by Rhoda Lerman
“Ho, ho. Compared to whom? Listen, if he were screwing you, I might really be jealous. Right now it’s just a professional courtesy, okay? Stephanie,” Jack’s voice lowered. I supposed he had had his revenge on my summer refusal. “Stephanie, really, think about it.”
“I don’t see why you and I should discuss it.”
“I know you so well, Stephanie. Listen, there are two kinds of power. Political power and sexual power. Men have political power. Women have sexual power. Don’t you get it? You’ve lost control. He isn’t going to allow you to have sexual power. You’re out of control, Stephanie.” Jack shoved his platter of chicken at me. “You should eat something.”
“I don’t want the chicken. I didn’t want the soup. I wish to hell you’d stop asking me what I want and giving me things and taking care of me. I wish to hell you’d leave me alone. I know what I want and I know when I want it.”
“Boy, there’s gotta be something else you aren’t telling me.”
I decided to control myself. I needed to talk to Jack.
“It doesn’t exactly amuse me to talk about a man you love, Stephanie,” he was saying. “If you recall, I still harbor some feelings about you. And that’s the only reason I’m willing to listen.”
I looked away from his eyes. “Okay. Richard reminds me of the Unicorn. I mean I adore the Unicorn. I want the Unicorn. I love the Unicorn. He fascinates me the way the Unicorn fascinates me. Okay?”
“Hah.” His hah had no exclamation point. It was a depressed hah.
“Hah, what?” I knew I shouldn’t have brought it up.
“Hah, do you know what an asshole image that is? Do you have any idea what the Unicorn means? The Unicorn, dear lady who shouldn’t forget that Hitler played the Second World War by myth which he understood a lot better than you, means eunuch. Medievals played word games. It’s a homophone relationship. Unicorn is the Gnostic, mystery stuff, the self-realized man, kundalini, tantric, the lowest chakra exploding into the head, the semen bursting up the spinal column into the brain center of ultimate God-consciousness. The horn’s the penis. That, my love, is why you catch a Unicorn by letting him lay his head, which is his now intellectualized conscious-risen penis, into the lap of a virgin. Mind-fucking. But, darling girl, the Unicorn is the heretical castrated eunuch trapped in the sacramental fence of a Catholic Church which was just finishing up inquisitions, et al. The little drops of blood are the sacrifice of his sensual nature . . . of his poor balls. Yeah, your Richard and your beast really do have a lot in common. If you’re going to live by myth, girlie, you better understand myth. The enlightened gentleman will be enlightened because you’re going to cut off some of his best meat. Boy, do you deserve what you get!”
“Okay, bastard, how do you know all that? Read it in the Nazi White Paper, did you?”
“I just made it up. But it fits. It really fits.”
“I really hate you, Jack. Deeply.”
“Goodness, it’s been years since I made you cry.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re making a big mistake. A little magic, a little charm and you are absolutely blind. No brakes, out of control, downhill. You’re really being stupid and you’re going to get stuck.”
“I’m in control.”
“You’re still going to get stuck. At least I’ve never been stuck.”
“That’s because you purposely choose dumb shits so you won’t get stuck.”
“Purposefully.” Our conversation always ended when he corrected my English. I didn’t make another date for lunch. I’d never been that depressed in my life.
“He’s a masochist, darling,” Jack told me as he kissed me good-bye on each cheek. “He’s a masochist in search of a sadist and he turns sadistic when he can’t find a sadist. The guy wants to be hurt.”
“You just defined yourself,” I yelled at him.
“Yeah? Well, maybe it’s all of us. I’m sorry, Stephanie.”
10
EVEN THOUGH I COULD STILL FEEL THE POISON OF THAT LUNCH TRAPPED INSIDE me, I promised myself that Friday would be calm and wonderful. I would forget Jack and his clever, twisted envy. I wouldn’t eat. I wouldn’t scream. I wouldn’t respond to Sissy. My crosses were coming in at eleven. It was the second shipment and I had still not recovered from the thrill of watching the first shipment and touching their rough sides as they emerged from their crates. Our exhibit was only a few months away and so far Sissy had been thoroughly spontaneous and supportive with not a touch of jealousy. She took an uneven sort of pride in me. Knowing how hysterical her plans with Monica had made me, she had known enough to keep the ensuing details to herself. She hadn’t even watched me as I sat before the Unicorn all those lunch hours. I hoped somehow she and Monica had done the right thing . . . at least Sissy seemed more centered than she ever had before. And by nightfall, and by nightfall, I would be sleeping with Richard. Then the world might look sweeter to me. And perhaps not. It had been a long week and what I had learned by the end of it was the rules of the game. I didn’t know if I could play it, but at least I knew the rules. And so when I arrived at the office Friday morning I was not unhappy myself, knowing I would be driving off into the sunset with a very attractive man who wanted to spend the weekend with me, who wanted apparently to marry me and it wasn’t a bad way to begin the day except that Sissy was grinning like a Cheshire cat which meant I was once again the canary.
Not today, Sissy, please. Today is calm and wonderful and I’m not going to fight. She was delaying for some reason, opening and slamming drawers, rummaging for a pencil, sharpening one pencil, another pencil, another. Somehow she would ruin my day. My perfect, perfect weather, my crosses in the morning, Richard in the afternoon, and somehow Sissy would ruin it. I knew it. I could feel it. I waited for her at the arched window of our tower and looked down at the pigeons on the red-tile roof of the Froville Arcade below and the flower beds along the winding upper driveway. Blue hydrangeas were in bloom. Rich winey irises opened to the sky. I forced myself to my desk. If I began, perhaps Sissy would begin. I didn’t want to fight, with Sissy or anybody.
A key strung with mottled African trading beads and tied with a faded orange shoelace had been placed significantly dead center of my desk. “What’s this key, Sissy? Sissy, I must have the camera with film in it by eleven. I go to the docks at eleven.”
“It’s Richard’s key,” she called, still at her desk.
“Oh.” I slipped the key into my pocket and patted it for its promise. “Are we about ready to begin?”
Sissy finally came into my office. “Wouldn’t you like to know who brought it?”
“Not particularly. I would like to know how much film is in the camera and if there is not enough, order some fast. And I need the bill of lading and some authorization forms and . . . take some notes now and then do the camera.”
There was a message on her face I couldn’t decipher and since I had no time to play her games and had promised peace, I turned to my office. “Bring in your pad.”
Sissy continued to grin but didn’t move.
“Swallow something, Sissy?”
She shook her head.
“When you feel you’re ready to stop playing games, Sissy,” I told her calmly and a little officiously, “you’ll find me in my office lacerating my breasts with impatience.”
“Don’t ever say I’m not a good friend to you because no one would have done what I just did.”
I said nothing.
“His fiancée brought it.”
I covered my eyes with my hands. I would open them soon and everything around me, the sun on the Palisades, the pigeons cooing on the roof tiles, the happy spots on the Rhenish virgin’s cheeks, everything would be the same. My hands trembled against my eyelids. “I don’t think I can handle this, Sissy. I don’t think I want to hear about her.”
“I let her think I was you. Isn’t that good?” Sissy waited for me to commend her. I was unable to speak. The phone rang. “Was it bad? I was just trying
. At least I tried.” My head throbbed in response to her whining. The phone continued to ring. “Do you want me to call Miriam? Do you want some tea? I really tried, Stephanie. I made believe I was you.”
“Whatever you did was wonderful,” I murmured and indicated the phone with my chin. “Please.”
“Miss Boxwell’s office.” Sissy touched my shoulder gently. “Do you want to talk to him?” she whispered. “You can just listen. You needn’t say anything.”
How does she know so much about me already? I took one hand from one eye and held the receiver at arm’s length before plunging once again into his sea. Someone is lying. Someone is clearly lying. Are they using me to work out their own problems? She didn’t leave him. She just went home to wait for him. His fiancée.
“Richard! Welcome home.” An exemplary Connecticut greeting.
“Hi, sweetheart. I thought you were a secretary. I didn’t know you have a secretary. Are you packed?”
“Yes.” I had indeed told him what I did, about the crosses, and he had indeed told me to decide where we would go. He’s really marvelous, like a battleship zigzagging across the Atlantic to dodge torpedoes.
“Great. Did you get the key?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” I said matter-of-factly. “Your fiancée brought it up this morning.”
“Great.” There wasn’t even a pause. His voice was impersonal and clipped. How could he have said nothing? “We’re going to see my Uncle Myron in New Jersey. I’ll pick you up at my place at four-thirty give or take.”
“Where? We’re going where?”
“Leisure Village West.” Richard dropped his voice. “It’s really important, honey. Everyone in the family listens to Uncle Mike. He’s the executor.”
“I don’t understand, Richard.”
“Just a minute, Nancy. Of my father’s estate, Steph.”
“Oh, Richard, I thought we’d be alone.”
“Jesus Christ, Stephanie, you always make me feel inadequate when you criticize me. We’ll be alone but right now it’s important that you meet my family.”
“When have I had the chance to make you feel inadequate by criticizing you?”
“Oh, Christ, it must have been someone else. I am sorry. Listen, I know I’ve been a real chauv not letting you make any of the decisions and not letting you know until the last moment. I’m really sorry. It’s just very important this time. I know you’ll understand.” He spoke to someone in his office.
Score one for Stephanie. I had made him feel inadequate. But it wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to wear my jeans and the old shirt and bikini I’d stuffed into my duffle and lie in the sun and sleep naked and make love and make plans to spend the summer together. I didn’t want to meet his family. God, if I’m meeting your family, Richard, who the hell is your fiancée? How many rings do you carry in your nose? One for each of us? Over the phone I heard pages turning. “There better be a bong tree in Leisure Village West.” What I really wanted was a little assurance he could make me happy.
“Excuse me. The brief was a mess. We’ll find a bong tree. From there we go up to my sister’s in Westport. You’ll love her place. She’s so excited. She said to tell you she started the cooking yesterday. State occasion: Beef Wellington and she’s taking out her Bing and Grøndahl china.”
“Richard, I’m not going to wait for you in your apartment and you know very well why.”
“Stephanie. I have to be in court in fifteen minutes and I’ll be there all day. Look, I’ll pick you up at work. Let me put you on hold and you give Nancy your address. Shit, I’m going to be really late. I love you. Sit tight. Look nice. Here’s Nancy.”
“It’s the Cloisters,” I told Nancy acidly.
“Sweetie, you’re lucky he remembers your name. Don’t take a burn. He means well.”
He won. My hands shook on the teacup Sissy offered me. Richard is incredibly brilliant, accurately sadistic, thick, insensitive, all of the above, none of the above. Or simply on another wavelength, one I’ll never pick up on. What is he doing? “Sissy, don’t I look nice? I mean right now, do I look nice?”
“You always look nice.” Sissy poured sugar in my tea. She frowned. “Don’t go, Stephanie. He’s engaged to someone else, for God’s sake. How do you know he isn’t going to take you to Leisure Village West and hack you to pieces and bury you in the sand and steal the Cornish crosses? How do you know? I think you should call the FBI.”
There is a point at which Sissy becomes completely useless. We had reached it. She watches too much tv.
I dismissed Sissy from my space. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said over her shoulder. I stood and watched the sun slowly burning the fog from the river. Sissy walked between our offices, round and round, chanting.
“Don’t get upset. Don’t get upset.”
I caught her finally by an arm and stopped her. “Sissy, I would like you to tell me what that girl looked like.”
“You won’t get upset?”
“I may.”
“You’ve already torn up my shorthand pad.”
“Dammit, Sissy, mind your own business.”
She pulled away from me and I pulled her back. “I’m getting very upset,” she advised me, rather rigidly.
“Just talk. Objectively.” I held her arms tightly. As she studied my face, I managed a comforting smile.
“Well, I would say, she’s . . . well, she’s nice.” Sissy watched my face change and edged from me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t . . .”
“No problem,” I assured her carefully through my teeth, nodding like a piano teacher at the Spring Recital. “Please begin again. What she said. What she looked like.”
“Well, she comes in, says hi, hands me the key. Sort of hip, a little far out on the clothes but attractive. Not beautiful. Uh, striking. Nice teeth.”
“I don’t care about the teeth. Was she sexy?”
“Ooozing.” She shot me a fleeting glance of triumph.
“Sissy, for Christ’s sake.”
“Just my opinion. Everything is relative.”
“So she wasn’t really what a man would see as sexy?”
“No. She said I looked familiar. I said she does too and then she asks if I . . . well, we probably belonged to the same group and it seemed like maybe there was a consciousness-raising group years ago before I came out that maybe we were in together. She says to leave the key in the kitchen. Then she asks if I have a minute and I said sure and she sits on the edge of my desk and lays on how Richard fucks like crazy.” Sissy giggled.
“She said that?” Braggart, it’s hardly a solitary act.
“Not exactly. Do you really want to hear what she said?”
“Don’t play with me, Sissy.”
“The semen is always flying—absolutely flying.”
“I can’t believe that.”
Sissy shrugged. “She says Richard is kind of lousy the way he runs women around, gets all of them crazy and then sort of steps back and says how come everybody’s crazy?” Sissy was pleased with herself. She had me going. The girl sounded so honest and friendly. Why? My intestines lurched with every new bit of information.
“He needs lots of rope, she said, and it’s tough for her to talk like this but she thinks women should stick together and if he ever starts playing one of us against the other, well, we should keep in touch.”
“God!” I sat at my desk, my fingers stuck through my hair. What does that girl want from me? She wants to keep tabs on me. But why would she tell me so much? Flying semen. Flying semen?
“Oh, she said to have a nice weekend and I said don’t you mind and she said she does but she’s got something going anyway. And then says put the key in the first drawer on the left of the sink.”
“She’s really smart. Bitch.”
Sissy crossed her arms before me and shook her head, smugly. “I’d say she’s really into sisterhood and that you are wrong this time.”
“When it comes to men, no one’s into sisterhood.” Her
shadow was cast.
Sissy walked behind me as I trod the floor. She swept up scraps of her shorthand pad, sprinkling ostentatious handfuls into my wastebasket when she passed it. “I think she’s nice and I don’t think she’s up to anything at all except sisterhood even though that man Richard is her whole life. She said that.”
“Years ago, Sissy, you would have been a great fanatical Catholic. Now everything you know, sense, smell, taste, has to be interpreted as Movement. Did she really say he was her whole life?”
“Yes. And ‘when he swings, he sings and when he comes, he hums.’ ”
“Just make that up?”
“No, Stephanie, I had forgotten it.” Sissy really didn’t approve of me. She had approved of Richard’s girl. “You have to be at the docks at eleven, you know. It’s getting late.”
I sat rubbing my forehead. I wish I had seen the girl. “Her name? Did she tell you her name?”
“No.”
“Sissy, this is important. You know a lot of women. Did this one look crazy? Did she seem out of control? Desperate, dangerous, anything like that?”
“No. No. She was friendly and easygoing, sort of together, you know. A together girl.”
I would have preferred her to be mad so I could hope that my love, the love of a good woman, would put Richard together again. But she sounded like a good woman. She had made her peace with Richard. Somehow she had as much from him as she needed. He really was in love with her. I had been correct. I didn’t think I could love him as much as she did, certainly not more. Oh. Oh. Loving him less was the answer. And hurting him more. Wow. The unethical imperative. Men don’t get hostile from their mothers. They are naturally hostile and they spend their lives looking for a woman to blame it on: she hurt me. And usually it’s a woman who loves too much. Maintain your manhood through hostility; most of the other battlefields are closed. Richard wanted all the trappings of love, the dears and the darlings and the homemade pies, but not the love. Jack was absolutely correct about Richard controlling sexually and politically, but I still had an area of control: I could control his behavior. It was immoral. I was dealing with the devil for the illusion, buying into fantasy. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to hurt Richard or anyone. I could see the soft deer eyes of the Unicorn looking up at me: “Stephanie, did you have to hurt me? Why did you hurt me?”
