“Well, now I can’t walk very well, and I’m not going to leave you,” the General said. “You’ll have to pack me off if you want to get rid of me.”
He waited for a response, but Aurora said nothing. She seemed to be thinking, a fact the General could not help but be alarmed by. Even when Aurora was angriest, he would rather she speak, not think. When she was thinking, all he could do was dread all the awful things she might say or do when she resumed talking.
“Are you going to pack me off so you can live with Jerry?” he asked. The thought was in his mind that that was just what she might do if she was in love with the young doctor, as he was pretty sure she was.
“What makes you think I’m in love with anyone?” Aurora asked, fixing him with a stern look. Her eyes got larger when she was stern. At the moment they were very large and very green.
Looking into her angry eyes, the General wished that he had managed to suppress his last remark—in fact, he wished he could take back all his remarks, all that he had made in the last few minutes, and perhaps most of the remarks he had made over the last few years. He should never have brought up Jerry Bruckner, or anything else, for that matter. In a sense, that was the story of his life with Aurora: he should never have brought anything up. Time after time, when he ventured to open his mouth, the next thing he knew she was looking at him out of large, angry green eyes.
“You’re just looking happier lately, or something,” he suggested mildly.
Aurora said nothing. She continued to look straight into his eyes in the unnerving way she had.
The General tried to think of something he might say that would at least cause her to break her silence. He hated it when Aurora became silent. Sharp as her responses could be, they were still preferable to her silences.
“You look like you’re enjoying life more,” he added. “You’ve got your fun back, or something. There was a time when you didn’t seem to have your sense of fun anymore.”
“I see,” Aurora said. “And you think I could only have got my sense of fun back by falling in love with Dr. Bruckner, is that what you’re saying?”
“Oh, go to hell, you’re driving me crazy!” the General said, exasperated. “I won’t sit here and be badgered like this. You always come back from your therapy looking happy, and I just thought you might be in love with Jerry, that’s all. If you’re not, you’re not—can’t we just forget I ever mentioned it?”
“Nope,” Aurora said, but in a more friendly, less exasperating tone. “I have to train my memory, you know. Therapy requires one to have a good memory, and besides therapy, there’s my memory project.”
“Good lord, are you still thinking about that?” the General said. “Do you seriously think you can crank your memory up to the point where you can remember every day of your life?”
“Not unassisted, perhaps,” Aurora said. “But then I’m not unassisted. I have quite extensive records, and I absolutely intend to remember every day of my life. My project wouldn’t be off to a very good start if I did what you just suggested.”
“What do you mean, what I just suggested?” the General said. He knew he had said a number of things in the course of the conversation, but he had no idea which ones he might have said five minutes before.
“That was when you suggested that the only possible source of my renewed sense of fun was that I’ve fallen in love with Jerry Bruckner.”
“Oh,” the General said. “I didn’t say that five minutes ago. “We’ve been talking about it for a goddamn hour at least, and you still won’t admit it.”
“It?” Aurora asked. “Is ‘it’ supposed to refer to your quaint notion that I’ve fallen in love with my doctor?”
“Right,” the General said. “If you’d just admitted it right off, we wouldn’t have had this interminable quarrel, which feels like it’s going to go on for the rest of my life.
“Most of our goddamn quarrels have felt like they were going to go on for the rest of my life,” he added, recalling all the times when he had that sensation while quarreling with Aurora.
Aurora smiled—a happier smile than any he had seen from her since the quarrel began.
“It’s true that I sometimes have to quarrel at length with you, Hector,” she said. “Life’s just that way. It’s unfortunate, but sometimes lengthy quarrels are the only means I have of determining what you feel.”
“That’s a goddamn lie,” the General said, feeling his gorge rise. “I always tell you every goddamn thing I feel, and I always tell you immediately.”
“If there was a God I expect he’d strike you dead for a lie of that magnitude,” Aurora said. “You’ve obviously waited days, or perhaps weeks, to bring forth your theory about my being in love with my doctor.”
The General had to admit that that was true, though he didn’t admit it out loud. He had suspected almost from the first that Aurora might fall in love with Jerry, but he had quietly kept his suspicions to himself.
“I was trying to wait for the right moment to bring it up,” the General said.
“In that case, you didn’t wait long enough,” Aurora said. “You brought it up while I was singing, and now we’re having this quarrel.”
“We’re not going to be having it much longer,” the General assured her. “The reason we’re not is because I’m sick of it. Just answer yes or no. Are you in love with him or not?”
“Not, as it happens,” Aurora said, highly amused.
“You’re not?” the General said, very surprised. He had expected her to admit it with her usual brashness—the brashness she always displayed when they were discussing her other men.
“No, not as yet, at least,” Aurora said.
The General thought that over for a moment and decided he didn’t like the sound of it.
“That’s not very reassuring,” he said. “When are you going to fall in love with him? Tomorrow? Next week? If you’re going to fall in love with him you might as well go ahead and do it.”
“Yes, but one can’t just go and do that sort of thing,” Aurora said pleasantly. “I try to be brisk whenever I can, but falling in love is not one of the things one can be brisk about.”
“I hate it when we quarrel,” the General said. “I wish I’d never asked.”
“I know. You’d think you’d learn what to ask and what not to ask, but you never do, dear,” Aurora said. Then, seeing that her old boyfriend looked quite exhausted, she took his hand for a bit to show that she meant no harm.
4
The day Aurora decided that the time had come to allow Pascal to seduce her, she let him make her lunch in his apartment, but restricted him, to his annoyance, to one glass of wine. She had never allowed him to feed her in his apartment before, and Pascal, convinced that his moment had finally arrived, was beside himself with excitement. He would have liked a little more wine, both to calm his nerves and to go with the excellent lamb he had cooked. Aurora devoured the lamb and his crème brulée with relish, but was adamant about the wine.
“But why not?” Pascal asked, annoyed.
“Because I say not,” Aurora said, eating the last bite of her crème brulée. She looked him in the eye and wiped her mouth.
“I’ve often had my fun spoiled by intemperance,” she told him. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had any fun, and I’m not about to have it spoiled just because you’re nervous about sex and want to glug a lot of wine.”
“I’m not nervous about sex—I’ll strangle you again!” Pascal said, furious for an instant. He shot up from his chair as if he’d been sitting on a coil and a wrestling match ensued, during which Aurora, at several points, had great difficulty suppressing her sense of comedy. The new mauve sheets Pascal had so hoped to impress her with were no help in her effort to keep from laughing, but she did end up between them with him, only to discover at the moment of entry that something about the entry was a little different from any entry she had ever experienced.
“Whoa,” she said, twisting a little. “Wha
t’s wrong here? We’re not getting a perfect fit.”
“I’ll explain, it happened when I was a boy,” Pascal said. “I’ll correct.” And he did correct, shifting himself atop her right leg. Aurora felt slightly puzzled, but otherwise, there they were. Pascal was wild in his happiness, the fit improved once he was lying on her leg, and she soon went a bit wild herself.
It was only later, when Pascal’s mettle had been proven, more or less, and she allowed him to bring a little cheese and the rest of the wine to bed, that she learned that the slight problem she had experienced at the onset had been caused by the fact that Pascal had a crooked penis.
“It became bent when I was young,” he told her, with a rather endearing smile.
“What?” Aurora said. “You mean at my age I’ve been made love to by a bent dick? This I have to see.”
“It’s not bent when it’s little,” Pascal said. “It’s only bent when it gets big.”
“Then let’s have it big,” Aurora said. Indeed, there was little to see, as matters stood.
“I don’t know about right now,” Pascal said, twinkling a little in his happiness. “You should have looked when you had the chance,” he added.
“But I don’t usually look the first time,” Aurora said. “I’ve never heard of such a thing as a bent penis. Now you’ve got my scientific curiosity aroused.”
“I’ve got you all aroused,” Pascal said, watching her stretch.
“I suppose you have, but I’m not sure I’d have proceeded if I’d known you were deformed,” Aurora said.
“No, I was normal,” Pascal assured her. “It became bent when I was fourteen. The girls didn’t like me then, and I was making love to a hole in the fence. A boy was on the other side of the fence—I didn’t know this. He took a piece of board and chopped at my penis. Since then it’s been crooked.”
“Good lord,” Aurora said, setting her wineglass on the table. “If I’d been there at the time I doubt you would have had to be engaged with a hole in the fence.”
She gave him a winy, urgent kiss. “Come on,” she said. “I remember some of your vast claims. Now I want proof.”
“I’ve taken vitamin E for years,” Pascal informed her.
“By golly, it is bent—it’s a wonder this worked at all,” she said, a little later. “It’s a good thing you’ve learned to compensate—I suppose having to compensate is what’s given you your resourceful air, Pascal. Your resourceful air is one of the things I like best about you.”
“Besides that, I took all the vitamin E,” Pascal reminded her.
Later, though, driving home from her tryst, Aurora’s exultant mood began to seep away. Little by little it seeped away, until there came a time when the last drop of it had seeped; she felt lonely, disarrayed, dejected, and depressed. She reached such a low state in her feelings that she didn’t think it was quite wise to drive, although she was only a few blocks from her house. She pulled to the curb and sat, and before she knew it she was weeping. She had no desire to go back to Pascal, who had already been talking excitedly of taking her to Paris, Morocco, Istanbul, and various other places he felt sure she would enjoy. Lust had been sated, but at what price? She was certainly fond of Pascal, but also, just as certainly, wasn’t in love with him, although now she had gotten him ever more madly in love with her. He was jealous, too—he had made as much of a fuss as he dared just because she was going home to Hector. He had already suggested that she shouldn’t sleep in the same bed as Hector. Problems of that nature were sure to plague their future relations.
Also, sitting in dejection in her car, she was aware of a certain lurking dishonesty in her behavior. Had she finally slept with Pascal because she wanted to, or because she felt that after years of flirtation she owed him a fling? Or could it be that a darker, more particular fear had driven her into the arms she had spent the afternoon in? She knew perfectly well what the more complex fear was, but alone in her car, she didn’t want to think about it—and yet if she went home and tried to talk it out with Rosie, Hector might eavesdrop or get wind of her distress somehow, and what that might lead to in terms of quarrels, sadness, questions, or apprehensions she didn’t want to contemplate. Suave and sophisticated as Hector had tried to appear when he suggested that she was in love with Jerry Bruckner, she knew that he was merely putting up a cool front while fishing for information. If she gave him the information, particularly the information that she was having an affair with Pascal, his arch rival, his reaction would be anything but suave and sophisticated. He would be mad as hell, and their life together would be a good deal more tormented than it was already.
Drying her eyes, she noticed that the man of the house whose lawn she had parked in front of had come out to move his sprinklers and was looking at her. To her horror she noticed that the man was Hargreave Goulding, her insurance agent. Hargreave was a very presentable man who sold insurance to half the people in their neighborhood. She hadn’t noticed that she was in front of his house when she became too dejected to drive and had stopped to cry. The last thing she wanted was for Hargreave Goulding to come over and ask her what was the matter. For one thing, he was a very attractive man, and the two of them had spent thirty years flirting at parties; if he came over and tried to comfort her while she was in a vulnerable state, she might end up in even hotter water than she was in anyway. He was a widower, too—though well supplied with lady friends, he was also probably the type who felt he could always handle one more.
Aurora started her car with a jerk and turned the nearest corner, causing two children on bicycles to dash up a driveway. Her house was almost in sight, but she didn’t go there—she had a sense that it might be fatal to face Hector, feeling as she did.
Without quite knowing why she was doing it, she drove rather reluctantly in the direction of Bellaire and soon found herself driving just as reluctantly in front of Jerry Bruckner’s house. Unable to bring herself to stop, she drove right on past it. Then she circled the block and drove past it three more times, slowing for a moment each time, but never quite working up to stopping.
Finally, on the fourth pass, she did stop, so close to the curb that she felt sure her tires would scrape, although they didn’t; she stopped, but refrained from killing her motor—she hoped that at any moment she would get control of her sinking emotions and drive back into her sensible—or, at least, mostly manageable—life. She looked at herself in the mirror several times, but made no repairs. It was getting dark. Soon Hector and Rosie would begin to be worried about her. Her phobia about driving after dark was even more intense than her phobia about scraping her tires. She knew she ought to rush home and reassure them, and yet she felt paralyzed. All she could do was sit in front of Jerry Bruckner’s house, twisting her emerald ring round and round her finger while dripping hopeless tears.
While she was twisting her ring, there was a tap on her window. Jerry Bruckner stood there, in jogging clothes. He seemed quite sweaty and had obviously been jogging. He tapped on the window again, looking in with his mild smile. Aurora felt her paralysis deepen. She didn’t do anything; she even stopped twisting her ring. She just sat, leaving the matter, and all matters, to Jerry. She didn’t even roll down the window; she just sat with her hands in her lap.
After another unanswered tap or two, Jerry came around to the driver’s side of the car. Aurora looked at him hopelessly. He made a motion that she couldn’t interpret. When she did nothing, he put his face as close to the window as he could.
“Please roll down the window!” he shouted. “Or unlock the door, so I can talk to you!”
Aurora noticed that he was still attractive, though sweaty. Something about him was a little too doglike, though—she had felt that the first time she saw him and she registered the impression again—but then, there must be something to be said for dogs, or people wouldn’t be having them as pets.
She looked at the lock on her door and decided she might as well unlock it. When she tried to roll down her windows they sometimes
slipped off their track, which meant a trip to the garage, a place she hated. Rosie had once been capable of putting her windows right, but Rosie was no longer the mechanic she had once been. Now she sometimes took weeks to accomplish the simplest repair.
That being the case, she ruled out rolling down the windows, and unlocked her door.
“Thanks,” Jerry said, immediately opening the door. Aurora noticed that he did smell quite sweaty, but then, she had never been one to balk at a little sweat.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, squatting by the car and looking up at her. Just then a car swooshed by—Aurora felt quite sure Jerry would be hit and killed if he kept squatting where he was.
“I just slept with a Frenchman with a crooked penis in order to stop myself from sleeping with you,” she said.
Jerry Bruckner looked surprised—a little more than mildly so, if she was any judge of surprised men. On the other hand, he was not thunderstruck. In fact, after a pause, he chuckled. Usually his chuckle—deep, like his voice—delighted her, but this time for some reason it irritated her.
“If you want to discuss this distasteful episode, you’ll have to get in,” Aurora said. “Squatting as you are, I’m sure you’ll be killed within the next few minutes.”
“That’s what I was trying to do to begin with, but you had all the doors locked,” Jerry said. He reached in, unlocked the door to the backseat, crawled across it, unlocked the other door to the front seat, and was soon seated in the front seat, where Hector usually sat.
“I was afraid to risk walking around the car,” he said. “You might have locked me out again.”
“Quite true,” Aurora said dejectedly. “An old woman who’s capable of sleeping with a Frenchman with a crooked penis might well be capable of other very bad acts.”
“I’ve never seen a crooked penis,” Jerry said. “How did it get crooked?”