I have no money, no prospects, no boyfriends, and I hate all the men I meet. Patty recited these facts — she was not discovering them, this had become a daily litany — to herself. Oddly, listing her problems calmed her. They sounded foolish, unworthy of the panic they inspired. Her heartbeat slowed to a regular pace and she could take a deep breath of air that was enjoyable, even though it smelled of ammonia. Across from the toilet was a photograph of Marion’s parents. Patty studied it with a detached air. What an odd spot for an icon to parenthood, she thought, and suddenly felt both loathing and contempt for Marion’s and Fred’s lives. She didn’t want to return to the evening outside the bathroom door: a roomful of people sure of what they wanted and in the midst of getting it. Such people, no matter how kind, made Patty feel her life was undisciplined, and she an eccentric and silly person.
Fred had noticed, while he stepped into a clean pair of pants, that Patty had gone to the bathroom. He rubbed his penis self-consciously when he tucked in his shirt and remembered the vista over hors d’oeuvres. He wanted Patty. His teeth ached from the wine he had drunk, but Fred mistook the burgundy’s richness for uncontrollable lust. Fred felt the seven years of sexual fidelity to his wife — they had married immediately after college — had become an unbearable burden, as well as an embarrassment. He lied to his male friends on that score. His lies were never direct or detailed, merely a series of unfinished sentences, winks, sheepish grins, and lustful laughs. Fred wrote regularly for American Sport magazine, which meant there were regular trips with basketball and baseball teams. The widespread belief that athletes screw around on the road helped Fred’s deceptions.
Even Marion had come to the conclusion that Fred must have participated in at least one “orgy with the boys.” Marion lectured herself sternly: men are faithless; a mature married woman (who expects to remain married) accepts these flirtations without comment. In fact, the thought rankled and throbbed with the pain of an untended wound, but Marion rebuked herself for such a provincial feeling. For Marion, feminism’s lesson was that men were unredeemable scoundrels. Of course Fred had screwed around on the road.
But he hadn’t. The athletes drank with him while they picked up girls, and sometimes a woman would flirt and put her arm in his, even grant him a wet alcoholic kiss. But, in the end, he was passed over in favor of the trainer, the assistant coach, anyone, anyone at all, who was nearby. Fred’s chubby face and bulbous nose, his loud laugh and stumpy body, made Fred at times adorable, but never a Casanova. He was faithful to Marion, but, as he told himself, it was the loyalty of a coward and a failure.
Fred stepped out into the hallway and overheard Tony explain to Marion why Tony’s wife, Betty, couldn’t come.
“You know, Betty’s father recently died … from cancer. Awful. Well, we’ve neglected her mother terribly since the funeral and she desperately wanted a night out with her only child.”
Bullshit, Fred thought, she doesn’t like us. On the two occasions Betty had favored Fred and Marion with her presence, she hardly spoke and looked miserable, developing headache and fatigue by eleven in the evening. She’s stuck-up, Marion concluded. Marion might have made that judgment out of envy, because Betty’s position in publishing was superior to hers. Betty had the title associate editor and got to work on the manuscripts her boss acquired (novels and major works of nonfiction) instead of the cookbooks that were Marion’s lot. Fred, regretfully, had to agree with his wife’s opinion. He wanted not to: he wanted Betty to like them, because Tony was by far the most successful, glamorous, richest, and influential of the writers Fred knew.
Tony’s allure began with his family history, which Fred knew in detail, though Fred had not been told by Tony — it was gleaned from mutual friends. (The few times Fred had tried to provoke Tony into telling the story himself, Tony had answered curtly and then diverted conversation elsewhere.) Tony Winters was the son of Maureen Winters, the celebrated Group Theater actress who had been ruined by the anticommunist blacklist of the 1950s. Unable to work during her prime years, she had had a nervous breakdown (or so everyone said), but returned to acting gradually in the mid-1960’s, becoming nationally famous as Aunt Hattie in a series of detergent commercials, and finally, in the mid-1970’s, starring in the number-one-rated situation comedy on television. Tony had been raised by her, except (everyone said) for the year his mother was institutionalized. Tony lived with his father that year.
Tony’s father only added, in Fred’s eyes, to his allure. Richard Winters was the president of CBS’s Business Affairs Division, but discussion about him was also barred. “We’re not close,” was all that Tony would comment.
Tony’s reticence added to the general strain on Fred’s nerves when in his company. Fred felt they were merely acquaintances, and he wanted to be close friends — he would have called it “best buddies” in high school. Tony, on top of the fame and success of his parents, had the added attraction of having had three critically praised plays produced off-Broadway by the age of thirty-two. He was generally thought of as a most promising young playwright, somebody for whom great success was a matter of time, not luck or greater effort. So Fred worked hard on his potential friendship with Tony. He boned up on what plays were grossing well, what Mike Nichols was directing in the fall, all the things that were for Tony the gossip of daily life. For a moment Fred stood in the hall and tried to swallow the resentment Betty’s absence made him feel. I have to be charming, he told himself, and walked toward the living room.
En route, the bathroom door opened.
Patty came out and stood in the hall. She looked tentatively toward the living room. She hadn’t noticed Fred. Her large green eyes made her look as vulnerable as a confused child. Fred moved toward her.
“Ow,” she said, startled by his presence. Her small lips made a circle. They were moist. Fred’s vision was in tow to them, will-less and enslaved. The small round mouth was like a flower half-open; its dishabille tempted Fred to explore the partly hidden interior. He put his arms around Patty (she was only an inch shorter than he, so a kiss was now merely an inch away) and awkwardly pressed his mouth against her fluted, blooming lips. They widened as he made contact: instantly he was swimming in them. Her mouth had swallowed his: cavernous and hungry, it became huge; her teeth gnawed at his lips; and she pulled and sucked on his tongue so hard he felt as if it would be pulled out by the roots. Unpleasant though this might sound, he was hard. Instantly! A response from the shameful and sensitive days of adolescence. Violently hard. Erect. Extended. A shaft of weight and power. He was stunned by both events — her elastic, starving mouth, and his astounding physical excitement.
What am I doing? Patty asked herself. I’m not attracted to Fred, she added, squeezing his buttocks in her small hands. Fred’s cheeks felt fat and formless. I’d like to get my hands on something decent, she thought, and then wanted to laugh at this peculiarly macho reaction.
“Fred!” Marion shouted.
The kiss ended. Fred thrust Patty against the wall, banging her head.
“Whoa,” Patty exclaimed.