Whenever You Call (13 page)

“I guess it’s a play on the “D” of the democratic party and, umm …” I trailed off.

“I could ask,” Jane said.

I handed her a martini. “This one’s for you—can you carry another one out to Isaac?”

She nodded and took the second.

“Wait until I’m out there if you do.”

I made two more drinks, rushed to the living room with them, then dashed back to the kitchen to grab a beer and pour another glass of chablis for Jen. In the living room, I sat down on the floor and picked up my original martini, still half full. I leaned toward Alex and filled her in on the dinner prep.

The conversation had broken down into smaller groups, with Tom and Noah being the loudest. Isaac was talking earnestly to Elliot, their bodies leaning close. Though Isaac had clicked with all three kids, he’d been especially close to Elliot, perhaps simply because he was the oldest of them when we got married.

Of everyone, only Jen seemed like she was in her own world, disconnected from any of the others. I got up, crossed over to her end of the couch, and perched on the arm next to her. She leaned her head briefly against my arm, suggesting a certain receptivity towards me, plus that the wine was doing its magic.

I bent over so that our heads were near to one another. “How’s it going with Tom? I think he’s wonderful.”

I was way too smart to let her know that Tom had come to me.

She whispered, “I’m breaking up with him tonight, but don’t let on that you know.”

I banged her head against mine, deliberately hard.

“Hey!” Her left hand rose and rubbed at the spot.

“Why?” I hissed.

“He’s
insisting
that I try the newest prosthetics.”

I took a massive gulp of martini, buying time. This Tom had guts, I’ll say that for him. Jen had a major philosophical stance on the subject of prosthetics. I’d only discussed it once with her, and that had been enough to terrify me into a forever silence. Basically, she refused to have anything to do with them and her reasons were peculiar, complex, and unconvincing.

“Did you tell him you don’t approve of them for yourself?”

“Of course!”

I waited.

“He just keeps on about it, says I’m being irrational and pigheaded.”

“You are, of course, but that’s your prerogative.”

“I thought you agreed with me about them.”

“Not exactly.”

“But you didn’t say—,”

I interrupted, “I thought it was none of my business. You obviously felt strongly about the issue, and it wasn’t as if I could pretend that I had any ability to know what it’s like to be without legs!” My voice rose at the end of the sentence. As luck would have it, everyone else chose that moment to inhale or exhale.

Without legs
bellowed through the living room.

“Christ almighty,” I muttered.

Noah burst out laughing. “Mom, you are so predictable.”

I shouted, “I don’t
plan
these things.”

“It sure seems like you do,” Alex said.

“I think your mother is very nice,” Jane said, “and you guys are way too judgmental.” She glared at Alex, Elliot, and Noah.

“I do tend to put my foot in the middle of things,” I said.

“In this case, there were
no
feet involved,” Jen said dryly.

Everyone started to laugh.

“Okay, I’m going to get dinner on the table,” Alex said.

Isaac stood up. “Let me help.”

Suddenly everyone was standing and moving around. Tom gave me a panicked look. He must have thought that he’d chosen exactly the wrong person to confide in.

Jen calmly took a sip of wine. She had the most amazing ability to always appear cool, no matter what. In seconds, we were alone.

Hesitantly, I said, “I do think he needs to respect your point of view on this. After all, it’s your body.”

“He says that since I’m crippled and, therefore, make demands on him, I have an obligation to pursue anything that would significantly affect our relationship.” Her voice was hesitant, as if in speaking his argument out loud, she’d been forced to understand its rationale.

“It’s true that you’ve never had a committed relationship where you could consider another person’s needs as equal to your own.” I sipped at my martini, trying to appear nonchalant. The truth was that I’d always been devoted to Jen, and, yes, her lack of mobility had made demands on me for years. But I’d never thought that she’d been selfish. Now, I wondered.

I glanced at her and saw that her eyes swam. I reached over and touched her. “I think you need to relax. In fact,
both
of you need to relax.”

Tom appeared in front of us, with a plate of food for Jen.

They stared at each with such total misery that it was obvious how in love they were. Which, in and of itself, suggested a weird commentary about the nature of love. So it was.

Anyway, I decided to take a chance. “May I say something?” I said.

Now they looked terrified.

Finally, Jen nodded.

“Tom, this is too much, too soon.” I stared at him.

His eyes lowered and he muttered, “Okay.”

I continued, “And, Jenny, you are going to have to be open to someone else’s opinion. I don’t think Tom’s idea that you at least consider prosthetics is so off-base, just that he’s bringing it up rather early in your relationship.”

I sighed with pleasure at how wise I was, especially when Tom leaned over and kissed Jen full on the mouth. I was a mere twelve or so inches away from them, and for a minute my curiosity so overwhelmed me that I stared rather rudely. I heard her whisper, “Sorry.” That’s when I finally stood up and went to get myself some dinner.

Everyone else had already helped themselves and scattered through the apartment, perching in spots where it was convenient to balance a plate. I looked at the ravaged serving dishes. Bits of lettuce and salmon casserole trailed on the tablecloth. Someone came up behind me.

Isaac said, “Rose, I wanted to catch you alone for a minute.”

“Yeah?” I turned my body partially toward him.

“I need a place to stay tonight—all my stuff is gone, including the bed.” He shifted and leaned so that his left shoulder briefly touched me.

“But I’ve got the boys in the guest room—”

“I thought I remembered that you had an inflatable mattress and space on the floor of your study.” He smiled. “I’m not trying to get you into bed, but I have to admit I don’t really want to stay alone at a hotel on my last night.”

I sighed and turned back to the food to pick up the casserole serving spoon. “I guess that would be all right.”

“I truly thank you.”

This new Isaac might be more polite, but his good manners made me squirm. I took a smidgen of casserole and a pile of salad. I’d lost my appetite. Or, gained it, if you get my drift. In the face of his adamant denial of sexual interest, I felt compelled to seduce Isaac.

I
USED THE WORD
seduction
with due deliberation. Though it was an old-fashioned art, I was all for seduction. Where was the glory and fun when you crash into bed with a willing partner? Women today were missing out on so much, simply because they didn’t know any better. I couldn’t blame them. The art of seduction was no longer being taught. Somehow, women were under the misguided impression that they were supposed to be
good
, and
decent
, and
compassionate
. Certainly, I’d learned the hard way that it was important to be good and decent and compassionate towards
oneself
, but the men you bed? Forget about it.

Admittedly, I’d been a natural at it in my youth. It was like I’d been born to flirt. My professorial parents were mortified at the way I cocked my head, opened my eyes wide, flashed my dimple (I only had one, thank God), even when I was seven years old. My advantage had been that I wasn’t pretty, much less beautiful, and that meant I’d needed to discover another plan of attack. You didn’t have to be physically attractive to be a great flirt. All you had to do was
flirt
. I’ve never entirely understood women’s hesitation. Flirting wasn’t a covenant between you and the Other, with rules about its ultimate meaning and implications. The whole point of flirting was its very pointlessness.

I had to admit, though, that age had slowed me. I was conscious of the wrinkles and somewhat dimmed skin tone. I knew it didn’t matter what you looked like, or your chronological age (read about Mae West’s seductions when she was seventy years old), but I had to confess that I’d become more circumspect. Again, it wasn’t because I was determined not to go to bed with someone in my celibate state—that was irrelevant to seduction. Seduce for the accomplishment, even if you didn’t take full advantage of your success.

Howsoever.

In this situation, I was committed to follow-through on the seduction. My rationale, which I reviewed in my mildly drunken head as I drove home with Elliot and Noah, was twofold. First, Isaac said he didn’t want me, and I had to prove him wrong after all the wrongs he’d done to me. And, second, there was the small matter of ongoing celibacy. I was, quite frankly, afraid I would dry up and atrophy. I imagined my vagina as a sponge that was plopped in an old bucket stored in a garage. I wasn’t sure that a lone vagina was appealing, anyway, but dry the sucker up and you’ve got a problem.

My unsuspecting and/or dumb sons didn’t have a clue. They insisted that Isaac join them for another round of drinks. Noah built a fire in the living room and with much tromping up and down the stairs, making my wee house shake to the foundations, they finally sprawled around the room. My ankle felt much better, probably due to the efficacy of alcohol (either the alcohol cured it or simply made me unable to feel it), so I inflated the air mattress in the basement, dumped sheets, comforters, and pillows in the middle, then went into my bathroom to get ready for bed. My usual flannel nightgown hung on the back of the door, which wasn’t, perhaps, the most seductive of outfits. On the other hand, obviousness wasn’t a good idea, not with all the guys drinking together. Even the hem of a silk nightgown, hanging out from under my bathrobe, would be a signal. So, I rubbed cream all over and put on the nightgown. Then I looked into the mirror. The juxtaposition of fully made-up face and flannel nightgown was oft-putting. I scrubbed off the make-up and applied night cream.

Moment of truth. Another unblinking look into the mirror. Phew. Forty-eight years old, two martinis, midnight, no make-up, and bold lighting. Daunting. I grinned at myself in an effort to vanquish fear and went out to check my e-mail.

Rabbitfish.

I keep thinking about music.

I stared at the computer screen, only vaguely aware of the men’s voices babbling and burbling down the stairs from the living room.
I keep thinking about music.
What a strange statement. Was he talking about some specific piece of music, or music in general, and, if so, why? What did that have to do with me? I picked up a pen and doodled without paying attention to the results. My mind had catapulted to various possibilities in answering him. Then I looked down and saw that I’d made a whole note.

Quickly, I opened the top desk drawer and took out the slip of paper where I’d drawn the design left on the napkin by Rabbitfish on Friday night. If I added muscial notation lines, it became a whole note.

Naturally, I wanted to answer the e-mail, but I wasn’t sure whether that was a good strategic move. He deserved to be kept waiting, the way he always, ultimately, kept me waiting. It was difficult, but I summoned the discipline and turned off the computer. Then I sat at my desk, thinking.

I wrote the word M U S I C in big letters on the same piece of paper where I’d doodled the whole note. I added a small “e” after M U S, and got “muse.” At that moment, Isaac’s voice called down the stairs.

“Rose, have you drowned in the toilet?”

I pushed the paper into the drawer and stood up. “What a charming question,” I yelled back.

“Come join us!”

When I returned to the living room, I found the ultimate cozy scene. Roaring fire, only one lamp lit to its lowest wattage, and a very young Joan Baez crooning, “Oh, Stewball was a race horse … ,” from the stereo system. Isaac and Elliot scooched further into the corners of the couch, leaving the middle for me. I curled up, tucking flannel nightgown and robe around my cold feet.

Isaac said, “What would you like to drink?”

“Actually, hot tea sounds good.” I unwound my legs, preparing to go upstairs and make it.

Noah, in the armchair by the fire, leapt to his feet. “Who else wants tea?”

“A good move.” Isaac sighed.

Elliot held up his glass and shook it so that the ice clinked. “Wimps.”

“It’s called middle-age,” Isaac said.

I tried to smile like the good sport that I was, but inside I could only muster gratitude that the light was dim. It occurred to me that I was thinking about my age a lot, more than when I was being a too-too writer. Something about going out into the real world was making me uncomfortably aware of my real age.

The word I remembered the way he moved me around in bed, positioning me with great skill and aggression. Yeah, I was still in the mood.
muse
briefly floated again, and then I deliberately banished it. I glanced at Isaac, trying to gauge whether I was still in the mood. His strong profile jutted out from the rambunctious black curls of his hair.

Of course, I would never have considered sleeping with a former husband if said former husband weren’t becoming a monk the very next morning. This way, I could take my pleasure and not have to worry about the repercussions. While Noah, Isaac and I sipped our tea, Elliot had yet another drink.

Isaac said, “Aren’t you going to feel that in the morning?”

Elliot shrugged. “I never get hung-over.”

“Cool,” Noah murmured.

“Yeah, but the downside is that I take forever to get a buzz on.”

“If you don’t have a buzz on by now … ,” I said.

He interrupted. “Oh, I do now.”

We laughed because all you had to do was look at his body slumped into the corner of the couch to know that he was wasted. His long feet, in blue socks, wrapped around each other like lovers.

I sniffed. “Elliot, are your socks clean?”

He lifted his feet into the air and stared at them. “Jeeze, I’m not sure.”

I wanted both Noah and Elliot to go to bed, but it wasn’t as if they were five years old and I could order them into their pajamas. On the other hand, it was worth a shot.

“Okay, boys, time for bed!” I clapped my hands like I used to when they were small.

Nobody moved. Except Isaac. He stood up like an obedient child, stretching and yawning. I had this vague suspicion that he knew I planned to seduce him.

The boys continued to stare into the flames of the crackling fire, ignoring both of us. The room smelled powerfully of wood smoke, with whiffs of dirty socks and male perspiration folded in. It had been a long time since I’d experienced such an overwhelmingly masculine environment.

I stood up and spoke to Isaac. “Let me show you the setup,”

He trailed me down the stairs. I kicked at the inflated mattress. “Here you go.”

“This is so cozy.” He picked up the pile of bedclothes and moved them off the mattress before beginning to put on the mattress pad. I moved around to the other side and, silently, we made up the bed. It did look inviting.

“Do you need something to sleep in?” I asked while willing him to say
No.

Isaac grinned. “Nope.”

I grinned back.

He cocked his head toward the ceiling, above which was the living room. “Think they’ll ever go to bed?”

“Boys will be boys.”

Suddenly the floor boards started to squeak and creak and carry on. Big boys walking around.

“Huh,” Isaac grunted.

We heard heavy footsteps on the stairs going to the second floor.

“I think … ,” I said.

“Me, too,” he said.

Then he pounced.

He was so familiar, my old love. I buried my nose into the crook of his neck and gave him a hicky that would’ve made a teenager proud. He yelped and pulled away.

“Whatzamatter?” I whispered.

“That
hurt
.”

“S’posed to.”

He kissed me gently on the lips. Our eyes were open and staring into each other. And, it was the strangest thing, but I felt as if I was with a stranger now. What had happened to the familiar sensation of just moments ago? This man
wasn’t
Isaac. And, no, he wasn’t Rabbitfish, either, in case anyone thought my fantasy life had completely taken me over. I lost track of everything. Soon, we were sprawled across the inflatable mattress, bouncing gently as the air seeped slowly from its nozzle. Nothing about the experience of sex with Isaac was like sex with Isaac,
or
sex with anyone else, for that matter. Of course, it was a given that sex was always unique between two people. But, despite the myriad ways in which it could differ, it was also always the
same
.

Not this time.

Later, I thought about how Jen had described making love to Tom for the first time and feeling as though she suddenly possessed legs. It’s not that I experienced anything like new appendages, but I did have the sense that this wasn’t
normal
. Isaac was great in bed, and I’d been with a handful of men who were great in bed. But this. This wasn’t
great in bed
. This went
beyond
bed.

We ended up with the mattress totally deflated into a thin skin spread over the floor, which, though carpeted, still felt plenty hard under my butt.

“I think this mattress has sprung a leak somewhere,” I whispered. “You’re going to have to sleep in my bed.”

He didn’t answer.

I rose up on my elbow and peered at him. “Isaac? Are you all right?”

He opened a single eye. I’d never seen anyone actually do that before. One eye wide open and the other eye closed. Finally, he spoke, “That was kinda weird.”

Even though I had to agree with him, I was also hurt. No one liked to be told that their sexual performance was weird. I pulled away slightly, clutching a flannel sheet over my shoulders.

He continued. “Do you know what I mean?”

“Actually, I do.”

“Maybe it’s the monk thing.”

I sat up and went scrambling for my nightgown.

“Nice view,” Isaac said.

I turned and looked at him. “Now
that’s
Isaac.”

He blinked.

We stared at each other, somewhat confounded.

“I came, anyway,” he said defiantly.

“Are you sure?” I didn’t want to go into details with him, but I hadn’t felt anything that suggested he’d actually come inside me. He’d made all the appropriate noises and body movements, but something basic had been missing.

He pulled down the sheet and peered at his penis.

“I definitely had an orgasm—a really good one.”

I couldn’t help myself. I crawled over and looked at it, too. There was no fluid. A very dry-looking penis.

Isaac muttered, “I swear to God, I had an orgasm. It felt different, but it was definitely an orgasm.”

“Of course,” I said, patting his penis as if it was a good little boy. “Let’s go to my bedroom and get some sleep.”

“Okay.”

I set the alarm for five a.m., which was only four hours away. When Isaac climbed into bed next to me, I expected that we’d assume our old marital spooning position, but instead he curled himself up along the edge of the bed, without any physical contact. I lay awake, sad that he wasn’t holding me and, then, glad he wasn’t.

And that said it all. I had changed. Before this long stint of celibacy, I couldn’t have handled sex with Isaac followed by such a disconnect. At minimum, I would’ve wrapped myself around him, hugging tightly, as if to convince myself that
love
was there, whether it really was or not. I’d been needy for love. I lay next to Isaac and saw that the motivation for my flirting over so many years had been a desperate need for attention. Perhaps that was why I hadn’t been as flirtatious lately. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t intend to sleep with anyone, but more that I simply no longer
needed
to. I didn’t want to jettison flirting completely, however. I was somehow certain that I, and any woman, could still flirt without an underlying motivation of need.

How about desire, after all?

I turned onto my back and stared up at the mottled light and dark ceiling. Moonlight slanted through the window, where I’d forgotten to close the curtains, and cast shadows across the room. I was profoundly awake and I knew I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep before the five o’clock alarm went off. Usually, I had no trouble sleeping, but when I did, I made it into a big deal. Plus, it was obviously somewhat disconcerting to have Isaac back in my bed. I wasn’t sure whether it had been a big mistake, a small mistake, or a mistake
that was just right
to have had sex with him.

And I wasn’t convinced I’d had sex with him, anyway.