Alison Lurie - The Truth About Lorin Jones

“Wha?” Polly did not open her eyes. In a moment she would remember who she was, where she was; but now she floated in a warm blur of satisfaction; she felt like a pile of pancakes in hot maple syrup. The idea struck her as comic, but she was too sleepy even to giggle.

“Why should I like you so much? It doesn’t make sense. I mean, you’re not the kind of woman I thought I liked. I usually go more for the bohemian ladies.”

“Mh?” Polly yawned and slowly opened her eyes. She felt at peace with the world and everyone in it — except for that destructive, hateful bohemian lady Lorin Jones.

“I bet I’m not the type you usually go for either,” Mac said, grinning.

She focused on him. “No, not exactly,” she fibbed; in the days when she went for men, it was exactly this sort of man she went for. “But at least you’re not an artist or a writer.”

“The hell I’m not.” Mac sat up, half laughing. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well.” Polly swallowed another yawn. “I mean, I know you used to write poetry, but it sounds like you gave it up quite a while ago.”

“I gave up teaching it, that’s all. Hell, I had to. In the poetry business, if you haven’t made it on the national scene by forty, you’ve had it as far as college jobs go. God, you have such wonderful breasts.” He bent to kiss one slowly. “No, I’m still writing. I publish something now and then, and I’m getting a new book together.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s okay.” Mac stroked the lower curve of her breast meditatively. “I did try to stop once, you know. It was after Lorin died, when I was married and teaching back in Iowa City. I couldn’t get my second book published, and I got really depressed. But then I thought, fuck it, why should I quit doing something that gives me pleasure, and I’m not all that bad at? That’s how I still feel. And then, there’s always the chance that I might strike it lucky. I might write one really good poem, maybe even more. Whereas if I quit, I haven’t got a hope in hell. ... Equal time.” He moved to the other breast.

“I used to paint,” Polly said suddenly.

“Yes?” Mac raised his head and looked at her.

“I had a show once.”

“Uh-huh.” He gave her another slow look. “Only now you’re a biographer.”

“I’m not a biographer, exactly. I’m just writing this one book.”

“I’d love to read your biography.” Mac grinned. “I’d like to know how you got to be so fantastic in bed.” He traced a line of fluttering kisses down her stomach.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she replied, raising her hips to meet his mouth.

“You know something, Polly,” Mac said, considerably later. “I could get really serious about you.” He pulled down a T-shirt stenciled REVIVALS CONSTRUCTION — navy this time rather than green. “What d’you think?” he added, when Polly, bent over her running shoes, did not respond.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“You mean forget it, huh?”

“No. I mean, hell, I only just met you two days ago. Anyhow, I live in New York and you live here.”

“We could fix that,” Mac said casually, smiling.

“Yes? How?” Polly tied her other shoe and looked up at him. He’s kidding, she thought.

“I could move to New York, for instance. Or you could move to Key West.”

“I couldn’t afford that,” she said, smiling too.

“Sure you could. It doesn’t cost much to live in the Keys if you’ve got a place to stay. Anyhow, you already own an apartment on Central Park West, right?”

“Mm,” Polly agreed.

“How many bedrooms?”

“Three. But one is tiny.”

“All the same. From what I hear about New York rents, I bet you could let it for enough to get by on here.”

“Maybe. But what would I do in Key West, besides making love?” she asked, almost laughing.

“I d’know. Write your book. Or you could take up painting again.” He shrugged. “Your kid could come too; I’ve got plenty of room. I bet he’d enjoy it here.”

For a moment Polly imagined herself and Stevie in Key West; they were sitting on the worn front steps of Mac’s house, under the orchid tree. But probably he wasn’t serious; it was just a way of saying he liked her.

“Think about it, okay?”

“Okay,” Polly agreed, aware that she would whether or not she chose.

“Anyhow, you’re going to be, around for a while now, right?” Mac said, a stutter of feeling interrupting the casual question.

“I’ll stay till Tuesday. If I can change my ticket.” Polly glanced at him, then, shaken by what she began to feel, leaned nearer to blur it with a quick caress.

“Good. And I hope I answered all your research questions.” Mac put one hand on the bottom of her jeans.

“Yes — well.” With a sort of mental shake, Polly recalled herself to duty. “There was one thing —”

“Mm.”

“You were saying before, sometimes Lorin was still in the house, but in a way she’d be gone.”

“Yeah. I suppose partly it was the drugs.”

“Drugs?” Polly echoed, trying — far too late — to speak calmly. That’s what Lennie didn’t tell me, she thought. Or Jacky or Garrett. Or maybe they didn’t know.

“You didn’t know she was into drugs?”

“No,” Polly admitted. An addict too, a thin mean voice said in her head; you can tell everyone that too.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “We both were, for a while. It was no big deal back then, y’know.”

“What sort of drugs?”

Mac grinned. “Well, to start with, back on the Cape, it was grass and hash mostly. Down here I mainly stuck with that; you pretty much have to in my line of work if you don’t want to fall off a ladder or saw a hole in your hand. And we tried a little LSD and mesc on weekends, to see if it would do anything for our work.”

“And did it?”

“Not all that much. I wrote what I thought at the time was great stuff, but when I came down it mostly looked pretty empty. It did more for Lorin, but she couldn’t paint what she saw when she was high, she didn’t have the coordination. But after a while —” Mac broke off, staring at the rain that sluiced down the plastic back wall of the house.

“Yes?” Polly prompted.

There was a pause. “Well,” he said finally. “After a while Lorin got into speed. Nobody knew what it did to you, back then, see. And she liked it because she could work longer without getting tired. Anyhow, at first she just took some now and then when she was really into a painting. It didn’t get heavy till I was up in Maine.”

“When were you in Maine?”

“Sixty-eight, sixty-nine. I was going crazy because I didn’t have time to write, so a pal of mine got me a job at Colby, he —”

“But that was when Lorin died,” Polly interrupted. “February nineteen-sixty-nine.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mac said almost without irony.

“I’m sorry. I —” Polly swallowed, then plunged ahead. “You were teaching at Colby College then?”

“Mm. I came down here over Christmas vacation, though, and I could see that Lorin was in a bad way. She’d been working on a series of underwater paintings, and she didn’t want to take time off to sleep. So she went to this quack doctor and said she needed to lose weight, she wanted some appetite depressants. And the bastard gave them to her. I tried to tell her it was insane, because she was too thin already; she never ate enough. But she didn’t pay any attention.”

“Lennie Zimmern told me Lorin died of pneumonia,” Polly said.

“Yeah. That’s right, technically. She caught it going snorkeling. We always went out to the reef a couple of times every summer, but that last year Lorin got really hooked, and started wanting to go every week. She could get high just from lying facedown in the waves and watching the scene underwater. And of course if you were on something it was just about fantastic. There was one sort of little fish she specially liked; it’s sort of transparent, with long white wavy fins, and travels in bunches, I forget now what it’s called. There’s some of them in that picture over my sofa.”