Etiquette and Vitriol (4 page)

So I tried to go to sleep. But I couldn't sleep! I tossed
and turned. I had visions in my head of Ford in a hospital, or dead in a ditch, the victim of wandering thugs. And then, of course, I started thinking . . . nothing happened to him! He hates me. He's gone. We rushed into this and now he's left me. It's over. I did something wrong. I was too aggressive! Or too passive! Or too passive-aggressive! I went into a shame spiral! And I cried, and I cursed and I prayed to God that this was a terrible dream, and that any minute I'd wake up and Ford'd be lying next to me!

And then the phone rang—thank God! I looked at the clock: six-fifteen. It was Ford! I was so relieved! “Ford! WHERE ARE YOU!?”—I tried to keep the panic out of my voice. I didn't want to seem, for a minute, the overbearing wife. He said he was fine. “I just need some time,” he said. “I'm working on a film and I need some time.” . . . . . . . . And then, he hung up. He hung up. And haven't heard from him since.

(Pause)
Bea? Bea? Are you still there?

BEA:
You're a poet? That's what you do for a living? You're a poet?

AMANDA:
Yes!

BEA:
What kind of living is that? Is there money in that? How do you—

AMANDA:
I have money. Money is not the issue!

BEA:
I never heard of such a thing.

AMANDA:
You've never heard of poetry?

BEA
(Insulted)
: I've heard of poetry! I'm not stupid. I never heard of anyone doing it for a living.

AMANDA:
Well, I did inherit some money, when I was younger.

BEA:
Knew it!

AMANDA:
I have published many poems! I have a poem in this week's
New Yorker
!

BEA:
What's it called?

AMANDA:
Why do you ask?

BEA:
I'll pick it up. I'll take a look.

AMANDA:
“Untitled 94.”

BEA:
I'll take a look.

AMANDA:
Don't bother.

BEA:
I'm very impressed. Tell me. How long did you know “Ford”— I just adore that name! How long did you know him before you got married?

AMANDA:
Why do you ask?

BEA:
How long?

AMANDA:
What difference does that make?

BEA:
Who's the professional here?

AMANDA:
Are you a psychologist?

BEA:
No. I am not.

AMANDA:
What kind of professional are you?

BEA:
I ran a needlepoint store for
several
years.

AMANDA:
And that qualifies you—

BEA
(Insulted)
: We go through a very long, grueling, six-hour training process before we are allowed to man the phones!

AMANDA:
I see.

BEA:
Not just anyone can walk in off the street.

AMANDA:
I don't think a six-hour training process qualifies you—

BEA:
My life qualifies me!!

AMANDA:
And how is that?

BEA:
I am a survivor!

AMANDA:
By that you mean, you're old?

BEA
(A threat)
: I'm hanging up!

AMANDA:
I'm sorry.

BEA:
My life has not been easy! Judge me not lest you be judged young lady is what I think I mean. I've been in your place! I've known the misery of abandonment—why, when my husband died, I thought my world was coming to an end! I never felt so all alone!

AMANDA:
Do you have any children?

BEA:
One, yes, but don't get me started. My husband's death just pulled the rug out from under me—didn't want to do a thing! I didn't want to wash or dress or go to the movies. Nothing. I just cried. I curled myself up into the fetal position
and I cried. One day, honest to God, I found myself on the kitchen floor in yesterday's nightgown, curled up, like a snail, unable to move. That's the bottom. That, my dear, is the end! When you're snailed up on the kitchen floor. I just wanted to die! And I never even cared for my late husband.

AMANDA:
Pardon me?

BEA:
But. I pulled myself up, by my bootstraps and started over. I made a life for myself! So you want to know my qualifications? I've come back from the grave! That's my qualification!

AMANDA:
I see.

BEA:
So how long did you know him before?

AMANDA
(After a hesitation)
: A month.

BEA:
A month?

AMANDA:
Two weeks.

BEA:
You marry someone you know two weeks?

AMANDA:
Yes!

BEA:
Does that seem foolhardy to you? It seems foolhardy to me.

AMANDA:
Well, hindsight is always twenty-twenty, isn't it?

BEA:
Don't be fresh. I'm just saying that that isn't very long—

AMANDA:
I knew him a week!!! A week!!! All right?

BEA:
How'd you meet?

AMANDA:
We met at an installation.

BEA:
What the hell is that? I don't know what that is.

AMANDA:
An exhibit. We met at an art show by my friend, Tipper Bousché.

BEA:
This is a name?

AMANDA:
It is, yes. I'd been dating Cowel Selig, the performance artist. Maybe you've—

BEA:
No.

AMANDA:
Well, that was over.

BEA:
How'd it end?

AMANDA:
He killed himself.

BEA:
Was that last Tuesday, or Wednesday, or something?

AMANDA:
Months
ago.

BEA:
Then it wasn't my fault.

AMANDA:
He died on stage: self-immolated. It was part of his performance.

BEA:
My.

AMANDA:
It was very well reviewed.

BEA:
I prefer a musical.

AMANDA:
I assume.

BEA:
Did you see
Blood Brothers
?

AMANDA:
No—in any event, I went with Binky to the gallery and met Ford.

BEA:
And?

AMANDA:
And I was very attracted to him. He is—very attractive. He has very beautiful eyes. And beautiful hair. And hands. Simply wonderful hands.

BEA:
Yeah, yeah, he has hands. What happened?

AMANDA:
Eventually, we came back here.

BEA:
Your place?

AMANDA:
Yes.

BEA:
What was wrong with his place?

AMANDA:
He was staying with friends. So we came back here. And, of course, we'd both been drinking a bit. I wouldn't say we were drunk, but we'd had some drinks. He said he'd like to hear some poems.

BEA:
Very, very smooth.

(As Amanda speaks, Bea's light slowly dims.)

AMANDA:
And so I read him some poems. I read him “Untitled 24,” and “Untitled 87,” and one I hadn't titled yet at all. He listened. We looked out the window, and from my apartment one can see into the building across the street. It seemed that everyone was home. There were lights in all the windows. And in each apartment, I know this sounds farfetched, but in each apartment there was someone watching television. Every window was a painting of isolation.
Every television reflected blue, onto a solitary face. And somehow, the power of that sight filled me with a huge sorrow—I wrote a poem about it later: “Untitled 106.”—I was overwhelmed with a mammoth despair. . . . I started to cry. And Ford said nothing. He understood. I didn't need to explain; he felt it as well. And he comforted me, without words. He touched his lips to my tears and traced his hand, so lightly, on the side of my face, touching my cheek and jaw, then neck . . . he smelled of white wine and his own body. I felt his lips on my ear and I shut my eyes as he unbuttoned my blouse. He put his mouth on my nipples and I was no longer crying. Or thinking. He shed his shirt, so I could feel his skin as I stepped out of my skirt. Our clothes blew, crazy down the block as he kissed my stomach. I took his head in my hands, and looked at him and his face was very beautiful to me, so I kissed him and put my tongue in his mouth, which tasted wonderful, and he held me from behind, with one hand, while he slid the other between my legs and into me, where I was wet and wanted him to be. He was smiling, like a bad child, as we simply, had each other, again, and again! Until it was morning.

(A long pause. Bea's light returns revealing that she has been deeply affected by the sexual content of Amanda's story. Bea breathes deeply, her hand on her chest.)

Of course later, I realized that if I could see them, my neighbors could, naturally, see me and now I feel compelled to wear dark glasses whenever I put out my garbage.

BEA:
That was . . . very . . . well, there are no words.

AMANDA:
It was wonderful.

BEA:
So . . . you had an orgasm?

AMANDA
(Of course)
: Yes.

BEA:
I never.

AMANDA:
Oh?

BEA:
I never much cared for it.

AMANDA:
I'm so sorry.

BEA:
My late husband was not an attractive person.

AMANDA:
I'm sure he had fine qualities.

BEA:
And that's where you'd be wrong.

AMANDA:
Oh.

BEA:
He had hair coming outa places you cannot imagine.

AMANDA:
And yet you were devastated when he died.

BEA:
Well, as for company, he was better than a book.

AMANDA:
Now you have your children.

BEA:
One. Child. But don't get me going. A meeskite.

AMANDA:
A what?

BEA:
An ugly thing. A sad thing. Pathetic.

AMANDA:
That's too bad.

BEA:
So. The two of you met and fucked on the first date. What happened next?

AMANDA:
Well, the next day, we did, actually, talk. We got to know each other and found we had an enormous number of things in common.

BEA:
Such as? List please.

AMANDA:
Well, we're both intense Fassbinder fans.

BEA:
Uh-huh.

AMANDA:
And we both had rather unpleasant childhoods.

BEA:
How so? Elucidate.

AMANDA
(Irritated)
: I don't want to go into it. I don't see how it's pertinent.

BEA
(Insulted)
: Fine.

AMANDA:
So we were in bed for several days—

BEA:
Does no one in your social circle have a job?

AMANDA:
We have jobs!! We write!! We're artists! We make art. That's our job. People think if you don't make a shoe, or, or a desk, or something tangible that you're not worth anything. We make something for the soul, something for the spirit. Is that not tangible enough for you? Your attitude is just symbolic of everything that's wrong with people today.

BEA:
I asked a question.

AMANDA:
A question heavy with the Sisyphean burden of judgment.

BEA:
Excuse me.

AMANDA:
Where was I?

BEA:
In bed.

AMANDA:
And I suggested that we should spend the rest of our lives together.

BEA:
And he said?

AMANDA:
He . . . —smiled. He agreed. We were married by my friend Caitlin's brother. It was lovely. We wrote our own vows. I, of course, wrote a poem. Ford read from
Tess of the D'Urbervilles
— I have no idea why. And then we were off to Martha's Vineyard and now he's gone and I don't know what I'm going to do!!