“You never sucked off a loving older brother? Or fingered a sister?”
“I was an only child, really, Eric—”
“Or warmed your father’s bed? Never fucked your father, dear?”
“He’s dead. I would really like it a whole lot if we talked of other things.”
“Sometimes those things which make you uncomfortable do you the most good.”
“Even so.”
“Yes.” He lit a cigarette, smoked in deep thoughtful drags. “You’ll have to meet Susan sooner or later,” he said at length. “You’ll enjoy her.”
“Who is she?”
“A girl.”
“She’s only a child, isn’t she? She can’t be more than, I don’t know, seventeen?”
“She’s fifteen.”
“That’s so desperately young.”
“Half your age.”
“I was thinking that, of course.”
“They grow up faster now, you know. This new generation is an interesting one. Their entire biological clock is different, you know. Speeded up. Their minds work differently, their eyes see differently.”
“Television children.”
“Atomic children, acid children, rock children. I met Susan two and a half years ago. She was twelve. For two weeks she never left that room. I brought her meals there. Then for some time she lived here.”
“My God!”
“She is half your age, but the things she knows now, the things she has done—”
“I can imagine.”
“No, I don’t think you can.”
He poured more wine into my glass. I sipped it. I had never had plum wine before. It has a rather haunting taste.
I asked him how old he was.
“I’m ancient,” he said.
“We’re all ancient.”
“No, I truly am.” He grinned richly. “I was middle aged when they built the pyramids. I was old when they tacked Christ to the Cross.”
“And you were there.”
“Who’d miss a good show?”
“Sometimes I think—”
“Yes?”
“Nothing.”
What had I been about to say? That he is the devil incarnate? Something like that? Probably. The obvious line.
Why didn’t I say it?
Arnold just called, while I was writing. Was I free tomorrow night? Eric has made it plain that I am to see other men whenever I wish, that I am only obliged to be available for him when he wants me. (White of him.) Even so, I almost told Arnold I was going to be busy. Something makes me want to limit myself to Eric, to exist only while I am with him.
I decided to fight this impulse. Especially since this was the first I had heard from him since the fight I started, and if I brushed him off now I would probably never hear from him again. I told him I would like to see him. He was pleased, said he would pick me up. We arranged a time.
I said, “Arnold—”
“Yes?”
“I was awfully bitchy. Tons of unwarranted hostility.”
“Oh, everybody’s entitled now and then.”
“No. I was a bitch. I was afraid of certain things and I was being defensive. I don’t want to go into it now. Listen, I was thinking that maybe I would like to smoke tomorrow night, if you’ll have anything.”
“I always do. I thought that wasn’t your scene.”
“Well, I’d like to try again.”
“Sure.”
“And you were talking about, oh, how to put this, about three not being a crowd.”
“Are you serious?”
“I think so. Yes, yes, I am.”
A trenchant pause. “Look, uh, Jan, don’t force yourself. I mean, we all of us have our little hangups, and maybe I was trying to sell mine a little too forcefully. Don’t rush into something you don’t want.”
“I think I want it.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“Then I know a fellow whom I think you would like. You and I could have dinner first and then meet him, or it might be more comfortable if the three of us went out for dinner together.”
“You decide.”
“All right.”
“There’s only one thing.”
“Oh?”
“Tomorrow’s the twenty-eighth? I might have to meet with my lawyer and my husband’s lawyers to work out the separation agreement. It’s a nuisance the way it keeps being postponed. If they do see it for tomorrow I’ll try to get out of it. I’ll know by three o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”
“Then I’ll call you around three-thirty just to make sure?”
“Fine, fine.”
You’re such a calculating bitch, Giddings.
March 28
Eric didn’t call. The phone rang promptly at three-thirty. Arnold, checking to see if the coast was clear. I told him the meeting with the lawyers had been indefinitely postponed. Did this mean I was running out of bread? I told him I was all right. Because if I needed any money he might be able to help. I told him thanks but not for the time being.
It’s all arranged, he said. He and David will come by for me at six-thirty.
What a strange feeling this is. A date with two men. Tonight I will meet them and we will presumably relax and talk together, all of us silently thinking ahead.
I just called Howard’s office. Just now, after writing that last paragraph. Why? I guess I had been thinking about him, after using him as a potential cop-out in case Eric had wanted me this evening.
Of course there is no separation agreement nor will there be one. I charged some clothing the other day. And a handbag on his Mastercharge card. I wonder if he will stop those charge accounts. It might not occur to him. Sometimes it takes months for a purchase to show up on a statement. Except that it would be typical for Howard to go to a lawyer the day I left him, just to touch all the bases as he would say it, and the lawyer would probably tell him to close the accounts.
Why should I worry? I haven’t had any trouble using the cards yet. And they’re never going to arrest me. The worst that could happen is that they tell me they can’t accept the cards or something along those lines.
I have plenty of money anyway.
I didn’t talk to him. I dialed the office and asked for his extension and his secretary answered. I wonder if he’s fucking her. She’s a real honey-voiced thing. I asked for Howard. She asked who was calling. I said Gloria Steinem. God knows why. It was the first name that came to mind. The stupid girl got it wrong anyway. “One moment, Miss Stein.” Dumb bitch.
When Howard came on I let him say hello a few times. I didn’t say anything. He said, “Nobody on the line,” and hung up.
Why did I want to hear his voice? A genuine puzzle. To convince myself that he still exists?
I did love him once. I know I did. And he me. I wish I knew what happened. Somewhere along the way we must have started being different people. I stopped being me and I became very boring, and so did Howard, and we were two boring people leading a boring life. That’s what happened to us.
Why?
I don’t know. Happens to everybody.
Any way for people to avoid it?
Probably not. Or maybe yes. Don’t get married, don’t get in ruts, fuck constantly. That might do it.
I feel wonderful. Really wonderful. Groovy and all that stuff. Happy and loose and free.
March 29
I almost feel too good to write.
In fact I do. More later. Like tomorrow.
April 2
The last entry was supposed to be about what happened with Arnold and David.
I think I’ll sort that out now.
They picked me up at six-thirty, the two of them. Arnold was wearing a corduroy jacket with leather elbow patches and dungarees. David wore a leather maxi coat, one of those German-officer jobs with acres of lapels. He had a slightly Prussian look about him, longish blondish hair, finely chiseled features. The well-spoken SS man who loves chamber music and likes to burn girls with cigarettes.