Scott Spencer - Endless Love

“Which is what he did. We made love and I risked getting pregnant, just as you and Jade made love without any useful protection. What a night of risks! How the souls of the unborn must have hovered over that old house, waiting for the act of inception.”

“I wish she had gotten pregnant that night,” I said and then, surprised by the sound of my own voice and surprised at what I’d said, I let out a sob and covered my eyes. The room was moving, not with drunken abandon but slowly, as if the room really was moving, through space and time, as all things of course do but which only mad people see.

“I’m sure you do,” said Ann. “But that’s your story and this is mine. It changed everything, that night, everything I believed about making love and Hugh. Because it was never complete, you know. I never ever came and mostly I never got close. Only when I masturbated, but never with Hugh. And of course I blamed him—blamed men, not just Hugh, but the boys I slept with before him and when he was away making the world safe for democracy, all of them, and myself too, but Hugh, mostly I blamed Hugh. For being too small, too fast, too eager, too gentle, too selfish. What difference does it make? I didn’t even try. But that night, I was on fire. And the image of the two of you downstairs burned behind my eyes. Oh God, I was pornographic, moving beneath Hugh and knowing that beneath the two of us were the two of you. I knew I was going to make it and I’d never be able to blame Hugh again because he was perfect. He wasn’t doing anything different; I don’t even know if he was fully awake, but he was perfect. There was no hurry. I knew I was going to come. My legs were turning to water and stone at the same time. For the first time in my life, I was truly indiscreet.”

Abruptly, Ann was silent. She finished the little bit of wine that was left in her glass and then took mine, but it was empty. She looked exhausted. A slight film of perspiration made the powder on her face look porous. For all the fineness of her features, the straightness of her posture, and the persistent delicacy of her gestures, she looked like an abandoned middle-aged woman in a dark warm bar, known by the bartenders and the waiters, short on cash, lonely, garrulous, and letting go.

“There’s a simple law,” she said, leaning forward on one elbow and tossing her napkin onto the table. “Whenever you tell the truth, you’re also confessing. No confession, no truth.”

The waiter had probably been watching us, waiting for a drop in Ann’s intensity. He was at our table now, clearing the dishes and making a point out of checking if any wine had been left at the bottom of either bottle.

“Coffee, dessert?” he said. He was looking at me.

“What time is it, Carlo?” Ann said.

His hands were filled with our dishes but he turned his wrist so Ann could read his watch.

“Oh. Ten to ten. I’ve stood up my date.” She looked worried, even a little scared, but then she said: “Good for me! I haven’t stood anyone up since I was sixteen years old!”

We walked back to her apartment on the chance that her friend was waiting. When we were beneath the awning in front of her building, Ann said, “I’ll faint if he’s still here,” but I couldn’t tell if that would mean joy, surprise, or disappointment. As for me, my own preferences lay buried beneath fatigue and a familiar, yet exhausting, self-envy: the boy who had lived through the evening Ann had described at Pete’s Tavern still reigned within me, but, increasingly, he was not me. While I still believed the self who had made love to Jade that night was my best self, it also existed as a kind of younger brother whose exploits, whose flights of ecstasy I was condemned to admire with a kind of brittle, helpless awe.

“Well, he’s not in the lobby,” Ann said. She was walking with a very faint wobble. Every once in a while she touched my arm, as if to right her balance, but there was a shyness in those touches that made each of them noticeable. There was no doorman in sight. Ann opened the door and glanced once over her shoulder. It disturbed me that the habits of caution were now second nature to her. I’d always thought of her as being so safe.

I was feeling lopsided from the wine as well. In the elevator—we stood very far apart—I said, “When we first started smoking grass we never would drink and we put down people who did.”

“That’s when we were Puritans,” Ann said.

“We were Puritans?” I asked.

“Now we’ll do anything to get through a night. You know, I don’t know why I’m going up to my apartment. There’s no chance that my friend’s going to be awaiting my return. He’s not the type—that’s the kind of thing you’d do.” The elevator stopped; the doors hesitated before sliding open. “We should be out somewhere listening to music,” Ann said.

The hallway was empty, silent. I was a little disappointed her friend wasn’t waiting in front of her door—I would have liked to see him. But my principal emotion was relief. I wouldn’t be sent back to the Hotel McAlpin right away.

“I suppose I should call him,” Ann said, as she let us in. We walked to the front of the apartment and I sat on the sofa while Ann opened her telephone book to find her friend’s number. The sight of that book and knowing that Jade’s number was in it agitated me, but by now I’d been agitated for so long and in so many different ways I was scarcely able to notice it. “One ring,” said Ann, tilting the phone an inch from her ear so I could hear the ringing as a distant purr. “Two rings. Three rings. And…” she hung up the phone. “Free.” She reached into a kitchen cabinet and brought down a pint bottle of tequila and two of those thick, narrow orange-juice glasses you see in old- fashioned diners. “The cleanest of all alcohols,” she said, placing bottle and glasses onto the table. She sat in one of the director’s chairs. “And the most psychedelic. From whiskey comes dreams, from tequila comes visions. It’s liquid hashish.” She poured a modest, reverential amount into both glasses, picked up hers and left mine on the table.

We drank quite a bit of her tequila. Each time she poured some, Ann screwed the cap back onto the bottle, giving it a good hard twist as if she were going to be storing it away for months. I didn’t know if this gesture reflected her material caution or if it was a self-teasing game played by someone with a drinking problem. We also smoked a joint of Ann’s grass—specially grown for her in Vermont by Keith, using top-grade Colombian seeds—and I suppose if she’d had LSD or mescaline on hand we would have taken that, too. It was eleven in the night and the more familiar we became with each other the more solemn and mysterious our connection felt.

“Are you still a fledgling astronomer?” Ann asked me.

“I guess not. I’m just in college, finally. I studied a little astronomy when I was in the hospital but there was a limit how much I could get on my own. It’s complicated.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Sometimes I think I’ll still be an astronomer. But mostly I don’t think about the future.”

“Jade used to be so enchanted with you and your astronomy. She really did believe that you were going to name a star after her. I, on the other hand, didn’t believe in it for a minute. I thought you were taking her to the Planetarium just to have a place to feel her up and not pay for a movie ticket.”

I felt something touch my arm. I looked down but it was just the nerves ticking at the surface of my skin. When I looked back at Ann, her eyes were hazy and a high, warm color was in her face.

We were silent, totally, almost unendurably silent.

Ann poured two more drinks. She smiled and said, “I knew you’d sit in that chair.”