Fear of Dying (13 page)

“There's a guy down the hall who looks like he might need it. Poor slob. I still can't believe you
married
her.”

“She didn't really dress that way until
My Personal Slave
made her a celebrity. She's sort of a lapsed good girl. Not like Lola—who was a lapsed bad girl practicing on me.”

“What'd
she
look like?”

“Another tall redhead like my mother.”

“‘And where is she
now
?'—as my old analyst used to say.”

“God only knows.”

But God must have known more than She let on because Lola saunters in about an hour later.

She's become a judge—a television judge called Judge Lola. But Asher doesn't know that because he never watches TV. She is still wearing her white shirt and jabot—which, on TV, peeks out from under her black bathrobe.

She speaks in an obviously exaggerated Nu-Yawk accent to show she's one of the people. And she has very big auburn hair.

“I can't believe you've never seen me on TV.”

Asher throws up his hands and laughs. “You think it would be good for my heart?”

“I most certainly do!” Pronounced:
Eye most soitenlee dew!
“It would do you good!”

“Lovely to see you, Lola.”

“Don't lovely-Lola me. I just came because I thought you might be dying. You seem okay, so I can delay our reunion.”

“You never know, I could go at any moment.”

“Nah—you're too tough. If you came to my television court, I'd read you the riot act.”

“So read it to me now.”

“I can't endanger a patient. Even I have some manners.”

“Your manners were always perfection.”

“Thanks to Viola Wolf and her lessons on manners, I always knew which fork to use.” Viola Wolf was
the
manners coach for New York kids in the fifties.

“And you got all the forks too, not to mention the spoons and knives,” he says.

“So buy your own,” she says, looking at me.

“We eat with our hands,” I say. “More fun that way.” Actually, Asher and I had both lost most of our silver to divorce, but now that our parents were going, it was starting to accumulate again—unmatched sets. But who cares anymore? Anyway, unmatching is the latest trend.

“I'll come back tomorrow,” Lola says, flouncing off. But she never comes again either—which is a blessing.

“We should have a party for all your ex-wives,” I suggest.

“What do you think this is?”

“A preview of your funeral?”

“The best thing is—I won't be there.”

“How do you know?”

“I don't, but I'm hoping the Hindus are wrong about reincarnation. Enough is enough.”

“You'll probably outlive me by decades.”

“I hope not—especially when I see how lousy my taste in women was except for you.”

As if is this is her cue, Leona walks in.

She is tall, thin, fixed, lifted, and implanted, and again, her hair is auburn. Leona is a few years older than Asher. They have remained friends and are in touch, so I know her and rather like her. She is my favorite ex-wife. She makes herself comfortable and begins to tell us about her protests against the Iraq war. She has become a Quaker. I think I should become one too. Quakers are the only ones, it seems, who believe in anonymous charity. They give to the needy and sick without putting their names on buildings. I like that. They're also antiwar without wanting to be congratulated for it. Modesty is an endangered virtue in our society, and they have it. I admire that.

Yet war has always been with us—and somehow we survive. It's the war on our planet and our uncertainty of the planet's survival that pains most. When Louise Bogan, one of my favorite poets, averred “more things move / Than blood in the heart,” she was comforted by the survival of nature. But maybe we've come to the end of nature. Even our children may not survive. Or our grandchildren. Unthinkable.

We have trouble with death. We think it's un-American. We think it won't catch us. Not for us the screaming and wailing, the tearing of hair, the wearing of sackcloth and ashes. These things are thought to be “self-indulgent”—a word favored by those who most manifest it. But what
is
self-indulgent? What does it mean? Does it mean indulging the self to prevent its being extinguished? Does it mean holding on to one's personhood when in danger of being swept away, being swept into impersonal eternity? If so, then we
should
indulge our screams and wails. We should give ourselves space to indulge our mourning for the individual. Whatever eternity may offer, my hunch is it won't offer individuality. Maybe this is good. Maybe individuality is pain, but let's at least mourn it when we give it up.

I am thinking such thoughts when I come home to our apartment at midnight that night to find twenty-seven messages on voice mail and seventy in e-mail, many from zipless.com. I can't deal with any of them. I am too tired. Ziplessness does not even make my heart flutter. Then suddenly I see an e-mail titled “The Wit and Wisdom of Isadora Wing.” There's a quote intended especially for me: “Sex without love is a cancerous cigarette we willingly smoke.” I burst into laughter. What a wily friend Isadora is! She has always told me she's going to collect her wit and wisdom in a little book—and here she is giving me a taste. I shut the computer down, still giggling.

*   *   *

Belinda Barkawitz, my big black standard poodle, leapt onto the bed with me and began licking my face. How would we face troubles without our dogs? Tired as I was, and even though she had already been walked by that New York necessity, the dog walker, I pulled her pink hooded sweater over her fluffy head, leashed her, grabbed my coat, and went downstairs to walk her. All the dog people were out—the walkers, the owners, the trainers. New York becomes a village when you have a dog. Looking down, you recognize the dogs before you recognize their human companions. I used to laugh at people who disdained the word “pet,” but now I sympathized with them. In fact, instead of using the politically correct term “animal companions,” I thought the canines were the gurus and we merely their disciples. This was the proper hierarchy if hierarchy there must be. They were so much more humane than we, in all the qualities that matter most—empathy, loyalty, sense of smell. The nose is the most primal and infallible organ. If only we all lived according to our noses, the world would be an altered place.

Belinda frolicked and skipped. She wanted to cheer me up. She knew immediately what I needed and was delighted to offer it. Like all poodles, she was psychic.

We met a schnauzer she knew but she gave him only a minimal sniff, turning all her attention on me. Then we met two golden retrievers and their owner, who had an identical hangdog expression.

We met a white-haired lady with a blind rescued greyhound, a gray standard poodle, and a springer spaniel.

“How is Belinda?” she asked. “Have you got her Addison's disease under control?”

“Pretty much. How's Horatio?”

“He's doing well on the prednisone and Percorten.”

“Belinda too. And what about Tiresias?”

“You'd never know he was blind unless I told you.”

I nodded enthusiastically and petted the blind greyhound, who nuzzled me while Belinda repressed her jealousy. The springer pulled to go home. It was cold and the wind was up.

“Night,” I said.

“Night,” said the lady. “Shall we get them together for a dog-date?”

“Absolutely.”

I took her phone number and gave her mine, thinking that in New York, dogs could provide you with whatever you needed in the way of comfort.

We walked home, rode the elevator up, and made weather conversation with the elevator man, who persisted in calling Belinda Melinda. So what? If Belinda didn't mind, why should I?

*   *   *

I'm having lunch with Isadora Wing and trying to evoke for her how crazy all my meetings with the Zipless guys have been.

“He was a sweet-faced blond of perhaps forty. And when I opened the door of his apartment—with a key provided by the doorman—I found him growling and crawling at my feet.”

“What did you do?” asks Isadora.

“‘Hi,' I said sweetly. ‘I love dogs.' But that was the wrong response. He apparently wanted to be whipped.

“‘I don't really believe in whipping dogs,' I said. ‘Not even when they're naughty?' he asked. And with that he peed copiously on the floor. I opened the door and left as fast as I could.”

Isadora laughs hysterically. “You mean you've never met a man who wanted to be a dog before? I've met plenty.”

We pause and sip from the water glasses on the table, rinsing away remnants of the smiles pulling at our mouths and marking each one with our own shade of lipstick. Then Isadora gets more serious. “You are taking terrible risks by meeting strangers,” she says. “You don't even understand the danger you're in.”

“Okay” I say. “I'll be careful.”

Then I tell her I just received a provocative e-mail from someone at Zipless, and that I'm intrigued: “I want to be your personal slave,” it read.

“I don't even understand what a personal slave is,” I say.

“I know,” says Isadora. “They're people who have been trained by dominatrices to do your all your dirty work for nothing. Some people—particularly powerful men—find that attractive.”

“How do you know all of these things?” I ask my friend.

“Research,” she says. Then she adds, “Years ago, I used to be invited to a party given by a famous dominatrix in New York who was desperate for me to use her in my books. There I saw famous heads of companies wearing aprons and doing the dishes. At first, I couldn't believe it. I had no idea why they needed this humiliation. And they even paid the dominatrix for the privilege. Apparently, men who humiliate others need to be humiliated themselves. The human heart is a dark, dark forest, and you never know when you're going to wander into something you can't get out of. I would recommend that you don't take chances. What I've discovered is that men are more confused by all the changes of our society than women are, and you never know how they are going to react.”

“I can just imagine myself trotting down the street with my personal slave on a leash,” I say.

“Don't,” Isadora says. “You have no idea how much trouble a personal slave can cause. They're sort of like the oompa loompas in
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
; once you turn them on, you can't turn them off. They swarm all over and bring their friends. You have no idea. What you have to do now is recognize how lucky you are. Treasure Asher while he's here. He's your soul mate. The last thing you need is a personal slave.”

*   *   *

If only I could have taken Isadora's advice then and there, but I was too edgy, too curious, too afraid of dying.

I do meet the man who bills himself as a personal slave, but I'm happy to say I bring my friend Isadora along for protection.

“What exactly does your slavery consist of?” I ask the applicant.

“I do whatever you need—from housecleaning to sex to shopping. And I am happy to do it for both of you since you seem to be together. Nothing is too much. It's my pleasure to serve you and all those you instruct me to. I will wear whatever uniforms you need me to, work whatever hours, never ask for a thing in return. I will wear rocks in my shoes for penance if you need me to, sleep in the kitchen behind the garbage, peel potatoes and live on the raw skins…”

Isadora and I begin to giggle, at which the slave seems terribly hurt.

“Don't make fun of me!” he shouts. “It's not kind to make fun of another's obsessions! I may have a disease, but I can make your life heaven if only you let me!” And he begins to cry.

Isadora apologizes for our insensitivity, begs his pardon, tells him we respect his illness—and, putting her arm around my shoulder, hustles me out of the coffee shop where we'd met him.

When we're more than a block away, she says, “Do you believe me now?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” I say. “You're right. I'll never doubt you again.”

“When it comes to perverts,” she says, “please don't doubt I know my stuff. I've done it all and find it boring by now. What are friends for but to rescue you from your craziest fantasies? Your husband needs you. I understand that even if you don't. You're just afraid he'll die and leave you alone. That's the source of your panic. But perverts won't solve it. I can promise you that.”

“So you never had fun in your crazy salad days? Never?”

Isadora looks off into space, searching her memory. She's quietly breathing.

“Tell me!” I demand.

“Well, there was one time in Paris with a woman known only as the Countess. She had many personal slaves.”

“And?”

“I was fascinated with her and asked if I could attend what she called a
ceremonie
. No spectators, she said—only participants—and I'm not sure you're ready. Well, that really piqued my curiosity. The Countess was very old and famous for her beautiful dungeons and gorgeous slaves. It took months. Finally, I persuaded her. Don't make me tell you this, it won't be helpful to you at this point in your life.”

“Tell me!” I say.

“Well, her minions told me what to wear, where to go, and when I arrived wearing black velvet, a full mask, no panties, very
Story of O
, they insisted on changing all my attire anyway. I was led through many dark corridors till I was dizzy with desire and fear. Eventually I was laid down on a velvet altar, where a gorgeous young man—her personal slave—performed cunnilingus till I was exhausted. The Countess directed him while she pierced my skin with tiny silver pins. She had various male slaves who bathed me, fucked me, sang to me. It was incredibly erotic, and it's nearly impossible to describe—like most ecstasy. Part of the pleasure was my loss of control. I did not tell anyone what to do—the Countess did. Except for the pins, she made love to me only with her eyes. I had given her complete control and I trusted her completely. How many hours and how many orgasms I do not know. But it was exciting beyond anything—and I've never been able to talk about it except now, to you.”