Edward Lee: Succubi

Goddamn him too. “I’m paying two bills an hour to be insulted?”

Dr. Harold had laughed. “To see into yourself more clearly is no insult. If you want your daughter to be happy you have to support the way she feels about things. Every time you take a heated exception to her views, that’s an insult to her. Things like that can hurt a young mind.”

“She’s not a baby anymore, Ann,” Martin told her. “She’s a bright, creative seventeen year old now. Don’t worry about it.”

Ann sputtered. The day had been just too confusing, and Martin could see that. He glanced at his watch. “At last, it’s Beer O’clock.” He poured her a Sapphire and tonic and got himself one of his snob beers. Politely changing a bad subject was his way of not rubbing her misgivings in her face.

“You get much writing done today?” she asked. The first sip of her gin began to unwind her at once.

“All kinds. Would’ve gotten more, though, if it weren’t for the interruptions. Some guy kept calling for you. I’ll bet he called five, six times.”

“Some guy ?”

“I kept telling him you wouldn’t be in till early evening. Asked if I could take a message, and he kept saying no.”

“ Some guy?” she queried again.

“It must be your other lover,” Martin said.

“Yeah, but which one? I have dozens, you know.”

“Sure, but why bother with them when you’ve got a charming, intelligent, and very considerate man such as myself? Not to mention one of exceptional bedroom prowess.”

“I hate to burst your balloon, honey, but the only reason I keep you around is because you’re a good cook.”

“Ah, so that’s it.”

All jokes aside, this caller made her wonder. Perhaps it was someone from the office calling to congratulate her.

“The guy had a real funny voice, like someone with emphysema or something, or strep throat.”

Ann frowned it off. Whoever it was, they’d probably call back.

“I haven’t started dinner yet,” Martin admitted, and lit a cigarette. “I could thaw some—”

Ann’s state of distraction finally occurred to her. She hadn’t even told him yet, had she? “Don’t thaw anything,” she said. “We’re going out. I already made reservations at the Emerald Room.”

Suddenly, Martin looked grim. “That’s the most expensive restaurant in town.”

“It’s also the best.”

“Sure, but, uh, can we afford that?”

She wanted to laugh. Ann was rich by just about anyone’s standards, and much richer as of today. Martin’s financial pride always emerged at times like this. Ann essentially supported him, and they both knew that. By saying can we afford that? he was actually saying, I’m broke as usual, so you’ll have to pay for dinner. As usual.

“We’re celebrating, Martin.”

He tapped an ash suspiciously. “Celebrating what?”

“I made partner today.”

This news seemed to numb him for a moment. He just stood there, looking at her. “You’re kidding?”

“Nope. They took me by complete surprise. Yesterday I worked for Collims, Lemco, and Lipnick. Today I work for Collims, Lemco, Lipnick, and Slavik.”

“That’s great!” Martin finally rejoiced, and hugged her tight. But Ann had to masquerade her own joy. She’d waited seven years for this day, any lawyer’s greatest triumph, and all she could think about was the nightmare.

«« — »»

Martin had proposed to her twice. Ann had said no both times, and even now she wasn’t quite sure why. Backwash, she thought. Her first husband had left over ten years ago. Those had been hard times, and Mark hadn’t made them any easier. Ann was going to law school during the day, working at night, and raising Melanie as best she could in between. Mark’s failures hadn’t been all his fault. Her parents hadn’t liked him at all. Mom thought he looked “shifty,” and Dad assured her he was a “layabout.” Construction work paid well in this area so long as you were employed by a reliable contractor. Mark had been through several contractors who weren’t. He always felt inferior to Ann. At least all his time not working had saved Ann a lot of day care and baby sitter fees. A week after she’d graduated from law school, Mark disappeared. I’m sorry but I can’t hack it anymore, the note read. Find someone more worthy of you. Mark.

Her parents were actually happy about it, something for which she’d never really forgiven them. She’d never seen Mark again. Melanie had been about five at the time; she barely even remembered who her father was.

Ann’s first years with the firm had been so harried she’d had no social life at all. The few dates here and there were never allowed to amount to anything, not as a lawyer and a single mother. One day it dawned on her that three years had gone by without her having sex once. She couldn’t expect many men to want to assume the role of husband to a woman who worked ten to twelve hours a day six days a week and had a pensive teenage daughter by another man.

But Martin had been different. She’d met him at the college; the firm had purchased a computer system, and Ann had been required to take a three day word processing course. Martin had been sitting in the cafeteria, smoking over a pile of student essays about the thematics of Randall Jarrell. He’d merely looked up, made some small talk, and asked her out for a drink. They’d had a nice, polite, and innocuous time at the Undercroft, and that had been that. A week later they were dating regularly. What helped was that his writing schedule conformed to her work schedule. There was never any tension there, and she never had to force herself to go out when she was too tired. Before he’d moved in with her and Melanie, he’d laid it all right out. “I’m a poet, this is my only occupational aspiration. I write six to eight hours a day, every day, and I teach part time at the college. I could teach full time and take extra classes for more money, but if I did that, my writing would suffer. I will never do that. I’ll probably never make more than twenty thousand a year. Before we go any further with this, I want you to know that. I want it all on the table so there won’t be any misunderstandings later. A poor poet is all I will ever be.” Were all men so money conscious? Ann had never doubted her love for him; she didn’t care how much money he made as long as he loved her. And she never doubted that either.

Martin was a good househusband. He taught two classes on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. The other days he wrote from morning to dinnertime. He liked routines; “psychical and creative order,” he called it. He’d take Melanie to school every morning, then he’d go home and write or go to school and teach, then he’d write some more and pick Melanie up. He cooked all their meals (all writers were good cooks) and even washed the dishes! He split the laundry and cleaning chores with Melanie. Many nights Ann wasn’t home for dinner, but that had never been a problem either. Melanie had taken to him instantly. He encouraged her and counseled her better than Ann could ever expect to, and since they were both flaming liberals, they both agreed on everything. Martin even liked Melanie’s wild, discordant music. At least once a month he would drive her and some of her friends to one of the New Wave clubs in D.C. to see bands like the Car Crash Symphony, Alien Sex Fiend, and Nixon’s Head. “Nixon’s Head!” Ann had once tiraded. “You took her to see a band called Nixon’s Head?” “Creative alternativism, my dear,” Martin had quietly responded. “Without it we’d be another Red China.” Maybe Ann was stupid but she didn’t understand how a group called Nixon’s Head could be proof of democracy. Nevertheless, without Martin, Melanie would have no father figure at all, and would probably have run away for good by now. Martin was tolerant of things most men could never be: stable, kind in the face of her job stress, never jealous, and someone who wouldn’t rant and rave every time she had to work late on depositions or had to take clients out to restaurants where dinner for two cost more than Martin made in a week. He didn’t feel subservient at all; he even jokingly referred to himself as her “wife.” He insisted on contributing the little he could toward the mortgage, and refused to let her replace his ten year old Ford Pinto with a Corvette. “People will think I’m your gigolo,” he’d objected. “Any poet who doesn’t drive a ten year old car with at least 150,000 miles on it is a complete fake.”