My Life as a Man (20 page)

Some sixty or seventy of their friends had been invited by Joan and Alvin to meet me; Maureen and I lost sight of one another only a few minutes after our arrival, and when she turned up at my side some time later I was talking rather self-consciously to an extremely seductive looking young beauty of about my own age, self-conscious precisely for fear of the scene of jealous rage that proximity to such a sexpot would inevitably provoke.

Maureen pretended at first that I was talking to no one; she wanted to go, she announced, all these
“
phonies
”
were more than she could take. I decided to ignore the remark—I did not know what else to do. Draw a sword and cut her hea
d off? I
didn
’
t carry a sword at
the
time. I carried a stone face. The beautiful girl—from her
décolletage
it would have appeared that she was something of a daring tastemaker herself; I was too ill at ease, however, to make inquiries of a personal nature—the girl was asking me who my editor was. I told her his name; I said he happened also to be a good poet.
“
Oh, how could you!
”
whispered Maureen, and, her eyes all at once flooded with tears; instan
tly
she turned and disappeared into a bathroom. I found Joan within a few minutes and told her that Maureen and I had to go—it had been a long day and Maureen wasn
’
t feeling well.
“
Pep,
”
said Joan, taking my hand in hers,
“
why are you doing this to yourself?
”
“
Doing what?
”
“
Her,
”
she said. I pretended not to know what she was talking about. Just presented her with my stone face. In
the
taxi to the hotel, Maureen wept like a child, repeatedly hammering at her knees (and mine) with her little fists.
“
How could you embarrass me like that—how could you say that, with me right there at your side!
”
“
Say
what?
”
“
You know damn well, Peter! Say
that
Walter
is your editor!
”
“
But
h
e
is.
”
“
What about
me?
”
she cried.
“
You?
”
“
I
’
m your editor—you know very well I am! Only you refuse to admit it! I read every word you write, Peter. I make suggestions. I correct your spelling.
”
“
Those are typos, Maureen.
”
“
But 1 correct them!
And then some rich bitch sticks her tits in your face and asks who your editor is and you say
Walter!
Why must you demean me like this—oh, why did you do that in front of that empty-headed girl? Just because she was all over you with those tits of hers? Mine are as big as hers—touch them some day and you
’
ll see!
”
“
Maureen, not this, not again—!
”
“
Yes, again! And again and again! Because
you will not change!
”
“
But she meant my editor
at my publishing house!
”
“
But I
’
m your editor!
”
“
You
’
re not!
”
“
I suppose I
’
m not your wife either! Why are you so ashamed of me! In front of those phonies, no less! People who wouldn
’
t look twice at you if you weren
’
t this month
’
s cover boy! Oh, you baby! You infant! You hopeless egomaniac! Must you always be at the center of
everything?
”
The next
morning, before we left for the
airport, Joan telephoned to the hotel to say goodbye.
‘
We
’
re always here,
”
she told me.
“
I know.
”
“
If you want to come out and stay.
”
‘
Well, thank you,
”
I said, as formally as if I were acknowledging an offer from a perfect stranger,
“
maybe we
’
ll take you up on it sometime.
”
“
I
’
m talking about you. Just you. You don
’
t have to suffer like this, Peppy. You
’
re proving nothing by being miserable, nothing at all.
”
As soon as I hung up, Maureen said,
“
Oh, you could really have all the beautiful girls, couldn
’
t you, Peter—with your sister out procuring for you. Oh, she would really enjoy that, I
’
m sure.
”
‘
What the hell are you talking about
now?
”
“
That deprived little look on your face—
’
Oh, if I wasn
’
t saddled with this witch, couldn
’
t I have a time of it, screwing away to my heart
’
s content at all the vapid twittering
ingénues
!
’”
“
Again, Maureen?
Again?
Can
’
t you at least let twenty-four hours go by?
”
‘
Well, what about that girl last night who wanted to know who your
editor
was? Oh, she really cared about that, I
’
m sure. Well, be honest, Peter, didn
’
t you want to fuck her? You couldn
’
t take your
eyes
off those tits of hers.
”
“
I suppose I noticed them.
”
“
Oh, I suppose you did.
”
“
Though apparen
tly
not so much as you, Maureen.
”
“
Oh, don
’
t use your sardonic wit on me! Admit it! You
did
want to fuck her. You were
dying
to fuck her.
”
“
The fact of it is, I was close to catatonic in her presence.
”
“
Yes,
suppressing all that goddam lust!
How hard you have to work to suppress it—with everybody but me! Oh, admit it, tell the truth for
once—
if you had been alone, you know damn well you would have had her back here in this hotel! On this very bed! And
she
at least would have gotten laid last night! Which is more than I can say for me! Oh, why do you punish me like this—why do you lust after every woman in this whole wide world,
except your own wife.
”

My family
…
In marked contrast to Joan and Alvin and their children Mab, Melissa, Kim, and Anthony, are my elder brother Morris, his wife Lenore, and the twins, Abner and Davey. In their home the dominant social concern is not with the accumulation of goods, but the mean
s by which society can facili
tate their equitable distribution. Morris is an authority on underdeveloped nations;
his
trips to Africa and the Caribbean are conducted under the auspices of the UN Commission for Economic Rehabilitation, one of several international
both
es to which Moe serves as a consultant. He is a man who worries over everything, but nothing (excluding his family), nothing so much as social and economic inequality; what is now famous as
“
the culture of poverty
”
has been a heartbreaking obsession with him since the days he used to come home cursing with frustration from his job with the Jewish Welfare Board in the Bronx—during
the
late
thirties
, he worked there days while going to school nights at N.Y.U. After the war he married an adoring student, today a kindly, devoted, nervous, quiet woman, who some years ago, when the twins went off to kindergarten, enrolled at the School of Library Service at Columbia to take a master
’
s degree. She is now a librarian for the city of New York. The twins are fifteen; last year both refused to leave the local upper West Side public school to become students at Horace Mann. On two consecutive days they were roughed up and robbed of their pennies by a Puerto Rican gang that has come to terrorize the corridors, lavatories, and basketball courts back of their school—nonetheless, they have refused to become
“
private school hypocrites,
”
which is how they describe their neighborhood friends, the sons and daughters of Columbia faculty who have been removed from the local schools by their parents. To Morris, who worries continuously for their safety, the children shout indignantly,
“
How can you, of all people, suggest Horace Mann! How can you betray your own ideals! You
’
re just as bad as Uncle Alvin! Worse!
”

Moe has, as he says, only himself to congratulate for their moral heroics; ever since they could understand an English sentence, he has been sharing with them his disappointment with the way this rich country is run. The history of the postwar years, with particular emphasis upon continuing social injustice and growing political repression, h
as been the stuff of their bed
time stories: instead of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, the strange adventures of Martin Dies and
the
House Un-American Activities Committee; instead of Pinocchio, Joe McCarthy; instead of Uncle Remus, tales of Paul Robeson and Martin Luther King. I can
’
t remember once eating dinner at Moe
’
s, that he was not conducting a seminar in left-wing politics for the two
little
boys wolfing down their pot roast and kasha—the Rosenbergs, Henry Wallace, Leon Trotsky, Eugene Debs, Norman Thomas, Dwight Macdonald, George Orwell, Harry Bridges, Samuel Gompers, just a few whose names are apt to be mentioned between appetizer and dessert—and, simultaneously, looking to see
that
everybody is eating what is best for him, pushing green vegetables, cautioning against soda pop gulped too quickly, and always checking the serving bowls to be sure
there
is Enough.
“
Sit!
”
he cries to his wife, who has been on her feet all day herself, and like an enormous lineman going after a loose fumble, rushes into the kitchen to get another quarter pound of butter from the refrigerator.
“
A glass of ice water, Pop!
”
calls Abner.
“
Who else for ice water? Peppy? You want another beer? I
’
ll bring it anyway.
”
His big paws full, he returns to the table, distributes the goods, waving for the boys to go on with what they were saying—inten
tly
he listens to them both, the one
little
boy arguing that Alger Hiss
must
have been a Communist spy, while the other (in a voice even louder than his brother
’
s) tries to come to grips with the fact that Roy Cohn is a Jew.

It was to this household that I went to collapse. Moe, at my request, telephoned Maureen the first night after the Brooklyn College episode to say that I had been taken ill and was resting in bed at his apartment. She asked to speak to me; when Moe said,
“
He just can
’
t talk now,
”
she replied
that
she was getting on the next plane and coming East. Moe said,
“
Look, Maureen, he can
’
t see anybody right now. He
’
s in no condition to.
”
“
I
’
m his wife!
”
she reminded him.
“
But he cannot see
anybody.
”
“
What is going on there, Morris, behind my back? He is not a baby, no matter how
you
people
think
of him. Are you listening to me?
I demand to speak to my husband! I will not be put off by somebody who wants to play big brother to a man who has won the Prix de Rome!
”
But he was not intimidated, my big
bother
, and hung up.