So happy together, p.28
So Happy Together, page 28
“Aren’t you afraid sometimes?”
“Afraid? Oh, you mean of getting AIDS?
I nod. “I’d be terrified.”
“Oh, my dear, don’t you read the papers? All us gays practice safe sex now. Yep, I’ve actually turned into the all-American boy: I carry rubbers in my wallet. Isn’t that a hoot?”
He sees that I am not amused.
“You’re right. It’s not funny. It’s especially not funny in the context of the two of us. You know, even if I could have managed the mechanics—and I’m not sure I could have—I would have done you a terrible disservice by making love to you. I would have had to fantasize you were a man, and I couldn’t degrade you that way. That would have been the real betrayal.
“Don’t you think I knew how much you loved me? Don’t you think I’d say to myself, ‘My God, this girl cares about you like no one has ever cared about you besides your mother. Why can’t you just go with her . . .’ But I couldn’t do that to you. I knew it wouldn’t have worked for me . . . that sooner or later, I’d be sneaking around behind your back, meeting men on the sly. And who knows where that would have led: given what’s happening out there the past few years, we could both be dead.
“I knew that as much as I loved you, or as much as I was capable of loving you, you were better off with Jack. I think I knew even as I came back that day in Tucson. . .came back to get you. But I wouldn’t let myself believe it.
“Okay, Caro, we’ve talked about me. End of story. Look, I feel kind of responsible for you. I mean, you left your husband and children . . .”
“I did not leave my children. They’re in camp. They don’t know . . . they think I’m just taking a vacation. I left my husband.”
“Okay, okay,” he concedes. “You left your husband, and, in some way, I must be responsible for that.”
“No way! In no way are you responsible, Peter. You didn’t know that one day I’d decide to chuck it all and set off after you. I mean, you want to feel guilty, fine, but don’t feel guilty for my mishegoss.”
“Your what?”
“You’ve been in New York for six months and you’ve never heard someone use that word? All you’d have to do is spend five minutes in Zabar’s and you would get some mishegoss along with your nova and cream cheese. It’s Yiddish. My mother used to say it. It means ‘craziness.’ And you are definitely not responsible for mine. Yours, maybe, but not mine.”
“All right, all right, so your misha . . . craziness . . . made you get in your car and drive halfway across the country to find someone you didn’t even know would be there. What if you hadn’t found me? And may I remind you that you almost didn’t. What would you have done? You must have had a plan B?”
“Actually, I didn’t.”
Exasperation shows on his face. “Caro, Caro, Caro . . . You sound like you’re fourteen years old or something. Grown women just don’t do this sort of thing.”
“On the contrary, Peter, grown women are leaving rotten marriages all the time. Don’t you remember how we met? You went to Scott’s house to borrow a copy of A Doll’s House, remember? What the hell do you think Ibsen was writing about?”
“Touché. But is your marriage really that rotten? Think about it. You have those three great kids. Do you really want to raise them without a father? Is it as bad as all that?”
I don’t know how to answer. I’ve spent the last few years convincing myself that there was no future in my marriage, but part of that was based on the premise that Peter would accept me with open arms and an erect penis.
He continues. “You and Jack share a history. That has to count for something.”
“You and I share a history, too . . .”
He shakes his head. “No, dear, twenty years ago we had a shared fantasy, that’s all. What is that compared to a marriage, having children, sharing the good times and the bad with one person, experiencing the heights and the depths of life . . .”
“Mostly the depths,” I mutter.
He puts a finger under my chin. “Caro, look at me. Is that really true? Don’t the good times outweigh the bad?”
“What good times?” I rise from the couch and walk away from him. “Peter, there was something you and I had that I never had with Jack.”
“And there are so many things you have with Jack that you could never have with me. Nobody gets to have it all. I know what it’s like to be obsessed. You’ve let it take over your life. It can’t work out. We can’t make it, but maybe if you can let go of me, you and Jack can find what you once had. I know it must have been special. You were so ready to give to that one special person. I wish it could have been me, but I think you did find that person in Jack, didn’t you?”
“Well . . . yes,” I admit. “The beginning was wonderful. But he’s really changed . . .”
“And haven’t you? Time and responsibilities change everyone.”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“No buts. C’mere, sit back down next to me. I want you to think about the good times you’ve had with Jack. Stop thinking about what you don’t like about him. Tell me about the good times.”
“What’re you, my shrink?”
“No, your friend, and I want to help. You’ve done so much for me, dear. Let me reciprocate . . . or try, anyway.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay, the good times . . . Where should I start?”
“Wherever you want. You said the beginning was wonderful. Why don’t you start there?”
“Yeah, beginning—I do so love beginnings. You know, like from the second date on, when you have a feeling that something is really happening and you’re all tingly and everything when you think about him and—God, do you want to hear about the sex and everything?”
He grins. “I think I can take it. I seem to recall some pretty lengthy discussions on that topic . . .”
“Yeah, well, okay . . . The beginning: I went back to school and everything was different. No Love House . . . No Ernesto . . . No Scott. Tricia was off in Phoenix, living with some guy. And you, of course, were sorely missed.
“So, I threw myself into my work . . . Really, I did.” I respond to his look of bemusement. “My grade point average was terrific. And the war was escalating, and so was the protesting. There was sort of a loose group of peaceniks on campus. I mean, nothing like SDS or anything. You remember that most of the jerks at that school—not the drama department, of course—were more concerned with their suntans than with the state of the world. Vietnam was so far away . . . a half-hour show we saw on the news every night . . . You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about the paradox of the ’60s lately. They really were the best of times, the worst of times. I mean, my mother died, for God’s sake, and JFK and Bobby, and Martin Luther King . . . and Vietnam was being napalmed . . . So, how come we had such a good time? Why do I look back and think of that time as so heady, so wonderful?”
“Well, in some ways it was, wasn’t it? No responsibilities, really. All we had to do was make halfway decent grades and the rest of it was a piece of cake. Neither one of us had to work to put ourselves through school. And even when I said I was worried about the draft, I really wasn’t. I knew I’d be 4-F as soon as I got out of school. Life really was great then, wasn’t it . . .” he trails off wistfully. “Despite what was happening in the rest of the world. The war never really touched us, did it?”
“No, Peter, not in the Love House . . .”
There is a lull in the conversation. Peter shakes his head as if he can’t believe how we got from there to here.
“Wow, there were some incredible times in that house, weren’t there?” he says finally.
“Yeah . . .”
“Yeah . . .” he shakes his head again, then starts to chuckle. “Hey, remember the milk bath? That was some night, wasn’t it?”
“What milk bath?”
“You know, the milk bath . . . you and Ernesto and Scott . . .”
“What are you talking about? Ernesto and Scott and I and what milk bath?”
“The three of you . . . you took a milk bath. I remember it so clearly . . . the Stones on the stereo, the candlelit bathroom . . . and the three of you in the tub.”
“The three of us in the tub? The three of us naked in the tub?” My voice rises.
“Of course, naked. How else do you take a bath?”
I shake my head. “But there wasn’t any bodily contact, right?”
He laughs again. “Listen, there had to have been some bodily contact—it wasn’t a very big bathtub.”
“Oh, God, I don’t remember that at all. What were you doing while all this was going on?”
“Me? I was the one pouring the milk over the three of you.”
“You were . . . I can’t believe this . . . Were you naked, too? No, I’ll bet you weren’t, were you? I know I wouldn’t have forgotten that.”
His grin is self-mocking. “Moi, naked? Surely you jest, my dear. But I can’t believe you don’t remember the milk bath. It was something else!”
“Oh, Peter, I’m sure it happened if you say so. I trust your memory. It’s just that I have no recollection whatsoever of that night. I guess I’ve blocked it.”
“Hmm . . . I wonder why you’d block something like that.”
I shrug. “I don’t know . . . but I guess . . . well, you know enough about psychology to know why people block things . . . about selective memory, and why some things are repressed . . . things that are too painful to remember. You know that.”
“Yeah, but I don’t see why you’d need to repress something like that. It was great.”
“Hmmm, maybe it was . . . for you. But think about it, Peter. The four of us: Scott wanting Ernesto, Ernesto wanting Scott, me wanting you, and you wanting . . . Ernesto. Although I couldn’t have known that at the time, could I? So, who wanted me? And what in God’s name was I doing in a situation like that? Probably one more futile attempt at trying to be seductive with you. And you probably never even looked at me that night. God, I must have been an incredible masochist. Of course, you remember it as great: it was probably the closest you came to your heart’s desire, wasn’t it?”
He says nothing. It’s clear I’ve hurt him.
“Shit . . . I’m sorry, Peter. There’s no point in opening up old wounds . . .”
“I didn’t know it was a wound. I’m sorry.”
“Listen, just forget about it, okay? Just accept that it’s something I had to repress, that’s all. It’s probably all tied up with my finding out about you and Ernesto . . . I mean, how you felt about him. And, I guess I felt like you’d betrayed me . . . used me . . . you know, to be near Ernesto. And I guess I didn’t want to remember, that’s all . . .”
“I never used you,” he protests.
“Listen, Peter, I know there was no malice involved, but people use each other. People have needs, and they use each other . . .”
And how have Jack and I used each other?
“I guess that’s something I’ve repressed—I mean using you. I never wanted to do that . . .” He shakes his head sadly.
“I know. So, why don’t we both repress it. There are certainly enough good memories, dear. Let’s just hold on to those.”
But all of a sudden, I don’t want to repress it at all.
This would make an amazing first scene of a play, wouldn’t it?
I’m already writing the dialogue, casting the roles, and preparing for a triumphant opening night when Peter interrupts my internal monologue.
“Okay . . . no, wait, before we close that door . . . something you said . . . I’m just curious about something. How did you know about me . . . and Ernesto?”
I slip back into bitter, and hurt and guilty, and pretend I don’t hear. “Listen, I’m going to make some iced tea. It’s really hot out here. Do you want some tea?”
“Caro, answer my question. How did you find out? Did Ernesto tell you?”
I shake my head.
“Then how?”
I can’t look at him. I start to walk away, but he grabs my hand. “How did you find out?”
I extricate my hand from his and take a deep breath. “I found the letter, Peter . . . the one you wrote to him on graduation night. Ernesto didn’t tell me. I went over there the next morning. Scott was at work and Ernesto was in the shower. And the letter was on the kitchen table . . . So,” I shrug, “I read it.”
“Pretty nosy, aren’t you? And look who’s talking about betrayal . . .” His voice rises in a way I’ve never heard it.
We stare at each other for a long time, until he says gently, “I guess you were bound to find out sometime. I was just kind of hoping you wouldn’t. I mean, not that it ended up making any difference or anything. I’m just . . . sorry you had to be hurt that way. I never wanted to hurt you, Caro. You must know that . . .”
I put my fingers to his lips. “Shhh . . . no more. We’re supposed to be remembering the good times, right? Or have you forgotten?”
“No.” He grins, “How could I ever forget?”
“So, where were we? You wanted me to tell you how I met Jack, right? Okay, I started reading more and thinking more and I marched and I protested that stinking war. I believed that we’d make a difference, and I think we did. One of the happiest days was when Johnson said he wasn’t going to run again.”
“Yeah, I hated that bastard.”
“You know, I didn’t know anyone at the U of A who was being drafted, but then I thought about those boys back home. Those farm kids who didn’t have the luxury of student deferments, the ones who were all gung ho to serve their country and defend Mom, the flag, and apple pie. Three of the guys I went to high school with died there. One got blown up in a helicopter, another was a medic who died trying to save a buddy, and a third stepped on a punji stick, and that was the end of Bobby Porter. They were all good kids. You know, no malice or anything . . . just wanted to go over there and get the job done. Daddy sent me the clippings from the paper. It was horrible. So many boys from such a small town. Thank God I didn’t have to worry about you. It was such a relief to get your letter about your hernia and being 4-F.
“Anyway, I started attending more rallies and marches. Would you believe some of us even occupied the dean’s office?”
I grin. “I wish you had been there—No, actually, I’m glad you weren’t.”
He looks surprised.
“Well, that was the day I met Jack.”
“Aha, the plot thickens . . .”
“Anyway, he was cute, and bright, and earnest, and politically aware . . . and sexy. And I was extremely horny . . .”
“Are you trying to tell me you slept with him on your first date?”
“God, it wasn’t even a date. Well, I mean, it was, sort of. You know, I can’t even remember why we were occupying the dean’s office. I think we wanted him to declare a moratorium for some reason or another and cancel classes for the day in solidarity with protests at more enlightened campuses. Anyway, I think he threatened to call the police or something, and this being Arizona instead of Columbia or Berkeley, we carried our protest outside instead of standing our ground. Guys started burning their draft cards and everything. It was fabulous. And Jack and I started talking, and, well, one thing led to another . . .”
“To bed?”
“Is that a leer, Peter? Yes, bed. I mean, I’ll bet it didn’t take long with you and what’s his face in New York before you were in his bed, did it?”
“The night I met him,” he admits sheepishly.
“Anyway, Jack was everything I could have asked for in a lover . . .” And suddenly I am there, in Jack’s big brass bed and it’s our very first time.
“Caro? You looked like you just floated off somewhere. Where did you go?”
“Maybe back to 1967. Funny, it probably didn’t occur to me at the time, but Jack kind of looked like you then. Oh, he was taller and blonder, but there was something about his eyes . . . and the beard was the same. Of course, half the guys we knew had beards then . . . but still . . . maybe, subconsciously, I thought I’d found a straight incarnation of you . . .”
“I guess I should be flattered?”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with flattery. I mean, when you think about it, it’s pretty logical. I had a lot invested in us, and I’d been rejected by you in a big way. My God, you even gave up the Schumann fellowship rather than come back to school with me . . .”
“That’s not the only reason, Caro, but . . .”
“But what?”
“You’re right, it was part of it.”
“Oh, Peter, I’m sorry. I wish I’d known how to back off, but I couldn’t. I loved you so much.”
“And then you fell in love with Jack,” he prompts.
He’s right. We have been over and over it. No point in pursuing it any further: we will never be lovers.
“Yeah, I did, and he fell in love with me, which I found pretty amazing.”
“I don’t find anything at all amazing about that. You are one terrific woman. You were then, and you’re even more so now. Although, I have to admit, I miss the long, dark curly hair, and you’re a trifle on the skinny side . . .”
“Well, after what I put away today, we probably don’t have to worry about the skinny part for too long. And I’m thinking about letting my hair grow back to its natural color. . .although that’s probably grey by now. Nothing I can do about the nose, though.”
“Oh, I like the nose, now that I’m used to it. But I liked the other one, too.”
“Well, the nose was Jack’s doing . . .”
“Okay, so the guy’s not perfect.”
“Mmm, but he wants me to be . . .”
“Whoa, this is ‘The Good Things About Jack Tanner Show.’ No fair switching channels. All right, Contestant Number One, can you name ten good things about Jack? You have thirty seconds . . .”
