“Did Fran like being a writer's wife?” I nodded at the waiter.
“No. Although she sure had plenty of experience—her first husband was a typewriter slob too. First off, Matt is a joker who can really blow his money, live big. But it wasn't only the money part; she never learned that writers can't live in a rut—even an expensive one—or it dulls their work. They need shaking up, so to speak, but it has to be a shaking of their own choosing. Or it throws them off completely. What I'm trying to say is: A wife shouldn't try to dominate a writer. I suppose we shouldn't dominate any man, but especially a writer. Took me a long time to learn that. Take this mental jolting—you ever notice how writers are traveling all the time? Sinclair Lewis, for instance, was always on the go. Of course there were other complications with Matt, he never really cared for Fran. Told me that down in Florida. He married her after their first night together. I don't think Matt can really care for any woman because he doesn't know what sex is all about.”
“What's that mean?” I asked, sipping my second drink slowly, warning myself not to get high.
“Usual male arrogance. Matt thinks he has a king's scepter dispensing divine favors. Any time he had a woman who wasn't a professional whore, and I'll bet that wasn't often, Matt was overcome with the tremendous 'sacrifice' he thought the female had made, and the wonderful 'favor' he had conferred upon her. Actually, he's a horrible prude. I think that's why he writes about sex so much and so badly. He simply can't believe there is joint enjoyment, in the equality of the sexes. Happily, I never let him bestow the 'favor' on me. Although we damn near landed in bed. Know what made me see the light? A fish. Really. As I told you, Joel was in a hell of a funk. He couldn't even get a drink of water without spilling it. When the four of us went fishing for a few days, my poor Joel couldn't get a bite. Then, on our last day, the very last hour of fishing, wham! Joel hooked and boated this great marlin all by himself. Biggest fish you ever saw. It was one of those things; gave us both new confidence. That's when I told Matt I quite literally wanted no part of him.”
“And he gave up that easily?”
She laughed. “I'm trying to tell you he's a phony about sex. Every time I saw him, all last week, he'd get me aside and whisper like a hammy actor, 'Let me show you something out in the pines.' Or, 'Honey, isn't it time we see what sort of spring music we can make?” Real kid slobbering. I got so used to it I didn't bother answering. Bet if I had said yes he would have run. It was merely another muscle Matt liked to flex. Fran as much as told me—several times—he wasn't anything in bed. Nice wifey talk. You know he has a bad heart, showing his muscles will kill him one of these days if the State doesn't kill him first.”
She dug in her bag for a pack of cigarettes, shook her head as I reached for mine. Lighting her cigarette, I said, “You don't seem to be exactly fond of the Anthonys.”
“They bored me. But End Harbor is comfortable and I thought Matt was good for Joel.”
“What's that 'good' mean?” I asked, motioning for the waiter again, but holding on to my glass.
“He's an old hand. I suppose I hoped some of his success would rub off on Joel. Oh, that's unfair—I think Joel is a better writer than Matt, even commercially. But Joel's afraid to take chances and writing is a gamble. I don't mind working, giving him time to make it. I even like getting out of the house every day. I want him to try TV or... here, he has a wonderful idea for a modern fantasy novel. A woman like— Hatti Carnegie, Arden, one of these female Diors who set the fashions—she gets angry at the cosmetic industry, due to a petty, minor matter... and, for christsakes, don't blab or steal this idea.”
“I'm safe as Fort Knox.”
She blew a cloud of smoke at me. “I believe you are. Anyway, this woman deliberately changes the fashions to long, straight hair and no make up. This knocks out all the cosmetic concerns, kills TV advertising, ruins magazines, in fact the entire country is on the brink of a depression as a result In the end the President has to invite her to the White House, beg her for the sake of the country's economy to tell women to start using lotions and cosmetics again. It would be a wonderful satire, would make Joel. But he piddles around with the adventures of some bastard pussy cat, insists he wants to knock off enough children's books to feel secure first.” She shrugged—and so many things danced. “Maybe he's right Sometimes I get a chill; seems such a long chance, to base your rent and food bills on a mere idea. There's no kick to it any more.”
“Kick to writing?”
She nodded. “Joel has done some good stuff, really sensitive. He has a flair for that. When I first knew him it gave me a thrill to see his stuff in print. Now everything comes down to, 'Will it sell?' Tell me, would Joel gain anything by switching to Longson?”
“I don't know. We haven't much of a juvenile list.”
“You're pushing Matt's books. There must be some way Joel can cash in on this publicity. He's so damn afraid it will ruin him. I keep urging him to capitalize on it but... That's what I mean about the writing business, there aren't any rules, you don't know what to do. Norm, can we talk about something else except shop? Do you dance?”
“A little.”
“I'm sort of keyed up. I'm out for a hell of a time. This place is too quiet.”
“Finish your drink and we'll go. Did Matt really threaten his wife that afternoon?”
“Yes. But I thought it was only talk. And talking about that nightmare gives me the creeps. Have you a car?”
“Yes.”
“Let's drive and cool off. And forget all writers, including Matt,” she said, getting up.
We taxied to the garage and then drove out to Long Island, stopping at a dismal place where we danced and she had a few more drinks. I didn't even finish my first. For no reason I found myself telling her about Michele. Not all of it, I mean not all about last night I merely said we had a spat. But I told her other things, like how I met Michele when I was a Press Officer in Paris, fresh out of college, and she was working as a typist in SHAAF while waiting for a teaching appointment. How we had acted like a couple of jerks, afraid to touch each other, not even a kiss. Michele hadn't wanted to act the sexy French gal of fiction and the dirty jokes. And I had to prove my French wasn't limited to Voilez vous coucher avec moi ce soir? I even told Wilma about that afternoon, it was our 5th or 6th date, when we were alone in Michele's house and rushed each other to bed. What a tremendous afternoon! And I told Wilma about my winning $739 in a crap game which let us honeymoon in the finest hotels on the Cote D'Azure.
I knew I was talking too much, but it all made me feel slightly better. Although Wilma was hardly my idea of a confessor. But she was a fine listener.
She said, “In her case running home to mama is some hop, skip and jump. If—”
“You should have seen how proud her folks were—he's the head of a school there—to have an American officer for a son-in-law.”
“... if Joel ever hits it, well live in Europe. While I'm not on a baby kick myself, things are so unsettled for us, but if Joel had a regular job like yours.... I can see her point Maybe.”
Wilma decided the bar was too lonely and we drove on. It seemed to me as if we'd been together for a long time, but it wasn't quite midnight. We stopped in Long Beach for more drinks and I said she must have something to eat In the middle of a seafood meal Wilma announced she wanted fresh air—in a hurry. I drove down a deserted road that ran along a bay until she moaned, “Stop. I'm getting sick.”
Pulling off the road, I hit a soft shoulder or maybe it was some swampy sand. The car lurched, seemed about to turn over. There was a bad moment as I battled the wheel, stepped on the gas. We seemed to hang in air, then the car leaped back on the road. Ahead I saw a tiny dirt lane leading to the water. I turned into it a ways and stopped.
Holding one hand over her mouth, Wilma ran out of the car and into some tall swamp grass and gave up. I wasn't drunk, and I suppose it was the near accident and her being so messy—but I was suddenly very sober and tired. This would have been such a stupid way to die. And why was I being so childish about an affair when I had a wife like Michele?
Wilma came near the car, said, “Wasn't that a charming sight? Told you not to feed me.” She shook her hand violently, looked around. “I know I smell like two other girls and I feel the same way. Seems to be a beach down there. Swimming, anybody?”
“Okay.”
She undressed so quickly it seemed I glanced down to turn off the ignition and looked up to see her nude in the dim moonlight. The nipples of her breasts were as red as her hair. She ran toward the water, running gracefully, and dived in. A minute later she was running back, stuck her wet head in the window. “Well, Tarzan?”
The door window framed her breasts and shoulders. She arched her chest out, as though that was necessary, and said, “You see, they are real. Your eyes have been like a bra all night.”
There was something so pat about it all, I became sore. I told her coldly, “That's me, very bosom conscious. Here's another book idea for your husband; no part of the human body, including the brain, has changed the world's history as much as a firm pair. In fact, at the moment, breast shots are the mainstay of a high percentage of our magazines; they're the new literary movement.”
“Odd time for a lecture, isn't it?” Her big eyes were mocking me.
I slid along the seat and stepped out of the car on the other side, undressed. Wilma ran into the water and I followed her. The water was wonderfully salty and cool. Wilma was a good swimmer and we went out about a hundred yards before turning back. It was a fine beach, very few rocks or mud on the bottom. We walked up and down the beach, shivering a bit. She kicked up the sand with her toes and stared at me, her face more intense than ever. “You strip big, Norm. You really have good shoulders, and those hands.... so strong.”
I looked down at the sand, kicked some on her feet. She seemed to have perfectly formed feet. “Why do you wear those funny looking shoes?”
“Find they relax me. The old gag about taking a cold shower—the swim did it for us, didn't it?”
“Did what? We wanted to take a swim, and we did. Let's go back to dry ourselves.”
As we headed back toward the car Wilma took my hand. We walked along like a couple of kids. She said, “You have such hard rough palms, like a laborer's. What do you do at Longson's, use your hands for a paper press?”
“I play a lot of handball,” I said, knowing I must sound like an idiot.
She suddenly placed my hand on her breast. And then we were thrashing around on the sand. It was all over before I could even think about it. Lying beside her I didn't feel a thing but confused. Then I wondered if I had let her down.
I glanced at Wilma and in the pale light she seemed to be smiling up at the stars. She was still breathing heavily. She turned, smiling at me, and said, “Talk to your juvenile editor about Joel. I think a change in publishers might be good for him. You see how I have to look after Joel, wear his pants. But I don't mind.”
The words bounced off my face and I looked away, wondering if she was stark crazy. Then I realized it hadn't meant a damn thing to her... or to me. It seemed so downright childish. Why had we done it, then? Instead of being full of sand and probably catching at least a cold as I lay beside this nutty broad, I should be with my wonderful Michele. The exciting, sensuous strength to her arms around my back. How embarrassed I'd been at first, the way she would embrace for hours afterward in sleepy satisfaction. I would finally awake in the middle of the night, my arms cramped and distant, but so aware of her soft beauty. I would be proud of her and....
Now, all I wanted was to be rid of Wilma and this dirty sand. I stood up. “Shall we wash up with a swim?”
I pulled Wilma to her feet—and she still had this kind of patronizing smile on her face. She held up her face and we kissed with absolutely no feeling. She giggled as we walked slowly into the water and swam around. Then I jogged back to the car for our clothes. I tossed her my T-shirt for a towel, while I tried to dry myself with my shorts.
I tossed the shorts into the grass. Wilma threw the T-shirt into the back of the car. Being dressed again seemed to be an act of sanity. I drove back to New York, her head resting on my shoulder. She happily didn't talk until we crossed the 59th Street bridge when Wilma sat up to ask: “What time is it?”
“Nearly three. Would you care for something to eat?”
“No, I feel fine. Norm, when you get straightened out with your wife, come over and visit. I think we can all be wonderful friends. Joel is very amusing, usually.”
“Sure.”
When I parked in front of her door Wilma held up her face and we kissed lightly. She said, “Don't forget,” waved and walked into the house.
My teeth were chattering. I drove to the first coffee pot and had two cups of hot coffee. I still felt completely confused. The coffee warmed me and I thought, Okay, so now I'm a man, and all that slop. I've had my affair, got it out of my system.
Oddly enough, I did feel very much a man. And I also had the same childish feeling as when Frank and I would dress in old slacks and a sweatshirt some Sunday mornings, drive to the handball courts on the lower Drive. With stupid delight we would play a sloppy one wall game until we were 'suckered' into playing for two bits a man with some of the other players. We'd tighten up, win. Between us we made nearly forty grand a year, yet winning a half a dollar gave us pure delight.
When I reached the apartment I sat in a hot bath for awhile, then fell into bed, wondering if the coffee would keep me up. It didn't; I slept the sleep of the just.
I awoke at nine and felt so good I winked at myself in the mirror while shaving... like a happy jerk.
Prof. Henry Brown
As I was closing the windows of my car in front of Prof. Brown's 'hotel,' I saw my crumpled T-shirt on the back seat. I stared at it for a second, almost with pride. Last night had been lousy but it had done something to my malehood, childish as that may sound, to know that these sexy-looking babes were not very good at it, as I always expected. True, I was basing this pearl of wisdom only on Wilma, but she was a fair sampling, I decided.
The heat and insecticide perfume hit me as I stepped into the lobby. The clerk waved as if I was an old buddy, then slapped his face and ran around the desk, rushed me to the door. I couldn't get his rapid French, but he kept gesturing madly at the back of the little man walking up toward Broadway. When I asked if that was Prof. Brown, the clerk nodded and waved his arm even more violently.
Thanking him, I walked and ran up the street, reaching Broadway in a blaze of sweat. Brown was making for the subway and I sprinted after him. He seemed to be in his late fifties, a slightly built little man, wiry and lean, walking with a neat stride. He was wearing an old tropical suit As I caught up with him his face surprised me. It was a thin face, the skin tight, a sort of owlish expression under a great deal of brushed gray hair. Only owls don't have broken noses and the Professor's nose had been broken sharply, probably a lot of years ago.
