you can turn the page,” she wanted to take on another.
A Manhattan psychiatrist had told her she was afraid to face the risk of taking on a new family of her own; she had stopped seeing him. It was her money, she felt, and if she didn’t give it to the children, it would only go to taxes and end up in a new bomber or some loafer’s welfare check.
She put the letters into her purse. “Let’s see if the grill’s open,” she said, changing the subject before Keith had time to ask any more questions.
The grill was closed, but room service was on duty day and night. Soon Keith and Sharon were in her room, with a bottle of Gonzales Jerez—the hotel wine captain’s favorite sherry— two hotel goblets, and a dinner ordered from the room-service menu on the way. The room was spacious and comfortable, overlooking the plaza, with large windows open to catch the night breeze.
Sharon poured the drinks, suddenly feeling that they could make love right here in this room, in the large double bed only a few feet away from where she stood, that it could happen not the next time, or the one after that, but tonight. Here in her room, Keith seemed even more masculine, more attractive, than before—and yet, paradoxically, he also seemed to radiate a softness, an understanding concern that put lovemaking in perspective, like a birthday gift that could be unwrapped some other time. She wondered if she was imagining things, if perhaps he was simply being polite and indifferent. But he was here, she reminded herself. If he wasn’t interested, he’d be somewhere else at 2:00 a.m. in a strange city.
She handed him his drink, hoping she didn’t seem nervous. “What made you get started in soccer?”
“Stickball,” he said without hesitation. “I put one through an apartment window one morning when I was about ten years old, and my dad made me knock on the tenant’s door and offer to replace the pane of glass myself. The tenant turned out to be an official in one of the Brooklyn men’s industrial soccer leagues, and after I got to know him, he found me a job with one of the teams as a water boy. They weren’t pros, but most of them had grown up playing the game in Europe. They taught me a lot.”
“You didn’t tell Rachel Quinn that.”
“She didn’t ask.” He raised his glass to Sharon. “Now let’s talk about how you got started in TV.”
“C’mon,” she said, “we’re not on the air. We don’t have to have equal time.” But he said no, he really wanted to know what got her started and what she thought of the business now that she was in it. He was looking around now for his next career, and some offers had been made by two of the networks, so he had a practical reason for asking. . . .
And inwardly he kicked himself for saying that, as though it weren’t enough of an important thing just to know about her, as though he planned to use her evaluations, translate them into numbers in a little black “career options” book, and total them up.
Sharon thought what the hell, she might just as well tell him the truth, so she took a deep breath and laid it all out. She started with the Gillette “Friday Night Fights”, which had been the high point of her grandfather’s week, especially after he became bedridden: she told about the “Camel Caravan” nightly news, with John Cameron Swayze, that her parents never missed; about the Wednesday nights when family troubles would be forgotten during an hour of “Disneyland.”
She had reached college still thinking television was magic, taken all the journalism and broadcasting courses her state university had to offer, and directed two student projects her senior year, one of which got an award from a New York State journalists’ association. One of the judges was a producer at WOR, a Manhattan independent TV station. Six years later, when she was a widow in Manhattan looking for a job, he remembered her well enough to take her on as a production assistant.
A Manhattan psychiatrist had told her she was afraid to face the risk of taking on a new family of her own; she had stopped seeing him. It was her money, she felt, and if she didn’t give it to the children, it would only go to taxes and end up in a new bomber or some loafer’s welfare check.
She put the letters into her purse. “Let’s see if the grill’s open,” she said, changing the subject before Keith had time to ask any more questions.
The grill was closed, but room service was on duty day and night. Soon Keith and Sharon were in her room, with a bottle of Gonzales Jerez—the hotel wine captain’s favorite sherry— two hotel goblets, and a dinner ordered from the room-service menu on the way. The room was spacious and comfortable, overlooking the plaza, with large windows open to catch the night breeze.
Sharon poured the drinks, suddenly feeling that they could make love right here in this room, in the large double bed only a few feet away from where she stood, that it could happen not the next time, or the one after that, but tonight. Here in her room, Keith seemed even more masculine, more attractive, than before—and yet, paradoxically, he also seemed to radiate a softness, an understanding concern that put lovemaking in perspective, like a birthday gift that could be unwrapped some other time. She wondered if she was imagining things, if perhaps he was simply being polite and indifferent. But he was here, she reminded herself. If he wasn’t interested, he’d be somewhere else at 2:00 a.m. in a strange city.
She handed him his drink, hoping she didn’t seem nervous. “What made you get started in soccer?”
“Stickball,” he said without hesitation. “I put one through an apartment window one morning when I was about ten years old, and my dad made me knock on the tenant’s door and offer to replace the pane of glass myself. The tenant turned out to be an official in one of the Brooklyn men’s industrial soccer leagues, and after I got to know him, he found me a job with one of the teams as a water boy. They weren’t pros, but most of them had grown up playing the game in Europe. They taught me a lot.”
“You didn’t tell Rachel Quinn that.”
“She didn’t ask.” He raised his glass to Sharon. “Now let’s talk about how you got started in TV.”
“C’mon,” she said, “we’re not on the air. We don’t have to have equal time.” But he said no, he really wanted to know what got her started and what she thought of the business now that she was in it. He was looking around now for his next career, and some offers had been made by two of the networks, so he had a practical reason for asking. . . .
And inwardly he kicked himself for saying that, as though it weren’t enough of an important thing just to know about her, as though he planned to use her evaluations, translate them into numbers in a little black “career options” book, and total them up.
Sharon thought what the hell, she might just as well tell him the truth, so she took a deep breath and laid it all out. She started with the Gillette “Friday Night Fights”, which had been the high point of her grandfather’s week, especially after he became bedridden: she told about the “Camel Caravan” nightly news, with John Cameron Swayze, that her parents never missed; about the Wednesday nights when family troubles would be forgotten during an hour of “Disneyland.”
She had reached college still thinking television was magic, taken all the journalism and broadcasting courses her state university had to offer, and directed two student projects her senior year, one of which got an award from a New York State journalists’ association. One of the judges was a producer at WOR, a Manhattan independent TV station. Six years later, when she was a widow in Manhattan looking for a job, he remembered her well enough to take her on as a production assistant.
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