Dan Wakefield - Starting Over - A Novel

It seemed only right though that since Marilyn was his best buddy but couldn’t be “Best Man” she at least should be allowed to attend the Bachelor Dinner. There wasn’t any hanky-panky intended, but Potter just thought that Amelia might not understand. There was no sense in causing unnecessary trouble right before the wedding.

The group agreed to meet for the dinner at Stella’s, which Potter had now firmly established in his mind as his favorite Boston restaurant. Potter picked up Marilyn, nervously looking over his shoulder as they walked out of her apartment building, feeling guilty already about being seen alone with another woman. He was glad that Gafferty was already there when they arrived at the restaurant, so in case he saw any friends of Amelia it wouldn’t look like he had a date on the eve of his wedding. Gafferty said Shell would be a little late, something about a business call.

“Oh, God,” Potter said. “The poor bastard. It’s probably another one of those hot movie deals that will fall through in a couple of days.”

They had a round of drinks, deciding to wait till Shell came before ordering the celebratory champagne. When Shell finally arrived he was breathless, beaming, and carrying a suitcase. The suitcase. The one he kept packed for the fantasy trip to The Coast. Potter wondered if the poor guy had finally flipped and was going to The Coast whether anyone asked him or not.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “And Phil, I’m sorry I won’t be able to come to your wedding. It’s a damn shame I have to go to The Coast the same time you pick to get married. But, I guess that’s the breaks.”

“When are you leaving?” Potter asked.

“Tonight. The red-eye special.”

“The what?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. That’s kind of a show business name for the late night flight to The Coast.”

Potter winced. “The term ‘red-eye special,’” he said, “is used in reference to night flights from the West Coast that arrive on the East Coast in the morning—going from East to West is not a red-eye.”

Shell merely shrugged.

“Lad, this is marvelous!” Gafferty said with obvious enthusiasm. “Now we have two celebrations to drink about!”

“Congratulations,” Marilyn said. “I’m really impressed.”

“Yeah,” said Potter, oddly unable to sound enthusiastic. “Tell us about it.”

Shell said he sold a script to a major studio. They wanted him to come out and work on it with the director. As the actual details unfolded—names, figures, terms, dates—the realization came over Potter that this was indeed a real deal, that Ed Shell’s dream was actually materializing. Shamefully, he found himself having to fight back his own resentment and jealousy, having to force himself to pretend to be happy over Shell’s success. It was like having to listen to a man tell about winning a woman you had loved yourself and lost, and even though you liked the guy and were glad about his good fortune, it hurt because it hadn’t been yours.

Potter’s Bachelor Dinner turned into a farewell celebration party for Shell, but after a while Potter didn’t care. It took his mind off the wedding. After dinner Potter said he’d better get going if he was going to get up early enough to be on time for his own wedding, and he mustered as much heartiness as he could to give a final shake of congratulation to Shell.

Marilyn invited him in to have one final drink, a kind of farewell drink, and Potter said well, just one.

Marilyn offered a toast to Potter’s happiness, and after they each took a sip of brandy she said, “Phil, I’ve been wanting to talk to you. About what I think I’m going to do.”

It seemed to Potter that the celebration marking the end of his bachelor days (for the second time in his life) was for some reason the perfect occasion for everyone else to talk about their plans while Potter served as an interested audience. Well, what the hell. Maybe he’d get some attention tomorrow. Though Amelia would probably steal that show. Resigned, he attempted to focus his full attention on Marilyn’s plans.

“So what have you decided?” he said.

“I want to leave Boston.”

“How come?”

“Well, a lot of things. I feel like it’s kind of the end of an era here. Also, I haven’t told you, but I’ve started seeing Herb again.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I know. It’s crazy. But this time I don’t have any illusions. And besides, we still have good sex and good times, so why shouldn’t I enjoy it?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“But I don’t want to make it a way of life.”

“No.”

“And if I stay in Boston, so close, I’m afraid it’ll just drag on and on.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I think I’m going to The Southwest.”

“The Southwest?”

“Yeah. You know. Arizona, New Mexico.”

“Why The Southwest?”

“There’s lots of space, and clean air—and,” she grinned, “millionaires.”

“The Southwest,” Potter said.

He pictured expanses of desert, and mountains with mansions on top, and lots of millionaires riding around in shiny new limousines, just waiting for Marilyn.

It struck him as odd at first, the notion of someone deciding to go live in The Southwest, as an answer to what they should do. But it was really quite common, like the people he had known in college and the service who, when asked what they were going to “do,” answered that they were going to live in San Francisco. And perhaps it was no more unreasonable than what he was about to do tomorrow. Get married. That was another “answer” people had when confronted with what to do with themselves.

I’m going to get married.

I’m going to The Southwest.

It probably wasn’t much different.

Potter stood up, and said he really had to go home. Marilyn walked him to the door. They wished each other good luck, and then kissed. First it was light and gentle, and then they embraced, harder, and Potter could feel his prick getting stiff. Marilyn was rubbing her legs up against him; his hands moved down her back and shaped themselves over her ass, squeezing.

With all the will he could muster, his determination strengthened by guilt, Potter finally pulled away, shaky and perspiring. “No,” he said. “Listen. I’ve got to go. Now .”

Marilyn breathed in deeply, and folded her arms over her chest. “OK,” she said. “See you at the wedding.”

“Yeah, right.”

Potter hurried out into the street, walking in an awkward crouch, trying to hide his shameful hard-on.

The day of the wedding was bright, but terribly chilly. A cold wet wind gusted in off the ocean, and Potter wished he had a brandy in his hand. It seemed to him that would be a civilized addition to the ceremony, sipping brandy while the minister read his piece: in this case, an informal string of pleasantries highlighted by some passages from Robert Frost. Frost had been a compromise. Amelia had wanted something from Rod McKuen, and Potter had blown his stack. He said if there was going to be any poetry in the ceremony it was going to be the best and the best was William Butler Yeats. Amelia said she had to read Yeats in college once and hadn’t the faintest idea of what he was trying to get at. Potter said he was trying to get at The Truth, and Amelia countered that if that was the case he shouldn’t have made it sound so complicated. The whole wedding plan—the marriage itself—nearly foundered on the poetry issue till Potter came up with the compromise of Frost.

Amelia was squeezing his hand, and Potter stared out at the ocean, past the minister, his mind wandering from the words. There was a young slim girl with long blonde hair walking along the shoreline, hopping back as the water licked her feet. She stopped and tossed some stones out, then pranced toward the waves; carefree, frolicking. She had on a baggy sweatshirt and tight dungarees cut off at hot-pants length. Her firm little ass twitched and teased. Potter felt a tug at his arm and realized the time had come; everyone was waiting for him to make the big vow.