‘You mean …’ It was hard to speak. ‘All these years … How long has this been going on?’
‘Since we moved to England, and it’s just got worse and worse. Why do you think I let you beat me back here in the end? It
was because I was worried to death about Vicky. I thought she might improve if she came home, and so she did for a time, but
now everything’s worse than ever. My biggest fear is that one day she’ll walk out on me.’
‘
What
!’ I half-rose to my feet, then sank back in my chair. My breathing was ragged. I fumbled in my pocket for my medication.
‘Believe me, Neil, when I say the marriage is on the rocks I don’t
mean
I’m
tempted to walk out on
her
. Do you think I’d be here talking to you if I was? I’m here because I’m crazy about her and I’ve got to talk to someone and
I figure you can’t be too hard on me once you know how much I love her. I didn’t love her before we were married, I admit
that, but afterwards I … she was just so lovely and so sweet and so young and … I …’
He was going to break down. The scene was a nightmare. I found a handkerchief, put a hand on his arm to comfort him. ‘Take
it easy, Sam.’ My ineffectual words dropped emptily into the huge sea of his grief. I doubt if he even heard them. I knew
I had to be terse and unsentimental in order to get the conversation back on an even keel, so I knew it was vital not to think
of the source of his unhappiness as Vicky. I tried to think of her as just some woman I knew socially, a partner’s wife, no
one special.
‘Let’s get back to the present problem, Sam. This new baby that’s on the way – I guess that was an accident?’
‘Jesus, they’ve all been accidents since Paul. I used rubbers before that because I didn’t think she was old enough to cope
with birth control, but after Paul was born she said she wanted a diaphragm so I said okay, if you want, give it a try. Well,
it didn’t seem to work too well and we got a bit careless and … Samantha came. Well, afterwards I said hell, don’t go back
to the diaphragm, we’ll try the rubbers again and she said okay but then she thought she couldn’t get pregnant if she nursed
the baby – she’d never tried nursing before but she read something about mothers in India spacing their families by breast-feeding,
so she tried breast-feeding but it didn’t seem to work out too well … and she got pregnant anyway with Kristin. Boy, I had
a rough time of it. Then she heard about some experimental pill she could take but the doctor wouldn’t prescribe it, said
it caused cancer, so okay, I took no chances and used rubbers again from the very first time we got together after Kristin’s
birth.’
I wanted to ask him why she was apparently so set against him using rubbers, but I couldn’t. It was because I knew that ‘she’
was Vicky. I couldn’t ask a question like that. I didn’t even want to think about it.
‘Well,’ said Sam, ‘that was okay. We got along all right until … hell, you know what it’s like when you’re forty-nine – or
maybe you don’t. I know nothing about your sex-life nowadays. But I was working too hard trying to handle all the new power
I’d beaten out of you at the office, and I started drinking in order to keep going, and although I still wanted sex I found
I couldn’t make it like I used to.
And then one night I really wanted it but it just didn’t seem to work with the rubber on—’
I thought: just a wife, just an acquaintance, no one I know well.
‘—so I took off the rubber and then I made a mess of things and didn’t get out in time and oh Christ, it was bad luck to be
caught out like that – no, it was worse than bad luck, it was hell, it was the biggest possible disaster, it was like some
terrible punishment—’
I said in my most clinical voice: ‘Sam, it’s absurd to suffer like this. It’s bad for both Vicky’s mental health and yours.
Obviously the pregnancy should be terminated.’
‘Right. Just what I said. God knows I’ve always spoken out against abortion, but—’
‘When is Vicky having the operation?’
‘She’s not having it.’
‘Not having it?’ I thought I’d misheard him.
‘No. It was all set up but when she got to the hospital she couldn’t go through with it. I took her home and she cried all
the way.’
‘When was this?’
‘Yesterday. Neil, I’m terrified she’ll leave. I think she hates me. I think she hates the kids.
And I don’t know why
, Neil. If I knew, I could do something, fix it somehow. And what makes the situation even more nightmarish is that
I don’t think Vicky knows either
. It’s mad. I think we’re both going completely crazy.’
‘Well, it’s obvious,’ I said, ‘that Vicky’s undergoing some kind of breakdown. She must be hospitalized, and if you weren’t
so close to breakdown yourself this would be obvious to you too. I’ll talk to my doctor and fix up something at the best sanitarium.’
‘She won’t go into a sanitarium and I couldn’t possibly have her committed. She may be having a breakdown but it’s not that
kind of breakdown – she’s not seeing visions or feeling as if little green men are out to get her. She’s still coping. She
puts on a front before the children – and before you too, of course. Neil, whatever happens you mustn’t tell Vicky you know
about all this. I think it would kill her. It’s very, very important to her that you should think she’s well and happy and
that the marriage is grade A.’
I felt as if I were lost in some dark valley but above me on the hillside I could see the lights of a beautiful house while
inside beyond the lighted windows I could see all the people who were so far beyond my reach. I saw Emily and Alicia and Sebastian
– even Andrew – and Kevin and Jake, and now Vicky was there too, her face pressed against the glass in a mute appeal for help.
But I was cut off from her. I couldn’t get out of the valley, and although I searched and searched for
the driveway which would take me up to the house I kept getting lost in the dark.
‘Jesus, look at the time!’ Sam was saying perturbed. ‘I must go at once in case Vicky needs me.’ Stubbing out his cigarette
he finished his martini before adding in a brave attempt at optimism: ‘Well, I guess we’ll survive somehow – I love her and
that’s the most important thing, isn’t it? We’ll lick this problem in the end.’
‘Sure. Sam, if there’s anything else I can do—’
‘No, not for the moment, I feel better now I’ve talked it out. I want to thank you for listening to me, Neil. It must have
been hell and I’m sorry.’
‘I’m glad we talked.’
Outside on Fifty-Fifth Street it was cold and a bitter wind was blowing east from the frozen American hinterland as we paused
beside our cars to shake hands.
He said suddenly: ‘It’s okay now, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Sam,’ I said. ‘It’s okay.’
‘We’ll play “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” again?’
‘Yes. And talk. Like the old days.’
‘Great. I’ve missed you, Neil. It’s been a long time … By the way, do you still see Teresa?’
‘I’m on my way to her right now.’
‘Funny how unimportant all that seems nowadays … Well, be sure and tell her hullo from me, won’t you? I was always so fond
of Teresa.’
He got into the Mercedes but as the car drew away from the kerb he looked back at me and waved. I waved in return. Then I
crawled into my Cadillac as painfully as if I had broken every bone in my body, and was swept crosstown to the Dakota.
[5]
Teresa and I had come to resemble a certain type of married couple; we bickered occasionally, had sex as a matter of routine,
spent our time outside the bedroom watching television and secretly enjoyed our humdrum domesticity. Our relationship might
have become a habit but it was a hard habit to break, like smoking.
Teresa had changed since we had first met. Having finally reverted to her early, natural style of work she painted less but
better, and with her creative life in firmer control her organization of her surroundings had improved. She kept the apartment
clean, wore smart
clothes when she wasn’t working and made serious efforts to control her weight. The left-wing books in the apartment had long
since been replaced first by romantic novelettes, then by popular books on psychology and dieting, and as she discarded Bohemianism
to embrace the trappings of middle-class life, I began to suspect that she enjoyed thinking of our relationship as an informal
marriage rather than a love affair. I offered her a charge account at Saks and she said she would prefer Bloomingdale’s. I
asked her to choose a present at Tiffany’s and she did not laugh with scorn but spent half an hour selecting a hideous gold
pin. Once a year on her birthday I took her out to dinner. In the early years she would drag me to some cheap ethnic restaurant
in the Village but now we patronized the smart restaurants midtown.
Occasionally we discussed art together but usually intelligent conversation was too much of an effort. We yawned over trivia,
picked over desultory issues and watched
Dragnet
together – or perhaps a rerun of
I Love Lucy
, now irrevocably tainted for me by the thought of Sebastian’s exploits off the New Jersey Turnpike.
When I arrived at the apartment that evening Teresa was wearing a smart red wool dress which displayed her breasts to advantage,
a black chiffon scarf and the gold pin from Tiffany’s.
‘Why the hell didn’t you call to say you’d be late?’ she said aggrieved as I walked through the door. ‘The chicken Kiev’s
been keeping hot in the oven for well over half an hour.’
‘Cut it out, Teresa, I’ve had the most godawful day.’ I pecked her cheek in lieu of a kiss, walked wearily into the living-room
and sank down on the ugly orange couch which she had bought long ago to match an ugly orange lounge chair.
Without further questions she fixed me a drink, turned on the television and said she would bring in dinner.
‘Teresa, forgive me but I don’t think I could eat a mouthful. I’ve had a bad shock about Vicky and I’m worried to death about
her. I don’t want to go into detail and I must ask you to keep this in confidence, but it’s turned out she’s very unhappy.’
Without expression Teresa said: ‘Poor kid,’ and switched off the television.
‘I don’t understand it, Teresa. I want to fix it but I don’t know how to.’
‘Write a cheque to someone. Come on, have your drink and you’ll feel better.’
‘Teresa, please don’t try to joke about this. This problem can’t be solved just by writing a cheque.’
‘Then welcome to the club of the ninety-nine-point-nine per cent of the world who can’t solve their problems by writing cheques!
Okay, don’t get me wrong – believe me, I’m sorry if that poor kid of yours is unhappy, but if you want me to be truthful I
can tell you it’s no big surprise. This is a repeat pattern, isn’t it? You’ve never told me much about your past when you
and Sam were just two young kids scaring Wall Street shitless with your fifty million bucks, but I’ve kept in touch with Kevin
over the years and now and then he’s told me a thing or two about the seamy side of your past. You gave the orders and Sam
was the executioner, isn’t that right? Well, here we go again. You gave the order for Vicky to be happy and Sam’s busted his
ass being a yes-man, but unfortunately for everyone concerned it was the wrong order and Sam’s done a hatchet job.’
I tried to focus on what she was saying. ‘Teresa, you might as well be talking Chinese. What do you mean?’
‘Vicky should never have married Sam. Hell, Sam was my lover for four months – I should know what I’m talking about! If Vicky
had been grown up, as I was, she might have survived but she wasn’t grown up, was she? She was just a kid, running away from
her parents and blundering by a series of accidents (or
were
they accidents?) into the bed of a man who underneath all that smooth talk is very insecure with the opposite sex—’
‘Insecure?
Sam
? Why, he had women all over the place in the old days!’
‘Yes, and the best ones all walked out on him, didn’t they? Any woman with a mind of her own would walk out on Sam Keller
– he has a very rigid idea of what a woman ought to be: sweet, willing and submissive to his authority, but let’s be honest,
not all women can take that kind of nineteenth-century junk nowadays, some women don’t want to spend their lives wrapping
a man’s ego in lambswool, some women have figured out there are more rewarding ways of occupying their time!’
‘Teresa, just what the hell are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about the real world, Cornelius, the one you ride through every day in your insulated glass bubble of a Cadillac,
the one you keep at arm’s length by signing cheques. I’m not talking about your masculine pipe-dreams of the way women ought
to be – I’m talking about the way women really are! Believe me, I’m fond of Sam and if he wants a crying, walking, sleeping,
eating, living doll for a wife, good luck to him – we all have our different tastes and I’d be the first to say we’re all
entitled to them, but he should have picked a woman who
is
that way, a woman who
wants
to be that
way, not a mixed-up little girl who doesn’t know who she is or what she wants!’
I stared at her. Then I said rapidly: ‘Okay, maybe Vicky shouldn’t have married him, but she still had to have a husband,
didn’t she? It was obviously best for her to marry young – all I’ve ever wanted was the best for her—’
‘You’d have no idea what was best for any woman – you’d only know what was best for the bank in a multi-million-dollar business
deal! And why should it have been best for her to marry young? No, don’t give me that crap about her being an heiress who
had to be protected from all the wicked gigolos! You just couldn’t wait for her to marry because you have this psychological
need to see her as the perfect wife and mother – you were desperate to begin weaving these fantasies which were obviously
so necessary to you!’
‘What garbage!’ I burst out. ‘What absolute bullshit!’
‘Is it? I’ve lived with you for nine years now and honey, I’m beginning to think I know you better than you know yourself.
Your trouble is that you’re fixated on – quote – being a success in life unquote. Why do you go chasing after money and power
the whole damn time? It’s because way back when you were learning the facts of life someone – Uncle Paul? – taught you that
for fifty per cent of the world’s population – men – the only equation worth worrying about if you wanted to be happy and
masculine was the one which read: money plus power equals success. And what about the other half of the world’s population?
What was the magic formula they had to learn in order to ensure happiness and femininity? Oh yes! Marriage plus maternity
equals perfect fulfilment for all females! Marriage plus maternity equals SUCCESS! Never mind who taught you that – your mother?
your sister? – because it doesn’t matter. You could have picked it up anywhere. It’s become one of the most popular fairytales
of our time.’