Alison Lurie - The Truth About Lorin Jones

“Oh, yes?” Jeanne briefly turned her head.

“I think the framer did a pretty good job, don’t you? I was afraid that chrome strip might be too wide, but I’ve decided it’s really all right. And it’s great over the fireplace.”

“Yes. Nice,” Jeanne murmured.

“I don’t know how you can say that.” Polly smiled. “You’ve hardly glanced at the picture.”

“I don’t have to. I looked at the thing for hours when you brought it back from Cape Cod.”

Though it irritated Polly to hear Lorin’s painting called “the thing,” she suppressed this. “You know, it makes a big difference to me to have something of hers here. It’s weird, but it makes me feel maybe I can do the book after all.”

“That’s nice,” Jeanne said in the voice of one who was weary of Polly’s doubts.

“I was thinking, whatever you want to say about Garrett Jones, I’ve got to be grateful to him for this.”

“Not too grateful, I hope.” Jeanne stood wearily and began to unwind a long filmy white wool scarf.

“What do you mean?”

“Well.” Jeanne was taking off her coat now. “I mean, you wouldn’t want it to interfere with what you write.”

“How could it interfere with what I write?” Polly asked, beginning to bristle. “It’s just the opposite — it’s going to be a help, an inspiration, I hope, for God’s sake.”

Jeanne sighed. “I didn’t mean the picture. I just don’t want you to forget why Jones gave it to you, that’s all. Would you like a cup of Red Zinger?”

“No thanks.” Polly sat for a moment frowning at the shimmer and glow of paint, fading now with the daylight; then she followed Jeanne into the kitchen. “What did you mean by that? Why do you think Garrett gave me Lorin’s painting?”

“Well, isn’t it obvious? If the thing is worth as much as you say, it surely must have been intended as a bribe. Jones must have thought that after that you couldn’t possibly say anything nasty about him in your book.”

“I don’t think — It wasn’t, not for a moment —” Polly began to sputter. “Garrett gave me the picture because he’s glad I’m writing about Lorin, and anyhow he didn’t want to look at that landscape. It upsets him, I told you why —” She tried to ignore Jeanne’s skeptical smile. “Anyhow, I’m not going to say anything nasty about him.”

“Oh, really?”

“I’ll tell the truth, that’s all.”

Jeanne laughed for the first time, and Polly realized her meaning had been mistaken. In fact, she wasn’t planning to write anything unpleasant about Garrett Jones, because she no longer blamed him for Lorin’s problems with the New York art world. No doubt he did leave his wife alone too much, and fail to understand her. But can any man, let alone a critic, really understand a gifted woman? And he supported her professionally and financially; he loved her, in his way, and allowed her a fair amount of independence.

“That’s the spirit,” Jeanne said, still giggling softly.

“I haven’t got anything against Garrett Jones,” Polly insisted. “He’s been very decent to me, considering everything.”

“Oh, come on. What has he done for you, when you get right down to it?” The kettle had begun to boil, and Jeanne’s temper was evidently also on the simmer. “He’s given you a dirty old half-finished picture —”

“It’s not dirty.” Polly flushed; it was true that there was a crease and streak of dust down one edge of the paper; but now that it had been framed the damage was scarcely visible.

“— and he’s tried to con you into ghostwriting his ridiculous self-important memoirs.”

“Well, he didn’t succeed.” Polly was getting angry herself. They had had this conversation before, though in politer and vaguer language. “Anyhow, he thought he was doing me a favor. New York is full of art history graduates who would jump at the chance.”

“Uh-huh.” Jeanne poured boiling water into an antique Japanese teapot, a gift from Betsy in happier days. “You’re kind of a pushover, you know, Polly,” she added. “All any man has to do is be a little polite and you’re convinced he’s a nice person.”

Polly didn’t answer, though the retort sprang to mind that giving someone a painting worth several thousand dollars was not just being a little polite.

“I’m surprised he didn’t try to seduce you into the bargain,” Jeanne continued. “He’s supposed to consider himself God’s gift to women.” Polly did not respond. “Or maybe he did?” she suggested.

“Of course not,” she declared, adding an outright lie to an earlier lie of omission. If Jeanne heard the whole story she would expect Polly to forswear speaking to Garrett Jones again, which would be professionally very inconvenient, and she would probably blame her for not having slapped his face. Polly imagined herself slapping the face of Garrett Jones, a sleepy, half-tipsy, romantically foolish elderly man; the idea was unattractive. “But I think he liked me, that’s partly why he gave me the picture.”

“I expect it was because you’d already softened him up so well. You’d sweet-talked him, the way I told you, and won his confidence.” Jeanne smiled, silently taking the credit.

“Mm,” Polly murmured a little distractedly. It had just occurred to her that what had happened that night in Wellfleet might also be credited to Jeanne’s account. Because of her Machiavellian advice, her talk about staying cool and pretending to agree with whomever she was interviewing, all that first day Polly had acted falsely, suppressing her opinions, playing the passive, admiring female. No wonder Garrett had assumed that she admired him, that she would want to help write his memoirs; that she would welcome his wet kisses. She sighed aloud.

“You sound exhausted,” Jeanne said.

“Yeah, I’m a little tired.” She yawned; she had slept only about six hours the night before.

“Why don’t you take a break?” Jeanne set her teacup in the sink. “You were up so early, you must be worn out.”

“I could use a nap, maybe,” Polly admitted.

“That’s a good idea.” Jeanne, in her turn, gave a little yawn and sigh. “I think I’ll join you; my students were exhausting today. And maybe we might tumble about a bit first,” she added, smiling, alluding to one of the couplets about the Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat that had now taken on a private erotic meaning for them:

... The gingham dog and the calico cat

Wallowed this way and tumbled that...

“Okay.” Polly only half smiled. Jeanne’s comments about Garrett had rubbed her pelt the wrong way.

Half an hour later they lay entwined in a rumple of tan plaid sheets. Jeanne had fallen into a doze; but Polly was not at all sleepy, for some reason — hell, for the good reason that she was not satisfied.

As they made love, Polly had suggested that Jeanne help her out a bit more vigorously. Jeanne had agreed at once: but soon her gestures became mechanical. Then her hand faltered and forgot its stroke; she lay back and began to purr, “Mm, that’s nice. Yes, lovely,” rising to a low crescendo of pleasure and gratitude. “Oh, wonderful,” she sighed finally. “Thank you, darling.” Then, sleepy and sated, she sank into a trance.

Polly raised herself on one elbow and stared at her friend: her pale-lashed eyes, her fine tousled hair: her plump, satiny skin; her large soft white breasts and her small pink half-open mouth, from which an audible breath, too slight to be called a snore, issued rhythmically. Unlike Polly, Jeanne had an enviable ability to doze anytime and anywhere.

It was natural to drift off after sex anyhow; when Polly was fully satisfied she too wanted to float away. Most women felt that. Men too: Jim Meyer sometimes — Polly stopped in mid-memory, annoyed that she should even think of Jim at a time like this.