An American Love Story (41 page)

No, it isn’t pleasant, Susan thought; it’s sad. We’re both sad. It was dinnertime in California, and she wondered, as she did almost hourly, what Clay was doing.

When Clay called her the next morning he mentioned that he had hired an assistant. “A kid,” he said. “I need someone to go to all the boring parties I don’t want to go to. I get invited to things I should cover, and now I can send her. She likes it. It gives me more time to work.”

“What’s her name?”

“Bambi Green.”

“What’s she like?”

“Ugly,” Clay said. “I am surrounded by ugly women.”

Susan thought of the unattractive girl who was probably delighted to be able to go to things no one would have invited her to otherwise, and thought it really wasn’t such a bad job.

“When are you coming to New York?” she asked him, as she often did these days.

“I don’t know yet, honey.”

“Well, maybe I’ll come to visit you.”

“That’s silly. With my schedule I could be there next week, and you’d be here.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Well, it’s true. I’ll probably be in New York in the next week or so. I’m trying to get this presentation put together with Anwar
and then I’m going to set up a big meeting with the network people in New York.”

“RBS?”

“I’d like to,” he said. “The new man who took over there recently is an old friend of mine. I’m going to bring him
Like You, Like Me
, among other things. You know I never give up.”

“I know.” She loved his tenacity. She knew no other producer would have continued to fight so long for a project. “What’s happening with the presentation you and Anwar have been working on?”

“Moving along slowly.”

“Remember I have those two lecture assignments for next month, one in Dallas and the other in Los Angeles. So you’d better be sure to be there when I am.”

“I will. Give me the dates again later. Here comes Anwar for a meeting—I have to go.”

Clay hung up and Susan sat there, just sat there. She felt a desolate emptiness inside her. Now she had to get on with the rest of her day, and she knew Clay wouldn’t call her again until tomorrow. How had it happened that her world, which had once been so full, was now so small?

In the afternoon Dana called. “Guess what.”

“What?”

“Goujon and I are
fini
,” Dana said.

“No!”

“Yes. Five years with that man—I should get an award for it; ten free years at the psychiatrist. This is how we broke up. He called me last week and said he didn’t want to be married to me anymore, he’s moved into another house, and I should do his laundry and send it to him. His laundry! Can you imagine?”

“What a pig,” Susan said. “Are you very upset?”

“I cried for a week but I’m feeling much better now. I threw his dirty laundry into the ocean. When it came back with the tide it was lying all over the beach, covered with sea junk and garbage, drying in the sun, stiff as a board. And I phoned him and said: ‘Henri, dear, I sent out your laundry. It’s on the beach, come and
get it before it goes out again.’ You should have heard him scream.”

Susan laughed. She realized she hadn’t laughed in a long time. “You’re handling it very well,” she said.

“I am. There’s nothing like a little active revenge to ease the pain. Actually, we hadn’t been getting along for quite a while, but I still think his behavior was cowardly and abrupt. This is a very neurotic man. Why don’t you come out and visit me while I still have the house?”

“I’d love to,” Susan said. “But Clay might be coming to New York.” She was putting off her life, putting everything on hold for him, but she couldn’t help it. “And besides, I’m coming out next month for sure, for my speech.”

“I knew that marriage wouldn’t last,” Clay said calmly when Susan told him.

Clay never did get to New York that month. The new head of RBS was busy reorganizing the company, apparently, and Clay felt it would be better to approach him later when he was not so busy. And then it was time for Susan to go to Los Angeles. She was to fly in on a Saturday, speak Saturday night at a dinner, stay over Sunday and Sunday night at her own expense, and fly to Dallas Monday afternoon. They were putting her in the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, within walking distance of Clay’s apartment. He said it would be dangerous for her to stay with him because of the press coverage, and she should register at the hotel and put her things there for appearances.

“I want to go with you,” Nina said. “I’ll take a vacation day. My father doesn’t pay any attention to me at all anymore; he’s abrupt on the phone when I call; at least if you’re there he’ll take us both to dinner and talk to me. I’ll stay at his apartment with him.”

“What about Stevie?”

“He can watch TV. He won’t even know I’m gone.”

When Susan arrived at the hotel Dana called, in surprisingly good spirits. At the last minute she had just gotten a week’s work in a TV episode starting Monday, replacing an actress who had been caught in a drug bust, and was frantically learning her lines. “Have a nice time with Clay,” she said. “I know you wiiill!”

Clay called Susan as soon as she hung up. “Tonight’s going to be late and you’ll be tired, but what’s your schedule tomorrow?” he asked.

“Totally free,” she said.

“Well, I have meetings all day, but why don’t you come to the apartment and sit in the sun with my daughter, and then I’ll take you and Nina to dinner after my meetings are over.”

“Okay.”

It would be the first time Susan had been to the apartment since Clay had decided to get a divorce. She was happy to be going back at last, to be welcomed home. She supposed Clay felt her visit would look innocuous since Nina was there.

That night she gave her speech, nervous at first, but then relieved to see it was going well. The audience was all women. Some of them had actually been abused themselves, others knew someone who was being abused, and from the usual question and answer period the evening turned into a sort of support group with strangers sharing experiences, one even breaking down in tears. Susan was very moved at the camaraderie of these women, and, as she had been when doing her interviews, perplexed and grieved at how they had allowed the men they loved to destroy their self-esteem, and take such control of their lives. When she got back to her hotel room she fell asleep immediately, drained.

In the morning Nina called. “My father rented a car for me, so I’ll pick you up. L.A. stands for Leg Atrophy—nobody ever walks around here so why should you?”

Susan wondered if Clay would let her stay overnight. Laura wouldn’t even know. She put the clothes she would wear for dinner over her arm, and on the chance she tucked some toilet articles and a change of underwear into her handbag.

She and Nina sat on the apartment terrace, both thinking, companionably silent. The refrigerator was freshly stocked with food, so they made lunch and ate it outside. At the end of the day they took turns taking showers in what had been Susan’s bathroom, dressing and comparing their clothes and makeup products like sorority girls in a festive mood before a date, music playing softly.

Clay had entered the apartment so quietly Susan didn’t know he
was there until she went into their bedroom. He was dressed in a suit and tie for dinner, sitting on the end of the bed watching television, looking strangely cold and withdrawn. He didn’t even turn to look at her.

“Hi,” Susan said. She walked over and kissed him on the cheek.

“Hi.”

He didn’t kiss her back, he obviously didn’t want to speak; he was all hunched up like a cannonball full of rage. “Are you all right?” she asked, upset.

“I’m fine.”

The meetings must have been terrible. She didn’t know how to comfort him. This was the bed they had shared, it had been her bed too once, but tonight she was almost afraid to sit on it. Susan put her handbag on the bed and somehow even that seemed like an intrusion. Confused, hurt, defiant, she sat next to Clay, leaving a space between them. She had never seen him act like this.

“What happened at the meeting today?” she asked.

“Honey, I don’t want to talk.”

She looked at him and he looked at the screen. The news was on, but nothing special that could possibly upset him. I guess I’m not staying here tonight, she thought, feeling a pain in her heart that was almost physical.

She glanced around the room that somehow no longer seemed familiar. It looked airier, neater. The closet doors were open. Hanging there, alone in the big space, were only three suits. He must have sent all the rest to the cleaner, Susan thought. She remembered the clothes in the trunk of his car. The second closet was still stuffed with a lot of old clothes he hadn’t worn in years; Clay disliked parting with anything.

“Let’s go,” he said, and stood up. Susan quietly gathered her things.

He drove them in the car he had rented for Nina, because his was only a two-seater. At dinner his disposition improved; he asked Nina about her job, Susan about her speech. For dessert Nina ordered chocolate cake and a glass of milk, like a child. Suddenly her eyes filled with tears.

“I hate New York,” she said.

“But why?” Susan asked.

“I don’t know. I hate everything.”

“I’ll write you a check,” Clay said. He smiled. “Things are rough when you’re young and have my daughter’s tastes.”

“No!” Nina said. “I don’t want money.” It was apparent she was trying not to cry.

“Then what do you want?”

She didn’t answer. He shrugged.

After dinner they drove back to Susan’s hotel. When she saw the lights she felt the same sadness she had all those times in New York when Clay had to drop her off at her apartment and go home to Laura. None of them said anything, and when Susan got out of the car she pretended everything was normal, but she couldn’t meet Nina’s eyes.

“I’ll come over tomorrow morning for breakfast,” Clay said to Susan.

“All right.”

“Ten?”

“Fine.”

The next morning she got up early, started to pack for her afternoon plane, and ordered from Room Service everything she thought Clay might like. Promptly at ten he tapped on her door. She opened it quickly, furtively, and he slipped into her room almost as if they were two criminals.

“Do you know what it cost me to come here?” he said. “Do you know what it meant to take the time away?”

He sounded so frantic and harassed she had to take it as a declaration of love. They sat at the small table Room Service had wheeled in, and he had a bite of croissant, a few sips of coffee. They were only a foot or two away from the unmade bed. He stood up. “Let’s go to bed,” he said hoarsely, and began to take off his clothes.

This time when Clay made love to her she felt nothing, except gratitude that he still wanted her. He had hurt and confused her, and she was leaving in a few hours with nothing resolved, and she didn’t want to go, but she had to. As soon as he was finished he
ran into the bathroom. She heard, instead of running water, him dialing the phone; and then his voice, very quiet.

Between the bedroom and the bathroom there was a dressing room, like a small corridor. She walked silently on bare feet on the soft carpet until she was outside the partly open bathroom door. He could neither see nor hear her, but she could hear him.

“Don’t worry if you don’t have the material ready today,” he was saying. “You can give it to me tomorrow. I’d rather you do it well and take an extra day. No, really, it’s fine.” And then his tone changed to something low and intimate—and filled with love. “Can you have dinner with me tonight?” he asked.

Susan knew that tone very well. It was exactly the way he used to speak to her.

As soon as she heard him hang up and begin to wash she went back into the bedroom. He came in and lay on the rumpled bed, relaxing against the pillows. She stood there looking at him. “Clay, tell me if there’s another woman,” she said. “Tell me so I can get on with my life.”

She thought how ridiculous and vulnerable she must look, standing there naked, confronting him. At least he had the sheet. Thoughts flashed through her mind: owning herself again, meeting other men, escaping at last from her daily vigils by the phone, her sweaty and restless sleep. For a moment she even felt strong. Tell me and free me, she thought. I can survive.

“Oh honey,” he said, “there’s no one. The television business is full of women; you’re going to hear about me being seen with women all the time.”

“You can tell me the truth,” Susan said. “If you’re in love with someone else tell me. I don’t want to go on like this anymore.”

“There is no other woman,” he said. “You’re crazy. Would I come running over here to be with you, in the middle of my work, when I should be at the office, at important meetings?”

She supposed not. He had wanted this link between them. She couldn’t ask him about his tender voice on the phone; that was the trouble with eavesdropping. I could get on with my life, she thought, I really could if he would let me go. But I could never leave him. I can’t do it myself.

“I love the monkey,” Clay said. He got up and dressed. Susan put on her robe. “Fix my collar,” he said. He had asked her to do that a million times. He turned his back to her and she pulled his starched collar neatly over his tie. The familiar gesture reminded her again of all the years they had spent together. Then he was at the door. “Have a safe trip,” he said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” And he was gone.

It was not until she was on the plane that Susan realized that all during the lovemaking that morning, and even when Clay left, he had never kissed her.