Starting Over (10 page)

“I think it's really important—eating nicely. It's sort of what keeps you civilized.”

“Absolutely. It doesn't have to be fancy or anything. Jessie could cook some real gourmet stuff, but nine times out of ten she'd tell you how it hadn't come out right, and start apologizing all over the place, and then you couldn't enjoy the food. You had to keep saying how great it was, and reassuring her at every other bite. You can't digest that way.”

“No. Or if the other person's depressed.”

“Oh, brother. I'd rather have a hot dog with a smile than crêpes suzette with a lot of sighs and moans.”

“It's worse than eating alone, almost.”

“That's hard too, though.”

“I make myself do it. When I first left Hank and moved in here I got in the habit of coming home and just nibbling on a piece of cheese or eating tuna out of a can or something and I started feeling just lousy. So one night after work I bought a lot of groceries and fixed a beautiful meal for myself, with flowers on the table and the good silver, and I sat down all alone and ate it. I decided I would do that at least once a week, and I've stuck to it. And other nights I cook something, even if it's just a chop and a vegetable.”

Potter pictured Marilyn, alone, going to the store and buying groceries, coming home alone and setting a nice table, and eating her dinner.

“You know,” he said, “you're braver than I am.”

“Braver?”

“Yes. I mean it. To make a meal just for yourself, and put flowers on the table, and sit down and eat all alone. That takes courage.”

Marilyn lowered her eyes a moment, took a deep breath, then smiled. “Well, let's not think about it. Right now, we're together.”

She reached her hand across the table and Potter took it in his own and held it very hard.

“This is nice,” he said.

“Yes. It is.”

As Marva Bertelsen put it, they were “an item” now. They invited the Bertelsens to dinner at Marilyn's house, Potter pouring martinis and playing the gracious host, expansive and cheery, happy to be able to entertain Max and Marva for once instead of the other way around, feeling he wasn't a mate-less orphan kid now but a man with a fine woman he admired, an adult joined with another adult in a kind of union, however tenuous or short-lived it might turn out to be. Now it was fine. Marva said she'd never seen Marilyn look so glowing, or Potter so relaxed. Max nodded his benevolent approval. When they left, Max patted Potter on the back and Marva squeezed his hand and said, “We're happy for you.”

That night Potter and Marilyn made love, long and tenderly. Toward the end, they exchanged the magic words.

“I love you.”

“Oh, I love
you
.”

They stayed up late, sipping brandy, talking and laughing and touching.

“Oh, Phil,” she said, “I hope it will stay this way.”

“It will,” he assured her. “We've both been through enough crap for a while. We deserve this—a good time. Together.”

Monday night Marilyn went to her pottery class, and Potter picked up a fat sandwich at Elsie's Delicatessen in Cambridge and took it home to have for supper with a cold beer. He was alone for the evening, but not lonely. He felt self-contained, and amiable. It wasn't bad being alone when you knew another person was out there, a person you'd been with and wanted to be with again, and would be. Both Potter and Marilyn decided it would be silly to start spending every night together, that in fact they could have a better relationship by not trying to absorb each other's life, but having each other to look forward to, so that meeting and being together would be all the more enjoyable.

Potter settled down with a book of Shakespeare criticism, hoping he could glean some observations that would add new interest to his own teaching, enrich his own commentary on the plays. Around nine o'clock the phone rang, and he assumed it was Marilyn returned from her class—though it seemed a little early for that.

It was Jessica.

She said she was fine, all was well with her, but she had some serious matters on her mind that she wanted very much to talk over with Potter and wondered if she might run up on the shuttle tomorrow and have dinner with him.

Potter, trying to sound very natural and calm, said of course, he'd look forward to seeing her.

When he first hung up, he felt on the brink of panic. Just when everything was starting to go well, Jessica was going to parachute into his life and wreak emotional havoc. But after he had a drink and lit a cigarette, he felt better about it. She wasn't going to ruin things with him and Marilyn, that was his own affair and she couldn't upset it if he didn't want her to, if he didn't allow her to interfere. In a way, he was thankful she hadn't called until now, when he really did have a new relationship going, one that he wanted to preserve. If he'd been alone and at loose ends he'd have been far more vulnerable to sinking back into the old emotions, the old maelstrom, in which they had whirled so long and dizzily, so passionately and destructively. But now, with the knowledge of Marilyn, he felt strong, and much less susceptible to his former wife and lover.

When he first saw her, standing at the door of his apartment, he felt as if someone had struck a sudden blow to his stomach; it was as if a loved one had come back to life, and the memory of all they had shared hit him with the force of a cannonball, so that for a moment he was slightly dizzy, and had to consciously blink back an unexpected rush of tears. He managed to smile, usher her into the room, and get his insides together.

Jessica herself seemed very composed. She had brought a fifth of Tanqueray gin, and a carton of Winstons. Preparation for conversation. As it turned out, she hadn't been able to get things together till later than she anticipated, and had just made the four o'clock shuttle. It was almost dark when they got settled in Potter's living room. He put an old piano rag record on the stereo. Neutral. Nothing sentimental.

“You look very well,” he said.

“Oh? Thank you. I've been fine.”

“I'm glad.”

“How are
you?
”

“Oh, I'm fine too. You know. Getting along.”

“That's wonderful.”

Potter shrugged. He sipped at his Scotch, concentrating on moderation. He was glad she was wearing a pants suit, and that she had worn her hair tied in the back, with a demure velvet ribbon. Sedate. They would talk. They would be Friends. He was perfectly prepared to graciously put her back on the midnight shuttle to New York. A kiss on the cheek; a pat on the shoulder; a handshake or a hug.

After her third drink, Jessica began telling about this terribly nice man she was seeing. He was on Wall Street, but very sensitive. Widely-read. The most amazing thing—he didn't drink. He worked out every day at his Club.

“What is he,” Potter asked, “some kind of health nut?”

Jessica laughed. “You'd probably think so.”

Potter poured himself a new Scotch. “Really,” he said. “I didn't mean to be a smart ass. As a matter of fact, he sounds like just the kind of guy I always said you should have.”

She smiled. “Like
you
should have the hearty, healthy milkmaid with apple cheeks.”

“Maybe in my next life,” Potter said. “No kidding; though, this guy sounds fine for you.”

He felt a warm glow, really genuine, as he would for a troubled sister who had finally found Mister Right. He was glad for her, and proud he could feel glad. Maybe it only meant he was “over her,” and yet he hoped it meant, if that, something more, too; that perhaps it indicated, on his part, a new sort of … maturity?

Jessica coughed, and lit a new cigarette.

“Tell me more,” Potter asked, with warm good feeling.

“Well. He wants to marry me.”

“Oh?”

“Can you imagine that? Marry
me
, a worn-out divorcée?”

“Come on. Don't badmouth yourself.”

“Well—”

“Really. You're a lovely person. A beautiful woman.”

“You don't have to say that.”

“I know I don't
have
to say that. I'm saying it because it's true.”

“You're very kind.”

“I'm not kind, goddamn it!”

“I seem to be upsetting you.”

Potter took a deep breath. “I'm sorry,” he said. “Listen, this is terrific, really. Tell me more about the guy. No kidding. He sounds like what you deserve, after me.”

“You don't have to badmouth
your
self, you know.”

“I'm sorry. Come on. What are the plans?”

Jessica stood up, slightly swaying, and said, “I plan to get another drink.”

“Fine,” Potter said. He looked at his watch, while she went to the kitchen. It was after seven. As soon as she finished this drink, he should get them to dinner. Civilization showed signs of crumbling. How goddamn shaky it always was. Always turned out to be. Apparently composed again, Jessica took a swallow of her new drink, and smiled. “Well,” she said, “what do you think?”

“About this guy? Wanting to marry you?”

Jessica lowered her eyes.

“Listen,” Potter said, leaning forward, intent, wanting to say it just right, no hooks or slices, all heart and maturity, “I want you to know I think it's terrific. I think from what you say about this guy he's really right for you, he could make you happy. If he doesn't drink, you probably won't drink. As much. It sounds like he's stable, but not just a dummy. It sounds like a wonderful opportunity for you to have a real life, a contented kind of life. I am honestly happy for you.”

She mashed out her cigarette, and took out a new one. “You approve then?”

“
Yes
. For godsake, yes. You have my blessings. A hundred percent.”

Jessica finished off her drink. Tears blossomed at the corners of her eyes.

“Jessie?”

She bit at her lip.

“Jessie— What is it? Are you happy?”

She sniffed, and pulled a wad of Kleenex from her purse. “I'm sorry,” she said, trembling.

“What?
Why?
”

“I knew it,” she said, sobbing and choking.

“Knew
what?
” Potter asked in a hoarse whisper. “Knew
what?
”

Her mouth twitched in a caricature of a smile and she sobbed, “You don't love me. You never did. You never loved me at all.”

Most of Potter's feelings of “maturity” escaped from him in a long sigh; silently, mechanically, he put a pan of water on the stove to boil for instant coffee.

He phoned for a delivery from The Leaning Tower of Pizza, and made Jessica eat some. He had no more to drink until he got her in a cab and out to Logan in time for the last shuttle, trying vainly to assure her that he had loved her more than anyone in his life, that he wanted her to be happy, and that this new guy sounded just wonderful and that was why he approved.

When he described the whole thing the next night to Marilyn she sighed, and said, “Now she probably won't ever marry the guy.”

“But what the hell could I have done?”

“Cried a lot and said that you still loved her and would shoot yourself if she married this man.”

“What good would that have done?”

“She'd have probably married him.”

Potter turned that over in his mind, then let out a long sigh. “Jesus,” he said. “Yeah. I guess you're right.”

Marilyn stroked his head, comfortingly, and said how glad she was that their relationship was rational, that they didn't have to play those games with each other.

“It's great,” he agreed. “It really is great.”

5

As a special treat, Potter invited Marilyn to come to his place for Sunday Brunch. On Saturday night they were going to have dinner with a married couple who were friends of Marilyn and go see Truffaut's
The Wild Child
, and afterward to the Jazz Workshop on Boylston Street, where Stan Getz was appearing—a ghost, Potter felt, from his own collegiate past of Fifties cool. A real Night On The Town. After all that socializing Potter thought it would be nice if they could be alone together the next day, and so proposed to cook up a wonderful brunch of omelettes for just him and Marilyn. They would laze around and read the Sunday papers in cozy comfort.

Omelettes were the only thing Potter could cook, the only thing anyway that required “ingredients.” He could boil knockwurst and fry eggs and hamburgers, but the only thing he could really cook was an omelette. He learned during his marriage. In one of those periods when they both were Trying, Potter decided he would make a ritual of being the cook on Sunday. He studied Jessie's Gourmet Cookbook, examining the diagrams of omelettes as well as the recipes, and practiced intently. The real moment of fulfillment came when he carefully
flipped
the heating face of the potion over on top of itself, with the goodies lying sequestered in between. He learned to make every kind of omelette, and delighted in inventing some of his own. He made up names for them. The one he made with leftover Chinese water-chestnuts and almonds in the center and lots of soy sauce on top was the Mao Tse-tung omelette. That sort of thing.

Jessica claimed to love them. She even ate all of her “Sweet Georgia Brown” omelette, which Potter had stuffed with canned peaches and cooked in brown sugar and brandy.

They always washed the omelettes down with a lot of chilled white wine, which helped a lot.

The omelette tradition lasted three or four months.

It was one of their better efforts.

“Can't I help?” Marilyn asked when Potter was about to prepare the omelettes.

“No,” he said indignantly. “You have to go out in the living room and read the paper.”

“Well, I was just trying to be helpful.”

“I know,” Potter said, trying to control his temper. He kissed her on the nose. “The thing is, you're supposed to just
relax
.”