“You’re better than quinine.”
“Maybe I’ll become an army nurse.”
“Maybe I’ll re-enlist.”
“Would you believe that I’ve never done that before? I didn’t think you would. I don’t always, though, and when I do I don’t always enjoy it, and—”
“Look Sharon—”
“What I mean is I rather like you,” she said clumsily, a tear staining her pretty cheek. “Are my cheeks pretty? Seriously, Paul, I tend to carry candor too far. Honesty can be misleading, don’t you think? I’m twenty-nine, I was divorced a little over three years ago. I’m not a tramp, I wouldn’t call me a tramp, but you might, and I don’t think I’d like that.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“All right. I’m a legal secretary in Milwaukee, and this is a vacation, and it ends Sunday when I fly home. I’m not in love with anybody right now, including you, although I probably could be if things worked that way. There are three, no, four nights between now and Sunday, and if you would like me to spend them with you I think I would probably like that and if you would rather not I think I could survive the inevitable ego damage. Don’t say anything now. This little speech wasn’t a question. It was just so that you would know who I am. I think people should know each other before they make love a second time. I also think we should make love a second time. How does your malaria feel?”
We made love a second time, and my malaria was evidently cured. I raised the C-plus to somewhere around an A-minus, and it was all very nice indeed. She fell quickly asleep. I got dressed and went down two floors to my own room and got undressed and into bed and didn’t sleep.
I decided if I saw her for the next four nights that would be fine, and if I didn’t see her ever again that would be fine, too. It seemed to me that I ought to care one way or the other. I also realized that she was the first woman I had had since returning to the States. This also struck me as somehow remarkable.
When the sun came up I went over to a travel agent on Fifth Avenue and priced flights to Rhodesia and South Africa. They came to more than I would have guessed, but money was no problem. I could have chartered a private plane if I wanted. Between back pay and government bonds and my mother’s insurance, I had close to twenty thousand dollars.
I spent the afternoon at the movies. Afterward I tried to decide whether or not I should see Sharon again. It was impossible to decide which way I would prefer it so I tried to determine which would be better for her, whether she would be more upset if my permanent goodbye came now or in four days. Then I decided that it was impossible to say, and that, as far as that went, I didn’t really give a damn whether I upset her or not, at which point I decided to think about something else.
I went somewhere for a cup of coffee. I thought about becoming a white mercenary somewhere in darkest Africa, and all I could come up with was that it was something to do, which struck me as the strongest possible argument for and against it, all at once. The one thing I wanted was something to do, and the one thing I didn’t want was something to do. I decided that George Dattner had not told me the whole truth. The MMPI had obviously revealed that I was psychotic.
I went back to the hotel. That night I took Sharon to dinner at a steakhouse on Third Avenue. Afterward we went to a jazz club and drank something sweet with tequila in it, I forget what. Then to her room, where we both got A-plus.
The next day I went through the yellow pages until I found a psychiatrist with whom I could get an appointment the following day. That night Sharon and I saw a play, went to a kosher delicatessen for a late supper, and then made love.
The following day there was a new movie I wanted to see, so I skipped the appointment with the psychiatrist. I didn’t call him. When I got back to the hotel there was a message from his office. I threw it away. Sharon had dinner with an old friend. I met her afterward, and we picked up a copy of Cue and couldn’t think of a thing we wanted to do, so we went to her room. She said the hotel staff seemed to be delighted with our romance, and I said maybe they wanted to use us in their advertising. We went to bed, and I sat up the whole night trying to figure out how it could be possible for me to spend so much time making ecstatic love with such a superb girl without enjoying it. I neither looked forward to it nor relished its memory. It was something I did, like taking breaths.
The next day was Sharon’s last, so we went to an expensive restaurant and an expensive nightclub and sat through an expensive floorshow, neither of us daring to disappoint the other by admitting how boring it all was. We sat through a dance team and a singer. When the comic came on I noticed that she wasn’t laughing either. I said, “Why don’t we get out of here?” and she said, “I thought you’d never ask.” I put too much money on the table and we got up and walked right out, passing directly in front of the bandstand just as the poor clown was coming to a punchline. He proved he could be rude, too, by abandoning his joke and insulting us. Sharon told him to fuck himself.
Outside she told me she couldn’t quite believe she’d said that. “Forget it,” I said. “Right now he’s telling them it’s the best offer he’s had all night, and everybody’s laughing nervously. Let’s get some coffee.”
Over coffee she talked about Milwaukee. She mentioned her daughter, of whom I had not previously heard, and said she was staying with her mother, whom she hadn’t mentioned either. She also talked about her boss; the implication seemed to be that he was married, and that she was sleeping with him, and doing so largely because he was there. She never quite said this, but I wouldn’t have inferred it if she hadn’t wanted me to.
Then we went up to her room, and told each other that the floorshow probably hadn’t been as bad as it seemed to us, and then we went to bed, and neither of us could get in the mood. I made us a couple of drinks and we talked.
I came fairly close to opening up. I talked a little about the years in Special Forces, and a little more about how I had spent my time since my discharge, and some more about the things I might do next. Or might not do. I didn’t say as much as I might have, but I think she understood more than I put words to. After a while we got off that peg and started talking about things instead, and talked for hours, and then made love after all.
We never did get to sleep. Her plane left at ten and she wouldn’t let me take her to it. I didn’t argue with her. It was getting very difficult to avoid talking about us and what future we might have. Neither of us had broached the subject but sooner or later one of us might, and that seemed like a bad idea. I watched her pack. At eight she went downstairs to check out and I went to my room.
From ten, when her plane was supposed to take off, until three, by which time it would have long since arrived, I kept my radio on. I was absolutely certain her plane would crash, and I couldn’t decide whether this meant that I was terrified of losing her or that I wanted the plane to crash. Then I decided that they were both the same thing, and then I thought that if I had kept my appointment with the psychiatrist it would have been one of the questions I could have asked him. But of course the appointment would have taken place before her flight, and—
I stayed awake all day Sunday, and all that night, and most of Monday as well. I spent most of the time walking around. I ordered a few meals but couldn’t get much down. Early Monday afternoon I wrote her a long letter telling her that I loved her and wanted to marry her and adopt her daughter and get a job with a future. I used an entire stack of hotel stationery. Then I panicked because I didn’t have her address, and then I remembered that I could get it from the hotel registration card. I decided to do that right away, but first I stretched out on the bed for a moment to think how grand our life would be together, and everything caught up with me and I slept for twenty hours.