The Dream of the Broken Horses (41 page)

My heart starts to pound as I glance through the sheets, several hundred pages of photocopy paper upon which are centered smaller handwritten pages. The writing on these is clear, inscribed in a fine hand, feminine, elegant, authoritative. I'm no handwriting expert, but the evenly penned forward-slanting script, the even rounding of the letters, and the nearly total lack of cross-outs suggest a writer in full command, inscribing carefully, perhaps even slowly, as she puts her thoughts to paper.

My visceral reaction—speeded heartbeat, trembling hands—reminds me of how he felt when I first looked at Barbara's bare breasts in Max
Rakoubian's
Fessé
photograph. It's as if I've suddenly been transported very close to this woman who has attained a mythical status in my mind.

I take the pages to my bed, lie down, and start to read. Barbara's journal, it's soon clear, is not merely a recording of events, but an extremely personal diary meant for no one's eyes but her own. No entry dates are given, though she always jots down the day of the week. Some entries are terse, while others are long and, sometimes, quite eloquent:

Monday
: Bad dream. Went riding two hours then drove out to see J. Lousy time had by all!

Tuesday
: Played tennis with Jane. Mopped up court with her! Lunch with W. Left him feeling empty & scornful.

Wednesday
: First appointment with Dr. R. He seems a gentle soul. Felt strange to lie on his couch. Felt at a disadvantage. Different than when we met at the school.

Laid everything out for him, all my insecurities. No idea what he thought. Probably hated me for being so troubled in my privilege.

Afterwards rode for an hour, then spent an hour currying and cleaning tack.

Stupid party at L&D's. Dumb conversation. False laughter. We're all so bored with one another.

Hope tonight I don't dream the dream!

Thursday
: W called early, dished L&D'S party for half an hour. Couldn't stand talking to him, couldn't wait to get him off the line. Why do I put up with him? Basically we can't stand each other, so what inner emptiness drives us to bother?

Afternoon: screwed my brains out with J, then felt lousy. He picked up on it, said: 'You know, cutie, we're two of
 
kind.' Hate it when he calls me that!

Friday
: Second session with Dr. R. This time more relaxed. He asked for my "erotic history." Gave it to him no holds barred! Told him about J.
 
No reaction. Then when I said I was afraid of J, I could feel him tense up.

Kids' cute new tennis coach turned up wearing shorts. Nice boy, nice legs, seemed lonely, also a bit in awe of how we live. Afterwards I brought down glasses and pitcher of lemonade. Kids worshipful toward him. What must he think of us? Important not to make him feel like a servant.

It's not hard for me to date these entries since I know from Dad's agenda that Barbara commenced therapy on Wednesday, April 23.

Her entries continue in this vein until Friday, May 9. Then something occurs that alters the scope of her journal, and justifies her hiding it inside one of her equestrian trophies:

Friday
: Difficult session. Dr. R silent. Turned to him: 'I need you to react!'

R asked why I needed that, what emptiness I hope he can fill.

'Emptiness in my wound, ' I told him. The word just popped out of me! I was really surprised. Still no reaction, so I raised the level of the game. 'I need you inside me, in my—' and I touched myself down there. That got his attention!

Drove straight from medical building to Elms. Found J in office, grabbed his crotch, told him, 'I want you to screw me till bells ring in my ears!' J told me he was busy, I'd have to wait. 'No way! I'm not waiting,' I said, squeezing him hard. 'Okay, okay, mercy, mercy!' But in bed I wasn't merciful at all!

Late afternoon, resting in my bedroom, I heard kids playing tennis with T. 'Love-fifteen!' 'Love-thirty!' 'Love-forty!' 'Game!' Hey, I thought, I could sure use some of that love!

I made up a pitcher of lemonade and took it down to them. Three guys, two of my own flesh, shirtless wonders all. T looked scrumptious. I changed into togs then we played a set. We hit the ball hard and sweated like beasts! Great turn-on. Hope kids didn't pick up on it. They're so innocent. 'Watch out! He's
beatin
' you, Mom!'

In the end, I took him 7-5. Afterwards we sat around, then I invited him into the house to shower. He was shy at first, then agreed. I showed him the guest room bath, handed him some towels, we looked at one another, and I couldn't resist. Two minutes later, we were all over each other. And all the time through the open window, I could hear the kids splashing around in the pool, their cries echoing ours!

When we were done, just lying there, he got very tender with me, so tender I started to cry. '
Whatsamatter
?' he asked. 'Oh, nothing. Just that you're so sweet and I can use some sweetness these days.' He kissed my breasts like they were precious jewels. 'I've dreamed of doing this since I first laid eyes on you,' he said.

God! Till today I never thought of him as lover material, even though I did find him cute. We showered together and I went down on my knees on the tiles and took him in my mouth beneath the spray. 'No one's ever done that with me before,' he said. 'Plenty more where that came from!' I told him.

No wonder Robin couldn't get through his mother's diary and didn't want to show it to Mark! It's hard enough for me to read of Dad's growing obsession with Barbara in his truncated case study and to hear from Izzy Mendoza that he wanted to divorce Mom and run off with her. How much worse for Robin to read this. How could he bear to?

On May 16, my biting, indeed mean-spirited caricature of Mark Fulraine was published in our student newspaper,
The Hayes Eagle.

On Monday, May 19, Mark, encountering me between classes in a corridor at school, called me "Jewboy" to my face.

On Friday, May 23, before a hundred or so witnesses, we met to settle our differences in a grudge fight in the lower school gym.

Reading Barbara's account of that day brings back a jumble of warring feelings—anger, indignation, fury, pain, outrage over what Robin told me, and also a measure of regret. The latter makes me to want to forgive everyone involved, including myself. This feeling, which I struggle to understand, is based on a conviction that all of us—me, Dad, Mark, Barbara, and Tom Jessup—were caught up in a web of conflicting passions that today, through the prism of twenty-six years, seem but tenderly trivial:

Friday
: R arrogant today. Did he know our boys were to fight? If so, he didn't let on. But I had a secret and inwardly I reveled in it. T's been training Mark to box, and there probably wouldn't be a fight anyway if I hadn't pushed Mark to call out R's son!

Unable to wait till Mark got home, I went out to The Elms. Afterwards J put on a robe, lit up a cigar, and said he wanted to watch me prance.

'Prance? Screw you, buster! This lady prances for no man!'

'I could make you, cutie,' he said. 'Just you try it!' I warned. Then we both started laughing. We're so ridiculous! In the end, I agreed to prance for him if he'd promise to jerk off in front of me while I did. 'Deal!' he said. So screaming with laughter, we both did our salacious thing.

Driving home in the rain, I suddenly thought about Belle and started to cry. Why did God take her away from me? Was it because I was bad like old Doris said?

Later: At six the boys arrived home with T. Mark had a black eye and cuts on his cheeks. He went straight up to his room. Robin told me he got a bloody nose. 'But you should've seen the other guy, Mom. Mark knocked him out!'

T upset. 'I'm ashamed I was involved,' he told me. 'Was it a fair fight?' I asked. 'Fair as I could make it.' 'Then you've got nothing to be ashamed about.' He stayed for dinner, then, after A came by to pick up the boys for the weekend, we went upstairs and screwed to oblivion.

Afterwards he told me: 'You know there's nothing I wouldn't do for you.' I told him I appreciated that and that what I needed tonight was a warm body with maybe a little lust thrown in.

Prance for him!
Reading this, I feel sorry for Barbara for the way she allows herself to be degraded by Cody. It's not hard for me to feel her agony over Belle or understand the desperation that drove her to seek out a new lover. I only wish Dad could have responded to her with more sympathy . . . though perhaps the coolness she describes is only in her mind.

Monday
: R all too casual this morning. 'You know our sons fought?' I asked. R acknowledged he knew, wanted to know why this excited me so much. 'Because we're at war here. Now our gladiators have fought, fighting's sexy, and I've won the first round.' 'Why's it so important for you to feel you've won?' 'Well, it's a war, isn't it?'

He wouldn't answer. Then we talked about blood and bleeding and horses and my dream. 'For you sex is inextricable from blood,' he said. 'Well, that's nice, ' I said. 'Now please tell me how knowing that does me any good.'

Afterwards, decided not to go see J. Went to club instead, played furious tennis for two hours, beating Jane and Tracy back to back. Later both looked at me funny in the locker room. Could tell they hated my guts. Life's a war, I'm a warrior, and winners are always envied and despised.

Met W for a drink at the Townsend. He's such a mean little shit! 'Watch out, love. Andy's going to play hardball going after your boys.' 'I can play hardball too, you know.' 'Oh, I know,' he said, fluttering his eyes like he knew some dirty little secret about me, something unmentionable. Felt like slapping him right there in the bar.

On June
6,
Mark's and my graduation day from Hayes Lower School, the three adults meet up again, a kind of replay of their Parents Day confluence on April 18. Except now everyone's relations have changed, and other parties are also present—my mother; Barbara's mother, Doris Lyman; and Mark's father, Andrew Fulraine, along with his new wife Margaret:

Friday
: Mark's 6th grade graduation. T all
dandied
up in his schoolmaster's best, too shy to make eye contact. R, with his attractive, Semitic-looking wife, giving me a casual little smile while he put an arm protectively around his son's shoulders—good-looking kid but I hate him for bashing mine in the nose. Then there was Mister Wonderful himself, with his ski-nosed
pupsy
-baby. Doris, as usual, was glacial and overdressed, feigning interest in her grandson's achievement. And W in bow tie,
rentboy
in tow, spewing witticisms—his nephew's in the same class.

Speeches, prizes, diplomas, then an awful celebration party on the school lawn. It was too hot. The kids looked silly stuffed into their crested blazers sweating in the sun. All they wanted to do was shed their clothes and jump into the nearest pool. And all I wanted to do was shed mine and jump into the sack with T. I'd have thought seeing him in his milieu, underpaid junior faculty member at phony-tony school, might have diminished my ardor. No such luck! Every time I snuck a glance at him, I thought of tying him down to the motel bed like last week and riding him to hell and eternity!

R, I noticed, snuck looks at everyone—Doris, T, even my boys. Did he think he was going to see something in these characters I hadn't already told him about? Gain rich insights he could weave into his analysis?

It's probably a good thing he's so curious. Otherwise how could he stand to listen to me ranting on about my creepy dream? Still there's something all-knowing and self-confident about him that makes me want to tie him down to a bed. I bet that would break through his reserve!

Afterwards had to go out to dinner with A and
pupsy
-baby for the benefit of the boys. Robin cute as ever. Mark very manly now. A his usual stuffed shirt self.
Pupsy
-baby pleasant enough. Still I'd love to get the bitch out on the tennis court. I'd tear her apart!

Half hour ago, I called T. He said at school he could barely dare to look at me I was so stunningly beautiful. Now there's a guy who knows how to talk to a woman! I told him starting a week from Monday the boys will be away at summer camp, which means we can meet three afternoons a week at the F. Silence, then he said: 'How about four afternoons? Five?' Oh, dear boy!