by Max Shulman
“Ira, don’t I get to ask any questions?”
“Sorry. Please go ahead.”
“Thank you. First question: Boo.”
“What if I don’t want to talk about Boo?”
“Oh, but you do,” said Polly confidently. “You’ve got a big mouth.”
“Yeah?” he bristled. “Well, maybe I do, but at least I don’t drop my pants for everybody who comes down the pike.”
“I ignore the insult and repeat the question. What about you and Boo?”
“If anything has happened between Boo and me—and, mind you, I don’t for one minute admit that it has—well, frankly, it’s not the sort of thing you would understand.”
“You mean because it’s so kind of—oh, I don’t know—so kind of ethereal?”
“Maybe.”
“It wasn’t too ethereal to keep her from getting knocked up,” observed Polly.
“That does it,” he said with angry finality. “This talk is over.”
“Balls! I’m just getting warmed up.”
He raised a cautionary finger. “Stop, Polly. Please stop and think a minute. You and I, for better or worse, still have a lot of years left together. It won’t be easy, but at least it’ll be possible, unless we stand here and keep yakking away. Any second now, sure as hell, something is going to be said that can never, never be unsaid. We’re in big danger of blowing a marriage right here, tonight.… So enough, Polly. Okay?”
I agree.
“All right, then. No more conversation.”
“Oh, no, Ira,” she said hastily. “You misunderstand. I agree that we’re in danger of blowing a marriage. I don’t agree to no more conversation. And I’ll tell you why: the world is full of marriages—and I count ours—that are held together by one dismal thing—default. Husband and wife both know that if ever there should come an honest exchange of words, the marriage goes down the drain. So the words never get said. Look, for example, how long it’s been that way in our house, and look what a sickly, puny excuse for a marriage we’re left with. I say let’s talk. It’s risky, yes, but, on the other hand, it might possibly be the transfusion we need. In any case, we can’t lose. If our marriage is killed, what’s to mourn?”
Ira deliberated. “All right,” he said. “Whatever else has happened between us, I’ve never lost my respect for your mind. If you think we should talk, I’ll go along.”
“You won’t regret it,” said Polly. “Or else you will. I can positively guarantee one or the other.”
“Swell.… Now to treturn to our dialogue, how come you laid Virgil this afternoon?”
“That is one subject We don’t discuss,” said Polly, and there was no mistaking she would not be moved.
“Great little game you invented,” remarked Ira. “We talk, but you pick the topics.”
“Exactly.”
“Seems fair.… All right, your slap-and-tickle with Virgil is out. What’s in?”
“You and Boo.”
“You know something? I had that one figured.… Okay, what do you want me to tell you?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Try not to be disappointed, old friend, but I’m really not interested in hearing you make a confession. You just listen, and I’ll explain all about you and Boo.”
“You will explain?”
“If you’ll only be quiet.”
“Who do you think you are—the Oracle of Delphi?”
“No, I’m just the idiot who’s wasted twenty-five years studying you. So will you shut up?”
“I can’t promise.”
“I’ll chance it.… Let’s start at the top. Where are you from, Ira?”
“What do you mean, where am I from? You know very well where I’m from—Tenth Avenue.”
“Precisely. Little Ira Shapian, the ragged Armenian street urchin from Tenth Avenue. But an urchin with a big, beautiful dream. You weren’t entirely sure what the dream was, but this much you knew: it was lovely and serene and peaceful and pure, everything Tenth Avenue was not. Then the war came. You got shipped to Owens Mill. You met Boo. And there stood your dream. There, alive and glowing, the dream stood in front of your eyes. And how perfectly mounted—the grace, the breeding, the portico, the paddock, the jasmine! There it was, Ira, the vague, itchy, haunting dream all come true in one exquisite package. No wonder you got knocked for a loop.”
“Thank you very much. That clears up my case. Now would you be good enough to explain why Boo chose me?”
“Boo’s motives are even simpler than yours. She chose you because she’s afraid of men.”
“Polly, I’ve just reconsidered your brainpower. Not only are you not smart, but you are a dithering dumbhead.… Boo chose me because she’s afraid of men? What am I—a panda bear?”
“Will you shut up and listen, or do you want to spend the rest of your life ignorant?”
“Excuse me. Go on, please, with your piercing analysis of Boo.”
“Yes, Boo. Scared to death of men. Maybe she had a father problem; I don’t know. But I’ve read her poetry—I use the term loosely—and it couldn’t be more obvious: men terrify your elegant friend. So this poor, gun-shy thing had the rotten luck to be born in the South where masculinity is by far the No. 1 industry. And worse, she had to pick Owens Mill where that old rooster Jefferson Tatum rules the roost and all the others flap like crazy to keep up.”
“All the others?” asked Ira. “How about Virgil Tatum? He seems like a quiet, scholarly, cultured type.”
“He is a quiet, scholarly, cultured stallion,” replied Polly.
“Caught you!” yelled Ira triumphantly. “Caught you! Caught you! Caught you! All right now, goddammit, what happened with you and Virgil this afternoon? I demand an answer!”
“Oh, sit down,” said Polly wearily. “Stop making like Perry Mason. You are not going to find out about Virgil. In fact, if you don’t behave, you are not going to find out about Boo.”
“You are my wife!” he thundered. “I have rights!”
“I am your wife,” she answered without raising her voice, “and, if you will recall, I was the best pitcher at P.S. 189. If you don’t sit down in one second, I will start throwing lamps. After that I will break the windows and fling out the furniture. Then I will turn on the sprinkler system. This, I believe, will give me time to think of something really destructive.”
Ira took a step toward Polly. She picked up the nearest lamp and cocked her arm. Ira sat.
“That’s better,” she said. “Now to resume.… When war breaks out, we find Boo in Owens Mill surrounded by studs and trembling like a leaf. Now arrives Ira Shapian. Is he strong and silent? Is he stalwart? Is he a tower of power? No, not Ira. He bleeds and whines. ‘Oh, God,’ he cries, ‘why hast Thou forsaken me?’ But he is not always torn with anguish. Sometimes, all of a sudden, the gloom lifts. He frisks and gambols, playing in the sun, until, like a summer storm, the black clouds come rushing back. Boo watches his moods shuffle and shift, shift and shuffle. Soon a great, warm feeling of safety fills her breast. She knows Ira is not to be feared, because Ira is not a man. He is to be loved: he is a child.”
“Oh, brother!” said Ira, groaning very loud. “Oh, brother, sister, cousin, and your father’s moustache!”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you ought to be arrested for practicing psychiatry without a license. And what psychiatry! What crap! Polly, I’m worried about you. I mean really. You can’t possibly mean what you just told me?”
“Every word.”
“All right. Assuming you’re not altogether beyond the reach of logic, answer me this: if Boo regards me as a child, how about all our activity in bed?”
“Activity? This you call activity? A few tumbles during the war, then eighteen years of nothing. Now a few more tumbles and probably, for the rest of your lives, nothing again. There hasn’t been so much activity since Rip Van Winkle.”
“How do you know what’s going to happen in the rest of our lives? What makes you so sure I
won’t end up with Boo?”
“Because, you dope, it’s me you love. Why else were you faithful for eighteen years? Why have you come home to me again? Why are you half-crazy at the thought that I might have gone to bed with Virgil this afternoon?”
Ira bounded to his feet. “Might, hell!” he shouted. “You did, and I know it! Break the lamps, turn on the sprinklers, tear down the goddam hotel if you like; but you are going to tell me why you put horns on me this afternoon, and you are going to tell me now!”
He was upon her so rapidly that she managed to fling only one lamp against the wall before he caught both her wrists in a grip of iron. “Tell me!” he demanded, ignoring the kicks that were slamming into his shin like a jackhammer.
“I am not going to talk about Virgil!” she said through clenched teeth, kicking steadily, twisting and flailing in an attempt to loose her wrists. “I only want to talk about Boo.”
“I don’t want to hear about Boo!” He held her wrists tight, pushed her backwards across the room, upended tables and chairs.
She tried to bite his neck, missed narrowly. “You don’t love Boo, you fool! And she doesn’t love you either. It’s dreams you’re both in love with, sweet, adolescent, impossible dreams. And deep down you both know it; that’s why you’ve never done anything and you never will. You love me, you swarthy imbecile. Because I’m no dream. I’m flesh!”
“You’re flesh, and this afternoon Virgil Tatum was pawing it with his big, hairy hands!”
“Goddammit, how long since you’ve pawed it with your big, hairy hands?”
“Too long, too long! But that’s going to be corrected right now!”
They were at the bedroom door. Ira, finding strength he had never even suspected, lifted his wife and hurled her upon the bed. With three savage tugs he made rags of the blue Don Loper. Lingerie shredded like paper in his frenetic hands.
When Polly lay naked on the bed, he started ripping off his own clothes. He yanked off his lapels, tore his jacket in half, tattered his necktie, demolished his shirt.
“Ira,” said Polly reasonably, “I’m ready and waiting. There’s really no cause to ruin your clothes too.”
“Shut up!” he snarled. “You’re not talking to a child.”
After lovemaking they slept. Only twenty minutes went by on the bedside clock, but when they woke, it was as though they had had twelve profoundly refreshing hours.
They looked at one another. They smiled. “Hi,” said Polly.
“Come closer,” he said.
She turned and snuggled against him. He stroked her hair, ran his hand gently down her back, stopped and nestled a buttock. Then, suddenly, he pinched.
“Ouch!” she cried, jumping.
“Yeah!” he sneered. “So what’s all this big talk about a brave ass?”
“Okay, let’s try yours,” she said, and, before he could escape, she got in a sharp-nailed tweak. Then they rolled and wrestled, playfully grabbing, giggling, nipping. The frolic stopped as they found themselves face-to-face. Tenderly he cupped her chin in his hand and gave her a long, serious kiss.
He said, “You’re right. I do love you, you disagreeable, feisty, contentious little hardhead.”
“And the same to you, you road-company King Lear,” she said, her fingers twining in his. “I love you so deeply that I ache with it. If our stalemate had gone on much longer, I think I would have cracked up. God bless this day.”
“Yes, Polly, God bless this day.… And God bless Virgil Tatum who made it happen and who I am going to punch in the mouth first thing in the morning.”
“I wouldn’t do that, Ira, for two reasons: first, because when he hits you back, you are a dead Armenian. Second, I never went to bed with Virgil.”
“My dear wife, honesty has just paid us an unexpected visit. Let’s see if we can keep it around, huh?”
“I was about to suggest the same thing. Tell me where you got your information about Virgil and me.”
“All right,” he said and recounted the story of Gabriel and the tape recording.
“Why, that little bastard!” exclaimed Polly angrily. Then, remembering her manners, she said, “Nothing personal, Ira.”
“Perfectly all right,” he said. “Now will you kindly explain about that tape?”
“Yes. And I will also kindly explain what happened before and after that tape.”
She did.
When she finished, Ira sat in stunned, glazed silence. “You do believe me?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Then why the funny look?”
“I am trying very hard to find something to say about you and Gabriel, but all I can think of is to run to the closet and tear up another suit.”
“Forceful,” admitted Polly. “Kind of a waste, though.”
“Yeah.… Well, let’s look at the bright side. Tomorrow we’ll be leaving Owens Mill and Gabriel.”
“And then,” she said, “we return to Bel Air where Gabriel has bought the house next door.”
“I’m afraid, old girl, that will not be a problem. We have to sell the house in Bel Air. You saw the telecast tonight. I can’t afford Bel Air any more. I am out of a job.”
Polly kissed him hard on the lips. “Yes, I saw the telecast, and I have never been so proud of you in my life. For that matter, I have never been so proud of me, because, in spite of everything, I never stopped believing you were still you!”
“Thank you. I will think often of your kind words when I am standing in those long lines at the unemployment office.”
“Ira, tell me something: when you kicked away your job tonight, you must have had a plan in mind. What was it?”
A wisp of a smile crossed his face. “As a matter of fact, I did. I had a beautiful plan. Only trouble is, it won’t work any more.”
“Why not?”
“Because I just found out how much I love you,” he answered. “Ironic, yes?”
“Very. Also enigmatic. What are you trying to say?”
“Actually, I’m trying not to say it. But this seems to be the hour of truth, so here goes: forgive me, Polly, you won’t find this flattering, but I had a scheme laid out, neat and foolproof. I was going to divorce you, marry Boo, get canned by the network, and take that job with Linus Calloway in Birmingham.”
“I see.… Well, me you’re not going to divorce and Boo you’re not going to marry, but why can’t the rest of your idea work?”
“Because you I’m not going to divorce and Boo I’m not going to marry,” he replied. “So how can I take the job with Linus? He’ll only pay $100 a week. With Boo it wouldn’t have mattered; she’s loaded. But you and I living on a hundred dollars a week? Oh, come now!”
“We’ve lived on a lot less,” she declared. “And happily!”
“Polly, don’t lay there on your brave butt and talk brave nonsense. Sure, we’ve lived on less than a hundred a week, but we’ve picked up a few obligations since then.”
“Don’t you talk nonsense. Obligations, you say? Okay, let’s count. Our two children and their bottomless bellies are now the responsibility of the U.S. Marine Corps. Our servants can be fired. Our houses, cars, jewels, paintings, and alleged objets d’art can be sold, which will give us a nice little nest egg to dip into if we should run short in Birmingham.… Only we won’t run short, because we’re going to rent a two-room flat and live on beans, plus I am going to learn typing and shorthand and get a job!”
She was shaking Ira by the shoulders, physically transferring her excitement to him. “You’d really do it?” he asked eagerly.
“What have I been telling you year after year?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been listening.”
“So listen now. Not only would I do it, but I will hold my breath until I turn blue if you don’t let me. Clear?”
“Clear.”
“Good. Now let’s call room service and order our last expensive dinner.”
“Constructive thinking,” said Ira. “But first—” he
pulled her toward him—“how about a reprise before chow?”
“Ira dear, I am naturally flattered, but remember you are not a young man. The strain on the heart, according to eminent medical authorities, is equivalent to running up twenty flights of stairs.”
“What a way to go!” said Ira, biting her shoulder. “Come here, you.”
“Yes, dear,” she said, complying. “Yes, my lustful Levantine.”
Chapter 22
The front of the taxi was loaded with the Shapians’ luggage. Polly and Ira were seated in the back. They were on the way to the Owens Mill airport to catch a plane for Birmingham, but Ira had asked the driver to stop first at Acanthus so he could pick up a few personal belongings at his office.
“Be right out,” said Ira to Polly as the cab parked in front of his office in the administration building.
Into the building ran Ira and into his office. Quickly he stuffed a briefcase with papers and left the office. He moved quickly down the corridor, turned the corner, and bumped smack into Virgil Tatum, who was approaching from the opposite direction.
Both men stopped in their tracks. Both fidgeted. Both flushed. Both were bereft of words.
A fine point of etiquette was preventing Ira from speaking. How, he wondered, do you greet a man who has described your wife’s breasts and buttocks in such loving detail? What do you say to a man who has kept the memory of your spouse’s erogenous zones evergreen in his mind for twenty years? Offhand, violence seemed a proper response, yet Ira could not but consider that despite Virgil’s long-cherished honing for Polly’s parts, he had, when they were freely offered to him, found the strength of character to return them unused. This, surely, was an act of renunciation to make the heart swell with gratitude. But—taking another view—how grateful can you feel toward someone who knows your wife’s body as only her husband and her gynecologist ought to know it? But—taking still another view—was it not admirable that a letch as durable as Virgil’s should be held in bounds by something so fragile as principle? Yes, thought Ira gravely, an exceeding fine point of etiquette was involved here, a thorny point, a many-splintered thing.
Virgil, to whom chivalry was as real and alive as a large flowering tree, was vexed by a conundrum even more subtle than Ira’s. He had no knowledge of Gabriel’s tape recording; therefore, he was not aware that Ira knew what had been said in the private dining room at Big Eddie’s roadhouse. But he, Virgil, knew what had been said. Granted there had been no deeds, only words; but when words were so graphically horny, so hornily graphic, did they not, in themselves, approach adultery? Does a true gentleman make such a speech to the wife of a friend? Yet, on the other hand, could anything conceivably be more friendly than not having done what Virgil had not? A delicately shaded question, he thought, a puzzle Talmudically devious.
