6.
I had an awful dream last night. I was rushing, late for something, the dream was half over before I realized what-my session with Eric. I was driving Curtis's car instead of mine, and there was no place to park, so I drove right over the curb and parked on the sidewalk in front of Eric's office. Uh-oh, I thought, he won't like that. Now I'm not sure who I meant, Eric or Curtis. Eric, I think. Anyway, I was wild to see him. I had something important to tell him, something about my father. (What?) I ran into the building, up the stairs, through the waiting room and into his office, I didn't even knock-and-there he was, having sex on the floor with somebody.
I couldn't see the woman's face. They still had their clothes on-funny that the dream censored that-but they were definitely making love. Eric looked up at me and smiled, just the way he always does, and then I saw the woman's red hair and her pale, laughing face. Emma.
Should I tell Eric about this dream? Should I tell Emma? She'll laugh, 1 can hear her. It wasn't funny when it was happening, though. Not in the least.
I started to cry. My heart was broken. I went behind the door, hiding so they couldn't see me. But they did, and then I felt humiliated. Then-then it changed, and it was Eric and me making love, on his velour-upholstered sofa. With our clothes off. Emma appeared, hands on her hips. She said, "Well, this is just great, wait till Curtis hears about this," and as soon as she said Curtis, I woke up and started shaking.
I could see the outline of his shoulder under the quilt, his back turned to me. I stared and stared, watching him breathe in and out, so frightened that somehow he knew what I'd dreamed and he was only pretending to be asleep. It didn't mean anything, I wanted to tell him. Don't be sad, it didn't mean anything, I love only you.
But, of course, the longer I stared, the more I woke up, and after a little while I slipped my arm around his waist and pressed up against him. And then I was safe.
But-should I tell Eric about this dream? At least he would know what it means. I could never tell Curtis, oh God, never. The sex wasn't even any good. If that makes a difference. In fact, it was better watching it than doing it. It meant something else besides sex, I'm sure, control or domination, maybe even love. Why is it that sex in dreams never seems to really mean sex? Like the death card in the Tarot never means death. Or so they always tell you. But was my dream a dream about what I want or what I fear? Or both?
I don't know, I don't know. But then, I never know anything. Once Eric said, "Rudy, what is the worst that could happen if you had a strong opinion about something and you were wrong?" But I don't think that's it, quite. I don't fear being wrong, I'm wrong all the time, ask Curtis. It's that- if you pick one thing to believe, you eliminate all the others. So it's not fair. Why choose, then? It's better, it's gentler not to. And also, it's important to leave yourself room to escape, always make sure there's a way out. Always have a hiding place.
No, I've decided. I'm not telling anyone about this dream. Eric is fascinated by the Saving Graces. Whenever he gets glassy-eyed because I'm droning on about something that bores him, I can always wake him up by mentioning them. I think there's something sexual going on. He would probably deny it, but if you ask me, my therapist not only likes hearing about the Saving Graces, he wouldn't mind sleeping with them, too. All of us, all at the same time.
Not that he would, of course, even if he could. Nobody's straighter than Eric. But deep, deep down in that noble unconscious, I'm pretty sure old Eric would like to shag us all.
"What do the Graces look like?" he asked me once. "What does Emma look like?" "Oh, she's beautiful. I think-she doesn't, she thinks she's fat. She has reddish hair and white, white Irish skin that freckles in the summer and turns pink when she blushes-she can't hide anything. She tries to look cool all the time and she's got this careless air that fools people, but she's really-well, I was going to say as neurotic as I am, but let's not get carried away." "Ha. And Isabel?" "She's older, of course, but really pretty. To me. When I first met her she had gray hair, but now it's blonde. She has blue eyes. She's tall, but not as tall as me. She keeps in shape by walking a lot. In fact, she looks better now than before she got cancer." I couldn't really think of anything else to tell him. Isabel is a quiet person, and her looks are quiet, too. You have to be especially observant or else know her for a long time to really see how lovely she is.
"Lee's cute-which she hates, but it's true. She's tiny, she looks like an elf. Kids love her, and I always think it's partly because she's about their size. Dark hair, and for as long as I've known her she's worn it really, really short. She says it's more practical. Which is Lee to a T." "So you're all good-looking," Eric said, rubbing his chin, with that certain light in his eye, innocent but interested, that always makes me laugh. He's so transparent sometimes.
"Why, thank you," I said, acknowledging the compliment to me. "I've never thought about it much, but I guess we are." Yesterday he asked me, out of the blue, "I-low does Curtis feel about your women's group these days?" "Curtis? Oh," I said, "he's ambivalent." A good catchall word that Eric, of all people, appreciates.
"But he was against it at first, wasn't he?" "Oh Had I admitted that to him? It seemed disloyal now. "Maybe a little, but only in the beginning.
And he never came out and said so, not in words. It's just that he's so busy." "So . . .
"So, he likes me to be there when he gets home." Curtis is a legislative aide to Congressman Wingert; his days start at six and go until eight, nine, sometimes ten at night. He says, "I spend all day talking to assholes, Rudy, and when I come home I'd like you to be there." (I don't think this is unreasonable.) "I need to spend time with you," he says, "just the two of us. I need it, I don't just want it. You keep me in sync." Imagine me maintaining anybody's equilibrium.
Eric said, "So . . . he didn't want you to join the group because it would-what? Take you out of the house too much?" "No, that's not it. Nothing so-I don't know, what would you call it?" He shrugged, but I knew what he was thinking: passive-aggressive.
Once I made the mistake of telling Eric about how Curtis enjoys warning me that biology is destiny. The biological imperative. Curtis says the strain of psychosis in my family runs so strong, it's probably congenital. Naturally Eric took offense at that. That's the last thing a psychiatrist wants to hear. (It's the last thing I want to hear, too, but I can't escape it. If Curtis isn't reminding me, I'm reminding myself.) The "heredity connection" goes against everything Eric believes in. He even questioned Curtis's motive in suggesting it.
But in the dark times, it makes perfect sense to me, and then Curtis is my comforter and my solace. He folds me in his arms and Swears he'll protect me, and as long as he holds me like that I know I'm safe. I'm safe.
Eric says I take care of Curtis too much, but he doesn't understand. If anything, it's the other way around.
"And how do the other three Saving Graces feel about Curtis?" Eric asked after a couple of silent minutes.
"Oh, they don't talk about him much. That's not really what the group is, Eric. I mean, it's not like we sit around talking about men all the time." He made a patient face. Eric usually knows, although not always, when I'm hedging.
"Okay, we do talk about Curtis some. Obviously. Away from the group, I probably talk most to Isabel about him." "Really? Not Emma?" "No, not Emma. No. Actually.. ." This memory is so painful, I try never to think about it. "Emma and I the worst fight we ever had was over Curtis. Years ago. So now we just leave him out. Pretty much. Pleasantries-how's Curtis, fine, tell him I said hi-that's about it." "You never told me this. A fight with Emma? When did it happen?" I didn't want to tell him now. "A long time ago. I still think most of it was her fault:' "Why?" "Because she waited until the eve of my wedding, I mean literally, the night before, to tell me what she really thinks of Curtis. I've forgiven her-well, there's nothing to forgive. But it's hard to forget." "Well, tell me." "It's really old news, Eric." "I know, but I'm interested." - "Why?" "Because. Come on, tell me." I sighed, and told him.
It was four years ago, five in December. Curtis and I had been living together for years, forever, but on the night before the wedding he moved out, just for fun, and Emma came over to stay with me. She was maid of honor, and she was taking the job seriously, being very solicitous and practical and take-charge. Which was good, because I needed taking care of. My mother and stepfather had flown down from Rhode Island that day, my brother from L.A. that night, and my sister had a one-day pass from the cult and was due in the next morning. It was going to be the first time we'd all been together, all of us in one place, in about twenty-five years. Since my father's funeral.
So there was that, plus Curtis's parents who had come up from Georgia two days earlier and were staying at the Willard. I can never decide whose family makes me crazier, his or mine. He calls his people "Old South aristocrats," although how you can be aristocratic and stone broke at the same time, I'm not sure. The Lloyds have a kind of slow, brittle southern charm that freezes my New England blood. They smile and smile, but in their hearts 1 don't think there's anything but contempt.
And none of them talk, they all drawl. They remind me of fat brown lizards sunning themselves on hot rocks, too lazy to move a muscle. They drink all the time, and publicly, not in secret like my family-gin martinis, three fingers of bourbon, scotch from tarnished sterling flasks, beakers of warm, smoky brandy. They've refined drinking to a delicate, sensual, obscene art. When we go for visits, I watch them like a voyeur; I feel like I'm viewing erotica from behind a hedge of magnolia or honeysuckle, and everything is sweet and cloying, and I can almost hear that character from Tennessee Williams yelling, "Mendacity!" Well, I'm exaggerating, but not much. Curtis claims I hyperbolize his family's eccentricities in order to minimize mine. That's true.
The night before the wedding, Emma came home with me after the rehearsal dinner. The plan was for her to spend the night, then get up early and help me dress for the wedding. We were both starving, even though we'd supposedly just eaten, so we made Spanish omelettes and opened a bottle of wine. This was after about two dozen champagne toasts at the rehearsal dinner, but by then I wasn't counting. I know I drink too much, but on this particular night that was only part of the problem.
We couldn't make ourselves go to bed. Midnight came, but we kept drinking and talking, singing along to the stereo. Exchanging final confidences as single women, I guess. But we were careful not to say that. In fact, we were pretending just the opposite-that nothing would change, my marrying Curtis was only a technicality. I remember Emma was sprawled on the floor in the living room-this was in my old D Street house on Capitol Hill, a dark, skinny row house with six rooms on three floors-and I was on the couch, in my oldest, raggediest nightgown, because I'd packed the good ones for the honeymoon.
"Of course I knew she didn't like Curtis," I told Eric. "I'd known that since I introduced them to each other ten years ago, not long after Curtis and I moved to Washington. But until that night she'd never said so.
Well, not in words." "Nice timing," Eric said sympathetically.
"Yeah." It started out harmlessly. We were talking about Curtis's new job on the Hill, how much money he would make, how soon we could move to a bigger house. Emma said, "Yeah, that's great, but what I still don't get is the marriage part. I mean, why exactly do you have to tie the knot?" I was surprised by how riled she sounded, but I just said something about ritual and ceremony and public commitment-that standard answer.
It was June; hot; Emma had on a sleeveless football jersey and her underpants. She stuck her knees inside the jersey and wrapped her arms around her calves, shook her wild red hair out of her eyes. "Yes, but why not just keep living with him? Why bring the law into it?" And she made some joke about Mickey Rooney or Liz Taylor, how much trouble they'd have saved themselves by just shacking up. We laughed, but it wasn't real. I saw anger when she flicked her eyes away from me.
That scared me, of course, but I said, "This might come as a surprise to you, but Curtis makes me happy.
The problem is, Em, you've never known me without him. You don't know what I'm like when he's not around." I gave another false laugh. "I mean, if you think this is bad-" "That's not true. Why are you saying that? I see you with him and I see you without him. When he's around, you don't even talk, Rudy. Or-you look at him, you check with him to make sure what you said was okay. That makes me sick." The revulsion in her voice shocked both of us. I said, "That's a lie," without smiling, and we recoiled again. I got up and turned off the stereo.
Not once in all the years we'd been friends had we used that tone with each other. Or said words that blunt. Lie-that's such an ugly word; you only say it to a close friend if you're kidding.
Eric said, "You were frightened." "I was. Scared to death. We'd had our differences, things that irritated us about each other, but we'd always smoothed them over with humor. Emma's good at getting a serious point across by making a joke-that's her style, and it works for her. She doesn't think anybody knows it, but she'll do almost anything to avoid a confrontation. Because she's afraid of anger. Especially mine, I think." I laughed. "If you can believe that." "You were both scared."
"Yes. Scared and mad and drunk." That night she tried to pacify me by saying, "Is it because you want children? You and Curtis? I could understand getting married for kids." "No," I said, "of course not. I want kids, but that's not why I'm marrying him. Emma, why are you being so. . ." Awful pause while we both looked at everything except each other. "I love Curtis. Why is that so hard to understand? Curtis is good for me." "No, he's not." She stood up, glass of warm Chardonnay in one hand, lit cigarette in the other, big maroon "28" on her chest-some Redskin's number. Emma doesn't drink that much, and she only smokes when she's with me, so this was really an incongruous pose. And . .. cute. There's no other word for it. I was dying for her to say something funny now, to erase this conversation, get us back where we'd always been. But she said, "I don't know how, but he's made you think he's good for you. Can't you see that's just his trick?" "His trick? Oh, for-"