Rona Jaffe - Mazes and Monsters

Julie wondered why she wasn’t more upset. Other women took the breakup of a marriage as a trauma, the way the girls at school had taken the end of a romance. She and Justy were very rational and pleasant about it, and they decided it would be more interesting to live apart. After all, neither of them had really had a chance to have love affairs; they’d been married so young. They were twenty-six already, and soon they would be too old. They decided she would keep the apartment and Jay Jay, and Justy would pay whatever their lawyers decided was fair.

For one moment Julie thought perhaps she was making a mistake. Justy was probably the only person she had ever met, or ever would meet, who was as cool and rational as she was. Perhaps they could continue in a marriage of convenience, as friends … But no, that would be embarrassing and hard to explain. Men would think she was fair game. Better to strike out on a life of her own.

The divorce was amicable. The married corporation president, fascinated that Julie was still elusive, and impressed by her talent, introduced her to a few of his important friends. One of them, a rich woman who prided herself on discovering new artists, let Julie decorate her New York pied-à-terre.

The apartment was photographed for Architectural Digest and Vogue. Julie began calling herself Julia — after all, she was a grown-up now at last — and quickly acquired as many clients as she could handle. She bought the Park Avenue co-op. She was happy.

She took a few lovers and discovered a disturbing truth about herself. She really wasn’t at all interested in sex. She loved parties, meeting intriguing people, getting dressed up, having stimulating ideas on how to improve her environment, but she didn’t care if she never went to bed with a man again. Women didn’t interest her either. She began to go out mainly with homosexual men, who were easy to be with and didn’t expect or want her to go to bed with them; and clients, who were too afraid of her to make a pass.

She had read enough magazine articles to know she had a low sex drive. She did not, for one moment, delude herself into thinking she was saving her body for a meaningful relationship. She asked her gynecologist to give her a hormone test, just to be sure she was all right. She was fine. After that her lack of libido didn’t bother Julia at all. As long as it didn’t make her breasts sag, it didn’t matter.

When Justy remarried, Julia sent him and Orinda a lovely crystal bird from Steuben. Things from Steuben went with any decor. When Jay Jay graduated from high school, Justy bought him a Fiat Spider convertible. Kids loved cars. Julia couldn’t understand why Jay Jay sold it. She and Justy always gave people perfect presents.

She also couldn’t understand why Jay Jay got so upset whenever she redecorated his room. He was like a fussy little old man, set in his ways already. She was appalled when she saw the craters he had dug in her expensive lacquered walls with those nails from the picture hooks. Five layers of white lacquer — for that! She couldn’t bear imperfection. Even though the posters were hanging over the holes, she knew they were there.

She thought perhaps this coming spring, when Jay Jay was at school, she would put natural sisal on his bedroom walls, to hide them, get lots of potted palms, and do a bed with white mosquito netting all around it, and an old-fashioned ceiling fan like something from a Sydney Greenstreet movie. Jay Jay was so crazy about those old films, maybe he would like that sort of room. The mynah bird would fit perfectly into the setting. The more she thought about it, the more excited she got.

Of course, it would be a surprise.

In the room in the Brookline house where he had spent his childhood, Daniel stood on his toes, raised his hand as high as he could, and touched the ceiling. He remembered what an honor it had seemed to have this attic room, all alone up here on the top floor: his private domain. The room had seemed enormous. Now it was small, and he had to stoop to shave in front of the bathroom mirror because his mother had installed it low when he was a child and nobody ever remembered to have it changed. This room, this house, enfolded him in memories, and for a moment he looked at his college self and wondered how he could have been crazy enough to agree to play the game in the caverns. He must have crossed over into some kind of madness. It was too dangerous. He’d have to back out.

But then he started to think of reasons why it wasn’t too dangerous after all. They could try it and if it didn’t work they could stop. If he was the one to break it up now the others would think he was just jealous because he wasn’t M.C. anymore.

Why should he care what they thought? He cared what Kate thought, because he admired her intelligence and courage. She had integrity: he never wanted her to think he didn’t. The girls he went out with, the ones who made everything so easy for him, seemed vapid compared to Kate. He’d been only half kidding that first day back at Grant when he said he was thinking of giving up sex. It was only that it was always the wrong time to stop. Maybe he’d give it up this Christmas vacation and see if he survived. Perhaps he’d reach a higher level of consciousness, the way people did when they fasted.

He laughed and went downstairs to join his family for dinner.

There was his mother: small, trim, a brown rinse covering the gray in her hair now, her blue eyes always inquisitive. She looked at you intently when you spoke to her and nodded often. She liked to refer to herself as “a creative listener.” She was also a creative talker. And there was his father: the perfect tweedy professor. His brother Andy and Andy’s girl friend Beth had come for dinner too. Andy and Daniel had a strong family resemblance, but Andy was taller and his hair was sandy instead of dark. Beth was tall too, and willowy, with blond hair and skin that seemed as smooth as glass. They made a striking couple; people sometimes turned around to look at them when they went jogging or bicycling together.

There was a fire in the fireplace, and outside stars glittered in the black sky. The Hanukkah candles were nearly all lit. This year their parents had decided to give Daniel and Andy money instead of presents, because that was what they really needed most. His father had opened a bottle of California zinfandel, and poured a glass for Daniel.

“I’ve decided to learn about wine,” his mother said. “Everybody I know is into gourmet cooking, but I don’t have time, and it doesn’t relax me. So I’ve decided: wine. Tell me how that tastes.”

“Fine,” Andy said.

Daniel tasted it. “It’s okay.”

“Just okay, or good?”

“Good. Listen, I’m not an authority. We drink Ripple at school, unless Jay Jay picks it.”

They all settled comfortably on the floor in front of the fire. A Chopin concerto was playing softly. “You know,” his father said, “a time comes when you think of moving ahead in life. A very interesting thing happened to me recently. The Vice-President was at Harvard giving a speech, and it seems he’d read my book, and he asked that I be invited to the party afterward.”

“Your father’s book,” his mother repeated proudly, her eyes shining.

Ten years ago, when Daniel was a little kid, his father had written a book called The Crisis in Regulation: The Public Interest and Vested Interests. It had received a limited but appreciative response, mainly among his academic colleagues. When he was old enough to read it, Daniel had tried. It was not his field, and he had been bored, but he was impressed that his father had done it.

“So I went, of course,” his father continued. “And he was very cordial, but more important — interested in my ideas.” He paused, looking at each of them to be sure they were taking it all in. “He said: ‘Goldsmith, you might be on our team.’”