Philip Roth - My Life As A Man

“Thanks.”

Maureen arrived promptly at ten P.M. She was dressed in a pretty red wool suit-a demure jacket over a silk blouse, and a flared skirt-smarter than anything I’d ever seen her in before; and though drawn and creased about the eyes and at the corners of the mouth, her face was deeply tanned-nothing urchinlike or “beat” about this wife of mine any longer. It turned out that she had just come back from five days in Puerto Rico, a vacation that her Group had insisted on her taking. On my money, you bloodsucker. And the suit too. Who paid for that hut putz-o here!

Maureen made a careful survey of the living room that Susan had helped me to furnish for a few hundred dollars. It was simple enough, but through Susan’s efforts, cozy and comfortable: rush matting on the floor, a round oak country table, some unpainted dining chairs, a desk and a lamp, bookcases, a daybed covered with an India print, a secondhand easy chair with a navy-blue slipcover made by Susan, along with navy-blue curtains she’d sewn together on her machine. “Very quaint,” said Maureen superciliously, eyeing the basket of logs by the fireplace, “and very House and Garden, your color scheme.”

“It’ll do.”

From supercilious to envious in the twinkling of an eye- “Oh, I would think it would do quite nicely. You ought to see what I live in. It’s half this size.”

“The proverbial shoe box. I might have known.”

“Peter,” she said, drawing a breath that seemed to catch a little in her chest, “I’ve come here to tell you something.” She sat down in the easy chair, making herself right at home.

“To tell-?”

‘I’m not going to divorce you. I’m never going to divorce you.”

She paused and waited for my response; so did I.

“Get out,” I said.

“I have a few more things to say to you.”

“I told you to get out.”

T just got here. I have no intention of-“

“You lied. You lied again. You told me on the phone less than three hours ago that you wanted to talk-“

“I’ve written a story about you. I want to read it to you. I’ve brought it with me in my purse. I read it to my class at the New School. The instructor has promised to try to get it published, that’s how good he thinks it is. I’m sure you won’t agree-you have those high Flaubertian standards, of course-but I want you to hear it. I think you have a right to before I go ahead and put it in print.”

“Maureen, either get up and go, under your own steam, or I am going to throw you out.”

“Lay one finger on me and I will have you put in jail. Dan Egan knows I’m here. He knows you invited me here. He didn’t want me to come. He’s seen you in action, Peter. He said if you laid a finger on me I was to call him immediately. And in case you think it’s on your lousy hundred dollars that I went to Puerto Rico, it wasn’t. It was Dan who gave me the money, when the Group said I had to get away.”

“Is that a ‘Group’ you go to or a travel agency?”

“Ha ha.”

“And the chic outfit. Therapist buy you that, or did your fellow patients pass the cup?”

“No one ‘bought’ it for me. Mary Egan gave it to me-the suit used to be hers. She bought it in Ireland. Don’t worry, I’m not exactly living the high life on the money you earn through the sweat of your brow four hours a week at Hofstra. The Egans are my friends, the best friends I’ve ever had.”

“Fine. You need ‘em. Now scram. Get out.”

“I want you to hear this story,” she said, reaching into her purse for the manuscript. “I want you to know that you’re not the only one who has tales to tell the world about that marriage. The story-“ she said, removing the folded pages from a manila envelope-“the story is called ‘Dressing Up in Mommy’s Clothes.’”

“Look, I’m going to call the police and have them throw you out of here. How will that suit Mr. Egan?”

“You call the police and I’D call Sal Valducci.”

“You won’t call anybody.”

“Why don’t you telephone your Park Avenue millionairess, Peppy? Maybe she’ll send her chauffeur around to rescue you from the clutches of your terrible wife. Oh, don’t worry, I know all about the bee-yoo-tiful Mrs. McCall. A bee-yoo-tiful drip- a helpless, hopeless, rich little society drip! Oh, don’t worry, I’ve had you followed, you bastard-I know what you’re up to with women!”

“You’ve had me what?”

“Followed! Trailed! Damn right I have! And it cost me a fortune! But you’re not getting away scot-free, you!”

“But I’ll divorce you, you bitch, any day of the week! We don’t need detectives, we don’t need-“

“Oh, don’t you tell me what I need, dealing with someone like you! I don’t have a millionairess, you know, to buy me cuff links at Carder’s! I make my way in this world on my own!”

“Shit, so do we all! And what cuff links? What the hell are you talking about now?”

But she was off and running again, and the story of “the Carder cuff links” she would carry with her to her grave. “Oh just your speed, she is! Poor little rich girls, or little teenage students all gaga over their artistical teacher, like our friend with the braids in Wisconsin. Or that Jewish princess girl from Long Island. And how about the big blonde German nurse you were fucking in the army? A nurse-just perfect for you! Just perfect for our big mamma’s boy with the tearful brown eyes! A real woman, and you’re in tears, Peter. A real woman and-“

“Look, who set you up in business as a real woman? Who appointed you the representative of womankind? Stop trying to shove your bloody Kotex down my throat, Maureen-you’re not a real anything, that’s your goddam trouble! Now get out. How dare you have me followed!”

She didn’t budge.

“I’m telling you to go.”

“When I’m finished saying what I came here to say I will leave-and then without your assistance. Right now I’m going to read this story, because I want you to understand in no uncertain terms that two can play this writing game, two can play at this kind of slander, if it’s slandering me you have in your vindictive mind. Quid pro quo, pal.”

“Get-out.”

“It’s a short story about a writer named Paul Natapov, who unknown to the readership that takes him so seriously, and the highbrow judges who give him awards, likes to relax around the house in his wife’s underwear.”

“You fucking lunatic!” I cried, and pulled her up from the chair by one arm. “Now out, out, out you psychopath! There- there’s the only thing that’s real about you, Maureen, your psychopathology! It isn’t the woman that drives me to tears, it’s the nut! Now out !”

“No! No! You’re only after my story,” she screamed-“but tear it to shreds-I still have a carbon in Dan Egan’s safe!”

Here she flung herself to the floor, where she took hold of the legs of the chair and began kicking up at me, bicycle fashion, with her high-heeled shoes.

“Get up! Cut it out! Go! Go, Maureen-or I’m going to beat your crazy head in!”

“Just you try it, mister!”

With the first crack of my hand I bloodied her delicate nose.

“Oh, my God…” she moaned as the blood spurted from her nostrils and down onto the jacket of her handsome suit, blood a deeper red than the nubby wool.

“And that is only the beginning! That is only the start. I’m going to beat you to an unrecognizable pulp !”

“Go ahead! What do I care. The story’s still in Dan’s safe! Go ahead! Kill me, why don’t you!”

“Okay, I will,” and cuffed her head, first one side, then the other. “If that’s what you want, I will!”