pass this man going in or out, or sometimes using the urinals at the same time. We nod to each other, he raises one eyebrow; we never speak.
These odd encounters with the painter serve to underscore the fact that physical change has also altered most of my notions about domesticity, my perceptions about other people’s feelings, and those few certainties I once had about the future.
But who, after all, has the luxury of certainty? And if that certainty includes the hour and manner of your death, who would still want it? I, for one, would not.
Funny, but having severely pruned my daily activities and moved in with the love of my life, my days at work seem more fluid, more satisfying. Small things roll off my back more easily, I laugh at Charlie’s lame jokes more readily, and the publisher doesn’t annoy me the way he once did.
I’ve lost a little weight, which pleases me, because as I fall deep into middle age Barry’s comparative youth becomes ever more apparent.
I guess you could call Barry the wife and me the husband. Still the husband. The other night Barry was making dinner for us—beef stroganoff, which he likes a lot and I tolerate. He had clipped a recipe from The New York Times and taped it to the cabinet above the stove. I told him to go easy on the sour cream.
“Why?” he said. “I thought you liked sour cream. Jews like sour cream.” He said this with a smile so I would know he was joking.
I reminded him that it was loaded with calories. He assured me I didn’t have to worry, and I told him the reason I didn’t have to worry was that I watched the calories. I can’t help but notice that sometimes we sound like an old married couple, and I remarked how nice it would be if they allowed people like us to get married. We could take turns being the husband.
Barry stopped stirring and said, “Sure, it would be cool if we could divorce our parents or land on the moon. Loosen our ties.”
“Just a thought,” I said.
“You’re getting that way again,” Barry said.
“Why do you love me? You do love me?”
“Sure I do, boss,” he said. “I love you because you’re a very nice father. You must know that. And because you have an adorable ass.”
“Okay,” I said.
“I also like the way we avoid real trouble, we don’t get on each other’s nerves. Sometimes when I used to hear you and Mrs. S. in the backseat, I wanted to throw a bucket of cold water on the both of you.”
“That’s odd,” I said, “I thought we were unusually civil to each other.
“Think again. And by the way, did I tell you that I was offered a job?”
“No, you didn’t. Who offered you a job?”
“That publicity guy you sometimes have lunch with. You asked me to drive him back to his office a couple of times. Remember?”
“Poynter?”
“That’s the one,” he said.
“What do you know about publicity?”
“I have ears,” Barry said. “Don’t worry, boss. If I take the job I promise to come home for dinner every night.”
ONE OF the nicest things that have happened since I started my life over is that Barry has allowed me to read some of his journal. The surprise for me is in finding out that he never did make plans to leave me; it was all in my head. There were times when he was very angry: “The Boss can be as stupid and thoughtless as a mule. He goes on and on about his father who hurt his poor little feelings. His father didn’t take the strap to him, like mine did, and didn’t drink himself silly every fucking Saturday night. He shouldn’t bitch.” And: “I’m sick and tired of living in this fucking little room; if I wanted to be stuck in a jail cell I would of committed a crime.” But then there are moments like this: “I told the Boss I loved him because he’s a good father. Also the ass. And I meant it about being a good father. He loves his kids, he cares about them. I never heard him be really angry with Kate or Henry. He acts like they count for something worthy.” When I read this last entry I felt warm all over.
I got a letter today from Kate inviting me to her nineteenth birthday party at the Tavern on the Green. On the invitation she’s written, “Bring Barry if you think he’d like to come.”
Is my life complete? Yes—at least for a while. After that, who knows? But we live in uncertainty, one breath at a time, I and everyone else in the world. I can’t think of anything I can add to the pleasant knowledge that I owe no more debts to unanswered desires.
