have a drink some evening.”
As conversations go with Marsha, this one began sanely and sensibly enough. There is in Marsha Sadler a bedrock of self-importance and self-interest that makes her reasonably predictable. However, having said that, I have to qualify it by adding that Marsha wishes to be appreciated as a “serious person capable of growth.” Her growing pains are often a trial to those around her. This year she is adding inches to her stature by attending a graduate class in English literature.
In the past her interest was confined largely to pop psychological treatises available in paperback at the corner drugstore. Theypointed out to her many a straight and narrow path down which she sauntered only to discover they opened into Californian box canyons. None of these books altered Marsha’s personality, but they lent her darker machinations and meddlings in other people’s business the appearance of sincerity and genuine concern.
“What a life you lead, Marsha,” I said jocularly, “grilling your lovely limbs in Arizona.”
“Ed, you make me sound decadent,” declared Marsha, full of hope. One of her fondest desires is to be thought just that. She revels in sexual innuendo the way a cat rolls in catnip. “Surely you wouldn’t deny me the
natural
pleasures of life.”
Taking a firm grip on my gorge, I replied, “Or even the unnatural, Marsha.”
She tittered. I tittered.
“Ed, you’re incorrigible!”
“Marsha, you’re insatiable!”
Another round of adult chortles. I was beginning to sweat with shame. God only knew how long this would have to go on.
“Ed, I’d forgotten how quick you are.”
“Sadly, that’s what all the girls say!”
A squeal of delight. That’s it; I don’t have much self-respect left to squander. I decided to change the subject, so I cleared my throat. “But, seriously, Marsha, how was Arizona?”
The adverb was a signal to Marsha. It gave her the opportunity to prove she’s not just a bundle of sexual tensions. “Ed, it’s always an experience. You wouldn’t believe the light.”
“The light?”
“The light,” she repeated. “The desert light. I don’t know. It’s kind of spiritual. Anyway, it was great. Then I went on to Palm Springs for a week before coming back.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said, imagining hecatombs of depleted tennis pros littering the sandy wastes, marking Marsha’s passage.
“It is wonderful, isn’t it? It’s like I always say – you know what I always say about marriage and Arizona, don’t you?”
“No. Regrettably, I don’t.”
“I always say there’s no way I would have married Bill in Arizona. The light there is too revealing, too pitiless. Anyway, shit smells in the sun. He’d have stunk to high heaven.”
I attempted to head off trouble. Hideous Marsha was getting ready to start in on Bill. I wasn’t going to be sidetracked. “Speaking of light,” I broke in hastily, “I wonder if you could shed a little of it on a matter for me, Marsha. I’ve just about succeeded in demolishing my apartment looking for Anthony’s phone number. Victoria gave it to me and I put it away some place and now I’m damned if I can find it.”
Marsha didn’t appreciate being interrupted. “Anthony?”
I took a deep breath. It’s all a venture, isn’t it? “Yes. You know Anthony.
Victoria’s
Anthony.”
Her reply confirmed I was correct in my supposition of a connection. At least she didn’t contradict my wife’s claim to him. “Victoria gave
you
Anthony’s phone number?” she said, making clear she viewed this contention with scepticism.
“Uh-huh.”
She paused. “If you’ve lost his phone number, why don’t you look it up in the phone book?”
This was hardly the time for Marsha to suddenly turn vicious and logical. “Because I thought it was unlisted,” I said, not particularly convincingly. “That’s why I thought Victoria
gave
it to me – because it was unlisted.”
“No,” said Marsha
As conversations go with Marsha, this one began sanely and sensibly enough. There is in Marsha Sadler a bedrock of self-importance and self-interest that makes her reasonably predictable. However, having said that, I have to qualify it by adding that Marsha wishes to be appreciated as a “serious person capable of growth.” Her growing pains are often a trial to those around her. This year she is adding inches to her stature by attending a graduate class in English literature.
In the past her interest was confined largely to pop psychological treatises available in paperback at the corner drugstore. Theypointed out to her many a straight and narrow path down which she sauntered only to discover they opened into Californian box canyons. None of these books altered Marsha’s personality, but they lent her darker machinations and meddlings in other people’s business the appearance of sincerity and genuine concern.
“What a life you lead, Marsha,” I said jocularly, “grilling your lovely limbs in Arizona.”
“Ed, you make me sound decadent,” declared Marsha, full of hope. One of her fondest desires is to be thought just that. She revels in sexual innuendo the way a cat rolls in catnip. “Surely you wouldn’t deny me the
natural
pleasures of life.”
Taking a firm grip on my gorge, I replied, “Or even the unnatural, Marsha.”
She tittered. I tittered.
“Ed, you’re incorrigible!”
“Marsha, you’re insatiable!”
Another round of adult chortles. I was beginning to sweat with shame. God only knew how long this would have to go on.
“Ed, I’d forgotten how quick you are.”
“Sadly, that’s what all the girls say!”
A squeal of delight. That’s it; I don’t have much self-respect left to squander. I decided to change the subject, so I cleared my throat. “But, seriously, Marsha, how was Arizona?”
The adverb was a signal to Marsha. It gave her the opportunity to prove she’s not just a bundle of sexual tensions. “Ed, it’s always an experience. You wouldn’t believe the light.”
“The light?”
“The light,” she repeated. “The desert light. I don’t know. It’s kind of spiritual. Anyway, it was great. Then I went on to Palm Springs for a week before coming back.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said, imagining hecatombs of depleted tennis pros littering the sandy wastes, marking Marsha’s passage.
“It is wonderful, isn’t it? It’s like I always say – you know what I always say about marriage and Arizona, don’t you?”
“No. Regrettably, I don’t.”
“I always say there’s no way I would have married Bill in Arizona. The light there is too revealing, too pitiless. Anyway, shit smells in the sun. He’d have stunk to high heaven.”
I attempted to head off trouble. Hideous Marsha was getting ready to start in on Bill. I wasn’t going to be sidetracked. “Speaking of light,” I broke in hastily, “I wonder if you could shed a little of it on a matter for me, Marsha. I’ve just about succeeded in demolishing my apartment looking for Anthony’s phone number. Victoria gave it to me and I put it away some place and now I’m damned if I can find it.”
Marsha didn’t appreciate being interrupted. “Anthony?”
I took a deep breath. It’s all a venture, isn’t it? “Yes. You know Anthony.
Victoria’s
Anthony.”
Her reply confirmed I was correct in my supposition of a connection. At least she didn’t contradict my wife’s claim to him. “Victoria gave
you
Anthony’s phone number?” she said, making clear she viewed this contention with scepticism.
“Uh-huh.”
She paused. “If you’ve lost his phone number, why don’t you look it up in the phone book?”
This was hardly the time for Marsha to suddenly turn vicious and logical. “Because I thought it was unlisted,” I said, not particularly convincingly. “That’s why I thought Victoria
gave
it to me – because it was unlisted.”
“No,” said Marsha
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