Loose Ends

by Raskin, Barbara;

  “Oh, Coco. You never listen to anything I say about my work.” Gavin had finished his cup of coffee and decided to use that inopportune opportunity to look up at the clock.

  Coco could feel adrenaline streaming through her veins. She wondered if a person could die from an adrenaline OD. “But apart from all that,” she continued, “I must say you showed abominable taste, getting involved with someone who’s so coarse and gross and vulgar. Not to mention fat and pathetic. She’s obviously just latched onto the women’s-lib line as a crutch because she’s so personally ghastly. I mean, if a man has a mistress, she should at least be better-looking than his wife—not just bigger.” (That hurt, but Coco had to get Sylvia’s tits out on the table.) “And the fact that she would so willfully and flagrantly come into my home—my home, with my children—is, well, it’s just too much for me. It’s a real mind-fuck.”

  Wasted by frustration and enraged because Gavin just sat at the kitchen table taking it all in, quiet and passive as always, made Coco think that her head was going to explode. Instead, two drops of tears splashed down on the table next to Coco’s untouched coffeecup.

  “But to have to listen to her tell me—tell me—about the plight of the housewife, the problems of raising kids in nuclear families, the hardships caused by the demise of the extended family in an industrialized society, about all the things in my life that I know about, just blew my mind. But even worse than that is that when Sylvia-baby says it, when poopsie makes her pronunciamentos, you listen and Suede listens and everyone listens because when she says it, it’s not nagging. Oh, no, if Ms. Tits says it, she’s not whining, she’s not hysterical. If Big Boobs says it, then it’s official. Then she’s a goddamn motherfucking sociologist, a fucking political scientist, a fucking radical activist. Oh, no, her shit doesn’t stink. But I’ll tell you something else, Gavin, she doesn’t really know what the fuck she’s talking about. She’s just talking because she happens to be hysterical. That’s right. All that talk is just hysteria, Gavin, in a, little different vocabulary than the one I use. All that feminist shit is just a cover-up for the fact that she’s fat and ugly and doesn’t have a man and wants one so badly she’d even try to steal you. You, Gavin? Can you dig that? And when I say exactly the same shit she says, exactly the same, that it’s hard raising kids in the middle of a city all alone without any family around, and that working full time and giving, I mean really giving myself”—uncomfortably she remembered the pills she had taken from Lillian Greenberg in exchange for a late deadline—“to my students and then coming home … Right, Mrs. Marshall does clean the house and take care of Nicky and Josh during the day, but after all, I’m not home, so how can I? And then making supper and bathing the kids and putting them to bed every night all the time, feeling guilty because I’m not with them more and still not wanting to get buried here in the house, which God knows would be perfectly easy, because that’s exactly what most of the women in my consciousness-raising group do—I mean stay home all day—and never feeling like anyone else in the world, especially you, understands the pressure and the tension and the constant worry I feel. I mean, even when I’m haranguing up at the lectern about D. H. Lawrence blah-blah-blah, I’m hoping that Joshua doesn’t climb up the stairs and fall down or that Nicky isn’t too lonesome because Mrs. Marshall doesn’t talk to him. But what really kills me, what really knocks me out, is how when Sylvia says the same exact things I’ve been saying for the last twelve years, you listen as if someone just discovered America. Just because a professional liberation lady, a goddamn libby, is saying it, that makes it interesting and politically relevant and important.”

  Coco’s mouth was so tired from talking that her cheeks began to ache.

  “You forgot one little thing in that little speech of yours, Coco.”

  “What?”

  “Me.” Gavin got up and walked out of the kitchen.

  And then Coco felt palpitating, pulsating, shaking, quaking anger drain through her. Her resolution to stay loose and keep cool evaporated. The heat of her rage was irresistible and she rose to her feet, coffee mug in hand, to rush through the kitchen doorway into the hall. Gavin was beginning to walk up the stairs when Coco took aim and flung the ceramic cup. It hit him on the side of the head so that his glasses went flying off his face. The cup cracked and broke against the wall. Some coffee ran down over Gavin’s shirt as he lifted his hand to his forehead where he had been struck. For a moment Coco thought he was going to come after her in a violent reaction, but instead he fumbled around for his glasses, picked them up, and then walked back down the stairs, past Coco, and into the television room. He slammed the door shut.

  So Coco went up to bed alone.

  The next morning Suede and Gavin left early for Gavin’s office to spend the day going through files related to the Esquire article. Coco’s Sunday was like an anesthetized operation—complicated but painless. At 9:30, when she put the children to bed, she lay awake in her room planning how to deliver her story about Gavin and Sylvia to Dr. Finkelstein, and she fell asleep without hearing the men come home.

  thirteen

  She must have known what was going to happen, because she woke up earlier than usual which gave her time to take a shower, powder and perfume her body, and shave her legs (she had given up on armpits in tribute to the women’s-lib movement). Since Gavin had slept in the den again, Coco hurried to feed and exile the children into the yard so she could confront her husband in private. But just as she finished fixing a buffet of Captain Crunch, Quisp, Quake, and Lucky Charms, she heard Gavin sneak out of the house, slamming the door with cold hard fury behind him. Stunned by his escape, Coco went upstairs to dress and then waited in the front hall for the ritual changing of the guard. As soon as Mrs. Marshall appeared, Coco squeezed her hand like a runner in a relay race and ran outside to jump in her car and speed downtown.

  Ten minutes later, lying on Dr. Finkelstein’s sofa, weeping copiously while trying to infuse her narrative with a correct description of her emotions, Coco realized she had been in a state of shock for almost thirty-six hours. When Dr. Finkelstein asked what had gone on between her and Gavin on Sunday, Coco calmly explained that Gavin had been away at his office. When Dr. Finkelstein asked what had transpired Sunday night Coco reported she had fallen asleep early.

  Dr. Finkelstein seemed more than mildly surprised. Indeed, for the first time he seemed actually concerned about Coco’s condition.

  “Do you mean to tell me that you saw Gavin making love with this hippie girl, and all you did was say she couldn’t come over to your house anymore?”

  “Well, I did throw a cup of coffee at him.”

  “But it was cold coffee, wasn’t it, Mrs. Burman? It took Gavin so long to fix it—it must have been cold coffee.”

  “Yes. Yes, it was.”

  “And are you trying to tell me you didn’t bring up the subject of his girlfriend all day long on Sunday?”

  “I didn’t get a chance to, Dr. Finkelstein. I was taking care of the children, and I was very tired.”

  “And this morning, Mrs. Burman. Didn’t you see your husband this morning.”

  “No, because he slept in the den, and I was still in the kitchen feeding the kids when he sneaked out of the house.”

  “Goodness,” Dr. Finkelstein mumbled. “This is certainly an unusual reaction formation for you. You have broken dishes and bottles and windows and bones with much less provocation than this: I’m terribly surprised at how well you are restraining yourself. Have you taken any tranquilizers?”

  “No.”

  “I think I’ll give you a few sample packages to take home.” He rose to his feet and crossed the room to unlock his closet door, which housed thousands of free pharmaceutical goodies. Coco had once estimated that there were probably ten thousand uppers per square inch stashed away on those narrow shelves.

  The doctor returned to his chair. “As long as you continue to restrain yourself, we can leave well enough alone. But should you begin actin
g out, getting violent—as has been your habit in the past—I want you to take one of these pills every four hours. And if I may be so bold, I would suggest that when you do get angry—as I suspect you will—and want to punish your husband for his infidelity, since we have not achieved the necessary clarification about your true feelings for him or your marriage, that you do nothing, or as little as possible. In fact, tactically speaking, I might suggest the silent treatment rather than some other which might come to mind, such as murder or arson. Do you understand my meaning, Mrs. Burman?”

  “Yes, Doctor.” Coco rolled herself up off the couch, checked her watch, adjusted her skirt, pushed her shoulder bag into position, and reached out for the samples. “I suppose that it just hasn’t really hit me yet.”

  “Well, when it does,” Dr. Finkelstein said ominously, “take the first pill immediately, and if things should get out of hand, feel free to call me. Even at home.”

  Coco smiled gratefully. For the first time, without any threat of overkill, Coco had gotten a real reaction out of Dr. Finkelstein. Feeling slightly alarmed, but terribly mature, she left his office and hurried home. The house was silent. Coco walked upstairs and slipped quietly into the guest room which was shadowy with the shades drawn and emitted the unfamiliar smell of a stranger’s sleep. Then she tiptoed across the rug in exaggerated motions of quiet, unlatched the screen door, and stepped out onto the porch. She slipped off her dress, picked up a swatch of typed papers, and lay down on the chaise.

  Within seconds Suede appeared in the doorway, bare-chested and wearing only Jockey shorts. He let the screen strike against his back to silence the slam and stepped barefoot onto the hot wooden floor. Then he leaned against the wall and inspected Coco very slowly, with increasing appreciation. A long period of silent, seductive activity passed between them before he spoke.

  “So this is where you’re doing it, huh?”

  Coco nodded, feeling the antagonism that preceded sexual desire radiating from him.

  “Where’s Gavin?” Suede asked.

  “He went to work.”

  “You had something of a hassle down there in the kitchen Saturday night, didn’t you?”

  Coco shrugged.

  Suede surveyed the treetops. “It was nice of you to let me stay here,” he said awkwardly. “I mean, since things are … a little tense right now. But maybe I should take a hotel room for the rest of the time. I’m on expense account.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, Suede. Actually, things are much better if there’s someone else around.” Distraught as she was, Coco still felt humiliated that Suede had seen and heard the disrepair and despair of her marriage. Even when her children were their naughtiest, she wanted them to look clean.

  “Well, I wanta tell you that really Sylvia is something else. That’s a pretty ballsy broad coming into the house that way. You know, she never ever said a word to me about Gavin. Except that she thought he was handling the TV-station case very well.”

  Coco smiled and shrugged again. “I still haven’t had a chance to relate to any of it,” she said. “I had to sleep fast the last few nights.”

  Suede studied her hard, trying to decide whether or not to believe Coco’s version of her life. “But what do you do, Coco? Who keeps you happy?”

  Coco felt a stirring of desire that demanded instant love and immediate orgasm. She shrugged again. “I keep busy with my novel.” She was pleased with the way she delivered the line. It simultaneously opened the door for sex and promoted her into the realm of serious writers. She pressed her hands across her face, looked dramatically out through the branches of her elm tree toward the high-rise across the alley, and hoped that Suede would accept her as a writer, an equal in his world, as well as a sex object—which at the moment she didn’t view as objectionable.

  Suede put his hand on the knob of the screen door and opened it invitingly.

  “Why don’t you come back inside here with me? For old times’ sake, babes? You look like you could use a little loving.”

  Coco took a deep breath and smiled. She was still psychologically dismembered from having witnessed Gavin’s love scene Saturday night, and she still hadn’t had time to explore her resources or choose a preferred reality. Yet she had waited so long for both love and revenge that when Suede motioned to her, deliberately summoned her across the narrow porch after her lengthy wait, she felt exhilarated. Now she would finally be rewarded for the vigil she had kept. Although she didn’t feel particularly sexy, the pleasure of having extracted Suede’s love or desire or passion was overwhelmingly pleasant. Now he could simultaneously make love to Coco and do penance for his mistaken infatuation with Sylvia.

  Coco got up and glanced down through the green branches into the yard. Mrs. Marshall was outside with the children and things seemed quiet and happy. Coco turned around and looked guiltily toward her neighbor’s window. There didn’t seem to be anyone watching, so she walked toward the door and let Suede press close against her before he pushed her gently back into the shadows of the room.

  Then he put her onto the bed that was still damp from the heavy sleep of his body, and stretched out beside her. The hands that began to move over her body were still familiar; good lovers leave indelible memory traces. Coco softened beneath his disarmingly aimless touch as he carefully examined her bare flesh. Then he slid his fingers under the wired bra of her bikini and played with her breasts. After a while he returned his hands to touch her face and neck again. For long minutes his fingers encircled her arm or kneaded her thigh.

  It was all pleasantly introductory, interesting, and promising. Suede’s penis, rubbing against Coco’s thigh or stomach as he shifted about, felt huge—hard, and thick, cupped inside his Jockey shorts like a horse restlessly waiting for the track gate to open. Coco lay motionless, paralyzed with the image of an X-L bucking to slip out of its stall and start the race.

  Suede’s leisurely R and D technique hadn’t changed over the years. He still had the executive-styled control that a man with an X-L developed in his lovemaking. Suede did not have to squander himself trying to excite a woman and so he could be formidably decisive about program and timing. He would simply continue his methodical examination of her body until he decided to enter it, because his staff could do the job alone without any advance man’s assistance. He could afford to be arbitrary, because he had sufficient authority.

  Then suddenly he shifted. “I’m going to have to take you,” he said reluctantly. “Because I wanted you last night and the night before. And early this morning.”

  And that was all he said.

  Coco felt faint beneath the descent of his heavy body as his knees pried her legs apart. The combination of a Sanforized X-L plus the singularity of the attached man’s intentions left no need for fancy positions or wild thrusts. Both Suede and Coco were content concentrating on the thick flab of flesh between their legs that he generously inserted to share with her. The solidness of the connection paralyzed Coco with pleasure. She barely moved, feeling the passion of his body as she received it, until slowly she turned liquid with pleasure and surprise, fell in love with the continuity and constancy of his understated, almost indifferent, penetration. It was incredible.

  And then suddenly, surprisingly, he was finished. Instantly he began to withdraw, retreat back into his own satisfaction, severing Coco’s reality and shattering the wonderful pressure of his flesh. Coco cradled his head against her breast and silently mourned the loss of both union and promise. For a long while they lay in silence, Coco trying to contract her body so as to feel the memory of his penetration.

  “Fantastic,” Suede whispered against her cheek, but he didn’t kiss her ear.

  “Ummmmm,” Coco purred thoughtfully.

  He lifted himself off her, collapsed flat on his back, and lay silently beside her, reserved, evasive, and escaping.

  But now a new wave of desire plunged through Coco. She burrowed into Suede’s chest and hid her face between his head and shoulder. Her thighs clenc
hed from emptiness, and her hands moved across him recklessly.

  “Now you’re like a little boy,” she murmured. Her fingers were between Suede’s legs, enclosing the soft, slightly damp equipment lying in repose. She juggled the handful of softness away from his thighs. “They’ll get stuck to your legs,” she warned, “if you don’t be careful.”

  “I am careful,” he said, but he had obviously lost interest in the subject.

  She looked at the side of his head. He seemed more handsome now because his eyes had darkened with desire, and Coco felt more loving because—having satisfied him—she was now entitled to touch the cleft in his chin and to scrape her fingertips against the rubble of beard along his cheek. With one hand she began memorizing his face and with the other searching for pressure points that might ignite and rustle the soft animal sunk head-down into its dangling nest.

  “Do you ever like to make believe you’re a little kid playing doctor? You know … looking to see what girls have and what boys have and letting each other feel their things?”

  “I don’t like playing games,” Suede said.

  “Why not?”