The Girl That He Marries

by Rhoda Lerman

  4

  MIRIAM RAN UP THE PATH TO THE FORT. SHE HAD A SMALL CAPABLE BODY, athletic, neat. She was bright with crisp gray-black hair cut short, sensibly attractive. When she ran like that I knew we would share a bloodcurdling Il Duce story. We ate yogurt with plastic spoons, gnawed on natural-food loaves, and talked about men. Miriam was a psychiatric social worker at the Jewish Memorial Hospital. She spent her days reconstructing families, adjusting sibling relationships, curing alcoholic husbands and relocating abused children. For all of her training and her success with The Threatened Family of Upper Manhattan, Miriam seemed irrevocably destined to nurture in her own men a latent criminal insanity which ripened just about when they met Miriam and burst into full bloom within two or three months of living with her. “I get them,” she explained, “just when they’re coming around the old corner. And finish ‘em off fast.” The market analyst was doing yard work at a Catholic retreat in Elmira and the doctor was writing a four-volume work on his oversoul during weekends underground in Howe Caverns, a volume for each soul, and weekdays he worked at the Beechnut plant in Canajoharie because he identified with all those little round lifesavers. Number Three was a math teacher she met on a Club Mediterranée week in Marrakech. She wired me: “I am loved. I am worshipped.” Madly in love, they decided this was it, bought a house on Staten Island, made promises, commitments, introductions and married within the week they landed at Kennedy.

  Within the next week, although he was a gentle pedant somewhere in the wasteland of the Staten Island school system, at home he became, in that second week, a raging maniacal Sicilian who chopped off Miriam’s long hair while she was sleeping and tore out the hems of her short skirts while she was cooking. Among other acts. Miriam was not wholly convinced it was her doing but she felt she developed a certain entropy somewhere.

  “Stephanie,” she began, paces away, as we neared our bench. “Have I got a story for you. You won’t believe what Il Duce pulled last night. You won’t believe it.” She popped open prune yogurt, I strawberry, and tore corners off my loaf for her. “Mud driveway. I tried to back out, right? And he was in front of me waving his arms, shouting, so I turned off the ignition so I could hear him, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Here, take from my loaf. Yours is stale. He pounds on the hood. He pulls open the door. ‘Why the hell did you turn it off? Now you don’t have momentum.’ That’s what he’d been yelling: ‘momentum, momentum.’ Okay. So I try to back up again. He kicks at the tires. He kicks at the fenders. He is beating his fists into the hood of his precious Bonneville. I don’t shift, okay? My hands are dripping with sweat. My heart is bursting. Right? The car slides forward into the house but nothing happens. A chip in the aluminum siding, a dent, nothing. Nothing compared to what he did with his fists to the hood. So he opens the door to the car where I’m sitting. He grabs me by the neck, me, the marriage counselor. And pulls me out. Fortunately I have on my John Kloss satin nightgown so I slide out easy. And tosses me on the ground. Then he drives the car and it slides and smash smash and bends the entire side of the house under the kitchen window. And then he backs it out, parks it on the street and walks by me.”

  “Are you still on the ground?”

  “You think I’m going to move around and be a living target? And he says, ‘From now on, I drive the car.’ ”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “Only when I laughed.”

  “Did you laugh?”

  “Are you kidding?” She wrapped her loaf back in its foil and slipped the lunch remains into her shopping bag. “If I laughed at him, he’d kill me.” And then Miriam began to giggle and laugh and roar, wiping her eyes, weeping with laughter, the sound spreading like the old cannons over Fort Tryon. When she was finished, I asked her my question.

  “Miriam, what the hell is it with men?”

  “I can’t leave him,” she said very quietly. “He was perfectly calm and sweet and loving and giving when I met him. I have to help him out of this.”

  “I think he’s brain damaged.”

  She shrugged. “Him? Il Duce? If he’s brain damaged, they all are. It’s genetic.” She took my loaf and distributed crust and crumbs and hard raisins to avaricious pigeons. “You shouldn’t eat it stale. All the radiance goes out after a while. Well, Stephanie, your turn. Sissy finally make a pass at you?”

  “Miriam, I think I may be getting ready to fall in love.”

  “Hah!” She tossed the bread crumbs over her shoulder, like rice. “Honey, I’m so happy for you. What’s his name?”

  “Grossberger, Slentz or Braithwaite.”

  “I hope it’s Braithwaite. Another one doesn’t give out the last name, it’s such a commitment.”

  “It could be Slentz because a Mrs. Slentz called me this morning. But he’s not married. That I know. Although there is somebody else he’s involved with, I’m sure.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He had a date at the party when I met him and things he said, things he didn’t say.”

  “Is he good in bed?”

  “I don’t know. I just met him.”

  “As long as you can stay out of bed, that’s good.”

  “Good?”

  “Believe me, old-fashioned as it may seem, it’s good.”

  “Frankly, I think it’s lousy. But Miriam, I don’t want to make any mistakes. I really need your advice.”

  “Well, a clean apartment is conducive to clear thinking and gracious living even if he doesn’t come over right away. It’s healthier. You have to do it for yourself too. That’s my first day’s advice for The Threatened Family of Upper Manhattan. Did you fill your fridge yet? That’s the next step.”

  “Not yet, but I emptied it. And I bought a lot of cheese.”

  “Very significant. I should do a paper. ‘Food and The Threatened Family of Upper Manhattan.’ When you get your fridge filled then come back and tell me you’re in love.”

  “Miriam, I think I want to get married.”

  “A few kinds of cheese, an assortment of crackers, lots of Smucker’s, crunchy peanut butter, plenty of chocolate pudding. And tapioca pudding. Always cookies. A cookie jar is like a venus flytrap. Throw out the nuts and the lecithin and the smoked brook trout and the Sicilian walnuts and the fertilized eggs . . . all the health crap. Beer, freeze some eclairs and delmonicos. At least four kinds of greens in the salad and garlic croutons. Always croutons. And little tomatoes, Hebrew National salami, pumpernickel bread, bagels. Get ready. You have to set the scene. Buy some Scarsdale clothes. Stop wearing black. Get into pinks, blues, more beige. Soft, expensive stuff. Don’t look museumy.”

  “Well, it’s not that I really want to get married, but you know—just in case, I should leave the option open. I’ve always seemed to close off that option with the other men I’ve known. I want to leave it open this time and I’m not sure I know how. And I don’t want to make any mistakes.” God, where had I heard that line before?

  Miriam looked at me, squinting just a little, as if debating whether she should help me or not. I didn’t think she was concerned with the immorality of controlling another human being’s behavior which I should have been concerned with. I think she was remembering something unsharable about Il Duce. “You look for the patterns. Tell me the patterns as you figure them out. Even if you really aren’t sure, but if it looks a little like a pattern of behavior, tell me. Then we’ll find out you know where to attack, Where to smooth, what parts to buoy up, what parts to ignore. Really get into his head. But sweetheart, don’t forget, once you got him, you’re stuck with him.”

  “I don’t like the way that sounds.”

  “I know. But it works.” Miriam powdered her nose, twisted her lips for lipstick, and stood. “And that Mrs. Slentz?”

  “Coincidence.”

  “You want to be sure. Let Sissy call her and ask what it’s in reference to. For an executive, you act like a filing clerk. Then if it sounds like the woman he’s—what did you say? involved
with—ignore her. She probably wants a hysterical scene and she’s lying about being a wife. She’s probably nuts. But, she could be anybody . . . like a contributor or want to bake bread for the Fair or get seeds for a medieval garden. Who knows.”

  “It worries me. I don’t want to deal with another woman.”

  “A gorgeous kid like you? You’ve got nothing to worry about. You’re the other woman. She should be scared.”

  Miriam pulled out Kleenex for me and I tore her Kleenex into puffy shreds which the pigeons chased along the sidewalk. “I don’t like being called the other woman.”

  “Jesus, you’re so damned medieval. So don’t be. Let him go. Be honorable. You couldn’t do it to a sister. If the one who called is the one he’s involved with, she’s doing a number on you, baby. But if you want to be honorable, conduct your little crusade, forget him.” Miriam patted my shoulder. “Stephanie, you act very strange for such a happy woman. Maybe you should rethink this.”

  “There’s nothing to rethink. Look, I’ll just let it happen, you know. It’s so much easier.”

  “Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Just remember the rule: if you catch him, you’re stuck with him.”

  I still didn’t like the way that sounded.

  She sat down beside me again. “Honey, sometimes when The Threatened et cetera comes to me I don’t tell them what to put in the cookie jars. When I get back today I’m counseling a beautiful kid, a brilliant kid, a Ph D candidate in Tibetan Buddhism. Right? Her loving, supportive husband who is a Ph D candidate in early German literature, came home one afternoon when she was at a long seminar. At suppertime, he took all her thesis notes and cooked them at four hundred degrees for an hour and a half. And all he said to her when she asked why was that she hadn’t been home to make his dinner. Don’t be in such a hurry to fall in love in time for summer in the Hamptons. Go. Go back and be a brilliant curator and let happen what is meant to happen.”

  She pushed me up the path until she was certain I was committed to that direction at least. “And invite him for dinner. Feed him,” she called after me.

  There was no way for me to know if Miriam was a lousy social worker or a great Zen master. Miriam Cohen and her koan, except her name was now Natali and she had no answers for herself. Feed him; don’t feed him. Make plans; let happen what happens. Sometimes yes; sometimes no. An odd dozen of blue-gray pigeons left their posts at a trash can and followed me back to work, hoping for more of my loaf and less of my Kleenex. I should have told Miriam about the cab. I shouldn’t have gone back to work.

  5

  SISSY HAD ONE CONVERSATION THAT AFTERNOON. WITH A FRIEND. ABOUT ME. Except for a package of carbon paper which I reduced to ribbons, I didn’t react. My code name is She. “She’s here. Yes. Can’t talk. No. Of course, it’s spring. No. No. Probably. You know the losers she gets involved with. You know how she gets. The vibrations . . . God.”

  By three in the afternoon my baskets were filled and emptied as labeled. I took my filled basket to Sissy’s desk. She had been working also. There was a calm in the office.

  “Good, we’re really getting somewhere. Good.” I looked over the mail she had answered, the prints ready to ship and the fund requests in triplicate. She was accurate and efficient. I signed a few letters at her desk and as I leaned over her shoulder to sign them, I noticed a small stack of pink Called While You Were Out messages.

  “Are those today’s?”

  “Oh, there were some phone calls while you worked. I didn’t think you wanted to be bothered.”

  I kept my voice soft. She had after all worked well that afternoon. “Sissy, that is not your decision although I appreciate your trying to protect me.”

  “Well, after you slammed the door in my face . . . which I understand when you have problems with men so don’t apologize . . . I knew you were upset and I didn’t want to upset you any more. An apology isn’t necessary.” She swiveled her chair away from me to face her typewriter.

  I resisted screaming. I screamed anyway. “I am not having problems with men. I am having problems with secretaries. Nosy secretaries. Is that clear? If I were a man, Sissy, you wouldn’t bite my sandwiches or finish my coffee or take corners from my organic loaves. I’m sick and tired of you spying on me and involving yourself with my life. Do you understand?” I was waving the stack of phone messages in her face as she backed her chair against the wall. She could go no farther and I relished her fear.

  She answered in a small tremulous voice. “And that Mrs. Slentz.”

  “What?” Walls meant nothing. She could go farther. “And that Mrs. Slentz called. I didn’t write that down.”

  “And may I ask why you didn’t tell me that? Just for openers.”

  “I don’t think it’s necessary for you to be sarcastic. I knew it would upset you and I get upset when you get upset and I can’t work and I had a terrible fight with Monica this morning and I’m just trying to help.” Sissy began to sniffle.

  “All right,” I said through my clenched teeth, almost hissing. “Sissy, what did Mrs. Slentz have to say?”

  Sissy was suddenly relaxed. Perhaps she only seemed relaxed in relation to myself. Perhaps she seemed relaxed because in the deep dark reaches of her mind she was standing with her foot on my throat and a flint dagger raised over my heart. “Mrs. Slentz was very pleasant. It’s nice to hear someone pleasant for a change. She said if you weren’t busy she would like to see you. I told her you were tied up and she said she had free time anyway and it was such a lovely afternoon and since she hadn’t ever been . . .” Her voice trailed off as she watched my face.

  By the time she had finished speaking I had a large handful of the front of her sweater in my fist and had pulled her up from her seat. “When?”

  “Just . . . a couple of . . . I don’t know. You’re stretching my new Shetland.” I released her and ran into my office to call Miriam. Through the glass I saw Sissy crying and pulling at her sweater to smooth it out. If she could only just be a secretary and stay out of my life she wouldn’t get dragged into the turmoil.

  Miriam answered the phone in her “I’m with a client” voice.

  “She’s coming here. She may even be here. Miriam!”

  “Darling, Steph. What synchronicity. In your travels, Steph, among men, have you ever heard that meat eaters have larger sex organs than vegetarians?”

  “Miriam, she’s probably hysterical. I don’t like being the other woman.”

  “My client who is with me now is trying to . . .” I could hear a low voice in the background “. . . convince her husband of vegetarianism as a peaceful life style and he thinks she is trying to shrink his testicles. What would you say, Stephanie?”

  “Miriam, I’m too close to it to handle someone else’s trip.”

  “That’s very illuminating. Nothing to fear but fear itself. I’ll share that with my client.” Miriam buzzed off. It hadn’t been fair to call her when she was counseling. That was, I knew, the Ph D whose husband had cooked her thesis notes. I called Sissy, who came into my space red-eyed but composed.

  “Sissy, about your sweater, I’m sorry.”

  “It was my fault. I should have given you the messages.”

  “Yes, you should have. Now that you have led me into this situation, I would appreciate it if you would go downstairs and tell me what she looks like and what she is doing and tell whomever is at the desk that if anyone inquires after me, I’ve left for the week. I’ll pay the cleaning. If I’ve ruined it, I’ll buy you a new Shetland.”

  “I don’t know what she looks like.”

  “Buckteeth, funny clothes, maybe, long dress, maybe, hippy, small, chunky, henna hair, long.”

  “All maybe?”

  “Maybe looking a little crazy. Just look around. But go fast before someone sends her up here.” While I go hide under my desk.

  “Actually,” Sissy was shuffling her feet, “I was waiting for a phone call. An important one.”

  “Please hurry before she comes up.”
With a gun, stepping off the elevator, and snapshots of Richard’s six mongoloid children.

  “If Monica calls, tell her I’m sorry about the laundry.”

  “No.”

  “So you go downstairs.” Sissy sat back at her desk.

  “Don’t you have a conscience?” I yelled across our space.

  She popped her head into my office once again. “And tell her that I love her and I’ll see her when I get home.”

  Sissy left as I buzzed the front desk. “When Sissy gets down there, tell her if she isn’t back here in ten minutes, she’s fired.”

  I used my time wisely. I tore a bill of lading from Newcastle announcing the first shipment of Cornish crosses to New York City. I tore a Xerox copy of the Lanivet Cross Number One into two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two ragged little pieces until I had a thumbnail section of a heart-shaped tip of a tail. Sweeping all the other thirty-one pieces into a corner of my desk, I studied the tail of the man on the Lanivet Cross. There was no question that the appendage on the end of the tail was a heart. Definitely organic, clearly incised. I planned to print an entire catalogue for my show on the legends of the tailed men of Cornwall. The Christian legend that Saint Augustine cursed the Cornish men for their wickedness is not sufficient. The stone was older than Christian times and the curse, when true curses were possible, goes deep into pagan times. How I would have loved to have cursed like that, finally and terribly. I would paralyze Sissy from nine to five except for her typing fingers and her eardrums. I would cast a spell on Richard so that he would fall madly and irrevocably in love with me forever. Just knowing I had the power would bring serenity to my soul.

  But I wasn’t serene. I had no power. I was really afraid. Sitting at the desk, daydreaming about curses, I was most afraid. I wasn’t afraid of being accused of philandering. Unfortunately, so far, for whatever reasons, I had done nothing with Richard. And I wasn’t afraid of another woman, as such. What frightened me was the possibility that someone Richard loved or once loved or said he’d loved would face me, ravaged and mad, pathetic, tortured and desperately in love with him. Someone he had destroyed. A ghost of what I might be. Someone who was insane enough to call, pretend to be his wife, come here. That someone was led, driven, to maniacal motion, mad enough to blame Richard’s unfaithfulness not on Richard, but on me. And she’d say: “How’d you like to see what you’ll be like in a couple of years, honey?” And maybe she’d show me scars or tell me horror stories about vaginal herpes or his fear of round things. He thinks women are all diseased and he’s always washing his hands and will never touch lips, that kind of thing. Or every Saturday night he goes to his mother’s apartment to shave her legs and clip her toenails and shave her armpits. Or, he can’t have an orgasm unless the woman wears Dr. Dentons. The kind of story which will be true or untrue but will fester and drain the little precious bit of trust and belief and hope I am so desperately trying to hold. And it will be something I can’t ask him about, a nightmare. That’s why I’m afraid of whomever it is calling herself Mrs. Slentz, another one who thought she might be the governor’s wife, another one who thought she could share dreams, who thought she could save him, could save herself through him. And it just may be that I am entirely incorrect. It may be that Richard is really the right man and I’m so scared of that fact that I’m driving myself into corners to avoid the knowledge. It might be that his name is one of the others—Braithwaite, Grossberger—and that my created Mrs. Slentz is probably a harmless museum member who wants to donate a set of stained glass from Strasbourg in my name because she liked my last newsletter. I hope I don’t witness another woman’s hysteria because it will be a mirror of my own and that’s what I’m afraid of. I don’t want to look too closely at myself.