by Marge Piercy
His students liked him and he got on with his colleagues unless he chose not to. While I was living on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, I met him when he interviewed me for the Village Voice after my second book of short stories came out. He flirted with me and I flirted back, but I was married at the time so nothing more happened. A few years later after an acrimonious divorce, I moved to Boston where I found a temporary gig teaching fiction part time at U Mass Boston.
I teach many workshops for aspiring writers, read from my stories and give the odd lecture. I don’t know if Oscar actually arranged for me to give a reading at Sarah Lawrence or if someone else on the faculty suggested my name, but certainly when I arrived, he took credit for the invitation. He chauffeured me about, was attentive and charming. He was quite deferential in soliciting my opinions. “If a man can be a feminist, then I’m proud to be one,” he murmured. One of his colleagues was annoyed I had been invited instead of a respectable fiction writer adorned with establishment prizes. “Who are you to address our students?” he demanded over supper.
“Someone the students will actually relate to for a change instead of sneaking out or spending the whole time texting how bored they are.” Oscar defended me with passion and wit. I was grateful and intrigued. We made love in his Brooklyn brownstone apartment. I didn’t know what would come of this event—whether it was a one-timer or something more meaningful.
He began coming to visit me in Boston, staying in my Brookline apartment, soon bringing me whenever he appeared presents of books he thought I must read. They were always by men, usually academic radicals like Marcuse and Chomsky. As a writer, I always have at least ten books I am reading at any given time and a list the size of the OED to be read soon. Books to be blurbed come in the mail almost daily. I would rather have been given Godiva chocolates or a pretty scarf, but oh well. He would not have thought such presents sufficiently correct. Once we had been to bed a few times, his deference wore off. Quickly.
He was a man of great self-confidence, a trait that I, like many women, tended to find attractive, although after Oscar I was less wowed by assertiveness. He decided it was too hot in the city and borrowed a Cape Cod cabin from a colleague for four days in August, when we were both off work. He could not see why we should walk to town on the busy road.
“Look, you can see town right across that meadow. Why not go straight across? Save half a mile and avoid the cars.”
I explained that as far as I could see, the area was partly wetlands. He saw no obstacle in that and led the way. At first the going was difficult but passable, picking our way through brush and jumping a creek. By the time we had penetrated well into the area and thrust halfway through an enormous patch of bull briar, it was too late to turn back. Two hours later, soaked and caked with mud to the thighs, lumpy with mosquito bites and as it turned out upon later examination, crawling with ticks, scratched to bleeding with briars, we emerged in town. People passing us averted their eyes. We fought the marsh and the marsh won. We bought our lunch—takeout because no place would have seated us—and went home via the road. After this, I picked our routes.
A particular bay was posted as off limits to shellfishing. Oscar announced this was nonsense and they just were trying to keep regular people from enjoying the clams. “Why should we need a license to reap the bounty of the sea? It should be free to everyone. They’re making private property out of what should belong to us.” He had grown up in New Jersey near the ocean and he knew. Who was I to argue? I grew up in Chicago, saw the ocean for the first time when I visited New York my senior year in college, ate my first shellfish and lobsters then and had only been a full-time Massachusetts resident for a year and a half. We waded in and dug clams. It was new to me and interesting. We were sick for two days.
That was the usual digestive trauma caused by eating polluted clams. Oscar insisted it must be the way I had cooked them, but after that, I ignored his statements about the natural world. Still, I was fascinated by him. He was physically strong—had played soccer in high school and college—quite a different type from the scientists and poets I had been involved with. He was energetic and opinionated, as am I, so our evenings tended to be lively. His mind was good and he was widely read in his field and also in mine. As a lover he lacked finesse but offered enthusiasm—at times a bit too much pounding but at least he was ready and able at a moment’s notice. I liked to cook and he liked to eat. I don’t do well with men who are finicky trenchermen or on weird diets. Like me, he was an adventurous diner.
Our relationship went forward sporadically but intensely. I lived in Brookline in a sublet; he lived in Brooklyn. He came to me oftener than I went to visit him, but we always managed a long weekend or most of a week every month. We went out to jazz clubs, watched a Red Sox game at Fenway, dined in the North End. He was very particular about when I could come down, but I understood that his schedule was heavy and crowded. I am not by nature possessive and I am busy and actually like to write. We always managed to find a time that worked for both of us. We both had busy lives so a part-time relationship worked well. I was open about my ex-husband’s infidelities and how they had hurt me. He was sympathetic and described his pain when his wife left him. I thought of us both as injured by love but in recovery. We were well suited, I thought, for such a partial commitment that might well grow into full-time over time. I looked forward to seeing him but was too occupied to pine.
One problem I had with him was his desire to have sex outdoors. I am not an exhibitionist; I believe beds are built to be comfortable for purposes that do not only include sleep. However, I was more malleable in my early thirties than I have been since. We joined our bodies somewhat clumsily in blueberry patches on Cape Cod, in my car on a residential street, on a deserted (we hoped) stretch of Cranes Beach, and memorably for him—I was on top that time—in a patch of poison ivy in Franklin Park. I never knew when he would get that look on his face that indicated lust and say, “Come on. Let’s do it.” Sometimes I agreed; sometimes not. I was glad when the weather turned colder and even he did not want to have sex in a snow bank.
I found the relationship to be just what I needed. After being married for nine years, it was a great relief to have frequent male companionship and sex without having to do his laundry, cook his meals, worry about his health, listen to his insecurities and in general provide upkeep and free therapy. I was delighted to see him when we got together. I rarely missed him when we were apart, because I got back to work, did what I pleased with my evenings and weekends, saw friends and kicked back. He didn’t get in the way of my friendships with mostly women friends, a gay couple and some male colleagues; my husband had been jealous of time spent with people that were not his friends or colleagues.
Oscar was divorced, as was I; in fact I knew and liked his ex-wife Caroline. They did not seem to be at odds. We went along for a year quite comfortably. Then I was offered a short residency at Brooklyn College. It paid very well for the time involved. I expected that he would be delighted. I was not anticipating moving in with him, for the college was providing housing. I would be teaching a workshop, giving a public reading and lecture and several seminars, so I wouldn’t have much free time, but obviously we would see quite a bit of each other while I was staying so near him.
I called the day after everything was confirmed. “Great news. I have a month residence at Brooklyn College starting in two weeks. I’m a last minute fill-in. The guy they wanted had a heart attack.”
“What? In Brooklyn?” He almost yelled.
Probably excited. “Yep. In two weeks I’ll be on your turf for a month.”
“Oh.” A long silence.
“I don’t expect to move in with you, don’t worry. They have housing for me.”
“In Brooklyn …” His voice was thick but not with joy. “Why didn’t you talk to me about this first?”
“I’m not in the habit of asking your permission for gigs. This one pays well, and I sure can use the money. Look, if you’re
worried, I’m not about to lean on you for entertainment. I only left the city three years ago. I have plenty of friends I want to spend time with. I know my way around.”
Again a long edgy silence. “We’ll talk about this again.”
I had already signed a letter of confirmation, arranged for an absence from my sublet and written my lecture. I was disappointed that he wasn’t delighted I was coming for a month, but people often respond badly to change in a routine that has suited them. Once I was there, he would see how great it would be to spend relaxed days or nights together. If he feared I would be overly dependent, he’d soon realize that was no problem. I continued emailing friends and acquaintances I wanted to catch up with. I got tickets to the New York City Ballet and a play I wanted to catch.
I did not have time to see him until my third night in the city. He came to the apartment that had been provided for me in Green Point. I assumed we would go out to eat, but he brought some Thai takeout and a six-pack of Tsingtao. I didn’t need great intuition to see that he was angry, although I had no clue why. “You shouldn’t have come to New York and parked yourself here for a month,” he said, grimacing. He put the takeout down hard on the table but stood, glaring at me.
“I don’t need your approval to come to New York. I lived here for seven years before I ever met you.”
“But you expect me to eat with you, sleep over, run around to flicks. You expect to call me any time and drop in.”
“I assumed you’d want to spend time with me. But I’m here making a living.” I reiterated what I’d said on the phone, that I was not dependent on him. “I like New York. And I thought you’d be pleased to have some unscheduled time together.”
“Unscheduled? Unwanted, you idiot.” He continued to stand, looming over me where I sat. I disliked that and rose to my feet.
I was getting annoyed myself. “What’s with you?”
“Jennifer won’t like it. She’s going to be pissed off. You’ve put your foot in it this time. How can I keep her from finding out when you’re staying here?”
“Who’s Jennifer?” I tried to remember his mother’s name. Daniele, I thought. Why would this Jennifer be annoyed? He didn’t have children by his previous marriage, and his ex-wife’s name was Caroline.
“Only my girlfriend … My fiancée.”
“Your what?”
“We’re getting married in June.”
“But I’ve been in your apartment several times. She doesn’t live there.”
“She’s based in L.A. for now but she stays with me whenever she’s in town or off. She’s a flight attendant and gone half the time. I always put her things away before you come. But now you’ve blown it! You’ve really blown it!”
“You’ve been carrying on an affair with me for a year and you have a fiancée you’re living with? And you never thought to tell me?”
“I didn’t tell her either. Obviously! She’s gone a lot. Do you think I’m stupid?”
I jumped to my feet, gesturing. “No. I am. You’re a liar. You’re as bad as my ex.”
He turned red as a radish and raised his fist at me, taking two steps forward. He shouted, “It’s all your fault for insisting on coming to New York! You’ve messed everything up! How am I going to keep her from finding out?”
“Simple. Get out and stay out. I hate men who lie!”
“Shut your face or I’ll shut it for you,” he said unoriginally but with feeling.
I was afraid for a moment, then picked up a chair, holding it between us. He looked like a crazy mad pit bull, one the size of a rhinoceros. “Get out. Get out now. I never want to see you again. If I see you, I’ll cross the street.” I tossed his takeout into the waste-basket, trying not to look as nervous as I felt. He was much stronger than me. I glanced around surreptitiously for something hard to defend myself with. I really thought he might punch me.
He stood glowering for several moments longer, his fists clenched. But he was a bright man, cautious of his reputation. At length, he took a step backward. Snarling, he grabbed his six-pack and left, slamming the door so hard every loose object in the room shimmied and rattled.
I took a deep breath and stood there, my hands shaking. I locked the door and threw the dead bolt and subsided onto the couch.
Finally I got to my feet, fished the Thai food out of the trash and sat down to eat it. After all, I was still hungry. I took some pleasure in the image of him packing up all of his fiancée’s things every time before I arrived and scrubbing away the traces of my presence before she returned. I wonder how he explained the scent of Opium on the pillows.
I felt humiliated. I had been having an affair with a man who belonged to another woman, not with her knowledge but behind her back—some feminist!
Three weeks after I returned to my sublet in Brookline and a manuscript whose deadline was approaching like a big truck whose brakes had failed, Oscar called. His voice was calm. “I have to be in Boston the weekend after next for a conference at Harvard. How about it?”
“I could care less. I have no wish to see you next weekend or ever again.”
“Don’t be silly. We could have a good time.”
“My idea of a good time is seeing you drown.”
To my surprise, my refusal annoyed him. I don’t think he had anticipated that argument would be our last contact. Perhaps he expected me to apologize, pack up and go back to Brookline where he could periodically appear. Or now that I was off his turf, everything could return to what had passed for normal.
Of course he got his revenge. He reviews my books negatively in various small publications, always with some sort of dig about my man-hating. But I don’t even hate him. I feel tricked but lucky to have gotten out when I did. I had been an idiot, he was right. Since then, I do some detective work on any man I consider bedding. I don’t intend to get fooled again. None of my friends believe I hadn’t guessed something was fishy, but I really had been blind. It was all so convenient, a lover who could be fitted into my busy schedule and made few demands. Such convenience, I have learned, always comes with a price.
What the Arbor Said
Light bouncing off the lake freckled the ceiling over the bed where Laura lay. With the boys at camp—Nat a counselor now and Ethan one of the senior boys—she was stunned with idleness. In the city she had PTA at Buttonwood Prep School and fundraising for the local hospital. At the cottage, her days had always been frantic with swimming, boating, fishing, entertaining her sons’ friends on visits, sometimes colleagues of Derek’s. Not so often lately. Derek spoke of selling the cottage for something more upscale, perhaps on the coast. She hoped not. She had such fine memories of this place. The boys would not need her as they had, best to realize that. As if a wind that had been blowing hard against her had suddenly fallen silent, her ears roared with silence.
She shook herself alert, going out to weed the marigolds and zinnias she had bought in flats and put in along the flagstone walk that led from the cottage to the lake and the dock where their motorboat was tied up. Now at least she had time to garden. The first week, with Derek in the city and both boys at camp, she had felt lost here. Now a rich thick content filled her as she knelt, letting herself gradually drift into her past. Once she had lived passionately, lyrically. Her favorite scenes glowed like amber stones told one by one, like those worry beads she had seen men use in Turkey. Derek had been in Istanbul on for a conference and brought her and the boys along. She had met Derek in college. His room, yes, every inch of it was radiant with memories.
Their parents had both been opposed to their relationship, judging them too young for commitment. Even the crises of the school year and their first narrow rooms in a tenement where mice scurried through the paper-thin walls belonged to romance. The door slammed behind Derek and he rushed to lay his heavy head in her lap and spill his day, his anger and jangling will across her thighs till he had calmed himself. Derek was a lion among fools and he loved her till the ceiling went away and her eyes fell back in
her head. So long ago.
She had finished college, although she had understood obliquely that he had not wanted her to. He smoldered with jealousy of the men she borrowed notes from, studied with, sat by in lectures, chatted with between classes. He could not imagine that each one of them did not desire her. She kept silent, flattered. It proved his deep love. By the time she took her last exam, her swollen belly arched against the writing desk. Nat was already growing inside her.
In midafternoon Conway Gates came to the arbor between the cottages and she went to fetch her mending. Every nice day he brought a book to the arbor, but if she joined him, he would lay it aside. Poor lonely widower six years older than she, Conway taught chemistry and physics in high school. He came out here because he liked to fish in the early mornings and perhaps more simply because coming here was how he spent his summers, in a cottage he had inherited from his parents when they passed. Conway’s hair was grey and shaggy, rising to a cowlick. His face was gentle, sad-eyed, long-nosed and hopeful. His caramel-brown eyes with their long sandy lashes greeted her with open eagerness as she took her seat, sewing basket in her lap.
They exchanged books. Conway would describe all she had no time for, exhibits, plays, visiting poets, the fad for straw masks. They gossiped about neighbors here and people in their separate lives. At each summer’s beginning, they needed a week to sketch in their worlds. Their winter paths never crossed and Conway understood without her having to spell it out that when Derek was up from Boston she had little time for him.
Laura enjoyed how clever he made her feel, electric with perception. Sometimes in the middle of discussing some book, television documentary or film, sometimes in mid-dissection of a local scandal, she caught sight of her arm with a shock to see herself so womanly, unconsciously expecting the body she had years before when talk had been a lively duel and dead men’s winey ideas had fed her instead of her own cooking.
