you could start working on a list of names. Meanwhile, I’ve got a phone call to make. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I half-ran to the only unused pay phone in the waiting room, dropped in a quarter, and punched out my own number. Julie answered on the third ring.
“Julie, did you see Phoebe Morris yet?”
“No. She called earlier, said she’d be tied up most of the afternoon. I’m meeting her in a couple of hours.”
“Good, good. Now, look, I want you to make sure you give her photos that show Priscilla’s Rikers Island jumpsuit. At some point, I might have to prove the pictures were taken after Priscilla shot her husband.”
“Sid, we got a problem here?”
“No, no. But I’m sure Carlo’s gonna stall us on getting a doctor in to see our client. Once the bruises fade …” I didn’t bother with the rest of it. “By the way, Caleb pulled off one of his miracles. Owen Shaughnessy decided to plead guilty. It’s a good story. I’ll tell you about it when I get home.” I paused for a moment, afraid to ask the next question, afraid of Julie’s answer. It was funny, in a way, and ridiculous. After decades of driving people out of my life, the only thing I really feared was solitude. “You gonna be home tonight?”
“Yeah, Sid, I’ll be around.” Her voice was suffused with understanding. Reminding me of how much I hated to be understood, and of how much I’d opened myself up to her, how hard it was for me to be known.
“Great. Well, I’m going back to my client. Be nice to Phoebe.”
But I didn’t return immediately. Instead, I lit a cigarette and watched the parade of the wretched while I thought about my life with Julie and Caleb.
Some time before, I’d come to realize that our asexual menage à trois couldn’t last. It couldn’t last precisely because it was asexual. Sooner or later, the way I saw it, one of us would develop a relationship that satisfied emotionally while stimulating sexually and that would be the end of that.
One day at a time. That’s the credo of the recovering addict, and that’s the way I was trying to play it with Julie and Caleb. This despite knowing how much it would hurt to lose either. I’d had affairs from time to time, but the women I chose had refused to accept my lifestyle, a decision for which I was mostly grateful and didn’t blame them in the least.
It was Caleb, of course, who’d developed the most rational solution to the basic problem, a solution named Ettamae Harris. Ettamae, a widow with two grown children, lived uptown, in Harlem. She was as thin as Caleb was fat and she loved to cook, virtues that went to the core of Caleb’s personal need. They spent most weekends and occasional weeknights together, making love on Saturday night, going to church services on Sunday morning.
We had Ettamae to dinner in our apartment from time to time, and I can vividly recall a Sunday afternoon when she’d brought along two of her grandchildren. Ray and Jake, twins and toddlers, had pulled Caleb down to the floor and used him for a beach ball. A very willing beach ball who’d obviously played the role many times before. But that was the thing about Caleb. You took away the booze, he was a nice, slightly nerdy guy. He didn’t have to play the good cop, because he was the good cop.
Julie was in an entirely different position, not surprising when you consider that Caleb and I had spent our lives abusing while she’d spent hers being abused. In Julie’s world, sex had always been about exploitation, power, and money. She did have occasional partners, always women, but these encounters were much closer to one night stands than genuine relationships. And, I suspect, more depressing than satisfying, even on the most physical level.
We never spoke openly about any of this; our messages were always disguised. Caleb returning on Sunday evening with one of Etta’s pecan pies; Julie’s worried gaze when I indulged my bad temper (trust me, a common
I half-ran to the only unused pay phone in the waiting room, dropped in a quarter, and punched out my own number. Julie answered on the third ring.
“Julie, did you see Phoebe Morris yet?”
“No. She called earlier, said she’d be tied up most of the afternoon. I’m meeting her in a couple of hours.”
“Good, good. Now, look, I want you to make sure you give her photos that show Priscilla’s Rikers Island jumpsuit. At some point, I might have to prove the pictures were taken after Priscilla shot her husband.”
“Sid, we got a problem here?”
“No, no. But I’m sure Carlo’s gonna stall us on getting a doctor in to see our client. Once the bruises fade …” I didn’t bother with the rest of it. “By the way, Caleb pulled off one of his miracles. Owen Shaughnessy decided to plead guilty. It’s a good story. I’ll tell you about it when I get home.” I paused for a moment, afraid to ask the next question, afraid of Julie’s answer. It was funny, in a way, and ridiculous. After decades of driving people out of my life, the only thing I really feared was solitude. “You gonna be home tonight?”
“Yeah, Sid, I’ll be around.” Her voice was suffused with understanding. Reminding me of how much I hated to be understood, and of how much I’d opened myself up to her, how hard it was for me to be known.
“Great. Well, I’m going back to my client. Be nice to Phoebe.”
But I didn’t return immediately. Instead, I lit a cigarette and watched the parade of the wretched while I thought about my life with Julie and Caleb.
Some time before, I’d come to realize that our asexual menage à trois couldn’t last. It couldn’t last precisely because it was asexual. Sooner or later, the way I saw it, one of us would develop a relationship that satisfied emotionally while stimulating sexually and that would be the end of that.
One day at a time. That’s the credo of the recovering addict, and that’s the way I was trying to play it with Julie and Caleb. This despite knowing how much it would hurt to lose either. I’d had affairs from time to time, but the women I chose had refused to accept my lifestyle, a decision for which I was mostly grateful and didn’t blame them in the least.
It was Caleb, of course, who’d developed the most rational solution to the basic problem, a solution named Ettamae Harris. Ettamae, a widow with two grown children, lived uptown, in Harlem. She was as thin as Caleb was fat and she loved to cook, virtues that went to the core of Caleb’s personal need. They spent most weekends and occasional weeknights together, making love on Saturday night, going to church services on Sunday morning.
We had Ettamae to dinner in our apartment from time to time, and I can vividly recall a Sunday afternoon when she’d brought along two of her grandchildren. Ray and Jake, twins and toddlers, had pulled Caleb down to the floor and used him for a beach ball. A very willing beach ball who’d obviously played the role many times before. But that was the thing about Caleb. You took away the booze, he was a nice, slightly nerdy guy. He didn’t have to play the good cop, because he was the good cop.
Julie was in an entirely different position, not surprising when you consider that Caleb and I had spent our lives abusing while she’d spent hers being abused. In Julie’s world, sex had always been about exploitation, power, and money. She did have occasional partners, always women, but these encounters were much closer to one night stands than genuine relationships. And, I suspect, more depressing than satisfying, even on the most physical level.
We never spoke openly about any of this; our messages were always disguised. Caleb returning on Sunday evening with one of Etta’s pecan pies; Julie’s worried gaze when I indulged my bad temper (trust me, a common
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