“BEATRICE, I am calling to lament the state of American manhood.”
“Oh my God, you had your date.”
“Yes, and he didn’t, well, he didn’t. He didn’t do what normal, red-blooded American men are supposed to do, he completely let down his side of the deal.”
“What was that?”
“He just sat there, Beatrice. He made no move.”
“Maybe he was shy?”
“What if we were at war? Would you be saying ‘maybe he was shy’ while he ran away from the battle?”
“I like to think that’s not the right analogy,” I said. But I was afraid I was wrong.
“If you look back over history … even prehistory, the pattern is clear.…”
“Philippa, did you let him get a word in?”
“W … of course … I … of course. I always let you get a word in.”
“You listen, when I interrupt,” I said. “Which is a noble quality; I wish I were able to do the same. But on a first date…”
“A man has a responsibility to … shall we say … put the ball into play…” she said, with professorial authority.
“Philippa, did you smile up at him and say dewily, ‘I had a wonderful time’?”
“Well, no. I mean, I didn’t have a wonderful time. Why would I say I did?”
“What did you two talk about?”
“The Crusades,” she admitted.
“Did you think of changing the subject to something more personal?”
“I love talking about the Crusades.”
“So, you admit it! You had a wonderful time!”
“I was able to correct some of his information,” she said grumpily.
“Oh, Philippa, what am I going to do with you?”
“He’s six foot two, Beatrice. He has a Ph.D. in political journalism. He’s been to Moscow five times. Surely he can get up the gumption to make the first move. What is going to become of this country? And then there’s the whole question of lingerie.”
“What would that be?”
“Oh, you know,” she said, sounding sweetly, utterly vanquished, in despair at herself. “Little lace insets here and there, that kind of thing.”
She pulled herself up short, though, in soldierly fashion. “An interesting experiment, but lingerie is in the ascendant here, I’m afraid.”
* * *
THERE WAS no law against walking down Aetna Boulevard, I said to myself stubbornly, and one afternoon I went in early to pick Lee up, left the car in the staff parking lot, and strode along the sidewalk toward town as if I had every right to be there. I couldn’t bring myself to turn my head (it wasn’t like I wanted to see Stetson), but as I walked by LaLouche, he came to the door. It was December. Silver reindeer lifted candelabra antlers in the window behind him and the mannequins were offering each other gifts wrapped in white silk.
“Is that you?” he asked, and my first impulse was to say “no.”
“I had to get a lightbulb,” I said.
“Oh, yeah, you went to Hazleton’s? They’ve got an amazing selection. I got the fixtures for the dressing rooms there, they cast a really flattering light, warm—”
I had no idea how long a person could go on about light fixtures, nor did I expect myself to have so much to say on the subject, but I did, and finally had to stop myself in the middle of a sentence about wattage, asking—“So, how are you? How’s it going here?”
“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s the holidays and that always helps.”
“Tracy likes working here?” I asked.
“She likes being a part of it,” he said, with a little sigh. “And she loves the clothes. Which does help.” He pulled the steamer out of the back closet and I could see that tension in his back and shoulders that used to precede one of his confessions. “She’s in class now,” he said. “I have to admit it brings us closer, working together.”
Now this, for no reason, made me feel so terrible that I had no choice but to say, with wholehearted happiness: “That’s wonderful, Stetson. She’s so pretty. I’m sure she’s a great saleswoman.”
“Thanks,” he said, sounding sort of disappointed. “And—how are you?”
“I’m good, good. I moved out to Willbrook with Lee. No job yet, but I’ve got some interviews coming up. I’m doing fine.”
His smile was no less radiant than my last one. He was grateful for the chance to show his open and liberal nature, and determined to be happy for me. “Congratulations!”
“Thanks, Stet,” I said, though there’s nothing more infuriating than having all kinds of people rush out to pat you on the head when you’re right in the middle of a transgression.
“You lucked out when you got rid of me! I’m sure Tracy understands all this in a way I just don’t.” This was (a) an insult cleverly disguised as a compliment, and (b) a lie. I’d never lied to Stetson before and it made me feel as sick as when I’d dreamed I was drinking the Jackson Pollock painting.
He’d smiled sadly down at the floor when I said he’d lucked out, but now he caught himself. “Hey, you’ll need some new clothes for those interviews,” he said.
“Well, Tracy’s the one to help me pick them,” I chimed. Let those two fold shirts together until the end of time.
“Beatrice, I owe you an apology,” Stetson said suddenly. “I should never have hired you; you quit your other job for this and then—”
“Oh, don’t, Stet,” I said. Because I didn’t want to remember how warm it had been there, steaming out djellabahs and waiting for his next story.
“Can I take you to lunch sometime?” he asked. I must have looked perplexed, because he started explaining that I’d given him insight into the kind of person who didn’t buy from LaLouche. “And Tracy won’t object, seeing—”
“That I’m a lesbian,” I snapped.
“Exactly.” He caught my eye and smiled, and I felt, as always, that we had a body of secret knowledge between us that we acted on even though we couldn’t have said what it was.
“Close to You” was playing on the radio and I said, “Oh, Stetson, I love this song!”
“It’s the Carpenters,” he said, peering into my face as if to check for dilated pupils. “Are you okay?”
We laughed, and suddenly everything was easy. “It’s like—” he said, glancing at me for reassurance, so I nodded and made a reflexive beckoning motion with my hand, coaxing his thoughts toward me. “These songs that run in your head, when you remember the words, you know why you’re stuck on the tune.”
“Yes!” I said. “I never thought of it, but you’re right”—that expression of raw need crossed his face, so I continued—“that is so true.”
“You know that old Isley Brothers song, ‘She’s Gone’? When you left … I’d come in every morning, and…”
“Lunch, yes, let’s have lunch!” I said, to divert the freight train that was heading straight at us, and ran out into the blue evening. Across the street two little girls in velveteen coats stood on tiptoe before the Christmas village in the toy shop window, and everywhere there was an air of extravagance, haste, anticipation. People were rushing along with the sense that something glorious was about to happen—it was going to be Christmas and love would assert itself over the foolish angers and wrongheaded notions that bound it in chains the rest of the year.
“I’ll call right after Christmas,” he said as I went off up the street to Lee.