Dan Wakefield - Starting Over - A Novel

Potter settled down with a book of Shakespeare criticism, hoping he could glean some observations that would add new interest to his own teaching, enrich his own commentary on the plays. Around nine o’clock the phone rang, and he assumed it was Marilyn returned from her class—though it seemed a little early for that.

It was Jessica.

She said she was fine, all was well with her, but she had some serious matters on her mind that she wanted very much to talk over with Potter and wondered if she might run up on the shuttle tomorrow and have dinner with him.

Potter, trying to sound very natural and calm, said of course, he’d look forward to seeing her.

When he first hung up, he felt on the brink of panic. Just when everything was starting to go well, Jessica was going to parachute into his life and wreak emotional havoc. But after he had a drink and lit a cigarette, he felt better about it. She wasn’t going to ruin things with him and Marilyn, that was his own affair and she couldn’t upset it if he didn’t want her to, if he didn’t allow her to interfere. In a way, he was thankful she hadn’t called until now, when he really did have a new relationship going, one that he wanted to preserve. If he’d been alone and at loose ends he’d have been far more vulnerable to sinking back into the old emotions, the old maelstrom, in which they had whirled so long and dizzily, so passionately and destructively. But now, with the knowledge of Marilyn, he felt strong, and much less susceptible to his former wife and lover.

When he first saw her, standing at the door of his apartment, he felt as if someone had struck a sudden blow to his stomach; it was as if a loved one had come back to life, and the memory of all they had shared hit him with the force of a cannonball, so that for a moment he was slightly dizzy, and had to consciously blink back an unexpected rush of tears. He managed to smile, usher her into the room, and get his insides together.

Jessica herself seemed very composed. She had brought a fifth of Tanqueray gin, and a carton of Winstons. Preparation for conversation. As it turned out, she hadn’t been able to get things together till later than she anticipated, and had just made the four o’clock shuttle. It was almost dark when they got settled in Potter’s living room. He put an old piano rag record on the stereo. Neutral. Nothing sentimental.

“You look very well,” he said.

“Oh? Thank you. I’ve been fine.”

“I’m glad.”

“How are you? ”

“Oh, I’m fine too. You know. Getting along.”

“That’s wonderful.”

Potter shrugged. He sipped at his Scotch, concentrating on moderation. He was glad she was wearing a pants suit, and that she had worn her hair tied in the back, with a demure velvet ribbon. Sedate. They would talk. They would be Friends. He was perfectly prepared to graciously put her back on the midnight shuttle to New York. A kiss on the cheek; a pat on the shoulder; a handshake or a hug.

After her third drink, Jessica began telling about this terribly nice man she was seeing. He was on Wall Street, but very sensitive. Widely-read. The most amazing thing—he didn’t drink. He worked out every day at his Club.

“What is he,” Potter asked, “some kind of health nut?”

Jessica laughed. “You’d probably think so.”

Potter poured himself a new Scotch. “Really,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be a smart ass. As a matter of fact, he sounds like just the kind of guy I always said you should have.”

She smiled. “Like you should have the hearty, healthy milkmaid with apple cheeks.”

“Maybe in my next life,” Potter said. “No kidding; though, this guy sounds fine for you.”

He felt a warm glow, really genuine, as he would for a troubled sister who had finally found Mister Right. He was glad for her, and proud he could feel glad. Maybe it only meant he was “over her,” and yet he hoped it meant, if that, something more, too; that perhaps it indicated, on his part, a new sort of … maturity?

Jessica coughed, and lit a new cigarette.

“Tell me more,” Potter asked, with warm good feeling.

“Well. He wants to marry me.”

“Oh?”

“Can you imagine that? Marry me , a worn-out divorcée?”

“Come on. Don’t badmouth yourself.”

“Well—”

“Really. You’re a lovely person. A beautiful woman.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I know I don’t have to say that. I’m saying it because it’s true.”

“You’re very kind.”

“I’m not kind, goddamn it!”

“I seem to be upsetting you.”

Potter took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Listen, this is terrific, really. Tell me more about the guy. No kidding. He sounds like what you deserve, after me.”

“You don’t have to badmouth your self, you know.”

“I’m sorry. Come on. What are the plans?”

Jessica stood up, slightly swaying, and said, “I plan to get another drink.”

“Fine,” Potter said. He looked at his watch, while she went to the kitchen. It was after seven. As soon as she finished this drink, he should get them to dinner. Civilization showed signs of crumbling. How goddamn shaky it always was. Always turned out to be. Apparently composed again, Jessica took a swallow of her new drink, and smiled. “Well,” she said, “what do you think?”

“About this guy? Wanting to marry you?”

Jessica lowered her eyes.

“Listen,” Potter said, leaning forward, intent, wanting to say it just right, no hooks or slices, all heart and maturity, “I want you to know I think it’s terrific. I think from what you say about this guy he’s really right for you, he could make you happy. If he doesn’t drink, you probably won’t drink. As much. It sounds like he’s stable, but not just a dummy. It sounds like a wonderful opportunity for you to have a real life, a contented kind of life. I am honestly happy for you.”

She mashed out her cigarette, and took out a new one. “You approve then?”

“ Yes . For godsake, yes. You have my blessings. A hundred percent.”

Jessica finished off her drink. Tears blossomed at the corners of her eyes.

“Jessie?”

She bit at her lip.

“Jessie— What is it? Are you happy?”

She sniffed, and pulled a wad of Kleenex from her purse. “I’m sorry,” she said, trembling.

“What? Why? ”

“I knew it,” she said, sobbing and choking.

“Knew what? ” Potter asked in a hoarse whisper. “Knew what? ”

Her mouth twitched in a caricature of a smile and she sobbed, “You don’t love me. You never did. You never loved me at all.”

Most of Potter’s feelings of “maturity” escaped from him in a long sigh; silently, mechanically, he put a pan of water on the stove to boil for instant coffee.

He phoned for a delivery from The Leaning Tower of Pizza, and made Jessica eat some. He had no more to drink until he got her in a cab and out to Logan in time for the last shuttle, trying vainly to assure her that he had loved her more than anyone in his life, that he wanted her to be happy, and that this new guy sounded just wonderful and that was why he approved.

When he described the whole thing the next night to Marilyn she sighed, and said, “Now she probably won’t ever marry the guy.”

“But what the hell could I have done?”

“Cried a lot and said that you still loved her and would shoot yourself if she married this man.”

“What good would that have done?”

“She’d have probably married him.”

Potter turned that over in his mind, then let out a long sigh. “Jesus,” he said. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”