Kramer vs. Kramer by Avery Corman Page A

from the party, even by someone who could not hold on to her name. They leaned against a fence in the dark, and he put his fingers in her again—tacky Ocean Beach—he felt as tacky as the town.
    The lights had gone out in his house, and he took her by the arm.
    “I’ve got a room.”
    “What about your little boy?”
    “He won’t wake up.”
    He sneaked her into the house, into his room, into the bed next to Billy, with the child snoring away, and trying to keep the sheet over them, so if Billy would wake up he would see a sheet and not a person—hopefully he would not think it was a ghost—and moving gingerly so the squeaking bed would not squeak too loudly, he kissed her a few times more, for show, and then entered her. He came in a rush, almost as soon as he was in her.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s been a long time for me.”
    “It’s okay,” she said.
    And there they were, pushed together in a narrow bed, hiding under a sheet next to a snoring child. Ted waited and then started to try again, the bed squeaked, Billy was moving in his sleep, and she had had enough of island romance for one night. “You stay,” she said and straightened her clothes, which were never fully off. He pulled on his clothes, which were never fully off either, and because You Take A Lady Home, he walked her back in silence. The party at her house was still going on. He kissed her. She kissed him back perfunctorily and went inside. Within five minutes he was back in bed next to Billy.
    They passed on the walk the next day, said hello and lowered their eyes, not a meaningful relationship there, scarcely a one-night stand. Cynthia, whose name he was forgetting even when he was with her, represented more than he wished for, however. He had been with his first woman since Joanna. He could accomplish this with more grace next time, more affection, do it better—but it would be with someone else, not with Joanna, never again with Joanna. He had been holding himself off from accepting this, and now he had crossed over. His wife had left him, and if your wife leaves you, somewhere along the line you have to begin to deal with other women. He was right back in the singles’ scene.
    If he had been seduced into believing that all he had to do was show up at a party and end up in bed with someone, he would learn otherwise at the next weekend’s cocktail party where no one was enthralled with him, and the weekend after that, and the Labor Day weekend when everybody scrambled around to make connections, and he stood out in the walk at twilight with a drink in his hand watching people on their way to house parties, stopping the most elegant-looking person he had seen in weeks, a pretty girl in a white dress. He complimented her on how pretty she was and she smiled and did not seem at all uninterested, but she was on her way to this party and he could not go. He watched her leave, not to meet up with her again because he had a four-year-old boy in the house who had just thrown up on the living room floor and was resting in his room, and his daddy could not leave him to chase phantom ladies in white. Watching people on their way to the summer’s last parties, he envied them for how simple it was to be on their own, with only themselves to worry about, while he could not even stroll down the walk.
    “How are you doing, pussycat?”
    “I’m sick, Daddy.”
    “I know. I think you ate too much popcorn at Joey’s house.”
    “I ate too much popcorn at Joey’s house.”
    “Try to sleep now, honey. Tomorrow is our last day here. We’ll have a good time. We’ll build the biggest sand-castle of the summer.”
    “I don’t want to go home.”
    “Well, it’s going to be the fall. The fall is terrific in New York. So go to sleep now.”
    “Sit here, Daddy, until I fall asleep.”
    “Okay, pussycat.”
    “I ate too much popcorn at Joey’s house.”
    O N THE LAST DAY at Chez Gloria, Ellen, the editor, who had not really met one person