Gabriel Roth - The Unknowns

We finish eating and move to the bedroom in a state that combines vacant lust and a disinclination to keep talking. As I start to go down on her, I remember that I began that way last time; tonight I should have taken a more concupiscent approach, to demonstrate creativity and to flatter her with the suggestion of passionate desire. Ten minutes later, engaged in coitus a posteriori, I find myself watching as if from the side of the room. The perspective is cold and arousing, and I am handling the physiomechanics of the act with unusual confidence, until she says, “I need it rougher.”

So what is this? An artifact of childhood trauma? A vestigial need to revisit that dark nexus of sex and coercion, to touch some wound inside herself? Or is it the other way around: the memories of abuse at her father’s hands are masochistic fantasies, an ordinary kink misunderstood? I am not watching from the side anymore. I put my hand on the back of her head and push her face down. She makes an enthusiastic sound, or perhaps just a reflexive grunt. I am Donald now, and I give it to her, punish her for betraying me, for lying, for pretending to be a victim when she’s just a slut. And then I ejaculate, much too soon. She wants to kiss afterward, which is almost more than I can stand.

Cynthia is one of those children who, lacking some gene for adolescence, have not once worried or disappointed their parents. Her grades were never less than adequate, her demeanor never hostile, her behavior never self-destructive. Every friend was presented to Doug and Rose Gerney over the family dinner table. (They adored Danny Keach, who recognized that charming them was a station on the path into Cynthia’s heart and jeans.) She graduated college in four years and proceeded to obtain a skilled job. She flies home for major holidays and helps with the cooking. So it was a new experience for the Gerney family when Cynthia told her parents she’d decided that men just weren’t her thing.

She calls to give me the news. “I need to tell you about it,” she says. “Can I come after work?”

I make preliminary noises of regret: I’m speaking at this conference tomorrow and I’d like to go over some notes, take a bath, get an early night. But there’s an uncharacteristic insistence in Cynthia’s tone that makes me relent.

Sitting on my couch she describes the phone call, with her parents on separate extensions. Here’s what I’m afraid of: she called and said, Get Dad on the line, I need to tell you guys something , and her mother leapt willfully to the conclusion that Cynthia was getting married.

“So how did they react?” I say. Doug is a bearish, mustachioed man who writes nonfiction books on manly topics: gambling, the rural life, the history of tobacco. I picture him standing in the bedroom of their house in Denver, holding the receiver to his ear, until I remember that they’ve moved into a smaller house, one I’ve never seen. Did he take Cynthia’s homosexuality as a personal rejection? A lapse in his daughter’s love? What the hell is fatherhood about, anyway?

They didn’t disown her. Doug kept saying, It’s just such a surprise . Rose said, But don’t you want children ? Cynthia explained that lesbianism doesn’t preclude children, but Rose wasn’t satisfied and Doug went to the kitchen to hold her while she sobbed into the phone.

I murmur sympathetically, but Cynthia sweeps my condolences away with the back of her hand.

“She just couldn’t get over the grandchildren thing,” she says. “I told her I could go to a sperm bank or something, and that didn’t help.” She blows the steam off her tea. “So I said you’d probably give me some if I asked.” I can’t think of anything to say to this except Ha ! “And the thing is, she totally stopped crying. She made me promise to ask you about it.”

“I’m flattered that your mom holds my DNA in such high esteem.”

“No, she always liked you. And she was really impressed when you sold the company.” This remark triggers a wave of disgust, but I can’t tell where it’s directed. To feel disgusted is to feel implicated.

“It’ll never happen, obviously,” Cynthia says. “I just wanted you to be prepared if she ever says anything weird about it.”

“Color me prepared,” I say, getting up from the couch to fetch some snacks and relieve the interpersonal intensity. “No, it’s fine. Tell her whatever.” In one of the infinite possible futures that branch from every instant, Cynthia is raising twins, a boy and a girl, with her chubby face and my inability to relate to people. On the way to the pantry I pass my laptop, which is sitting on the kitchen island, and of course I glance at the screen in case Maya has emailed to say how much she loves me. Instead there’s a message from Donald Marcom with the subject Checking in .

I return to the couch with a box of chocolate marshmallow Pinwheels, but Cynthia knows something’s not right.

“What just happened?” she says.

So I have to explain everything, even though I understand so little. Cynthia has heard me say that Maya was abused, and it never occurred to her to treat that statement as anything other than a fact. She wants to see Donald’s email, so I fetch the computer from the island and set it down on the table in front of us. It reads:

Eric,

Your disinterested pursuit of the truth does you credit. Thanks to you I find myself more hopeful than at any time since this ordeal began. I hope you will keep me informed about your discussions with Maya — both for my own information and to allow me to respond to any further distortions.

DBM

This is one of those times when you have managed to be true to yourself, have obeyed unusually clear impulses, and then find yourself at the bottom of a pit, unable to explain how you got there. How did Donald Marcom and I wind up on the same side?

“He thinks you’re working for him?” Cynthia says. I shrug.

“He’s irrelevant,” I say. “But… I need to figure this out.”

“No, you don’t,” she says. She gestures at the computer as though Donald were a mischievous goblin living inside. “If he’s an innocent guy and he lost his daughter, that’s very sad and everything, but why is that your problem? You’re her boyfriend. Just be her boyfriend.”

By some unlikely chance, Maya Marcom is prepared to spend time with me. This astonishing person will be here at my apartment, of her own volition, in one hour. When she was picking her outfit earlier today, she might have momentarily wondered what I’d find attractive. And I’m going to get stuck on whether this story she believes is accurate?

“You’re right,” I say. I lean forward to the laptop and delete Donald’s email, a gesture that gives me a little kick of satisfaction.

“There you go,” Cynthia says.

“I feel good about this,” I say. I stand up and look around the apartment. I feel a sudden urge to tidy the place up, although it’s not messy.

“Jeez, you went all the way to LA,” Cynthia says.

“Yeah, that’s really weird,” I say. “I can never tell her about that, right?” Cynthia frowns — she has a native distaste for secrecy. “I went to see him, behind her back.”

“Right,” she says. “Yeah, don’t tell her.” She smiles nervously, as though we’re in a children’s conspiracy, and once again I feel thankful that she’s on my side. We order Thai food and eat it in front of the TV.

Maya and I ride to the Digital Future Conference in a cab. I don’t usually take cabs with her because I have the idea that she’d rather not date a guy who takes cabs everywhere. I tried to dissuade her from coming — I don’t know that I want her to see me in this context — but she insisted.