The Truth About Lorin Jones (20 page)

“That’s nice,” Jeanne said in the voice of one who was weary of Polly’s doubts.

“I was thinking, whatever you want to say about Garrett Jones, I’ve got to be grateful to him for this.”

“Not too grateful, I hope.” Jeanne stood wearily and began to unwind a long filmy white wool scarf.

“What do you mean?”

“Well.” Jeanne was taking off her coat now. “I mean, you wouldn’t want it to interfere with what you write.”

“How could it interfere with what I write?” Polly asked, beginning to bristle. “It’s just the opposite — it’s going to be a help, an inspiration, I hope, for God’s sake.”

Jeanne sighed. “I didn’t mean the picture. I just don’t want you to forget why Jones gave it to you, that’s all. Would you like a cup of Red Zinger?”

“No thanks.” Polly sat for a moment frowning at the shimmer and glow of paint, fading now with the daylight; then she followed Jeanne into the kitchen. “What did you mean by that? Why do you think Garrett gave me Lorin’s painting?”

“Well, isn’t it obvious? If the thing is worth as much as you say, it surely must have been intended as a bribe. Jones must have thought that after that you couldn’t possibly say anything nasty about him in your book.”

“I don’t think — It wasn’t, not for a moment —” Polly began to sputter. “Garrett gave me the picture because he’s glad I’m writing about Lorin, and anyhow he didn’t want to look at that landscape. It upsets him, I told you why —” She tried to ignore Jeanne’s skeptical smile. “Anyhow, I’m not going to say anything nasty about him.”

“Oh, really?”

“I’ll tell the truth, that’s all.”

Jeanne laughed for the first time, and Polly realized her meaning had been mistaken. In fact, she wasn’t planning to write anything unpleasant about Garrett Jones, because she no longer blamed him for Lorin’s problems with the New York art world. No doubt he did leave his wife alone too much, and fail to understand her. But can any man, let alone a critic, really understand a gifted woman? And he supported her professionally and financially; he loved her, in his way, and allowed her a fair amount of independence.

“That’s the spirit,” Jeanne said, still giggling softly.

“I haven’t got anything against Garrett Jones,” Polly insisted. “He’s been very decent to me, considering everything.”

“Oh, come on. What has he done for you, when you get right down to it?” The kettle had begun to boil, and Jeanne’s temper was evidently also on the simmer. “He’s given you a dirty old half-finished picture —”

“It’s not dirty.” Polly flushed; it was true that there was a crease and streak of dust down one edge of the paper; but now that it had been framed the damage was scarcely visible.

“— and he’s tried to con you into ghostwriting his ridiculous self-important memoirs.”

“Well, he didn’t succeed.” Polly was getting angry herself. They had had this conversation before, though in politer and vaguer language. “Anyhow, he thought he was doing me a favor. New York is full of art history graduates who would jump at the chance.”

“Uh-huh.” Jeanne poured boiling water into an antique Japanese teapot, a gift from Betsy in happier days. “You’re kind of a pushover, you know, Polly,” she added. “All any man has to do is be a little polite and you’re convinced he’s a nice person.”

Polly didn’t answer, though the retort sprang to mind that giving someone a painting worth several thousand dollars was not just being a little polite.

“I’m surprised he didn’t try to seduce you into the bargain,” Jeanne continued. “He’s supposed to consider himself God’s gift to women.” Polly did not respond. “Or maybe he did?” she suggested.

“Of course not,” she declared, adding an outright lie to an earlier lie of omission. If Jeanne heard the whole story she would expect Polly to forswear speaking to Garrett Jones again, which would be professionally very inconvenient, and she would probably blame her for not having slapped his face. Polly imagined herself slapping the face of Garrett Jones, a sleepy, half-tipsy, romantically foolish elderly man; the idea was unattractive. “But I think he liked me, that’s partly why he gave me the picture.”

“I expect it was because you’d already softened him up so well. You’d sweet-talked him, the way I told you, and won his confidence.” Jeanne smiled, silently taking the credit.

“Mm,” Polly murmured a little distractedly. It had just occurred to her that what had happened that night in Wellfleet might also be credited to Jeanne’s account. Because of her Machiavellian advice, her talk about staying cool and pretending to agree with whomever she was interviewing, all that first day Polly had acted falsely, suppressing her opinions, playing the passive, admiring female. No wonder Garrett had assumed that she admired him, that she would want to help write his memoirs; that she would welcome his wet kisses. She sighed aloud.

“You sound exhausted,” Jeanne said.

“Yeah, I’m a little tired.” She yawned; she had slept only about six hours the night before.

“Why don’t you take a break?” Jeanne set her teacup in the sink. “You were up so early, you must be worn out.”

“I could use a nap, maybe,” Polly admitted.

“That’s a good idea.” Jeanne, in her turn, gave a little yawn and sigh. “I think I’ll join you; my students were exhausting today. And maybe we might tumble about a bit first,” she added, smiling, alluding to one of the couplets about the Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat that had now taken on a private erotic meaning for them:

... The gingham dog and the calico cat

Wallowed this way and tumbled that...

“Okay.” Polly only half smiled. Jeanne’s comments about Garrett had rubbed her pelt the wrong way.

Half an hour later they lay entwined in a rumple of tan plaid sheets. Jeanne had fallen into a doze; but Polly was not at all sleepy, for some reason — hell, for the good reason that she was not satisfied.

As they made love, Polly had suggested that Jeanne help her out a bit more vigorously. Jeanne had agreed at once: but soon her gestures became mechanical. Then her hand faltered and forgot its stroke; she lay back and began to purr, “Mm, that’s nice. Yes, lovely,” rising to a low crescendo of pleasure and gratitude. “Oh, wonderful,” she sighed finally. “Thank you, darling.” Then, sleepy and sated, she sank into a trance.

Polly raised herself on one elbow and stared at her friend: her pale-lashed eyes, her fine tousled hair: her plump, satiny skin; her large soft white breasts and her small pink half-open mouth, from which an audible breath, too slight to be called a snore, issued rhythmically. Unlike Polly, Jeanne had an enviable ability to doze anytime and anywhere.

It was natural to drift off after sex anyhow; when Polly was fully satisfied she too wanted to float away. Most women felt that. Men too: Jim Meyer sometimes — Polly stopped in mid-memory, annoyed that she should even think of Jim at a time like this.

Of course, ever since he left she had been troubled with occasional heterosexual fantasies; but since she’d been to bed with Jeanne they’d been perversely more frequent. Maybe it was because she was aroused and not satisfied that she kept thinking about what sex used to be like. Even in the act of love with Jeanne, she would recall in vivid color some moment in her past, or even from her recent visit to Wellfleet.

Why did she keep remembering that embarrassing evening, that awkward, undesired embrace? She wasn’t interested in Garrett Jones, that sad, pretentious old man. She hadn’t liked kissing him, didn’t want to kiss him again. What haunted her was what he reminded her of: the sensation of a man’s body pressed against hers, the flat, heavy hardness; the willingness to take charge, conveyed not in words but through gestures and murmurs of pleasure.

It would be so much better if she could really love Jeanne, or some other woman. And maybe she could, Polly thought; she loved Lorin Jones, after all. But she couldn’t love Jeanne in the way she loved Lorin. Among other things, Jeanne wasn’t a genius.

On the other hand, she was alive and here. And she was warm, affectionate, loyal. She loved Polly; she was thoughtful and kind, bringing her flowers and baking her sponge cakes. It’s true that the flowers, usually bought in subway stalls, never lasted very long, and that lately the cakes tended to be lopsided or sink in the middle. But the impulse was fresh and whole.

Maybe it was all Polly’s fault; maybe she was basically a cold, guarded person, incapable of real warmth or intimacy even with another woman. Maybe that was why Jeanne was still depressed, untidy, touchy, and preoccupied. She sighed and flopped face down beside her friend, trying in vain to sleep.

“Hey.” Jeanne yawned, slowly opened her eyes, and raised herself on one elbow, gazing at Polly. “It’s no good really, is it?” she said after a moment.

“What?”

“I mean, it isn’t working. You’re still all tensed up.”

“I — yeah. I guess it’s just the way I am.”

“It’s not only you.” Jeanne reached down to stroke Polly’s forehead, smoothing back her crisp untidy curls. “It’s not right for me either. The problem is, I really love you as a friend, but you’re not my type.” She sighed.

“What?” Polly turned on her side.

“If you were, I would never have agreed to come and live here back in September; it would’ve been just too painful.”

Startled, Polly half sat up, looking at her lover. “You mean you’re not attracted to me?” she said, her mouth remaining open in surprise.

“Well, no. Not really.” Jeanne smiled apologetically, and shook her head. “The thing is, I mostly always go for thin confused young redheads or strawberry blondes, like Betsy. You’re much too sensible and grown-up for me.”

And too old and too fat, Polly thought, wanting to laugh miserably.

Jeanne must have noticed some change or spasm in her friend’s features, for she hastened to add, “I don’t mean you’re not awfully pretty, Polly dear. I’m sure there’s lots of women who would be interested in you. Ida said to me once —”

“Then why did you suggest —” Polly cried, sitting up to face her friend, repelled by the idea of having been discussed in this, way with Ida.

“Well, I suppose because I was so miserable and frustrated. And so were you. But it really wasn’t a good idea, you know. You’ve been wonderfully nice to me. The trouble is, I’m still horribly in love with Betsy, even though I realize I’ll probably never see her again. But anything else feels as if I was being unfaithful to her.”

“I see.” Polly still wanted to laugh or cry; the whole thing seemed to her like a bad joke.

“Anyhow, darling, you’re not really all that attracted to me either.” Jeanne smiled.

“I am, but — At least —” Polly gave a long nervous sigh. “I just have a different idea of what it’s like to make love, I suppose. But I thought you —”

“I know.” Now Jeanne laughed out loud, lightly and a little sadly. “We were both being polite to each other.” I guess so.

“I tell you what. Let’s get out of bed and go to a really silly movie. Something with wild animals in it, or aliens from outer space.”

“Okay. I’ll find the
Times
and see what’s on uptown.” Polly stood up.

“You know what, though,” she added, turning back in the doorway. “If you’re really still in love with Betsy, maybe you should call her. I mean, it could be that’s what she’s waiting for.”

“Maybe,” Jeanne said, her expression darkening. “Or maybe not.” She picked up the pillow on which she had lain and thumped it meditatively. “All right. I’ll think about it.”

Yes, I checked my records: Laurie Zimmern was in my second-year painting class in the spring of nineteen-forty-five, at Bennington.

I recall her perfectly. My legs may be shaky, but my mind is quite clear. Besides, I always remember my gifted students.

There weren’t so many as you might think. If I had one or two out of a class of twenty I counted myself lucky.

No, you don’t know right away. It’s not as easy as that. You see, it’s not just ability that makes for success. If you teach for as long as I did, you realize that in any year a few of your students may have real talent, and a few may have real ambition: the passionate drive to be an artist. In my second-year class at Bennington most of them usually didn’t have either, not so as one could notice.

They were nice enough girls. Several of them went on to marry well, and collect paintings fairly intelligently, because people like me and Garrett Jones had taught them a little something. But they weren’t artists.

Yes, talent
and
drive; to make it in the art world you need lots of both. If you only have the one, it’s a tragedy. I’ve known so many young people who wanted desperately to be painters. They’d have done anything for that, given up anything, worked night and day for years, but they simply hadn’t sufficient gift. You could see that their entire lives would be a misery.

Oh yes, I’ve tried to tell them, especially at the beginning. It doesn’t do any good; all that happens is that they class you as an evil life-destroying philistine. They add you to the list of the people who killed John Keats and let van Gogh die penniless, and so forth.

And then sometimes, what’s almost worse, you get the ones who have the talent but not the drive. They let their parents or their wives or their husbands talk them out of trying to become serious painters, because it’s not safe or respectable. They go to law school instead or into business or just have babies. The hours of my life I’ve wasted talking to those students! It’s awful to contemplate.

No, with Laurie Zimmern it was different. She had the ability: a wonderful, very subtle, color sense, and her drawing was exquisite. And she wanted to paint tremendously; I think that was almost all she ever wanted. But the world outside of the studio terrified her.

Well, for instance, I remember the reception for the Bennington student show at the end of that term. There was quite a crowd. Everybody in the department was there, naturally, and a fair number of relatives and friends and townspeople. It was the first time Laurie’d ever exhibited, and she was so frightened she literally couldn’t speak.

Yes, she did gain a little more confidence over the next year or so. But I didn’t think she’d ever have enough to make it. Only, you see, she was smart. She wanted to be a famous painter, and she wanted it fast. And she was intelligent enough to know what she was like, and that she desperately needed somebody to promote her work and stand between her and the world.