Starting Over (28 page)

The brunch featured marvelous homemade biscuits laden with hot butter and thick preserves. There was also scrambled eggs, ham, and fried apples. There were weak Bloody Marys and strong coffee. Potter snuck into the kitchen hoping to perk up his coffee with a secret shot of whiskey, but finding none, resorted to sousing it with cooking sherry.

One of the Georgia Peaches caught him. The tall one, with thick brown hair the color of molasses. Large chocolate-y eyes. Cherry red lips, moist and sweet-looking, as if they might be sugar-coated. She smelled of marmalade and honeysuckle.

“Mistah Potter!”

“Oh, I was just—”

“Heah,” she said, extracting the coffee cup from his hand and pouring it down the sink.

Oh, God
, he thought, I have sinned and been seen. I will be given a lecture and asked to leave. All of Boston's Southern society will scorn me. Magnolias will close when I pass. Honey will harden at my touch, and biscuits will burn in outrage.

But the sweet peach only smiled, her perfect teeth gleaming in friendly glory, and said, “That stuff'll curdle a man's stomach.”

“Well, I just—”

“You just thought you wanted a good, stiff drink, and if that's what you want you should
have
one. Now heah.”

She stretched to reach a high cabinet, and pulled down a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label.

“You just pour some of this over a little ice, and enjoy yuh-seff.”

She whispered it, conspiratorially, as if such pleasure and privilege were reserved for him alone.

“Hey, thanks. That's great. No kidding.”

Her head tilted, her lips made a pout, and she said, gently cooing, “Honey, a man should have what he
wants
.”

A tingling sensation swept over the surface of Potter's whole body.

That night, he dreamed of molasses.

“So you liked Amelia?” Marilyn asked.

That was the one who had caught him in the kitchen. Amelia.

She was the one he had picked, of the four roommates.

Pru was too much like her name; tight-lipped and careful.

Samantha seemed prone to eating too many biscuits; she wasn't quite yet an out-and-out fatty, but a couple of extra pralines would do the trick.

Lilly was quiet, fragile, and her eyes were sad.

He might well have gone for Lilly, though, or the dark, husky-voiced Alabama girl, or the bouncy little lollipop from North Carolina, but it was Amelia's act of mercy in the kitchen that he couldn't forget, and the way her big brown eyes fixed on him when she said, “Honey, a man should have what he
wants
.”

A world of honeyed comfort seemed promised in the phrase.

Marilyn, pouring a second martini, asked that most unanswerable of questions. “What do you see in her?”

“Molasses,” Potter said.

“Mo
lass
es?”

“Don't you think her hair is like that? Brown and rich and thick?”

“Oh, fuck,” said Marilyn.

Amelia would never say that
, Potter thought warmly.
She is a lady
.

He smiled. “You asked what I see in her,” he said. “I guess I see—everything I'd like to imagine.”

Marilyn sighed, shook her head, and took a drink.

“Do you understand what I mean?” Potter asked.

“Molasses,” said Marilyn.

Potter splurged.

On his first date with Amelia, he took her to Locke Obers. Just because it was supposed to be the best, the most chic, expensive, grandest place in all of Boston. He knew that with many girls that might blow the whole thing, make them suspicious or contemptuous of his showing off, or coolly reserved in knowing they already had the upper hand because he was going all out.

But Amelia loved it, exclaimed over each choice on the menu, spoke of food and of Living Well. Her molasses hair was clean and shimmering.

When he took her home, she apologized for not being able to ask him in, and allowed him a swift, sweet kiss good night.

The next day he sent her yellow roses.

3

Potter sent Amelia more roses, which she absolutely
adored
, and took her to lunch at Joseph's, which she praised for its
elegance
. They held hands, and pressed their cheeks together in public. When Potter came to call, Amelia's roommates grew giggly and pink-faced, like sisters in some turn-of-the-century family who realized the new gentleman caller was a serious beau.

Potter's feeling of enchantment and generosity toward Amelia overflowed into other areas of his life, and he made a private declaration of amnesty to all those people he was or had been mad at. He called Marva Bertelsen, mentioning nothing of their past unpleasantness, and said he had a marvelous new girlfriend he was anxious for her and Max to meet. He knew Marva wouldn't be able to resist a close-up look at the new woman in his life, and, as he expected, she invited them to dinner. Potter was pleased, for in addition to his altruistic feelings of forgiveness, he secretly suspected that Amelia would be most impressed with his fancy friends the Bertelsens and their classy town-house on Louisburg Square.

He was right. Amelia thought the place a
palace
, raved about Marva's impeccable taste, went unerringly to the most precious antique pieces with knowledgeable appreciation, and praised Max's study as being as warm and charming as Max was himself. Potter sat back basking in her glow. He realized that one of the factors enabling him to resume friendly relations with the Bertelsens was having a new girlfriend he knew they would approve, and who made him feel safe in this or any other potentially ticklish social situation not only because she was gracious and diplomatic but because she gave Potter the sense that she was
with
him, would be on his side in any argument or attack, would support his own cause and protect his best interests. Potter found these qualities especially comforting since his old rival as the Bertelsens' most available bachelor, Hartley Stanhope, was also at the dinner, with a rather mousy and colorless lady who worked as a researcher in Stanhope's firm. Stanhope asked Potter about his teaching at “that little college of yours, I can never remember the name,” and when Amelia spoke up brightly about how
fascinatin'
she thought Potter's courses sounded, Stanhope attempted to Southern-bait her with some heavy-handed questions about Nixon administration policy on school de-segregation. Amelia parried politely by expressing pride in “how much has been done down home, even though so much more remains to be done—just as it does up heah, I understand. Though I understand your Mrs. Hicks feels things have gone too far already?”

“She's not
my
Mrs. Hicks,” Stanhope grumbled.

“Nor is the recent governor of Georgia
her
Lester Maddox,” Potter said firmly.

Though Stanhope seemed eager to carry this on, Max deftly moved the conversation to the subject of inflation, which everyone was against but no one seemed to know how to stop. Potter and Amelia exchanged a glance of loving camaraderie across the table, and Potter recalled approvingly a friend's definition of a successful marriage as “a conspiracy of two people against the outside world.”

Marriage?

He was surprised, and a little bit scared, to have thought of it. But it was an exciting kind of fright.

When they left, Marva pulled him aside to say how wonderful Amelia was, and how “right” she seemed for Potter. He agreed.

Amelia didn't want to get home too late because she had to go to Church in the morning with her roommates. They all went to church together every Sunday. They were Methodists.

Potter didn't go so far as to offer to join Amelia and her roommates for Sunday services, but he did propose something that was almost as much out of character for him. He offered to take Amelia to a concert she had mentioned Sunday afternoon at the Gardner Museum. She said she'd adore it.

The concert was some kind of quartet playing works of a minor contemporary of Bach. Potter, in a warm sort of daze, let the sound slip through his head, like distant water running. Tootly-tweetly-toot-ta-tee-toot …

My God
, he thought,
what am I doing?

But just then Amelia's hand closed softly over his own, and her fingers intertwined with his, making a slight pressure, a comforting hold, and Potter let doubt slide from his mind, let himself be lulled by the music.

Tootly-tweetly-toot-ta-tee-
teet
…

Potter moved with cheery absent-mindedness through his class preparations, his classes, his office hours, his daily life, all of which seemed only interludes between the times with Amelia; pleasant enough interludes, but pale and one-dimensional compared to the bright, full feeling that came when he was in her company.

After one Communications class, Miss Linnett asked Potter if he was high on something.

He only laughed.

“
Wow
,” she said with envy. “I wish I had some.”

“You will,” he assured her with a wink, and waltzed away down the hall.

In much the same spirit that had made him want to make up with Marva and Max Bertelsen, he wanted to resume his friendship with Gafferty in the old, trusting way it had been before Potter started getting his fantasy hang-ups about what student the guy was fucking. There had been no open split between him and Gafferty, but it was obvious that Potter had cooled toward him, and Gafferty had not again asked for the use of his apartment. Potter didn't care now who the guy was fucking there. In the glow of his feeling for Amelia he didn't even mind if Gafferty was making it with Miss Korsky or Miss Linnett. He would still give them A's.

He found Gafferty in his office, reading papers, and invited himself in. He apologized for having forgotten about letting him use the apartment, but hoped he would do so again whenever he wanted to, most any afternoon that week would be all right. Gafferty, surprised, said that was asking a lot of a man, maybe he should never have done it, but Potter insisted it was fine, what were friends for, why didn't they go over to Jake Wirth's and have a couple beers. Gafferty said he just had to finish reading one paper, it would only take a few minutes, why didn't Potter just make himself at home.

“Terrific,” Potter said. “Take your time.”

He picked up a copy of the
Globe
, and read about an interview President Nixon had given on the Today show. The president had said that the “fundamental cause” of unrest among American youth was not due to war, poverty, or prejudice, but “a sense of insecurity that comes from the old values being torn away.…”

The old values
. It reminded him of Amelia. Everything reminded him of her. Maybe the president was right. Maybe if there were more women like Amelia.…

His musings were interrupted by a hesitant tap at the door, and he looked up to see a shy, studious-looking girl whom he recognized as one of the students who worked part-time in the Administration office. She was one of those pleasant-seeming but unobtrusive people, neither fat nor thin, tall nor short, ugly nor beautiful, the sort of person of whom it is said that they blend into the woodwork.

Gafferty looked up, reddened, and said, “Ah—Miss Griffin. Do you know Mr. Potter? Miss Linda Griffin.”

“Sure, I've seen you in the office,” Potter said.

Miss Griffin said, “Oh, yes,” looked nervously at Gafferty, and said, “I'm sorry Mr. Gafferty, I didn't mean to interrupt.”

“Oh, no, not at all—”

“I can wait outside,” Potter offered. “I was just waiting, anyway.”

“Oh, no,” Miss Griffin said.

“No, no, it's all right,” Gafferty said, leaving Potter wondering what was all right for whom and what all the fidgety business was about.

“I'll stop by tomorrow,” the girl said, and scurried away before anyone could say anything else.

“Sorry,” said Gafferty.

“Huh? What for?”

“No, nothing. I'll just be a minute.”

He turned back to his paper, coughed, riffled through it, and stood up, saying why didn't they go for the beer.

Over the second one he said, “Miss Griffin. That's the girl. The one I see.”

Potter, at first astonished, then amused, not at Gafferty or the girl but his long needless torturous suspicions, started laughing, then tried to apologize, explain without explaining, tying himself in more complex knots, finally saying, “Brother, forgive me. I'm a little bit light-headed these days.”

“Ah,” said Gafferty, “anything serious?”

“Yes,” Potter said with a huge smile, “I'm afraid it is.”

Potter had neglected Marilyn since his courtship of Amelia had moved into high gear, and he felt guilty about it. Hoping to make amends, he invited her to meet him at Trader Vic's for dinner, but once there, it seemed all wrong. She had quickly become bored with the pot-smoking mailroom boy, and fallen into the depression over Herb that what she called her “hippie thing” had only briefly forestalled. Marilyn refused to join Potter in one of the exotic drinks that he thought might cheer her, explaining she was not in a festive mood. She wanted a serious drink, and ordered an extra dry martini straight up with a twist. Potter, still hoping to jolly her around, ordered some damn thing that came in a huge bowl with a flower and a purple parasol floating in it.

“Jesus,” Marilyn said with disgust when the gaudy business was set in front of him, “that thing looks like a chorus girl's dream.”

“Look,” he said, “I know you're pissed off, and I'm really sorry I haven't called, but—well, I've been seeing Amelia all the time, and—you know, it's just been one of those things.”

“I assumed,” Marilyn said coolly, “that things were going well with you and Miss Molasses.”

“Oh—hey, has she said anything? About me? At the office?”

“She doesn't have to.”

“What? What do you mean? She doesn't even say anything about our dates?”