J R

  —What.

  —Jack if I went away for, if I have to go away for a little you won’t go back out there will you? What will you do?

  —Thinking about that book I, about trying to get back to work on that book I . . .

  —Would you? I’ve been afraid to ask, I’ve been almost afraid it wasn’t true . . . her hand skimmed down,—you told me what it was about once but . . .

  —About a lot of things it’s, can’t say what a book’s about before it’s done that’s what any book worth reading’s about, problem solving.

  —It’s a silly question I’m sorry, people always . . .

  —No it’s about a man who, about the war . . .

  —War? but I thought . . .

  —And a general who, he’s like your father there molding his nose, above the battle, he’s a confusion of this man’s ideas of his own father and the Lord, the way the Lord sold Faust out in that wager . . .

  —I didn’t know you were in a war I thought it was about, about art, she said, rested on his knees peaked up behind her,—but it doesn’t matter if it’s really, if you’ll really go back to work on it, Jack? she bent toward him,—who’s Stella?

  And his rise to his elbows brought his legs tight pressing her breasts close to hide the warmth already rising there between them abruptly stilled.—Stella?

  —You mentioned her on the train, I only wondered . . .

  —She was, she’s just someone who . . .

  —The one who came out to the school? in fur? and you introduced me to her as Mrs diCephalis honestly, I couldn’t imagine why but, she’s quite lovely, isn’t she.

  —Looking yes, but . . . he eased back up again in view against her where her own hand paused, and fled to measure ribs,—remember that field trip in that Christ awful cafeteria, Edward Bast, she’s his cousin she’d just come out there to . . .

  —Of course I remember him, someone I know in fact’s just given him a commission . . . her hand came back on fingertips,—the last person on earth I’d imagine rescuing an artist but I was delighted someone’s helping him along, he’s so . . .

  —Feeling everybody in sight’s helping him along, problem’s what the hell he’s doing himself.

  —But, what do you mean?

  —Tell you the truth I don’t know, I just heard this place he’s working in uptown is filling up with office equipment he . . .

  —How really odd . . . she looked down where her fingertips stroked upward, toward her throat,—that card, I never understood what . . .

  —Problem seems to be he just can’t settle down to one thing.

  She whispered—What a shame, that warmth tumescent now gone fierce with color channeled in whiteness as she bent down to reach the distance to his shoulder, slip moist toward color ringed around,—I think he’s dear . . . she reached to raise him closer,—Jack!

  —What . . .

  —Here turn your neck . . . she seized his arm, pulled it across his chest,—how, no did I do that!

  —But what . . .

  —You’re just covered with, Jack there’s blood I couldn’t have done it there are scratches all down your back deep ones, did I? She pulled him further,—yes and all down your Jack it must have hurt I couldn’t have . . .! she came down on his chest where his arms rose to hold her and then slip slowly down her back, drawing her knees close mounting those slopes abruptly rising in the mirror beyond where her hand came in search and both of his to part them wide, bring them down gorged, all mirrored semblances of curve and line unfaded white and smoothness too much gazed at asunder in his hands for hair and color targeted in her plunges, until they slowed, one leg of hers came straight and then the other, and all the mirror held was bedhead and the lamp where her hand rose, and darkness emptied it.—Jack? don’t you want something on those places they must hurt, I feel so badly, Jack? aren’t I heavy?

  He simply held her closer to say—I . . . and cleared his throat to say,—I love you, and held her there until her weight subsided, turned from him when he raised the sheet in sunlight, cleared his throat gazing under before he dropped it back, slipped out for coffee none the worse for standing overnight, news none the better for a day, or days, he bunched the paper suddenly looking for its date, over the sofa’s arm muttering—Christ . . . dialing,—Hello . . .? Yes yes it is look I . . . No about getting out there to see her today, I’ve been . . . what? What do you mean yesterday it’s . . . Look I’m not trying to change any agreement on anything, I just . . . All right I’m sorry! look can you let me talk to her for a . . . Listen I don’t want to get into all that now, if the lawyers say it’s settled I don’t want to start . . . And with this kind of settlement you can’t even buy her one God damned pair of boots? What . . . No I know it you can’t pay for her school lunches you even borrow the God damned allowance I send her look can you . . . Look I don’t want to hear about your God damned water heater! Can you just put her on the God damned phone for a minute so I can . . . Well then can you tell her next week? Is it too God damned much trouble to tell her I’ll take her out to get the kind of boots she wants next week? And can you tell her I’m sorry I . . . and he sat there holding it away, staring at it for a moment before he crashed it down.

  —Jack what . . . she came in pulling the robe close,—smashing the phone down that way you know I’m waiting for . . .

  —What wait what do you mean? It wasn’t for you it was, were you listening?

  —Oh, no . . . she sat down slowly,—I just woke up when I heard you on the phone I thought it might be Daddy I’m, I’m sorry I’m just nervous . . .

  —Well it wasn’t Daddy and it wasn’t Mister whatever his name is you don’t want me to answer your phone do you?

  She looked at him for a moment before she got up.—No . . .

  —Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you, where are you going.

  —Isn’t there more coffee? She came back to set it down saucerless.—Do you think you could button that shirt up just a little? and as she bent down to sit,—Jack did you do this?

  —What, he muttered concentrating on mismatching button to buttonhole,—get to the point of the English suicide left the note too many buttons to button and unbutton . . .

  —Jack?

  —Used to have a friend who couldn’t stand them even the word called them fifty-threes, what?

  —Did you stuff all these paper bags under this seat cushion?

  —Oh, forgot all about them yes, he looked up square into nulliparous shadow, swallowed,—that first night we . . .

  —But why on earth . . . she brought the robe closed, sitting back.

  —I just save paper bags Amy. Anything wrong with saving paper bags?

  She just looked at him, brought up her cup.—Is something wrong? and she drank looking over the rim,—Jack? It’s not us, it’s not me is it?

  —No it’s just, I don’t know look you’re not even thirty Amy not even near it I’m old enough to . . .

  —But, whatever made you think of that Jack how silly! What difference does it make?

  —I don’t know just, things you say sometimes I just . . .

  —But what, what things . . .

  —I don’t know just things like, well like Bast this Edward Bast how dear he is and . . .

  —But he is dear Jack you can’t be, you can’t be that unkind Jack you can’t be serious he’s younger than I. And I scarcely know him but he’s so sincere and shy and enthusiastic and that, that kind of touching desperation about him he’s so, young is that what you mean?

  —I don’t know you’re not even thirty and I guess I . . .

  —But why do you keep saying that do you think I want someone thirty? If I did I’d find someone Jack I don’t want someone thirty, nothing’s happened to most men thirty there’s nothing in their faces yet at all, I’ve always gone with older men . . .

  —I gathered.

  —What?

  —Nothing . . . he reached for cigarettes, found only cough drops, shook one out.

  —N
o but what did you mean.

  —Nothing I, that first night here in bed when I, when you said it happens to everybody when I . . .

  —But . . . her cup came down slowly,—but why would you say this to me?

  —I don’t know Amy just . . .

  —No but look at me Jack why.

  —Don’t know I told you just suddenly . . .

  —No but why look at me, because I said that you think I sleep around? with older men is that what you mean?

  —Told you I don’t know Amy the whole thing the telephone calls the, a douche hanging on the bathroom door I just . . .

  —And you thought it was mine?

  —Well what . . . he looked up to her finally,—no wait listen . . .

  —No please . . .

  —Amy listen I didn’t mean . . .

  —Please!

  —No but listen don’t, listen . . .

  She’d pulled the robe’s collar up loose to wipe under an eye, and she let it fall back without gathering it closed.—I’m just so disappointed, she said and let her head back, staring at the ceiling.—No, no please . . .

  —No but Amy I . . .

  —I said please! She pulled his head up sharply—I don’t understand Jack honestly I don’t understand you! To say things like that to me one minute and the next minute you expect to make love to me I don’t understand you! He pulled his shirt together, joined her search of the ceiling as she broke it off.—If you want to ask me questions ask me questions instead of, I’ve told you I’m not brave but I’ve never done anything I thought wasn’t right and when you try to make it sound as though . . .

  —No all right damn it Amy I didn’t mean, I mean what’s so damned strange about jealousy I just . . .

  —Because it’s ridiculous Jack it’s ridiculous and unbecoming and to pick on a perfectly harmless young man? Or because I sleep around with older men I don’t but what if I had, not if I’ve loved someone or why I’d love anyone or want them to love me but just who I’ve slept with or you’re afraid I might sleep with isn’t that what you’re saying? isn’t it?

  —No but don’t you see . . .

  —Jack is that why you’d want me to love you? for the one thing any other man can replace? The one thing a woman’s afraid of a man loving her for when she thinks that’s the only reason he please, Jack no please . . .

  —But Amy I . . .

  —When you said once you thought you didn’t understand women Jack I couldn’t bear that don’t you understand!

  He caught her coming to him on the sofa, caught up an edge of the robe to wipe away under one eye of hers turned full up to him and then the other—I, maybe I do . . . and he let her face go past his, and held her there.

  —Jack these must hurt they must, she said at his neck finally,—this one’s so deep it must have hurt I feel so badly . . . her hand caught his shirt up and her breath followed a gash down from his shoulder,—Jack no, please . . .

  —Why not . . . his lips blurred over the dark margin curled against them.

  —Because you’re, you’re not being . . .

  —Friendly to bellies damn it Amy that’s not fair . . . his tongue fled up to its depression,—trying to show you I’m the friendliest person to bellies in the long term you’ll ever . . . but her hand drew his head up.—Trust bellies in the long term they’re just friendly by nature, never know if breasts are going to be friendly or not . . . He brushed beneath,—much bolder than bellies never know where you stand with them . . . and his lips came up over color ringed around,—can’t define them too damned simple . . . his tongue sweeping color pebbling to its touch—can’t even devour them, a million squalid tries in paint and words never touch them . . . his teeth caught at the peak,—sublimely stupid, always becoming . . . and he came down with a heavy crunch.

  —Jack what . . .!

  —Told you fair warning to breasts.

  —No but . . . her hand there,—what did you . . .

  He breathed at her.—Cough drop.

  —Oh! she caught his head away—honestly . . .!

  —No there’s no harm look, can’t harm them can’t harm any of them, nulliparous, primiparous, multiparous not a trace anywhere look at that . . . his lips brushed across,—just sheer dumb splendor.

  —Don’t Jack don’t be . . .

  —Silly? what, nulliparous? Means not having borne a child that’s all, one is primiparous, two is multip, God you’re beautiful he said at her shoulder where the robe came away, coming down with her, beside her, half behind her drawing her leg over his.

  —Does it mean all that much, really? she said not even turned to him, her head back off his shoulder.

  —Does if you believe the sculptor . . . his hand brushed up from her knee to the pleat paused there fashioning it open almost as though by chance,—the one who called beauty the promise of function . . .

  —No it’s all right, she whispered, her free hand caught his raising the telephone and pressed it back, returned it to the other plying now as though in search, for entry risen from beneath but still importuning that bracelet of dark hair along the bone rubbed harder at its crest, faster with each fall and rise threatening loss restored that quickly gorging the slap of cheeks abruptly stilled, dead weight at the ring of the phone and her hand round seizing anywhere to hold him against loss, before her other rose for the receiver.—Hello? choked near a whisper then,—hello . . .? Yes I . . . yes I’ve been waiting for you to call I . . . sound like I what? No I, I ran for the phone yes of course I’m all right . . . No but Daddy I . . . because I just hoped you could do something quickly to help me find out where . . . No I did tell him that I told him to tell Uncle John that because this wouldn’t have happened if Uncle John hadn’t . . . No I didn’t I’m not going to either the only reason he wanted me to come down there was to sign some . . . Daddy I don’t care if it’s important it’s important to him it’s important to you but it’s not important to me . . .! her nails bit deeper where they held, her weight dipped urgently hard on retreat, recoiled with a surge—if any of you ever thought what’s important to me . . .! Yes right now to go over there myself right now if . . . yes from my trust fund just enough to . . . But . . . Yes but . . . But it’s mine isn’t it? mine? didn’t Mama . . . I’m not then I won’t I certainly won’t if that’s all you . . . There’s nothing else no nothing else what else could . . . No no one told me that he had, again . . .? Daddy I don’t care who Mister Wiles thought he saw me with in an elevator I’m simply . . . yes if you’d ever thought what’s important to him either . . .! I . . . I won’t no I won’t bargain I think it’s simply criminal I do goodbye! she held it off, urging her name against the sofa’s arm till he reached there to hang it up, her hand clenched in his, ham slipped from its tensing rise and in a sudden turn all of her fallen away beside him up towering in dismay lost in his throat as her hand came to seize him, her arms to pull him down legs flexed against his shoulders’ old scars torn across with new till his hands cradling her lunges brought them up cavernous against his breaking upright to his knees as though in anxious wonder to contain it all, postpone one instant to the next claim to the instant just gone by and there the wager taken once for all, until, in surges shuddered like despair, it was too late, their weight came down all weight again. That close, he looked at her as though she were already gone, and she as though there were nowhere to look except away.—Jack? What time do you suppose it is.

  —No idea. His hand came to her shoulder where he held her.—Bet your father’s busy right now with that nose of his.

  —Oh it’s all simply so, simply . . .

  —That Uncle John sounds like a charmer too.

  —No he’s, I suppose he’s simply a bully really because he’s always been allowed to be that’s all, for so long . . .

  —Got an idea let’s move in with him get his mind off things . . .

  —You’d go mad there, that big empty house in Pelham I haven’t been in it since after Mama died, he’s been getting the same commuti
ng train for fifty years he plays cards on it do you know why?

  —Just sounds like a man who likes to win . . .

  —Yes dimes to win dimes do you know why? Because all these years he’s hated Franklin Roosevelt he still does, he thinks he ruined the country and when that dime came out with Roosevelt’s face on it he started to collect them to get them out of circulation honestly he did, he had a pocket in his suits a special one to put them in and the end of the day any he’d got in change or won at cards he’d empty out this pocket into boxes, he still does . . .

  —Good God he sounds like he, get the March of Dimes up there march right through his house and . . .

  —I haven’t been there since after Mama died it was, I was still in school and someone came to dinner he was a man who made fine china and, Mama’d been cremated and he said if, he said right at the dinner table he told Daddy if they’d give him her ashes he’d, he’d make a fine chop plate human ashes make the finest china he said but, but why a chop plate why he said a chop plate . . .

  —Amy . . .

  —Why a chop plate why he, he’d never met her but why he couldn’t think of, couldn’t even think of her as something less . . . her hand rose over his closed from one still breast to the other where there seemed neither rise nor fall.—Jack where did you go to school? to boarding school?

  —A place up, small school nobody’s ever heard of in Connecticut up near Hartford, probably not even there any . . .

  —Jack? she was up beside him, brushed the fall of her hair from his face—it’s not so late the banks are closed yet is it?

  —Banks? I . . .

  —Because if I have to, Jack I have to go away for a little to get these things settled and if I need the fare can you lend it to me?

  —Why, lend it give it yes what . . . his hand came up as though uncertain whether to steady or to stay the leg gone over him, maw drawn wide in mere promise of the leg to follow, recover the mere function of getting from one place to another,—but to where . . .