Moving On (57 page)

“No. There’s too much junk to take. I doubt there’s even a diaper service there.”

The argument soon trickled off without ever having become intense. Jim just went to sleep. Father and son were both asleep and she got up to check on the latter. She dug his pacifier out from under his neck, where it had fallen. Asleep, he resembled his father. She wondered if they were to have a little girl how she would look. Then, standing by the baby bed with the pacifier in her hand, idly watching the butterfly mobile suspended over the bed, contemplating a baby girl—that would surely necessitate getting a house—it occurred to her that their sex life had stopped. Jim had not made love to her since Davey was born, and Davey was three months old. It had occurred to her before, a time or two, but something had always come up to distract her and she had just not thought about sex very much.

Puzzled and a little disturbed, she put the pacifier back on the baby bed and went to the kitchen. She got herself an orange and sat at the table peeling and eating it. Of all things she had not expected to feel again, neglected was certainly one, and she tried to decide whether it was really neglect, or what. She had never supposed they were the most frequent couple in the world, but four months or however long it had been seemed an unnaturally long time for a man to do without. Before Davey was born it was quite understandable—besides being huge she had also been cold and negative and bitchy. But she was none of those things any more. Everyone told her she looked marvelous and with Davey turning out so splendidly she had never felt more in favor of life and love and bodily pleasure and all. They had had their bad times sexually in the past, but she didn’t feel discouraged, not at all. Remote bad times were scarcely a reason to stop doing it completely.

But then, perhaps, there was no reason for her to become anxious either. There might be a natural explanation that she was ignorant of. Jim might be jealous of Davey, or inhibited by him, or something, though he had shown no sign that he was. It might be that he was tired. For a time he had gone to bed early, to get a head start on the feedings. But all that was past. He never awoke for the early feeding. She and Davey sat in the rocker and he slept. It couldn’t really be fatigue. She could not understand why he had stopped wanting her just at a time when it seemed to her she was most wantable.

She brushed her teeth and went to bed but remained wakeful, unable to make sense out of it. He was going away in ten days. Things had been so nice—she didn’t want any problems. She felt almost like waking him and seducing him, just so she would know there weren’t really any problems. But he didn’t like being awakened, and anyway, that was not the way things were supposed to be.

Two more days went by, and she brooded and became more and more conscious that Jim’s politeness, considerateness, and general pleasantness contained an element of reserve—an element new to their relationship. They not only didn’t make love, they didn’t even fight. Such tiny arguing points as came up he toned down immediately. It was puzzling and frightening, the more so because on the second day she presented him, it seemed to her brazenly, a chance to make love to her and he politely ignored it.

They had gone out with the Hortons to celebrate the end of the semester. Jim hadn’t been too enthusiastic, but Patsy had. She was eager for some night life. They went to a good cheap restaurant owned by a family of Argentinians, and as the evening went on one of the young men brought out a guitar and the Argentinians began to sing wild, wailing Argentine songs. They danced and yelled and the Hortons got tight. Patsy was high herself, not so much from liquor as from general gaiety. She was wearing a new red dress and could tell from the way the young Latins looked at her that it was a great success. Jim was quiet and withdrawn but did not seem to be unhappy. Not long before they left, one of the young men came over, made her a little bow, and asked very politely if she would care to dance. The Hortons urged her to, loudly, and Jim didn’t care, so she danced. The men all bowed to her and the man with the guitar played another wild song. She didn’t dance very well to it, but she looked very well and the family was all grins, white teeth, black hair, and politeness; the heavy-bosomed Latin women were dancing too and it was all fun.

She felt a little giddy; later, when they were home, she had a hard time toning down. Davey was sleeping. She felt like dancing some more and put on a record. Jim was making out bills. He had begun a systematic tying of loose ends in preparation for leaving. Patsy danced a little in her slip and then washed her face and went in the kitchen to see what was in the refrigerator. She loved late snacks. There was a bunch of green seedless grapes she had bought that day, the first green grapes of the summer. She broke off a sizable stem and got a couple of napkins and took the grapes to bed. She put on her gown and sat in bed eating the sweet grapes and putting the little stems on the yellow napkins. Jim had finished and was brushing his teeth. When he came in he glanced at her, stole a grape, and picked up
The White Nile
, which he was rereading. It was a close, still night, but not quite hot enough for the air conditioner, which sometimes made them too cold. She took her gown off. “You shouldn’t eat that grape,” she said. “You just brushed your teeth.” She leaned over and gave him a quick kiss.

“These grapes are juicy,” she said. “I love you—I don’t know if I’ve told you recently. Things are so good now. Talk to me a little. Do you feel I neglect you? Maybe I’ve been so taken up with Davey I haven’t been fun for you.”

“Sure, you’re fun,” he said, stealing another grape.

“You worked pretty hard all year,” she said. “You deserve a wife who’s fun for you.”

“You’re fun, you’re fun,” he said. “Don’t get frantic about it.”

“I’m just bubbling,” she said. “I think I read too much last winter. I’ve burned out on it. Now I feel like doing things. Especially things for you and Davey.”

“I know, you’re a regular horn of plenty,” he said. “Give me a few more grapes.” They sat and ate the grapes until the stems were bare. Patsy wiped her fingers on the napkin and looked down at herself.

“I have more pubic hair now than I did before Davey was born,” she said.

“An amazing growth,” Jim said, glancing at her briefly.

She felt too good to feel rejected; her spirits didn’t sink. She got up to look at Davey. “The lot of women,” she said. “We bear your children and you lose interest in us. I never thought I’d see the day when the region of the Nile was of more interest to you than the region of me.” But Jim didn’t hear. They both read awhile before going to sleep.

The next day, thinking back on it, her spirits did sink. He just didn’t want to make love to her. At least the idea that he didn’t had to be entertained. He had always wanted to make love to her. In earlier times the reluctance had always been hers. She was no longer wanted—or else she was being punished.

Once that thought struck her, it seemed the more probable theory. Somehow or other he had found out about Hank and instead of bringing the knowledge out into the open he was giving her the silent treatment. He was going to go away and leave her in silence for six weeks, to pay her back. Someone must have seen them and told him.

She felt guilty and blue all afternoon and cried. Her mood didn’t mesh with Davey’s—he was all smiles and gurgles. But in time her guilt gave way to irritation at Jim. What a way to treat it! He could have beaten her, yelled at her, left her; instead, he was punishing her with politeness. He could have been wildly angry, at the very least. His politeness merely showed his true colors, she decided; probably he didn’t particularly want her any more and was only punishing her for having dealt a blow to his dignity.

She held her peace until bedtime, alternately furious and fearful. The thought of how guilty she was held her in check. She resolved to forget it, to say nothing, but then the sight of Jim—quiet, polite, self-satisfied, morally inviolable, preoccupied with his own work and his own virtue—the sight of him made her tremble with irritation. Even if she were sinful she deserved better treatment. Rage or forgiveness or something, not polite chill. When they were in bed, this time Jim with a napkin full of grapes and, once again,
The White Nile
, she sat nervously fiddling with the hem of her gown. Finally she decided to have it out.

“Look,” she said. “You’re going away next week, right?”

“Right,” he said, not looking up.

“Look, talk to me,” she said. “I want to know. Are you punishing me for some reason?”

“Why should I punish you?” he asked. “You’ve been wonderful lately.”

The word was not exactly what she wanted to hear. “Just wonderful?” she asked.

“What’s wrong with being wonderful?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry. It just sounded so mental.”

“It isn’t,” he said. “You look great too.” But a strained, defensive look came on his face, as if he knew what was coming and wanted to avoid it.

“Then why don’t you ever make love to me any more?” she said, blushing and avoiding his eye. He was avoiding hers too. “I’m sorry. I hate talking about it. I just can’t understand it. It’s been months. I know I probably wasn’t always the most responsive person in the world, but I still would like to sometimes. You know? I just feel like you don’t want me.”

Jim became very defensive. “What do you want?” he asked. “Do you want me, or do you just want me to want you?”

Patsy, though she hated herself for it, had begun to weep. She had not planned to but couldn’t help it. “I wish we weren’t talking about it,” she said. “I always lose out in talks, there’s no way I can win. I always cry. I don’t know what I want? What are you driving at?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t tell if you really feel sexy or if you’re just vain.”

“Oh, hell,” she said, sobbing. “I don’t know. You always turn things around so it’s my fault. I wasn’t feeling vain. I was just wondering why we never do it any more. Just forget I ever mentioned it. I don’t ever want to talk about it again.”

She got out of bed and sat in her rocking chair wiping her eyes on a diaper and rocking. She stopped crying and sat quietly, very downcast. She felt wretched—an incomplete sinner and a vain and unwanted wife. The only place she could win was with Davey. At least his needs were not so mysterious. She could at least be a decent mother.

She looked over at Jim, expecting him to be reading, impregnable in his self-control, but he wasn’t. He was staring at the ceiling, the book on his chest and a look of pain in his face. A look of real pain. In all their married life she could not remember him looking so anguished, and it was a shock. For weeks he had looked so smiling and pleasant. He was not the sort of man pained looks improved. It frightened her and she tried to think what could have made him look so hurt.

“Jim, what’s the matter?” she asked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say anything that bad.”

He sat up as if he were very tired—as if his limbs were stone. “You didn’t do anything,” he said. “I guess I just have to tell you something.”

Three weeks before Davey was born he had done something quite inexplicable, and since doing it had lived as one cut off. That he should have felt cut off was also inexplicable, for what he had done was not so major, as human actions go. It was something he should have been able to confess, put in perspective, accept, and forget. But he had done none of those things.

He and Kenny Cambridge had been idling around the campus bookstore one afternoon, thumbing through paperbacks and trying to decide whether to go back to the stacks or out to drink beer. “Let’s go to Richmond,” Kenny suggested. “The town, I mean, not the street. I know a whorehouse there. It’s only a three-girl whorehouse, but it’s fun. I could use it.”

“Come on,” Jim said. “I’m about to become a father. I can’t be going to whorehouses.”

“You don’t have to do anything. You can play the jukebox and yak with the other two girls while I’m busy. They’re all nutty Mexican chicks. It’s not a bad place to drink beer. You’d be furthering my research and I could acknowledge you in my acknowledgments.”

Kenny told everyone he was going to do a thesis on The Madam as Philosopher in American Fiction 1945–1960. It was only a twenty-minute drive to Richmond, so Jim decided to go. “Anything for scholarship,” he said. They crossed the wide muddy Brazos river and pulled into the little town. Kenny directed him to a street of shanties, most of them with Negro women sitting on the porches watching their children play in the dusty street.

“This is it,” Kenny said, pointing to a small gray cafe with a long two-story wing extending behind it. The wing looked like it was about to cave in. A gray sign on the cafe said, Dock’s.

“This is your high-grade or Mexican whorehouse,” Kenny said. “Right next door is your low-grade or Negro whorehouse. I’ve never been there. It’s only an M.A. thesis—who wants to get themselves killed for an M.A.? Besides, that one has no madam—it’s every girl for herself. This one has a certain structure, a certain aesthetic, as you’ll soon see.”

“I can’t believe this is a whorehouse,” Jim said. “The main street of town is just a block away. Besides, it just looks like a cafe.”

“You haven’t researched it like I have,” Kenny said.

The cafe was very tiny—two tables set against the wall and a counter with only four stools. A Mexican woman was peeling onions behind the counter and a large paunchy man was watching kiddy cartoons on a tiny portable TV that sat on a shelf above the counter. Hercules and Newton were rushing up a volcano.

“Afternoon,” Kenny said politely. He skirted the counter and passed through a tiny kitchen into the back room. It held a pool table and led into a long dark room extending almost the whole length of the wing. At the very end was another small room where three girls sat. One was standing up putting her black hair in curlers before a small mirror. The walls were hung with Mexican calendars, all featuring an Aztec warrior in a stiff stylized embrace with a barebosomed Aztec maiden. There were also several Playmates of the Month thumbtacked to the walls.