Making Love (45 page)

“Proof!” he shouted, shooting his load.
 

“You're looking at it, Luckmunn. An eyewitness with twenty-twenty vision, no history of mental breakdowns, no previous convictions for perjury.”
 

He gave a small moan, dropped to his knees in supplication, the statesman asking for his head.
 

“When?” he asked softly, hoping that this was still a bluff, and that he'd win a showdown.
 

“In the tennis hut. Do you want the date and the time of day?”
 

He saw it all slipping through his hands. Is this what the Luckmunns got out of Germany for? When would his tribe get lucky, give other people the shudders?
 

“It wasn't like that.”
 

“No? Well, tell me.”
 

He paused to give himself counsel. A straight confession and he might be given mercy.
 

“We were both drunk ... and I wanted to be a gentleman, believe me.”
 

She imagined him naked, lighting cigarettes, holding doors, saying
after you
.
 

“Why'd you do it?”
 

“I was impressed. I wanted to meet people. Look, Jane, honey, how was I supposed to know about you? I brought comfort to a lonely woman. Some people might applaud such an action.”
 

“Yes, with one hand.”
 

“I'm an overachiever, not a tragic hero, Jane. It's not incest.... My God, to think how you must have hated me all along.” The thought of himself despised brought tears to his eyes. To come this close.... “Me, you hate?”
 

“The point is, the awful sickening truth, is that I don't. I'm worse than you are.”
 

He saw himself struck down by a BMT train, his name written in blood across the
Daily News
. He opened the desk drawer, she thought for a pistol.
 

“What are you looking for?”
 

“An Alka-Seltzer. My stomach's all acidic. Jane, what am I going to do? I love you. Tell me it wasn't my fault.”
 

“It's not,” she admitted. “It's just that I'm Nancy's daughter.”
 

She got up, sealed the letter, and put a stamp on it. “I want to mail this now.”
 

“There's a chute on the floor.”
 

He followed her out into the hallway, protesting that he'd do it. The potential Mrs. Luckmunn practically naked for a hungry world to see.
 

“Jane, Jane, come back,” he called in a hoarse whisper. She stood by the mail chute listening to the wind pushing the letter down, remembering every word she'd written, reciting it so that she'd never forget.
 

 

Dear Conlon,
 

I should be more gracious but I can't be. You're not welcome to my leavings. Somehow this should all make some kind of sense, but it doesn't. What does? I don't believe in the unconquerable forces of nature or even simple abstrations. In a way it's all worked out. My closest friend marries the only person I've honestly and truly loved, and he in turn is in love with a game.
 

I wish I could feel sorry for myself but I haven't got that much sense or strength of character. My life goes on in its confusion. I'm powerless to prevent my fortune from accumulating and am still in a sense a stateless person. I disavow many things, but ultimately myself. I started with nerve ends and now have feelings, progress of a sort, but I'm sure I'll live to regret it.
 

I have learned that we never make sacrifices except in our own interests. We do a lot of protesting to the contrary but our arguments can only be judged a success if we persuade ourselves. So at least admit that to yourself. I don't think you hated or hate me. You were envious and that's probably a lot worse, more difficult to live with.
 

On a characteristic note of vagueness I leave you to yourself, our sins, and the unfortunate human being you've chosen to protect, which proves that he's stronger than both of us. He has the edge, make no mistake about that.
 

I suppose the memory I'll cherish is of his innocence, yours, mine—and I'll have the common decency never to ask what became of it.
 

So sleep my lovelies, for it is never and beginning, the dream of dreams.
 

Your old friend,
 

(the future)
 

Mrs. Charles Luckmunn

 

On Luckmunn's face she saw real pain. Marrying him seemed to her the failure most likely to succeed, but she had no regrets. Real life was simply a concession to futility, and she'd fill the void as best she could. He spread his bathrobe over her shoulders.
 

“It's a circle, a fucking circle,” she said.
 

“Jane, we've really got to do something about your language.”
 

She had a moment of hesitation, uncertainty before the open door of the apartment.
 

“Oh, what the hell.... Come inside, Charles, I'm going to blow you. It doesn't really matter one way or the other. Cash in your chips.”
 

“Jane, darling”—he faltered, overcome by his own emotion—“there is no sadness sadder than getting what you want.”