playing.
The difference was the bathroom.
As I showered, I was meditating on what elements distinguished Walter Binnendale’s abode from Dover House, my parents’ joint in Ipswich, Massachusetts.
Not the art. For we had masterpieces too. Although, befitting our more ancient fortune, of a prior century. The furnishings were vaguely similar. To me antique means old; I don’t appreciate the vintages of bric-a-brac.
But the bathrooms! Here the Barretts proved themselves inextricably bound to Puritan tradition: rooms functional and basic. White-tile, simple—Spartan, one might even say. Surely nothing one might linger in. But not the Binnendales. Their baths were worthy of a Roman emperor. Or more precisely of the modern Roman principe who had created them. The mere notion of “designing” such a room would have outraged the liberalest of Barretts.
In the mirror through the slightly opened portal I could see the bedroom.
Where a wagon entered.
Pushed by Mildred.
Cargo: breakfast.
By the time I’d wiped my face off, Marcie was at table—in a garment she did not intend to wear to work (I hope). I sat down clad in merely towel.
“Coffee, bacon, eggs?”
“Jesus, it’s a damn hotel!”
“Are you still complaining, Mr. Barrett?”
“No, it was fun,” I answered, buttering a muffin, “and I’d like to come again ’cause it was silly.” Then I paused. And told her, “In, like, thirty years.”
She looked perplexed.
“Marce,” I said, “this place is strictly for the paleologists. It’s full of sleeping dinosaurs.”
She looked at me.
“This isn’t what you really want,” I said.
Her face seemed sort of moved.
“I want to be with you,” she answered.
She wasn’t coy. Or full of metaphor, as I had been.
“Okay,” I said. To give me time to think of what to say.
“When would you like to go?” she asked.
“Today,” I answered.
Marcie wasn’t fazed.
“Just tell me when and where.”
“Let’s meet at five o’clock in Central Park. The East Side entrance to the reservoir.”
“What should I bring?” she asked.
“Your track shoes,” I replied.
Chapter Twenty-two
I fell thirty thousand feet and hit the ground. I was incredibly depressed.
“It’s unbearable,” I told the doctor. “Couldn’t you have warned me?”
Earlier that afternoon, my wild euphoria had started to dissolve into a sadness beyond words.
“But nothing’s wrong—” I started. Then I realized how ridiculous it sounded. “I mean things are going well with Marcie. It’s just me. I’ve clutched. I can’t go through with it.”
There was a pause. I hadn’t specified what I could not go through with.
I knew. But it was difficult to say:
“Taking her to my place. Do you understand?”
Once again I’d acted rashly. Why the haste in making Marcie leave her house? Why do I precipitate these gestures of . . . commitment?
“Maybe I’m just using Marcie selfishly . . . to fill the void.” I thought about my own hypothesis.
“Or maybe it’s still Jenny. I mean almost two years later I could maybe have a fling and justify it. But my house! To have somebody in my house and in my bed. Sure, realistically the house is different and the bed is different. Logic says it shouldn’t bother me. But damn, it does .”
“Home,” you see, is still a place I live with Jenny.
Paradox: They say that husbands all have fantasies of being single. I’m a weirdo. I lapse into daydreams that I’m married.
And it helps to have a place that is inviolate. A pad that no one comes to. I mean nothing breaks the comforting illusion that I’m sharing all I have with someone.
Now and then a piece of mail is forwarded, addressed to both of us. And Radcliffe regularly sends her letters coaxing contributions. This is my dividend for not announcing Jenny’s death except to friends.
The only other toothbrush in the bathroom has belonged to Philip Cavilleri.
So you see, it’s either a dishonest act to one girl . .
The difference was the bathroom.
As I showered, I was meditating on what elements distinguished Walter Binnendale’s abode from Dover House, my parents’ joint in Ipswich, Massachusetts.
Not the art. For we had masterpieces too. Although, befitting our more ancient fortune, of a prior century. The furnishings were vaguely similar. To me antique means old; I don’t appreciate the vintages of bric-a-brac.
But the bathrooms! Here the Barretts proved themselves inextricably bound to Puritan tradition: rooms functional and basic. White-tile, simple—Spartan, one might even say. Surely nothing one might linger in. But not the Binnendales. Their baths were worthy of a Roman emperor. Or more precisely of the modern Roman principe who had created them. The mere notion of “designing” such a room would have outraged the liberalest of Barretts.
In the mirror through the slightly opened portal I could see the bedroom.
Where a wagon entered.
Pushed by Mildred.
Cargo: breakfast.
By the time I’d wiped my face off, Marcie was at table—in a garment she did not intend to wear to work (I hope). I sat down clad in merely towel.
“Coffee, bacon, eggs?”
“Jesus, it’s a damn hotel!”
“Are you still complaining, Mr. Barrett?”
“No, it was fun,” I answered, buttering a muffin, “and I’d like to come again ’cause it was silly.” Then I paused. And told her, “In, like, thirty years.”
She looked perplexed.
“Marce,” I said, “this place is strictly for the paleologists. It’s full of sleeping dinosaurs.”
She looked at me.
“This isn’t what you really want,” I said.
Her face seemed sort of moved.
“I want to be with you,” she answered.
She wasn’t coy. Or full of metaphor, as I had been.
“Okay,” I said. To give me time to think of what to say.
“When would you like to go?” she asked.
“Today,” I answered.
Marcie wasn’t fazed.
“Just tell me when and where.”
“Let’s meet at five o’clock in Central Park. The East Side entrance to the reservoir.”
“What should I bring?” she asked.
“Your track shoes,” I replied.
Chapter Twenty-two
I fell thirty thousand feet and hit the ground. I was incredibly depressed.
“It’s unbearable,” I told the doctor. “Couldn’t you have warned me?”
Earlier that afternoon, my wild euphoria had started to dissolve into a sadness beyond words.
“But nothing’s wrong—” I started. Then I realized how ridiculous it sounded. “I mean things are going well with Marcie. It’s just me. I’ve clutched. I can’t go through with it.”
There was a pause. I hadn’t specified what I could not go through with.
I knew. But it was difficult to say:
“Taking her to my place. Do you understand?”
Once again I’d acted rashly. Why the haste in making Marcie leave her house? Why do I precipitate these gestures of . . . commitment?
“Maybe I’m just using Marcie selfishly . . . to fill the void.” I thought about my own hypothesis.
“Or maybe it’s still Jenny. I mean almost two years later I could maybe have a fling and justify it. But my house! To have somebody in my house and in my bed. Sure, realistically the house is different and the bed is different. Logic says it shouldn’t bother me. But damn, it does .”
“Home,” you see, is still a place I live with Jenny.
Paradox: They say that husbands all have fantasies of being single. I’m a weirdo. I lapse into daydreams that I’m married.
And it helps to have a place that is inviolate. A pad that no one comes to. I mean nothing breaks the comforting illusion that I’m sharing all I have with someone.
Now and then a piece of mail is forwarded, addressed to both of us. And Radcliffe regularly sends her letters coaxing contributions. This is my dividend for not announcing Jenny’s death except to friends.
The only other toothbrush in the bathroom has belonged to Philip Cavilleri.
So you see, it’s either a dishonest act to one girl . .
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