Starting Over (6 page)

Sometimes things go that way. There was another time in Potter's life, back in his early New York days, when every girl he met was in her third year of analysis. Not her first year or her fourth year, but her third year. During that phase, when he met a new girl and they had had enough drinks to get into the personal shit, he would look at her appraisingly and say, “I bet you're in your third year of analysis,” and the girl would be amazed by his insight, wonder how she had given herself away, what unconscious clues he had picked up, but Potter would only smile, mysteriously.

When you got into one of those trends there was no use going against it. Potter assured Marva he would call her friend.

He nosed his newly bought secondhand Mustang convertible down the dark, winding streets of Cambridge reeking of High Karate cologne and cursing the goddamn thoughtless residents who didn't have numbers on their houses. It was hard enough to find the right street, there were so many little odd ones that curled around—it was almost as bad as Greenwich Village, but with fewer lights and more trees. Then when you finally got the right street you'd be lucky to find a single visible number on a house, and Potter had to get out and go up to someone's porch, straining his eyes to make out a faded goldchipped combination of numbers; and all the time worried that someone would think he was a prowler or student revolutionary or Peeping Tom and either call the police or simply shoot him down on the front lawn. Just getting out of New York City wasn't any guarantee of safety, not anymore. You could just as well be clobbered in a riot in Harvard Square as mugged in Central Park.

He was supposed to be looking for a green, two-story house, but it was hard to make out even the colors; in the moonless night, most everything looked grey. In the next block he found something faintly greenish, with a bright bulb lit on the porch, and figured that must be it. He cut off the motor and drew in a long, deep breath, bracing himself. He had broken another personal promise, another one of those “last things in the world he would ever do,” and that was go on a blind date. A blind date with a divorcée who had two children.

But it was better than sitting at home watching television, drinking a continuous series of Scotch and sodas, and, with an incredible exertion of will, making himself put a frozen TV Mexican dinner in the oven, repeating the incantation that If You Drink You Have To Eat. It was one of the thin threads that he felt separated him from being a real alcoholic, and he strove mightily to cling to it. But there were times when, alone with a bottle and a TV movie he had seen six times before and never liked in the first place, it seemed it might be altogether easier and less painful to stick his own head in the oven rather than a frozen TV dinner.

He got out of the car and looked up at the house. The woman and her children lived on the top of the two stories—they had the upper half of the box to themselves. He wondered what manner of lady he would find inside when he opened the door of this particular box—you could never tell from the advance descriptions. And he knew she was in the same suspension wondering no doubt what sort of character would be emerging from his own little box of a car, into her box of a house, hoping no doubt, against all the odds, he would be just the understanding fellow to want to share a box together with her, even with the two children thrown in. Or maybe she was sour on it all and wanted nothing more than a temporary diversion that would keep her own head out of the oven.

Potter sighed and shrugged: Well, he told himself, there's nothing like romance. He had promised himself he would not be disappointed; that he would expect nothing out of the ordinary in the way of looks. She had not after all been touted as Miss Massachusetts, or even a runner-up in the Cambridge preliminaries. And yet, though he had tried to fight down his particular fantasies, her name had conjured up, in spite of his rational protestations, something exotic.

“Hello,” she said. “I'm Renée Gillespie.”

She was in fact, rather pretty; “striking” even would be an appropriate term. Good bone structure, large green eyes, a pretty mouth. Her fine black hair was pulled discreetly, stylishly back at the back of her head, with a gold clip. She wore a dark, handsomely embroidered blouse, and a long skirt. She was poised, but somewhat withdrawn, not out of coldness, Potter felt, but a sense of vulnerability. She was, in looks and manner, altogether admirable.

And Potter was so stricken with disappointment he could barely speak.

In spite of all his intellectual preparedness, the fantasy that had sprouted out of the name “Renée Gillespie” had flowered in his imagination, blooming into some Alexandrian temptress, a French courtesan who had married an aged wealthy Jewish merchant who was killed in some international arms deal, but who in his will had provided her with the means to achieve her doctorate in Biology at Harvard.

Though he had known, in fact, that her husband was a professor of mathematics who had left her for a graduate student and taken a position with a Washington think-tank.

He was disappointed not only in her, the real Renée Gillespie, but even more in himself, for his stupid and adolescent fantasy that came easily from her name. If only her name had been Harriet Smith, or Mary Ellen Klein.

“Won't you come in?” she asked.

“Oh—yes.”

He smiled, trying to compose himself.

The baby sitter hadn't arrived yet, so Potter had to take off his coat and sit down. Renée offered him a glass of Dubonnet, apologizing that she had nothing else in the way of alcohol. Potter accepted; he hated the syrupy sweetish taste of Dubonnet, but he would have taken anything with alcohol in it.

The children appeared in the hallway, staring at him.

“Hi,” Potter said. He forced a grin.

“Say hello to Mr. Potter,” Renée said brightly. “That's Scott, and Teresa.”

Scott, a skulking lad of around ten, glared hatefully at Potter. Teresa, a golden-haired little doll in bunny-print pajamas with feet, sucked avidly on her thumb.

“C'n I have a Coke?” Scott asked his mother.

“You've already had one today.”

“C'n I have a half a one?”

“One's the limit. You know that, dear. Let's not argue.”

“Aw, Christ.”

“Behave now, Scott. There's company.”

Scott turned his back toward Potter, and asked in a semiwhine, “Who's gonna sit for us?”

“DeeDee.”

“She's stupid.”

“Scott, you'd better snap out of this mood and act like a grown-up boy or you're not going to watch any television.”

Renée said this quickly, in a level, heartfelt monotone, and came from the kitchenette with a glass of Dubonnet and a determined smile. She sat down in a large armchair that was beside the sofa, and brushed back a wisp of hair. Most of it was black, but there were these wispy little ringlets of grey right around her ears that wouldn't stay put.

Potter said “Thanks,” and took a quick sip of the Dubonnet.

“Say hello to Mr. Potter, Teresa,” Renée asked hopefully.

Teresa was still rooted to the spot where she first emerged from the hallway, staring unblinkingly at Potter and working the hell out of her thumb.

“Hi, Teresa,” Potter said in what he hoped was a jovial, winning manner, “how are you tonight?”

Teresa bit down harder on her thumb, and slowly, relentlessly, tears started streaming down her cheeks. She suddenly bolted and ran for her mother, burying her curly little head in Mrs. Gillespie's long skirt.

“Teresa, hon, there's nothing to cry about!” Renée said.

“She's a-scared of that man,” Scott volunteered.

“I'm really harmless,” Potter said feebly. His neck itched.

“Mr. Potter's a
nice
man,” Renée said.

“How do you know?” Scott asked. “You never even met him till just now.”

Potter felt a deep, pure urge to smack the kid, just once, as hard as he could. Instead he took a belt of the Dubonnet, narrowed his eyes, and said, “You're right, Scott. For all you know, I might be The Boston Strangler, recently escaped from prison.”

Renée's face gave way to a sudden twitch, but she quickly resettled it into a smile and said, “Scott, dear, why don't you see what's on television?”

Teresa was bawling harder now, despite her mother's reassuring strokes and pats.

“Is he really The Boston Strangler?” Scott asked.

“Don't be silly. Now go and see what's on.”

“I was just kidding,” Potter said.

There was a knock at the door, and Renée jumped up, leaving Teresa to bawl by herself, and let in the baby sitter. Potter thanked God she was fat. There was no worse torture than having to drive home one of those exotic, longhaired twitchy-assed baby sitters after a lackluster night on the town with a harried divorced lady. Potter prayed for ungainly baby sitters.

When they finally got to Chez Dreyfus, and were seated, Potter ordered a double Scotch on the rocks.

“I don't usually do this,” Renée said, “but I think I'll have a martini. A Very Dry Martini.”

“You deserve it,” said Potter.

“I'm sorry it was so—hectic. They're really nice kids, but—”

“I understand. It must be hard.”

“Their father lives in Washington, now, and he only gets up about once a month.”

“It must be tough on the boy. Especially.”

“On me, too. When Daddy comes now it's a big occasion, like a holiday. He's Santa Claus, and I'm the wicked witch who makes them do all the things they don't want to do.”

“Yeah. It's really tough, I guess. I guess I'm lucky, in a way. I'm divorced, but we didn't have any children.”

“Yes,” Renée said, “that's probably fortunate. If the marriage didn't work.”

Potter agreed. They drank to his good fortune.

By the end of the meal, Potter had a sharp headache over his left eye. He had asked for a booth when he called for reservations, but they got there late and had to either stand and wait for another twenty minutes or be seated at a table in the midst of the room. It was too bright, and the talk and clatter all around them made conversation more difficult. You had to really concentrate.

Renée ordered coffee and flan for dessert, and Potter had a brandy.

“This is a real treat,” she said.

“I'm glad.”

Potter liked her. She was gentle, kind, intelligent, sometimes funny; but over it all was a fringe of sorrow that clung to whatever she said and did; outlined her, defined her. It was not self-pity. Potter thought it was justified, and yet it unnerved him. Sadness is not an aphrodisiac. He wished that he wanted to fuck her, and hoped that perhaps he still could work himself into such a desire.

When he asked her to come by his place for a drink she studied her watch, longer than it took to figure out what time it was, and said, “Well, just for one.”

“Sure,” he said. “A nightcap.”

He put on a cheerful-sweet Joni Mitchell album, popped a couple of Excedrin, and fixed them each a drink; his strong, hers weak. An act of chivalry.

“Is that Judy Collins?” she asked.

“Joni Mitchell.”

“I get them confused. All those pretty young girls singing their love songs.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean.”

He knew that she meant she hated their guts. He put on a classical guitar record, and Renée smiled, and leaned her head back on the couch. Potter put down his drink and kissed her, gently, tentatively. At first she hardly moved and then she leaned into him with full force, her mouth wide and hard on his with a sudden, fierce hunger. He pressed her against him and then she suddenly pulled away and averted her eyes. “I'd better go.”

“Can't you stay—a while?”

She sat for a moment, drawing her lips in. Then, without looking at him she clutched his hand in hers, pressing it tightly. “If you don't mind running DeeDee home, and you still feel like it, you could come have a drink at my house.”

It would happen, then.

He took a half a fifth of Scotch with him, and had a stiff one when he got back from driving the mute, gumchewing baby sitter home. Renée had changed into a blue nightgown, a quilted housecoat, and big, floppy comfortable slippers whose fur was soiled grey. The radio was tuned to a symphony.

Potter took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and sat down beside Renée on the couch. Her hand squeezed his and she leaned against him. He closed his eyes and took a burning swig of his drink, then turned to match his mouth with hers. She came alive all over, digging her nails in his back, squirming and sobbing and gasping. Potter struggled out of his clothes, still keeping his mouth on hers, yanking and jerking his way out of shirt, belt, slacks, and Renée wrenched free of her robe. Potter, now only in socks and shorts, fell upon her.

She whispered “Wait,” and swiftly pulled her nightgown over her head; it floated to the floor, making a blue puddle. Potter pressed down on her, feeling himself grow, and she started tugging down his shorts, when she suddenly froze.

“What—”

“Shh.”

There was a creak in the hallway.

Potter didn't move or turn to look.

“What are you doing?” the boy's voice asked in a sleepy grouch.

Potter closed his eyes as tight as he could.

“You get right back to bed this minute immediately,” Renée said in a quaking sort of hiss, “you get right back to bed and go to sleep.”

After a silent infinity, she let out a sigh, and Potter raised his head. Renée was sitting up, but huddled over, her hands pressed against her temples. She looked cold and bony and frail, like a refugee or a prisoner who had just been stripped of his only clothing.

“Jesus,” Potter said softly. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be.”

Potter sat up on the couch. His head was throbbing, and his prick had shrunk to what felt like the size of a cigarette. Renée picked up her nightgown and draped it around her shoulders, shivering. Potter looked down at the heap of his clothes, inside out and messily tangled. It looked to him like a snapshot of his life.