I Loved You Wednesday (11 page)

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, how about poached, basted, boiled or coddled?”

“No. I mean I’m not sure I know what it’s like to have waves of multiple orgasms.”

“There’s absolutely nothing like it, Steve. What can I tell you?”

“How about sunny side up?”

“What?”

“My eggs.”

“Steven, I thought we were discussing my sexual estheticisms, do you think I really care how you want your eggs?”

“Then why’d you ask?”

“You caught me in a weak moment. You needn’t take me so literally.”

“I’m too insensitive. Forgive me.” I bow humbly.

Chris puts the packages down on the counter and begins unpacking them. “All right”—she sighs—”I can see myself getting no place with you this morning until you’re fed. Honestly, Steve, just like the goddamned animals in the jungle. No soul. No sensitivity. That’s what’s really wrong with you. If you’re not interested in my love life, I may as well start cooking. I still love you, though, despite your hopelessly selfish nature and want you to know that Bradley, the kids and I expect you over to the house every Christmas Eve for tree trimming, eggnog and presents. In spite of your heinous behavior.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Good.
Now
. . . one egg, or two?”

We settle down to a hearty breakfast of undercooked bacon and overcooked eggs for us and cottage cheese and buttered whole wheat toast for the dogs, and I’m not sure who got the better meal. At least Ruth and Harry don’t have to listen to Chris going on and on and on and on about every aspect of the glorious evening before. When I interrupt her over our third cup of coffee, suggesting she finally approach the denouement of her adventure, she looks at me slightly aghast.

“What you’re trying to say, Steve, is that I’ve become a boring old hag, is that it?”

“Something like that.”

“Oh.” There is a long, long pause during which only the snoring of the contented post-breakfasted Ruth is heard, until at last Chris says, “So then he got up, went to the kitchen and came back with this purple jar. Well, my dear, have you ever gotten it on with grape jelly? Wow! . . .” Unimpressed by my stifled yawns, she has again picked up exactly where she had left off.

And so, envying Ruth who sleeps through all this, I sit quietly, shuffling my feet under the table, not listening to the rest of the bacchanal which Chris is reliving.

Finishing her vivid re-creation of the previous evening at last, Chris is mercifully suddenly gripped with the need to sleep.

Rising from the table and walking over to the kitchen window, she stares out at my colorful view of the back wall of the building next door, twenty feet away, reflecting thoughtfully, “Do you know there are people out there in that Utopia of suburbia who
never
do it? Once a year. Passionless. Sex has passed from their involvement forever. Or was never any kind of great shakes to begin with. Can you think of anything sadder?”

“Not if that’s what they want.”

“What do they know about what they want? They’ve never experienced the bliss of glorious sex. Poor creatures. Quite a communication, all that lovemaking. I wouldn’t be without it.”

“You also wouldn’t be so hung up without it.”

“Don’t confuse me. I’m exhausted enough to believe most anything. Good night.” She leans over and kisses the top of my head.

“Sweet dreams,” I offer, looking up at her.

Chris curls up in my bed with the dogs, and I dress and bicycle down to the Floridian producer’s office to pick up a
Barefoot
script.

The next morning I again accompany Chris down to the

Village on that revue callback. And, of course, a talented woman in love can do no wrong. She belts out the songs she’s brought with even more flair and sale than usual. Her comic timing on the skit she is asked to perform is precise and letter-perfect. Even the improvisation—something to do with being trapped in an elevator with three monks—works out hilariously well.

The producers say they’re very impressed, thank you and good-bye.

Remembering the stars are now smiling upon us, I’m not at all surprised when, the next day, Chris calls to say she just returned from her third callback, where she performed again without flaw. She says the producers contacted her agent, a deal has been worked out and ... she got the part!

We cheer a lot over the wires until Chris goes on to report more good news. Seems Bradley just called to say he’s been thinking of nothing but her since the other evening and asked if he could come back to see her again tonight.

Perhaps there is a goddess, after all.

The phone doesn’t ring again until four o’clock.

In the morning.

“Hello!” I somehow summon, practically bumping Harry off the bed in my effort to reach the phone.

“Not so loud!” comes the whisper on the other end.

“Chris?” I whisper back, following orders.

“Yes,” she still whispers.

“What the hell!” I whisper.

“I had to call you. I had to tell someone. I’m in love.”

“Chris, that’s old news.”

“I know. Sssh. You’ll wake Bradley.”

“Where is he?”

“Lying next to me. His arm is locked over my stomach, and I’m having trouble breathing, but I wouldn’t budge for the world.”

“Smart girl.”

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“He told me tonight that I’m so important to him, not justanother lay, that he purposely put off coming over to see me that first night I called him.”

“You call this information worth waking a person at four in the morning?”

“There’s more.”

“That’s different.”

“I love you . . . very much.”

“That’s nice. I love you, too.”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“What?”

“I said that to Bradley. Oh, not that I don’t love you. I do love you, of course. But I just whispered that last ‘I love you’ to him. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Certainly not.”

“Good. He sleeps so cutely. Like a teddy bear.”

“Chris, you’re making me nauseous.”

“Sorry.”

“Is there anything else, Chris? I’m fading fast.”

“Yes. As he fell asleep, he spoke. He rolled over into my arms and said—are you ready for this?—he said, 1 wish I could stay here forever.’ “

“Go on.”

“That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“Chris, I have to be up for rehearsal in four hours. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to continue this whisper during daylight hours.”

“You know, it’s amazing. I always forget how insensitive you are.”

“INSENSITIVE?”

“SSSSSsssssh!”

“Insensitive?”

“You don’t know what love is all about.”

“Well, maybe, Chris, just maybe, one day you’ll teach me.”

“If you’re lucky.”

“If
I’m
lucky? I can’t believe you could actually wake me atthis absurd hour with some
sotto voce
trivia not even worth—”

“Please, Steve,” she interrupts with a whisper, “I’m too exhausted. I’m going to sleep. Call me tomorrow and 1*11 fight with you then.”

“Chris . . . don’t you dare hang up on—”

Click.

“—me.” I slam the dead receiver down, punch my pillow around and, flopping over on my stomach to attempt vainly falling back to sleep, yell to Harry, “SHE’S A VERY CRAZY LADY!”

I don’t hear from or get to see Chris much after that. I’m soon knee deep into eight-and ten-hour rehearsals, hoping we’ll get this
Barefoot
off the ground. All-day rehearsals and run-throughs are exhausting, so my nights are fairly quiet with dinner and then a review of my lines, over and over, until I fall asleep to whatever is the oldest movie I can find on the tube.

As for the kid, she’s in love and off in never-never land, seeing Bradley quite late most every night, then getting up early to travel down to the Village, where she’s started rehearsals for her revue. It seems a promising venture, with bright, witty material, some good music and eight talented kids—five boys, three girls.

They plan to rehearse about three weeks before opening after the first of the year in some small theater in the Village. This works out nicely since I’ll just be returning from the sun circuit by then.

Stuck somehow in between all this harried activity, Chris spends three hectic days running all over Manhattan shooting her Clairol Breeze commercial.

Our schedules are now so conflicting, in fact, we don’t get to see each other until I stop at her place, just before leaving.

Taking a taxi to her apartment, I tell the cabby, “I’ll be down in a few minutes, just have to drop these dogs off, say good-bye, and then we’ll be off to the airport.”

The meter on the cab is ticking, and I leave my luggage with the suspicious driver as collateral for my eventual return.

Chris is running around as I arrive, placing candles around the apartment for her get-together with Bradley later that evening. She seems up, relaxed and truly enjoying herself.

Neither of us could be happier that things have finally started going in the right direction for a change, marred slightly only by my being away for the holidays. But we promise each other a private late Christmas of our own once I return. Chris even pledges to keep her tree up until we’ve exchanged our gifts in early January. Promising to call at least once a week from down South, I hold and kiss her with great affection.

“Good-bye, love,” I say.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” she returns.

“I’ll miss you.”

“And I’ll miss you.”

“You know, if someone were listening to this, they’d probably think we were in love or something.”

“Well, we are, aren’t we?” Chris asks.

“Come on. You know what kind of love I mean.”

“I do?”

“Sure,” I answer. “We love each other. But we’re not
in love.”

“What’s the diff?”

“The diff is difficult to describe. My bags are packed. The dogs are sniffing about for secret places to pee, there’s a taxi waiting downstairs to whisk me to the airport, I’ll be away three weeks, and you expect me to dissect our relationship here and now?”

“If you like.”

“Well, I haven’t the time.”

“All right.”

“Let’s just say for now that I love you and you love me, but you love Bradley more, so he’s the flame of the moment and I’m just old reliable.”

“That’s not bad.”

“But is it right?”

“Partly. What you don’t understand is that my thing for Bradley has nothing to do with my love for you.”

“What are you saying
now?”
Suddenly I feel this paralyzing sexual rush flowing through my gonads. There’s a mischievous glint in Chris’ eyes suggesting she’s feeling the same thing, too.

“I’m not saying anything.” She smiles. “Just that I can keep my affections attached and separated.”

Chris draws closer. Pressing her lips to mine, she gently pushes her tongue into my mouth, and I know I’ve got to get out of this right away or I’ll never get to Florida, let alone the airport.

As gently as I can, I remove her arms from around my neck and take a short step back.

“Chris. This is really crazy.”

“Why?”

“Because you always pick the strangest moments to turn on to me.”

“I can’t help it. I warned you it could happen at any time.”

“But why now?”

“How should I know? You’re leaving. I felt saddened. You look incredibly sexy, and so here I am. Take me.”

“God damn it!” I shout. “I’ve got a taxi waiting downstairs costing me ten cents every thirty seconds we talk. I’ve waited five years for this moment and refuse to make love to you in the ten minutes I could conceivably spare while a meter is ticking off downstairs. It would be more like a stunt on
Beat the Clock!
YOU ARE A CARD-CARRYING LOONEY TUNE AND CAN JUST BE GRATEFUL THAT I LOVE YOU AND PUT UP WITH THIS SHIT BECAUSE NO SANE MAN WOULD TOLERATE IT. GOODBYE!”

I give her one final, very short kiss on the lips and, opening the door to leave, turn back and shout, “WHEN I RETURN, I’M NOT GOING TO WAIT FOR PERMISSION ANYMORE. THE NEXT TIME THE URGE HITS I’M GOING TO BALL YOU ON THE SPOT! IS THAT CLEAR?”

Nonplussed, Chris blows at her fingernails. “Okay, stud”—she yawns—”I’ll be waiting for you.”

Slamming the door, I bang my way down the stairs. Chris opens the door and calls after me.

“Steve!”

“WHAT?” I yell up from the landing below, still seething.