Anagrams (3 page)

“There’s a poet who could have used an inner tube. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Eleanor was smart, over-thirty, overweight, and had never had a serious boyfriend. She was the daughter of a doctor who still sent her money. She took our mutual mediocrity harder than I did. “You shouldn’t let yourself be made so miserable,” I attempted.

“I don’t have those pills,” said Eleanor. “Where do you get those pills?”

“I think what you
do
do in the community is absolutely joyous. You make people happy.”

“Thank you, Miss Hallmark Hall of Obscurity.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“You know what poetry is about?” said Eleanor. “The impossibility of sexual love. Poets finally don’t even want genitals, their own or anyone else’s. A poet wants metaphors, patterns, some ersatz physics of love. For a poet, to love is to have no lover.
And to live”—she raised her wine glass and failed to suppress a smile—“is to have no liver.”

Basically, I realized, I was living in that awful stage of life from the age of twenty-six to thirty-seven known as
stupidity
. It’s when you don’t know anything, not even as much as you did when you were younger, and you don’t even have a philosophy about all the things you don’t know, the way you did when you were twenty or would again when you were thirty-eight. Nonetheless you tried things out: “Love is the cultural exchange program of futility and eroticism,” I said. And Eleanor would say, “Oh, how cynical can you get,” meaning not nearly cynical enough. I had made it sound dreadful but somehow fair, like a sleepaway camp. “Being in love with Gerard is like sleeping in the middle of the freeway,” I tried.

“Thatta girl,” said Eleanor. “Much better.”

On the community school’s application form, where it had asked “Are you married?” (this was optional information), I had written an emphatic “No” and next to it, where it asked “To whom?” I’d written “A guy named Gerard.” My class of senior citizens somehow found out about it and once classes got under way, they smiled, shook their heads, and teased me. “A good-humored girl like you,” was the retrograde gist, “and no husband!”

Classes were held at night on the third floor of the arts school, which was a big Victorian house on the edge of downtown. The dance studio was creaky and the mirrors were nightmares, like aluminum foil slapped on walls. I did what I could. “Tuck, lift, flex, repeat. Tuck, lift, flex, now knee-slap lunge.” I had ten women in their sixties and a man named Barney who was seventy-three. “That’s it, Barney,” I would shout. “Pick it up now,” though I didn’t usually mean the tempo: Barney had a hearing aid which kept clacking to the floor mid-routine. After class he
would linger and try to chat—apologize for the hearing aid or tell me loud stories about his sister Zenia, who was all of eighty-one and mobile, apparently, as a bug. “So you and your sister, you’re pretty close?” I asked once, putting away the cassettes.

“Close!?” he hooted, and then took out his wallet and showed me a picture of Zenia in Majorca in a yellow bathing suit. He had never married, he said.

The women mothered me. They clustered around me after class and suggested different things I should be doing in order to get a husband. The big one was frosting my hair. “Don’t you think so, Lodeme? Shouldn’t Benna frost her hair?” Lodeme was more or less the ringleader, had the nattiest leotard (lavender and navy stripes), was in great shape, could hold a V-sit for minutes, and strove incessantly for a tough, grizzly wisdom. “First the hair, then the heart,” bellowed Lodeme. “Frost your heart, then you’ll be okay. No one falls in love with a good man. Right, Barn?” Then she’d chuck him on the arm and his hearing aid would fall out. After class I would take a sedative.

There was a period where I kept trying to make anagrams out of words that weren’t anagrams:
moonscape
and
menopause; gutless
and
guilts; lovesick
and
evil louse
. I would meet Eleanor either for a drink at our Shirley School meetings or for breakfast at Hank’s Grill, and if I got there first, I would scribble the words over and over again on a napkin, trying to make them fit—like a child dividing three into two, not able to make it go.

“Howdy,” I said to Eleanor when she arrived and flopped down. I had
lovesick
and
evil sock
scrawled in large letters.

“You’re losing it, Benna. It must be your love life.” Eleanor leaned over and wrote
bedroom
and
boredom;
she had always been the smarter one. “Order the tomato juice,” she said. “That’s how you get rid of the smell of skunk.”

·  ·  ·

Gerard was a large, green-eyed man who smelled like baby powder and who was preoccupied with great music. I’d lie there in bed explaining something terrible and personal and he’d interrupt with, “That’s like Brahms. You’re like Brahms.” And I’d say, “What do you mean, I’m old and fat with a beard?” And Gerard would smile and say, “Exactly.” Once, after I’d shared with him the various humiliations of my adolescence, he said, “That’s kind of like Stravinsky.”

And I said, annoyed, “What, he didn’t get his period until the ninth grade? At least it’s consoling to know that everything that’s happened to me has also happened to a famous composer.”

“You don’t really like music, do you?” said Gerard.

Actually, I loved music. Sometimes I think that’s the reason I fell in love with Gerard to begin with. Perhaps it had nothing to do really with the smell of his skin or the huge stretch of his legs or the particular rhythm of his words (a prairie reggae, he called it), but only to do with the fact that he could play any instrument that had strings—piano, banjo, cello—that he composed rock operas and tone poems, that he sang pop and lieder. I was surrounded by music. If I was reading a newspaper, he would listen to Mozart. If I was watching the news, he’d put on
Madame Butterfly
, saying it amounted to the same thing, Americans romping around in countries they didn’t belong in. I had only to step across the moat of the hallway and I would learn something: Vivaldi was a red-haired priest; Schumann crippled his hand with a hand extender; Brahms never married, that was the biggie, the one Gerard liked best to tell me. “Okay, okay,” I would say. Or sometimes simply, “So?”

Before I met Gerard, everything I knew about classical music I’d gleaned off the sound track record of
The Turning Point
. Now, however, I could hum Musetta’s Waltz for at least three bars. Now I owned all of Beethoven’s piano concertos. Now I knew
that Percy Grainger had been married in the Hollywood Bowl. “But Brahms,” said Gerard, “now Brahms never married.”

It’s not that I wanted to be married. It’s that I wanted a Marriage Equivalent, although I never knew exactly what that was, and often suspected that there was really no such thing. Yet I was convinced there had to be something better than the lonely farce living across town or hall could, with very little time, become.

Which made me feel guilty and bourgeois. So I comforted myself with Gerard’s faults: He was infantile; he always lost his keys; he was from Nebraska, like some horrible talk show host; he had grown up not far from one of the oldest service plazas on I-80; he told jokes that had the words
wiener
and
fart
in them; he once referred to sex as “hiding the salami.” He also had a habit of charging after small animals and frightening them. Actually, the first time he did this it was with a bird in the park, and I laughed, thinking it hilarious. Later, I realized it was weird: Gerard was thirty-one and charging after small mammals, sending them leaping into bushes, up trees, over furniture. He would then turn and grin, like a charmed maniac, a Puck with a Master’s degree. He liked also to water down the face and neck fur of cats and dogs, smoothing it back with his palms, like a hairdresser, saying it made them look like Judy Garland. I realized that life was too short for anyone honestly and thoroughly to outgrow anything, but it was clear that some people were making more of an effort than others.

In my early twenties I got annoyed with women who complained that men were shallow and incapable of commitment. “Men, women, they’re all the same,” I said. “Some women are capable of commitment, some are not. Some men are capable of commitment and some are not. It’s not a matter of gender.” Then I met Gerard, and I began to believe that men were shallow and incapable of commitment.

“It’s not that men
fear
intimacy,” I said to Eleanor. “It’s that they’re hypochondriacs of intimacy: They always think they have it when they don’t. Gerard thinks we’re very close but half the time he’s talking to me like he met me forty-five minutes ago, telling me things about himself I’ve known for years, and asking me questions about myself that he should know the answers to already. Last night he asked me what my middle name was. God, I can’t talk about it.”

Eleanor stared. “What
is
your middle name?”

I stared back. “Ruth,” I said. “Ruth.” Hers, I knew, was Elizabeth.

Eleanor nodded and looked away. “When I was in Catholic school,” she said, “I loved the story of St. Clare and St. Francis. Francis gets canonized because of his devotion to vague, general ideas like God and Christianity, whereas Clare gets canonized because of her devotion to Francis. You see? It sums it up: Even when a man’s a saint, even when he’s good and devoted, he’s not good and devoted to anyone in particular.” Eleanor lit a Viceroy. “Why are we supposed to be with men, anyway? I feel like I used to know.”

“We need them for their Phillips-head screwdrivers,” I said.

Eleanor raised her eyebrows. “That’s right,” she said, “I keep forgetting you only go out with circumcised men.”

Gerard’s and my courtship had consisted of Sunday chamber music, rock concerts, and driving out into the cornfields surrounding Fitchville to sing “I Loves You, Porgy,” loud and misremembered, up at the sky. Then we’d come back to my apartment, lift off each other’s clothes, and stick our tongues in each other’s ears. In the morning we’d go to a coffee shop. “You’re not Czechoslovakian, I hope,” he would say, always the same joke, and point to the sign on the cash register which said,
SORRY, NO CHECKS
.

“He’d look great, legless and propped in a cart,” said Eleanor.

Actually Eleanor was pleasant when he was around. Even flirtatious. Sometimes they talked on the phone: He asked her questions about
The Aeneid
. I liked to see them get along. Later he would say to me in a swoon of originality, “Eleanor would be beautiful if she only lost weight.”

“It’s in the wing of your breast,” said the surgeon.

I hadn’t known breasts had wings, and now I had something waiting in them. “Oh,” I said.

“Let’s assume for now that it’s cystic,” said the surgeon. “Let’s not immediately disfigure the breast.”

“Yes,” I said. “Let’s not.”

And then the nurse-practitioner told me that if I had a child it might straighten out my internal machinery a bit. Prevent “Career Women’s Diseases.” Lumps often disappear during pregnancy. “Can I extend my prescription on the sedatives?” I asked. With each menstrual cycle, she went on to explain, the body is like a battered boxer, staggering back from its corner into the ring, and as the years go by, the body does this with increasing difficulty. Its will gets broken. It screws up. A woman’s body is so busy preparing to make babies that every year that goes by without one is another year of rejection that is harder and harder for it to recover from. Soon it could go completely crazy.

I suspected it was talk like this that had gotten women out of the factories and started immediately on the baby boom. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll think about it.”

One problem with teaching aerobics was that I didn’t like Jane Fonda. I felt she was a fickle, camera-wise, overconfident half-heart who had become rich and famous taking commercial advantage of America’s spiritual crises. And she had done it with such self-assurance. “You just want people to be less convinced of themselves,” said Gerard.

“Yes, I do,” I said. “I think a few well-considered and
prominently displayed uncertainties are always in order.” And uncertainty and fuzziness were certainly my mirrors then.

Barney adored Jane Fonda. “That woman,” Barney’d say to me after class. “You know, she used to be just one of those sex queens. Now she’s helping America.”

“You mean helping herself to America.” Oddly enough Jane Fonda was one of the few things in the world I did feel certain about, and she made me prone to such uncharacteristically bald pronouncements. I should beware of such baldness, I thought. I should think hedge, think fuzz, like the rest of my life.

“Aw go on,” said Barney, and then he filled me in on the latest regarding Zenia, who was chairing a League of Women Voters committee on child abuse.

I packed up my tape deck, took a sedative at the urinal-like water fountain in the hall, trudged downstairs and home. I went into Gerard’s apartment and spread out on his bed, to wait for him to come home from work. I looked at a black and white print he had on the wall opposite the bed. Close up it was a landscape, a dreamily etched lake, tree, and mountain scene, but from far away it was a ghoulish face, vacant and gouged like a tragedy mask. And from where I was, neither close nor far, I could see both lake and face, one melting into the other and then back again, competing for my perception until finally I just closed my eyes, tight so as to see colors.

Loving Gerard, I realized, was like owning a tomcat, or having a teenaged son. He was out five nights a week and in the day was sleepy and hungry and sprawled, eating a lot of cold cereal and leaving the bowls around. Rehearsals for
Dido and Aeneas
were growing more frequent, and on other nights he was playing solo jazz gigs in town, mostly at fern bars (one was called The Smokey Fern) with four-armed ceiling fans torpid as winter insects, and ferns that were spidery and crisp. He played guitar on a platform
up front, and there was always a group of women at a ringside table who giggled, applauded adoringly, and bought him drinks. When I went out to see him at
gigs
, I would come in and sit alone at a table way in the back. I felt like a stray groupie, a devoted next-door neighbor. He would come talk to me on his breaks, but he talked to almost everybody who was there. Everyone got equal time, equal access. He was public. He was no longer mine. I felt foolish and phobic. I felt spermicidal. I drank and smoked too much. I started staying home. I would do things like watch science specials and Bible movies on TV: Stacy Keach as Barabbas, Rod Steiger as Pontius Pilate, James Farentino as Simon Peter. My body became increasingly strange to me. I became very aware of its edges as I peered out from it: my shoulders, hands, strands of hair, invading the boundaries of my vision like branches that are made to jut into the camera’s view to decorate and sentimentalize the picture.
The sea turtles’ need to lay eggs on land
, said the television,
makes them vulnerable
.