Dan Wakefield - Starting Over - A Novel

“Oh, no, not at all—”

“I can wait outside,” Potter offered. “I was just waiting, anyway.”

“Oh, no,” Miss Griffin said.

“No, no, it’s all right,” Gafferty said, leaving Potter wondering what was all right for whom and what all the fidgety business was about.

“I’ll stop by tomorrow,” the girl said, and scurried away before anyone could say anything else.

“Sorry,” said Gafferty.

“Huh? What for?”

“No, nothing. I’ll just be a minute.”

He turned back to his paper, coughed, riffled through it, and stood up, saying why didn’t they go for the beer.

Over the second one he said, “Miss Griffin. That’s the girl. The one I see.”

Potter, at first astonished, then amused, not at Gafferty or the girl but his long needless torturous suspicions, started laughing, then tried to apologize, explain without explaining, tying himself in more complex knots, finally saying, “Brother, forgive me. I’m a little bit light-headed these days.”

“Ah,” said Gafferty, “anything serious?”

“Yes,” Potter said with a huge smile, “I’m afraid it is.”

Potter had neglected Marilyn since his courtship of Amelia had moved into high gear, and he felt guilty about it. Hoping to make amends, he invited her to meet him at Trader Vic’s for dinner, but once there, it seemed all wrong. She had quickly become bored with the pot-smoking mailroom boy, and fallen into the depression over Herb that what she called her “hippie thing” had only briefly forestalled. Marilyn refused to join Potter in one of the exotic drinks that he thought might cheer her, explaining she was not in a festive mood. She wanted a serious drink, and ordered an extra dry martini straight up with a twist. Potter, still hoping to jolly her around, ordered some damn thing that came in a huge bowl with a flower and a purple parasol floating in it.

“Jesus,” Marilyn said with disgust when the gaudy business was set in front of him, “that thing looks like a chorus girl’s dream.”

“Look,” he said, “I know you’re pissed off, and I’m really sorry I haven’t called, but—well, I’ve been seeing Amelia all the time, and—you know, it’s just been one of those things.”

“I assumed,” Marilyn said coolly, “that things were going well with you and Miss Molasses.”

“Oh—hey, has she said anything? About me? At the office?”

“She doesn’t have to.”

“What? What do you mean? She doesn’t even say anything about our dates?”

“Not directly.”

“What do you mean not directly? Either she says something or she doesn’t.”

“It’s not her style—to say anything.” Marilyn made a mock smile and her voice raised an octave: “She just oozes —sweetness.”

“But—about what? How do you know it’s about me?”

“Oh, she says something like, “Ah saw Phee-ul lass night.’ Then she oozes.”

“Does she?” Potter asked anxiously.

“Ooze?”

“No—mention me.”

Marilyn sighed. “Yes, yes, of course. Jesus. This whole thing is getting sickening. Can’t we talk about something else?”

Somehow Marilyn’s obvious dislike of Amelia’s manner excited Potter even more. “Really,” he said, “she has something—different. I don’t know how to explain it.”

Marilyn lit a cigarette, and looked at Potter with a not very friendly grin. “I bet I can explain it,” she said.

“You can? Really? What is it? How do you figure it?”

“How many times have you seen her now?”

“Five. Five times. Tomorrow night will be our sixth date. Counting lunch and the concert yesterday. Why? Are you going to tell me I hardly know her, I haven’t had time to know what she’s really like?”

“No. I wasn’t going to tell you that.”

“Well? What were you going to tell me?”

“I wasn’t going to tell you anything. I was going to ask you something.”

“OK, what?”

Marilyn dragged on her cigarette, her mouth pursed and she blew a large, perfect smoke-ring at Potter. “How is she in bed?”

“In bed? ”

Potter was shocked.

“You haven’t fucked her yet, have you?”

“Why do you have to use that word?”

Marilyn began to giggle.

“What the hell’s funny?” Potter demanded.

Marilyn’s giggling got louder, more hysterical. She doubled over, coughing, wiped at her eyes, and sipped some water, then broke out laughing again while Potter, annoyed and impatient, waited for the fit to pass.

“Ohhhh,” said Marilyn, partially recovering. “Ohhhhh—you poor sap.”

It was not until after their seventh date that Potter took Amelia back to his own apartment. He had feared that the mere suggestion of it might have seemed … lewd. That she might be offended by the very idea. Going alone to a gentleman’s private apartment!

The afternoon of their Saturday date, he had tried to straighten it up. He took out the trash, piled his ungraded papers into neat stacks, washed a two-week accumulation of grimy dishes, and even cleaned the grey ring out of the bathtub. He hid his dirty laundry in the closet, and— just in case —he put clean sheets on the bed. This was a real problem because the only “clean” sheets he had still bore stains on them from someone or other he had fucked during their menstrual period. Ordinarily, he would have just put them on, stains and all, but the idea of Amelia touching such sheets was a prospect too shameful to even consider. He jumped in his Mustang, sped to the Sears on Mass Avenue, and bought a set of lime green sheets and pillowcases.

It crossed his mind that buying the new sheets might be bad luck, might make Fate or God think he was counting on getting Amelia to bed, and so jinx the whole thing. But on the other hand, if he didn’t put on clean sheets, and it turned out she wanted to go to bed, he would be too embarrassed to take her there. And she certainly wasn’t the sort of girl you fucked on the couch or the kitchen floor.

After dinner at Stella’s, which was noisy and crowded, Potter suggested they go to his place to have a brandy.

He had bought a bottle of Remy Martin. And he had two fine snifters that were part of his share of the spoils from the wedding presents of his marriage.

At the suggestion Amelia lowered her eyelids, smiled sweetly, and said, “Aw right, Phil.”

Amelia declared what a charmin’ apartment Potter had, and he said, “That’s very kind of you, but I know it isn’t nearly what it could be. It’s the kind of place everyone says what a lot could be done with it, but I don’t know how to do it.”

“But ah do,” Amelia said with a quiet smile.

“Well, of course, I’m sure you do, but I can’t ask you—I mean it’s my own place and I ought to be—uh. You know. It’s my own responsibility.”

“But darlin’, if you don’t have the touch—you can’t help it.”

“Well, I certainly lack the touch, all right.”

“Of course, everyone has different taste. You might not like what I’d do at all—”

“Oh no, I’m sure I would—”

“You mean you’d let me?”

“You mean you’d do it?”

“Darlin’, ah’d adore to do it. I just love fixin’ things up, and organizin’ things.”

“Jesus. That’s what I can’t do at all. I’m the most disorganized person in the world.”

“Well then,” she smiled, “ah guess a person like you needs a person like me.”

“God,” he said, “you’re wonderful.”

He clutched her, held on to her, buried his face in the sweet richness of her honeysuckle-smelling hair, while she rubbed her hands softly over his shoulders, down his back, cooing “Darlin’ darlin’” as if comforting a homeless child. He felt safe, sheltered. And the comfort Amelia gave him was not only soothing, but stimulating. He drew back, staring at her face, gently running the tips of his fingers over it like a blind man trying to memorize it, as she smiled and closed her eyes, offering herself like a cat to be stroked, and making a sound that was the closest human equivalent of a purr.