“Susan is a marvelous psychiatrist,” Monique said. “I know from personal experience.”
“You don’t need to defend me from Herbert, Monique,” Susan said. “Herbert is one of those spouses who waits for a group situation before he attacks and humiliates his wife. It’s far more common than you think. I hear of it constantly in therapy. And, Tom, I apologize for the way Herbert is acting. You’re my friend and no one can commit a greater crime in Herbert’s eyes. His son loved you also.”
“I can’t believe you two are actually friends,” Monique said, flicking her elegant finger in a gesture of dismissal.
“Shut your fucking mouth, Monique,” Susan screamed, rising to her feet.
“What?” a stunned Monique said. “I was just expressing an opinion.”
“You keep your goddamn mouth shut,” Susan said, still screaming. “And, Herbert, if you say one more word to Tom I’m going to fling every goddamn dish on the table at your ugly little head.”
“Dear, dear,” Herbert said, smiling. “People might think we have marital problems. We don’t want to give the wrong impression.”
“And, Monique,” screamed the outraged Dr. Lowenstein, “get your hand off my husband’s cock. That’s it. Pull it away discreetly. Pretend you really haven’t been giving him a handjob under the table while he’s been insulting my friend. I’ve seen you do that revolting little trick about twenty times now and I’m getting sick of it. That’s why I usually try to seat you as far away from him as possible. Because I can stand the fact that you’re fucking him in private, but it’s too much for me to watch you diddle him in public.”
Monique rose out of her chair, first looking at Susan, then at Herbert. Then she staggered out of the room and down the hall. It seemed to me that Herbert had lost control of his dinner party. When he looked at me, I said, “Tide’s turned, big boy.”
He ignored me and, looking at Susan, said, “You go and apologize to Monique this instant, Susan. How dare you humiliate a g—”
“Go ahead and say it,” she yelled. “A guest in our goddamn happy home. I just watched you humiliate Tom in our home. I’ve watched you do it to every friend I’ve brought to this house. Neither Christine nor Madison nor I have ever had the guts to stop you because we’re afraid you’d turn that ugliness on us. You go in and apologize to that cheap slut.”
“I think it’s you who should make the appropriate gesture, Susan,” he said.
“Are y’all enjoying the party?” I asked Madison and Christine, who were both staring at their plates.
“You can’t get up from the table yet, can you, Herbert?” Susan said, laughing. “Tell the people why. I know why, Herbert. Because you’ve still got a hard-on from her giving you a handjob under the table. Stand up, Herbert. Let everybody see. She handles a flute brilliantly, I’m sure, or anything even remotely shaped like one. Everyone at this table knows you’ve been having an affair with her for the past two years. Everyone except Tom. We’re such a close-knit, supportive little group. So supportive that Christine and Madison entertained you in their house in Barbados last winter.”
“We didn’t know she would be there, Susan,” Madison said.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Herbert said.
Susan shot back, “We’ll talk about it when you end your affair with your flutist.”
“A mere dalliance, my dear,” he said, regaining his composure. “But I’ll put my taste in friends up against your taste in friends any day of the week.”
“A small difference, Herbert,” Susan said. “Tom and I are not fucking.”
“Even you have more taste than that,” he said.
“Good God, Herbert,” Madison Kingsley moaned.
“Oh, shut up, Madison,” Herbert said. “Quit looking so aggrieved and pious. It’s not as though you’ve never seen Susan and me argue before.” Then, turning to Susan, “What you love is being Mrs. Herbert Woodruff,” he said. “Fame is your one weakness, dear. You see, Tom, I’ve analyzed my wife’s character. She’s only attracted to the rich and famous. You’re nothing. But your sister. Ah, yes, your sister makes you valuable. But I repeat. You’re nothing. Now, Susan, you go apologize to Monique.”
“Not until you apologize to Tom,” she said.
“I have nothing more to say to your little friend,” he said.
I broke the brief silence between them by saying, “I can make Herbert apologize to both of us, Susan.”
“You’re still here, Tom?” Herbert said. “What a pity. How are you planning to get me to apologize to you?”
“Well,” I said, “I was reviewing my options, Herbert. First, I thought I might just kick your ass up and down the stairs. But I rejected that plan. It would prove only that I was the barbarian you take me to be. I would find beating you up personally satisfying, but socially tacky. So I came up with another plan. I think it shows more wit and a lot more culture.”
“Herbert has never apologized to anyone for anything,” Christine said.
I walked to the sideboard at the end of the room and poured myself a large snifter of cognac.
“To pull this off, I have to be a little drunker,” I said.
The cognac went down easily. I felt it light up my bloodstream.
Then I walked out of the dining room and into the living room. I walked quickly past the grand piano and unsnapped the locks that held Herbert Woodruff’s Stradivarius. Good, I thought, I’m drunk enough.
“Herbert,” I called out, “southern boy has got hold of your fiddle and you best come running.”
When the dinner party arrived to join me on the terrace, I was holding the violin out over the edge of the terrace, eight stories above Central Park West.
“That’s a Stradivarius, Tom,” Madison Kingsley said.
“Yes, I thought I heard that fact mentioned fifty or sixty times tonight,” I said cheerfully. “It’s a pretty little sucker, isn’t it?”
“That’s worth three hundred thousand dollars, Wingo,” Herbert said, and I thought I noticed a slight catch in his throat.
“Not if I drop it, Herb,” I said. “Then it won’t be worth a buffalo-head nickel.”
“Tom, have you lost your mind?” Susan asked.
“Several times, Susan,” I said. “But not this time. Apologize to your wife, Herbert. I love your wife and I think she might be the best friend I’ve ever made.”
“You’re just bluffing, Tom,” he said, and I could hear some of the power return to his voice.
“I might be,” I said. “But it’s a powerful bluff, isn’t it, asshole?”
I tossed the violin in the air and caught it on the fly, leaning far out over the balcony’s edge.
“It’s fully insured,” Herbert said.
“It might be, Herb. But you’ll never own another Stradivarius if I let this one fly.”
Christine said, “It’s a work of art, Tom.”
“Apologize to your wife, creep,” I said to Herbert.
“I’m very sorry, Susan,” Herbert said. “Now give me my violin, Wingo.”
“Not yet, tiger,” I said. “Apologize to your nice friends for bringing your girlfriend to Barbados.”
“I’m very sorry I did that, Christine and Madison,” he said.
“Sincerely, Herb,” I continued. “Very sincerely. Take the irony out of your voice or your little fiddle will be bouncing like a beach ball down there among the taxicabs.”
“I’m very sorry I did that, Christine and Madison,” he said without irony.
“Your apology is accepted with thanks,” Christine said.
“That’s better, Herbert,” I said. “Sincerity becomes you. Now me, Herbert. Apologize for your unforgivable breach of etiquette at the table tonight. I’m sorry that you don’t let your wife have friends. That’s your business. But you had no right to treat me like that, you possum-breathed cocksucker. None in the world.”
He looked at Susan, then at me, and said, “I apologize, Tom.”
“Not quite humble enough yet, Herbert
,” I said sadly. “Let’s try to endure the humiliation with a little more grace. One more brief moment of humility, then I’ll walk out your front door forever. Otherwise, winos will be using pieces of your fiddle to clean their teeth.”
“I’m sorry, Tom. I’m very sorry,” he said. Then he added, “And, Susan, I’d mean that even if he wasn’t threatening me.”
“Good boy, Herb,” I said, handing him his violin. “I’m deeply sorry if I’ve offended you, Susan.”
I walked to the front door and rang for the elevator without going through the courteous gestures of leave-taking.
On Central Park West, I was hailing a cab when I heard Susan Lowenstein’s voice behind me.
“This is why you’re always sad, Susan,” I said as she approached me. “And I thought you had it made.”
“Have you ever made love to a psychiatrist?” she asked.
“No. Have you ever made love to a football coach?” I asked.
“No,” she said, “but I plan to have a different answer tomorrow morning.”
And I kissed Susan Lowenstein, who looked beautiful in black, as we stood on the street at the beginning of the most wonderful night I had ever spent in Manhattan.
When we awoke on Sunday morning we made love again and we were good together and sunlight was on my back as we moved together in my sister’s bed. Then we slept until ten, entangled in each other’s arms.
I rose first and walked to the window in the living room and shouted down to the streets. “I love New York City, I love it. I goddamn love it.”
No one even looked up and I walked to the kitchen to fix a perfect omelet for Susan Lowenstein.
“What made you change your mind about New York, Tom?” Susan called from the bedroom.
“Your wicked, sinful body,” I yelled back. “Your gorgeous fabulous body and that terrific way it moves has made me see the error of my ways. I’ve never been in love in New York City before. That’s what makes the difference. I feel absolutely great and nothing can make me feel bad today.”
She walked into the kitchen and we kissed as bacon sizzled on the stove.
“You kiss good,” she whispered.
“After you taste my perfect omelet, Lowenstein,” I said, “you’ll never leave me. You’ll follow me anywhere, begging me to toss beaten eggs into a heated pan.”
“Did you enjoy making love to me, Tom?” she asked.
“You must remember, Lowenstein, that I’m Catholic,” I said. “I like sex, but only if it’s dark and I don’t have to talk about it later. I’ll feel guilty all day because it was so goddamn fantastic.”
“It was fantastic?” she asked.
“Why is that so hard to believe, Susan?”
“Because you were having sex with me,” she said. “And I’ve always received complaints from the men in my life in that department. Also, I’m neurotic and I need a lot of reassurance about sex.”
Then the phone rang in the living room and I said, “Ah, what goddamn horror awaits me when I answer that call?”
“Are you going to answer it?” she asked, taking a fork and turning the bacon.
I picked up the receiver and about fell to my knees when I heard my mother say hello.
“Oh, God,” I said. “It’s you, Mom.”
“I’m in New York,” my mother said. “I’m about to catch a cab to Savannah’s apartment. I want to have a talk with you.”
“No,” I screamed. “For godsakes, Mom. The place is a wreck and I’m not even dressed yet.”
“I’m your mother,” she said. “I don’t care if you’re dressed or not.”
“Why are you in New York?” I asked.
“I want to speak to Savannah’s psychiatrist,” she said.
“Oh, Jesus. You want to speak to Savannah’s psychiatrist,” I repeated.
“Tell her I just need to put on my pantyhose,” Susan whispered from the kitchen door.
“Mom, it’s Sunday,” I said. “Shrinks all go to their country houses on the weekend. There isn’t a psychiatrist left in the city today.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Susan whispered. “I happen to be a psychiatrist.”
“I want to talk to you today, Tom,” my mother said. “I’ve never seen Savannah’s apartment and I would very much like to.”
“Give me thirty minutes to clean this place up, Mom,” I said.
“There’s no need to go to any trouble,” my mother said.
I heard a rap on the door to the apartment.
“Goodbye, Mom. I’ll see you in half an hour.”
Susan opened the door and I saw Eddie Detreville standing in the doorway with a bag of fresh croissants.
“Hello, Sallie,” he said. “I’m Eddie Detreville, the next-door neighbor. I’ve heard all about you from Tom and Savannah.”
“Hello, Eddie,” she answered. “I’m Susan.”
I hung up the phone and heard Eddie say, “Nothing I hate worse than cheap heterosexuality, Tom.”
When my mother entered the apartment, she kissed me on the cheek, then said, “I smell a woman’s perfume.”
I closed the door and said, “The man next door is a homosexual, Mom. He was just over here to borrow a cup of sugar.”
“How does that explain the perfume?” she asked suspiciously.
“You know how homosexuals are, Mom,” I said. “Always flitting around, spraying themselves with perfume, and buying Afghan hounds.”
“I know you hate-to see me in New York City,” she said, walking into the apartment.
“Au contraire, Mama,” I said, grateful that she had dropped the subject of the perfume. “I’ve been dancing in the streets since I heard the fabulous news. Would you like me to fix you a perfect omelet?”
“I already had breakfast at the St. Regis,” she said.
“Did your husband come with you?” I asked from the kitchen. “Or is he off buying Indonesia or something?”
“He knew you wouldn’t want to see him,” she answered. “He stayed at the hotel.”
“A man of insight,” I said, bringing her a cup of coffee. “He sees directly into my soul.”
“How long will you punish him for what you know to be my sins?” she asked, then said, “The coffee’s very good.”
“I’ll probably forgive him on his deathbed, Mom,” I said. “I forgive everybody on their deathbed.”
“Even me?” she asked.
“I forgave you a long time ago,” I said.
“You most certainly did not,” she said. “You’ve treated me abominably. You’re still so angry at me you can hardly look into my eyes.”
“I’m not angry just at you, Mom,” I said quietly. “I’m angry at everybody. I have this all-consuming, titanic, free-floating rage at everything on the planet.”
“I shouldn’t have had children,” my mother said. “You do everything for them, sacrifice your whole life for their well-being, then they turn on you. I should have had my tubes tied when I was twelve. That’s what I’d recommend to any young girl I met.”
“Every time you see me, Mama, you look at me like you want some doctor to perform a retroactive abortion,” I said, covering my face with my hands. “Oh, let’s cut the small talk, Mom. What monstrous reason brings you to New York? What ring of hell are you planning to march me through this time?”
“Do you hear yourself, Tom?” she said. “Who taught you to be so cruel?”
“You did, Mama,” I said. “And you also taught me that even though someone destroys your entire life, you can still feel an indestructible love for that person.”
“This is supposed to cheer a mother’s heart,” she said. “Everything you say to me is meant to hurt me.”
“My only defense against you, Mama, and I mean the single weapon I bring to the fray, is a bitter honesty.”
“I guess it makes no difference to you that I love my children more than anything in the world, does it, Tom?”
“I believe that, Mama,” I said. “If I didn’t believe that with my whol
e heart, I would strangle you with my bare hands.”
“And you just claimed that you loved me!” she said.
“You’re putting words in my mouth again,” I said. “I said I forgive you. I did not mention love. In your withered bag of emotions, they’re the same thing, Mama. Not in mine.”
“You say the cruelest things, Tom,” she said, and there were tears in her eyes.
“That was inordinately cruel, Mom,” I admitted. “And I apologize for it. But we must admit that we have a history together and that history has made me conscious of the fact that you probably have something hideous up your sleeve.”
“Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked, taking a package of Vantages from her purse.
“Of course not,” I said. “I don’t mind catching lung cancer from my own mother.”
“Will you offer me a light?” she asked.
“Mother,” I said wearily, “we are perched on the eve of the liberation of all women. It would be gauche of me to light your cigarette when I know you don’t even believe that women should be allowed to vote.”
“Untrue,” she said. “But I’m old-fashioned in other ways. I simply love being a woman. I like to have doors held open for me and a gentleman to hold my chair when I’m being seated. I’m not a bra-burner, nor do I believe in the Equal Rights Amendment. I’ve always thought women were far superior to men and I never want to do anything to make a man think he could be my equal. Now, please light my cigarette.”
I struck a match and she touched my wrist as I lit her cigarette.
“Tell me all about Savannah,” she said.
“She looks very becoming in a straitjacket.”
“If you wish to become a comedian, Tom—and really, I’d be glad to see you try to hold down any kind of job at all—please let me rent you a concert hall or a nightclub instead of trying out your routines on me.”
“Savannah’s in very bad shape, Mom,” I said. “I’ve only gotten to see her once since I’ve been up here. I’ve told Dr. Lowenstein the stories of Savannah’s growing up, filling her in on all the grisly details of our epic childhood.”
“And, of course, you felt it necessary to tell about that day on the island,” she said.
“Yes, I felt it necessary,” I said. “I thought it oddly significant.”