David Gates: A Hand Reached Down to Guide Me

“If you’re right, that’s really sad.”

“You know I’m right. Are you teasing his cock or what’s going on?”

“Are we really going to get into a thing about this? I just thought it would be interesting.”

“As in, for a change?”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” I said. “Listen, you want me to drive? Those margaritas were pretty strong.”

“This is not a good man,” he said. “And I have to tell you, it scares the shit out of me when you’re acting .”

—

The day after we’d had dinner, he called me at the paper, to thank me and my young man for coming out with him, then waited a week to call again. He happened to be on his way north from the city, and did I have time for a quick drink? I could hear my husband typing in the next cubicle. “That sounds fine,” I said.

“Wonderful. You’re welcome to bring your young man along, but I don’t think he likes me much.”

“Right,” I said. “That’s probably not necessary.”

“Even better then. Five thirty too early for you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“And what’s a good place? I don’t really know this town.”

The typing stopped. “It’s hard to say just now.”

“Surely there must be—ah. God, I’m a little slow today. You’re not alone.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay, let me think. I passed an Applebee’s coming in on Route Nine. You know where it is? We can go someplace from there.”

“Right,” I said. “Well, thanks.”

“Copy desk giving you shit?” my husband said.

“No, just something I needed to find out about.”

“It was that guy.”

“For Christ’s sake ,” I said. “Is that why you’ve been so weird?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“This is too stupid to even discuss,” I said. “Anyway—” I nodded over at the editor, who was talking on the phone.

“Then what time are you coming home?” he said.

“Not late,” I said. “I was supposed to meet somebody for a quick drink. Probably seven, seven thirty? We could order in and maybe have a little date night after.”

“Who are you meeting?”

“Andrea,” I said. As soon as I said it, I realized it would have been more in character for me to resent being questioned. “I used to work with her at Newsweek ? She’s taking the train up.”

“Mind if I come along?”

“It’s going to be a lot of girl talk. But sure, if you want.” Worst case, I could get away and call the man, then take my husband to a bar and keep checking my watch. Andrea’s such a flake —that’s what I’d say. How could he not believe in Andrea?

“No, on second thought I think I’ll bag it.”

“You weren’t testing me, were you?”

“What would be the use?” he said.

The man was waiting outside the Applebee’s in his truck, his window down, reading the Times . I’d put on a halter top that morning—it was such a hot day, and I hadn’t thought I’d have to see anybody. Now I wished I’d had time to drive home and change. “Let’s just go here,” I said. “I shouldn’t stay long.”

“I suppose their liquor’s the same as anybody else’s,” he said. “You’ll have to provide the ambience.” He opened his door, stood up on tiptoes and stretched his arms over his head. His T-shirt came up and exposed an inch of still-lean waistline, which might have been the idea. “It’s certainly the last place anybody’d come looking for you .”

“My husband doesn’t spy on me. If that’s what you mean.”

“No, I can’t imagine your putting up with that. Still, a booth might be in order.”

“You’re making this sound like something it isn’t,” I said.

“Good for you,” he said. “You’ve spared us the preliminaries.” He put a palm on my bare shoulder blade. Up to that point, I hadn’t thought I was seriously considering this man. “Suppose we go in and talk about it.”

When the waitress had set down our drinks and moved off, he said, “Since you’re pressed for time—cheers, by the way. It’s obvious that I’ve taken a shine to you, and it’s obvious that I’m much too old, and of course you have your young man—my God, you look like you’ve just been shot. This is much more embarrassing for me .”

“You don’t seem that embarrassed,” I said.

“I’m not, oddly enough. The situation is embarrassing, yes. But basically you’re either going to tell me to go peddle my papers or you’re not. Which should be clarifying. My position is just that I’d like some time with you.”

“That would be difficult,” I said.

“Hmm,” he said. “I’ve heard stronger expressions of outrage.”

“I’ll bet you have.”

“Oh sure, you can typecast me if you want to. You might take it as a compliment that I’m not trying to sneak up on you. Just one person to another.”

“Except that I’m married.”

“As was I.”

“And I love my husband.”

“I’d think the worse of you if you didn’t. I’m not trying to make your life any harder.” He picked up the glossy menu, with color photos of steaks. “God, this place is what hell’s going to be like.”

“Why would you think my life is hard?” I said.

“ ‘Getting through the day’? Isn’t that what you said? Sounds like joy unbounded.”

“So what would we do? If I could spend time with you? Apparently you’re good at sitting around and drinking.”

“Not much escapes you , does it?” he said. “I was thinking that what we did would be entirely up to us. We could start out just being kind to each other.”

—

The day I’d interviewed him, it had been a muggy Sunday afternoon in July, and I’d gotten caught in traffic on the southbound Taconic, as if I were a weekender, heading back to my husband, drunk in my poor little Tercel, my overtanned left arm out the window—I hate air-conditioning—among the BMWs with their opaque glass, my clunky espadrilles slipping off the pedals. The cars ahead had come to a standstill, for no reason I could see, and I worked the things off; the toenails I’d painted that morning, to be a summer fun girl, looked childish.

The day I drove to Vermont to meet him, the maple trees were blazing. He’d wanted me to fly with him to Burlington—it was only half an hour from Newburgh—but I thought I might need to make a getaway, and there was the million-to-one chance of my husband’s seeing the Tercel wherever I left it. In my purse, on the seat next to me, were the condoms I’d bought at a drugstore in Fair Haven—out of superstition, I’d waited to cross the state line—on the chance he proved not to be a gentleman, and a bottle of Astroglide to prove I wasn’t a lady. It had been more than two months, just taking the train down to meet for early dinners in the city or to walk around the Whitney and the Modern. We saw a Mets game, and a trashy production of Timon of Athens in the park, which we took turns abusing over drinks in the Algonquin lobby. Nothing untoward, beyond the lies I’d had to tell my husband. So I’d given this due consideration.

“It’s going to be peak weekend,” he’d said on the phone. “Why don’t you come up and see the leaves with me? My friend Craig’s giving me the use of his house on Lake Champlain. He’s going to Bordeaux for a month.”

“God,” I said. “I want his life. I want your life.”

“I’d make that swap,” he said. “But you’d better do the math before you sign on. Anyway, it’s a big house. You wouldn’t have to sleep anywhere you didn’t want to.”

—

“Have you been in bed with a senior citizen before?” he said that first night. “I’m probably good for about once, so we should make this count.”