Alison Lurie - The Truth About Lorin Jones

“What’s the matter, darling? You were so sweet all evening.” He smiled boozily and began to edge across the rumpled sheets and ruffled eyelet pillows toward her. “Be a little kind to me now.”

Taking advantage of his slowness, Polly scrambled out of the bed on the far side. She circled a chintz-cushioned rocker, banging her toe; dashed out across the hall, and into the opposite room.

“My dear girl, what’s the matter? Where are you?”

Polly did not answer. Breathing hard in the dark, she slammed the door and fumbled for, found, and shot the bolt.

“Polly, my dear.”

She patted the wallpaper, feeling unsuccessfully for a light switch. On the other side of the wall she could hear Garrett shuffling about in the hall, banging doors open.

“Polly, darling. Where are you?”

“Go back to bed!” she called.

“Darling, please.” Garrett was outside her door now, rattling its handle. Polly moved over the cold floorboards in the dark, knocking against what sounded like a standing lamp. She groped about, clutched its cold twisted metal stem, righted it, and turned it on. The room that once had been Lorin’s studio glowed into view.

“Please! Let me in.”

What the hell was she supposed to do now? Polly thought. She sat down on a quilted bedspread patterned with Western ranch brands, then got up again and pulled the spread back. The bed was unmade, but there were several blankets. She could spend the rest of the night here if she had to.

“Polly?”

Don’t answer, Polly told herself. She crawled into Garrett’s son’s bed on top of the mattress pad.

“Polly, dear!” The door rattled violently.

She dragged the blankets and spread up over herself, blurring Garrett’s cries.

“Lolly!”

Polly raised her head. Had she really heard that?

“Darling, please!” He was almost sobbing.

I’ll never get back to sleep now, she thought. Maybe I should let him in. Maybe it would prove to him that Lorin had forgiven him, because he thinks I’m her. She pushed back the blankets and half sat up.

“Lorin?” she whispered. “Is that what you want?” She shoved the covers aside and stood on the flat braided coils of the bedside rug.

“Darling! Just wanna kiss you goo’night.”

Polly took a step forward, and felt the chill of the polished floorboards under her bare feet. But I’m not your darling, she thought. I’m not Lorin: for one thing, she loved you, and I don’t. She got back into bed again; dragged up the covers.

“Please, dearest. Lemme in.”

I’m sorry, Polly said in her mind, not to Garrett but to his wife’s ghost. I can’t do it. Do you understand? But there was no answer. She was alone in the dark in a house on Cape Cod, and a drunken randy old man was trying to get into her room and her bed.

“Hello in there ... hello?” he cried finally and feebly. There was a silence; then the sound of steps going away. A heavy confused noise, as if Garrett had stumbled and half fallen. A door closing; silence.

Well, Jeanne warned me, Polly thought, turning over under the scratchy blankets. She remembered her friend’s body, so light and soft and fresh, comparing it to Garrett Jones’s coarse, inert bulk. I didn’t listen to her, she thought, and now look what’s happened. Among other things, I’ve probably made a permanent enemy; men don’t like to be turned down sexually.

“Lorin, help me,” she whispered. “You got me into this.”

But the wind outside, that was once so clearly Lorin’s breath, had subsided. This room, where she had spent so many long hours, felt cold, dark, and empty of her spirit.

“Lorin?”

Though there was no further sign, Polly lay awake for a long time, listening.

“Oh, good morning.” Garrett Jones hardly glanced around from the stove; his tone was constrained, unfriendly. In the hard morning light both he and his expensive country clothes looked older and more worn.

“G’morning,” Polly answered warily.

“Sleep well?” He did not quite look at her.

“Yes, thanks,” she lied.

“Coffee?”

“Yes, thanks.” Polly sat down, wishing she could leave at once. Probably Garrett was wishing the same thing; but there was no plane out of Provincetown until her noon flight.

As Garrett put a mug of coffee and a plate of dry, burned-looking toast before her, they exchanged an uneasy glance.

“Sorry about last night,” he said, stiffly and not very apologetically. “Seems like we both had too much to drink, got our signals crossed.”

“That’s okay,” Polly mumbled. In the glare of day, it was all too clear that Garrett had never shared her exalted view of last night’s events; he had no idea that she had been acting as Lorin’s proxy, loving and pardoning him — or not pardoning him — in Lorin’s name.

“I could’ve sworn you were giving me the go-ahead.”

“Well, I wasn’t.” She took a gulp of lukewarm, bitter coffee.

“Or maybe you changed your mind.”

“No, I never —” Polly’s voice faded; not only did she not want to discuss it, she felt partly to blame for what had happened.

“I think you changed your mind.” Her discomfort seemed to encourage Garrett; he gave her a narrow smile. “What happened? Tell me, I’m interested. Was it my age?”

“No, uh,” she stuttered, taken aback.

“Maybe you think I can’t please a woman anymore, but you’re wrong, you know. I’m still competent.”

“I didn’t —” Polly flushed. “I just don’t want to get involved with you, that’s all.”

“Well, you were certainly giving off different signals last evening.” He laughed in a meaning way.

“I was not.” Polly felt herself becoming furious as well as nervous and guilty. “I suppose you think any woman you take out to dinner wants to go to bed with you.”

“No-o.” But Garrett half smiled; it was clear that he did think this.

“Anyhow, you’re married.”

“Oh well, yes.” He dismissed this smoothly, waving a piece of unburned toast smoothed with marmalade. “I’m married. And Abigail’s a wonderful woman, of course. Very beautiful.” He looked hard at Polly, clearly communicating the idea that she was not beautiful. “And tremendously steady and kind.” This, too, was said pointedly.

“I’m sure she is,” Polly agreed coolly, trying to control her hurt and fury.

“I have to admit it, though, she’s not exciting; not like Laura. Never was, really.” Garrett’s tone was almost confidential now, though not pleasant. “And now. ... Well, Abby’s fifty-three this year. And you know, with most women, after fifty there’s not much juice in them. They kind of dry up, like grapes left on the vine.” He grinned and shook his heavy, handsome head, as if both enjoying and deploring the sexual double standard. “How old are you, Polly, by the way?”

“I’m thirty-nine, if it’s any of your business,” Polly said furiously.

“Really? I thought you were younger.” It was clear that this was not a compliment. More likely, Garrett was excusing himself for having put so much effort into trying to seduce her. He gave her a hard, cool glance, and added, “I should’ve known. Young women today, they don’t make a fuss about a man’s being married, in my experience. They’re free romantic spirits; they make love to anyone they fancy.” He smiled in a reminiscent way. “And any time.”

“Well, I don’t,” Polly said with force.

“No, quite.” Now his look conveyed that she was middle-aged and inhibited; perhaps also that she didn’t get that many opportunities.

“As a matter of fact, if you want to know, I’m a lesbian,” Polly said, speaking these words aloud for the first time in her life.