Alison Lurie - The Truth About Lorin Jones

Of course, ever since he left she had been troubled with occasional heterosexual fantasies; but since she’d been to bed with Jeanne they’d been perversely more frequent. Maybe it was because she was aroused and not satisfied that she kept thinking about what sex used to be like. Even in the act of love with Jeanne, she would recall in vivid color some moment in her past, or even from her recent visit to Wellfleet.

Why did she keep remembering that embarrassing evening, that awkward, undesired embrace? She wasn’t interested in Garrett Jones, that sad, pretentious old man. She hadn’t liked kissing him, didn’t want to kiss him again. What haunted her was what he reminded her of: the sensation of a man’s body pressed against hers, the flat, heavy hardness; the willingness to take charge, conveyed not in words but through gestures and murmurs of pleasure.

It would be so much better if she could really love Jeanne, or some other woman. And maybe she could, Polly thought; she loved Lorin Jones, after all. But she couldn’t love Jeanne in the way she loved Lorin. Among other things, Jeanne wasn’t a genius.

On the other hand, she was alive and here. And she was warm, affectionate, loyal. She loved Polly; she was thoughtful and kind, bringing her flowers and baking her sponge cakes. It’s true that the flowers, usually bought in subway stalls, never lasted very long, and that lately the cakes tended to be lopsided or sink in the middle. But the impulse was fresh and whole.

Maybe it was all Polly’s fault; maybe she was basically a cold, guarded person, incapable of real warmth or intimacy even with another woman. Maybe that was why Jeanne was still depressed, untidy, touchy, and preoccupied. She sighed and flopped face down beside her friend, trying in vain to sleep.

“Hey.” Jeanne yawned, slowly opened her eyes, and raised herself on one elbow, gazing at Polly. “It’s no good really, is it?” she said after a moment.

“What?”

“I mean, it isn’t working. You’re still all tensed up.”

“I — yeah. I guess it’s just the way I am.”

“It’s not only you.” Jeanne reached down to stroke Polly’s forehead, smoothing back her crisp untidy curls. “It’s not right for me either. The problem is, I really love you as a friend, but you’re not my type.” She sighed.

“What?” Polly turned on her side.

“If you were, I would never have agreed to come and live here back in September; it would’ve been just too painful.”

Startled, Polly half sat up, looking at her lover. “You mean you’re not attracted to me?” she said, her mouth remaining open in surprise.

“Well, no. Not really.” Jeanne smiled apologetically, and shook her head. “The thing is, I mostly always go for thin confused young redheads or strawberry blondes, like Betsy. You’re much too sensible and grown-up for me.”

And too old and too fat, Polly thought, wanting to laugh miserably.

Jeanne must have noticed some change or spasm in her friend’s features, for she hastened to add, “I don’t mean you’re not awfully pretty, Polly dear. I’m sure there’s lots of women who would be interested in you. Ida said to me once —”

“Then why did you suggest —” Polly cried, sitting up to face her friend, repelled by the idea of having been discussed in this, way with Ida.

“Well, I suppose because I was so miserable and frustrated. And so were you. But it really wasn’t a good idea, you know. You’ve been wonderfully nice to me. The trouble is, I’m still horribly in love with Betsy, even though I realize I’ll probably never see her again. But anything else feels as if I was being unfaithful to her.”

“I see.” Polly still wanted to laugh or cry; the whole thing seemed to her like a bad joke.

“Anyhow, darling, you’re not really all that attracted to me either.” Jeanne smiled.

“I am, but — At least —” Polly gave a long nervous sigh. “I just have a different idea of what it’s like to make love, I suppose. But I thought you —”

“I know.” Now Jeanne laughed out loud, lightly and a little sadly. “We were both being polite to each other.” I guess so.

“I tell you what. Let’s get out of bed and go to a really silly movie. Something with wild animals in it, or aliens from outer space.”

“Okay. I’ll find the Times and see what’s on uptown.” Polly stood up.

“You know what, though,” she added, turning back in the doorway. “If you’re really still in love with Betsy, maybe you should call her. I mean, it could be that’s what she’s waiting for.”

“Maybe,” Jeanne said, her expression darkening. “Or maybe not.” She picked up the pillow on which she had lain and thumped it meditatively. “All right. I’ll think about it.”

KENNETH FOSTER,

Painter

Yes, I checked my records: Laurie Zimmern was in my second-year painting class in the spring of nineteen-forty-five, at Bennington.

I recall her perfectly. My legs may be shaky, but my mind is quite clear. Besides, I always remember my gifted students.

There weren’t so many as you might think. If I had one or two out of a class of twenty I counted myself lucky.

No, you don’t know right away. It’s not as easy as that. You see, it’s not just ability that makes for success. If you teach for as long as I did, you realize that in any year a few of your students may have real talent, and a few may have real ambition: the passionate drive to be an artist. In my second-year class at Bennington most of them usually didn’t have either, not so as one could notice.

They were nice enough girls. Several of them went on to marry well, and collect paintings fairly intelligently, because people like me and Garrett Jones had taught them a little something. But they weren’t artists.

Yes, talent and drive; to make it in the art world you need lots of both. If you only have the one, it’s a tragedy. I’ve known so many young people who wanted desperately to be painters. They’d have done anything for that, given up anything, worked night and day for years, but they simply hadn’t sufficient gift. You could see that their entire lives would be a misery.

Oh yes, I’ve tried to tell them, especially at the beginning. It doesn’t do any good; all that happens is that they class you as an evil life-destroying philistine. They add you to the list of the people who killed John Keats and let van Gogh die penniless, and so forth.

And then sometimes, what’s almost worse, you get the ones who have the talent but not the drive. They let their parents or their wives or their husbands talk them out of trying to become serious painters, because it’s not safe or respectable. They go to law school instead or into business or just have babies. The hours of my life I’ve wasted talking to those students! It’s awful to contemplate.

No, with Laurie Zimmern it was different. She had the ability: a wonderful, very subtle, color sense, and her drawing was exquisite. And she wanted to paint tremendously; I think that was almost all she ever wanted. But the world outside of the studio terrified her.

Well, for instance, I remember the reception for the Bennington student show at the end of that term. There was quite a crowd. Everybody in the department was there, naturally, and a fair number of relatives and friends and townspeople. It was the first time Laurie’d ever exhibited, and she was so frightened she literally couldn’t speak.

Yes, she did gain a little more confidence over the next year or so. But I didn’t think she’d ever have enough to make it. Only, you see, she was smart. She wanted to be a famous painter, and she wanted it fast. And she was intelligent enough to know what she was like, and that she desperately needed somebody to promote her work and stand between her and the world.