“Yes, it does sound very comical.”
“You disapprove, right?”
“I’m not your father,” I said. “I wish you’d stop asking me whether I approve or disapprove.”
“I sometimes used to think of you as my father,” Jennifer said. “When Adam and I were still in high school, and I used to come over all the time. My own father’s a son of a bitch, you know. Getting him to say two straight words in a row is like expecting the Sphinx to do a eulogy on Moishe Dayan. Well, you remember how he was when we learned I was pregnant.”
“I thought he handled it pretty well,” I said, and then quickly changed the subject again. “You said Paul was in the construction business. What does he do?”
“He’s an electrician. He’s not a kid, you understand.”
“No, I didn’t understand that.”
“Oh, God, he’s almost as old as you are. How old are you?”
“Forty-one.”
“Well, no, he’s not quite that old.”
“Nobody’s quite that old,” I said.
“Well, you are,” Jennifer said, and drained her glass. “Do you think we can have another one of these? Paul’s only thirty-nine, I guess. Or forty. I’m not sure. I’ll have to ask him when I get home.”
“Home?”
“San Francisco. The apartment.”
“I see.”
“That’s home,” Jennifer said simply, and I signaled for the waiter. He hurried over with the hors d’oeuvres he had promised, looking harried and apologetic.
“Sorry to have taken so long with these, sir,” he said, “but I had some calls for drinks and I...”
“That’s quite all right,” I said. “We’d like another round, too, when you get a chance.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, “right away. In the meantime, we’ve got these nice little cocktail franks, and these little hot cheese patties, and some of these things wrapped in bacon here, I don’t know what you call them. Enjoy yourselves, folks.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“I’ll get those drinks for you,” he said, and rushed off.
Jennifer picked up one of the tiny frankfurters and popped it into her mouth. “Mmmm,” she said, “delicious. I’m starved to death, I may eat the whole damn platter.”
“Maybe we ought to leave here and get some dinner,” I said.
“What?”
“I said maybe we can have dinner together.”
Jennifer nodded. She nodded and looked into her empty glass. Then she turned to me, and stared directly into my eyes, and said, “What you really mean, Mr. Eisler, is maybe we can go to bed together. Isn’t that what you really mean?”
I stared back at her. She was a beautiful young girl in a strange town, and my wife was seven hundred air miles away on a fire escape with the head of creation. Moreover, my own son had been making love to her regularly when they were both still in high school, she’d been pregnant at least once to my knowledge, she had undergone an abortion for which I had paid a thousand dollars, and she was now running around in her bra and panties in an apartment with a forty-year-old man who urinated with the door open. I did not honestly know whether I wanted to take her to dinner or take her to bed.
“Isn’t that what you’d really like to do, Mr. Eisler?”
“Maybe,” I said, and smiled.
“Be honest. I’m twenty-one years old, well beyond the age of consent.”
“Are you consenting?”
“Are you asking?”
I didn’t answer. I picked up my drink. The glass was empty. I looked toward the bar for the waiter.
“Go ahead, Mr. Eisler. Ask me.”
“I don’t think I will,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Maybe because you still call me Mr. Eisler.”
Jennifer laughed and said, “What shall I call you? Sam? That’s your name, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my name is Sam.”
“I prefer Mr. Eisler. Come on, Mr. Eisler. Ask me.”
The waiter brought our third round and put the drinks on the table. He seemed about to leave us. Then he hesitated, turned back, and said, “I’m certainly glad we cleared up our misunderstanding, sir.”
“Yes, I am, too.”
“One thing I hate to do is irritate a customer. You realize, though, that I have to ask for identification if somebody looks underage. Otherwise...”
“Yes, I understand your position,” I said.
“Otherwise, like suppose I serve some kid and we happen to have the law in here, why we could lose our liquor license just like that.”
“Yes, of course you could.”
“Listen,” Jennifer said suddenly and sharply; “why don’t you leave us alone? We’re trying to talk here.”
“What?” the waiter said.
“What?” Jennifer mimicked.
“I’m sorry, I just...”
“Don’t be so sorry, just leave.”
The waiter’s jaw was hanging open. He looked at Jennifer in hurt surprise, and then turned to me for support. I busied myself with the hot cheese patties. The waiter shrugged, picked up his tray, and started walking back toward the bar, slowly, his shoulders slumped.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said. “He was only...”
“He was a pain in the ass,” Jennifer said. She picked up her fresh drink, drained half of it in a single swallow, and then said, “I never did thank you for the abortion, did I?”
“There was no need...”
“Oh, I’d like to thank you, Mr. Eisler.”
“All right, so thank me.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now let’s...”
“And I think you ought to thank me,” Jennifer said.
“I thank you,” I said, and gave her a small nod.
“No, Mr. Eisler, you can really thank me.”
There was something suddenly hard and cold and dangerous in her voice. I turned toward her on the leatherette seat, our knees touched, she moved hers away instantly. I searched her face and found her eyes.
“Thank you for what?” I asked.
“For going through with it. For not causing any trouble.”
“Jennifer,” I said, “there was never any question of you and Adam getting married. You didn’t want it, he didn’t want it, your parents didn’t want it...”
“I don’t recall anybody ever asking us.”
“It was our understanding...”
“I loved your son,” Jennifer said.
“It was our understanding...”
“Oh, the hell with you and your understanding,” she said. “Nobody asked us what we wanted. Everybody just assumed we were too young, and too stupid, and too uncommitted...”
“Nobody forced you into anything.”
“Everybody forced us into everything!” Jennifer said flatly.
“Look,” I said, “we discussed this completely at the time. It was our understanding that you and Adam wanted the abortion.”