“No,” I said, uncomfortable with what I knew I didn’t want to hear from him that was coming as sure as morning. “Tell me.”
“This is the getting involved shit that I don’t want to deal with. Why can’t two people just be together and enjoy each other? I mean, why does everyone feel like they can dump everything on each other just because they have a few nights together?”
I had made the large mistake of assuming Arthur wanted to know what was on my mind.
“Because, um, I don’t know. I guess because sleeping together implies a certain kind of intimacy? You know? Share your body? Share your soul? Or don’t they do that in New York?”
“Not like southern women do. Yankee women are more independent,” he said with an undercurrent of minor disgust. “I mean, you’re not as needy as some women I’ve met. And, you wouldn’t want to hear about them any more than I want to know about this.”
I got up and started dressing. As far as I was concerned, the party was over.
“Well, you can call me oversensitive, but I feel offended. And, you want to know what I think? I think some women are just willing to take less because less is better than nothing. I don’t think it’s got a damn thing to do with Yankee stoicism.”
He watched me buttoning my shirt and said, “I never meant to offend you, Anna. I told you how I was, didn’t I? I don’t like getting involved.”
“Then why are we sleeping together?”
“Because we want to. Because we are attracted to each other. Because we enjoy each other. Shouldn’t that be enough?”
He got up and went to the bathroom. I didn’t answer him. No, his reasons weren’t enough for me. I knew that. This guy needed some remedial lessons in the art of romance. I looked around his room, anxious to leave, realizing I could either take Arthur the way he was or walk away before I got hurt. Before he’d started his “terms of engagement” lecture, I’d been sure I could make him fall in love with me. His repeated profession of his lack of interest in love had spurred me on. What was the matter with me? Was I so desperate for affection?
“Come on,” he said, “I’ll drive you home.”
“Okay.”
I was quiet in the car and when we pulled into my driveway, he said, “You know, Anna, it’s not you. It’s me. I had a marriage and I got killed. I don’t ever want to be that vulnerable again. I’m sorry.”
“Whatever,” I said and got out. “Good night.”
Whatever summed it up. It was Emily’s term and it was perfect. I’d have to remember to tell her I had learned something from her. Arthur may have been the King of the Screws, but he’d seen my bloomers on his floor for the last time.
Thirty
Culture Gap
“HEY, Anna? Sister Francesca here. The confessional is open for business. I’m still in Raleigh, but all snuggy in my bed at the lovely Ramada Inn with two cans of Diet Coke and a whole pack of cigs.”
“Hey, Frannie.”
“I’m poised to hear the details of your personal life and give you my inestimable advice.”
She had called as promised. It was Saturday night and I was home alone, showered, and ready to spend the night with an old movie and popcorn. I was polishing my kitchen counter (not because I was waiting for Arthur to call—yeah, right—but because it needed it—yeah, sure) and sipping a glass of wine from the stash that Jim had left for me. Arthur had not called—no surprise there. Emily was doing temp work at Barnes & Noble, helping David take inventory until midnight. Lucy had gone to Myrtle Beach after work to spend the night with God only knew who, which suited me fine as I was still furious with her.
“I don’t know where to start,” I said. “Should we begin with Lucy or Arthur?”
“Well, I never laid eyes on Arthur when I was there for my drive-through visit, so let’s start with Lucy. I had a thought on the plane.”
“Tell it,” I said.
“She deserves to die.”
“At first I thought so too, but then I decided that of all the things I’d be willing to sit behind bars for, murdering a pea-brain wasn’t one of them. Then I thought about drugging her and secretly removing her tongue.”
“Too disgusting,” Frannie said.
“I could hire somebody.”
“Possibility. Hang on, I have to get ice.” I heard her rustle around and then pick up the phone again. “You know what? Hotel chains are this bizarre exercise in brand identification. I had this same exact room in Peoria last month, right down to the view of the parking lot. Spooky.”
“I can’t tell you the last time I stayed in a hotel,” I said.
“That’s another thing. You need to get away from Charleston once in a while. But back to Lucy. Here’s the net net. When it was just a few people that knew about Everett, it wasn’t a big deal. Now this genius has made it a topic for conversation. The chances of Emily now hearing about it from someone else have just quadrupled. And, of course, the larger question is what are you going to do about him coming to Wild Dunes?”
“To tell you the truth, I’ve been so upset and so busy that I haven’t given it a thought.”
“Well, Anna girl? Here’s what I think. You can do two things. One, do nothing and leave it to chance. Your risk of bumping into him is small. Two, you can set the fucker up and blow his world to smithereens. I have a strong preference for the second choice, because look, you have to tell Emily the truth eventually, right?”
“What’s telling Emily got to do with blowing up his life?”
“Because telling Emily the truth is gonna blow up yours—temporarily.”
“I know. That’s why I never told her.”
“Anna, listen to me. Someday soon, Emily is going to want to have her own family. At the very least, she should know Everett’s medical history. And if she finds out the truth there’s no saying that he’s going to try and barge his way into your life. I imagine he would be shocked as all hell for a while and then he’ll crawl back under his rock. Look, it’s always infuriated me that this guy did what he did and went on with his life like it was nothing. I mean, who in the hell does he think he is? He’s a bad guy! Very bad!”
“Frannie, I got over being angry about it years ago and consoled myself with the idea that Everett couldn’t touch us, couldn’t talk to us, couldn’t see Emily’s dance recitals, her graduations, class plays, Christmases, and all those things. I’ve had Emily to myself all these years. If I let him know she’s alive and she’s his daughter, then I have to share.”
“No, you don’t. Emily’s a grown woman over eighteen. Emily would have to decide if she wanted to get to know him. Not you. And there’s always the possibility, however remote it might be, that he’s got a long-term wife, other children—I mean, who knows? Maybe he’s become a born-again Christian, which would be perfect, so he could start sweating eternity in hell right now.”
“I don’t know, Frannie.” My stomach lurched and I thought I was going to be sick. “This makes me very nervous.”
“Well, I say you need a plan. You know what I’d do? I’d enlist Bettina and Brigitte. Neither one of them is stupid and that Bettina is one slick gal—a little rough around the edges, but slick. They already know anyway.”
“The problem would be keeping it from Emily.”
“Well, I’m just telling you what I’d do. Now tell me about this Arthur person.”
I told her about the last date with him and she made all the correct remarks.
Men are pigs! Tell him to buzz off! I’d let my fingers rot away before I picked up the phone to call him!
“Just how many lives does he think he can skewer, hiding behind the pain of his first marriage?” But then she asked the critical question. “How is he in the sack?”
“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe it.”
“Try me. I’m a woman about town, you know.”
“Frannie, you know I never discuss this kind of thing. Nice girls don’t talk about their lovers.”
“Nice girls have nothi
ng to discuss.”
I giggled. She was right. “Okay, I’m gonna say this and then I want you to forget you heard it, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Never before in my entire life have I even heard about anybody having this kind of sex. Never.”
“What exactly do you mean? Is he, you know, weird?”
“Oh, no! Hell, no! I mean, when it was over, I thought I was dead!”
“What?” Frannie started laughing. “What did he do? Hold you upside down in the air and bang your head against the mattress?”
“No! God, you are so stupid! He just, I mean, oh, hell! It’s just that it went on forever! And it was amazing! I thought I was flying off into outer space or something! I’m not kidding! For the love of God, Frannie! I perspired!”
“You?” Frannie was howling, laughing so hard I could hear her nose getting stopped up. “You perspired?”
“Yes!”
“Don’t you usually?” she said and snorted, laughing all over again.
“Usually what?”
“Perspire?”
“Hell, no!”
“Hold on, I gotta grab a tissue.”
I could hear her in the background saying, “Oh, dear Lord! I gotta take her to Club Med or something!” She blew her nose, coughed, laughed, and blew her nose again.
“It’s not that funny, Frannie. I’m trying to tell you something here and it’s not easy when you keep laughing, you know.”
“Come on. I’m sorry. Tell me.”
“Look, I guess the question is this. Jim says that men only care about their money and their Johnson, and that they’re in love with themselves. Is it wrong to have a relationship with a man only for sex and, just as important, can you do this and not get involved?”
“Men do it all the time.”
“Really? I guess they do.”
“Women have sex to get love and men have sex to feel good.”
“Good Lord. Whatever happened to romance?”
“Anna? You want romance? That’s what Jim is for. He lands in Charleston, redoes your salon, buys you a new wardrobe, tells you how fabulous you are, how fabulous Emily is, and how fabulous your house is. If that’s not romantic, I don’t know what is. I think it was Harry Truman who used to say that in Washington, if you want love, get a dog. And you always have me. I love ya—not like on the wild side, but like a sister. And as for this guy Arthur . . . ?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time, don’t perspire. Sweat like a hog!”
“Okay.”
“You never get it all with one man, honey. You don’t get love, romance, great sex, and money.”
“I know. All the gorgeous men are gay and all the nice ones are married.”
“Yeah, and what’s worse is that we’re at that rotten age where the nice guys are still married to the bitches and are hanging in there waiting for the last child to go to college. In five years there should be a flood of available men, according to my statistics.”
“Yeah, but those same guys in five years won’t want women our age.”
“Don’t be morbid. I say let’s concentrate on Everett Fairchild and take out your frustration on Arthur’s sheets.”
“Good plan. Hey, good luck at your meetings and thanks for coming down. Jim was thrilled.”
“So was I. Did he call from Ohio?”
“No, but that’s how Jim does. You know. He sorta disappears and reappears. He’ll probably call me when he goes back to San Francisco.”
“Right. God! It was so great to see you and Emily and your dad and all. Think he’s getting it on with Lucy?”
“Everyone keeps asking me that. Parents don’t have sex, don’t you know that? They have little mounds like Barbie and Ken dolls.”
We laughed and said good-bye, promising to plan the Fairchild Offensive together.
I said to Frannie that I agreed with her about just seeing Arthur for sex, but I didn’t mean it for a minute. I wanted to see Arthur in the worst way and it killed me that he didn’t call. I looked at the telephone, debating dialing his number. What would I say? Oh, Arthur? When I got out of your car on Thursday night, remember I said, Whatever? I meant that whatever kind of shallow and demoralizing relationship you want to have is fine with me . . . ? I was still embarrassed that I had told him everything and he hadn’t cared. I couldn’t believe that you could make love to somebody and then lie there next to them and not care about them.
I looked at the clock. It was eleven-fifteen. Arthur would be home from work any minute. The kitchen closed at eleven. Maybe my problem had been that I had expected too much from him too soon. I mean, if he didn’t want to get involved, I could understand it. After all, he was only here for the summer. It made sense. If he actually lived here then it would be very different. Maybe I should pack a midnight picnic and be waiting on his steps when he came home. Yes. That would be nice. I’d take a bottle of wine over there with something to eat and show him that he was wrong, but very gently. There wasn’t really any reason why I couldn’t have a summer fling with him and then say good-bye, was there? I mean, hadn’t I dated other men and they hadn’t worked out when I thought they would? So why should I walk away just because he wasn’t promising to love and honor me forever on our second or third date?
Poor Frannie was such a cynic. Her failed love affairs had made her calloused. I still believed that you could have love and romance along with a committed relationship. It just took time to build it. Although, looking around my life, there weren’t many successful marriages in evidence. That didn’t matter, really. My attraction to Arthur was so exciting that I was sure it was a good thing. All I had to do was think of him and my insides fluttered like a young girl. I was willing to take the risk of his rejection a second time. I would be careful. If I didn’t ask for anything from him he wouldn’t run away, would he? No, I knew he was attracted to me. Definitely.
I pulled on a pair of white Levi’s and a navy golf shirt brushing my hair up into a stretch band. I scribbled a note for Emily that I’d be gone for a couple of hours and got in my car with a chilled bottle of wine and a bag of lime-flavored Doritos. The Doritos were the best I could do.
His car was in the yard. He must’ve left early, I thought. The dogs started barking when I got out and the porch light went on.
“Hey!” I said. “Want some company?”
“Sure,” he said and smiled at me. “Come on in. I just got home.”
He held the door open for me. I climbed the stairs and greeted him with a light kiss on his cheek. I was planning to walk by him and into the kitchen, but he put his hand on my left arm and held me there. Oh, yeah, here came his lips! Lord, this man could kiss.
“You know what, Mr. Big Cheese?”
“What Miss, um, Midnight Rider?”
“I love the way you kiss me.” I held the bag of Doritos in the air. “Come! I’ve brought us a feast.”
“I was just gonna make some eggs. Want eggs?”
“Nah, thanks. I brought some wine too. Jim bought me a case of something he thought I’d like. It’s a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc—Fairhall Downs—whatever that is. Got a corkscrew?”
“Did you say screw?”
“Very funny and no, precious, I didn’t come over here on a late-night nooky hunt or something.” I ripped open the bag and took a bite of a chip. “God, these are terrible. Don’t eat them. I wanted to talk to you.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, pretending to be disappointed. He reached into the drawer. “Here. Hand me the bottle. Does this mean you don’t want to sleep with me anymore?”
“Good grief! Is that all men think about?”
“Hell, no! We think about football, wrestling, money, power—do you really think we’re all just a bunch of shallow bastards?”
“Yes, but that’s okay because at least we women know what they’re dealing with.”
“Ooooh! Ouch! Let’s go on the porch.”
The air was thick with fog. We couldn’t even
see the dock.
“Is the boat out there?”
“You mean the Love Boat?”
“Good Lord.” I sat in the same chair I had before and Arthur handed me my goblet. “That was the most unbelievable night of my life.”
He took a chip from the bag and dropped the bag on the footstool. “It was pretty funny, the Coast Guard and all.” I watched him pop the chip in his mouth. “You’re right. These are disgusting.”
We were quiet for a few minutes, enjoying the mysteries of the night, and then I broke the silence.
“So, I’ve been thinking, Arthur.”
“Yeah? Whatcha thinking?”
“Well, I think we should be friends. I mean, I’m not saying we shouldn’t sleep together, but I think the main thing should be that we become friends.”
“Aren’t we friends already?”
“Yeah, but I don’t want us to not see each other because of this commitment thing. I mean, I get it. At first, I thought it was a little screwed up but then I began to understand. Anyway, what’s the difference? You’re just visiting here, you’re going to be leaving in August, and you’re right.”
“Getting involved with someone a thousand miles away is stupid, not to mention damn inconvenient.”
I felt my heart sink a little but plunged ahead. “Look, I figure if we just forget the whole involved thing, who knows? I mean, you might want to visit here again and need a couch. . . .”
“A couch? You’d make me sleep on the couch?”
“No, of course not, unless Emily was there. But I might want to go to New York sometime. It would be nice to know I could just call you and see you without the burden of some disappointment hanging over us.”
“I’m glad you’re telling me this. I really am. It was how I hoped you’d feel after you had a chance to think about it; I mean, I felt pretty bad about what I said on Thursday. I know it seemed, I don’t know, selfish or something.”
Yes. Selfish would be the word, Mr. Me Generation.
“Not at all,” I said. “Look, if you lived here things might be different. But you don’t, so this is what we’ve got.”
Isle of Palms Page 38
