Augusta Played (19 page)

Norman felt her fingers on his face, light as snowflakes. She dissembled magnificently, he had to give her that. He listened to the felicitous notes in the background, a dance of sound as full of light as Gus's hair on his cheek, the miraculous balance between rule and abandonment, and he felt as though he was crying internally, tears dropping on his heart, his spleen. What was she trying to do to him?

“Merry Christmas,” she said. “I love you.”

He turned his face away, and her fingers fell on his mouth. He kissed them in spite of himself.

“Why don't you say it?” she asked.

“Merry Christmas,” he said.

“That's not—”

Before she could say what she meant—because he knew perfectly well what she meant—he said, “I should say Cha-nukah.” He smiled, stretching his arms over his head. “You can think of me as your Chanukah
gelt
. How about that?”

“Norman—”

“That's what my parents used to call Rita when she was a kid. Mitzi told me. You remember I told you about Mitzi? She brought me up. Rita was so much older I hardly even knew her. She smelled of hair straightener. She wanted to be a golden Gentile girl, like you. I wonder if she remembers that now, wiping the Manischewitz stains from the transparent plastic slipcovers in Far Rockaway? The thing is, she was born at Chanukah. Rita Gold. Now she's Rita Fishbein. I still don't know her, not really. It's like having an aunt for a sister.”

“I don't want to talk about your family, Norman,” she said flatly. “I haven't even met your family.”

Unfortunately, she couldn't tell him she felt uneasy talking about his family partly because she owed his mother a letter. Esther's letter was still in the Thayer, where Gus had remembered, too late, leaving it, and Gus was afraid of seeing Richard again, under the circumstances (suppose she succumbed?). She felt guilty about not even sending season's greetings to Esther. But how could any young bride play the role of daughter-in-law, if she weren't first approved as a wife? It would be a farce!

Defensively, she continued, “They don't want to meet me, remember? I doubt very much if Rita and her husband are lying on their bed on Christmas Eve talking about me.”

“It's not her fault, it's the system. Her husband should be grateful to you. Because of you, he'll pick up an extra half-million, eventually.”

“Do you love me, Norman?”

“Sure,” he said. “Why not?” He lit a cigarette.

“You smoke too much.”

“It doesn't matter,” he said. “I don't play the flute.”

“You can play the flutist.”

“Can I?”

“You've seemed very—I don't know how to say it,” she said. “Distant. Lately. Have I done something wrong?”

“Do you think you've done something wrong?”

She waved the smoke away from her face. “No,” she said, “of course not. But I think you think that I have. Otherwise, I don't know why you would be so distant. Maybe I've done something wrong without realizing it. If you'll tell me what it is, I'll try to correct it. Whatever it is.”

“People are what they are,” Norman said. “You can't go around asking them to be something else.”

“You don't believe that for one minute, Norman. I've heard you say time and again that if you just know enough about a situation, you can manipulate it to your own ends. If you know what goes on in your own mind, really know, you can change it. You can change your mind intelligently. Please, Norman, I'm only trying to find out what you want from me. If you don't like the way I am, I can change!”

“Don't be silly, Gus. Nobody's asking you to change.” This conformable Gus disturbed him deeply—he preferred the Gus who conducted her life as if she were a member of some artistic aristocracy unbound by housewifely convention to one who pledged servilely to revamp her whole spiritual constellation for him. In any case, what good was it when people changed because you asked them to? They had to do it on their own, or it didn't mean anything. Norman considered saying “I don't want you to change,” but ended up saying again, “Nobody's asking you to change.”

“But something's bothering you, isn't it?”

“I'm preoccupied, that's all.”

With whom? she wanted to ask.

“With my work,” he said.

She didn't say anything.

“My derivative work.” He smiled again, but his eyes were unyielding, mocking, flat. They let in light without admitting any new impressions—he wasn't going to be fooled into seeing anything in a new light. He knew how he must look to Gus because he happened, rolling over, to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the nightstand. His eyebrows almost met in a single line above the extravagantly expressive eyes, and hurt and confusion were inscribed on his face for everyone to see. Self-pity kicked him in the stomach, leaving him stunned. Self-pity was supposed to be pleasurable, one of the forbidden delights which everyone was always running around furtively indulging in, but Norman felt only a sudden searing pain, like having his heart branded with an R for Reject. “God,” he said, still staring at the mirror, “I'd like to fuck you through the floor.”

“Promises, promises,” she said.

35

H
E
WAS
LYING
on the bed, on his side, looking at her bare back. She was lying on her side, looking at the frosty triptych, ghostly gold and silver from the street lamp. The room was silent.

“Gus,” he said, trying not to let his amusement show in his voice, “you should see what I've done.”

“What haven't you done?”

“I've torn a mole halfway off your back. It's half on and half off. I've been meaning to trim my nails.”

“What
have you done?” She sat up and twisted around, trying to see her back.

“Here,” he said. He held the mirror up for her. “You see it?” He was grinning.

“I don't see what's so funny.”

“I'm sorry,” he said, straightening his face out, “it isn't. You'll have to get it removed. It doesn't hurt. I had several moles removed from my neck when I was a teen-ager. You can't keep it like that.”

“Can't you just pull it all the way off?”

“I wouldn't dare. I know a doctor. I'll call him tomorrow.”

“Norman”—she slid into his arms, resting her head in the crook of his elbow—“are you through being angry?”

“Shhh,” he said, kissing her on the nose. “Merry Christmas.” He fell asleep still dressed.

36

T
HE
DOCTOR
insisted on operating in a hospital, although no anesthetic was required. His reason was that as an inpatient Augusta could collect insurance; if he treated her in his office, he wouldn't have the heart to charge them, because he knew Norman was still in school. The mole had to come off. Gus didn't feel she could refuse to enter the hospital, since that would then be tantamount to asking the doctor to do it for nothing. Unfortunately, the only day the doctor could schedule her was February the first. She had to check in on the afternoon of the day before—and that was her first wedding anniversary. She didn't tell the doctor—how could she, with all this good will floating around (toward everybody except the insurance company)? But who wanted to spend the first wedding anniversary in a hospital? She joked about it with Norman, not wanting to make him feel any worse about it than he already did—he was blaming himself—but after she had had her blood pressure checked, her temperature taken, her finger pricked, and her urine whisked away in a paper cup, and she was tucked into bed, her rings removed and signed for and replaced with an ID bracelet, she realized it would be the first night she had spent away from Norman since they had gotten married. Did this mean anything? Was it significant? She wanted to ask someone, but all the nurse's aides spoke only Spanish.

A different doctor, young, sallow, and callow, came in to ask her some questions. He looked at her nails. “Why do you bite this one?” he asked, tapping the tip of her ring finger, now ringless.

“Because I harbor unresolved resentment against my gender,” she said, tired of being treated as the slave of her subconscious. “What are you going to do about it?”

“What would you like for me to do about it? Let's see that mole.”

She showed it to him.

“How did it happen?”

“My husband did it.”

“You're kidding! How come?”

“It just happened. We were—And while we were—And then afterward—I explained all this once, isn't it written down somewhere?”

“You mean your husband gouged this mole out while he was screwing you?”

“Look, doctor, I don't think you've got a very good bedside manner!”

“Maybe not,” he said, “but it sure beats your husband's.”

“Speaking of the devil,” Gus said, looking up.

Norman was standing in the doorway. “You all right, Gus?” he asked.

“She's fine,” the young doctor said, slapping him on the back and winking. Instinct told Norman to throw a punch at the guy, but by now, the Voice of Experience was making itself heard also, saying, Forget it. So he winked back at the doctor and waited until he'd left the room before going up to the bed. Gus saw the wink and it made her feel helpless, relegated to a walk-on role. All the world's a stage, and all the women merely bit-players. She used to get the same feeling back in high school, the feeling of being talked about by the boys rather than talked with. You went through life never knowing for sure what they were saying.

“Are you going to be all right?” Norman asked again. “You're not lonely, or anything?”

“I feel ridiculous being in here when I'm not sick.”

“They're going to make me leave in a minute.”

“Are you going home?”

“Where else?”

Elsewhere.

“I might give Phil a ring,” he said. “I'll be here as soon as it's over in the morning.” He seemed, to Gus, oddly exhilarated, as if he had to restrain himself from smiling. His gleaming, dark, lavishly abundant, tight curls seemed to bristle, like a cat's back in a thunderstorm.

“I'll be thinking about you,” she said, forlornly.

“On the other hand,” he said, “if Phil is out, I might look up an old friend.”

After he left, she wondered if he had used the phrase
old friend
on purpose. Did he mean
old friend
as in
old friend
, or did he mean
old friend
as in “your
old friend
, Richard”? And was it significant? Again, she wanted to ask someone, but no other English-speaking personnel came into the room the rest of the day. She tried to look on this operation as a free trip to Puerto Rico.

37

S
HE'S
HAVING
this mole removed,” Norman said. “It seemed like a good opportunity.” He was seated on the Empire sofa in Birdie's apartment, leaning forward earnestly with his hands clasped between his knees. “You must think I'm crazy,” he said, “barging in on you like this. I've got to talk with somebody.”

“I don't think you're crazy. Truly I don't.” But she did think he might be just the tiniest, fractional bit mad. He had Sidney's knack for dramatizing everything, which as a person of known dramatic flair she personally appreciated, but his eyes were different. They weren't like his father's eyes, and they weren't like Richard's eyes either. They were very attractive eyes though, she thought, moving her chair closer to him until their knees bumped. “You have very interesting eyes,” she said. “Like a person in a book. I would say they are devastating. Yes,” she said, peering into them, “they are quite definitely very devastating eyes. Have you ever tried to hypnotize anybody with them?”

“No,” he said. He reconsidered. “In a way,” he said.

“I thought so. You're the Svengali type.”

“Nobody ever said that before.”

“They probably weren't as perceptive as I am.”

“That's why I decided to call you. I could have called Phil, but it's something you don't want to talk about to someone you grew up with. Phil thought I was a jerk for getting married anyway.”

“Your friend Phil is not married?”

“He goes with a girl named Dinky.”

“Dinky!” Birdie said. “I know a Dinky. Or rather, I know her mother. What does she do?”

“She's a model.”

“That's the one,” Birdie said. “Her mother is always bragging on her. Is she pop-eyed?”

“A little,” Norman admitted.

“It must be her. Ledbetter. The mother thinks she's really hot stuff for raising her kid up to be legitimate, but she couldn't have done it by herself. Her John paid the school bills and the orthodontist. I could have had a John who would keep me like that, but I prefer to be independent. If I weren't independent, how would I know that what I feel for Sidney is genuine? I think,” Birdie said, frowning, “being independent is just about the most important thing in the world. Sometimes. Other times, it doesn't seem so important. Do you find that your opinions change like that? Mine seem to shift with the wind, like clouds.” She giggled. “Not really,” she said.

“Well, then you can understand why I would be reluctant to discuss my wife with Phil. For one thing, he might start to compare her with Dinky Ledbetter.”

“Oh, if he does that, you can just tell him that she isn't strictly legit. She only models part of the time. I know, because her mother told me. Not that I think there's anything wrong in that. As Mrs. Ledbetter told me—she is known in the trade as Mrs. Bedletter, by the way—you trick ‘em, you don't treat ‘em. Though speaking for myself, I prefer to lay down for pleasure.”

“Lie down.”

“Now?”

He flushed. “What I was trying to say, Miss Mickle—”