30 Pieces of a Novel (24 page)

So he didn't call but she did. “Hello, is this Mr. Bookbinder?” and after he knew for sure who it was, he said, “Damn, I had a premonition you'd use that if you called—the ‘mister' or ‘professor' or ‘doctor'—which I'm not: I barely got through elementary college—instead of just my name Gould,” and she said, “I didn't want to, honestly, nor thought beforehand how to address you. It simply came out, whatever that latency means. My subconscious should probably keep that a secret,” and he quickly tried to think what she'd just meant but said, “Okay by me. So, what's doing with you?” and she said, “My goodness, plenty of things, but we'd mentioned something about meeting for coffee one day—do you still want to?” and they met. She was interesting: wide range of interests, knowledgeable about a lot, quick mind, some wit, articulate delivery, funny at times, charming, her parents send him their regards—the “life of the mind” came up twice in her conversation, and she seemed earnest about it—and she seemed to find him interesting: laughed at his jokes, said several times, “What you say makes a lot of sense,” looked into his eyes as if he were her equal; someone she could be interested in, or even involved with, is what he wants to say. He wanted to say to her right away, “Listen”—or after they got a coffee refill and second pine-nut macaroon horn they shared between them—“listen, what are you doing tonight?” He gave advice, after he asked about her graduate-school work, on some courses she was thinking of taking and some eventual career moves. “But the truth is, if I had to take those same courses I'd no doubt fail and be mustered out of the program, especially the long novels of Melville and that one you mentioned on Puritan literature,” and she said, “Oh, please,” and he said, “No, I haven't the mind for that stuff.
Bartleby
and maybe
Billy Budd
, though I can't stand the grandiloquent language of the latter, if I remember the book correctly and have the word right, but those two are about it. I don't know: the brain; who knows where the hell it goes or, with me, ever was, but I couldn't keep up in your class. And write papers on the long ones? Forget it. It's a fluke that I'm teaching. But if you notice, I only do short things and very clear and modern and interpretable … so it's a good thing I'm retiring in two years. My younger daughter will be out of college then, and that'll be it for half-tuition remission from my university, and I bring down the entire profession. Now your father: I don't know how many years he's been professing or has left in it, but
there's
a teacher, a scholar, a learned man, with eclectic interests and the ability to compress and express them, just like you. I used to feel a little stupid sometimes talking to him, not that he was ever high-hat or pooh-pooh or self-important. He just knew what the hell he was talking about and had good ideas. Me, I'm a fake,” and she said, “No you're not,” and he said, “Oy-oy-oy, now you'll think I brought it up to get sympathy or lower my level or show I'm vulnerable or some other ulterior reason, but just ask him. I'm talking about teaching and understanding the subtleties and particulars of literature and making the connections and seeing its big reach. He'll tell you. But let's change the subject; it's too much about me.” Politics: some things about the coming presidential election they both read in the
Times
and a couple of liberal weeklies. Then they analyzed the mind of the lit professor turned U.S. senator who killed his wife and her lover a month ago: ran over them when he saw them walking hand in hand across a street. What could have induced him, so much to live for and all that, and they had three young kids? The story goes he was having an affair of his own with a young staff worker and had had several before with all kinds of women and wasn't living with his wife—they were getting a divorce, had amicably worked out a settlement and this was her first man since they broke up—so why? She said, “Male honor—that another penis had superseded his?” and he said, “Are you speaking metaphorically … hey, how about that word?” and she didn't smile and said, “Both,” and he said, “Anyway, no, I don't think so, or just a little, and what do I care about that vile jerk? I'm only interested in what happened to his wife and kids and, to a smaller extent, the poor schmo he killed. I'm sorry, I don't always mean to direct us, but the conversation's gotten too morbid, so can we change the subject again?” “Do you like movies?” and he said, “Sure, some, who doesn't? though I prefer the older foreign ones in black and white—late fifties, early sixties, long before you were born—but I bet you like the new ones a lot,” and she said, “Only if they're good.” Has he seen …? and he said no, but does she think it's worth going to? If she does he'll make a point of it, and she said if he's serious about that she'll go with him, since she wouldn't mind seeing it again: it was probably among the best five or six movies she's seen in her life, and he said, “Oh, it was that good?” and she said, “Are you playing with me, because I don't like it,” and he said, “No, why, something I said, or the way I said it? Oh, I won't lie; I was playing—patronizing—and I'll try not to do it again. It could be I just don't know how to express myself well in social matters also, or have degenerated the last few years, no fault of anyone's but my own, so please excuse me,” and she said, “And stop flattering yourself too,” and he said, “What? Okay, if you say so, I won't. So what's our next topic?” and she said, “That's not how I engage in conversation,” and he said, “Of course not, I was only saying,” and she said, “And the truth now: you weren't being a touch sardonic to me then?” and he said, “No, why would I, I wasn't, but if you don't mind I think that should be my last apology for the time being. All right, that said, when do you want to meet for that movie, if you still do? And it'll be dutch treat, okay? since I know you'd object to my paying,” and she said, “I wouldn't—I'm only a grad student without a major stipend—but fine with me,” and after he left her he thought they almost blew it then but that could be because they're both a bit unsure and maybe even nervous about meeting again because they think it's the wrong thing. Is it? No, it's simple, it's nothing.

They went to the movie two nights later. Met her at it, got there fifteen minutes early to buy the tickets and have the excuse, “Got here early so thought I'd save some time in line by buying the tickets beforehand—not to save time so much but more to make sure we got seats—I hope you don't mind,” and she said, “No, I told you, if you mean about buying both tickets. Do you want to be reimbursed?” and he said, “It's not necessary,” and she said, “Excuse me, I shouldn't have put it like that,” and took out her wallet, and he said, “Please, put that away. So, where do you want to sit?”—as they entered the seating area—and she said, “Anyplace you do but not too near,” and he said, “Should we have stopped off at the candy counter?” and she said, “I don't eat in theaters—distracts from what I'm seeing, besides making too much noise,” and he said, “Same here: the snacky stuff and not sitting too near. In fact, because of my eyes I like to be pretty far back. So maybe, if that's not what you want, we should sit separately and meet after,” and she said, “The back's good.” They sat, movie started, she took his hand a few minutes into it. He couldn't believe it. He'd already decided—when he walked to the theater—that this would be the last time he'd see her except for chance meetings. He'd gotten too anxious about this movie date; it would lead to nothing and he could see himself falling for her a little, but not making a fool of himself—keeping it a secret from everyone—and it would be upsetting. He'd think of her a lot, want to call her, but wouldn't. He'd planned to say nothing about it after the movie and when he accompanied her back to her building or however they'd leave each other, and if she said anything like, “Want to meet again?” he'd say, “It's probably not a good idea and I'd rather not go into why, though believe me it has nothing to do with you. Meaning nothing you did or said, since for you I've nothing but admiration and respect,” or not go quite that far, as it might come out sounding like a line to inveigle her into a relationship, and he was sure she'd say, Okay, it that's what you want,” and shake his hand good night and that'd be the end of it. So they were watching the movie, right at the start after the opening credits, his hands on his lap, when suddenly she was holding one. He didn't see or feel her hand crawl to it or anything. His right, her left, she just took it and squeezed, about thirty seconds after she started holding it, and he thought, still facing the screen, She's squeezing my hand, what does that mean? and then she squeezed it harder and he thought it's probably a signal for him to look at her, the second one harder because he didn't look at her after the first, and he looked at her and she was smiling at him and looking as if she wanted to be kissed, and he thought, I can't do that, it's enough she's holding his hand and squeezing it. It was a dark scene on the screen so the theater was fairly dark, and her head turned just so toward him and lips parted a bit and that smile that said, Kiss me, we could do it now, just once if that's all you want, but come on while we've time and the theater's dark and people around us can't see, and if you do kiss me I'll kiss you back if you don't pull away right after, and he thought, Not here, probably not anywhere, there are some things you don't understand; at least they have to be talked about, and how would it look?—people will see and think, Look at the old fart and the young beauty, first I thought she was his daughter or even his granddaughter, then they're kissing on the lips, maybe doing worse things below, how could he and, even uglier to think of, how could she? He smiled at her, faced front, didn't squeeze her hand but continued to let her hold his. Occasionally glanced at her and she was always watching the movie. She gently squeezed his hand a few times and then so hard his knuckles hurt, and it wasn't during an especially tense movie scene as the other squeezes since the first one had been so seemed she wanted him to look at her again and he did, and her head was like it was an hour before: turned and with the mouth open and smile just so, and he mouthed, What? and she squeezed his hand and tugged it a little toward her and he pulled it back but left it in hers and said, “What? What?” and she said, “Oh, what?” and someone behind them said, “Shh,” and he mouthed Something wrong? and her expression said, With this look and smile and my neck arched and head turned so and mouth parted in a preparation-for-kiss position, you say you don't know what it is and that something could be wrong? What's wrong with you? What was wrong with you before? Or maybe I should ask, What do you see or sense wrong in me? You embarrassed? What don't you like? Our ages? Me? My looks, mind? People all around? That I made a move on you? That I'm stopping you from watching the movie? Listen, it's going to happen, mister, you better believe it, here or somewhere else, now or later, this kissing. And probably tonight or another night this week—unless you confess beforehand to being gay, impotent, perverted, or having a sexually transmittable disease—we'll be in bed also, so you better get ready for that too, and she turned to the screen, and he thought, Suppose she was thinking some of that, he hasn't yet told her about his wife and why they separated. And there's her father, mother, all the other things. What else is she expecting him to do besides kiss her here, kiss her later on the street, at a bar, a big long one in an elevator? Dance with her at some preppy club? Double-date with her friends? Hold hands with her the entire way while they walk to wherever they walk to after the movie? Last time his older daughter was in she took his hand on the street and held it at her side and they walked that way for about a minute till he raised their hands to his mouth, kissed hers, and took his out of it, and said, “This'll sound awful to you. But as much as I loved holding hands with you when you were a girl, probably as much as I loved anything, some people will get the wrong idea now. They don't know you're my daughter so they'll think what they think, and half of it won't be nice things, and I don't want them to,” and she said, “What of it? We know how we're related and that there's never been anything like that, so why let the petty small minds run you?” and he said, “You could be right. Ideally, you are. But there's a certain public decorum I have to hold to. I get uncomfortable easily, for both you and me, even if I know I'll never see these people again, or if we do there's very little chance we'll recognize each other, so what else can I say except that I hate it to be this way. Maybe if we wore signs—
HIS
DAUGHTER,
HER
FATHER
—and arrows on the signs pointing to the other person, which'd mean we'd always have to walk in the same position to each other. No, that's silly and nothing will work. Anyway, you're all grown up, and I've been wanting to say something about this since you were around thirteen, so walk with me normally from now on and save the hand-holding for when you're with one of your beaus,” and she said, “Beaus. Oh, boy, that's a word,” and he said, “You mad over this?” and she said, “It's a bit sudden, but no.”

In the movie now he looked front, she pulled her hand away from his—a sign she was angry or disappointed, maybe—and he whispered close to her ear, “Really, did I do something wrong? Anything I said I should be thinking about apologizing for?” and she whispered, looking serious, “Why, because I removed my hand from your sweaty palm? It was getting physically unpleasant, just as mine must have been getting to yours, and I thought I might be annoying you with it and distracting you from the movie.” “Shh,” the person behind them said, or another one; “please, the movie. You want to talk, do it outside.” He mouthed, Later, and smiled, and she nodded but didn't smile, and he thought, Jesus, I'm such a creep, I can't believe it, and they watched the movie and discussed it on the way to a pub, she called it, she knew around here and wanted to go to for a drink before heading home, and standing at the bar in it he felt funny, all the young people standing around them, just as he thought he would a week ago. He'd suggested when they came in they get a table—his main reason: not to stand at the bar with all the young people, though what he told her was, “We can relax and talk better”—but she said, “A table's too formal for just a piddly beer. And I've been sitting all day at my desk at home, and then at the movie, so I'd like to stretch my legs.” Some men around her age at the bar or walking past them seemed to want to make a pass at her. Anyway, were definitely interested. Kept looking over, tried to catch her eye directly or through the long bar mirror above the liquor bottles. One handsome young man sitting at the bar stared at her through the mirror now. When they came in she looked around briefly, seemed to nod hello to someone in a standing group but he didn't see who, and then only looked at him—“Chins,” she said, clicking her beer stein against his glass of wine, and drank from it and said, “We done discussing the movie?” and he said, “Unless you want to talk some more as to why they make these things so noisy, jumpy, and uncomplex,” and she said, “I don't. Now tell me what happened in the theater. And don't say ‘What do you mean?' I won't allow you to give yourself extra time to think up an evasive answer, though of course my going on about it now has given you that time. How come, to put it bluntly—oh, I hate phrases like that when it's obvious I'm being blunt—you didn't kiss me? Was I—and I don't like babbling people either but feel I have to finish this, so forgive me—asking for so much? Or you simply didn't want to, or thought it the wrong place, or the shusher behind us stifled you, or what? There, you've had lots of time to think up a clever evasion, and meanwhile I've exposed myself as an unattractive babbler, but say something,” and he said, “I have to talk here? How do you know we're not being monitored? This looks like the kind of joint that might do that—state-of-the-art slick and insipid singles bar with its newest gimmick being to entertain its masses through hidden recorders. One of the drinkers nearby could have one under his shirt or up her armpit and then management lowers the deafening music a few dozen decibels and plays our conversation back over the same sound system and everyone laughs himself silly,” and she said, “You're not talking, then,” and he said, “Okay, I talk. ‘Didn't want to kiss'? You said that, lady? Well, let me think about it, not with any excuse-making goal but to see my reluctance then as clearly as I can,” and he looked at his glass and thought. This is the approach. He can have it both ways and also appear thoughtful. He can protest his unresponsiveness yet give all the arguments for not getting involved further: the age difference, her family, he has a daughter also twenty-three and maybe even a few months older than her, she's just a student, she should be going out with much younger men, same frame—frames?—of reference, and “just a student” meaning he's a teacher, she's a grad student, it wouldn't look right or seem good. Other things he'll come up with: what could it lead to? That it'd embarrass him being affectionate to her in front of people, and kissing? Out of the question. Meaning in front of people, not that he wouldn't like to. Mention the hand-holding incident with his daughter. That he'd think himself a hypocrite he could only be kissy-poo alone with her? No “kissy-poo” reference. Besides sounding awful, he doesn't want to ridicule the act of kissing her, because then he'd be ridiculing her; she was the one who practically put her lips to his. Anyway, something like that, and if she accepts his reasons and respects his reactions but says it still doesn't make any difference to her—she'll go along with however he wants to conduct himself in public, within reason (she's not going to be passed off as his daughter, for instance)—then what? Then—well, he doesn't know. Does he want to see her again? Yes, he thinks so. Yes or no? Yes. Sleep with her eventually? Yes, surely. Sleep with her tonight if she lets on that's what she wants and actually does all the asking or prompting? All depends: his place or hers, roommate, type of building she lives in. But his building. People in it have begun to know him. If one's waiting for the elevator with them or the next morning is already in the car when they get on it to ride down? They could walk down—it's only the seventh floor and he could say it's good exercise and how he almost always goes downstairs; that's the truth—but someone could see them going through the lobby to the street, and what if a neighbor's waiting for the elevator when they leave his apartment? So? Means nothing in the morning: student of his who dropped by early to deliver a late paper and they just happen to be leaving at the same time. Doorman? Why would he care? He'd see them come in at night and think, Hey, what a doll, lucky old fuck, or maybe that's another one of his daughters. But he's way off track: first the negative arguments. “I've thought about it,” he said, “even if the music's hardly conducive to thinking—that bang bang screech bong,” and she said, “It's not anything like that and don't digress; tell me what you thought,” and he said, “For one thing, I'm still married,” and she said, “This is what you sunk into deep contemplation for? Because I thought you were separated, the two of you marching lockstep to an amiable divorce,” and he said, “Where'd you hear that? I never told you. Maybe your folks did, but I never told them either, though it's true,” and she said, “I've only spoken to them briefly since we met, and not about you—I forgot to,” and he said, “Ah, best you not, right now: what would they think? Anyway, you're right about the divorce—you must have just assumed it, or something I said—but you don't know the reasons for the amiability. My wife's quite sick. She wanted to divorce because of that. Sort of sacrificing herself. Thought she was being a drain on me. I took care of her as much as I could but couldn't anymore. She was that sick—still is—but even worse—she's eleven years younger than me—moved back with her elderly parents and they're taking care of her now with a nurse, the kids coming around often but not to help, and she doesn't want to see me anymore when she's so sick, because—” and she said, “I didn't know; that's terrible,” and he said, “It's awful, yes, except it isn't true,” and she said, “What isn't?” and he said, “What I said, all of it, except the separation and amiable divorce procedure. I don't know what came over me to do that—I'm sorry,” and she said, “Wait, what you just—” and he said, “Yeah, made up. As I said, I don't know what—” and she said, “But why? Something wrong with you, a screw loose, to play with my emotions like that?” and he said, “Listen, I can understand why you'd be mad, but maybe we should tone it down here,” and she said, “Okay, but answer,” and he said, “No screw loose. Oh, I'm normal, so like everyone else who is, minimum of a little. But I'm nervous with you, so maybe my nervousness makes me feel a tiny bit extra screw-loose, giddy, say dumb things, even turned me into a liar,” and she said, “Okay, okay. Not entirely satisfactory and I'm not sure what to say, but okay, okay. What's the real situation between you and your wife?” and he said, “Separation and eventually a divorce, all quite amiable and compatible. Twenty-eight years, which includes the four we lived together before marriage, and she got tired of it, felt we had little to say to each other, et cetera. No common interests left, now that the kids were grown, though the younger is still in college, so we should separate for a while and if it's what we continue to want … I'm sorry about that bizarre story. As I said, where it comes from, who knows, since she's healthy as all hell, and that excuse about my nervousness around you can't be all of it. I think, maybe, and this is just speculation, and I don't want to go into another long solitary thought session to try and figure it out”—and she said, “What were you saying?” and he said, “I didn't want to talk about a separation, one we're trying out, because then you might think Sally and I could go back together,” and she said, “So, fine, if you did, but what's it got to do with our silly kissing?” and he said, “I suppose little, that what you're saying?” and she said, “Well, does it? Just for curiosity's sake, where's the separation stand now?” and he said, “Oh, that's another thing. She met a man, is very happy with him, lots in common, so we'll probably end up getting divorced and she remarried. I don't know what could stop the divorce—certainly I wouldn't, if it's what she wants—thus the amiability,” and she said, “Fine, and you don't seem too torn up by it,” and he said, “I'm not, but you know …” and she said, “Which means what, the long stretch with her is enough to stop you from stepping out some too?” and he said, “You mean with you?” and
she said, “Not only, but
for argument's sake, yes,” and he said, “No, but our respective ages, you bet. Every time I think I knew your parents twenty years ago—” and she said, “Fifteen, probably less,” and he said, “And now you're all grown but still forty years younger—forty-one; that's a chunk,” and she said, “I'm not looking for anything long-term. I'm just interested in you, would like to see where it goes. We stop when we want to, even at this pub's door. We for certain don't have to get serious. We have fun, talk a lot, do what comes naturally if that's what develops, see movies, read, stay away from my parents, go to the beach if you like beaches—” and he said, “I don't. I like mountains. Beaches are too bare and hot.” “Then I could never go out with you.” “Good, you shouldn't. And I look ludicrous in a bathing suit with my shirt off.” “What are you saying? You've a nice build.” “How would you know?” “I can see through your shirt, the way you fill it out, and your big arms.” “Maybe the arms are the last to go. But I'm gray. I've gray hair on my chest and, if you want to get personal and frank—can I say it?” and she said, “Say anything you want,” and he said, “Around my pubes, on them, but there, and in some spots, white.” “What of it? Maybe I do too.” “You couldn't.” “I could be prematurely gray, coloring the gray away in my head hair, maybe everywhere else too, or the places where I don't shave it off. You never know.” “Listen, let's walk and talk and, if it rains, run for cover.” “It's not supposed to rain, but were you speaking metaphorically?” and he said, “No, I thought I read it in a weather report.”