Hating Olivia: A Love Story (6 page)

Not long afterward I discovered
My Secret Life,
that sprawling, salacious diary of a Victorian man of leisure. As with Casanova, I followed the anonymous hero of quenchless sexual appetite
around the world, from Mediterranean spa to English country estate to French village as he pursued every last one of his whims, obsessions, and fetishes, fucking, sucking, masturbating, “minetting,” “gamahuching,” and raping his way through an army of females, from the prepubescent to the middle-aged, without once suffering even a pang of conscience or guilt. Pleasure for its own sake—that’s what I was after, too. When Livy appeared, I’d immediately entice her into some new sex game I’d picked up from those pages, and the day would be complete.

When I ran low on classic erotic literature, I dug out the works of Henry Miller again, a man whose apprehension and sensibility of the world was almost exactly my own. Here once and for all was a rationalization for why I felt so out of place in the Western Hemisphere, why I was so loath to stick with a humdrum job, why I was devoid of conventional ambition, why I was addicted to women’s bodies, why I nursed the sentiments of an anarchist. Once and for all I’d found justification for the way I was, and, like Henry himself, if I didn’t find my way out of America before I got too old, then I was going to pop my cork.

But I went nowhere. All those books, of course, were nothing but a big, fat excuse for not coming to grips with my own self. The fact is I had no idea who I really was, had no clue whether I possessed talent—or even value—of any kind, hadn’t the faintest idea what I was supposed to do with myself in this life. Whatever happened, it was always easier to let Livy show the way, to bury myself inside her, to black myself out in the folds of her fragrant snatch. To drift like a leaf down the ol’ Mississippi….

Hey—who could blame me?

11.

Spring was threatening to show. It takes a long time for anything resembling fine weather to arrive in this part of the country, and that year the interminable winter, snow and all, dragged on into the middle of April. It was okay, I didn’t really mind—the cold had served Livy and me all too well. Besides, the. 44 Caliber Killer had begun his rampage, and everybody in the entire area around the city of New York was on edge and holing up—nobody knew where the maniac was going to strike next.

Sunday morning…. We were lying in bed waiting to do nothing but crawl on top of each other again.

“Let’s take a ride.” It was her suggestion.

“Sure, why not? I suppose we have to get out of here sometime.” Saturday had been a late night at the Turtle for Livy.

After coffee, toast, and eggs, we slipped into our coats. Sunday morning is always the best time to drive. The roads are deserted. The civilized world is in church or at the in-laws for lunch or at home with the Sunday edition. Unlike me, they were all resting up for work on Monday.

We jumped into Livy’s new, unpaid-for Chevy Nova and cruised for twenty minutes. As always, I was behind the wheel. She navigated me south, then east. For two or three miles there
were strolling Orthodox Jews everywhere we looked. This was the suburb of West Orange.

“Turn here!” she cried suddenly, pointing to a narrow fissure in the woods.

“Here?” I couldn’t even see a footpath, much less a road. “Just do it!”

The spoor was in a thatch of trees, well hidden from the fast-food restaurants, convenience stores, and service stations along Northfield Avenue. I yanked the wheel and steered over soft gravel past scraggly bushes and stripped maples and horse chestnut trees, down a rough decline and around a bend into a clearing the size of a football field. On a wooden fence post a sign proclaimed
NO TRESPASSING
in forbidding black letters.

“Stop here!” Livy’s black eyes scanned the plain.

“Wow…. From the main road it’s hard to believe there could be so much land back here,” I said like an idiot.

“We owned it all,” Livy whispered solemnly.

I checked her face. She wasn’t putting me on.

“See that house over there? That’s where I spent the first seventeen years of my life.”

It was a rambling three-story pseudo-Victorian with boarded-up windows.

She nodded to my left. “And over there?” A mansion-sized colonial perched on top of a rolling hill.

“That’s where my grandparents lived. Destroyed by fire, a mysterious fire…. ”

Black scars rose in jagged tufts from the upper-story windows. I understood now where Livy’s expensive tastes had their origin. Whoever had owned this spread must have been a millionaire a few times over.

“I haven’t been back here in so long…. ” The mask had
cracked. Her eyes were glassy with tears. I reached out to touch her, but she pushed me away. The entire scene was depressing, forlorn. At that moment for some reason, I thought of her old man creeping around outside our door when we were making it. “Want to get out and walk around?”

For a long time Livy was quiet. Then she shook her head violently, as if trying to clear it or throw off some horrific recollection.

“No. Let’s get out of here.” “Whatever you say.”

I swung the car around. Livy’s eyes changed from water to stone. When we were back on the main road, she wrapped her fingers around my prick.

“Let’s go home, Max.”

“Sure,” I agreed. “Let’s go home.”

I ran my hand up under her skirt to the oven-warm crotch of her tights. It wasn’t a good time to ask questions about the old homestead.

I stepped on it.

D
espite Livy’s weird emotional reaction, our little excursion turned into a ritual. Once every two or three weeks we had to climb into the car and drive out to the family “estate.” Then we’d sit there in the hard glare of the spring sun and stare at the abandoned buildings; it was as if we were waiting for someone to arrive or emerge from one of the houses, or maybe for something to
happen.
Always in silence, and in Livy’s eyes there was always that melancholic haze. I had no idea what the fuck it was all about.

From time to time she would drop disconnected hints about her past out there—not that they amounted to an epiphany. In
fact, most often they merely surprised me because they were something I hadn’t surmised or wouldn’t have expected. “My father was a carpenter…. ”

“A carpenter? No shit. Now I wouldn’t have guessed that.” “Yes, he married into my mother’s money. He has a nose for a certain kind of woman.”

Interesting. Or so I supposed.

“And bet you didn’t know I have two sisters. Sherry lives in the city—she works on the sixty-fifth floor of the Empire State Building. Mary-Jo is somewhere in California. I haven’t talked to her in years.”

“Really…. ”

“My mother hated my father with a passion…. ” “Hmm…. ”

“My grandfather who owned this place was called Gaetano. When I was in school everyone made fun of his name. He came to this country from Palermo. Once upon a time he was one of the biggest slumlords in Newark.”

All news to me. And still, I wasn’t making a lick of sense out of what she was
really
saying, or trying to say, to me. She was dropping the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle into my lap without a guide to the big picture.

But I went along with it. What could it hurt, right? When you’re in love, you go soft. You do things she wants you to do, even if what she wants you to do is a little wacky.

Sitting in the middle of a field staring at two gutted houses wasn’t all so bad. In my time I’d done a lot worse.

12.

“Well, I did it!”

Livy flounced into the apartment and began stripping off her clothes. I rested my guitar against the arm of the sofa.

“What?”

“Dropped out of my classes!”

“Why? It’s just a matter of weeks before your finals.”

“So what? I’m not interested in a degree anyway. I mean, I’m just withering on the vine in that place. A bunch of old windbags blowing hot air around, that’s all they are!”

“You’ll get no argument from me on that score. It’s just that…. well, you came this far, it seems like maybe you should have just seen it through until the end of the semester at least. I mean, you
did
do some of the work, right?”

“Are you kidding me, Max? I haven’t done an
ounce
of work! Have you seen me pick up Keats or Wharton any time in the past four months?”

“Maybe you’d have used the degree some day. Like to get a job or something, if it came to that.” “You mean like you?”

“Me, I’m different. A completely different case. Leave me out of it.”

“Since when are you so concerned with my professional career? I thought you and I were going to live. Travel.
Write.
I thought we weren’t going to get caught like all the rest of them.”

What she was saying was true—there was no denying it. Like I said, I could certainly talk a great game. It was just that I was of the mind that when you started a project—and were so close to finishing at least some portion of it—you should push through to the end. On occasions like this my working-class values still had the habit of rearing their ugly heads.

“Yes, but … why not at least finish the semester out and decide what to do later? That way you don’t waste what you’ve already done. Not many people are lucky enough to win fellowships.”

Livy shrugged. “You’re not afraid, are you, Max?”

“Afraid of what? Hell, no, I’m not afraid. ‘Course I’m not afraid.”

“Because you can’t be afraid to take chances in life.”

“I just told you—”

“Look—we’re going to be artists, and that’s
that.
Those who can, do. Those who can’t, attend a graduate program.”

“Right.”

I shut my trap, grabbed her around the waist, and pulled her toward me. Then I helped her out of more of her clothes. In her black brassiere and panties, she was a model out of the lingerie advertisements in the
New York Times Magazine.

I forced my tongue deep into her mouth. I wanted her to shut up, too, and there was no better way to make her stop talking. There was always plenty of time for talking later.

A
few days pass. One morning when I shake myself out of a deep coma I find myself alone. I feel the mattress beside
me—cold. I shuffle out to the breakfast nook and rummage for a note. Nothing. I pull on my clothes and head out for the morning newspaper and a pack of smokes. When I get back, still no Livy….

I went about my business, which on that day, as usual, did not include anything of particular importance. I killed time in all the usual ways. Late in the afternoon there was a thump on the door.

Here she is, finally, her arms laden with boxes and shopping bags.

“Jesus Christ, Liv, where the hell have you been? I was actually starting to worry,” I said, helping her in with her stuff. “Looks like you’ve been shopping.”

Shopping, nothing. It was more like she’d looted a few stores, and all the best at that: Bloomingdale’s, Lord & Taylor, Neiman Marcus, Macy’s.

“Want to see what I bought?”

“Sure, why not…. ”

She disappeared into the bedroom. A long half hour later she reappeared in a revealing but elegant Givenchy evening gown and shiny new black heels. She was ravishing, with her luxuriant Asian hair pinned up in back, her bronze shoulders bare, and the flesh of her luscious melons bulging delicately.

“What do you think?”

“What do I think? Come over here, I’ll show you what I think. Let me get my hands on you…. ”

“No, no, no. You have to wait until the show is finished.”

I grabbed a beer and resumed my seat on the sofa. For the next hour or so I was treated to a catwalk of sweaters and skirts, dresses, slacks and jeans, more gowns and evening dresses, shoes and frilly underwear, including garter belts and fishnet stockings.

“So
now
what do you think?” she asked after stripping nude
and planting herself in front of me, hands on hips, in nothing but a pair of stiletto heels.

“I’m speechless.”

“Which did you like best?”

“The getup you’re in right now.”

“No, I’m serious, you jerk!”

“Listen, they all look incredible on you.”

“You seem less than overwhelmed or something.”

“No, I am, really. I’m totally overwhelmed…. I’m just a little amazed you bought so
much.”

Her eyes sparked with irritation.

“You don’t understand anything. You don’t understand
me.”
“Come on, Liv. You know that’s not true. And it ain’t fair, either.”

“I love clothes. Clothes make me feel good. Do I ever stop you from buying whatever you want?”

“No, but I never said you did. And besides, I never buy anything.”

“I needed a new wardrobe. My things are falling apart.” “I hadn’t noticed. You look fucking terrific in everything.” “You don’t get women at all, do you, Max?” “How did you pay for everything?” “I charged it, how do you think?”
“Charged
it …? ” “Visa? Ever heard of it?” “I’m just asking, is all.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’ll get taken care of. Anyway, it’s not your money.”

“I didn’t say it was. Baby, don’t be upset with me. I’m just interested in what you’re up to.”

“Besides, I have ways of getting my money back.”

“How’s that?”

“Oh, never mind. You don’t understand how things work.”

The discussion ended the way every one of our discussions ended. Within seconds I had her on top of me, her tight, classical ass bobbing up and down on my rock-hard prong, her excited brown missile of a nipple between my teeth, my fingers holding on to the daggers of her high heels.

“Let’s not argue, okay?”

“Okay…. ”

“I mean, we shouldn’t argue with each other, ever.”

“Okay…. ”

“We need each other. We’re all we’ve got. It’s you and me against the world.”

“Right…. Still love me?”

“Feel that?”

“Okay, then.”

And in this way the issue was settled—at least for the time being.

I
never understood why Livy needed to dress in such finery to wait tables at the Purple Turtle, but two or three weeks later she decided that most of the stuff she’d bought on that binge had to go back.