The Trouble with Eden

  “Nor would I, my dear. It’s the cocksure masculinity, if you’ll pardon the expression, coupled with the feudal approach. He’s most successful with tenants and employees. Tumbles them three or four times and then never wants them again. According to rumor, he’s been in bed at least once with every girl who ever waited tables here He doesn’t make it a requirement up front, but somehow it always seems to work out that way before long.”

  “I don’t think he’ll get Linda,” Peter said.

  “I hope not,” said Rita Welsh. “I think he’s a monster. He looks like an ape, anyway.”

  “Interesting,” Warren said. “I’ve never noticed it before, but his arms are a shade longer than his legs. Something odd about his thumbs, too. I wonder if he ever had anything going with Fay Wray?”

  Hugh was the first to leave. Bryce and the Welshs followed him within a few minutes. Peter took a last sip of his second screwdriver.

  “Well,” he said.

  “One more round,” Warren said, signaling the waitress.

  “I really don’t want another drink, Warren.”

  “I do, and I hate drinking alone. One more won’t hurt you, Peterkin.”

  “I know it won’t, but I can’t stand the taste. Would it be all right if I had plain orange juice?”

  “You’re beyond salvation.” He raised his eyes to the girl. “A double Cognac and a large OJ on the rocks.”

  When she brought the drinks she asked Warren if he wanted them mixed. He turned slightly green and shuddered violently. “Thanks just the same,” he said, “but the Cognac is for me, and the orange juice is for my young friend here. He’s driving, you see.”

  Peter said, “Maybe it wouldn’t be bad. Cognac and orange juice.”

  “Let us take it on faith that it would be bad.”

  “I really ought to be getting home, Warren.”

  “Nonsense. The night is young. And you’re so beautiful.”

  “I wish you’d stop that.”

  “You know what Blake said about ungratified desire. Or perhaps you don’t. Briefly, he was against it. You don’t want to go home, lad. You want to come home with me.”

  “I suppose I Should feel flattered.”

  “No question about it.”

  “The thing is, Warren, I couldn’t be less interested. I’m not gay.”

  “Of course not. You’ve never been in bed with a man, have you?”

  “That was a stage.”

  “All the world’s a stage, Peterkin.”

  “I grew out of it.”

  “Outgrown and discarded like a child’s old shoes. What a sad fate for poor old homosexuality! I’ll tell you a secret, Peterkin. You never outgrow it. Think of the things you used to do in bed and tell me how they wouldn’t be fun anymore.”

  “Maybe they would be. I don’t want to find out. I’ve given all of that up.”

  “For Gretchen.

  “For myself, actually.” He forced a smile. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to come between you and Bert.”

  “You wouldn’t want to come between us? I wasn’t suggesting a trio, but it sounds delicious.”

  “I mean Bert wouldn’t like it if you brought me home, would he?”

  “The only thing that would disturb Bert is if I did something unkind to his piano, and I’ve never been deliberately unkind to a piano in my life. Bert hasn’t a jealous bone in his head. I really think you ought to come home with me, Peterkin.”

  “I really think you ought to tone down the camping, Warren. And I really think I ought to go home myself.”

  “To Gretchen.”

  “Yes, to Gretchen.”

  “What an odd medium you selected as salvation from the quagmire of faggotry. She’s just a mother substitute, Peterkin.”

  “Leave it alone.”

  “Although I have to admit her maternal impulses are sometimes hard to detect.”

  “God damn it—”

  “I’m sorry. I am sorry. I enjoy baiting people but when I drink too much I carry it too far. It’s primarily self-destructive because now I’ll have to sit around hating myself. You’ll forgive Aunt Warren, won’t you?”

  “Of course. You found a sore spot, that’s all.”

  “It’s a habit of mine. One of the more regrettable ones. You’re going now? How was the orange juice?”

  “Better than the screwdriver.”

  “Extraordinary. Well, I think I’ll have one more before I toddle off. I’ll see you tomorrow. And remember what I told you about Tony. Don’t sell yourself any shorter than you absolutely have to.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  The apartment was dark when he returned to it. He let himself in and checked Robin. She was curled on her side, her thumb in her mouth. She sucked her thumb only when she slept.

  He went to the big double bed. He undressed quietly in the darkness, went to the bathroom and urinated. When he was on his way back to the bed she said, “You can flush it. I’m not asleep.”

  He flushed the toilet. “I thought you were out. I was hoping you’d be able to sleep.”

  “I can’t just yet, but I’m getting a little drowsy, baby. My head is still making circles but they’re slowing down a little. I took a trank.”

  “I hope it wasn’t a Librium.”

  “No, it was Valium. Librium would have been a bad idea.”

  “A very bad idea. I didn’t know we had any Vals, or I would have gotten one into you before.”

  “I took the last one. I almost took a sleeping pill but I didn’t. Are you proud of me? I’m proud of me.”

  “I’m proud of you. Who was going to give you the sleeping pill?”

  “I still have a couple of reds.”

  “Christ.”

  “I had them hidden. Isn’t that disgusting? Only a couple, Petey. Not enough to kill yourself if you wanted to, and I would never do that anyway. I don’t think I would.”

  “It’s such a bad drug. People kill themselves by accident. They have one and they get groggy and forget they took it so they take another, and they empty the whole bottle that way and never wake up.”

  “I’ll throw them out tomorrow. I swear I will. I’ll give them to you and you can throw them out. You’re right. They’re scary. To kill yourself by accident. Isnn’t that what happened to Marilyn Monroe? I’ll give them to you and you can—did I say something wrong, baby?”

  “Just a mental connection. Nothing.”

  “Oh, I didn’t ask you about the show.”

  “It was fine. I think I’ll have a jay before I go to sleep, but I don’t think you should have one.”

  “No, I don’t want to smoke.”

  “I’ll just have enough to get a little buzz. I don’t want to be very high.” He got the plastic vial and a pack of cigarette papers and rolled a skinny cigarette. He smoked half of it, then pinched it out and emptied the stub back into the vial. “That’s enough,” he said. “Just to soften the edges.”

  “Come to bed, Petey.”

  He lay down beside her and she turned to him. “I’m going to come out of it this time, Petey. I can feel the wires loosening. I’ll be better.”

  “I know you will.”

  “I wish I knew it. All I can do is think it and not be sure. You’ll help me.”

  “Sure.”

  “I can’t stay a hundred percent clean, but I can at least balance myself. Don’t leave me, Petey.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Hold me, Petey. Just hold me. Make us be warm. It’s so cold out there, and there are men with long sharp knives. Hold me.”

  Linda was just drifting off to sleep when there was a knock at the door. Her mind was beginning to shift from thought to dream, and for an instant she tried to fit the knocking sound into the dream pattern. Then it registered—a knock on the door—and she sat bolt upright, her heart pounding.

  Was it Marc?

  But Marc wouldn’t knock. And Marc would not come back. Marc, once gone, would never return.

  Then wh
o?

  The knock was repeated. She considered who it might have been. Peter, coming to pay her the thirty dollars? It seemed unlikely that he would bother her so late at night, but if he was sufficiently stoned it might seem like a good idea to him. Whoever it was, she couldn’t imagine why she should answer the door. She had been to sleep. All right—if she left the knock unanswered she could slip back into sleep and that would be the end it. If only whoever it was would go away—

  Another knock. And a voice she didn’t recognize: “Miss Robshaw?”

  Oh, the hell with it. “Who is it?”

  “Mr. Jaeger.”

  “Who?”

  “Sully Jaeger. Sully.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour but I couldn’t help it, I just closed the restaurant a few minutes ago. Could you open the door?”

  What did he want at this hour? To tell her she’d have to vacate the apartment? But he wouldn’t barge in on her in the middle of the night to throw her out. Then again, he might very well throw her out if she refused to let him into his own property.

  “Just a minute.”

  She always slept nude. Now she grabbed a pair of jeans and a sweater and got into them hurriedly. She looked like hell but she was damned if she would comb her hair and brush her teeth for his benefit. She went to the door and opened it and asked him what he wanted.

  “Really sorry to disturb you,” he said. “I thought you just might be up, so many theatrical people keep late hours, and I’m going to be out of town tomorrow and it couldn’t wait. So I took a chance.” He tried a smile. “I’d as soon be in bed myself.”

  Was that double entendre or was she getting paranoid?

  “I’m not in the theater.”

  “Well, Mr. Hillary.”

  “Mr. Hillary doesn’t live here anymore.”

  “I know. That’s what I heard, and this evening I had a fellow over to the place asking did I have a vacancy, and he has to know one way or the other. What I wanted to know is whether you’ll be staying on now or not.”

  “I’ll be staying.”

  “Well, fine. I’m glad to hear that.”

  “You are?”

  “I always get the rent on time and I never had the slightest bit of trouble from you. I’d much rather have you here than take a chance on somebody else, and with somebody new you’re always taking a chance.” The same smile again. “Besides, you’re prettier than he is. You do more for the place’s image, I think they call it.”

  “Thank you. Is that all?”

  “How’s that?”

  “Is that all you wanted to know?”

  “I guess that’s the size of it.”

  “Well.”

  He scratched his head. “I guess it’s no strain for you financially. Fifty a week is a tougher rent to pay when there’s only one person paying it.”

  “I think I’ll manage.”

  “You’re working for what’s-her-name over at the mall—”

  “Olive McIntyre.”

  “Yeah, I see a lot of her husband. Sell liquor in this town and you’ll see a lot of old Clem. What are you, working part time for her?”

  Would he never leave? “That’s right.”

  “She can’t be paying you a hell of a lot.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I said she can’t be—”

  “Mr. Jaeger, is there a point to all of this?”

  He scratched his head again and flashed the smile. “Well, matter of fact, there is. I don’t want to barge right in with it—”

  I’ll fucking bet you don’t.

  “—but it occurs to me that working for Clem’s wife can’t pay you enough to get by on, and maybe you could use either a full-time job or some additional part-time work. I generally look to hire two extra waitresses around the first of June for the summer season, but we’ve been doing fair business the past couple weeks and it wouldn’t hurt to get another girl any time now, and I thought if you need work you might be interested.”

  For a moment she felt guilty for having guessed he was dropping back to throw a pass. Then she realized she was supposed to fed guilty, and he was preparing to make a pass.

  “That’s very generous of you,” she said.

  “Not generous. I need a waitress and you need work. One hand washes the other, I think they call it. Just a question of being practical.”

  “I’m impractical.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I don’t think I’d like the work, Mr. Jaeger.”

  “I’m an easy guy to work for, Linda, and—”

  “I understand you make it a point to sleep with your waitresses.”

  He looked hurt. “Who told you that?”

  “Everybody.”

  “Well, I don’t know what you heard—”

  “I just told you what I heard.”

  “I don’t know what you heard, but don’t believe everything you hear.” The smile. “Sleep with all my waitresses. Like some Arab with his harem, the way you make it sound. I admit it sometimes works out that there’s what they call a mutual attraction, and then nature takes its course. But as far as—”

  “I’m sorry if I jumped to conclusions,” she said, her tone as flat as she could make it. “Thank you for the offer, then. But I really don’t think I’d care for the work.”

  “How do you know till you try it?”

  “I waited on tables before, Mr. Jaeger. I didn’t like it.”

  He nodded, and his face changed; he had tried and failed and was now giving up. “Well, you could always change your mind,” he said.

  “I’ll let you know if I do.”

  “You do that,” he said.

  When the door was closed and the key turned in the lock she sagged against the door and listened to his footsteps on the stairs. She felt drained, exhausted. Early in the conversation she had wanted a cigarette but had been unwilling to step out of the doorway to get one.

  Now she found the pack and lit a cigarette, walked listlessly around the room. She wondered if she had handled it well and decided that she had. She had made it nixonially clear that she was not interested in his job or in him and had done so in a manner which ought to discourage further overtures. And she had kept her cool; he left disappointed but left without hating her. It was never a good idea to have a landlord who carried a grudge against you. Life at the Shithouse was bad enough without that.

  Men, she thought, were just incredible. She would have gladly bet her remaining hundred and fifty-seven dollars that he had no prospective tenant with an urgent need to know if her apartment was up for grabs. She was convinced that Sully had known the answers to his questions before he asked them. The question that mattered to him was one he had never put in words, however clearly he got his meaning across.

  Well, she’d answered that question, too.

  She put out the cigarette. She would have to get used to this sort of thing from now on. Men would be sniffing at her like dogs at a bitch in heat. That she had never been less in heat seemed to be immaterial. All that mattered was her availability.

  It had been that way after her divorce. Some of the suitors surprised her. Friends of Alan’s, husbands of her own friends, men who had never done so much as exchange a secret glance with her at parties, were suddenly turning up on her doorstep. Not because she was irresistible. Merely because she was there.

  The best thing about living with a man, she thought, was that it tended to keep some of the others away.

  Sully was breathing heavily on his way down the stairs. He bore the rejection philosophically. The easiest way to get any woman was to be the nearest man around during times of stress. Folk wisdom had it that recent widows were the easiest game on earth, and while Sully couldn’t bear that one out on the basis of personal experience, he saw every reason in the world why it should be true. They leaned on some man for te
n or twenty years and all at once he wasn’t there, so they fell over. And as soon as they hit the ground they opened their legs.

  This one wasn’t having any. Well, that was up to her. But the only way to find out was to find out, and it hadn’t cost him more than a short walk and a couple flights of stairs. It was like being a salesman, he had often thought. You had to make the calls and get the doors shut in your face if you were going to make any sales. A guy who stopped girls on the street and asked them if they’d like to fuck would get his face slapped a lot, but he would also get laid a damn sight more frequently than the average Joe.

  He paused at the ground-floor landing. She’d riven him a hard-on just standing there and talking to him, and he’d been wondering if she was going to notice. If she had, she’d given him no sign of it. But you couldn’t be sure with that kind; she was all ice water, frozen to the bone.

  He touched himself. He was still partially tumescent, and his groin throbbed with need. He thought of his wife. She would be in bed now. If there was a late movie that she liked, she’d be watching it, propped up with pillows. Or she’d be asleep, smelling jointly of Shalimar and her own warm musk. She always wore Shalimar to bed, and nothing else. She had said so not long before the wedding, and the line had charmed him. Later he found that a movie star had said it twenty years ago, that some flack wrote the line for the star, and that the extent of Melanie’s originality had been to change the name of the perfume from Chanel to her own brand.

  He could smell her now, could remember the way her skin felt against his.

  He started for the door, stopped abruptly, turned and walked down the hallway. He stopped before a door and put his head against the panel. No voices, just soft music. And a light was on; he could see it under the bottom of the door.

  He knocked.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Me. Sully.”

  “What do you want?”

  “What do I want? I want to go across the Atlantic in a rowboat.”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Oh?”

  “I got company.”

  She might have had company, or she might have been alone. There was no way of knowing. The relationship he had with her was such that he felt free to knock on her door whenever he felt like it, while she in turn was just as free to turn him down. She had not turned him down often, and on those few occasions she had always made an excuse—that she was with someone, that she was feeling sick, that she was washing her hair.