wham, wham—every few seconds he was groveling in the snow again.
Juliette is such a liberal that she gives us not only the same bedroom but a bedroom with only a single bed in it. Beth sleeps on the couch.
Wedged beside Noel that night, I say, “This is ridiculous.”
“She means to be nice,” he says. “Where else would we sleep?”
“She could let us have her double bed and she could sleep in here. After all, he’s not coming back, Noel.”
“Shh.”
“Wouldn’t that have been better?”
“What do you care?” Noel says. “You’re nuts about me, right?”
He slides up against me and hugs my back.
“I don’t know how people talk anymore,” he says. “I don’t know any of the current lingo. What expression do people use for ‘nuts about’?”
“I don’t know.”
“I just did it again! I said ‘lingo.’ ”
“So what? Who do you want to sound like?”
“The way I talk sounds dated—like an old person.”
“Why are you always worried about being old?”
He snuggles closer. “You didn’t answer before when I said you were nuts about me. That doesn’t mean that you don’t like me, does it?”
“No.”
“You’re big on the one-word answers.”
“I’m big on going to sleep.”
“ ‘Big on.’ See? There must be some expression to replace that now.”
I sit in the car, waiting for Beth to come out of the building where the ballet school is. She has been taking lessons, but they haven’t helped. She still slouches forward and sticks out her neck when she walks. Noel suggests that this might be analyzed psychologically; she sticks her neck out, you see, not only literally but . . . Noel thinks that Beth is waiting to get it. Beth feels guilty because her mother and father have just been divorced. She thinks that she played some part in it and therefore she deserves to get it. It is worth fifty dollars a month for ballet lessons to disprove Noel’s theory. If it will only work.
I spend the day in the park, thinking over Noel’s suggestion that I move in with him. We would have more money . . . We are together so much anyway . . . Or he could move in with me, if those big windows in my place are really so important. I always meet reasonable men.
“But I don’t love you,” I said to Noel. “Don’t you want to live with somebody who loves you?”
“Nobody has ever loved me and nobody ever will,” Noel said. “What have I got to lose?”
I am in the park to think about what I have to lose. Nothing. So why don’t I leave the park, call him at work, say that I have decided it is a very sensible plan?
A chubby little boy wanders by, wearing a short jacket and pants that are slipping down. He is holding a yellow boat. He looks so damned pleased with everything that I think about accosting him and asking, “Should I move in with Noel? Why am I reluctant to do it?” The young have such wisdom—some of the best and worst thinkers have thought so: Wordsworth, the followers of the Guru Maharaj Ji . . . “Do the meditations, or I will beat you with a stick,” the Guru tells his followers. Tell me the answer, kid, or I will take away your boat.
I sink down onto a bench. Next, Noel will ask me to marry him. He is trying to trap me. Worse, he is not trying to trap me but only wants me to move in so we can save money. He doesn’t care about me. Since no one has ever loved him, he can’t love anybody. Is that even true?
I find a phone booth and stand in front of it, waiting for a woman with a shopping bag to get out. She mouths something I don’t understand. She has lips like a fish; they are painted bright orange. I do not have any lipstick on. I have on a raincoat, pulled over my nightgown, and sandals and Noel’s socks.
“Noel,” I say on the phone when I reach him, “were you serious when you said that no one ever loved you?”
“Jesus, it was embarrassing enough just to admit it,” he says. “Do you have to question me about it?”
“I have
Juliette is such a liberal that she gives us not only the same bedroom but a bedroom with only a single bed in it. Beth sleeps on the couch.
Wedged beside Noel that night, I say, “This is ridiculous.”
“She means to be nice,” he says. “Where else would we sleep?”
“She could let us have her double bed and she could sleep in here. After all, he’s not coming back, Noel.”
“Shh.”
“Wouldn’t that have been better?”
“What do you care?” Noel says. “You’re nuts about me, right?”
He slides up against me and hugs my back.
“I don’t know how people talk anymore,” he says. “I don’t know any of the current lingo. What expression do people use for ‘nuts about’?”
“I don’t know.”
“I just did it again! I said ‘lingo.’ ”
“So what? Who do you want to sound like?”
“The way I talk sounds dated—like an old person.”
“Why are you always worried about being old?”
He snuggles closer. “You didn’t answer before when I said you were nuts about me. That doesn’t mean that you don’t like me, does it?”
“No.”
“You’re big on the one-word answers.”
“I’m big on going to sleep.”
“ ‘Big on.’ See? There must be some expression to replace that now.”
I sit in the car, waiting for Beth to come out of the building where the ballet school is. She has been taking lessons, but they haven’t helped. She still slouches forward and sticks out her neck when she walks. Noel suggests that this might be analyzed psychologically; she sticks her neck out, you see, not only literally but . . . Noel thinks that Beth is waiting to get it. Beth feels guilty because her mother and father have just been divorced. She thinks that she played some part in it and therefore she deserves to get it. It is worth fifty dollars a month for ballet lessons to disprove Noel’s theory. If it will only work.
I spend the day in the park, thinking over Noel’s suggestion that I move in with him. We would have more money . . . We are together so much anyway . . . Or he could move in with me, if those big windows in my place are really so important. I always meet reasonable men.
“But I don’t love you,” I said to Noel. “Don’t you want to live with somebody who loves you?”
“Nobody has ever loved me and nobody ever will,” Noel said. “What have I got to lose?”
I am in the park to think about what I have to lose. Nothing. So why don’t I leave the park, call him at work, say that I have decided it is a very sensible plan?
A chubby little boy wanders by, wearing a short jacket and pants that are slipping down. He is holding a yellow boat. He looks so damned pleased with everything that I think about accosting him and asking, “Should I move in with Noel? Why am I reluctant to do it?” The young have such wisdom—some of the best and worst thinkers have thought so: Wordsworth, the followers of the Guru Maharaj Ji . . . “Do the meditations, or I will beat you with a stick,” the Guru tells his followers. Tell me the answer, kid, or I will take away your boat.
I sink down onto a bench. Next, Noel will ask me to marry him. He is trying to trap me. Worse, he is not trying to trap me but only wants me to move in so we can save money. He doesn’t care about me. Since no one has ever loved him, he can’t love anybody. Is that even true?
I find a phone booth and stand in front of it, waiting for a woman with a shopping bag to get out. She mouths something I don’t understand. She has lips like a fish; they are painted bright orange. I do not have any lipstick on. I have on a raincoat, pulled over my nightgown, and sandals and Noel’s socks.
“Noel,” I say on the phone when I reach him, “were you serious when you said that no one ever loved you?”
“Jesus, it was embarrassing enough just to admit it,” he says. “Do you have to question me about it?”
“I have
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