Superior Women

by Alice Adams

  “Oh, Megan, I’m so sorry, I’ve waked you up. It’s just that I’m a little, well, more than a little drunk.”

  “Cathy, it’s all right, I just happened to go to bed early.” Megan does not say that Henry is there with her in bed; they went to bed early, together, which somehow they had not managed to do for several weeks.

  “Oh, Megan, I’m so sorry,” Cathy repeats. “Stephen’s at Mother and Bill’s, and I’ve been drinking this brandy.”

  “But Cathy, why? I mean, are you okay?”

  A silence, during which Megan imagines that she can hear the hum of transcontinental cables, in the dark. She knows of course that she cannot, but she can imagine California, now in November, in early nighttime. The whole north coast muffled and blanketed in fog, probably. Winds, foghorns. Megan shivers, there in New York, in her overheated room, next to warm Henry.

  Cathy says, “I’ve been taking these tests, and there seems to be something wrong. You know, uh, malignant.”

  “Cathy—”

  “Oh, and I woke you up! Megan, I’m so stupid. I forgot the whole time thing—”

  “But Cathy—”

  “Megan, I’ll be okay. I’m sorry. Honestly.”

  “Cathy, will you please tell me what you’re talking about. I am awake.”

  “Well, I had all these, uh, aches and pains. More than my normal share, I mean.” Cathy laughs, one short harsh note. “So I had some tests, and it isn’t good. My bones aren’t good. I did not pass the test with flying colors, you might say.”

  “How many doctors did you go to?” Megan hears and is appalled by the sharp impatience in her own voice.

  “Well, just one, actually,” Cathy admits.

  Yes, and probably some ignorant biased Irish Catholic, Megan does not say. But she had that thought, very clearly, and again, she is appalled by herself. What she actually does say is, “Well, Christ, Cathy. You have to see a lot of doctors. That one could be absolutely wrong. They make mistakes all the time. Even lab tests are wrong, all the time.” Her voice is cross, uncontrolled.

  “Oh, Megan, I feel so bad that I woke you up.” Cathy’s voice is dim, fading out.

  “You mustn’t feel bad, please don’t.”

  “Megan, good night. I’m sorry.”

  And Cathy hangs up, a tiny click, three thousand miles distant.

  Megan lies awake, next to Henry, who is soundly sleeping at her side. She can still hear her own impatient, unsympathetic voice, without warmth, none of the affection, the love that she actually feels for Cathy. It is enough to make her cry, which she does, softly, in the clear November eastern dark. She does not want to wake Henry, partly because she cannot bear, yet, to say the words to him: “Cathy has cancer.” Even to herself she does not quite say them.

  Then, a week or so later, Barbara Blumenthal leans back heavily in her chair, in her office; she looks straight at Megan and she announces, “I seem to have cancer, Megan. I hate to just throw it at you like this, really, I’m very sorry.” She looks away, toward the grimy window, the thin December sunlight on gray buildings, other grimy windows.

  Looking back to Megan, who has not managed to say anything, yet, Barbara continues. “I’m partly trying to get used to the word. Not to mention the whole idea.” She laughs and coughs, and apologizes. “Sorry.” Looking at Megan, her large eyes tear. “Poor Norman,” she says. “He just cries, he can’t stop. God, what a thing to do to him.”

  “Oh, but Barbara—”

  “Well, I know. Not exactly a ball for me either.” Barbara wipes at one eye with an already wadded Kleenex. “Megan, I’m really sorry.”

  Wanting to take Barbara into her arms—big Barbara, all of her—Megan cannot quite make that gesture (nor, probably, would she have been able to embrace Cathy, in that way, if she and Cathy had been together when Cathy told her about her illness).

  Megan simply stands there, still and helpless, saying, “Barbara, I’m so sorry, that’s terrible.”

  “Well, it’s terrible to put it on you this way.”

  “Jesus, Barbara, please don’t apologize.” (Cathy, don’t apologize!)

  “Well.” In a determined, executive way, Barbara puts her hands down flat on the desk before her, and she looks up at Megan. “We have to talk about what you’re going to do. I really forced my doctor, what a jerk, I had to twist his arm, almost, but he finally admitted that I’d be damn lucky to go on working for another six months.”

  “God.”

  “Well, I know. This is so sudden and all that. I repeat, I’m very sorry to throw everything at you.”

  “Please, Barbara.”

  “Well, the point is, I’m going to divide the majority of shares between you and Leslie. I know you’re not crazy about her, Megan, but you’ve got to admit she’s first-rate with contracts, my stuff. Norman will have the rest, of course; in a way you’ll be working for him, but you know how easy he is.”

  “Well, Jesus. I just don’t know.”

  “Well, think.” And Barbara smiles her old warm reassuring smile, or almost.

  That night, as they so often do, Megan and Henry have a long expensive conversation, North Carolina to New York. Having told him about Barbara as briefly and factually as possible, Megan then muses, “It’s so odd, about the agency. Ten years ago I would have thought something like that was the greatest thing that could happen to me. All that money. Knowing everyone, and all that. Power. But now all the inner voices that I can hear are saying no. They’re telling me to get out of the whole thing. And not just because of Leslie.”

  “I’ve corrupted you,” Henry tells her. “Turned you into an un-American.” He laughs gently, then clears his throat. “But that’s terrible about Barbara. Terrible,” he repeats, with emphasis, although his voice is oddly distant.

  “Yes, and Cathy. It’s more than I can think about. Or cope with. All this cancer. Death. Jesus Christ, why doesn’t Nixon have cancer?”

  Henry laughs, but some condition of their phone connection makes the sound fade in and out, eerily. Unclearly he says, “I’m afraid things don’t work out like that, generally speaking.”

  “Isn’t there some Catholic heresy about evil being in charge? Is that Manichaean?”

  “I’m not sure. Ask Cathy.”

  “I guess. At least she’d think it was a funny question. Probably. She might laugh.”

  Some minutes later, hanging up, Megan reflects that this has been a conversation during which nothing at all was said about themselves; for various reasons, they are no longer discussing, making plans.

  33

  Peg and Cameron Sinclair are invited to the inauguration, Nixon’s, but to Cameron’s dismay (rage, horror, panic: he thinks she must be getting sick again) Peg refuses to go.

  On the day when Cameron triumphantly divulges the fact that they have been invited, Peg simply announces that she will not, will not go. “No,” is what Peg says, and all she will add by way of explanation is, “I don’t like him.”

  Cameron responds reasonably—very reasonably, considering. “Of course you don’t like him,” he tells her. “No one does. The fellow has no class at all. But he’s the only person who can turn this country around.”

  “But maybe in the wrong direction?”

  Is this one of Peg’s infrequent, never funny, slightly disturbing jokes? Cameron wonders, as he stares at her large, familiar blank white face. He finds no clue. And after a silent moment or two he decides that she was not joking.

  How little they have talked to each other, over the past few years especially; but it has been forever, really, now that Cameron thinks of it. It is astonishing, in a way, how little they have spoken. And for the first time this fact strikes him as very sad; more often he has concluded that it is just as well. If they talked a lot all kinds of garbage might be exposed.

  For instance, although both the twins are up in Berkeley, doing God-knows-what (being hippies, very likely; they don’t come home), Peg has continued to write to them, which he, Cameron, w
ill not do, not until they shape up, come to their senses. He is farily sure that Peg even sends them money. Rex, thank God, is just the opposite, a natural athlete, an SAE at Tulane, and headed for law school. He can’t tell yet about Kate. But Cameron has often thought that it was just as well they did not have the boring conversations about the kids that most people seem to be having, these days.

  However, Cameron is aware that he has little knowledge of any of Peg’s real ideas about the world, about this country, even assuming that she has any such ideas, and he is not too sure. He is only aware of her very overly permissive feelings about her children. And about colored people, come to think of it.

  Peg would like to pin some bigot label on him, Cameron firmly believes, to make him out a real KKK type of guy. But he fooled her on that one; when she wanted to bring home, for a visit, that colored girl she met in Georgia (they said she was a Mexican, but it was obvious to Cameron: a dinge), he was perfectly nice about it, which must have surprised Peg a lot. He treated Vera just like any other guest.

  And so, now he gets this quite unexpected, inexplicable nonsense about not liking Nixon. Not wanting to go to the inauguration. (He could understand Peg better if she drank, for instance; a lot of Midland wives do. Poor Barbara had to be carted off to that place in Connecticut, finally. But Peg barely drinks.)

  Immersed in these thoughts, and in the further not-quite-new question: what does she do all day, and, almost more urgent, where does all her money go? Cameron does not at first entirely grasp what Peg is saying, but then he does: first his name, and then an impossible sentence: “Cameron, I want a divorce.”

  He sighs, very deeply. She must be sick.

  But then she says it again, adding something even crazier. She says, “Cameron, I want a divorce. I’m moving back to Georgia. With Vera.”

  34

  Lavinia, on the other hand is not invited to Nixon’s inauguration, although by that time she is the lover (mistress may be the dated but more accurate word) of Harvey Rodman; and he is even more powerful, more important in the new administration (closer to Nixon) and also even richer than Potter said he was. (And of course Lavinia does not want to go to the inauguration.)

  But it has all worked out perfectly with Harvey, from Lavinia’s point of view; perfect, from her first tiny note, in which she simply said that she had been pleased to hear that he was doing well, to his instant call, and then more calls, and then, finally, their meeting, her allowing him to see her again—in New York, for lunch, at a very discreet restaurant. Many more lunches, in New York and Washington, not to mention all the flowers/presents/impassioned pleas. To all of which Lavinia finally and most gracefully yielded.

  Harvey adores her, he always has. He finds her absolutely, totally enchanting. When they are together he feels that he owns the world, he says, stroking her still (to him) perfect skin, on her thin taut thigh.

  And when they are apart they are always closely in touch, no matter how fantastically busy Harvey is, all over the world (he is in international monetary funds). There is always a connection between them, if not an actual phone call or a letter, a long cassette of love.

  Or a present. Not even Lavinia’s banker knows how much stuff she has stored in her vault (she has had to admit to herself, Harvey’s taste in that direction is the tiniest bit on the vulgar side; she was forced to tell him that she really doesn’t care for anything large).

  Or flowers. A new myth, created of necessity between Lavinia and Potter, is that she is extraordinarily, irredeemably extravagant when it comes to buying flowers, especially the most delicate, the farthest out-of-season.

  Another myth, and one much closer to the truth, is that Lavinia is extremely clever, investment-wise. Of course Harvey cannot actually give her money (he would like to, though, and the idea gives Lavinia a certain perverse thrill), but giving her stock seems acceptable to them both (and almost as thrilling to Lavinia as dirty cash would be). He then advises her when to sell, where next to put her profits. How not to pay taxes. And Lavinia has developed a considerable skill at these transactions on her own. And so, her financial acumen is not really fictional at all; she is wonderful with money, it is just too bad that she has not been really rich before, has not had enough to play with.

  Lavinia of course does not in the least want to meet Richard Nixon, or any of those people. But she thinks about him, she thinks about all of them; she feels, through Harvey, the impact of their terrific power. He does not talk about politics with her, but he does let a few things drop, always showing her how close in he is. “It’s exciting how few people we’ve managed to get it down to, just a very few, in total control. There’s not much spreading around these days, baby doll, in terms of real power,” and he laughs, excitingly.

  • • •

  At Lavinia’s instigation, she and Potter travel a great deal, during those early years of the seventies. Amy is safely (they hope) at Radcliffe now, and Potter is sufficiently advanced in the firm to be able to take time off, more or less at will. “Heaven knows we can afford it,” says Lavinia, with a light, modest laugh, in the course of persuading Potter that a couple of weeks in Rome, in October, will make her perfectly happy.

  Which is of course where Harvey is to be, at some international monetary conference. Harvey stays at the Hilton, where the conference is; Lavinia is at the Hassler, with her husband. It is very easy for her to murmur, one afternoon, that she really doesn’t care about seeing the Vatican: “All those crowds, all those Catholics.” (She has always been able to make Potter laugh; amusement is one of her valuable qualities, for him.) She would really like an afternoon of shopping, on her own. And how perfectly natural for her to come back to the Hassler, a little late, a little pale and tired, with an incredibly beautiful antique gold filigree necklace, with yellow sapphires—and to decline very prettily to say how much it cost. “I won’t buy another thing for months, I promise. Although actually it was a terrific bargain, in a way.”

  Although Lavinia has never quite admitted this to herself, one of the best aspects of this love affair with Harvey is that since almost all of their time together is spent in bed, she can easily forget about his crippled legs. He and she do not go out together (or almost never, only in the very remotest places), and so she never has to walk beside him.

  In bed she is not taller than he is. She is simply more beautiful; it is her body that is made love to, not his. She does very little for Harvey, along those lines.

  Inevitably, having had only two lovers in her life (so far! but you never can tell), comparisons occur to Lavinia’s lively mind, although these days she has a little trouble bringing Henry back in any clear way. But out of intellectual curiosity, really, she makes the effort, and she is able to remember pretty well how it was with him, with Henry. What strikes her most, and with an angry force, is that it was she who was most “in love” with Henry. It was she who kissed, as much if not more than he kissed her; she kissed him everywhere, even putting his, uh, thing in her mouth, although she really didn’t want to. She would never do that with Harvey.

  And if that memory were not enough to make her hate, despise Henry Stuyvesant, there is his continuing affair with Megan Greene, who is basically disgusting. She always has been. Megan, a dumpy, dowdy girl from California, who even thinned-down and in expensive clothes (well, fairly expensive) never looks quite right. And heaven knows where Megan kisses Henry (Lavinia has a little private giggle, at that salacious thought).

  Whereas, it is Harvey who adores her, who kisses her, strokes her whole body with his hands, and then his tongue. He makes her come three or four times in an afternoon—which makes him so pleased with himself, with so much success, with her.

  Afterwards Harvey bathes her. She lies there in perfumed foam, in the bathrooms of their various hotels, all over the world. She lies back, in Amsterdam (the Amstel) or Paris (the Crillon), in the scented steam, and Harvey very gently, delicately washes her, everywhere.

  It is almost the part of their ti
me together that Harvey likes best, Lavinia feels.

  In fact everything with Harvey is perfect, is marvelous—her whole life is perfect, until a strange afternoon in Juneau, Alaska, of all crazy places. In June 1972. June 17, in fact.

  First Lavinia went alone to San Francisco, on the pretext, to Potter, of seeing Cathy, her old classmate, now so sick. And actually she did go to see Cathy, in the hospital, which was not exactly a cheering visit.

  To begin with, the enormous white hospital was Catholic, of course, nuns all over the place, priests hurrying along the corridors, and everywhere those awful crucifixes.

  Directed at last to Cathy’s room, Lavinia first thought that she must have been sent to the wrong place; just like those nuns—they can tell a Protestant. The person in the bed there, her head all wrapped in white, had no look of Cathy at all. But then in Cathy’s voice that person spoke; she said, “Lavinia.” Just a statement; no particular surprise and less welcome in her voice.

  “Oh, Cathy. Yes. I’ve, uh, come to see you.”

  The room had more flowers in it than Lavinia had ever seen, a shocking amount of flowers, really; the place looked like a vulgar florist shop, and also they dwarfed the spray of yellow roses for which Lavinia had just paid a lot of money. Still, she had bought them, and so, unnecessarily, she added, “I brought you some roses,” holding them out.

  Cathy’s laugh was new and sharp, a small bark. “Coals to Newcastle, indeed. Or maybe whores to Paris? Curiously enough, my mother’s married to a retired florist, and he tends to keep me rather oversupplied. But thanks, Lavinia.”

  Only her voice was familiar; that white swollen face, the puffy hands could have belonged to anyone. And that awful bleached white cotton gown, with the same material wrapped around her head (dear God, could Cathy be bald now?).

  Staring straight at Lavinia (reading her mind?), Cathy announced, “In fact I’m as bald as a ball. This chemotherapy is really great stuff.” Her voice had tiny cracks in it, like a slightly scratched record.