Empty Pockets (3 page)

“No,” she said, “that's not what I mean. Don't you want a child of your own?”

“Not especially.”

“Well, I do,” she said. “I want us to get a home and you a full-time job and I want a baby.”

“I'd like to have a child.”

“And a washing machine. I'm not having a baby unless we have a washing machine.

“I really mean it,” she said.

“I believe you. Just don't push and maybe it will happen. I'd like it to happen. I really would.”

“I mean it, Douglas.

“And I am thinking of us,” she said, “for both of us. Either we make it together or we don't. I want a child.”

“I understand.”

She left off the conversation and went into the kitchen. She knew not to argue. That only brought rage from him. She would wait and see.

The next morning Douglas got up without saying anything, fixed his own breakfast, and left for work without saying good-bye. When he came home in the afternoon, he wasn't talking.

She left him alone.

During dinner he said he had some heavy ideas that needed working out, really strong ideas that would push de Kooning to the wall, maybe, maybe.

He got up from the table, went into the living room, started putting newspaper on the floor. Then he tacked up four huge sheets of clean butcher paper on the wall.

She went in and watched. It was the first painting he had done in some months. He worked fast and athletically, a cigarette in his mouth, attacking the paper in long black smears.

She went to bed and read.

Around midnight he got in bed and wanted to have her.

“No,” she said.

“What's the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Yes, there is.”

“You already know.”

“Damn it,” he said.

“Just don't touch me.”

“You really mean it, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, Gwen, consider me in this. I don't know enough yet. I haven't experienced enough yet.”

“Having a family isn't dying.”

“I don't think so either.”

“Then do something, for God's sake.”

“That's easy to say.”

“You make me sick,” she said. “You're so goddamned selfish I can't believe it.”

“You're not making sense.”

“Oh, yes I am. I completely am.”

“Listen, hon, listen. Give me one more chance. I've got something going out there. I know it. Really. What I want us to do is move to L.A. That's where the big art dealers are. It's not New York anymore, it's L.A. All you have to do is get to know one and doors open. It's as simple as that.”

“Okay,” she said. “Go.”

“I want us to go.”

“No,” she said. “This is it. I've moved enough.”

“You don't think I can paint.”

“No,” she answered. “I'm not thinking about you.”

“Who the hell is selfish? I mean, you've had your belly filled for the last six years. Where the hell did that come from?”

“You should go,” she said.

“Fuck you,” he sprang out of bed. “I will!”

“You know, Douglas, I really mean it.”

“So do I!”

She rolled over and turned on the light. He was standing within arm's length, looking straight at her. She got out on the other side and went to the closet, reaching up for his suitcase on the top shelf.

“What are you doing?”

She tossed the suitcase on the bed and stood looking at him, leaning forward, feeling herself losing control.

“Go!” she said, “Go! Go! Go! You asshole! You crybaby!”

“I will!” he shouted.

She rushed to the bathroom and slammed the door.

He left about twenty minutes later, apparently taking most of his things. His big trunk was gone and all the rolled-up papers of new paintings. She imagined she could hear the car still going away up the street, and she began to feel that something inside her was really and finally broken and a sick, shaky feeling came over her. She could hear a car going away. She walked out of the living room where she had been standing by the darkened window and returned to bed. It was totally quiet in the room and she lay facedown, waiting for the feeling to pass.

In the morning when she awoke, Douglas wasn't there. She sat down at the kitchen table and wrote home, asking her parents what to do. Then she telephoned home. “Come here,” was her mother's reply. “If he won't take responsibility, let him go. There are plenty of others who will.”

“I don't think he's going to return, Mama.”

“Come home then. I'll send you the money.”

“I think I should wait. I don't like the feelings I have. I do love him.”

“Whatever you think is best, darling, but don't stay alone. Women aren't meant to live alone. You'd be better off here. If he wants you he can get you here as well as there. You owe us a visit anyhow. I'll send you the money. Take the train. A nice train ride will be good for you.”

“Thank you, Mama, maybe I will. I want to wait awhile though. I don't want to be impulsive anymore.”

“Okay, darling. I'm sending the money this afternoon.”

The money came the next morning, a cashier's check for five hundred dollars, enough money to pay the rent, buy some new clothes, and travel well. She felt momentarily joyful when she saw the amount. It was more money than she had ever seen at one time.

Two days passed without word from Douglas. Gwen spent the time packing her clothes and boxing up their possessions. She didn't expect him to call. She hoped he wouldn't until after she was gone. She wanted him to worry.

When he did call it was what she had expected. He wasn't in L.A., he was in San Francisco, could she come? He was god-awful sorry, he wanted her to come, he had located a nice apartment with a view, she would like the city, it was a beautiful city. Her answer was one more week, if he didn't return by then she was going back home to Minnesota, she already had the ticket. He hung up.

The week passed and he didn't return. She took the Santa Fe Chief out of Los Angeles back to Minneapolis but home was a disaster. Once there all the reasons that compelled her to marry
years ago returned. Her mother was still patronizing and full of complaints. Her father was distant and unwarm. The town was totally unchanged and dull. Her old girlfriends who had married and stayed were dull and married to boring men. Getting drunk on weekends wasn't her idea of fun. Despite a vow not to, she wrote Douglas and closed by saying she missed him. No reply came and after writing a second letter with the same result she called long distance hoping he would have a telephone. He did, it was a San Francisco number, when he answered, almost before she knew what she was saying, she blurted out how sorry she was.

“I want to join you,” she said.

“I don't have any money,” he said. “We'll have to wait.”

“I have some. Dad will give us some.”

“No,” Douglas said, “I don't want any obligations to them.”

“You don't want me to come.”

“No,” he said, “just wait.”

“Is there someone else?”

“No, not at all.”

“Swear to God?”

“Swear,” he said. “Just take it easy. I'll send the money as soon as I can.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Okay,” she said. “I love you. I know that sounds stupid, but I do.”

“I love you too.”

“Write me.”

“I will.”

“I can't hang up.”

“I know,” he said.

But he didn't write for one good reason. He had a new girl, a deeply involving girl. Gwen didn't know this, but she knew what he had done in the past, and as the days passed without any mail she slowly became frantic and began a series of phone calls usually placed late at night after her parents were asleep. Each time Douglas answered he would deny there was someone
else. Gwen would end up crying, telling him she was lonely, desperately lonely. On those occasions when there was no answer, she imagined him making love to someone else, fantasies that gradually began to absorb all her attention.

Her mother suggested a psychiatrist and Gwen agreed. The doctor was gentle with her, listened to her story, made no judgments, told her it was not unusual, gave her some tranquilizers, and suggested, if she could, that it might be best to forget Douglas, take what was valuable from the experience, and think of new ways, possibly, to live.

“It's a matter of values,” he said. “Douglas is still looking for himself. You're not. May I suggest something further? Start school, for instance? We have a good community college here. You're a very bright girl. You'd do well.”

“No,” Gwen said, “I hate it here. I never really understood that, but it's true. I don't belong in this life.”

“What do you mean?”

“I belong somewhere else. Out on the coast. If not with Douglas at least with someone like him. Not entirely like him. Someone grown up but someone who isn't boring, who isn't dead inside. Sometimes I'm afraid I'm becoming dead inside and I get scared, really scared.”

“I see,” the doctor said.

At home Gwen told her parents she wanted to return to the coast, to go to San Francisco. Surprisingly, her father gave her a hug, told her he had always liked Douglas, and wrote her out a check for three hundred dollars.

“My blessings, sweetheart,” he said.

Later that day when her father had left the house, her mother tried to talk her out of it, but Gwen wouldn't listen.

Four days later she arrived in San Francisco and checked into the
YWCA
. For a moment, standing in the lobby, she debated whether to call first or to freshen up and pay a surprise visit. A slight edge of fear decided her to call.

Douglas was home. She said she hadn't meant to startle him, wasn't trying to spy on him, yes, she was in the city. She hoped
he wanted to see her, she had changed, she was willing to live on his terms, willing to live free, she would even work while he painted, she did believe in his work, was he painting, could she come to wherever he was?

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I was just going downtown when you called. I'll be right down, say twenty minutes.”

“Oh, good,” she said.

“But I better warn you,” he said. “I don't want you to misunderstand. I've already filed for divorce.”

“No,” she said.

“I'm sorry, Gwen, it's true. The papers have already been sent out to you.”

“What's that mean?”

“It means I want a divorce.”

“No!”

“I'm sorry, but it's true.”

“You don't mean it.”

“I do.”

“My God,” she said.

“Listen,” he said, “be calm. I'm really glad you're here. Really. Now don't go away. I'll be right down. I really do want to talk to you.”

She listened to him hang up the phone and she held on to the receiver. She waited for the buzzing to stop and then realized she was crying, her mouth actually fluttering. She pulled open the door of the booth and went out, not hanging up the phone. She went back and hung it up. She walked over to a couch by the far wall and sat down.

That son of a bitch, she thought, he's not going to do this to me. He can't. I won't let him.

She got up and walked over to the ladies' room. Going inside she caught a glimpse of herself crying in the long mirror above the washbasins. She watched the door shut behind her, then bent over, washed her hands, then her face, taking off all the makeup. She looked at herself carefully, then took out a small plastic bottle of Murine and rinsed out her eyes. Her face was
puffy and red, and she ran the cold-water tap and splashed the water on her cheeks. Then she took a paper towel, soaked it, pressed it across her eyes. After a minute her stomach stopped jumping and she looked at herself. She took out mascara and did her eyes. She penciled on fresh eyebrows and put on a pale shade of lipstick.

She looked good. Her face was still tan from living in Santa Barbara and her blue eyes looked bright within the shadowed lashes. Her cheeks had color because of the crying. She laughed and took out her hairbrush. Stroking her hair calmed her like it always did.

She was sitting on a yellow couch by the big windows in the side lobby when Douglas came in. She was leafing through a magazine, and as he approached he noticed her hair was longer, fuller looking, and her face looked good, beautiful, happy.

Confused, he gave her a kiss, sat down hard on the couch, said he had only a few minutes to stay.