Dan Wakefield - Starting Over - A Novel

Much to the chagrin of the avid theorists, it was casually pointed out by someone from the science department that the guest list of the first party was made up of all those faculty members whose last names began with A–L, while the second list consisted of those from M–Z.

Potter asked Marilyn to come to the party with him, though he warned her it wasn’t likely to be a lot of laughs; he was asking her as a friend to give him support and comfort in getting through it. With her own secret love affair going full force, Marilyn was in a good mood and happy to oblige.

The party was pretty much as Potter imagined it would be, with one significant surprise. He knew it almost as soon as he entered the living room; there was someone out of the routine faculty context. He picked up the presence of the unidentified person without even looking at her, like a blip on a radar screen. Somewhere in a corner of the room, in a corner of his vision. He didn’t even look right away. He preferred to wait, and savor the suspense.

“Yes,” he said, grinning in agreement with whatever it was Harriet Hardy had gushed at him. He hoped it was something he was supposed to agree with. He got a cut-glass cup of punch for himself and Marilyn, feeling some of it trickle stickily down his hand as he ladled it out, trying to avoid the armada of floating strawberries. It was another one of those kinds of parties.

Blip .

The girl had glossy brown hair that curled under and up just at her neckline, and she wore a silver bar in it, the way girls used to do. The plain black dress she wore with a simple silver pin was the sort of ornament Potter associated with girls of his own era who were considered “sophisticated.” She tilted her chin up as she exhaled from her cigarette, as if she had learned to smoke by watching old Debutante movies.

“She’s cute, isn’t she,” Marilyn whispered.

Potter felt himself blushing. “Huh? Who?”

“The girlie,” Marilyn said.

“Jesus, have you started reading my mind? I’ve hardly even looked at her.”

“Reading your mind on occasions like this is like watching a wide-screen movie with stereophonic sound.”

Potter sighed. “That obvious, huh?”

“Well, I know you. Maybe it’s not so easy for everyone else.”

“I wonder who she is. I can’t imagine our Dean inviting a student to this thing.”

“Find out,” Marilyn said. “I’ll mingle.”

Potter began edging around the room toward the girl, trying not to be obvious, stopping to exchange greetings with his colleagues and their wives, mouthing the required rote, but never letting his target get out of the edge of his private radar screen.

Blip .

He moved up just as she was fishing for a match, and flipped open his trusty Zippo.

“Thanks,” she said, taking an excessive drag.

“I haven’t seen you before,” Potter said with concerned interest. “Are you at Gilpen?”

“Am I what?”

“A student. At Gilpen.”

“Oh, no. I’m sorry. I always forget the name of it. Where Dr. Hardy is.”

“Gilpen Junior College.”

“Yes, of course. No, we’re friends of the Hardys. My family.”

“Live here in Boston?”

“They do. I’m at Barnard.”

“Ah. Home for semester break?”

“Sort of.”

Potter glanced around the room, in what he hoped was a casual manner. “Your parents here?”

“They’re in Bermuda.”

“Oh. That’s too bad—I mean that you’re not there too.”

“Not really. Under the circumstances.”

“Circumstances?”

“Just family—uh—hassle,” she said, shrugging elaborately.

“I didn’t mean to pry.”

“I know.”

He offered to get her a punch, and surveying the room, was flashed an understanding wink of approval by Marilyn, who was being solicitously attended by a couple of Business Administration teachers.

The girl’s name was Trevor Marshall. A family name. They called her Trevvy. Her father was big in Electronics. Her mother was Virginia society. While they were in Bermuda, Trevvy was staying alone in the family townhouse on Chestnut Street. She said she’d love to have dinner with Potter the next evening.

Back at his apartment with her after the Veal Piccata at Stella’s, Potter learned that Trevvy’s family hassle had resulted over her having to have an abortion just after Thanksgiving.

Potter was surprised. “I wouldn’t have thought—uh—that you’d have to have one,” he said.

“I was pregnant,” she explained.

“Yes, but I mean—I thought that nowadays—”

“I’m allergic to the pill.”

“Yes, but there are so many—uh—”

“I forgot my foam.”

“Oh. Well. I guess that can happen.”

“It happened,” she said, “to me.”

She started to sob.

“I’m sorry,” Potter said.

He held her, comforting. She clung to him. Very hard.

Then they were on the floor.

They were undressing one another and Potter suddenly stopped and said, “Listen—I hate to mention it, but do you have—uh—your—”

“Emko,” she said.

She stood up, pulled the dress over her head, picked up her purse, and went to the bathroom.

When she strolled back, nude and graceful and composed, her perfect small body decorated only with the pale imprint of the area where last summer’s bikini had been worn, Potter almost tackled her. He had a kind of erection he had almost forgotten about. There are erections and erections. And then there are erections. There are ones that just barely earn the title, that barely are able to get you inside. Then there are nice stiff ones that feel strong and powerful. And then, sometimes, occasionally, the same old prick outdoes itself, seems to swell beyond its own capacity, grows gloriously super-stiff and majestic, attains the proportions of heroism, and brings to its owner the experience of grandeur.

That was the kind of hard-on he had.

Hot out of his mind, thinking of nothing but his prick, he rolled on top of her on the floor, starting to force it. She gently pushed him a little bit away, gave a gentle nibble at his ear lobe, and whispered something.

“What?” he asked.

“Take a slow trip,” she said.

“Oh—sure—I’m sorry,” he said, relaxing a little, feeling embarrassed, thinking to himself, “ And a child shall lead you .”

He saw her the next night, and the next, hoping and thinking that in spite of the fact she was only twenty something might really come of this. She was so damn sophisticated, maybe the age difference wouldn’t matter. Maybe he would go down and see her in New York; she could come up to visit him in Boston. Maybe this would turn into something.

Sometimes, talking to her, he felt she was really forty years old.

Other times he thought she was ten.

She cried a great deal.

The fourth time he was with her she asked if he wanted some acid and he explained very carefully and with what he hoped was tolerance and understanding that he didn’t want any himself, it was not his own thing, he had enough problems with his head already (he was conscious of saying “head” instead of mind, trying to speak her language), and after that she said it was a shame because she had just taken some herself an hour before. He shouldn’t worry, it was a wonderful kind, called Shimmering Rainbow.

The names of the alleged different brands of acid sounded to Potter like the brand names of scented soaps.

He told her she was a goddamn little fool.

She became mute, and then hysterical, claiming she saw the Devil on his ceiling.

Angry but scared, Potter stayed up with her all night, trying to be reassuring and helpful, trying not to let his anger show.