repeated.
I winced and grabbed my thumb, removing it from view, but already Lorna Sue had performed a rapid medical survey. The concern in her eyes turned to skepticism, then faded into something for which there is no adequate piece of language—something sad and weary and resigned and knowledgeable. A child, yes. But she looked at me with exactly the same expression I would encounter four decades later, on a Tuesday afternoon, the ninth day of July, when she turned her back and walked out on me forever.
As an adult, she said: “Don’t be an eighteen-year-old.”
As a child, in the attic that day, she said: “You’re a liar, Tommy.”
Mrs. Robert Kooshof removed my feet from her breasts, stepped out of the tub, and began drying herself with a large monogrammed towel.
“What a jerk,” she muttered. “I was totally patient with you—I sat there like some idiot psychiatrist—and what’s the upshot? You told her a dumb fib. So what? I mean, you could’ve explained
that
in ten seconds.”
“I’m a wordsmith,” I said. “It takes time.”
Mrs. Kooshof wrapped the towel around her splendidly proportioned upper torso. With a distinct growl, she reached down, turned on the cold water, and left me to the pneumonia bugs.
Dumb fib?
Mrs. Robert Kooshof had missed the point.
A pattern was established on that Saturday morning. Issues of trust, issues of faith.
If necessary, we will lie to win love. We will lie to keep love.
(
Cat
becomes
mattress
.)
Granted, Vanilla had not bitten me—my own fault—but why should a mere accident jeopardize the world’s greatest romance? Why should I (or anyone) be condemned by a fleeting lapse of concentration? Why should I (or you) be judged by a piece of bad luck, a fluke of physics, a momentary miscalculation? Under such circumstances,
is
it truly a crime to rescue oneself with a modest little lie?
Apparently so.
I t was not until evening that Mrs. Kooshof spoke to me again. I poured on the charm. I followed her around the house in my underwear. Persuasively, like the teacher I am, I insisted that the fate of that poor, crushed cat was entirely relevant to the collapse of my marriage years later. Without such detail, I asked, how could she expect to understand the human being she’d found weeping in her backyard?
None of this helped.
Mrs. Kooshof remained incommunicative, silent as stone, and in the end I was compelled to grovel. I did the tear thing, pleaded for a final chance—a first-rate performance—and near dinnertime Mrs. Kooshof relented. “All right,” she said. “One chance. Divorce. What did you
do
to her?”
I hesitated.
“A long story,” I said.
(The truth, to put it squarely, is that I have always had troublewith the truth. Confession is not to my taste. I fear ridicule; I fear embarrassment.)
Mrs. Kooshof may well have suspected my dilemma. The wrinkles along her eyes seemed to soften. “You stepped out on her?” she said quietly. “Had a fling?”
“Never.”
“Secret love letters?”
“Hardly,” I said. Then to my surprise I added: “The betraying little saint wanted me to see a psychiatrist. A counselor! She thought I was—you know—thought I was losing my grip. Thought I was paranoid. Jealous of Herbie, jealous of a hairy goddamn tycoon. Ridiculous! I
told
you, didn’t I? Right at the start didn’t I tell you point-blank how ridiculous it was? Absurd! You
heard
me, right?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Kooshof.
“Do I
look
paranoid?”
“Well—”
“Totally nuts! Lorna Sue, I mean.” My voice had shuttled up to a high register, quavering. “Believe me, it was a nightmare. She said she’d leave me if I didn’t get help.
Her
phrase—‘Get help.’ What could I do? I faked it. Made up a few stories. So
what
?”
“What sort of stories?”
“Well, you know—the counselor kind. Told her I was busy getting analyzed. Very helpful, I told her. Except one day Lorna Sue picked up the checkbook, asked why I wasn’t
I winced and grabbed my thumb, removing it from view, but already Lorna Sue had performed a rapid medical survey. The concern in her eyes turned to skepticism, then faded into something for which there is no adequate piece of language—something sad and weary and resigned and knowledgeable. A child, yes. But she looked at me with exactly the same expression I would encounter four decades later, on a Tuesday afternoon, the ninth day of July, when she turned her back and walked out on me forever.
As an adult, she said: “Don’t be an eighteen-year-old.”
As a child, in the attic that day, she said: “You’re a liar, Tommy.”
Mrs. Robert Kooshof removed my feet from her breasts, stepped out of the tub, and began drying herself with a large monogrammed towel.
“What a jerk,” she muttered. “I was totally patient with you—I sat there like some idiot psychiatrist—and what’s the upshot? You told her a dumb fib. So what? I mean, you could’ve explained
that
in ten seconds.”
“I’m a wordsmith,” I said. “It takes time.”
Mrs. Kooshof wrapped the towel around her splendidly proportioned upper torso. With a distinct growl, she reached down, turned on the cold water, and left me to the pneumonia bugs.
Dumb fib?
Mrs. Robert Kooshof had missed the point.
A pattern was established on that Saturday morning. Issues of trust, issues of faith.
If necessary, we will lie to win love. We will lie to keep love.
(
Cat
becomes
mattress
.)
Granted, Vanilla had not bitten me—my own fault—but why should a mere accident jeopardize the world’s greatest romance? Why should I (or anyone) be condemned by a fleeting lapse of concentration? Why should I (or you) be judged by a piece of bad luck, a fluke of physics, a momentary miscalculation? Under such circumstances,
is
it truly a crime to rescue oneself with a modest little lie?
Apparently so.
I t was not until evening that Mrs. Kooshof spoke to me again. I poured on the charm. I followed her around the house in my underwear. Persuasively, like the teacher I am, I insisted that the fate of that poor, crushed cat was entirely relevant to the collapse of my marriage years later. Without such detail, I asked, how could she expect to understand the human being she’d found weeping in her backyard?
None of this helped.
Mrs. Kooshof remained incommunicative, silent as stone, and in the end I was compelled to grovel. I did the tear thing, pleaded for a final chance—a first-rate performance—and near dinnertime Mrs. Kooshof relented. “All right,” she said. “One chance. Divorce. What did you
do
to her?”
I hesitated.
“A long story,” I said.
(The truth, to put it squarely, is that I have always had troublewith the truth. Confession is not to my taste. I fear ridicule; I fear embarrassment.)
Mrs. Kooshof may well have suspected my dilemma. The wrinkles along her eyes seemed to soften. “You stepped out on her?” she said quietly. “Had a fling?”
“Never.”
“Secret love letters?”
“Hardly,” I said. Then to my surprise I added: “The betraying little saint wanted me to see a psychiatrist. A counselor! She thought I was—you know—thought I was losing my grip. Thought I was paranoid. Jealous of Herbie, jealous of a hairy goddamn tycoon. Ridiculous! I
told
you, didn’t I? Right at the start didn’t I tell you point-blank how ridiculous it was? Absurd! You
heard
me, right?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Kooshof.
“Do I
look
paranoid?”
“Well—”
“Totally nuts! Lorna Sue, I mean.” My voice had shuttled up to a high register, quavering. “Believe me, it was a nightmare. She said she’d leave me if I didn’t get help.
Her
phrase—‘Get help.’ What could I do? I faked it. Made up a few stories. So
what
?”
“What sort of stories?”
“Well, you know—the counselor kind. Told her I was busy getting analyzed. Very helpful, I told her. Except one day Lorna Sue picked up the checkbook, asked why I wasn’t
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