Sandy rushed back to the restaurant. Vincent was waiting. They kissed hello. “You won’t believe this,” Sandy told him, breathlessly, “but I just saw Jackie Kennedy.”
“Of course I believe it,” Vincent said.
“Well, I almost didn’t!”
“You’ve always had a lot of interest in her, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, shall we go inside?”
“Fine.”
“Have you ever seen her in person?” Sandy asked.
“Several times.”
They were shown to a table in the corner. They each had two drinks, fettuccine, a green salad, a half bottle of Bolla Soave, and cappucino. They talked about their children, the pros and cons of fad dieting, the war in Vietnam, where it all would end, how his students weren’t as bright or eager as they used to be, and marriage and its future in America. Sandy found it exciting to engage in a real conversation, found she had ideas she hadn’t been aware of herself.
When the check was presented, Sandy asked, “How’s Mrs. Rabinowitz?”
“Not well at all. She’s going in for more tests. They suspect a brain tumor . . .”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes, difficult . . .” Vincent signed the Bank-Americard receipt and checked his watch. “Well, it’s just seven-forty-five. How about a movie?”
She tried to hide her surprise. She hadn’t considered the possibility of anything as ordinary as a movie. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, come on, it’s still early and you’re spending the night with your sister, you said.”
“Yes.”
“Well then there’s no hurry, is there?”
“I guess not.”
“Good. I know just the film. It’s playing up near Columbia. We can make the eight-twenty show.”
It would probably be some artsy foreign film with titles, and after it Vincent would ask her all kinds of deep questions about its real meaning and Sandy would either have to admit,
I don’t know
or make something up, the way she used to when Lisbeth dragged her to films full of relevance way back when. Yet Sandy wasn’t anxious to get back to the hotel, didn’t want to meet up with Gordon.
“
X
-RATED?”
S
ANDY ASKED,
when she saw the marquee.
“Yes, but very high class,” Vincent assured her. “I’ve already seen it but I’d like very much to share it with you.”
“I’ve never seen a porno film.”
“This isn’t porno, Sandy, it’s artistic. There’s quite a difference.”
“If you say so.” Sandy giggled, more from nervousness than anything else. So, it wasn’t to be ordinary after all.
Vincent bought the tickets and they went inside.
The picture began. A girl was walking down the street. She entered a building, climbed up several flights of stairs, let herself into an apartment, went directly to the bedroom, undressed, and was raped by two young men who had been hiding in her closet. Or maybe she wasn’t raped. Because she enjoyed it very much. Possibly the two young men were just playing games with her. But there was no time to try to figure out the plot because she was already with a third man. This time she sat on him, her hands caressing her own breasts, as she moved up and down. Was this simulated or real sex? Oh, wait a minute . . . it was real . . . his penis was inside her . . . yes, from this camera angle you could see it gliding in and out. And now she was sucking him . . . and here were the two young men again, one of them fucking her, the other one . . . very complicated . . . Sandy lost track of which body belonged to which player. After fifteen minutes more of various sexual acts Vincent leaned close and whispered, “Does watching make you wet?”
Sandy didn’t answer. She’d been dripping right from the start, shifting in her seat, trying to make the heat go away, trying to forget that Vincent was sitting next to her and most likely had plans.
“Does it?” he asked again.
“Yes,” she said, thinking over her options. She could walk out, take a cab back to the St. Moritz and never see Vincent again. That was what she
should
do. But she hated to make hard feelings. Vincent’s hand was on her bare thigh now. Any second now he would feel how wet she really was.
“Vincent, this is crazy.”
“You’re right,” he said, “let’s go.” He grabbed her hand, practically pulled her out of the theater, across the street, down another street, past a row of stores.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To my office, it’s right around the corner.”
Oh, so that was it. “But Vincent . . .”
“Look, Lisbeth told you about our Thursday nights, didn’t she?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“I was sure you understood when you accepted my invitation.”
“No, I thought . . .”
“But it’s
Thursday,
I made that clear when I called, didn’t I? I said,
Thursday,
the seventh.”
“Yes, but you see . . .”
“Never mind. Here we are.” They stood in front of a small, ivy-covered building on campus, across the square from the library. Vincent fumbled in his pocket for his keys, found them, unlocked the front door, escorted Sandy up a flight of wooden stairs, unlocked the door to his office, stepped inside, turned on a table lamp, took her in his arms, and kissed her with more tongue than she found comfortable. He squeezed her breasts and whispered, “My little panda, my little bear, my mountain goat, my baby burro.” Was she hearing right? Was he kidding? He pushed her down to the floor, easing her dress up and her panties down.
“Vincent, no.” She tried to get him off. “I can’t. I haven’t got my diaphragm, for one thing.”
“Not to worry,” he said, licking her exposed right breast. “I’ve had a vasectomy. Didn’t Lisbeth tell you?”
“No.”
“It’s all right, my little sparrow, my coyote, my wolverine, my lion cub.” He had her dress pushed up around her neck now, and her panties around her ankles. He was working on her shoes, trying to unbuckle the straps, instead of just slipping them off.
“Does Lisbeth know you’re with me tonight?”
“It was her idea.”
“Really?”
“Well, in a way. She asked me if I could think of anyone who might be right for you . . . said you were ready to explore . . .
someone who isn’t terribly intellectual,
she said . . .
someone sexy but not overpowering, someone Sandy can trust
. . . So I thought of myself. Of course I’m quite intellectual but not a snob about it like some of my colleagues. And I’m sexy, don’t you think so, but not overpowering.” He kissed her ankles as he removed her panties. “My little alligator, my sand shark, my turtle . . . and you can trust me . . . so why look further . . .” He had given up on her shoes and was kissing her knees.
“Oh, no . . .” Sandy said, suddenly. “I just remembered . . . I left my jacket in the movie . . . what’ll I do?”
“Fuck me and then we’ll go back and try to find it,” Vincent answered, kneeling over her, his erection long and slim, like the rest of him. He had blond pubic hair and was circumcised. She’d often wondered about that. Vincent grabbed hold of his cock, letting the tip brush against her cunt, teasing, then pulling it away.
Sandy arched her back and raised her hips off the floor, like the girl in the movie had.
“My little kangaroo is hungry . . . hungry to fuck . . .” He slid into her and she tightened her cunt around him, but as she did she felt him disappear.
“Oh, dammit. Dammit to hell!” he cried.
“What’s wrong?” Sandy asked. “Did I do something?”
“No, I lost it.”
“But why?”
“Because I lose it every goddamned fucking Thursday night.” He rolled off her and lay on his back.
“I’m sorry, Vincent.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s psychological, guilt or anxiety or something.”
“Is it this way with Lisbeth too?”
“Hell no, with Lisbeth it’s great.”
“Then why bother with Thursday nights?”
“Because she wants to.”
“Does she know about you?”
“No, I make up stories for her. Actually, she’s better at screwing around than I am. And that’s what really hurts!”
“We could keep trying,” Sandy suggested, feeling sorry for him now and needing to prove to herself that she could keep him aroused.
“No, I’ve tried and tried.”
“Maybe you need someone with a lot of experience.”
“I’ve tried professionals too.”
“What will you do now?”
“Go home and make it with Lisbeth. It’s always very good on Thursday nights.”
Sandy leaned on one elbow. “Vincent, did it ever occur to you that maybe Lisbeth’s inventing stories too? That maybe neither one of you is really doing anything?”
“She reeks of sex when she gets back. You can smell her a mile away. I love it.”
“Oh.” Sandy stood up and began to get dressed.
“Look, if you’re still hot I could suck you,” Vincent said. “I wouldn’t mind. I’m quite good at it.”
“No thanks. I’ve got to get back to the hotel. Myra will be wondering what happened to me. And Vincent, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention any of this to Lisbeth.”
“I’ve no intention of mentioning it to her.”
“But I thought you don’t believe in secrets . . .”
“
She
doesn’t believe in secrets.”
“Oh, I see.”
They went downstairs and walked out to the street. Vincent hailed a cab and told the driver to take Sandy to the St. Moritz. “Thanks for dinner,” Sandy called.
“We’ll have to do it again some day,” Vincent answered.
Fat chance,
she thought.
When she got back to the hotel she realized they’d never gone back to the theater to look for her jacket.
M
YRA WAS IN BED,
reading
Cosmopolitan.
“I was getting worried,” she said.
“We went to a movie. How are the girls?”
“They fell asleep around nine and Gordy and I went out for a cup of coffee. Norm called an hour ago. He’d forgotten you were having dinner with Lisbeth.”
Forgotten, no. She hadn’t mentioned it to him in the first place. “Well, it’s too late to call him now. Did he say what he wanted?”
“No.”
“I’ll call him in the morning,” Sandy said, yawning. “I’m very tired. I think I’ll get ready for bed.” When she had finished in the bathroom she climbed into the other bed, still rubbing in her hand lotion. “Okay if I turn out the light?” she asked.
“Sure,” Myra said, closing her magazine. “I’m tired too.”
“Night. I’m glad the surgery went well.”
“Yes, me too.”
Sandy was dozing off when Myra whimpered, “Oh, San . . .”
“What . . . what is it?”
Myra’s voice caught and she began to cry. “Oh, Sandy, I don’t know what to do . . .”
Sandy sat up and switched on the light. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s Gordy.”
“What about him?”
“I think he’s having an affair.” She cried hard, her shoulders shaking, her face buried in her hands. Sandy could remember having seen Myra cry just once before. Myra must have been about fifteen and Mona had taken her to the beauty parlor for a haircut. Myra came home wailing that she had been ruined for life and that she would never forgive Mona or that fruitcake, Mr. Robert. Sandy got out of her bed and sat down next to Myra, handing her the box of Kleenex from the night table. “I can’t believe it,” she said, “not Gordy!”
“I know. I can’t believe it either, but look what I found.” Myra blew her nose, then reached under the covers and pulled out a plain white envelope. She handed it to Sandy. “Read this.”
Sandy’s fingers shook as she opened it and took out a greeting card. The front of it showed two tiny animal creatures and a huge foot. Inside it read:
It’s bigger than both of us!
And then, in Gordon’s almost illegible doctor’s script:
I miss you.
It was wonderful.
Let’s do it again some day soon.
Just bring your memento and name the
time and place.
G . . . . .
Jesus! He must have written it to her, unless he gave out mementos regularly. But, luckily, he’d never addressed it. “It could be some sort of joke,” Sandy said, trying to sound convincing.
“Come on, San.”
“Okay, I admit it’s incriminating, but still, Myra, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s having an affair. It could have been a one-night stand.”
“He wants to see her again. He says so.”
“Yes, but he never mailed it. He obviously thought it all over and decided it was a mistake.”
“I don’t know what to do. If I ask him about it he might bring up. . . .”
“What?”
“Oh, San, I’m so ashamed. Years ago, when the twins were babies and Gordy was at the hospital night after night . . .”
“Go on.”
“I had an affair.”
“Myra!”
“I know, I know. It makes me sick just to think about it.”
“Who was he?”
“Frank Monzellini . . . our neighbor in the apartments . . .”
“I remember him. He and his wife used to have terrible fights and we used to listen.”
“Yes. We only did it three times, not that he didn’t want to keep it up but I couldn’t. I was so scared and I didn’t really like him, but he was very sexy.”
“Does Gordon know?”
“I don’t think so, but maybe I’m wrong and this is his way of punishing me. After all, he left the card in a very conspicuous place as if he wanted me to find it.”
“Where?”
“With the household bills.”
“It could have been a mistake.”
“I guess.”
“You didn’t say anything to him tonight, did you?”
“No. Suppose I do confront him and he says he wants a divorce. What do I do then?”
“I’m sure he doesn’t want a divorce,” Sandy said, reassuringly. “He loves you, anyone can see that. If I were you I’d just forget the whole thing.”
“That’s easy for you to say, but suppose you found out Norman was playing around.”
“Well, I’d be shocked.”
“And?”
Sandy nibbled on her finger. “I’m not sure.”
“There. You see?”
“Do you love Gordy?”
“Of course I love him. I’ve never considered not loving him. I never even think about it. I love him just like I love the twins and the house and The Club and my friends and you and Mona.”