A Strange Commonplace

by Sorrentino, Gilbert

  Another Story

  DEAR CLARA,

  I’M SENDING YOU THIS CARE OF KATY, HOPING YOU’LL GET IT and read it and think about the terrible step you took. Walking out. I couldn’t believe it when I got home that night from my sales trip, to find you gone with all your clothes and things gone and not to let me explain or talk to you was also a slap in the face, believe you me. And not to even let me see little Maureen before you left if you thought you had to leave, what can she be thinking in her innocent mind? I know you’ll be mad as you are usually when I mention your mother but, I blame her for this and your father too had a hand in it, since he does as he’s told, and they were always jealous of our happiness. I know I made a mistake with Janet but it was one mistake, and, no matter what you may believe or were told, it was only one. And to just throw away our marriage for this, do you think it’s right? I’m sure you were hurt or, I should say I know you were hurt because it was adding insult to injury that Janet, was a guest in our house many times and adored Maureen. I know it was wrong of her and she also knows this. And it was wrong of me of course, but it was that one time and I thought you and I had settled it about the motel that was completely innocent and was about business if you remember. I can’t be any sorryer than I was after the mistake I made as I told you when I got down on my hands and knees and begged for your forgiveness. But why did you just leave while I was away so that we did not have a chance to sit down and talk things over for as long as you liked. It was a complete surprise and the kind of behavior that is not like you at all, if you take my meaning.

  Now I hear from Ralph that you’ve gone to see Connie Moran and I can only think that the only reason you’d go and see that ambulance chaser is about a legal separation? When I think about how you and I laughed and laughed about that time he rushed over to Lutheran Hospital and it turned out he spent an hour talking to the wrong accident victim. Well that was in the past, now, I guess you think about him differently. If it is about a separation I wonder who will be paying his fee or retainer? As if I didn’t know! Your mother never liked me from the start and hated that we were making a go of it, no thanks to her and your father. She must have been happy as a clam to find out that we were having our ups and downs which, I know you told her about, although I begged you not to tell her our private marittal business. For instance, Clara, there was no need for your mother to know about that little slip of mine. I know it won’t cut any ice if I tell you that Janet is not my secretary any more, but has left and is working for another firm. And anyway I have never had a word to say to her since that one mistake, that was not in the line of business, for six months. That important company shindig that I was supposed to go to a couple of months ago that might well have led to a raise and promotion I didn’t go to, as you know. I remember you even argued with me about my refusal to go, you said it would be good for my future with the company. Now the reason I didn’t go can now be told. It was because I knew that Janet would probably be there with Jack Walsh, who was her boss before she left the firm for the other job I just mentioned. The long and the short of it was that I did not want to jepoardize our marriage that looked like it was getting back on its feet especially, after that weekend we spent in the Poconos, that was like a second honeymoon. Do you remember your mother and father did everything they could to keep us from going? Including not being able to mind Maureen because of your father’s sudden attack of a bilious headache that just came out of the blue? I never knew your father to suffer from anything except maybe too many boilermakers, as you yourself have agreed with me about many a time. But that’s all water under the bridge and I don’t want to point fingers.

  Ralph also mentioned that you’ve been getting advice from Pastor Ingebretsen, who is, for my money, a regular creeping Jesus, along with that skeleton of a wife of his and her knitting club, spelled GOSSIP. For God’s sake, Clara, call me or call Ralph or Anna. I know that I’ll never get you if I leave a message with your mother or father. Maybe we can meet and have lunch or a cup of coffee even, and talk everything out. I look in your empty closet and my heart feels as if it’s going to break, can you really throw away eleven years of marriage because I made a stupid mistake just once and never did again, as God is my Judge. And that, as I told you, happened because I had a little too much to drink at the salesman of the year party for Bill Greenleaf, and in a way I have to take all the blame and I cannot in all honesty even blame Janet who I really took advantage of. Though you think she is loose or even a little tramp, she is just a kid who had one too many too that evening and I lost my head. So please call me, or Ralph. I know it’s not important since I know how hurt and angry you must be, but I brought home from Chicago a little present for you that I thought you would really like, something you’ve wanted for a long time. And for my darling Maureen, a doll with three complete outfits that cries and wets, she will love it. I would love to give it to her.

  Please, please call. I love you and do not want to lose you. I will even talk to your mother and father if you want me to and if they will let me, although our marriage is none of their business. Do you remember that’s why we moved out to Rego Park so that we could live our lives without having them drop in on us whenever they felt like it, and being hurt and angry if we so much as hinted that we wanted to be by ourselves for a change. You were even more fed up with it than I was. But I will talk to them if you wish it, my dearest wife, I will crawl if that’s what they want.

  Please get in touch with me, and please believe me that I have had nothing to do with Janet for months, actually, I never did except for that one terrible mistake that I made by giving in to temptation, that was only human.

  Your loving husband,

  Ray

  Lovers

  I’VE KNOWN IRENE GREENLEAF FOR A LONG TIME, SINCE the year that she and Bill were engaged, in fact. After they separated and then divorced over Bill’s affair with Charlotte, his secretary—whom he married soon after—Irene and I had a brief romance, if one can call it that, but we’ve been no more than friends for almost thirty-five years now. As if having an unfaithful husband wasn’t enough, her brother, a true deadbeat, who gambled away every penny he got his hands on, was beaten to death outside Papa Joe’s, a real bucket of blood, patronized by drunk lowlifes like the brother, whose name I forget, a small blessing. It would have been poetic justice had he been killed over a bad debt, but the fight apparently began with a shouting argument as to the relative merits of Rocky Graziano and Tony Zale. Perfect. In any event, Irene has lately become depressed, very obviously so, about Bill and Charlotte, which seems absolutely crazy, considering the lifetime that has elapsed since their initial dalliance. I don’t ever bring it up, nor does Irene, but it’s been clear to me for years—it was clear to me at the time—that our long-ago sexual fling, an expression, I grant you, even more stupid than “brief romance,” was simply Irene’s reaction to Bill’s infidelity, his cold and sudden abandonment of her. As far as I know, Bill was the only man that Irene had ever gone to bed with, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the first time was on their wedding night. I flatter myself that I may be the only other man she favored. At any rate, what I’m trying to get at is that Irene’s thoughts have never been far from Bill, and over the years she has shown an obsessive interest in him and Charlotte, an unhealthy interest, as they say, although I’ve never used that expression with her. This interest has become much more pronounced in recent months. The whole thing has not been helped by the fact that Bill and Charlotte live in a house in the old neighborhood, a house that Bill bought soon after their marriage. Irene still has many friends, gossips all, in the neighborhood, who have been and still are more than happy to report on Bill, Charlotte, and their three children: Irene and Bill, you may have guessed, had no children together. As I’ve said, Irene has seemed increasingly depressed, more stagnant, may be the word, and shows very little interest in anything, including her monthly trips to Atlantic City, sometimes with me, sometimes with one or another of her gossi
py friends, to play the slots, drink Margaritas, and eat steaks. I knew that something was really wrong one night when we were sitting on her couch watching a television show, one of those in which actors who resembled large pieces of lumber moved spastically about to surges of hysterical laughter—this is the sort of show Irene watches lately, her face frozen. I suddenly felt her breath on my cheek, then her tongue in my ear, and at the same moment, she caressed me between my legs. I pulled my head away, turned and looked at her, and said something, God knows what, and she began to cry, but stopped almost immediately. We finished watching the manic show, watched another, and then I went home. We had said nothing about the brief aberration. A couple of weeks later, Irene, still quite low, but now on antidepressants that safely maintained her unhappiness, told me, over whiskey sours in a quiet new bar a few blocks from her apartment, that she had almost committed suicide a month earlier; she’d bought a bottle of a hundred Advils, a bottle of Nytol, and a liter of vodka, but changed her mind. Maybe that’s why, she said, that I, you know, that night on the couch? I nodded, then started to say something vapidly positive, life is sweet, is precious, is worth living, is a bowl of cherries, but she touched my hand and looked at me and I knew enough to shut up. She had gone, she said, to Our Lady of Perpetual Help at least twice a week for the past five years, to light a candle each time and to pray for the agonizing deaths of Bill and his whore and their three rotten children. I thought, idiotically, that she didn’t even know the children, and stared at her glass as she took a sip of her whiskey sour. Five years, she said, five fucking years, and nothing happened. Her face was flushed and distorted with anger and pain. Five years and they’re all fine, they’re all hale and hearty! I was smiling irreverently. Can you, she said, lighting a cigarette, get a goddamn ashtray for Christ’s sweet sake in this bar?

  Pair of Deuces

  JENNY WAS STANDING IN THE CORNER OF THE MOTEL ROOM in front of a little black-and-white television set, on which a soap opera’s distraught characters were silently moving through their problems. She had unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it free of her skirt. Her hands were clasped in front of her and she seemed to be blushing, although the light in the room was dim. Ralph stood at the other side of the double bed, a picture of a rustic bridge in forest mist at his right shoulder. He took off his T-shirt and looked at Jenny, he wanted her out of her clothes.

  Inez had put the baby down for a nap when Bill came in, half-drunk from the office party. Merry Xames! he said, where’s my beloved spouse? More to the point—where’s your beloved spouse? He hung his trenchcoat and suit jacket in the closet. Let’s have a drink, it’s Christmas Eve, Noël, he said. Inez lit a cigarette and gave it to him. You’re a peach, he said. I mean it. He should have met her back in New York. What am I doing, he said, in this stupid fucking town, can you tell me? He reached out and touched her arm and she moved closer to him. You’re a terrific woman, he said, I’ve always thought so. Ralph thought the suede jacket would be a good idea, it was expensive, but really nice, Jenny, however, told him that she hated to buy clothes for Bill, whatever she bought him, even underwear and socks, was always wrong. What about the chess set, then? Ralph said, it’s a beautiful thing and it will last forever. He was standing behind Jenny and put his hands on her hips. She half-turned and gave him a look out of the corner of her eye and moved, almost imperceptibly, against him. O.K., she said, but I can’t really play at all, I hardly know the moves. And Bill has nobody else to play with out here. All the better for Bill, Ralph said. What? Jenny said, looking him full in the face. O.K., let’s buy it right now and get it wrapped, she said, and then we can do—what do you want to do? Let’s go and relax somewhere for a couple of hours, Ralph said, it’s early. He had an erection and he knew that she knew it. And Inez? she said. He shrugged.

  So Ralph went out shopping with Jenny, dear sweet Jenny, to help her buy me a Christmas present! What a wonderful guy, and what a wonderful wife, a helpmeet, he said. He handed Inez a stiff scotch and water and made one for himself. That’s what they told me, Inez said. Oh, brother, Bill said, they might as well advertise. They might as well do it in Macy’s window. Jesus Christ, Inez, what a mistake I made, what a mistake, oh fuck it. He had tears in his eyes and Inez, surprised and moved, put her drink down and held him close. The room was gray and gloomy, cold fog outside its single window. He put his hands under her skirt and moved her against the kitchen table. I love you, he said. I love you, I love you. The baby is sleeping, she said, we have to be quiet. She pulled her panties off and sat on the edge of the table with her skirt around her waist and opened her legs.

  They lay in bed watching what looked like a children’s show. Santa Claus and Mrs. Santa Claus and their elves and helpers grinned and rushed about, but the sound was so low that their dialogue was unintelligible. Ralph lit another cigarette. Santa Claus in horn-rimmed glasses, he said, for Christ’s sake. Jenny looked over at him. She was in her slip. There was a water stain in the corner of the ceiling. What class, Ralph said, well, it’s not the St. Francis, but this wasn’t exactly an—amour, was it? However you want to slice it. Was it? You are a real bastard, she said. What? he said, I’m a real bastard? Didn’t you suggest this place and drive us here? Now you think—what?—I’m supposed to be a tender lover? She put out her cigarette and got out of bed, picked her panties up from the floor and went into the bathroom. You’ve got a run in your stocking, he said, as she closed and locked the door. All the folks in Santa’s North Pole house were singing happily, then they disappeared and another Santa appeared, selling Coca-Cola. I hope to Christ that Billy blames the fucking chess set on her, he said to Santa.

  The baby woke up, climbed down from bed, and walked out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. She stood in the doorway and was frightened to see Uncle Bill jumping on Mommy on the table, they were bumping and making noises. She began to cry very loudly. Bill, stop! Inez said, Bill! Not now, not now, he said.

  Jenny pulled up in the battered and dirty station wagon across the street from the little frame house. Home again, home again, jiggity-jig, Ralph said. Do we need any booze? I can run down to the corner, is it? They ought to still be open. I could use the air anyway. Ralph bought some yesterday, Jenny said, scotch and gin. He’s drunk already anyway from the office party, he’ll be teary and embarrassing and telling Inez how wonderful she is, how pretty, how wonderful, what a great mother. Wonderful. You think we can order Chinese tonight? Ralph said. Or pizza? Don’t kill yourself cooking? She smiled at him, then nodded toward the house. No lights in the front room, she said. Bill must be home and they’re both in the kitchen getting plastered. Ho ho ho, Ralph said.

  Cold Supper

  JACK GOT HOME ABOUT 8:30, WELL AFTER DARK. ANNA WAS sitting at the kitchen table, reading another drugstorelibrary novel by Fanny Hurst or Faith Baldwin, some ladies’ hogwash. Was that all she did all day? His place was set and his supper was on the kitchen counter, all of it cold. Is that my delicious supper? he said, and she looked up from her book as if suddenly aware of him, and then at her watch. Oh, I get it, he said. Let’s see, a cardboard pork chop sitting in fat, Ann Page carrots and peas, mmm, and what’s this? plaster? oh, mashed potatoes à la skins and lumps, a gravy boat full of, uh-huh, grease! And, of course, a luscious salad with a bright orange gourmet dressing. I can’t wait. The kid’s in bed, I suppose, God forbid you should keep him up a few minutes so he can see his father. Anna looked up again from her book and asked him where he’d been, he said he’d be home for supper, my God, you can’t spare an hour for your son on a Saturday? He sat down at the table and tapped his finger on the edge of his dinner plate, wise and patient and tolerant. He’d been watching a softball game at the playground between Fritz’s Bar and Grill and Papa Joe’s, the kid hates softball, he said. He said that then he went to the movies, the kid is scared of the movies, for God’s sake. Her mouth was twisted in the bitter smile that enraged him. And you saw? she said. Oh, he said, you want to know what I saw? Well, I saw Three Men on a Hors
e and If You Could Only Cook and Come and Get It and Red Dust and Dawn Patrol and how can I forget Tarzan of the Apes? Starring Edward Everett Horton, Edward Arnold, Edward G. Robinson, Edward Brophy, Edgar Buchanan, Edgar Kennedy, Eduardo Ciannelli, and—Akim Tamiroff! I think Jean Harlow was in one of them, too. What a movie—passion, action, betrayal, temptation, fury, danger! She put a paper napkin in her book and closed it, then stood up. She was pale, then she suddenly reddened and paled again. Charlie thought you’d have a catch with him in back or take him for a walk down to the shore through the park, it’s Saturday. She was shaking with anger. You’re a mean, rotten father! Oh, he said, it wasn’t that she cared about herself, not a bit, just about the son he ignored, not, oh no, not herself! She was a martyr, a selfless wife, a saint who put up with his neglect of her with a smile on her face, her nose in a book, her hair in snarls, and her body in an old stained housecoat with tattered stockings rolled down to her knees like the super’s wife from Bulgaria, Jesus. I can smell her on you, Anna said, her five-and-ten perfume and her sweaty, dirty dress, you don’t have, you’ve got, you haven’t one iota of self-respect or shame coming home smelling of that tramp, my mother was right about you, she was always right about you, you dirty guinea! She turned and started out of the room, her novel under her arm, and he picked up the gravy boat and threw it against the wall, cold gravy and shards of china everywhere. The other movie I saw, he shouted after her, was fuck you and your drunken mother! He saw blood on his shirt and realized he’d somehow cut his hand. He’d never said, never, he was sure, that he was going to have a catch, the kid couldn’t catch a ball with a basket with his cockeye. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of Philip Morris. Irene’s cigarettes, he’d taken them and left his Luckies by mistake. You better get them off the night table, honey, before the old man gets home, he muttered.