Chapter Twenty-six
S
till, in spite of the earth-shattering experience of sex with Doug, life went on much as usual. My life apart from Doug.
I sent what money I could spare to my mother, after frightening myself silly by going on-line to learn just how dangerous malaria could be.
I spoke to my father once a week, less than before he’d started to date Abby.
I went to work and generally stayed later than anyone else. I watched TV and read books. And I saw my friends, though I didn’t say a word about what was going on between Doug Spears and me.
We four women had had tickets to the Red Sox vs. the Seattle Mariners game at Fenway Park for months now. And there was no reason for me not to go as the game was on a Saturday, not a time during which I could be with Doug. Because Maggie was in Paris, I offered her ticket to Damion. He accepted.
“This is the life,” I said. “Who’s better than us, huh? Sun, sausages with onions, beer.” It was maybe the best day of my life. Of the summer, anyway. Of the days not spent with Doug.
“Weak beer,” Damion said, sneering at his cup.
“I’ll buy you a real beer later. As I was saying, a nice breeze, girlfriends, big men in tight pants. Big men running and crouching. Big men with great butts. I mean, this is great.”
Just because I was madly in love with Doug, didn’t mean I was dead to the presence of attractive male bodies. In fact, in a way, Doug had sexualized the world for me. He was the core and base of my sexuality and through him, the world had suddenly come alive with sexual energy.
“How can you eat those things?” JoAnne nodded at my sausage.
“Easy. Open mouth, insert sausage, bite, chew, swallow. I’ve been doing it since I had teeth.”
“Just don’t come running to me when there’s a hole in your stomach the size of a hubcap.”
“I think my nose is burning.” Abby touched the tip of her nose with one thin finger. “Is my nose burning? I put on lots of sun block before I left the house so I don’t know why my nose would be burning. But it feels like it is. Does my nose look red?”
“No, but it’s going to if you don’t shut up.” JoAnne flipped a small tube into Abby’s lap. “Here. Use some of my block.”
Abby peered at the tube. “Oh. It’s only SPF 15.”
“Put on two layers.”
“I don’t think it works that way,” Abby said worriedly. “I don’t want to be all red when I see John tonight.”
“Here.” Damion took off his baseball cap and handed it to Abby. “Wear this, too.”
Abby held the cap by the very tip of the brim, like it was a dangerous or very icky wild animal. “Uh, thanks, Damion. But, well, it’s really not my style. It looks good on you, though!”
Damion rolled his eyes and snatched back his cap.
I laughed. Life was good.
Doug was full of small but lovely surprises in those first weeks. When I got to work one morning there was a white paper bag sitting on the receptionist’s desk. It had been delivered from—and prepaid for—Au Bon Pain. Heather gave me an odd look as she handed it to me.
“Oh, yeah,” I said idiotically, “I almost forgot. I ... I had my breakfast, uh, sent ahead.”
What? I dashed off to my office and opened the bag. Inside was a cup of black coffee, an Asiago cheese bagel, toasted with butter—my favorites—and a note.
E.—Thinking of you this morning. Think of me? D.
There were more flowers. There were messages on my answering machine when I arrived home after saying good-bye to Doug under cover of darkness.
Erin, I miss you already and you just walked away.
Simple, sweet gestures. Like Doug’s first tangible gift to me. We met for lunch on the terrace overlooking the bay behind the Boston Harbor Hotel. It was like being on vacation for an hour—white sailboats and yachts, bright blue sky, sun glinting off the water, everybody in sunglasses, men shedding jackets, women in sleeveless dresses. It was a place where you could easily feel alone amidst the crowd of other diners.
When we had ordered, Doug took a small but chunky box from his pocket. It was wrapped inexpertly in shiny blue paper.
“Here,” he said, placing the box on the table before me. “It’s your birthday present.”
I grinned, inordinately thrilled.
“But my birthday is in January. It’s months away.”
“But I missed your last birthday.”
“But you didn’t even know me then.”
“Allow me my pleasures. Go on, open it.”
I did. Usually, I tear open packages, destroying the wrapping in the process. This time, I carefully broke open the tape in an effort not to ruin the paper. It would be saved, like every other tidbit associated with Doug. Souvenirs of our first heady days.
A box. Inside was a large lucite ring, the kind that never really loses popularity, the kind that used to be sold in the candy stores of my youth for loose change and that are now sold in museum shops and fancy gift shops for considerably more money.
It was largely translucent with shafts of pink and purple and violet shot through. The top of the ring was shaped like a heart. It was a heart plateau.
There was no way the ring would ever fit under a glove. It was a whimsical ring for whimsical occasions. It was gorgeous.
“I love it!” I said, laughing.
Doug ran his finger along my cheek.
“I wanted to give you something special. Right now I can’t give you the kind of ring I want to give you, so ...”
Oh, God, he’d really wanted to give me an engagement ring... .
“Oh, Doug, it’s beautiful. You make me so happy I can’t stand it.”
“Try to.”
And I did.
For about ten days I kept the official start of my relationship with Doug—which I considered our first full sexual encounter—a secret from my friends. But I couldn’t keep quiet any longer. I was dying to tell—not details but the fact that I was in love. The fact that Doug was in love with me. I just knew he was.
I met JoAnne, Maggie, and Abby for dinner at Dish, a small, cozy place in the South End. It was a lovely evening and there’s not much traffic on Shawmut at that end of the street, so we took a table on the sidewalk.
I decided to dive right in.
“Well, I know you won’t approve, but ...”
“But you’re sleeping with that married guy,” JoAnne blurted. “What’s his name? Dirk Spiral?”
“Doug Spears. And how did you know!”
“Oh, come on, Erin,” JoAnne said. “You’re so transparent!”
“I am?” This was news.
“And none of us has seen you since the Red Sox game,” Abby pointed out. “You’ve been ‘busy’ every time we’ve gotten together.”
“I’m sorry guys, really. But Doug and I have to grab what time we can. It’s not like ... like ...”
“Like a normal relationship?” Abby said unhelpfully.
“See, I knew you wouldn’t approve.”
“It doesn’t matter what we think, honey,” JoAnne said. “It’s your life and nobody has a right to tell you what to do.”
“That’s right. You’re an adult,” Abby said helpfully.
“Yeah, sound of body if not of mind.” Maggie cringed. “I’m sorry, Erin. I think you’re making a big mistake but I’m here for you if you need me.”
“You mean, when she needs you,” JoAnne amended. “Because you will need us, honey. There’s no way having an affair with a married man is going to be a smooth ride. Unless you’re looking for a little excitement and drama. Tell me, do emotional pain and trauma turn you on?”
“God, no!” I protested. “I just ... I wish my friends wouldn’t judge me.”
“We’re not judging you,” Abby insisted. “Really. We’re just worried.”
“And expressing our concern,” Maggie added.
“Right. Erin, none of us is perfect. We’ve all made mistakes and ...”
“It’s not a mistake, JoAnne,” I insisted. “It’s not. I know Doug. I know what I’m doing. If you can’t be happy for me, then ...”
“Then we’ll keep our mouths shut,” Maggie said firmly, with a stern look at JoAnne and Abby. “Now, let’s order. I’m starved.”
“Thanks, Maggie. I’ll be just fine. I will.”
JoAnne patted my hand. “Of course you will. Now, let’s see. A bottle of wine?”
At least.
“So,” Abby said brightly, “when do we get to meet this person?”
Okay. Here was something I hadn’t considered yet.
JoAnne laughed. “Abby, you don’t meet your friend’s married lover. It’s a secret fling, remember?”
“Doug might want to meet my friends,” I said, knowing as I spoke that he would not. Why would he? To get to know me better by meeting others I loved. Yes, that was a good reason, but ...
“Why would he want to meet us?” Maggie said. “He’s got to suspect your friends don’t approve of him. No woman can approve of a cheater.”
“Please don’t be so judgmental,” I begged. “He’s not a bad person. Would I be involved with a bad person?”
Silence. Then: “Honey, again, we’ve all made mistakes.”
“Oh, God,” I cried, “I should have just kept my mouth shut about the whole thing.”
The rest of the evening was tainted with—sadness. My being with Doug had somehow driven a wedge between me and each of my friends. It had set me apart from them in a more definite way than any “legitimate” relationship would have.
In the midst of chatting friends, diners, and passersby, I felt terribly, terribly alone.
Chapter Twenty-seven
August, Boston
A
ugust in Boston is brutal. End of the discussion. Okay, it’s not as bad as, say, Charleston, South Carolina, where the temperature doesn’t fall below one hundred degrees until well after dark.
But I don’t live in Charleston, I live here, in Boston. And to me, August in Boston is horrid.
Maggie had invited us all over to see her pictures from Paris. As Maggie does not have a reputation for being a good photographer—and the fact that she has no air conditioner, only a loud, cheap-o fan—I, for one, was not really looking forward to the event.
The things we do for our friends.
At the last minute, Abby had called to cancel; she claimed a sore throat but I wondered. So the three of us sat around Maggie’s comfortable but shabby living room. I chose the floor. I thought I’d seen something move in the corner of the couch.
“Lights, please,” Maggie cried.
JoAnne turned off the lamp next to her chair.
With very few exceptions, slide shows are notoriously boring, whether in a classroom or in a living room. Maggie’s was not one of the exceptions. After thirty unprofessional, unfocused, and slightly blurry shots of landmarks and pigeons, I was ready to explode.
“Maggie?” I said. “How come there are no pictures of people?”
“There’s one of me,” Maggie protested.
“Yeah, of your left elbow. I mean, why aren’t there any pictures of your face? And of—what’s the name of the friend who went with you?”
“Colleague. I told you, she’s a colleague, not really a friend. Dr.—Bruce. That’s her name. Don’t wear it out!” Maggie chuckled lamely.
JoAnne gave me a look. It said: Maggie is one odd chick.
“Well, did you two get along?” she asked Maggie
“Fine. Yeah. I mean, we got along okay. You know.”
Well, I for one did not know. But ...
“Nice shot of the Eiffel Tower,” I lied.
“Thanks. I’m really proud of that one.”
The evening went on in much the same manner through four hundred bad slides, very bad wine, a slightly moldy tub of onion dip, a box of stale crackers, and the ineffectual whir of a fan.
The things we do for our friends.
When sex was not an option—for example, when someone else was staying late at Trident or when Doug had a commitment at home in Newton—we kissed. Doug and I spent a lot of time kissing, often in the backseat of cabs, sometimes in movie theaters, between the stacks in the big public library, once even behind a grimy old stone pillar in a ratty little church.
When Doug and I kissed it was—well, like nothing I’d ever experienced. Physically, a kiss is pretty much a kiss, and the act of kissing has a limited range of possibilities. It wasn’t as if Doug had invented a hitherto impossible way in which to curl his tongue or anything. What was so different and overwhelming about our kissing was the emotional force in it, the psychological force behind it, in short, the sense that I was annihilating Doug and that he was annihilating me, destroying each other because we had to, each giving permission to the other for obliteration.
Well, that falls short of accurately describing what went on when our lips and tongues met. And at the time I kept this kind of intimate information to myself. Partly, because I was afraid of JoAnne’s mockery—“Annihilation? Obliteration? Oh, yeah. Sounds real appealing, honey. Ever think of trying your hand at writing romance novels? The S&M kind?”—and of Abby’s concern—“Erin, um, maybe you should talk to a therapist about this—kissing. It doesn’t sound very, well, healthy.”—and of Maggie’s keen questioning—“How do you know what Doug’s thinking while he’s kissing you? Have you discussed this obliteration thing with him?”
And mostly because I
wanted
to keep such information to myself, treasure it, gloat over it in secret, like Gollum gloated over his Precious.
“I’ve got the kevorka.”
“What?” Maggie said.
JoAnne threw her bag onto the table and plopped into the empty chair.
The four of us had met for dinner at M. J. O’Connor’s, an Irish pub.
“The lure of the animal,” I explained.
“Again: What?”
“Oh, never mind,” JoAnne said, waving her hand.
“Who’s been following you today?” I asked.
“Every man over the age of fifty-five has been pawing at me with his eyes since I left my house this morning. I’m not safe on the streets, I swear. Is that bartender looking at me?”
“Thank goodness your patients are children,” Abby said.
“Some of them have older fathers,” JoAnne said darkly. “Don’t get me started on Mr. Price.”
“Again, for the second time: Explain kevorka.”
“It’s a thing from Seinfeld,” I said.
Maggie rolled her eyes. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
While JoAnne regaled Abby and Maggie with details of her kevorkian day, I thought about my own little theory of initial attraction. Not the kind that involves individual personality and character, not the kind that occurs during a first conversation, but the kind that takes place instantly, upon first sight, while passing on the street.
I believe that there are two basic elements that catch a man’s fancy, that rivet his attention. These two elements are Mystery and Movement. Sometimes they exist together. Personally, I’ve always found they work best on their own. No point in muddying the powerful effect of either by mixing up their signals.
Alternately, Mystery might be called Sensuality and Movement might be called Sexuality. More accurately, the promise of each.
Generally speaking—always a dangerous thing, I know, and not necessarily true in my own case—a young woman’s strength is Movement, aka sexuality. A mature woman’s strength is Mystery, aka sensuality.
Here’s an example from my own wardrobe. I own a dark brown faux fur hat; it frames my face in a Romantic way. My own father calls it my Anna Karenina hat. Every time I wear this hat, men of a particular sort stare, stumble, smile, blurt gentlemanly greetings. It’s a magic hat. It evokes Mystery. In that hat, I become a Mysterious Woman. Perhaps I have suffered the loss of a great love. I am alluringly tragic. I offer the promise of Sensuality.
Also from my wardrobe: A beige suede jacket with lots and lots of fringe. Fringe swings. It dances. It moves with my every move. When I wear that jacket, an entirely different sort of man stares, stumbles, smiles, blurts greetings—and whistles. The jacket is magic. It displays Movement. In that jacket I become a Wild Woman. Maybe I’ve had rock star lovers. I am teasingly dangerous. I offer the promise of Sexuality.
As I mentioned, at the age of thirty-two I am right on the cusp, still able to pull off the fringe suede jacket with heartening results, also able to compel with the hat that suggests I have endured a tragic love affair and yet am still able to love selflessly. How long I’ll be able to pull off the jacket is yet to be seen.
I tuned back into JoAnne’s lengthy tale. Abby’s mouth hung open. Maggie was wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.
“I was daydreaming,” I said. “What did I miss?”
“Just the guy who fell off his bike because he didn’t see a hole in the road because he was gaping at me.”
“Oh.”
I looked carefully at JoAnne, at her clothes and at the details of her hair and ...
“It’s the lipstick,” I said. Sensuality. The promise of sex with a real-life tragic heroine. “Definitely the lipstick. Is it new?”
“Yeah, I just picked it up. It’s some new brand, part of a retro line, you know, you put together a makeup look from the forties.”
“What’s it called?”
JoAnne shrugged and dug into her bag. A moment later she pulled out a black tube.
“It’s called ‘Rita Hayworth Red.’ Are you sure it’s the lipstick?” JoAnne asked. “Not my all-over irresistible feminine allure?”
“That helps. But trust me, I know these things. It’s the lipstick.”
“That lipstick is dangerous to society,” Abby said.
“The society of men, anyway. Tell Erin about the guy who stopped in the middle of the street and then the light turned and all the cars were honking and he was still staring after you.”
“You just did.” JoAnne eyed the black tube warily. “That guy had to be at least seventy. Maybe I’d better save this for a special occasion.”
“Maybe you’d better throw it away,” I suggested. “If you have any heart.”
“Forget it. I don’t. I’ll save it for those days when my feminine ego needs a little boost. Now, let’s eat. I’m starved.”