21

AFTER THE RECEPTION
PART 2: AMANDA

He was the most affectionate man she had ever met.

Amanda smiled when she thought about it, about how Howard clung to her, any part of her, at any time he could reach her. In his arms; holding her hand; brushing a strand of her hair with his lips; even his eyes clung to the sight of her from across the room.

He made her happy. And she did not think it had to do with sex. She wanted to think it was sex; she had tried, those first two weeks, to rationalize what felt like her insane behavior—to welcome him, wait for him, at any time of the day or night.

Except Mondays.

That had been the first clue that “something” was happening between them, her horror at the thought of Howard coming to her on that day. Like the others. As if Howard was merely a replacement for Roger.

Roger. The thought of him made Amanda feel ill. The thought of him, of herself with him, utterly repulsed her. After that first night with Howard something had closed in Amanda, like a tomb door, shutting away what appeared to be—looking back—a process of death. Christopher was behind that door too.

But how could she fully accept what was happening to her? That everything that Howard said to her, every way that Howard touched her, seemed so new, different, wondrous? Had not men said to her many of the same things he said to her? Yes, they had. So why, coming from him, could she believe in them, remember them, mull over and savor them for hours after he had gone?

Dr. Vanderkeaton said that Howard spoke the same language as Amanda. And what language was that? Amanda wanted to know. A broken heart finding regeneration, the good doctor had said. She had said a great deal more than that, but Amanda had not listened very closely, so taken was she with that casually offered insight.

A broken heart finding regeneration.

When Amanda was six, Tinker, watching her daughter dancing about on the lawn, had called her up to the veranda. Sitting Amanda in her lap, Tinker had rocked them both, and opened a book to show Amanda a photograph of Isadora Duncan caught in a supreme moment of grace. “My dearest angel,” Tinker had whispered, stopping the chair, kissing Amanda’s little hand and bringing it down to the photograph, “this is what you are like. This is your spirit and this is your laughter.”

After a week with Howard, the Isadora of her childhood and young life had reappeared. Amanda did not think she was Isadora Duncan; but Amanda did feel like that photograph—spirit soaring, energy radiating, a burst of wonder at this splendid thing called life. She had laughed wildly, searching through her closets for Isadora’s things, and Howard had lain there, naked, across her bed on his stomach, watching as she dressed. And then he had laughed and laughed as she danced around the tower windows, and then Amanda had collapsed, out of breath, into his arms.

Howard somehow seemed to know all there was to know about Amanda. It wasn’t just that he had recognized Isadora without aid from her, it was that he knew that Isadora was a part of Amanda, deep inside of her, that was being pried loose by him and was struggling to come out. Out in the open. And it was not just Isadora. There were others, many others.

“You are going to have a wonderful day writing,” he had said, coming into the writing room, tying his tie before dashing to work. She had already been at her desk, writing longhand, with Missy the cat in her lap. He had leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Colette had that same ability to make reality the kingdom of her imagination.” Amanda had smiled at him but had inwardly trembled at how effortlessly he could read her. (Colette? How had he known? How? Because of the cat?)

“Be careful,” Dr. Vanderkeaton had said, “be careful, Amanda.” But Amanda wasn’t being careful and was growing more fearful by the minute. Of Howard. Of this dear, handsome, brilliant man. Of this deeply affectionate, caring man. The man who had made her get her IUD removed because he worried about her health; the man who had collapsed in laughter over Amanda’s frustration with her new diaphragm; the man with whom she had not felt embarrassed when he said he would help her put it in.

The man who had said, very businesslike over the phone to her, “Amanda, it is very important that you talk openly and honestly to Patricia MacMannis about your work. Your relationship with her, as writer and editor, doesn’t have, nor will it ever have, anything to do with me. It’s time for you to move ahead.”

Be careful, be careful...

Sigh.

Amanda had never let a married man within four feet of her. She had never been able to get the image of Marco (and that towel) out of her head. It was with abject horror that she had viewed anyone who sought to interfere with a committed relationship. Long ago she had ceased to blame Marco for starting the problems in her marriage; and no longer did she blame Christopher or herself. But what she had not understood, not one iota, was how anyone could make love to someone they knew would be sleeping side by side with their mate that very night.

And here she was having an affair with a married man. And did she care about Melissa? Frankly, no, she didn’t. Granted, the picture she had of her was through Howard’s eyes, no doubt distorted slightly in an effort to relieve his guilt (guilt, yes, he did have guilt, now that the initial thrill of derring—do was wearing off), but there were too many telltale signs not to know that Melissa was a woman whose heart did not work very well.

“Be careful, Amanda, be careful...”

“Of what?” Amanda had asked. “Because he’s married? He was young, very young—almost as young as I was when I married Christopher.” Silence. “What? What?”

A sigh from Dr. Vanderkeaton. “He sounds like a wonderful man who genuinely cares for you, about you. But I would be careful, Amanda. I would be careful to find out what his reasons were for having endured the terms of such a marriage for so long. Particularly when he is as bright and attractive as you say.”

“Because, because—he had to see it through.”

“Why?”

“Because...”

“You say that he never loved her. You say that they have had virtually no sex life, ever. You say that he was reluctant to have a child with her. You say that he has always felt like a prop of hers. You say that he has been terribly lonely for years and years—”

“Yes?”

“And you say they lead a rather fast lifestyle—”

Amanda had vaulted out of her chair, pacing the room. “I will finish it for you,” she said, angry. “You are going to tell me that the only reason why Howard is having an affair with me is because I’m wealthy.”

No. Dr. Vanderkeaton had not been going to say that. Why had Amanda?

“Of course it has crossed my mind!” she had ranted. “How could it not after Christopher? Eight years and then me? Me?” She had burst into tears. “I understand now—you wonder how he could care for me. Why someone who is out there in the world, going places, doing things—how someone like that could care for such a hopeless wretch as myself!”

“No, no, no...”

“She goes to his business dinners and parties,” Amanda cried, “she travels with him, they have friends—what do I have to offer him, if not money? Sex. Of course, sex! It’s all that any of them have ever wanted from me, money or sex, why should he be different?”

Poor Dr. Vanderkeaton had had her hands full. Why she wanted Amanda to be careful—she explained, patting Amanda’s back as she sobbed in her lap—was that Amanda was moving too fast, without thinking about the consequences, without thinking of how little she had to fall back on if it should end badly. Amanda had made wonderful progress, the doctor thought, but she wished Amanda could ease forward in her life and not plunge blindly into what might turn out to be an abyss.

It did not help matters that Howard seemed eager to plunge into the abyss holding her hand, Amanda knew. And yet, that was what was happening. Today, at the Wyatts’, she had experienced the oddest sensation after Rosanne left them in the bedroom. She had felt as though Howard were drowning in the issue of Melissa and was turning to her to save him; Amanda had felt as though she were drowning in the emotions that Howard evoked from her, and she was turning to him to save her. Together, sitting there, she had thought about the odds of two drowning people saving each other.

Who was she to help him? What did she know about marriage? What did she know about book publishing? And yet he talked and talked and talked to her about his problems, his torture in regard to both, as if he expected her to know what to do. What on earth could she tell him? She whose marriage had been a farce, she who had never had a job in her life, she who had all but dropped out of the world altogether?

For a little while, she had thought she could learn. But then she had embarked on her little adventure of trying to sort out Mrs. Goldblum’s affairs and had quickly felt as hopeless as ever.

(“Ha-ha-ha,” laughed the man at the Social Security office. “You are very funny, Miss Miller.”

(“I’m glad you are amused, Mr. Onai, but I can hardly pretend my wish in coming here was to entertain you. I really don’t know what Social Security is, or what it means, beyond the obvious—that it’s something that allegedly reassures society.”)

No, about all Amanda could manage—barely manage at that—was to hire people to cope with life’s difficulties for her. Even then, as with Mrs. Goldblum’s affairs, Amanda had had to turn to her mother for help simply to enlist the aid of Mr. Osborne—Mr. Osborne, her very own estate attorney!

Howard replace Melissa with her? Melissa, brilliant and powerful and capable Melissa? Melissa, the woman who had been supporting Howard for eight years in his every endeavor? Strong, dominating, opinionated Melissa?

How could Howard ever be happy with Amanda?

Howard let himself into Amanda’s apartment and found her sitting in the living room, drinking a glass of orange juice at the tea table by the window. Her face fell when she noticed his suit. “What has happened?” she asked him, holding the edge of the table.

His answer was to stride over, sweep Amanda up in his arms and bury his face in her neck. “Oh, God, how I’ve wanted you all day,” he whispered.

She allowed herself to be held.

He kissed her, deeply, kissed her neck and ear, and kissed her on the mouth again. He held her tighter. “What’s wrong?” she persisted.

He released her. “Oh, hell,” he muttered, turning away. A step later he turned back toward her, running a hand over his jaw. “Melissa turned around and came back. She was there waiting for me. We got into a fight and she accused me of wanting to sleep with Cassy Cochran and I told her I’d had it. And I left. And here I am.” He grinned suddenly, pulled the Jockey shorts out of his pocket and twirled them around in the air on his finger. “Guess who’s got the whole night off?”

“You don’t have to go home?”

“Nope. I’m spending the night, ‘cooling off.’ I could kill for a beer. You want one?” he asked, heading for the kitchen.

“No, thank you,” Amanda said, slowly sitting down in the chair.

“I told her I’d check into a hotel,” he called from the kitchen. Laughter. “Knowing Melissa, she’ll be over at the Cochrans’ looking for me.”

Amanda was looking out the window. There were amateur firework displays taking place along the New Jersey banks of the river.

“I’ll have to call her in an hour or so. Or maybe I should call now and get it over with.”

“Why do you have to call her?”

“Said I would,” he answered, coming back in. He kissed Amanda’s forehead, stroked her hair twice, and then sat down across the table from her. “The only drawback’s tomorrow morning. God knows what that’s going to be like,” he said, taking his glasses off to rub his eyes. He sighed, putting the glasses back in place. “Hey, what’s with you? Why so glum?”

“Howard,” she said, voice tentative.

“What?” He leaned across the table to take her hand.

Amanda exhaled slowly, thinking. “Howard, maybe it would be better if you did check into a hotel.”

He frowned. “Why?”

Amanda sat back in her chair, withdrawing her hand. “I—” She looked at him. “I think you do have some thinking to do about Melissa. Maybe sleeping here with me is not the best preparation for your talk.”

“Our talk? Oh, hell, Amanda, Melissa and I don’t talk. We yell at each other.” Pause. “I want to be here with you. We planned on it, remember?”

Amanda rose from her chair and stood at the window, tracing the sash with her fingers. “Howard. Don’t you think the time has arrived that you need to talk to Melissa? About your marriage, about your relationship?”

A long sigh. “There’s not much to talk about.”

“But don’t you owe it to her?” She looked out at the horizon.

“I—” A long silence. Howard rose from his chair and came up behind Amanda, slipping his arms around her waist. He rested his head on her shoulder. “There is only one thing I have to say to Melissa and you’re right, now is the time.”

Amanda waited.

He gave her a squeeze, briefly kissing the side of her face. “I’m going to go tell her right now.” He released Amanda and headed to leave. Amanda whirled around.

“What are you going to tell her?”

He turned, smiling, walking backward. “I’ll tell you when I get back.”

“Wait, Howard—”

“Let me get it over with, Amanda, and then I’ll be back,” he called from the hall.

“Howard!” Amanda tore out of the living room. “Howard, wait!”

He was waiting, hand on the front door.

Amanda hung back, struggling to say something. Finally, “What are you going to do?”

He smiled, pushing his glasses. “I’m leaving her,” he said.

“Leaving her for where?”

The question hung in the air.

Howard released the doorknob and came toward her. “Amanda darling,” he said, reaching for her.

Amanda pulled back from him.

He was surprised. Collecting himself, he said, “It’s very simple, really. I love you, Amanda. I loved you the first day I talked to you. I can’t pretend Melissa means anything to me now—anything but a reminder of how many years I’ve wasted.”

Amanda folded her arms and looked to the floor.

“Darling, don’t be frightened.” When she failed to say anything, to look at him, he said, “I can’t miss the chance of making a life with you.”

“Don’t say that, Howard,” she said. Pause. “Having sex for a month is not grounds for making a life with someone.”

He stepped over to her and wrapped his arms around her. She just stood there, arms still folded. “But I know you,” he whispered, “you know I do. And I know that I love you like I’ve never loved anyone.”

“Don’t say that, Howard!” Amanda suddenly cried, pushing him away. “It only shows me how little you know about what you’re doing!”

“I do know what I’m doing—for the first time in years.”

“But you don’t, Howard,” Amanda said, backing down the hall. “You think you can swing from one vine to another, from Melissa to me. And, Howard, Howard—this vine, me. is not attached to anything. There is nothing to support you here. Nothing like what Melissa has given you.”

He jerked his head to one side, jamming his hand into his pocket. “Melissa has given me nothing but pain since the day I met her,” he said. His eyes came back around to her. “You just don’t understand, do you? I love you, Amanda. And I want you, Amanda. It’s as simple as that.” He sighed. “And I think you want me too.”

She was shaking her head, tears starting to fall. “Oh, Howard,” she said, slumping into the wall. “Howard. I can’t replace Melissa.”

“I don’t want you to replace Melissa.”

“But you do,” she said, covering her face. “You think that you can leave her and move in here with me and everything will be all right.” She sniffed, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. “I can’t be the reason for you to leave her. You have to leave her because you no longer wish to be married to her.”

“I haven’t wanted to be married to her for years!” he shouted, slamming the wall with the side of his fist.

“Then why have you stayed married to her?” Amanda screamed, nearly doubled over.

Silence.

They stared at each other, breathing heavily.

“Christ, Amanda!” Howard exploded, slamming his hand against the wall again. “Why don’t you just say it? Go ahead—say it! You don’t love me —you don’t think I’m good enough for you!”

“No, Howard,” Amanda moaned, covering her face again.

He took several deep breaths, pulled himself up and said, “It’s money isn’t it? You think I’m replacing Melissa’s money with yours. Don’t you?”

“No,” Amanda said, shaking her head, hands still over her face. She lowered her hands. “It’s not money, Howard. What’s wrong with you and what’s wrong with me is not money.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? What’s wrong with—”

“We’re like children,” she said, backing down the hall another step. “We live like children do, Howard. Both of us. Melissa—my money—it’s all the same, Howard. Neither one of us knows what we’re doing, and we’re just wandering off like children, not thinking, not dealing, not facing any of our problems.”

“Jesus, Amanda,” he muttered, turning away. “Jesus Christ. Children. That’s just terrific. You think I’m a child. That’s just terrific.” He pointed at her. “You, maybe, but not me, Amanda.”

Silence.

He lowered his hand. She was holding herself, shivering, looking down to her feet. He sighed. “I didn’t mean that.” Pause. “But it makes me angry to hear you talk like that. You know I love you. You know we make each other happy. And I think I know that you love me.”

She raised her eyes, slowly. After a long moment she said, “We’ve done fine in there,” gesturing down the hall. Tears were falling from her eyes, but her voice was even, quiet. “But we’ve failed each other already. Can’t you see that? I wanted you to say, ‘I’m leaving Melissa, I will live by myself, and I will come back to you when I’m sure I want to get divorced.’ And you wanted me to say, ‘Move in with me and I will see you through the divorce.’ “

Silence.

“Isn’t that right? Isn’t that what we were both hoping for? Two entirely different things?” Silence. “You know I’m right,” she said, eyes dropping. “I want you to take care of me, and you want me to take care of you, and neither one of us can take care of ourselves.” After a moment she turned away. “You’d better go now.”

He fumbled to get the door open and then stood there, looking at her back. “We’ll talk tomorrow,” he said quietly.

“I cannot talk to you,” she said.

“Damn it, Amanda,” he muttered. He hesitated and then said, “You want me to just disappear, walk away, as if none of this happened? As if I’m not in love with you? Is that what you want?”

“I want you to leave me alone,” she said, back to him still.

Silence.

His eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. “What goes on around here on Mondays, anyway?” he finally said. “It has something to do with this, doesn’t it?”

She whirled around, horror evident. “Oh, leave me alone!” she cried, stumbling against the wall and fleeing down the hall.

He stood at the door for a long time. And then, after taking his glasses off to wipe his eyes, he departed.