by Rhoda Lerman
6
THE PHONE RANG AND I ANSWERED AS IF I WERE SISSY. “MS. BOXWELL’S OFFICE.”
“Sissy?” It was Monica’s deep-pitched voice.
“She’s out.”
“Who’s this?”
“She.”
“Oh.” The voice sank lower. “Can you take a message?”
I had had a rotten day. In exchange for a short span of joy I sat at my desk in terror of a madwoman accosting me. I had sold my soul once more to my spying secretary. I had cleaned unnecessarily my apartment, emptied unnecessarily my refrigerator, tormented my soul and my head and my body and convinced myself that I was ready to fall in love with someone I knew nothing about. It was a romance à la Kafka. Monica dictated the laundry list to me while I carefully transcribed all their intimacies, the colors of their sheets, the pairs of underwear worn each week, the towels, by design and manufacturer, the very fabric of their strange life together. I didn’t like it. They shared the most detailed information about each other and I loved a man . . . whoops . . . and I was thinking of loving a man, an elusive grinning man who was barely evident, who said he loved me and twice called me on the phone and touched me on the arm and once blew on my neck and once bought me lunch, who created despair in my stomach and whose last name I didn’t even know. By his elusiveness, he had created this chaos, but it was the same chaos Il Duce created by his violence. Maybe I really didn’t like men. Monica at least called Sissy. Monica suffered. She’d feel something. Did men feel anything? Did Richard, except that I was the right girl, an intellectual decision, a vote-getter?
The only real emotion I’d ever seen in a man was anger. And lust. If that’s an emotion. Maybe they feigned emotion in order to satisfy lust. And maybe we feigned lust in order to satisfy emotion. Maybe they’ve just run out of emotion, the way the world runs out of fossil fuels. Fighting might have done it to them. When I considered Miriam’s Il Duce, I thought men really did begin with tails and although they had lost them or perhaps turned them into testicles, they still harbored truly bestial characteristics. Not intellectually, not physically, but emotionally; they were still lumbering destructive swamp creatures, unresponsive, autistic. As a Christian, trained and dogmatic, I think they must at one time have had the same given emotional package we women have. As a woman, I think they never had it or never will. But why did I want one so much? I wondered if I really hated men.
If I could only have related to them. There’s a story about a muleskinner teaching recruits to train mules. “First you have to get their attention,” he told the recruits as he beat the mule over the head with a plank. Is that the answer? Hit them over the head and then relate to them? I could relate to history. I could relate to space and design. Except for Sissy and myself, I could relate to women—well, perhaps I couldn’t relate to whoever Richard’s bucktooth buddy was. But I couldn’t relate to men. But then I didn’t even know what relate meant. I meant that I couldn’t understand one and I wanted one and I didn’t know how to get one . . . the right one.
I decided that some wonderful Black Annie witch goddess cursed the Cornwall men with tails as a memory and reminder not of their wickedness but of their lowly origins. I saved the square 1/32 of the Lanivet Cross with the tracing of the heart on it and slipped it into my wallet behind my Social Security card. Whatever it was with men, I would put the Lanivet Number One in the center of my exhibit. Someone would understand. I heard the elevator begin its climb upward. My blood stopped in response. Sissy stepped from the elevator.
“Seven minutes,” she shrugged, showing empty hands.
“God, am I glad it’s you, Sissy.”
“You are?”
“Instead of her.”
Discreetly, I swept my thirty-one shreds into my drawer to hide them. I didn’t need her to know about my tearing things. She knew enough about me already and I had always let her think that it was she who lost my papers. Sissy went to sit at her desk and wait, I knew, for Monica’s phone call.
I called her away from her desk. “Are you sure, Sissy?”
“Honest, there’s no one. There’s a German tourist group, a lot of school kids, a couple of old ladies.”
“Are you sure?”
“I looked all over. There was a really batty old lady stealing crocus plants and I told the guard and he wrestled her for the plants and she kept screaming: ‘Goy, you’ll be sorry come Easter!’ And then she told me, very rationally, ‘You have the crocuses for a little; I have them for a little. What’s so bad?’ ”
“Did you go into the lower areas?”
“Every place.” She was waiting for my thank you. I didn’t feel it necessary. “Did Monica call?”
Although I might torment her a bit with the timing as she had done with Mrs. Slentz’s phone call, in matters like these we could trust each other. We were aware that we would protect each other when it really counted. I handed her the laundry list. Sissy turned the note over. “Wasn’t there any message? Nothing else?”
I shook my head.
“I’m very upset about Monica, Stephanie. It seems to be so important who takes care of the laundry. It’s just like a man/woman sexist thing.” She sat on my desk. “Oh, God, I’m super upset.”
“Sissy,” I held my hand to my forehead, “don’t tell me.”
“Do you have any aspirin?”
I had a vast collection of pills left from the time Miriam had prescribed megadoses of vitamins for me. I dumped a handful of them into Sissy’s palm. Miriam and I were off chemicals. Sissy put the pills into her pocket and left, closing the door so carefully I understood it as a message of hatred. When she hates me I’m happier because she leaves me alone.
For the last hour of our day, she worked hard, typing nonstop. It might have been my mail. It might have been a long suicide note. I didn’t want to know. I wanted to know who Mrs. Slentz was. I wanted to know if she was lurking someplace in the shadows, behind a column, dagger unsheathed. At five, Sissy popped her head in, composed again in that false obedient efficiency which says I’ve hurt her deeply but she respects my position as She: “I ordered a case of Scotch tape for you. You’re going to need it.” And then she left for the night. Sissy’s good at last tag.
I would have fired her but if she were ever to defend herself to Personnel, I’d have lost my job also.
All because of Richard No-Name, the Governor, not only had the day been totally lousy, but I couldn’t leave on time. I read the personal ads in the Voice underlining professional men over thirty who want no emotional involvement and like to sail, until I was certain all visitors, buses and cars had left, all daggers were sheathed, all shadows accounted for. Outside, early dusk slid around the columns and clothed the stones for the night. I paused before the Virgin to pray that if I were going to be in love, it wouldn’t hurt. Leaves were closing on the trees and the last rush of orange covered the face of the Palisades. I so wanted to meet him here in the moonlight in a medieval garden and make love with the monks chanting the Psalms of David in the background and the jasmine spoor flooding the air. It was spring and I wanted to be loved a little. That, as Miriam would assure me, wasn’t such a crime. That, as the crazy lady with the crocuses said, wasn’t so bad. So I have him for a little; so the bucktoothed wonder has him for a little. What’s so bad?
7
ALTHOUGH I WOULD HAVE DENIED IT, I REALLY HAD EXPECTED RICHARD TO call over the weekend, which he did not. He did not call on Monday. He did not call on Tuesday. He did not call on Wednesday. I did not realize then that so far all I knew about Richard was a group of nots. Nor did I realize that Richard No-Name’s no-calls were a pattern and that the no-calls as well as the cab scene were things I should have mentioned to Miriam. Not realizing I already knew as much as I needed to know at that point and that he was intentionally giving me nots so I would keep asking questions, when he finally did call at eleven-thirty Thursday night, I became so involved with my own dumb superficial questions, which had nothing to do with the issue, which I wa
sn’t ready to define then anyway, I really didn’t hear what Richard No-Name was not telling me.
“Steph, can you hold a minute?”
I began to tear Kleenex, sheet by sheet, sitting cross-legged and safe on my bed. I held on. I heard him talking to someone. Where would he be at eleven-thirty? Doesn’t he have to work in the morning? Who was he with now? If I were hooked on him, I’d be suffering. I did have questions that usually tear me apart when I am involved. If I were involved I would be asking: Aren’t you going to explain who that woman was who called me? Why couldn’t you talk on Sunday? What do you mean, be your friend? Just what does that include? Don’t you want to sleep with me? Who are you with now? All I want is an explanation, Richard. An explanation from all the Richards of the world. I can condone any kind of behavior. No, I can’t. But I just feel as though I deserve an explanation because I am a decent human being. You are free to go. I simply want an explanation before you leave. That’s all. And waiting for an explanation, I would rip things in his apartment or mine to pieces. It was never an explanation I really wanted. Receiving an explanation, I would continue to rip things because what I really wanted to know was what was so wrong with me.
Whoever Richard was speaking to giggled. I was down to the yellow sheets. I had enough shreds to stuff a pillow with.
“How would you like an adventure, Stephanie?”
“It’s a little late, isn’t it?” I hadn’t intended the cold edge in my voice.
“Oh, I’m sorry. You answered the phone so fast, I thought you must be awake.”
Pause. I didn’t know what I ought to say.
“You don’t really mind me calling, do you? I mean, we really are friends, Steph?”
“Richard?”
“Yes, Steph?”
“I think I missed a chapter somewhere.”
“Should I call back, Steph?”
“No, no, I’m really glad to hear from you.” I sounded like a Jewish infection. Who was he to assign me a nickname already?
“Listen, I really want to talk to you. Are you doing anything?”
I measured the levels of filth in my apartment. What does a free spirit do on such occasions? Would the governor’s wife live like this? Do I ignore the clumps of dust, the stacks of garbage, the empty cans of 9-Lives, the torn legs of my scratching-post sofa and the cat piss in the cold-air return? Do I tell him not to come over? Why not? I’m not the governor’s wife. I was into nots.
“Steph?”
“Doing nothing.” I scooped up the Kleenex from the bed.
“Good. Grab a cab and meet me at 39th and Third. I’ll pay the fare.”
In the middle of the night? Because he snaps his fingers?
“My friend, are you hesitating? Also, Stephanie, I want to talk to you about my mother. You were very rude to her.”
“Your mother?”
“When can you be here? Half an hour?”
“Your mother? Richard?”
“It’s very important to me. Please, Stephanie.”
“What do you mean your mother? What do you mean your mother?”
“Half an hour, darling? I want so to see you. I realized tonight that I haven’t seen you since Thursday. Half an hour. I’ll wait on the sidewalk.”
“Half an hour.” I cradled the receiver. Okay, so I was the free spirit. I’d go. Funny, he had realized tonight that he hadn’t seen me. I had just occurred to him. Are men stupid? Genetically immature? This man was a lawyer, wasn’t he? I watched my hands begin to shake. The first time is always like that. If I were really involved, my hands would just shake . . . I couldn’t take a step back and watch them. What does he mean his mother? The deodorant lost its control and sprayed itself out on the bathroom tiles in a tiny puddle. Maybe it hadn’t been Richard. Or it had been Richard and he had called the wrong girl. I watched my hands begin to shake again. Was there time to set my hair fast in hot rollers? Wear a bra? Don’t wear a bra? What is the message? His mother? How curious. I was rude to his mother? Oh, for God’s sake! Mrs. Slentz. Mrs. Slentz must have been his mother. Of course. He sent his mother to meet me. My God, he was serious. But why hadn’t he told me? How was I expected to know? I kept feeling as if I’d skipped that chapter someplace. He must really be serious. They must really be serious. And his mother must really be nuts.
And I, while I should have thought in the cab that I must really be nuts, reflected instead on being cool. I’ve ruined a lot of relationships by being too cerebral or threatening hysteria or both. Richard was attracted to me because I was a free spirit and free spirits, I told myself, let it flow. That’s it. Stand still, be cool, let it flow, I continued to tell myself as I stepped from the cab with icewater sure enough flowing through my trembling legs and my hot little grin ripping my cheeks apart and smiling benignly and walking calmly to the garbage can where Richard stood. I grinned.
But he grinned too and hugged me at the garbage can, kneading my spine with his knuckles. “You knew. You understood. You must have known how important it was and you came. Because you are my friend.”
“What?”
“You are such an intelligent woman. You must have known what kind of a day I had . . . this new campaign, Jesus, it’s all a lot of shit.” Richard steered me along the sidewalk by holding my elbow. Free spirits don’t ask where they’re going. Flow, Stephanie, flow. Pick up your feet, Stephanie. Stand up straight, Stephanie. Let the others be clever, Stephanie. Throw back your shoulders, Stephanie. Be intelligent if you can, Stephanie. Be good, Stephanie, if you want. But Stephanie, be beautiful you must, Stephanie, my mother said as she picked up her beautiful little feet one after the other and showed me how to throw my shoulders back, Stephanie.
“Stephanie.” Richard tried to whistle something. “Stephanie, there must be some kind of song for that. Stephanie at midnight.” We walked by a drugstore, a deli, a shoe repair. Everything was closed. He tried to whistle again as we walked, hesitating over many bars of many tunes. We came to another garbage can. He stopped and pressed his forefinger against the tip of my nose, then we started walking again as he whistled his song. Miriam, when I tell her tomorrow, if there is a tomorrow, won’t believe it. We are walking down the sidewalk going someplace and he’s whistling “The Girl That I Marry.” I swear to God, Miriam. And she’ll say, how come you didn’t ask where you were going? And I’ll shrug and say, I’m learning not to ask questions. We stopped at another garbage can under a streetlight haloed in mist. He rocked his head from side to side at me, a bird listening for my worm, predatory, measuring. My life is measured in garbage cans, I recited to myself.
“I have a question to ask of you, Stephanie.” One finger pressed in the space between my eyes.
“Yes?”
“Have you ever been to Atlanta?”
“Atlanta?” I repeated, trying desperately to follow his direction.
“Smell my hair.”
I leaned over the garbage can to his hair. I have played chess in tournaments. I have bid smoothly for major acquisitions. I have fought fossilized museum boards for grants. I know many games. But I didn’t know Richard’s games. I didn’t know Richard’s rules. The cool spirit is free, though; noncommittal. Goes along till she learns the rules. Then can play. Maybe can win.
“Would you like to go to Atlanta?”
My holding action consisted of repeating the last word of his question. “Atlanta?”
“Do you like it long, Stephanie? I have to go to Atlanta next week and I wonder if I should have it cut for Atlanta. I’ve never been to Atlanta myself.”
“Myself?” Either he was the most open man or the most manipulative man I’d ever met. If it was manipulation, then he’d gone one step too far and he deserved what he got from me. My armpits were dampening. I hadn’t come to fight. Would I fight to come?
“Why don’t we go someplace where we can talk? Where there’s light? Then you can tell me if you like my hair this length or not.”
We walked past closed stores. There was nothing op
en. I had no idea where we were walking. Richard continued to whistle “The Girl That I Marry.” He was so happy with me. I’m just not enough of an existentialist, I thought. I should learn to enjoy the moment now as I’m living it instead of worrying about my destination. Richard is a man of the new age and I’m still old-fashioned, medieval. I wanted to know at half past midnight where I was going and when I’d get home and how I’d get up for work in the morning. I knew I would bother Richard if I were to ask. Also, not that I needed it, but he had promised to pay for the cab fare.
