in a guarded voice, “he’s in the phone book.”
On reflection I realize I ought to have given her plenty of time to rubber-hose poor Bill in that startling, revealing Arizona light while I looked on and applauded. Then she would have been more kindly disposed to me.
“Ah,” I said, casting around in my mind, wondering what to do next. A long, painful wait for her to volunteer information wasn’t a success. “This is really embarrassing,” I confessed at last, “but Ican’t recall Anthony’s last name. It’s slipped clean out of my mind. Imagine forgetting the name of your wife’s lover,” I said with a bark of wry laughter. “There must be something psychologically revealing about that.” I was offering bait which the old Marsha, the student of the human mind and human interactions, would have risen to, mouth gaping.
“Yep,” she said.
There I was with a phone humming in my ear. Yep, that was it. In my confusion I faltered, lost my grip, and made another appeal to last season’s Marsha. That is, to warm, wise Counsellor Marsha. I worked tremolo into my voice. “It’s so hard,” I said. “I’m finding the adjustment so damn hard.”
This ploy was not much more successful. “We all carry scars, Ed. You’ve got to learn to live with rejection like everybody else,” she said.
What was I to do? My situation was that of a desperately unfunny comedian performing his stale patter before a bored, even hostile audience. But if it’s your only routine you have to carry on despite a cool reception. Carry on with rills of nervous perspiration trickling down my sides and the idiocy of what I was saying clamouring louder and louder in my ears. I nattered on breathlessly. I said that just by listening Marsha was helping me get in touch with my feelings. I said feelings were important, it was important to say how you felt. I paused. Marsha said she
supposed
that was true. I said I felt worried, really worried. Why? she asked with a touch of interest. And having got that far, I gabbled the story of all that had transpired in the Café Nice from the time the first bread stick was crunched until Victoria had fled, weeping. “So you see, Marsha,” I concluded, “Victoria did want to talk to me. Something’s the matter. I’m really worried. Please give me her number.”
“Let me think,” replied Marsha. “What we’ve got to do in this situation isn’t entirely clear.”
“We?” I didn’t relish her use of the plural pronoun.
“I think it would be best if I get hold of Victoria tomorrow – arrange a lunch or something. Leave it to me. I’ll find out what’s going on. Then you can drop by here tomorrow night and I’ll fill you in. In the meantime just relax, get a good night’s sleep, and don’t worry. Marsha’ll take care of everything.”
This took me so aback I lost my hold on my tongue. “I don’t want a go-between, Marsha. I want a number.”
“Trust me, Ed. There’s no way Victoria will want to talk to you right now, not after what happened. You must admit you were a bit insensitive.”
“I don’t have to admit anything.”
“It seems obvious you were. Otherwise, why did she run away?”
“Nothing under heaven and earth is obvious. That’s my goddamn point. I want the situation cleared up and I find you running interference. Butt out, Marsha.”
“Ed, learn to rely on others. There are none of us so strong that we don’t need help at some point in our lives. It isn’t wrong to lean on somebody else.”
“Come on, Marsha, cut the crap. Give me the fucking phone number.”
“Not until I’ve talked to Victoria. I’ve got to trust my own judgment. I don’t think this is the proper time for you two to talk – not when you’re both so upset.”
“Who’s fucking upset?”
“You obviously are, Ed. And stop using that word. There’s no doubt you’re upset. In the last few minutes – when we started discussing Victoria you’ll note – your voice has gone all
On reflection I realize I ought to have given her plenty of time to rubber-hose poor Bill in that startling, revealing Arizona light while I looked on and applauded. Then she would have been more kindly disposed to me.
“Ah,” I said, casting around in my mind, wondering what to do next. A long, painful wait for her to volunteer information wasn’t a success. “This is really embarrassing,” I confessed at last, “but Ican’t recall Anthony’s last name. It’s slipped clean out of my mind. Imagine forgetting the name of your wife’s lover,” I said with a bark of wry laughter. “There must be something psychologically revealing about that.” I was offering bait which the old Marsha, the student of the human mind and human interactions, would have risen to, mouth gaping.
“Yep,” she said.
There I was with a phone humming in my ear. Yep, that was it. In my confusion I faltered, lost my grip, and made another appeal to last season’s Marsha. That is, to warm, wise Counsellor Marsha. I worked tremolo into my voice. “It’s so hard,” I said. “I’m finding the adjustment so damn hard.”
This ploy was not much more successful. “We all carry scars, Ed. You’ve got to learn to live with rejection like everybody else,” she said.
What was I to do? My situation was that of a desperately unfunny comedian performing his stale patter before a bored, even hostile audience. But if it’s your only routine you have to carry on despite a cool reception. Carry on with rills of nervous perspiration trickling down my sides and the idiocy of what I was saying clamouring louder and louder in my ears. I nattered on breathlessly. I said that just by listening Marsha was helping me get in touch with my feelings. I said feelings were important, it was important to say how you felt. I paused. Marsha said she
supposed
that was true. I said I felt worried, really worried. Why? she asked with a touch of interest. And having got that far, I gabbled the story of all that had transpired in the Café Nice from the time the first bread stick was crunched until Victoria had fled, weeping. “So you see, Marsha,” I concluded, “Victoria did want to talk to me. Something’s the matter. I’m really worried. Please give me her number.”
“Let me think,” replied Marsha. “What we’ve got to do in this situation isn’t entirely clear.”
“We?” I didn’t relish her use of the plural pronoun.
“I think it would be best if I get hold of Victoria tomorrow – arrange a lunch or something. Leave it to me. I’ll find out what’s going on. Then you can drop by here tomorrow night and I’ll fill you in. In the meantime just relax, get a good night’s sleep, and don’t worry. Marsha’ll take care of everything.”
This took me so aback I lost my hold on my tongue. “I don’t want a go-between, Marsha. I want a number.”
“Trust me, Ed. There’s no way Victoria will want to talk to you right now, not after what happened. You must admit you were a bit insensitive.”
“I don’t have to admit anything.”
“It seems obvious you were. Otherwise, why did she run away?”
“Nothing under heaven and earth is obvious. That’s my goddamn point. I want the situation cleared up and I find you running interference. Butt out, Marsha.”
“Ed, learn to rely on others. There are none of us so strong that we don’t need help at some point in our lives. It isn’t wrong to lean on somebody else.”
“Come on, Marsha, cut the crap. Give me the fucking phone number.”
“Not until I’ve talked to Victoria. I’ve got to trust my own judgment. I don’t think this is the proper time for you two to talk – not when you’re both so upset.”
“Who’s fucking upset?”
“You obviously are, Ed. And stop using that word. There’s no doubt you’re upset. In the last few minutes – when we started discussing Victoria you’ll note – your voice has gone all
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