Don't Rely on Gemini

by Packer, Vin

  He was never able to adjust to his father’s calling him “son.” It invariably embarrassed him. He said, “What for?”

  “What for? You were married to her for fifteen years!” “So?”

  “I thought you’d want to see her. I thought I was bringing you good news. She wants to see you. She says it’s important. Urgent.”

  Dru sat across the room from him turning the pages of Life. Normally she would be making frantic motions for him to get off the phone, but she sensed that the conversation was about Liddy. She was wearing her best I-Won’t-Make-A-Scene expression, which usually indicated that she would, delayed-reaction style, three hours from now or three days from now. Suddenly. Zap!

  Archie said, “Dad, we’re going to be late if we don’t leave right away.”

  “Where are you going in the country?”

  “I have some research to do for this astrology show.”

  “What a lot of bunk that is. Astrology.”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  Why did Archie remember then an afternoon when his father had come into his bedroom—what was Archie, ten, eleven? His father had picked up the journal Archie was writing in, and read aloud the quotation Archie was copying from F. Scott Fitzgerald. “In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o’clock in the morning.”

  His father had bent double laughing until tears rolled down his cheeks. He had tugged on Archie’s hair and guffawed. “What bunk! And what do you know about dark nights of the soul, Little Lord Fauntleroy? You’re as self-pitying as your mother is!”

  Archie had actually struck him, and his father had stood there with a look of stunned hatred on his face, his hand holding the spot near his nose where Archie’s blow had landed.

  His father had said, “If I hit girls, I’d hit you back.”

  Now his father said, “I don’t know what Liddy wants, but it’s urgent. That I do know. Call her, son. Here’s her private number.”

  “I don’t need it, thanks.”

  “You ought to call her, you know.”

  “Sometime I will.”

  • • •

  Dru had read about a restaurant in Old Tappan called ‘76 House. It dated back to the eighteenth century, with lots of old wood, supposedly, and heavy on atmosphere. The plan was to have dinner there, then proceed to Grandview-on-Hudson. Mrs. Dana had invited them for nine-thirty, warning Dru that the hill was long and treacherous and that you had to drive along River Road slowly or you’d miss the right turn which led up to the house.

  As Archie drove the Triumph across the George Washington bridge, he asked Dru again, “Why doesn’t she want to tell him about it ahead of time?”

  Dru had the Goodavage book on her lap; she was paging through it.

  She said, “What do you think your reaction would have been four months ago, if I had told you your astro-twin was dropping in?”

  “I’d have had you committed.”

  “Soooo. She’s not telling him ahead of time.” “What a pleasant surprise he’s in for.” “She says it’s the best way.”

  “I wouldn’t blame him if he slugged me,” Archie said. “He won’t. He’s a psychologist.” “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “I just think a psychologist would have more control.” “Did you ever hear the old saying, ‘Physician, heal thyself?”

  “He’s not a doctor, Archie. He’s a Ph.D.”

  “I hope this place has a steak.”

  “Is that what you feel like? Again?”

  “I like steak.”

  “He does, too. Neal Dana. Margaret said he could eat steak every night of his life.”

  Archie groaned. “You two have compared notes already?” “We had a little talk.”

  “Why didn’t you say so? You said you just called her for directions.”

  Dru said, “We didn’t talk long. I told you he was writing a book.”

  “Ummm. If you want to use that basis for comparison, every other joker in the country is living a life parallel to mine.”

  “I’m not trying to talk you into anything, Archie. I’m not Mrs. Muckermann.”

  “What else did she say about him?”

  “Let’s see. He’s nearsighted and he always misplaces his glasses, and he attended the Journalism School at the University of Missouri, and he was in psychoanalysis for four years, and—“

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Archie?”

  “What?”

  “Listen to this.” She picked up the Goodavage book and read to him:

  “… George A. Blanden, Jr., and Douglas Fillebrown, who were both born in the same year, month, date, hour, and close to the same minute in the same state (Portsmouth and Gorham, N.H., on November thirteenth, 1944). On June twenty-second, 1964, a fire broke out in a three-story Phi Kappa Alpha fraternity house at the University of New Hampshire. A dozen young men scrambled to safety—but not George Blunden nor Douglas Fillebrown. Inexplicably, both burned to death at the same time. Was this predestined? Could it have been predicted or prevented? What science other than astrology can explain why these ‘astro-twins’ were attracted to the same university? Why did they choose the same fraternity? Why did they have to be in the same fraternity house at the exact time it burned down? Why were they the only ones who didn’t escape?”

  She put the book down. “Are you ready for that?”

  Archie laughed. “Coincidence.”

  “You want to hear some more coincidences?”

  “Ummm hmmm.” But he wasn’t paying attention now. Mercury and Saturn were stimulating that opposition full force, for he was distracted again, and by thoughts of Liddy again.

  What could be so important that made her eager to see him, and why hadn’t she given his father some idea what it was about? His father and Liddy had always been very close. It used to annoy Archie that she called his father “Frank” and treated him like her favorite confidant. Toward the end of their marriage, Archie had even imagined that Liddy told his father about her affairs, that the two of them discussed it over drinks—those long drinking sessions they put in together—and that they laughed at him behind his back.

  Would Liddy do that to him?

  He was still unconvinced that she wouldn’t, even though she had wept (unusual for Liddy) when he had accused her of it, and asked him how in God’s name he could think that of her; wasn’t there any feeling for her left from what they had had?

  The trouble was, there was too much feeling left then; maybe there still was.

  She had come back to New York alone. He received no small satisfaction from that news. He was sure that Moneybags had left her, for married to him, Liddy could have everything, all that money could buy and all the affairs she wanted. Moneybags was one of those strange men who not only didn’t demand fidelity from his wife, but felt perversely pleased with the idea other men could love her although she belonged to him. Archie had only a hazy memory of Moneybags, though he had met him four or five times. He was the type who wore dark glasses at night.

  “The second ‘astro-twin’ was found lying dead on the floor,” Dru continued. “Autopsies revealed that marzey doats and dozey doats and little lambsy divy. Isn’t that fascinating, Archie?”

  Archie said, “Is it documented? Dates, places?”

  “Oh my, yes. The mares came from Sioux City, Iowa.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  She slammed the book shut.

  “Something the matter?” Archie asked her.

  “What could be the matter?”

  “I don’t know. The way you slammed the book. I thought something was the matter.” “You’re just oversensitive.”

  He turned right at the end of the bridge, fed fifty cents to the toll booth, and swung onto Palisades Parkway.

  “These brakes aren’t any too good,” he said. “Why don’t you take this car in for a complete checkup?”

  Dru didn’t answer him. She was looking out the window at the river.

  CHAPTER 4


  “Like it?” Margaret asked. It was eight-twenty P.M.

  She was fastening a gold pin to her yellow cotton dress. The face of the pin bore the figure of a female carrying an ear of corn.

  Neal Dana said, “It’s very attractive … Margaret, you’re going to be late for your class.”

  Usually Margaret left the house on the dot of eight. Her Italian class at the New School in Manhattan began at nine-thirty. The day before, Neal had told Penny to come at nine.

  Margaret combed her hair before the Constitution mirror in their bedroom. “Do you know what the pin means, Neal?”

  “No. You really are going to be late.”

  “It’s the virgin for Virgo, my sun sign.”

  “Very attractive.” He checked the time on the clock-radio with his wristwatch. Eight-twenty-one.

  Margaret said, “There’ve been a lot of famous Virgos. Greta Garbo’s one, Sophia Loren’s one, Arthur Godfrey, Leonard Bernstein, Tolstoy was one, Theodore Dreiser—“

  Neal interrupted her. “Wouldn’t every sign have its share of famous people?”

  “Neal, what’s the matter with you tonight?” She put down her comb and turned to look at him. “You’re so impatient.”

  “Something’s the matter with you, if you ask me. You’re never late for class, Margaret. Tonight you’re just unconcerned … I don’t know. It isn’t like you.”

  She smiled. “No, I suppose it isn’t. Virgos are usually fairly consistent. But you know, Neal, Virgo is ruled by Mercury, too, as Gemini is, so I have my ‘mercurial’ moments.”

  Neal said, “I’ll turn on the outside lights for you,” and started from the room.

  “Wait a minute, Neal.”

  “Honey, it’s almost eight-thirty.” He forced a pained little smile.

  “Never mind the time. May I ask you something?”

  She waited for him to respond. It was a mannerism Neal had catalogued in his study of everyday behavior: that of people introducing their remarks with “May I ask you something?” Most people who had this habit were afraid of being aggressive, or were aggressive and fearful of showing it. It was a repetition of an adolescent situation: children were often not permitted to ask questions or assert themselves. They needed permission and encouragement.

  In Margaret’s case it sprang from her wish to camouflage her aggressive nature. It was almost patronizing, for both Margaret and Neal knew that neither hell nor high water could keep her from posing the question she had in mind.

  Neal said, “What do you want to know?”

  Eight-twenty-five. Jesus!

  “Stop worrying about the time. You keep looking at your watch.”

  “What do you want to ask me?”

  “Why you have such a block against astrology,” she said.

  “It’s not particular to astrology. I have the same reaction to phrenology, numerology, palmistry, fortune-telling by tea leaves, and all the various arts of divination.”

  “Dear, astrology isn’t in the same category.” “All right, Margaret. It isn’t.”

  “It isn’t. Neal, President Franklin D. Roosevelt was interested in astrology. Did you know that?”

  “No. He was probably interested in a lot of things I’m not interested in.”

  Margaret sat down on the edge of the bed.

  Sat down! At eight-twenty-six!

  “You see, FDR was well aware of this pattern made by the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn every twenty years,” said Margaret, “which seems to coincide with the death of American presidents every twenty years.”

  “Oh, Margaret.”

  “Neal, don’t scoff. Please.” She folded her arms across her breasts and regarded him with that didactic expression, which usually preceded a stretch of sermonizing.

  “You don’t have to convince me,” Neal put in. “There’s probably something to it.”

  He realized the futility of any attempt to keep her from continuing.

  Let her get it over with.

  He also folded his arms, in such a way that he could see his watch, and waited for her to have her say.

  “William Henry Harrison was elected in 1840,” said she, “and died in office. In 1860 there was Lincoln. In 1880 there was Garfield. In 1900 there was McKinley; 1920, Harding; 1940, Roosevelt. And then Kennedy in 1960 … Neal, don’t you find it an extraordinary coincidence?”

  “Yes, yes, I admit that it is,” he said.

  “They all died in office.”

  “So they did. I wasn’t aware of it.”

  What was wrong with Margaret tonight? She was finished dressing, was ready to go—why didn’t she go?

  She said, “Harrison, Lincoln, McKinley and Roosevelt were all Aquarians. Garfield and Harding were Scorpians. And Kennedy was a Gemini.”

  Neal said nothing; he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  Margaret said, “Doesn’t any of it interest you, dear?” “Not really. I’m sorry.”

  Then she said, “I’m not going to my Italian class tonight, Neal.” “You’re not?”

  “Darling, don’t look so shocked.”

  Eight-thirty! If he phoned Penny now, right now, he could probably catch her before she left the house. But phone her from where?

  He said, “How come?” His voice gave no indication of the panic loosed inside him. “That’s my little surprise.” “What is?”

  “The reason I’m not going to my Italian class.” She smiled at him coyly.

  He had no time to fathom a possible reason for her missing school; he had to get out of there, immediately, get to a phone. Margaret said, “I want you to promise me something, Neal.” “What?”

  “That you’ll be nice about my surprise … that you’ll try to appreciate the fact I mean well.”

  A nervous burst of laughter broke from him. “I’ll not only appreciate it, whatever it is, I’ll get us something to celebrate it. How about that, Margaret? Just for tonight don’t worry about wasting calories. Let me run into Piermont and get some champagne for us!”

  “Now, Neal-”

  “I mean it, darling! We never really celebrated my afternoon at Doubleday! And we haven’t had champagne in a hell of a long time! Remember how we used to love to kill a few bottles of Piper in the evening? It’d be just the thing!”

  He could drive down to the bottom of the hill, park the car, explain to the Nickersons there was something wrong with his phone, call Penny and tell her not to come. Then on to Piermont for the champagne.

  “Maybe champagne will put you in a better mood for my surprise,” said Margaret.

  “Of course it will! It’ll put us both in a good mood!”

  “But let’s call for a delivery, Neal.”

  “I need cigarettes, too … and I’d like to pick up something to go with the champagne. Maybe some good caviar, honey. Would you like that?”

  She laughed. “All right. I haven’t seen you this excited in a long time! … Neal?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t drive too fast, darling.”

  • • •

  What had ever made him ask Penny to come to the house in the first place? He supposed the reason was because he had so often envisioned her there with him. It was such a romantic house, wasn’t it? From almost every window there was a view of the Hudson, and the green lights of the Tappan Zee bridge, the silhouettes of pines and evergreens, and the fireflies flickering in the darkness. The quiet, too, and the scent from the woods of foliage and dew wetting the earth. All the things he used to love to observe with Margaret, that they didn’t notice together any more.

  And the truth was he always thought of it as his house. He had been the one to find it and fall in love with it. Margaret had disliked the isolation. He had built the swimming pool and the upper porch to make Margaret happier there. When he had put the beams in the living-room ceiling he had gone to great trouble to find old wood which would match the original lumber: he had sweat out innumerable Saturday afternoons at auctions of old houses.

&n
bsp; “Why?” Margaret wanted to know. “Will we always live here?”

  “I’d like to.”

  “Not after the baby comes. It’s too small.”

  The only good thing about their never having a baby was that they didn’t need the “extra room.” Margaret usually got her way, but about selling the house, Neal was adamant: not unless they had to.

  Once Penny had said, “I’d love to see where you live. I’d like to be able to picture you in your surroundings, nights when I miss you so, Neal.”

  She had finally persuaded him. He’d never try it again, though.

  He promised himself that as he rounded the curve of the drive and looked for a spot where he could park at the bottom of the hill.

  After he called Penny, he would call Margaret, too, on some pretense. Did she have enough cigarettes? How about some fresh strawberries to put in the champagne glasses? Flimsy excuses, it was true, but there was no time to scheme, and he could not chance Minnie Nickerson’s mentioning to Margaret that he had stopped by to telephone. It couldn’t come as news to Margaret; she would suspect something immediately.

  For the same reason, it was better not to say his phone was out of order. The strawberries were perfect! If she wanted strawberries, he’d have to go into Nyack. Anyone would appreciate his reluctance to drive all the way back up the hill just to learn if he should go to Piermont or Nyack. Minnie was a scatterbrain anyway, one of those vague animal-lovers who seldom concerned herself with the complexities of people. She was a half-deaf old maid with a bedridden mother to care for, and no friends. She minded her own business. Neal had always been grateful that she was the nearest neighbor.

  He parked the car on the road near her house.

  Eight-thirty-five!

  If Penny had left, he would simply have to wait for her car, and invent some excuse explaining the delay to Margaret.

  He cut across Minnie Nickerson’s lawn, the wet grass soaking the cuffs of his trousers.

  Then he heard the Doberman’s angry barking, saw the dog heading for him, and saw the tree he would have to climb to keep from being torn apart.

  • • •