Pete Hamill - Loving Women

I slipped the picture of the captain’s wife inside the pad and finished drawing the girlfriend of a man named Schlesinger, who was stationed at Mainside. Then Miles Rayfield came in.

“I thought you were going to come over,” he said.

“I did,” I said.

“Oh.” He looked embarassed, and then walked quickly to the sleeping bay.

I gazed at myself for a moment in the mirror, remembering that first day so long ago when I showed up here, still loving a woman in Brooklyn whose face I no longer clearly remembered. Now I wanted Eden to appear behind me in the mirror, her eyes out of focus. I would turn and she would be wearing the red shoes.

The screen door slammed. Then slammed again. Nobody came in. I walked to the door and slipped the hook and closed the main door too. Outside, the streets glistened with rain. I remembered standing at the door to the roof in the house in Brooklyn, watching the rain on summer afternoons. That rooftop seemed a million miles away. I thought: I’d better write to the boys, too. My little brothers. I’d better tell them what I’m learning about the confusions of the world. They should learn it too .

And then thought: No .

They’ll have to learn about it for themselves .

The next night I tried to explain to Eden about Miles Rayfield. About his talent and kindness and generosity. About how much he’d taught me but how the other part of him made me uneasy. I told her about the wife Miles claimed to have. About Freddie Harada and the nude drawings I’d seen in the sktetchbook. I didn’t think that such talk would take me where it did. That night changed everything.

We were in the trailer, facing each other across the small table. She was smoking a cigarette, her eyes as blurry as the smoke.

She said, Say, this Miles really is, you know … funny .

She took a drag.

But you don’t really know , do you, child? I mean, you never seen him do somethin with a man.

No.

But say he is , say he’s that way. Say he got somethin goin with that Filipino boy.

She paused.

Well, if that’s the case, why, maybe you’re jealous .

I felt jolted. I said, Hey, come on.… You know better than that—

She went on, a small smile on her mouth: Suppose he decided to run off with that Filipino boy? What would you do?

Nothing . I don’t—

You sure of that? You sure you wouldn’t miss him just a little bit? You sure you wouldn’t wish he’d come back?

I didn’t answer.

Why, you been jealous of me with no good reason, child. Why wouldn’t you be jealous of this Miles fella?

Cause he’s a man . And I’m not—

A faggot? she said.

Damn right!

She smiled and reached over and touched my hand.

She said, Child, you better learn quick that human beings are complicated . You hear me? Every woman got a little man in her. Every man got a little woman in him . Nobody’s all one thing. Your friend Miles Rayfield is not one thing. Most people ain’t.

I hated the way she was looking at me. Smiling. Self-satisfied, like a grade school teacher instructing an infant.

Okay, I said, with heat: Say that’s true. Why should I be jealous , for Christ’s sakes?

She tamped out the cigarette.

Cause the way you talk about him, if this Miles fella runs off, you’ll be heartbroken.

You saying I’m queer ?

No. Just saying maybe you want Miles in your life for a long time.

Oh bullshit, I said, in an annoyed way.

She made a small A with her hands and peered at me over the point.

Why you talking like that? she said.

Cause you’re talking bullshit!

Her brow furrowed and her eyes narrowed.

Don’t raise your voice to me, she said in a cold flat voice.

It was there again. The tone of authority. I slammed the table with the palm of my hand. The ashtray bounced and fell to the floor.

I’m not queer .

I never said that!

Well, what the fuck did you say?

She tried to reply, but I was standing now, the words rising.

I said, You should talk. You! The way you act with Roberta. Are you kid—

She looked at once furious and terrified, standing up too and backing away.

Shut up.

I knew I’d gone too far, and mumbled something, a lot of maybes and who knows, and reached for the ashtray and pawed at the cigarette butts on the floor. The anger was gone; but I couldn’t get the words back.

She said, Maybe you better go off to the Navy, child. Maybe you better sleep this anger of yours off . Maybe you better go . Right now.

What?

The words then came rolling out of her too. Her face was creased and contorted. For the first time, she seemed ugly to me. And old.

She screamed: I said, go back to the base . Right now . Back to Ellyson Field. With all the other sailor boys. I don’t want trouble . Not with you, not with no one. I had enough trouble to last me ten lifetimes. And you look like you want to hit someone, Michael Devlin. Fact, you look just like another man I knew once. Man didn’t want to hear no hard things . No difficult things. So I don’t want you here tonight. Go.

I threw the ashtray against the wall.

Jesus Christ! I said, panting. Jesus fuckin Christ.

I jerked the door open, slammed it behind me and went out.

I walked down the road toward the highway. And then felt nauseated. We’d never argued before. Never even raised our voices at each other. And here we were … Screaming. Smashing things. Or at least I was. I’d said cruel words. I’d gone out of control. Here we were … breaking up. Over words. Over the word queer . The word faggot . Not over Mercado or a husband or another lover. Over Miles Rayfield. A possible faggot. What the hell did she mean ? Trying to tell me I had some faggot in me? With that smug schoolteacher look on her face. Why’d she start this crap? I’m trying to explain about Miles and she turns it around, makes it about me. And when I object, she gets harder. She pushed me and like always, I pushed back . Yeah. That was it. She couldn’t take the way I pushed back. She thought I was this sweet boy. Child , she always called me. Well, I wasn’t a child. Maybe she knew that now. Push me and I push back harder. Like a man does. She should’ve know that and she made one big goddamn mistake. Does she think she can find someone as good as me? Hey, come on … Or maybe I made the mistake. If I did, then she’d never let me back. If I made the mistake, it was over , just like that. Over? The way it ended for all the men I knew. All the men who loved women and weren’t loved back. No . Jesus, no.

I stopped, started to go back.

Thinking: I can still beg her forgiveness .

And answered myself: No . I can say I’m sorry for losing my temper. For saying the rotten things about Roberta. For breaking the ashtray. But I won’t beg. Maybe I can even say she was right about Miles Rayfield. I would miss him if he went away. But not because I’m interested in his prick. She doesn’t know everything. But I just can’t run off like this. I have to go back. Even if I have to plead with her. But suppose she says no? Suppose she won’t even open the door? And what if she was just looking for some excuse to break up? Maybe that’s why she started all this. And she started it. Not me . Eden. She started the whole goddamned thing. Fuck her. No, I want her. I want her . No. She started it. Let her come to me, call me at the base, beg me to come back. Right now , I thought, I’m going to 0 Street. To the Dirt Bar. See Sal and Max and the others. Get a blow job from Dixie Shafer. How do you like that, baby? Get drunk. Who needs you, lady?