Dan Wakefield - Starting Over - A Novel

And Potter was so stricken with disappointment he could barely speak.

In spite of all his intellectual preparedness, the fantasy that had sprouted out of the name “Renée Gillespie” had flowered in his imagination, blooming into some Alexandrian temptress, a French courtesan who had married an aged wealthy Jewish merchant who was killed in some international arms deal, but who in his will had provided her with the means to achieve her doctorate in Biology at Harvard.

Though he had known, in fact, that her husband was a professor of mathematics who had left her for a graduate student and taken a position with a Washington think-tank.

He was disappointed not only in her, the real Renée Gillespie, but even more in himself, for his stupid and adolescent fantasy that came easily from her name. If only her name had been Harriet Smith, or Mary Ellen Klein.

“Won’t you come in?” she asked.

“Oh—yes.”

He smiled, trying to compose himself.

The baby sitter hadn’t arrived yet, so Potter had to take off his coat and sit down. Renée offered him a glass of Dubonnet, apologizing that she had nothing else in the way of alcohol. Potter accepted; he hated the syrupy sweetish taste of Dubonnet, but he would have taken anything with alcohol in it.

The children appeared in the hallway, staring at him.

“Hi,” Potter said. He forced a grin.

“Say hello to Mr. Potter,” Renée said brightly. “That’s Scott, and Teresa.”

Scott, a skulking lad of around ten, glared hatefully at Potter. Teresa, a golden-haired little doll in bunny-print pajamas with feet, sucked avidly on her thumb.

“C’n I have a Coke?” Scott asked his mother.

“You’ve already had one today.”

“C’n I have a half a one?”

“One’s the limit. You know that, dear. Let’s not argue.”

“Aw, Christ.”

“Behave now, Scott. There’s company.”

Scott turned his back toward Potter, and asked in a semiwhine, “Who’s gonna sit for us?”

“DeeDee.”

“She’s stupid.”

“Scott, you’d better snap out of this mood and act like a grown-up boy or you’re not going to watch any television.”

Renée said this quickly, in a level, heartfelt monotone, and came from the kitchenette with a glass of Dubonnet and a determined smile. She sat down in a large armchair that was beside the sofa, and brushed back a wisp of hair. Most of it was black, but there were these wispy little ringlets of grey right around her ears that wouldn’t stay put.

Potter said “Thanks,” and took a quick sip of the Dubonnet.

“Say hello to Mr. Potter, Teresa,” Renée asked hopefully.

Teresa was still rooted to the spot where she first emerged from the hallway, staring unblinkingly at Potter and working the hell out of her thumb.

“Hi, Teresa,” Potter said in what he hoped was a jovial, winning manner, “how are you tonight?”

Teresa bit down harder on her thumb, and slowly, relentlessly, tears started streaming down her cheeks. She suddenly bolted and ran for her mother, burying her curly little head in Mrs. Gillespie’s long skirt.

“Teresa, hon, there’s nothing to cry about!” Renée said.

“She’s a-scared of that man,” Scott volunteered.

“I’m really harmless,” Potter said feebly. His neck itched.

“Mr. Potter’s a nice man,” Renée said.

“How do you know?” Scott asked. “You never even met him till just now.”

Potter felt a deep, pure urge to smack the kid, just once, as hard as he could. Instead he took a belt of the Dubonnet, narrowed his eyes, and said, “You’re right, Scott. For all you know, I might be The Boston Strangler, recently escaped from prison.”

Renée’s face gave way to a sudden twitch, but she quickly resettled it into a smile and said, “Scott, dear, why don’t you see what’s on television?”

Teresa was bawling harder now, despite her mother’s reassuring strokes and pats.

“Is he really The Boston Strangler?” Scott asked.

“Don’t be silly. Now go and see what’s on.”

“I was just kidding,” Potter said.

There was a knock at the door, and Renée jumped up, leaving Teresa to bawl by herself, and let in the baby sitter. Potter thanked God she was fat. There was no worse torture than having to drive home one of those exotic, longhaired twitchy-assed baby sitters after a lackluster night on the town with a harried divorced lady. Potter prayed for ungainly baby sitters.

When they finally got to Chez Dreyfus, and were seated, Potter ordered a double Scotch on the rocks.

“I don’t usually do this,” Renée said, “but I think I’ll have a martini. A Very Dry Martini.”

“You deserve it,” said Potter.

“I’m sorry it was so—hectic. They’re really nice kids, but—”

“I understand. It must be hard.”

“Their father lives in Washington, now, and he only gets up about once a month.”

“It must be tough on the boy. Especially.”

“On me, too. When Daddy comes now it’s a big occasion, like a holiday. He’s Santa Claus, and I’m the wicked witch who makes them do all the things they don’t want to do.”

“Yeah. It’s really tough, I guess. I guess I’m lucky, in a way. I’m divorced, but we didn’t have any children.”

“Yes,” Renée said, “that’s probably fortunate. If the marriage didn’t work.”

Potter agreed. They drank to his good fortune.

By the end of the meal, Potter had a sharp headache over his left eye. He had asked for a booth when he called for reservations, but they got there late and had to either stand and wait for another twenty minutes or be seated at a table in the midst of the room. It was too bright, and the talk and clatter all around them made conversation more difficult. You had to really concentrate.

Renée ordered coffee and flan for dessert, and Potter had a brandy.

“This is a real treat,” she said.

“I’m glad.”

Potter liked her. She was gentle, kind, intelligent, sometimes funny; but over it all was a fringe of sorrow that clung to whatever she said and did; outlined her, defined her. It was not self-pity. Potter thought it was justified, and yet it unnerved him. Sadness is not an aphrodisiac. He wished that he wanted to fuck her, and hoped that perhaps he still could work himself into such a desire.

When he asked her to come by his place for a drink she studied her watch, longer than it took to figure out what time it was, and said, “Well, just for one.”

“Sure,” he said. “A nightcap.”

He put on a cheerful-sweet Joni Mitchell album, popped a couple of Excedrin, and fixed them each a drink; his strong, hers weak. An act of chivalry.

“Is that Judy Collins?” she asked.

“Joni Mitchell.”

“I get them confused. All those pretty young girls singing their love songs.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean.”

He knew that she meant she hated their guts. He put on a classical guitar record, and Renée smiled, and leaned her head back on the couch. Potter put down his drink and kissed her, gently, tentatively. At first she hardly moved and then she leaned into him with full force, her mouth wide and hard on his with a sudden, fierce hunger. He pressed her against him and then she suddenly pulled away and averted her eyes. “I’d better go.”

“Can’t you stay—a while?”

She sat for a moment, drawing her lips in. Then, without looking at him she clutched his hand in hers, pressing it tightly. “If you don’t mind running DeeDee home, and you still feel like it, you could come have a drink at my house.”

It would happen, then.

He took a half a fifth of Scotch with him, and had a stiff one when he got back from driving the mute, gumchewing baby sitter home. Renée had changed into a blue nightgown, a quilted housecoat, and big, floppy comfortable slippers whose fur was soiled grey. The radio was tuned to a symphony.