The Women's Room (69 page)

The major luxury the women permitted themselves was a visit at Iso’s two or three times a week. But Kyla stopped in almost every day. She went whenever the impulse struck her – sometimes at eleven in the morning, sometimes at two, or four, or even six o’clock. If Iso was not there, she would sit on the steps waiting, a forlorn little figure, her face knotted and twisting from one expression to another. She would sit reading, her mouth twisting even while she read. When she spotted Iso striding home, she’d look up and smile, and her face would smooth out.

Iso had no money, but she tried to keep her refrigerator full of soda and wine and beer for her friends. She too was studying for orals, but she never seemed to resent her friends’ intrusions on her time. She would grin at Kyla and sweep her up, as if Kyla’s visit was the most important moment of her day. She saw the twisting mouth, the knotted fingers. She gave a drink appropriate to the hour, and sat easily, listening, listening. She asked Kyla questions, not about the present but about the past, about her childhood, her two successful brothers, mom and dad, grade school, high school. The subjects were innocent, and Kyla talked easily. She poured out stories, memories, hurts, triumphs; she talked as she had never talked to another human being, wondering at herself as she did it. But Iso seemed interested, really interested. ‘I’m not boring you, am I?’ Kyla would break off often, biting her lip. Words blasted out of her as if the past had been bottled up so long and so tightly that given a pinhole of escape, it had blown out cork and all.

‘Even when I was very little, I remember reading things and saying, “This is how I want to be.” Or “I don’t want to be like that.” When I was nine or ten I started to keep a journal – a ledger, really – listing qualities I wanted to possess and those I wanted to avoid, and grading myself day by day. Like Ben Franklin’s, you know? Except I wasn’t so successful. Unlike him, I did not achieve every virtue including humility in thirty days.’ They laughed. Kyla twisted her mouth. ‘Or whatever it was,’ she amended nervously. ‘In fact, I never achieved any of them. I kept backsliding. It was so disheartening, I can’t tell you, it was so important to me to achieve these things.’

‘Like what?’

‘Oh, honesty. Honesty was first, always. And justice – fairness, whatever you want to call it. And cheerful obedience. I really flubbed that one.’ Suddenly she changed her tone and leaped into a seemingly irrelevant story about her days as a high-school cheerleader, tearing up the road on a friend’s borrowed motorcycle, and crashing into a ditch for no reason. ‘I had the thing in control. I never understood that.’ She sipped gin. ‘And excellence. No, perfection. In whatever I was doing …’

‘What were the baddies?’

‘Cowardice, deceit, shoddiness, lack of control,’ she rapped out. ‘Ugh, how I hate those things. That’s why I love Harley so much. He has none of those things.’

Talk about Harley always began on this kind of high note, and always deteriorated, after a couple of glasses of wine or gin, into inarticulate, hysterical weeping. Kyla’s conclusion was always the same when the fit was over: Harley was wonderful, everything was fine, she should not drink.

Then she’d leap up, invariably late for something, grab her things and run out, down the block, except for those sessions at Iso’s always running, even in class, always in motion, crossing and uncrossing her legs, lighting cigarettes, puffing, then tamping them out, tapping cigarettes in ashtrays, gesticulating widely with arms, sometimes so passionately that she threw whatever she held in her hand – a pen, a filled glass, a cigarette – clear across the room. She scratched her head, she grimaced, she raised her eyebrows, she lowered them, she moved in her seat, she fiddled with papers. Her movements were as perky and abrupt as the course of a hunted animal scurrying from one familiar hole to another and finding each one blocked, yet repeating and repeating the round in panic. As often as not, when she arrived at Iso’s she would sit there for ten minutes telling Iso she should not have come because she had thus and such to do, listing impossible schedules which she was going to fulfill, she insisted, as soon as she finished this cup of coffee, this Coke, this glass of wine, this gin. The latter two invariably led to more, and thence, invariably to tears. She did not seem conscious that she visited Iso every day, or that she stayed for hours. Often when she arrived in the afternoon, she would remain late into the evening. Harley came to know where she was, and sometimes there would be a phone call at seven or eight or nine, and Kyla would emerge from the bedroom with drawn white face, and nervous mouth twitching and
puckering. ‘I did it again,’ she would announce hollowly, having missed another dinner party. Twice she missed dinner parties she had been supposed to prepare. Her mind was full of blank spaces.

One day, Iso confronted her with them. It was a bad time, a month before Kyla’s orals, a week before Iso’s. Kyla had chewed her lips bloody, and her hands were covered with eczema. These days she got drunk on one gin and tonic or even a small glass of wine. She was sipping wine and relating in a trembling voice her unspeakable behavior the night before at a party at MIT for graduate students in physics.

‘I mean Kontarsky! The great Kontarsky! He’s Harley’s superviser on the dissertation, he holds Harley’s future in his hands! To anyone else it would be bad enough, but to say it to him! Harley was livid – he wouldn’t speak to me all the way home, and when we got there he packed a bag and stormed out. Wouldn’t speak. I was crying. I was apologizing. I guess he’s sleeping at the lab. I don’t blame him. I don’t know how I manage to do these things.’

‘What exactly did you do that was so terrible?’

She tried to tell her story, but kept breaking into tears. Her right fist was knotted so hard the knuckles were blue. She kept smashing it into her knee. ‘How could I? How could I?’ she kept crying in a thin high voice, barely audible. Eventually she calmed down. ‘I’d had a couple of drinks. Kontarsky was talking to me, standing over me, he’s big, you know, and beaming at me with his fatherly benevolent look, but I know what that posture, that look means – he was leering at me, wondering how far I’d go to aid my husband’s career. There were a bunch of other people standing around, mostly professors, and on the fringes, behind them, all these greedy little graduate students, dying to make a point, dying for God’s sakes to breathe in the carbon dioxide the great man breathed out. And he was talking about Academia and what a wonderful life it was and how nice it was that Harley and I were in it together, and I just looked up at him and flicked my ash and said I didn’t think it was so great, that as far as I could tell all the men in Academia were prickless wonders.’

Iso started to gurgle in her throat; the gurgle exploded into laughter; the laughter continued until there were tears streaming down Iso’s cheeks. Kyla stared at her horrified. ‘Don’t you see, I couldn’t be sure he was putting the make on me! I mean he hadn’t said anything! If he had, it wouldn’t be so bad! I can’t be sure!’ She kept protesting, Iso kept laughing, and Kyla began to titter, and then broke out fully in a
deep joyful laugh. ‘Oh, the bastard!’ she gasped. ‘He’s such a bastard, really. I’m glad I said it!’ Then instantly sobered. ‘Oh, but poor Harley. It was terrible of me to do that to Harley. I’m not fit to be taken out in public.’

‘I think it’s great,’ Iso sighed, wiping away tears. ‘That pompous mass of inflated ego, that horse’s ass of a human being, Kontarsky! They think they’re doing something so great – how can you do anything great for the human race if all you have is a detached mind? Mira would say they ought to clean the toilet once a week. They need that, they require it.’

‘Oh, Iso, do you think so?’ Kyla chewed her lip. ‘But how could I do that to Harley?’

‘Listen, Kyla, for a person who worships honesty and courage, you are amazingly immersed in deceit and cowardice.’

‘I?’ Kyla struck her chest with her flat hand. ‘I?’ She put her glass down hard on the table, spilling wine on her skirt. She leaped up and fished in her bag for some tissues. ‘I’m a drunk and I’m a rotten bitch, but I’m not dishonest! That’s not fair!’ She wiped up her skirt.

Iso gazed at her kindly. ‘You’re the worst liar I ever met.’

Kyla perched herself on the edge of the chair. There were tears in her eyes again.

‘You lie to the world, you lie to yourself. You keep saying over and over again, as if you could make it come true, that Harley’s wonderful, that you’re happy, that your marriage is great. But you’re falling apart, you’re utterly miserable – it’s obvious to anyone who looks. I don’t understand why Harley doesn’t see it. God knows you even cry at parties when he’s around. You’re always crying.’

Kyla burst into tears. This time they continued for a long time. Kyla’s small body heaved, it looked as if it would be destroyed by the spasms passing through it. Iso moved closer to her and took her hand. Kyla buried her head in Iso’s bosom, and kept crying. She clutched onto Iso, gripping her arm so hard she left bruises. Still gasping, she began to talk. She poured out a story hedged at every turning with self-deprecation. Harley was wonderful but he did not seem to love her but that was because she asked too much because Harley himself was grand. Of course he would be upset when he came home from the lab full of excitement at some breakthrough and wanted to talk to her and she was not there. And of course when she was there and wanted to talk but he was busy in his study he would not want to be interrupted. His work was so difficult, so important. It was all understandable. It was just that she was a rotten bitch. She kept chewing her lip, and blood was trickling
down her chin. ‘But I get excited too and want to talk to him about it, but he’s always busy, and he doesn’t want to hear. And then orals. When he was studying for orals, I took over everything, I did everything, I freed him to study. I had classes and committees too, but I shopped, cooked, cleaned. I didn’t vacuum unless he was out; I answered the phone in a whisper. I acted as if his studying for orals were a sacred act and I was the votaress in charge of sweeping up the chapel.

‘But now, I’m studying for orals and what does he do? Nothing. He expects me to go on doing all the work and he brings home friends for me to entertain. He’s not so busy now, his work is nearly finished, he has time for friends, oh, I understand, I don’t blame him, I love Harley, he’s worked so hard, he’s entitled to a little pleasure. He doesn’t mean any harm – he just doesn’t realize how scared I am. He thinks English is a snap subject, and that I’m smart enough to pass without really working.’ She was still perched on the edge of the chair, but her legs were still. ‘I think that’s what frustrates me the most. It’s as though he doesn’t take me seriously.’

‘Does he feel that way about everybody in English?’

‘Yes. He has less respect for English than anything. He likes art and music and he says history has some reason to exist, and philosophy, and even philology – he respects linguists. But not people in literature. He says anybody can read. He thinks he knows as much about literature as any of us. And it’s true, he does know a lot. It’s hard to fault Harley. He’s usually right. Still it makes me feel lousy.’

Around eleven, Iso went into the kitchen and opened a can of soup, and put some crackers and cheese on a plate. She had been arguing with Kyla, telling her how bright she was, how interesting her work. ‘I’ve heard Harley talk about books, and he’s just eccentric. He thinks James Branch Cabell is a great writer: that’s okay, it’s good to hear eccentric opinions, but that doesn’t have much to do with what we do, after all. We work with a critical and literary tradition with changes in ideas manifested in changes in style …’

Kyla kept giggling: ‘Tell that to Harley! Oh, you make it sound so legitimate!’ Iso was standing at the stove, stirring the soup, and Kyla slid her arm around Iso’s waist, and Iso put her arm on Kyla’s shoulders, and bent and kissed the top of her head lightly.

They ate, they drank more wine, they talked. Kyla was exultant. ‘I haven’t felt so good in years! You make me feel as if I’m worthwhile, as though what I’m doing is worthwhile.’ Iso was sitting on the couch, sprawled out over its length, and Kyla went and sat in the curve of her
arm, which closed around her. At two they went to bed, and Kyla slept wrapped in her friend.

Kyla went home the next day to water her plants. She stayed in the empty apartment for two full days and nights, trying to study, but then she went back to Iso’s. After that they alternated, sitting in one or the other apartment to read, asking each other lists of dates, looking up at each other occasionally to smile in the other’s eyes, making coffee, pouring soda, and around four, pouring wine for each other.

When they went out, they floated down streets together. Their exaltation was obvious; a stranger could have seen it, Mira thought. Iso floated through her orals as well, and a group of them went out and celebrated. Kyla was amazingly different – still lively and vigorous, still given to knocking over wineglasses and throwing spoons, but her mouth was calm, and mostly smiling or talking.

A few days later Kyla and Iso were reading at Kyla’s, Iso checking her out on medieval sources for Renaissance writers, and Harley walked in. He did not, of course, understand the relationship. He was pleasant to Iso, coldly polite to Kyla, who immediately sat up stiffly and began crossing and uncrossing her legs.

‘If Iso doesn’t mind, I’d like to talk to you.’

‘I’m busy, Harley. I’m studying.’

‘It is rather important,’ he said mildly, sarcastically.

Kyla bit her lip and looked pleadingly at Iso.

‘I have to go anyway. I’m meeting Mira at Child at four thirty,’ Iso lied.

Kyla leaped up and threw her arms around Iso. ‘Thanks so much. Thanks for helping me. Thanks for everything. I’ll call you.’

‘I’d like to return to my home,’ Harley began, combing his hair with his fingers, a gesture that betrayed more nervousness than he had ever shown. Harley’s father had been trained at West Point and had trained his sons in what he called ‘composure,’ which meant the avoidance of any expressive gestures.