Authors: Francine Pascal
Though I know Louis is constitutionally unable to be ready on time, I act according to my constitutional imperative and arrive on the stroke of eight.
Not only is he not ready, but it looks as though he hasn’t even sent out the invitations yet. I pour myself a touch of some new Chinese vodka which tastes exactly the same as any other vodka and makes me feel exactly the same—relaxed.
I don’t offer to help because Louis’ confusion is decipherable only by Louis. Somehow, though, it always seems to come off—the food, the drinking, the game, and then when it’s over at least the confusion has a meaning I can understand.
Louis is at his casual best, all spiffed up in his ten-year-old, faded, black-cuffed pants that have in spots begun to look varnished and a 1950ish, button-down, white dress shirt. Louis is the only person I know whose clothes could qualify for landmark status. He’s feeling extremely good tonight, and the combination of his high spirits, the Oxycontin I took earlier, and the vodka are beginning to soothe my irritation.
“You’d better cut down on that smiling or you’re going to use it all up,” I say, following him into the kitchen and then retreating in stunned horror. I think there are dirty dishes from the last poker game—a month ago.
“You haven’t heard about Mickey?” he shouts from the sewer.
“No. Tell me.”
“You’ll meet him tonight. Later. He’s working till one.”
Obviously Mickey is the new love. I know before I ask he’s not teaching high school. They never do. I brace myself. “What’s he do?”
Louis pokes his head out of the kitchen. “He’s a stripper at the Rod on Eighth Avenue. You have to meet him. He’s beautiful, with a very simple innocent charm. You’ll be very taken with him, I know it.”
I smile my approval, but he’s already back in the kitchen. “How does he compare to Warren?” Warren was Louis’ last lover.
“You know,” he says, coming back into the living room, “he’s a lot like Warren. They don’t look alike, but they both have that very gentle just-begging-to-be-approached quality.”
Warren was a hairdresser who hustled between sets and washes, and he
was
very sweet. A lot like Eric before him and probably much like Mickey. In the beginning, all of us would take Louis aside and caution him about the danger of associating with such people. We were sincerely concerned. But we’ve learned that Louis brings out the best in these people. He gives them a home, love, and respect mixed with a generous dosage of religion. And they respond. I don’t know what they’re like in the street, but here they’re pussycats.
By eight-thirty everyone has arrived, and, rather than the usual fix-a-drink, how-you-been time, we get right to the poker table. I’m delighted. It’ll make it easier to break away earlier.
I seat myself between Bruce Morseman, a rewrite man for the
New York Times,
and his wife, Janet, an awful gossip and a nag whom I can’t bear. The only thing in her favor is that she’s a wonderfully bad poker player. But I must be tired because I can’t even work up the proper killer appetite. The others are the usuals— Claudia, Mary Gail, Larry, and, of course, Louis.
Janet has eight to ten short, vicious stories about semicelebrity types. Her husband disapproves, but she steamrolls on, embarrassing him and leaving us all momentarily flattened by the heavy cruelty. I, for one, make a mental note never to invite her.
Not having gotten the proper reactions, she concentrates her venom on the cards and, because there really is no God, starts winning. With Janet’s venom emptied, the group brightens and the game moves along nicely. Though quieter than usual. Perhaps everyone’s afraid to end up in Janet’s mouth at the next stop. I’m sure we will anyway. With less talk, the game goes faster, and it’s nine-thirty before we stop to eat.
Dinner is a pleasant assortment of baked ham, chicken, potato salad, green salad, and one unidentifiable bowl of a white liquidy substance dotted with small pinkish lumps.
With great pride Louis tells us that Mickey was responsible for everything but the mystery dish. “That is my own concoction,” he announces, dipping the ladle in for a magnanimous portion, but unfortunately everyone is safely out of reach, busy tying shoelaces, checking fingernails, or retrieving invisible lost objects from the floor. Everyone, that is, except for Janet who stands trapped as Louis generously covers her plate with his masterpiece. I take it back. There is a God.
“No thanks.” I whip my plate away from under Louis’ ladle. “My doctor says I can’t eat anything white.”
“It’s chicken,” Louis laughs and swooping past me dumps a glob on Mary Gail’s plate. She smiles sweetly and says kindly, “It looks interesting.”
Dinner is pleasant and the white slime doesn’t seem to poison anyone.
“How’s the work going?” Larry asks me.
“Fine,” I answer, hoping that ends it.
“Still so fascinated with Maheely?”
“I’ve got to write a whole book about the man, I damn well better be fascinated.”
“Easy, Johanna.” He has the nerve to look offended. “You don’t have to jump at me. I was only curious to know if he was holding up.”
“In that case, yes, he’s holding up.”
“Look, forget it. I didn’t know I was walking on sacred grounds.”
“There’s nothing sacred about my book. I just resent your patronizing attitude. And I have from the beginning. You seem to get a kick out of bugging me about Avrum Maheely, and I don’t appreciate it.”
“Joey, that’s unfair,” Claudia, the defender, says to me. “You really were jumping at him. He’s not bugging you, he’s only asking.”
“I think Larry can take care of himself, Claudia.”
She leans over to me. “My God, you really are just incredibly sensitive about that lunatic.”
“In that case, dear friend,” I tell Claudia, and I’m not even trying to hold back my fury, “why can’t you be a little more considerate?”
Claudia looks shocked and I expect her to snap back, but instead she says, “I’m sorry. I guess I just didn’t realize I was upsetting you.”
Suddenly everyone’s very sympathetic, which makes me feel I must have overreacted badly. “Forget it,” I say and excuse myself from the table. How can they all be so dense? Why don’t they leave me alone about it?
I go into the kitchen and pour myself a brandy, sip it slowly and try to calm down. These are supposed to be my best friends. Why are they picking on me this way? In all the years of our friendship nothing like this has ever happened before.
Louis comes into the kitchen. Obviously they’ve all been talking about me, and, of course, Louis was appointed to go inside and soothe the temperamental baby.
“I don’t think Larry meant to upset you, Johanna. He’s having some problems of his own . . .”
“I know. I’m just tired of everyone’s attitude about my work. I think all of them, well, maybe not you, but all the others have said at least a dozen times that they think Avrum Maheely is a nut, or words to that effect. Obviously I think he’s more than that or I wouldn’t have chosen him for the main subject of my book. They’re questioning my professional judgment, and that’s a pain in the ass, and I’m tired of defending myself.”
“You’ve chosen a popular and very controversial subject. That’s all to your credit as a writer, but you have to understand that everyone is going to have an opinion on someone like Maheely. It’s not a personal criticism. Don’t take it that way.”
“How should I take it? I spend eight hours a day with him foremost in my mind. Actually it’s much more than that. It’s practically constant—last thing before I go to sleep at night and first thing when I wake up in the morning. I even dream about him sometimes. What they say about him has to have an effect on me.”
“It shouldn’t. He’s a character in your book, a fictional character, at that, not a real person in your life.”
“When you’re writing about someone as strong as Maheely the line between the real thing and the character can get very faint.”
“Maybe too faint, Johanna.”
“Et tu,
Louis? You think I’m hung up on Avrum too?”
“Absolutely not. I just think you’re too involved in your work, and it happens you’ve chosen something that’s particularly demanding emotionally this time. Writing about Maheely and his followers can be wrenching to the soul. Isn’t that true?”
“It seeps deep beneath the surface.”
“Maybe too deep.”
“No. It’s just very hard, and that’s why I expect my friends to be a little supportive. Is that so wrong?”
“I don’t think they realized how they’ve upset you. Maybe if you let them in on . . .”
“No.” I don’t even allow him to finish the question. The thought of sharing my thoughts on Maheely with someone like Larry, or any of them, of listening to them poke and probe and sneer, would be intolerable.
“All right, Johanna. Let’s drop it for now. Come on back. This thing is getting blown way out of proportion.”
“On one condition. Let’s just everyone forget it. I really don’t want to talk about it anymore. OK?”
“Absolutely. Come on.”
We go back into the living room, and I feel sort of foolish, like a little girl coming back to a party she’s stormed out of. Everyone pretends it never happened, which makes me feel even more uncomfortable. And worst of all, it’s not even eleven o’clock yet. I make up my mind I’m going to come up with some excuse to get me out of here by twelve.
It’s hard to get my head back to the game. Half the time I go out with decent cards or stay on stupidly, betting losers. Janet is cleaning up, and I don’t even care.
As inconspicuously as possible, I sneak peeks at my watch, and now, finally, the hands have crept close to twelve, and having no chips to turn in I rise as quietly as possible and bring my glass into the kitchen. I plan to mumble some quick good nights, say a few words about meeting David early tomorrow morning, smile, and escape.
“Should I deal you in, Joey?” Claudia calls from the living room.
Trapped. I go back inside, and everyone turns to hear my answer. I tell them about the early meeting with David, apologize, and drift toward the door.
“You’re going to miss Mickey,” Louis says with great disappointment.
“I’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon.”
“He’s doing some shows in New Jersey over the weekend so he’ll be leaving early in the morning. He’ll be here in less than an hour.”
“I can’t, Louis. I’m sorry, but I’m exhausted.”
Sweet Louis sees how much I want to leave and says, “Sure. Don’t worry about it. We’ll all get together for dinner on Monday night.”
“Terrific. Good night, everyone. And forgive me for that little tantrum. I guess I’m just overworked.”
Everyone says forget it, don’t worry, they know how hard I’ve been working, other kindly comments.
“Call me when you get a chance tomorrow,” Claudia says and gets up to kiss me good night.
I’m feeling a little better now that it’s over and I can go home. These are my best friends, and I love them. I must really be tired. Just as I twist the handle to open the door, the bell rings. I pull it open.
“David! What are you doing here?”
“Hi, Jo,” he says, bending down to kiss me. “I got done early and thought if I rushed I’d make it before the game broke up, and I did . . . Hello, group,” he says and taking me by the shoulders walks me back into the room.
I feel an instant bad mixture of disappointment and guilt, but when Louis says that I was feeling tired and was just about to leave I conjure up a cheery face and claim to have gotten a second wind.
We both sit down to play, and David’s pleasure has a genuine palliative effect on my nerves, and my game improves. We stay for another hour or so. Mickey never arrives. I begin to wilt noticeably, and David suggests we leave.
I can’t ever remember being so aware of my moods or having them swing in such wide arcs. Unexpectedly, for no reason, the easy pleasure I was feeling at Louis’ tightens to tension at my own front door. David must see it in my face because once inside he takes me in his arms and embraces me with great care and love. It comforts me, and I respond by sliding my arms around him and holding on tightly. As soon as he lets go I feel lost again, as if I’d slipped anchor and floated out alone. What’s the matter with me? I seem to be at the mercy of emotions I neither create nor understand.
While I stand like a stranger in the middle of my own living room, David pours us both a brandy and says, “Come on, Jo, we can drink this in bed.”
He carries both glasses into the bedroom. I follow obediently.
Wise man that he is, he asks me no questions, just hands me my glass, and together we lie back on the bed, sipping the brandy. It’s quiet except for the soft drone of the air conditioner. I watch its breeze lift the edge of the curtains, gently rippling the curls and waves of the lace. That graceful movement, the warmth of the brandy, and a loving body weighing down the mattress next to me all help soothe and ease my anxiety. My fears begin to quiet and seem less threatening. Now is the time to exorcise them. Say them aloud to David.
“Something’s wrong,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says. “Can you tell me about it?”
“I’ll try, but I’m not exactly sure myself. I feel different lately—very interior and not good. Without reason I’ll suddenly slip far down into what feels like a deep cavern of misery and unhappiness. It’s more threatening than depression. It’s as if some terrible revelation hangs over me ready to unfold and crush me. David, I’m so scared.”
“Talk to me about it, Johanna, let me help you.”
“I don’t feel in control of myself, and that unnerves me. I can’t stop the misery from taking hold of me, and it’s happening more and more often.”
“When does it happen?”
“Anytime. Even in my dreams.”
“Do you have any idea what the threat is?”
“No. None. Except somehow I know it’s always been there, but far away in the distance. Now, these last few months, I feel it here, with me.”
“Could it be connected to the book?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“You can’t eliminate the possibility so completely. Things were pretty good until you started writing this book.”
“Anything that’s bad is immediately the book to you. There are other things that have happened in the last few months. Our wedding decision is one example.” I haven’t even finished the sentence when I regret the words. And one look at David’s face, and I know how brutal the blow was.