“I no longer expect magnanimity from any man,” she went on in the same hopeless, contemplative tone. “The child might have been Larry’s. There was that chance. But you see what his reaction was. And Lewlyn’s — his was the most truly craven behavior in the whole ugly mess.”
“Yes?” She activated all kinds of memories of his own vile behavior, behavior of a trapped rat. Murder-prone. Yes, but Jesus Christ — swiftly justification welled up — how did Lewlyn’s fix compare to having once possibly knocked up his own sister? Ira listened with averted eyes, glowering with inner contention: and where would he have gotten the dough for an abortion? Whom could he have asked to help him out? Leo maybe? To whom could he have dared confess he’d knocked up his sister?
“Lewlyn reminded me it could have been Larry’s — about which I told him there was almost no chance. Or as he said, that other Palestinian — he meant Zvi Benari, the Zionist agronomist friend of Shmuel Hamberg’s, the man I knew at Berkeley. I told him I hadn’t seen Zvi in months.” She shook her head. “Lewlyn was sure it wasn’t his. In spite of my own instincts, my own certainly, he refused to believe it was his. Isn’t that revealing? You have no idea of the panic he went into about accepting mere responsibility, as if I would take advantage of him — which I would never dream of doing.”
“No.”
It was all so grim. While she softly carried on, he thought that he was himself blood brother to Larry in his evasion of responsibility, and to Lewlyn also — though in different, wildly different circumstances. He might have done the same thing — although once again he justified his panicky evasion by rejecting the analogy: how did this compare to the anguish, the murderous anguish, the high school kid had felt that fall afternoon, an afternoon that twisted him past his tolerance to endure any more.
Ira studied the raindrops under the top of the window, each waiting for reserves to swell it out before sliding down the pane. Her acrimony was different from Minnie’s, wasn’t it, but it was still acrimony. There was no forgiveness if they thought you knocked them up — you were the father, they said — whether you thought you were or not, or whether you knocked them up or no. You were to take care of them, defenseless with child.
Everything he learned, he learned here. A block of coal in the fireplace split, and he turned just in time to see the two interfaces separate, and each half foliate, like thick decks of some kind of black cards. Black cards, blackguards. Life was always in flux, but it always seemed to go to a predetermined end. Why did he think that?
As though she were answering his unspoken question, “You’d believe I was having the abortion solely for his sake,” Edith said. “I was to have the abortion to keep his skirts clean. I shan’t have anything more to do with Lewlyn. You can be sure of that.”
To keep his skirts clean. She had used that expression before, and he never could visualize it. Men didn’t wear skirts, unless she was thinking of Lewlyn, the former priest with black surplice buttoned down to his shoes — and you’d have to be sure the first button matched the first buttonhole — but hell, don’t get yourself sidetracked, don’t bounce back into woozy orbit again.
There it was: I shan’t have anything more to do with Lewlyn. And just before that she had said: You won’t see much of Larry around here. Not Larry and not Lewlyn. And he himself, he, the least and the last, here he was, trying to comfort her after an abortion for which the other two might have been responsible. Just as if he had made it up out of whole cloth, as they said, as if he had made the future jump through the hoop of his fantasy. He almost had, hadn’t he?
When the hell was that kettle going to boil? Should he raise the flame? There — there went the kettle: Boiling. Steaming. About time.
“I wonder if discolored teakettles take longer to boil.” Ira stood up. “Now the hot water goes into the teapot, right?”
“Yes. But be careful of the handle.”
“It’s not too hot.”
“And let the ball steep — oh, a minute will be enough. You can leave it in longer after you’ve poured mine.”
Leave it in a minute longer after he had poured hers. “And in a minute there is time,” he said, effacing involuntary smut with a quote as he pressed the teapot cover in place. Too bad to be bent out of whack forever. “You take sugar?”
“No, thanks.”
“No? I was in a cafeteria once, and the counterman asked the customer sitting beside me if he wanted tea. The guy said tea with a slice of lemon. And the counterman said no, we don’t have any lemon. So the man just shrugged, as if what’s the use? It’s strange how some things remain in your mind forever.”
“You’re priceless.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Oh, you’ve found the paper napkins too?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I’ve agreed to do the anthology. I have that to do. And I have a couple of narrative poems in mind — narrative poems have a much better chance of being published than lyrics.”
“They do?”
“And I’d love to do them — especially I seem to want to do one about Lewlyn. I have just the right title for it too, I think: ‘The Reassembled Man.’”
“Reassembled?” Ira repeated. “You mean he came apart?”
“He had come apart,” she stressed. “He showed it during my pregnancy. You never saw a man so unhappy. It was as if my pregnancy were the last straw to the breakdown Marcia’s rejection of him had begun.”
“So why is he — I mean, who’s going to reassemble him?”
“It’s the English spinster who’s going to do that: fit him out with new ideals, with a sense of self-worth. Make a new person of him. He hurried frantically to make all the arrangements — with Marcia’s help, you can be sure, to get my pregnancy out of the way. He acted as if his salvation depended on it. And Marcia was only too happy to direct things for him.”
“Yeah?”
“She wanted him punished just enough for his mistake in taking me for a mistress, and then to rescue him. And he was only too happy to have her rescue him, as if he were a baby— I think it’s steeped long enough for me. He is a baby.”
“Yeah? Okay, I’ll pour it.”
“I had no idea how puerile he was. I know now.”
“Yeh? Like that?” Ira brought her tea over. “It looks shvakh, so weak.”
“Oh, no, that’s fine, thanks. You’re an angel. I wish I owned a pair of house slippers big enough for you. Would save your traipsing around in your bare feet.”
“That’s all right. Athlete’s foot fungus isn’t fussy. You don’t want sugar?”
“No, thanks. Just leave the spoon on the saucer.” She reached out tiny hands.
“So how can you drink tea without sugar?”
“The taste really comes through better.”
“And that’s what you want? That’s the opposite of the guy who wanted the slice of lemon.”
“He wasn’t very sophisticated.”
“Oh.”
“If I can manage to get invitations to Yaddo or Peterboro these next two years, I think I could get both jobs done.”
“Which jobs done?”
“The anthology and the narrative poems.”
“Oh.” He poured his own tea, added sugar. “That’s pretty hot, you know. You want me to come over and hold your cup so you can sit up more?”
“Oh, no. I can manage, thanks. I just hate to move at the moment. Do you think you’ll be able to spare Saturdays or weekends to help me with the anthology — once this nonsensical crisis is past? There’s been some money allocated for clerical assistance.”