he’ll make a fuss, and Jane will kick him in the vas deferens, and unless that permanently discourages him, and it is discouraging, you’ll have to move.“
”So don’t tell him.“
”But he’s hired me. I owe him something.“
”I can’t hire you,“ she said. ”I have no money.“
Jane and Rose stood alertly across the roadway on the other side of the bridge and watched my every move. Semper paratus.
”I don’t want you to hire me. I’m not trying to hold you up. I’m trying to get a sense of what I should do.“
”Isn’t that your problem?“ Her elbows were resting on the railing and her hands were clasped. The diamond-wedding ring combination on her left hand caught the sun and glinted.
”Yes it is,“ I said, ”but I can’t solve it until I know who and what I’m dealing with. I have a sense of your husband. I need to get a sense of you.“
”For someone like you, I’d think the sanctity of marriage would be all you’d need. A woman who runs out on her family deserves no sympathy. She’s lucky her husband will take her back.“ I noticed the knuckles of her clasped hands were whitening a little.
”Sanctity of marriage is an abstraction, Mrs. Shepard. I don’t deal in those. I deal in what it is fashionable to call people. Bodies. Your basic human being. I don’t give a goddamn about the sanctity of marriage. But I occasionally worry about whether people are happy.“
”Isn’t happiness itself an abstraction?“
”Nope. It’s a feeling. Feelings are real. They are hard to talk about so people sometimes pretend they’re abstractions, or they pretend that ideas, which are easy to talk about, are more important.“
”Is the quality of men and women an abstraction?“
”I think so.“
She looked at me a little scornfully. ”Yet the failure of that equality makes a great many people unhappy.“
”Yeah. So let’s work on the unhappiness. I don’t know what in hell quality means. I don’t know what it means in the Declaration of Independence. What’s making you unhappy with your husband?“
She sighed in a deep breath and heaved it out quickly. ”Oh, God,“ she said. ”Where to begin.“ She stared at the transmitter tower. I waited. Cars went by behind us.
”He love you?“
She looked at me with more than scorn. I thought for a minute she was going to spit. ”Yes,“ she said. ”He loves me. It’s as if that were the only basis for a relationship. ‘I love you. I love you. Do you love me? Love. Love.’ Shit!“
”It’s better than I hate you. Do you hate me?“ I said.
”Oh, don’t be so goddamned superficial,“ she said. ”A relationship can’t function on one emotion. Love or hate. He’s like a…“ She fumbled for an appropriate comparison. ”He’s like when one of the kids eats cotton candy at a carnival on a hot day and it gets all over her and then all over you and you’re sticky and sweaty and the day’s been a long one, and horrible, and the kids are whiny. If you don’t get away by yourself and take a shower you’ll just start screaming. You have any children, Mr. Spenser?“
”No.“
”Then maybe you don’t know. Are you married?“
”No.“
”Then certainly you don’t know.“
I was silent.
”Every time I walk by him he wants to hug me. Or he gives me a pat on the ass. Every minute of every day that I am with him I feel the pressure of his love and him wanting a response until I want to kick him.“
”Old Jane would probably help you,“ I said.
”She was protecting me,“ Pam Shepard said.
”I know,“ I said. ”Do you love him?“
”Harvey? Not, probably, by his terms. But in mine. Or at least I did. Until he wore me down. At first it was one of his appeals that he loved me so totally. I liked that. I liked the certainty. But the pressure of that…“ She shook her head.
I nodded at her encouragingly. Me and Carl Rogers.
”In bed,“ she said. ”If I didn’t have multiple orgasms I felt I was letting him
”So don’t tell him.“
”But he’s hired me. I owe him something.“
”I can’t hire you,“ she said. ”I have no money.“
Jane and Rose stood alertly across the roadway on the other side of the bridge and watched my every move. Semper paratus.
”I don’t want you to hire me. I’m not trying to hold you up. I’m trying to get a sense of what I should do.“
”Isn’t that your problem?“ Her elbows were resting on the railing and her hands were clasped. The diamond-wedding ring combination on her left hand caught the sun and glinted.
”Yes it is,“ I said, ”but I can’t solve it until I know who and what I’m dealing with. I have a sense of your husband. I need to get a sense of you.“
”For someone like you, I’d think the sanctity of marriage would be all you’d need. A woman who runs out on her family deserves no sympathy. She’s lucky her husband will take her back.“ I noticed the knuckles of her clasped hands were whitening a little.
”Sanctity of marriage is an abstraction, Mrs. Shepard. I don’t deal in those. I deal in what it is fashionable to call people. Bodies. Your basic human being. I don’t give a goddamn about the sanctity of marriage. But I occasionally worry about whether people are happy.“
”Isn’t happiness itself an abstraction?“
”Nope. It’s a feeling. Feelings are real. They are hard to talk about so people sometimes pretend they’re abstractions, or they pretend that ideas, which are easy to talk about, are more important.“
”Is the quality of men and women an abstraction?“
”I think so.“
She looked at me a little scornfully. ”Yet the failure of that equality makes a great many people unhappy.“
”Yeah. So let’s work on the unhappiness. I don’t know what in hell quality means. I don’t know what it means in the Declaration of Independence. What’s making you unhappy with your husband?“
She sighed in a deep breath and heaved it out quickly. ”Oh, God,“ she said. ”Where to begin.“ She stared at the transmitter tower. I waited. Cars went by behind us.
”He love you?“
She looked at me with more than scorn. I thought for a minute she was going to spit. ”Yes,“ she said. ”He loves me. It’s as if that were the only basis for a relationship. ‘I love you. I love you. Do you love me? Love. Love.’ Shit!“
”It’s better than I hate you. Do you hate me?“ I said.
”Oh, don’t be so goddamned superficial,“ she said. ”A relationship can’t function on one emotion. Love or hate. He’s like a…“ She fumbled for an appropriate comparison. ”He’s like when one of the kids eats cotton candy at a carnival on a hot day and it gets all over her and then all over you and you’re sticky and sweaty and the day’s been a long one, and horrible, and the kids are whiny. If you don’t get away by yourself and take a shower you’ll just start screaming. You have any children, Mr. Spenser?“
”No.“
”Then maybe you don’t know. Are you married?“
”No.“
”Then certainly you don’t know.“
I was silent.
”Every time I walk by him he wants to hug me. Or he gives me a pat on the ass. Every minute of every day that I am with him I feel the pressure of his love and him wanting a response until I want to kick him.“
”Old Jane would probably help you,“ I said.
”She was protecting me,“ Pam Shepard said.
”I know,“ I said. ”Do you love him?“
”Harvey? Not, probably, by his terms. But in mine. Or at least I did. Until he wore me down. At first it was one of his appeals that he loved me so totally. I liked that. I liked the certainty. But the pressure of that…“ She shook her head.
I nodded at her encouragingly. Me and Carl Rogers.
”In bed,“ she said. ”If I didn’t have multiple orgasms I felt I was letting him
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