A Strange Commonplace (10 page)

I had a feeling when I met you
You’d drive me crazy if I let you

A Familiar Woman

D
OCTOR GREENLEAF SENT HIS NURSE TO THE LAB TO PICK up a temporary bridge and two posts for a patient who would be in the following morning at nine. It was late in the afternoon and he told her to go home from the lab with the prosthesis—he’d see her in the morning. His last patient of the day, Claire Page, had to have a broken root removed from a molar, a procedure that he was hoping he could accomplish with little trouble. Doctor Greenleaf, whom his patients called Ralph, was nervous and excited—although he denied this to himself—for he would be alone with Claire, a sturdy, subtly provocative widow in her mid-forties, a strawberry blonde with a clear complexion and brown eyes. He was, to be blunt, sexually obsessed with her, and regularly fantasized about the two of them, rapt in their passion, together on a beach in the Caribbean, a chalet in the Swiss Alps, an autumnal path in Central Park, all of these civilized adventures preludes or postludes to shameless, burning sex. He would, in this blurry and absurd romance of a future, be free, of course, of Inez, his bored wife, and their two spoiled, graceless children; Claire would love him, deeply yet sadly, for she would feel the guilt of the
femme fatale,
the carnal engine that would shatter his troubled, unhappy, yet safe and, of course,
lawful
marriage. Yet their erotic attraction to each other would be so intense as to drive them to abandon and sacrifice everything to their sacred lust, a lust that thrilled and blinded and made them drunk; so Ralph knitted these clichés together. When Claire walked into his operating room, he was already half-aroused by his recurrent daydream and its elaborations. She settled into the chair and he lowered it to its horizontal position. He glanced at her legs, which, he was certain, oh yes, yes, he was certain that she’d revealed, as if accidentally, to mid-thigh. Sure, she had slipped her skirt up as she made herself comfortable in the chair. She felt, of course she did, she felt as he did! She smiled at him, nervously, pulling at her paper bib, her wondrous hair gleaming in the cold light of his overhead lamp. He’d use a light general anesthetic, he said, just a little, so she wouldn’t have to put up with the numbness of an injection, she’d be able to enjoy her dinner. She was pleased, for she dreaded dentistry, despite Ralph’s gentle expertise, he’d been such a wonderful dentist for her. She was under, and Ralph began working on her tooth, but it was almost impossible for him to concentrate. His breathing was ragged and he was fully erect. He watched his hands, tender and strong and caring, push her skirt up carefully and slowly, watched them fondle her belly and thighs and crotch, watched them unbutton her blouse and caress her breasts. He opened his fly and began to masturbate, then bent to kiss her between her legs. He was moaning, and Claire woke up just as his nurse entered the room. His nurse entered the room! For the smallest sliver of a second he thought that he could just kill the two women and flee. There is little point in detailing what happened after this incident, save to say that the newspapers and local television stations wiped out his career overnight, he lost his license, and he spent eleven months in prison after pleading to two counts of lewd and lascivious conduct, reduced from sexual battery and attempted rape. A lawsuit, of course, was pending. Inez took the opportunity to file for divorce so that she could marry a good friend of theirs, Marty, with whom she’d been sleeping for three years—although she actually made love to him on his office desk every two weeks or so. When she saw Claire she thought her a brassy, overweight whore, of course, and doubted that Ralph, that cold fish, ever did anything at all with her or with any other woman—awake, asleep, unconscious, or dead! When Ralph was released from prison, he left the state when it was legally permissible to do so and disappeared for three years, after which he landed, as they say, in Oldsmar, Florida, a small gulf town, with a license to practice in the state in hand. He opened an office, hired a nurse and a part-time receptionist, a woman older than he, whom he married a year later. One afternoon, a voluptuously built woman in her mid-forties came into the office to make an appointment for an initial checkup and routine hygiene and cleaning. She was a widow, it turned out, and her name, quite unbelievably, was Claire. She was, too, a strawberry blonde, although this state had been attained with professional aid. But still. But still. Coincidence, as life proves over and over again, is so routine as to beggar comment. He smiled warmly at Claire as his wife made the appointment and noticed that her legs and hips were very much like Claire’s, they
were
Claire’s. Perhaps she would need, in the future, some extensive dental work, a new partial; or perhaps she would have to come in late, the last patient; she might need emergency care on a Sunday. This time he’d give Claire enough to keep her peacefully under for a good while, long enough for him to show her that he still loved her, and to do his work the right way, befitting a doctor of his experience and abilities.

On the Roof

J
ANET’S HUSBAND, AL, WAS MAKING AN ASS OF HIMSELF, AS he usually did at parties lately. With a few drinks in him, he turned into an irresistible lothario, good God. There he was, drunk and clumsy, with his shirt off, dancing with a girl who was no more than eighteen. Nobody in the hot, crowded apartment paid any attention to him, but Janet was, nonetheless, embarrassed and angry. He had acted, since their arrival, as if he didn’t know her, as if she were somebody he’d bumped into on the street that evening. She went into the kitchen to make herself another drink. There were two men there, drinking straight whiskey and eating the cheese and crackers and pretzels that had been laid out on the counter. One, a short redhead, had an open, somehow friendly yet blank face, and the other, a black man, looked like a bank officer, in a dark suit, white shirt, and carefully knotted tie. Janet didn’t know them, but then she hardly knew anybody there, save for the host, one of Al’s friends from work, a prig of a man whom she despised. You’re not having too much fun it looks like, the black man said. The other man looked fleetingly at her legs and then up into her face, smiling candidly. Oh well, she said, a
party,
you know, and shrugged. She looked around into the living room and saw Al with his hands on the girl’s hips, swaying erratically to “Just For a Thrill,” the damn fool. I know what you mean, the redheaded man said, and a
drag
of a party, too. They all laughed, complicit. The black man suggested that they go up to the roof and
smoke
a little, you dig?, that might help things along. Maybe the party will be better when we get back. Or at least
look
better, his friend said. Janet hesitated, but why not? Why
not?
She was tired of being humiliated, she was tired of being ignored. She thought to tell Al that she was going up to the roof for some air, but knew that he would immediately become the possessive and jealous husband and make a scene. Sure, she said, let’s go up. She liked these young men, if only for the fact that they weren’t the other young men at the party, laughing and shouting into each other’s faces, desperately hip. It was a warm, sticky August night, the moon hazy in an overcast sky, the smell of rain in the air. She was suddenly very high, very very high, they were all high, smoking two fat joints of hash. Oh my goodness, she said, I am so
stoned,
so stoned. She wasn’t, however, so stoned, wait! as to want this,
wait!
No, wait, no! she said. The redheaded man was kissing her in a frenzy, and roughly squeezing and pulling at her breasts, while the black man was pulling her skirt up and clawing at her panties, come on, bitch! They pushed her down onto her hands and knees and she felt the black man’s weight on her back and then he was in her. They were raping her, you’re raping me! she said, you bastard! She felt him coming in her and she started to cry. Her head felt as if it were floating free of her shoulders and then the redheaded man pushed a spittle-wet finger into her anus and pushed himself brutally into her, while the black man held her head between his hands. The pain traveled through her gut and up her spine and into her head, a blazing agony behind her eyes, and she sobbed and screamed, drooling onto her torn blouse. The black man slapped her across the face again and again while the other man moved wildly in her, grunting. Fuck the bitch! the black man said, fuck the cunt bitch! The man pulled himself out of her and came on her buttocks and thighs, panting. Then they ripped off her blouse and yanked off her skirt and half-slip as well. One of them threw her torn panties in her face and the black man put her skirt and blouse and slip under his jacket, laughing. Go back to the fucking party like that, bitch, see if it’ll be more fun! They left and she sat there, shivering and weeping in the soft rain that had been falling for some time. Her brassiere was soaked through, and one of the straps was broken. The cupola door opened and Al stood there, the cold light of the stairway behind him. Janet? he called. Janet? I can’t even
dance
with somebody without you getting all pissed off? Jesus
Christ!
She sat, biting her hand to keep silent, her knees pulled up to her chest, her torn panties clutched to her vagina. Her entire lower body throbbed and burned and she thought that she was going to move her bowels. Where the
fuck
are you? Al yelled.

The Jungle

W
HO IS HE? WHO IS SHE? IS THIS HER HUSBAND? WHAT IS he doing
here?
Is she drunk? Is this apartment on Riverside Drive? Or on Bank Street? Is this a bathroom? A hallway? Tissues? Who is he and where did he go? He says he’ll fix her face? Fix it? What does that mean? Why is the floor sliding around? Is she going to vomit? Who is the woman in the photographs on the wall? Is this her bathroom? Or their bathroom? Why does the woman in the photographs look like her? Are they photographs? Or drawings? Do they look like her sister? How long has her sister been dead? What was her sister’s husband’s name? Why did she go to bed with him? Because her husband went to bed with her sister? Did he really? Where are her shoes? Or one shoe? Did she have both shoes on when he took her into the bathroom? Or down to the hallway? Why did she go with him? Is she really Claire? Or is she Inez? Or Cora, or Anna? Who is she? Who is he? Is he Pierre? What is
he
doing at the party? Is her husband jealous of him? Or jealous of her job? Is he jealous of her? But why? Why is the bathroom floor so familiar? Or the hallway floor? Why did she marry this old man? Is he really that old? Maybe
this
man is her sister’s husband? Or, rather, was her husband? Did she marry Ray after Claire died? Why? Is Claire, then, her sister? Or was? Are Ray and Pierre brothers? Or is Warren Ray’s brother? Are Ray and Warren and Pierre brothers? Did Claire really die of multiple myeloma? Or a botched abortion? Why is the bathroom floor so filthy? Is it a bathroom? Or a hallway? What does he mean, fix her face? What did he see in that whore at that party? What does he see in that girl at this party? Is she what her mother would have called a chippie? Why did he give her a cigarette? Didn’t she stop smoking a long time ago? A month ago? Last week? Yesterday? Why did she stop smoking? Does she want to live forever? In bathrooms and hallways? Why is he laughing? Who is he? Why is he adjusting her clothes? Is he fixing her clothes? Why did she want to go down to the street with that filthy man? What filthy man? Warren or Ray or Pierre? Is her husband Pierre? Or Warren? Or Ray?
Is
she Claire? Is she losing her mind? Don’t they say that if you think you’re crazy then you’re not? Who says that? Freud? Jung? Adler? Ferenczi? Is she really a wreck? What does he mean by badassid? Is he fixing her face and her clothes because she’s a wreck? Why is she all wet? Is it raining? Why is it always raining when they go someplace? Does she have amnesia? Why is the man showing her a detective’s shield? Is he a detective or is he a fake? Is Pierre a detective? Since when? Is she going to throw up again? Is this man a black man who looks white or a white man who looks black? Does it matter as long as he’s a detective? Is he a detective or is he a fake? Why is he taking her clothes off? Because she’s a wreck? To wash her? To fix her? To fix her in the shower? Who is he? Who is she? Why is there a shower in the hallway? Who is she?

In the Bedroom

I
T WAS ABOUT 10:30 WHEN JACK GOT HOME. THE LIGHTS were on all over the house, but Anna wasn’t there, even though the table was set for supper, another cold supper. She was really cute. Through the kitchen window, he saw Joey sitting on the back steps, silent, his face vacant, his shoelaces untied, as usual. Anna always said he was driving her crazy, that there was something not right with the boy. Jack opened the back door and took his son by the hand. “Hello, Daddy,” he said. “Mama shut the door on me.” He didn’t seem upset and there was no evidence that he’d been crying. He certainly wasn’t frightened. Maybe there
was
something the matter with the kid, he was a little slow, but a lot of kids are slow. Jack made him a sandwich and poured him a glass of milk. “Eat your sandwich, Joey, and I’ll put you to bed, it’s very late. Where’s Mama?” Joey didn’t know, he’d been playing in the backyard and when he tried to come in because his shoes got loose, Mama wouldn’t open the door. She was all dressed up and had her furry coat on. Jack put him to bed and went downstairs to pour himself a whiskey. All right, so he’d
seen
Jenny, but just for a cup of coffee, it was over, he’d told Anna again and again that it was over, what the hell is she pulling now?

And at the meeting, Lawless had given him most of Nassau County, a goddamn gold mine, Thermo-Fax couldn’t ship the machines fast enough to keep up with the orders, not to mention the copy paper. He wanted to surprise Anna with the news, something fresh and good for a change, but now it was all spoiled. She locked the kid out? And in her fur coat, what the hell is that about? She was probably at her sister’s, what a piece of work she was with her dumb cop of a husband. He could see Anna now, sitting at the kitchen table, pissing and moaning about what a son of a bitch he was and swilling beer.