asshole—you’d be out with him tonight, he’d be showing you off.’ Isn’t that crazy?”
Elizabeth nods. “So,” she says. “To repeat the question: Why do we feel guilty about knowing why we shouldn’t?”
Ann looks at the ceiling. “Because,” she says, ticking off the logic on her fingers, “if you feel guilty, you feel responsible; if you feel responsible, you feel there is something you can do about it. You’ve got some control. But no guilt means no responsibility, no control, no power. So we make ourselves feel guilty even when we have nothing to feel guilty about. You should have taken that course at NYU with me. We were always talking about women and guilt.” She frowns again. “So what did you do to Tupperware that makes you feel guilty?”
“I invited him to my apartment tonight,” she says and then quickly adds, “But that’s not what I’m talking about.”
Ann slaps her hands together. “Oh, good,” she says. “Are you going to sleep with him or just let him look at you?”
She’s a little startled. “Look at me?”
Ann laughs, taking a thin manuscript from the OUT box.“God, when you two walked out of here, he was watching you as if you were pure gold.”
“That’s because I’d just told him what a masterpiece he’d written.”
She looks at the manuscript in her hand, reads the title page.
“Heart Murmurs. Poetry, hey?” She shakes her head. “No, it was more than that. Pure adoration.”
Elizabeth shuffles some papers, trying not to look too pleased. “Oh, great, that’s all I need.”
Ann shrugs, looking up from the poems. “So go to bed with him. Do what I did to Brian. Fuck the adoration right off his face.” She turns and walks to the door. Blue and white. Hips and breasts. She turns suddenly. “Oh, dear,” she says. “Speaking of adoration, that’s what I came in for. Mr. Palmer is here to see you.”
She moans. “Does he have an appointment?”
“You made it with him. That day he called to tell you his brother had just dropped dead on Beaver Street.”
She remembers the day. Elizabeth had been one of the first people he called. His brother had been his last surviving relative.
“You felt sorry for him,” Ann says.
“I know. Well, call me in fifteen minutes.”
“Will do, boss.” She swings out of the office, all hips.
Elizabeth tries to remember the logic: guilt, responsibility, power. This from Ann who turns every rotten thing Brian ever did into her own sly maneuver.
Mr. Palmer’s bio card has little information. Jonathan Whitney Peale Palmer. Author of Apocalyptic Calculations Based in the Third Dimension. Lives in the Hotel Belvedere. Signed a $6,500 contract but is still making slight changes in his manuscript. Graduated from Harvard sixty years ago.
Another wealthy young man whose family paid to let himbe a writer, or, actually, an apocalyptic mathematician, so that now, sixty years later, the sole survivor, he can publish a book that will give the family name immortality. If a name on a hundred books sitting in a dusty storeroom can be considered immortality.
But she’d felt sorry for him. It happens. In her two years here, she’s learned to control her pity, but still, at times, it escapes, grows from her heart like those thin, flesh-colored bubbles that occasionally, unexpectedly, blossom between Bonnie’s chapped lips: transparent, pulsing, achingly thin. Not that her authors deserve or even want it. Not that it does any of them any good.
She had pitied Conrad Sikes and he, the next time he saw her, ducked his head and raised his tanned fingers to his brow, like a reluctant star. As if, that night, he had been the star.
She returns Mr. Palmer’s card to her file and goes out to the reception room to collect him. He is sitting on one of the Danish modern chairs, partly sunk into it, his battered brief case and black homburg on his lap, a faded blue ascot wrapped around his thin throat. He looks badly in need of a
Elizabeth nods. “So,” she says. “To repeat the question: Why do we feel guilty about knowing why we shouldn’t?”
Ann looks at the ceiling. “Because,” she says, ticking off the logic on her fingers, “if you feel guilty, you feel responsible; if you feel responsible, you feel there is something you can do about it. You’ve got some control. But no guilt means no responsibility, no control, no power. So we make ourselves feel guilty even when we have nothing to feel guilty about. You should have taken that course at NYU with me. We were always talking about women and guilt.” She frowns again. “So what did you do to Tupperware that makes you feel guilty?”
“I invited him to my apartment tonight,” she says and then quickly adds, “But that’s not what I’m talking about.”
Ann slaps her hands together. “Oh, good,” she says. “Are you going to sleep with him or just let him look at you?”
She’s a little startled. “Look at me?”
Ann laughs, taking a thin manuscript from the OUT box.“God, when you two walked out of here, he was watching you as if you were pure gold.”
“That’s because I’d just told him what a masterpiece he’d written.”
She looks at the manuscript in her hand, reads the title page.
“Heart Murmurs. Poetry, hey?” She shakes her head. “No, it was more than that. Pure adoration.”
Elizabeth shuffles some papers, trying not to look too pleased. “Oh, great, that’s all I need.”
Ann shrugs, looking up from the poems. “So go to bed with him. Do what I did to Brian. Fuck the adoration right off his face.” She turns and walks to the door. Blue and white. Hips and breasts. She turns suddenly. “Oh, dear,” she says. “Speaking of adoration, that’s what I came in for. Mr. Palmer is here to see you.”
She moans. “Does he have an appointment?”
“You made it with him. That day he called to tell you his brother had just dropped dead on Beaver Street.”
She remembers the day. Elizabeth had been one of the first people he called. His brother had been his last surviving relative.
“You felt sorry for him,” Ann says.
“I know. Well, call me in fifteen minutes.”
“Will do, boss.” She swings out of the office, all hips.
Elizabeth tries to remember the logic: guilt, responsibility, power. This from Ann who turns every rotten thing Brian ever did into her own sly maneuver.
Mr. Palmer’s bio card has little information. Jonathan Whitney Peale Palmer. Author of Apocalyptic Calculations Based in the Third Dimension. Lives in the Hotel Belvedere. Signed a $6,500 contract but is still making slight changes in his manuscript. Graduated from Harvard sixty years ago.
Another wealthy young man whose family paid to let himbe a writer, or, actually, an apocalyptic mathematician, so that now, sixty years later, the sole survivor, he can publish a book that will give the family name immortality. If a name on a hundred books sitting in a dusty storeroom can be considered immortality.
But she’d felt sorry for him. It happens. In her two years here, she’s learned to control her pity, but still, at times, it escapes, grows from her heart like those thin, flesh-colored bubbles that occasionally, unexpectedly, blossom between Bonnie’s chapped lips: transparent, pulsing, achingly thin. Not that her authors deserve or even want it. Not that it does any of them any good.
She had pitied Conrad Sikes and he, the next time he saw her, ducked his head and raised his tanned fingers to his brow, like a reluctant star. As if, that night, he had been the star.
She returns Mr. Palmer’s card to her file and goes out to the reception room to collect him. He is sitting on one of the Danish modern chairs, partly sunk into it, his battered brief case and black homburg on his lap, a faded blue ascot wrapped around his thin throat. He looks badly in need of a
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