Ending (9 page)

What did she mean, that awful laughing cow of a girl? What was the leering insinuation? Dancers do have a reputation, unfounded or not. They’re something like nurses, who will do anything for anyone—that’s common knowledge. All that white, those creamy stockings, those starched haloes only a blind for redhot sensuality. Why not dancers too? Look at the suggestion in the choreography of their movements, those practically nonexistent costumes. Why should Jay resist that temptation if it was there all the time? If it was something he was forced to focus on through the prism of the camera lens? Floating overhead on a dolly, getting a new aerial perspective of all that sensual jazz. Dancers
are
beautiful. Even the ones who aren’t classically pretty have something. Those legs for one thing, and muscles like little surprises everywhere in delicate frames. Shaven armpits, the shiny perfume of sweat, all that music behind them so that they even
walk
and chew their food with a certain syncopation. I imagined a Diana doing her turns on stage, blackened bare feet, the exotic claims of stage makeup, costume, breathlessness.

Another cameraman was talking about something, the mysteries of a Bergman film, I think. The girl who had spoken about Diana was leaning forward, nodding at him. The cameraman ended every sentence with “Right? Am I right?” It was hard to concentrate. Another conversation to my left overlapped this one, so that everyone was talking gibberish. I wanted to go home, felt a constriction in my chest that was like pain. I sent my signal to Jay, who was on the other side of the room now, at what seemed to be a great distance. He read my message and came slowly toward me with little detours among his friends. I watched as he went into a group and made them laugh, watched friendly pats on the backsides of women, little boxing gestures exchanged with the men. He was still smiling when he came up to me. “Right. You’re absolutely right,” I said to the cameraman, and then I separated myself from the group to meet Jay. He put his hand on my arm immediately and it struck me again that Jay liked to
touch
all the time, that tactile gesture often took the place of language. With the kids too, his hands always on them, as if he would memorize their bones, circling an ankle or a wrist with his long fingers. Something in me liked it of course, needed it, curled and curved to his touch even in ordinary household conversation.

But now I found myself leaning away. Ah, body language. Jay moved closer, enforcing his hold on my arm, as if to emphasize a point he had just made. I thought my flesh might darken under the still light pressure of his fingers. I expected him to be alarmed, to sense the danger of my suspicion, but he only said, “Ready to go? Had enough?” And I nodded, trying to seem like myself as we worked our way through the room to the door.

I drove home and he played little games with me in the car, whispering endearments into my hair. I could smell the heavy sweetness of his drinking breath. “You know,” he said, and I knew the expansiveness of his mood from the slow way he was speaking; “you know,” he said again, “you were the prettiest woman at the party, by far. By far,” he repeated, as if someone had disputed it. “And do you know what I’ve been thinking all night?” His hand rested on my knee as if he were going to confide a great and vital secret.

It interfered with my own thoughts. Diana. The two of them in some lovely little routine full of sensual gestures, not a word passing between them. Jay always looked like something of a dancer himself, or like someone about to break into a dance routine, given the moment and the music. Face it, face it. Women always liked Jay. Door opener, listener, package carrier, toucher extraordinaire.

It would have been easy enough to just say it then. Diana! Or, who was that woman I saw you with last night? That was no woman, that was a sweet little dancer in Jerry’s stable. You know how they are, dancers. Like nurses, if you know what I mean.

And what if he
had
broken that fierce bargain, and he wasn’t faithful? What would it really mean anyway, in terms of what would happen between us? Lying in bed, sleepless, I remembered that conversation a long time ago about fidelity. What would you do if I was like your father? But I couldn’t say. You’re
not
like him … Yet the potential is there, I suppose, in everyone. Izzy had asked me once if I would give Jay life if it were with another woman, if … and I had said yes. But that would be an abandonment too, wouldn’t it?

I had wondered if she was one of the black girls. God knows they’re beautiful now that they know it, allow themselves to be. Jerry always had a partiality for the black girls on the show, for that mask of conviviality they showed him, feeding him soft Southern voices, that drew on the magic of their myth.

“Who’s that girl with the thick glasses?” I asked Jay.

“Connie?” He was surprised. I had nudged him away from the direction of lovemaking, and into an ordinary conversation. “She’s a good kid, but a little anxious. Everything’s passed her by. And she’s been in love with Jerry for years.”

“Ugh,” I said, shuddering.

“Ah,” he said. “I expect more compassion from you, Sandy, old kid. Pretty women can afford to be generous to their less fortunate sisters.”

“It was
Jerry
I meant with that ‘ugh.’ ”

“Not your type, huh?” He moved closer again, stroked my ear.

“Don’t be funny, Jay. And stop
doing
that while I’m driving. Sometimes I don’t understand this whole chemistry business anyway. Who wants who. It’s not as simple as pretty faces, good legs, is it? I mean Jerry is really unattractive when you see him close up.”

“Jerry is a star, for God’s sake! Stardom transcends reality.” He leaned back and hummed the opening bars of Jerry’s theme, and in my mind’s eye the little chorus moved onstage, kicking their legs skyward, viciously sexy and smooth.

I remembered the dumb-ass conversations I had for years with Izzy and other girls at school about whether we’d care if a man we truly loved went with another woman for, you know, just sex, or would it
really
bother us, if he went for say, intellectual stimulation. Oh God.

I couldn’t ask him then. I couldn’t say a word. Just let him slide back into the old bedside approach while I parked the car. In the short whining climb of the elevator, he played the bones of my spine (an old, but working trick). Ah, why couldn’t I just let it go? WIFE AND MOTHER, the inspiration for a thousand greeting cards, winner take all. It was all based on nothing but the slightest hint anyway, the most subtle of intuitions. Yet something in that girl’s voice offered pages of possibilities. If asked, she might have gladly produced documented proof from her purse.

What would you do if I were like your father? I don’t know. You couldn’t …

The baby-sitter paid and dismissed. Jay, good Daddy, going in first to cover the children. “Jesus, they are
beautiful
!” Bursting with his excesses, urging my own. “Come look at these kids, Sandy,” as if he had invented them. Come look at this view, that crazy skyline, this terrific food, this beautiful erection. Just for you, darling. His appetites were so huge you could not imagine standing in their way.

On the other hand, it would really be very simple. Face him in the good old married lamplight of the bedroom.
Uh-
uh. First things first, kiddo. Tell me about Diana.

Who?

Your little Ginger Rogers, Fred. You know who.

Head in hands now, penis dropped from grace against his thigh.

All right. All right. It happened once, Sandy. I swear it. Do you know, I wanted to tell you? Do you remember the Sunday when I was so damn restless I couldn’t even read the
Times?
When I sighed all afternoon until you couldn’t stand it? The Sunday after the damned rehearsal Jerry wouldn’t let go. Egomaniac bastard.

So you choreographed a little fucking?

It happened, Sandy. Wow, how do I expect you to believe that? Of course it didn’t just happen. I did it. She did it.

Birds do it, I might sing. Bees do it, for heaven’s sake.

Then, Jay would continue, I decided
not
to tell you, because I didn’t want to cause you that kind of pain. If you can only believe that now. Because of everything. Your mother and father. Because in the long run it doesn’t even matter. It wasn’t memorable, Sandy, in any sense of the word.

Just fun while it lasted, huh?

And the keys came out of his pocket and were silenced on the dresser top next to the loose coins. The clothes were thrown everywhere. Slob. Does he think I’m the goddam maid around here?

Then he stretched in that way he always had, loose and reaching. Clock-winding. Covers pulled back. Good-Mother-Father-Jay, fixing the room for love, for sleep. Nothing so domestic with what’s her name, I’ll bet. All tangled sheets and hot breath there. Or stained car upholstery.

“Come here, sweetie,” Jay said. Arms opened. “Come here.”

And I walked around the bed, feeling my way like a blind woman, teetering on my poor reluctant feet You can’t accuse a man of your own
fantasies,
can you? And it’s possible to become your own mother, isn’t it? I didn’t want to know, anyway. That was how imagination became truth. You had to accept it first, allow your will to be broken.

I let myself be kissed, a passive resister, until a choice had to be made. And then I kissed back. “Love,” Jay said. “Here,” reduced to parts of speech. His hands worked, redefining my own forms.

“Okay,” I said at last, letting her go, ghost dancer, twinkle-toed homewrecker, figment of a distant and terrible imagination. And I was saved.

January 16
^th

Dear Children,

How are you? We are fine here in the land of palm trees and sunshine. Today our Cultural Discussions Unit is meeting on the beach for a session of Yoga exercise and meditation. So far I have not done well in this area as I am unable to empty my mind of all that junk I carry around with me so that I can concentrate on reaching a higher spiritual state.

When I get into that position with my legs crossed first thing I get a terrible cramp. You know me and my varicose veins. Anyhow I shut my eyes because 1 can’t help it if I look at anybody else I start to laugh. (Shame on me). The leader with
some
figure she can twist herself up like a pretzel tells us we have to get rid of everything before we begin. Some job my head is always crowded with this and that. She talks with a very serious face about Life Force. We have to breathe in a certain way I get dizzy and in the meantime I am thinking of my shopping list for supper and did I shut the gas and what you are doing so far away in New York.

As far as Sam goes he falls asleep right away and has to quit. Well in any case I feel that the exercise and the fresh air can’t hurt anybody and it is better than sitting around moping. In the meantime before I empty my mind again let me remember to send my best regards to your parents Sandy and to my dearest grandchildren.

Love and peace

Mona

I
N THE SUPERMARKET, PAUL
sat in the seat and Harry pushed the wagon through the aisles. I walked alongside them, pulling boxes and cans from the shelves, and dropping them into the wagon. I threw weightless boxes of cereal with the words FREE FREE LOOK INSIDE! printed in big letters. After them, I tossed bloody cuts of meat, wrapped and sealed as if they had been readied for a time capsule. I felt a sick sensation in my chest, and I wondered if I might become a vegetarian. I could not even inspect the meat for distribution of fat or bone or gristle. I shut my eyes and then I wiped my hands on the sides of my coat. Every few minutes the children would call out the name of a product they had seen in a television commercial. “Get it,” they demanded and, weary of the ordered idiocy of our lives, of the cautions against cavities and unbalanced diets, I complied. “Here,” I said, “okay,” until Paul’s lap was covered with packages and I wasn’t even sure of what I had taken.

In the pickle and relish aisle, Mr. and Mrs. Caspar, who lived in our building, walked toward us. He pushed the wagon and she preceded him, slapping the floor in Swedish clogs. Her hair was tortured into a teetering pile of curls, snaked with ribbons and artificial blond braids. She was at least as old as my mother, but she wore a tiny, pleated skirt, and the flesh of her thighs trembled with every step.

Behind her, Mr. Caspar, still handsome, rangy and weathered as an aging cowboy, walked with his head down, pushing the wagon as if it carried an intolerable load. In fact, it was almost empty. Just a loaf of bread and a few other items were at the bottom. Cradled in her arms were the gourmet items: olives stuffed with capers and almonds, smoked oysters, a jar of brandied fruit. Coming abreast of us, Mr. Caspar addressed himself to the children. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and began to change it into wriggling, writhing animal shapes. Paul giggled.

“I lost my penny,” Mr. Caspar cried. “I can’t find my penny.” He pretended to search in his wagon and then in ours. Mrs. Caspar’s lips lifted, showing the yellow sides of her teeth, the dark red of her gums. She sighed, trying to catch her reflection in a huge jar of pickles. She poked at her curls.

“My penny, my penny,” Mr. Caspar cried. His hands reached out, cupping Harry’s ear, and we all heard the clink of a coin against his ring. “Ah,” he said.

Harry poked his finger cautiously in his ear.

“Only one,” Mr. Caspar said. “I only lost one.”

“Me,” Paul said.

“Keep your eyes open, Sonny,” Mr. Caspar warned. “Maybe next time. How is your husband?” he asked me.

“He’s sick,” I said.

“Well, if we could help you out sometimes …” But it was an editorial “we.” Mrs. Caspar had fled the aisle. We could hear the receding noise of her clogs, the jangling of her jewelry.

“Thank you,” I called, as he hurried after her.

The whole neighborhood knew about Mrs. Caspar, about Estrella. “Estrella, my foot, if you’ll pardon me,” said Joseph’s mother. “She got that name from a five and dime someplace. And if she only acted her age, she would be in the old ladies’ home.”