OUT ON a LIMB Page 4

  Mother would usually get up and go to the bathroom, returning after she sensed that Dad’s act had run its course, to suggest a nice hot piece of apple pie that she had baked herself. In striding toward the kitchen maybe she’d bump into a piece of furniture which would produce a startled gesture of sympathy from whoever was closest. Meanwhile Dad would suck on his pipe, drink slowly from a glass of scotch and milk, not moving, knowing that Mother had successfully stolen his thunder, trying to understand that every play must have more than one central character. No wonder Warren and I became actors: we learned from the best.

  Mother had done a Little Theater play once, all about a mother who went slowly bananas. Rehearsals took her away from the house at least four nights a week. So Dad began to complain that he never had hot meals waiting for him anymore and that there was dust on the mantelpiece. He teased Mother, said that she was becoming a replica of that “bitch” she was playing in that “damn fool play” and warned her that conditions at home were slowly deteriorating. Little by little Mother began to succumb to his pressure. Her gracefully chiseled nose pinched up when she tried to express herself and her speech patterns became erratic. Soon she agreed that she had become the character and therefore it wasn’t worth it. So she quit the play. She had bought Dad’s propaganda, and came back home to tend her family.

  Growing up, I too did what was expected of me. I wore standard white blouses, unscuffed saddle oxford shoes, bobby sox rolled down over nylon stockings, and pleated skirts that I neatly tucked under me when I sat down. I brushed my hair one hundred strokes every night and I finished my homework and I might have been Football Queen if my boyfriend hadn’t gotten sick the day the team made their nominations and screwed up my chances. I had a bright-new-penny smile for everyone and never allowed myself to get overtly angry at anybody, because you could never tell where the crucial popularity vote might come from during the next election for Prom Queen. I went on hayrides but wouldn’t do more than kiss. I was a good student but only because I learned how to cheat well. I had real “school spirit,” wore the school colors at all times and when I heard the roll of the school drums before a ballgame my heart would pop with pride. I spent a lot of time after school smoking and carousing in cars with boys … always teasing but never going all the way because Mother had said I should be a virgin when I got married, since my husband would know if I wasn’t. Still, I had to sneak around, because Mom and Dad were more worried about my reputation than about what I might actually be doing.

  I laughed a lot, mostly out of tenseness, as a kind of outlet for suppressed feelings that often bordered on hysteria. Laughter was a life saver to me. But apparently it upset people too. My friends took to calling me “Silly Squirrely” because I laughed at most anything. They thought I was happy-go-lucky and my “carefreeness” was a topic of conversation. They said I was “such a nut” which I accepted as a compliment at first until I began to realize there was really something wrong. One day in the hallway I was holding hands with Dick McNulty. He told me a joke and I began to laugh. But I couldn’t stop and with a kind of theatrical glee that I didn’t want to control I began to scream with laughter. I laughed and laughed until the principal came and ordered the nurse to take me home. Dad and Mom only wanted to know why I had been holding hands in the hall. They didn’t seem to be interested in why I was laughing so hard.

  Dick McNulty was the first boy I ever loved. Three years later he was killed in Korea.

  I sat in the tub until the water was lukewarm. What clothes would I take to Honolulu? I had met Gerry in so many places in the world … in snow and in the tropics. I would go anywhere and at any time he suggested it … but oh, the clandestine trips to London! It had become so suffocating for me.

  It wasn’t easy to find an apartment for a week at a time. And it was doubly difficult to stay unrecognized by the press. But the most difficult emotional conflict was our being together in his home territory.

  Once I found a place that was two or three tube stops from his office and another ten minutes walk from there.

  So when I arrived we began a ten-day sojourn, he making subway trips, and I waiting in the dark apartment for him to visit me whenever he could. Why were all the apartments dark?

  I would stand at the front window watching him amble up the road. Now and then he was stopped by well-wishers who wondered what he was doing in that part of London.

  He walked in. I hugged him.

  “I used to live in this area when I was first married,” he said, as he released me and walked around the apartment surveying the bookshelves and the pottery on the tables. He didn’t say much about the books or the prints on the walls but he spotted a magazine that had arrived in the mail. It was Penthouse.

  “How can people subscribe to junk like that?” he said as he led me into the bedroom.

  “I don’t know; pornography is only a question of geography or upbringing, isn’t it?” I said. “A lot of people would think we were pornographic with what we’re doing with each other.”

  He looked at me for a moment and smiled. His glasses looked incongruous perched on the bridge of such a proud nose.

  We made love, but he was preoccupied. We lay together for a while and then he said he had to get back to work. A chill scribbled through me. But I let it pass. When he left I called a writer friend and was gone for the rest of the day and out to dinner at night.

  The next day Gerry was freer and seemed more abandoned. He told me that he carried the joy of our meeting with him so intensely that he had not been able to sleep all night. He said it was an exquisite way to feel exhausted. He said he had feelings he had never had in his life before.

  Around about the fourth day he walked in and sat down with a sheepish smile on his face.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  He breathed deeply. “My daughter went into my closet looking for something in my coat and asked why my clothes smelled of perfume. It caught me so off guard that I acted guilty. I rushed to the closet instead of brushing it off. My wife noticed and I could feel her eyeing me. I said I couldn’t smell any perfume and then she came to the closet. She said she smelled it too. I said I didn’t know what they were talking about and I walked away. I didn’t handle it well. I was as bad as I was in Paris.”

  He walked into the kitchen, tripped over a waste bin and made himself some tea.

  “Well, how was it left?” I asked.

  “Oh. It’s all right, I guess. Everybody forgot about it. I just hate this hypocrisy. I don’t like to lie.”

  From that day on I never wore perfume. I didn’t even wear it when I wasn’t with him. I was afraid it would cling to my clothes. But whenever we had been together he took a shower and washed his hair too. And he always smiled shyly and shrugged at the absurdity of it.

  I put on glasses, a scarf, a hat over the scarf, and went to the English Parliament where Gerry was participating along with the Prime Minister and various opposition leaders in a debate on the economy. I sat in the last row of the balcony. It was the first time I had seen Gerry at work.

  He paced aggressively around the floor as if he were the Prime Minister already. He was so sure of himself that he mingled challenging and aggressive jokes into his speeches and rebuttals. He seemed to toy with what he believed to be the inferior intelligence of his colleagues and his political superiors.

  He didn’t sit in his seat when it was another member’s turn to speak, and when he did sit, he crossed one leg over the other and bounced his foot, his blue socks creeping down over his ankles. He leapt up impatiently, energetically calling for attention. Then he strode the floor of Parliament as though the place belonged to him. He spread his legs apart, stuffed his hands in his pockets and counted the house as though the number of people watching him from the gallery was more important than what anybody else might have to say. And when he asked for time to speak himself, he called one of his opponents half a man, said he was a hypocrite unable to follow through on an unpopular point of vi
ew, whether it dealt with the trade unions, nuclear energy, or tax revision. He took his glasses on and off to make his points. He never used notes. He jabbed at the air. But beneath the podium his feet curled over and under each other like the feet of a school boy. As I sat there I wondered whether he would ever lead his party to victory. He was aggressive, and brilliant. But if the voters ever saw his feet moving and stepping on each other, they’d also know why he knocked all the contents of his briefcase to the floor with his elbow when he finally sat down. It was a good thing he knew the exits in the House of Commons.

  That night he walked into the apartment and asked me what I thought. With my glasses, hat and scarf I didn’t think he’d known I was there that afternoon.

  “You knew I was there from the beginning?”

  “Yes,” he said, “certainly, for me you would be hard to miss.”

  I hesitated. Maybe he had been performing for me then. Maybe he didn’t always act that way.

  “Well,” he said, “what did you think?”

  “Were you performing for me or do you always act like that?”

  He looked surprised. “Like what?”

  “Well, aside from a little Jacques Tati number you acted as though you were the Prime Minister, like you owned the place.”

  He laughed and put down his coffee and leaned forward. “Yes?” he said with an interested gleam.

  “Well, you just seemed so insensitive to your colleagues … calling them half a man and stuff. Is that how you’re supposed to do it over here?”

  He brushed his hair out of his eyes.

  “Well, it’s a game, you see? That’s half the fun of it for me. In fact that’s half of politics for me. I love to make them squirm at their own inconsistencies. It’s part of the game. Otherwise why am I in it?”

  I saw a flicker of doubt cross his face but it disappeared quickly.

  “Would you,” I asked, “have acted that way if you knew television cameras were recording you?”

  He blanched slightly but went immediately to the point that interested him.

  “Why? Do you think I’m too intense for television? Do you think I should soften my approach from that point of view?”

  I couldn’t believe he was discussing technique. I thought it was clear I wanted to know why he acted the way he did.

  “Why were you so combative with the people you were trying to change?”

  “I told you,” he said. “I hate their hypocrisy. I hate how they pussyfoot around. And they are liars. Besides, I represent working people who never have an opportunity to talk out strongly like that and this kind of approach appeals to them.”

  I listened carefully, trying to understand. Perhaps he wasn’t really interested in changing the minds of the Parliamentarians he was addressing. I asked if he was combative so that his working class constituency could identify with what they wished to be like, or did he himself really mean it?

  “Both,” he said. “Anyway they are consistent with one another.”

  As he talked he seemed to be aware that he could be outsmarting himself. I wondered if I should press my criticism, or even if my feelings were accurate. His smile had that same sheepish quality to it. I couldn’t figure out why. He was open-minded about the criticism while defending his strong approach, but there was something else underneath it that eluded me. Something like shame almost, as though he was aggressive because he was ashamed.

  “You know,” he said, “no one else will tell me these things. I mean they tell me not to move around so much. They tell me not to pace when others are speaking. But they don’t talk to me about what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m not even sure what I’m talking about. I only know your smile and something you’re feeling right now doesn’t jibe with how you defend yourself.”

  “Yes. I see what you mean.”

  “I wonder what it is.”

  “I don’t know.” He was uncomfortable but he didn’t back away. I was uncomfortable discussing his political attitudes so candidly. I had known many politicians and they were rarely capable of such self-scrutiny. But I had introduced the discussion and felt it should go further.

  “Maybe, you know, you could be too smart for your own good,” I said. “Maybe you sense that that’s what people sense about you. And whether it’s true or whether it could translate into no votes, it’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Maybe you’re so aggressive about other people’s inconsistencies because you have them yourself.”

  “What do you mean? I’m consistent with my political beliefs. I’ll tell the truth even if it’s damaging to me.”

  I thought a moment. I believed him but that’s not what I meant. I didn’t know whether to go further. “I know you are consistent politically but you were attacking them on a personal level and on that level I’m not so sure you are as pure as you come on.”

  He got up and as he paced around the room he ran his hands through his hair.

  “You mean,” he said, “that I accuse others of personal hypocrisy because I recognize the same thing in myself?”

  “Well, we all do that, don’t we? In fact we usually accuse others of the things we’re most apt to be guilty of in ourselves.”

  “So what am I guilty about?”

  “Probably me.”

  “Well, we both know that, don’t we? What has that got to do with politics?”

  “What about all those phone calls you make to me?”

  He stopped pacing. “What about them?”

  “Well, don’t you make those calls from your office?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

  “So who pays for the calls?”

  “It’s a government phone.”

  “And who pays for the government?”

  He stared at me.

  “You’re making about seven long-distance calls a week on the taxpayers’ tab. That must have added up by now.”

  “What are you trying to do?” he said.

  “I’m trying to see the truth. You called somebody half a man today and expect to get away with it. What if that guy looks up your telephone log and discovers your phone calls to Reno and Las Vegas are to me?” Gerry’s face froze.

  He quickly looked at his watch.

  “Christ,” he said, “I’m late for my party meeting. I’ll call you later.”

  He went toward the door, hair falling in his eyes, put on the trench coat that I hoped would have a lining for the winter and as usual left without saying goodbye. His glasses were on the table.

  I sipped the rest of his coffee. Self-confrontation was not one of Gerry’s strong points. And diplomacy was not one of mine.

  That night I went out with friends and stayed out until five in the morning.

  Gerry called early the next day. “I thought you came to London to see me,” he said.

  I was taken aback. “Yes,” I said, “I did.”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “Oh. I went out.”

  “What was so interesting about what you did all night?” he said. “Couldn’t you find better things to do with your time?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where did you go?” he asked.

  “I went to dinner at the White Elephant with some friends and we talked for a long time. Then we stopped at Annabelle’s and danced.”

  “And whom did you dance with?”

  “Gerry. Wait a minute, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “I’ll be over later.”

  “I can hardly wait.” I hoped he would hear the sarcasm.

  When he walked in I didn’t hug him and he noticed it. He took off his trench coat and headed for the bedroom where he lay on the bed staring up at the ceiling. I made him a scotch and soda. He put it on the night table and I sat on the bed next to him. I didn’t say anything.

  “I’m not a deceptive man, you know.”

  “No,” I said
. “I know.”

  “But I’m acting like one. I am being deceitful.”

  “So what else is new?”

  He sighed. “I don’t know. But it’s tearing me up.”

  “Then tell your wife.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then don’t tell her about me. Leave me out of it. Talk about what’s wrong with the two of you.”

  He stared at my face. “There’s nothing wrong with the two of us.”

  “Nothing wrong with the two of you? How can you say that?”

  “There isn’t. We don’t have a stormy or passionate love but it’s satisfactory.”

  I wondered what I’d feel like if someone said that about me. I wondered what his wife would say if someone asked her the same question.

  “Does she ever complain about feeling lonely?”

  “Oh, yes. Well, she used to. I’m gone so much, you know. But she got used to that a long time ago.”

  “Are you sure she’s used to it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Are you sure she’s not lonely?”

  “She’s never said so.”

  He sipped his scotch for a while.

  “Okay,” I said, “we know you’re lonely, right?”

  “Yes.” He put his arm under his head and said, “But I had gotten used to it.”

  “What do you mean had?”

  “Just what I said. I had become used to it until you came along. I’m not as lonely now.”

  “Then why don’t you see if you can’t help her not to be so lonely … not so unhappy.”

  “What do you mean? I’d be lying to her. How could that possibly make her happy?”

  “Well, you’re lying to her because telling her the truth would be worse, right?”

  “Yes.”