This did not mean things were fine between Kate and me. We were undoubtedly at the end of our year-and-five-month affair, but no one knew how to yell “Uncle!”
There were many strikes against us. Kate made more money than I did, she was more extravagant, more open, more adventurous, more opinionated, more—almost more than I could handle. In every way except one.
I had known her slightly, had seen her around at parties for almost two years. She had enormous green eyes, sea-green eyes, which slayed me, rich sable-brown hair worn in a ponytail, which also slayed me, long lovely legs, a tiny waist, flat stomach, and just-right medium-sized breasts that one could never imagine falling. Her personality, opinions, style, her entire approach to life, were so strong, so head-on, I had no doubt she was a man-eater. I was as intimidated by her as I was attracted to her.
I knew she noticed me; every so often at a gathering those green eyes would fasten on me. Frankly, I interpreted her look as a musing appraisal over whether my private parts might be worthy enough to be added to her collection.
One night at a party given by our mutual friend, Nettie Madden, I got quite drunk and became increasingly sullen over my apprehension of her. I brooded, keeping an eye on her. She was bowling over a small group of people with her personality. She had just told a joke or story and as I passed behind her chair on the way to the bar, she tossed her head back, laughing her infectious laugh. I looked down into her green eyes, suddenly stopped, grabbed her ponytail, pulled her head back, and planted an upsidedown kiss squarely on her lips.
She returned the kiss with her usual aplomb, as if it had been rehearsed, then said: “Hmn, don’t leave without checking with me.” As I made my way to the bar, stunned by my behavior, I heard her say, “I hope he hasn’t started something he doesn’t intend to finish.”
I didn’t intend to, not at all. I waited a decent interval, said good night to Nettie, and as I walked toward the front door I heard Kate’s voice: “Say there, Tarzan? Swinging off by yourself?”
I turned around as her group laughed. “No,” I lied.
“Oh?” she laughed. “I see, you were going to wait for me downstairs. Right?”
Another laugh; I was furious. “Yes,” I said in the strongest steadiest voice I could muster. “With a club!”
The laugh topped hers. Kate got up without further ado. “Good night all,” she said to her group. “Nettie, good night, I had a lovely time.” The next thing we were riding down in silence in the elevator, then we were in a cab on the way to her apartment. Not a word was spoken. I was seized by bedroom fright. I kicked myself for kissing her, for starting it. When the cab pulled up to her apartment on East Fifty-sixth Street, she merely said, “Nightcap?”
“Sure.” There was no decent way out, although my brain was scrambling for some honorable way to avoid direct confrontation with this highly veneered, entirely shellacked manikin.
Up in the elevator, keys out of the handbag, door open. As she stepped onto the polished wood floor of her living room her feet flew out from under her and she took what she later described as “a good klutzy hard fall.” There she lay on her back, the veneer gone, shellac cracked. She looked helpless and dear. “Blew it,” she said. She began to laugh; so did I. Soon I was on the floor with her and we began our lovemaking right there.
By the time we finally reached the bed and I was poised naked and extremely ready above her, she said, in a small little-girl voice: “Be gentle, don’t hurt me!”
Don’t hurt me! That from her. Her plea made me so happy I could only grin my head off. And perform beautifully.
She was completely feminine, soft and vulnerable in bed. That, I might add, was about the only place she was. I loved the glazed, almost frightened look of wonder as she neared orgasm. I loved her in bed. Sexually we were perfectly matched. No need ever to discuss timing, rhythm, position, or any part of making love. Once we started, it always happened together. Always. And always she allowed me to be the instigator and the leader. Right or women’s liberation wrong, she was wise in bed. She knew how to get the best from her man. Sex was our mutual safe ground, our meeting place.
Of course, there is that six months’ grace period of discovery before each other’s idiosyncrasies begin multiplying in number and annoyance like loaves and fishes, the period during which you tell each other all that went before, made up of truth and part-truth, mixed with imagination, wishful thinking, and fascinating storytelling. That period had ended.
In public and out socially, Kate often acted like Rosalind Russell playing Bella Abzug. This I found annoying. She would not hesitate to call out in a restaurant, “Say, Wally Waiter, what do you call this?” as she shoved a dish not to her liking at the man. “Take this back to Charlie Chef and tell him medium rare does not mean cremated!”
That kind of behavior. With waiters, cab drivers, salesmen, etc.
One day I made up a list in my journal of things I liked about Kate and those I didn’t. Lovemaking topped it off, as indicated. Then: I admired her looks, style, impulsiveness, generosity, enthusiasm, candor, and humor. I did not admire her rudeness, her opinionated statements on almost any subject without much thought or real intelligence to back them up; Kate was bright and quick but not overly intelligent. Although she was personally immaculate, she could turn a kitchen or bathroom into a health menace in a matter of minutes. At times she lacked a certain compassion for her fellow man. She was also intolerant of the faults of others.
Mine, for instance.
I could also have made up a list of what Kate did not like about me. She did not like or respect my profession, or my approach to it, she did not approve of my caution and conservatism in most things: money, clothes, social behavior. She disliked the name “Jimmy,” preferring to call me Jim. “It’s time you stopped being the fuzzy boyish type—cute as you are—and started playing leads.” (I like Jim myself, but most people called me Jimmy.) She hated my cat.
But soon she will make an appearance and speak for herself. So enough. Except for one last item, almost the clincher, of which she disapproved: Claire Hubbard, my aunt.
Before the burglar appears, a few words about Claire.
And the last of the Fleet enema.