Smart Women (17 page)

“Come here,” he said, taking her in his arms, kissing her. “Right now there’s not a doubt in my mind that I love you, that I’m going to keep on loving you.”

“Sounds good to me,” she said, climbing on top of him, kissing his face, his neck, his mouth. In a minute she knew it was going to be another night of very little sleep.

Afterwards, she said, “If you live here we’ll be able to make love like regular people and still get some sleep.”

“We’ll never make love like regular people, Margarita,” he said, “because regular people don’t have this much fun.”

M
ARGO AND
C
LARE
were at the Overland Sheepskin Company, looking at gloves. Although the temperature was in the low seventies, snow was forecast, with a thirty-degree drop expected overnight. Tomorrow morning it would be winter if the weatherman was right.

“Andrew is moving in at the end of the month,” Margo said as she tried on a fleece-lined glove.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Clare asked.

“We feel that it’s right for us. We seem to be . . .” She hesitated, looking at her hands in the gloves, then went on, “. . . in love.” She could feel her cheeks redden and she smiled.

“After two months?” Clare asked.

“It’s closer to three and anyway, don’t you think we’re old enough and wise enough to know quickly?”

“I’m not sure we’re ever old enough to know,” Clare said, “and wise enough is out of the question.”

“Still . . . it feels right to us.”

“It could be such a mess, Margo.”

“I know, but it’s not fair to us, to Andrew and me, to say we can’t be together because . . . look, I wish I didn’t know his ex-wife, but I do. I can’t change that. Anyway, I hear she has a new man in her life.”

“Yes. A doctor from Minneapolis. Robin and I had dinner with them a few weeks ago. He’s a nice man and obviously adores her.”

“Well, that’s great. Is it serious?”

“I think it could be, on his part anyway. But it’s a long way from Minneapolis to Boulder.”

“I’m going to take these gloves,” Margo said to the saleswoman.

“You’re sure it’s not just sex?” Clare asked as they left the store and headed back to work.

Margo laughed.

There had been moments, at the beginning, when Margo thought it might be just the sex, because neither of them ever tired of it and because it worked so well between them. Margo had read all the books. She knew about the limits of limerance and the three-to-six-month life of the typical affair. But she also knew that if you never tried, you would never find out what it might grow into.

Okay, so they’d only known each other a couple of months, but still, there was so much promise. This was what she’d had in mind when she’d left Freddy. And certainly, one of the reasons she had left was that they had brought their resentments to bed with them. How could you feel loving toward someone who was constantly putting you down? How could you respond in bed to someone you wanted to smash with a baseball bat? For a long time after Margo left Freddy she thought it might not be possible to find the kind of love she had imagined.

Okay, so it was too soon to be able to trust completely, to feel secure all the time. There were still moments of panic, of doubting, but she got through those moments, often with Andrew’s help.

T
EN DAYS AFTER
A
NDREW MOVED IN,
Margo invited Clare and Robin to dinner. Puffin came too, of course, since she and Stuart had also become inseparable. Clare had met Andrew a few times in town, but they hadn’t had the chance to get to know each other. And Robin was meeting him for the first time. Robin seemed more relaxed than at Clare’s party and Margo was pleased at how well dinner was going when Michelle turned to Andrew and said, “Did you know when we first moved to town my mother joined Man-of-the-Month Club?” Michelle paused for a second, making sure everyone had heard what she’d said and that she had their attention. Then she went on. “First there was her boss, Michael Benson . . . then there was that asshole physiologist from the University, who always had to have the last word . . . then there was Bronco Billy . . . remember Bronco Billy, Stuart?” But Michelle didn’t wait for Stuart to answer. She kept going. “Bronco Billy used to clean his fingernails with his pocket knife . . .”

“Eeeww . . . gross . . .” Puffin said, listening intently.

“Then there was . . . oh, what’s his name . . .” Michelle said, “the one with the bad arm . . .”

Margo swallowed hard and fought back tears. Why did Michelle want to hurt her this way? Clare and Robin had stopped eating. Clare gave Michelle a look of such contempt that it should have shut her up, but it didn’t.

“Oh, I remember now,” Michelle said. “His name was Calvin and he was a lawyer . . . and after him there was Epstein, Mom’s token Buddhist . . .”

“That’s enough, Michelle,” Margo said quietly. She wanted to take Michelle and shake her by the shoulders, wanted to slap her face, scream,
Why . . . why are you doing this?

“But, Mother . . .” Michelle said, wide-eyed, “I’m just getting started.”

Before Margo had a chance to respond, to really blow it, Andrew placed his hand over hers and said, “Oh, those were just alternate selections, Michelle. They don’t count. I’m a main selection. There’s a big difference. Besides, I thought you knew, Margo’s quit the club.” He smiled at Michelle and then at Margo, letting her know that it was okay, that he could take it. And Margo, relieved and deeply grateful for his understanding, for his sense of humor, smiled back. The awkward moment passed.

“Well, Andrew,” Michelle said, “at least you’re a useful one . . .
you
can cook.”

“Thanks, Michelle,” Andrew said.

Everyone laughed self-consciously, then went back to eating the lemon chicken with snow peas.

“
A B
UDDHIST NAMED
E
PSTEIN?”
Andrew asked later, when they were in bed.

Margo laughed. “He wasn’t born a Buddhist.”

“I never knew Buddhists fucked.”

“Oh yes . . . quite a bit.”

“How was it . . . was it different . . . did he chant while you were making love?”

“Not that I noticed,” Margo said.

Then they both laughed and when they stopped they made love.

18

M
ICHELLE HAD SET OUT TO TEST
A
NDREW
as soon as he’d moved in, because it was better to find out now if he could take it, and if he couldn’t, to get rid of him quickly, before she got to know and even like him. So she’d given it to them good at the dinner party, figuring if they couldn’t handle a little scene like that then they didn’t have a prayer of staying together. And really, if she could scare him away so easily then it was better for Margo to know, even though she might be angry for a little while. Eventually she’d get over it and thank Michelle for making her see the light.

Also, Margo had been a bitch about the dinner party. She wouldn’t let Michelle invite Gemini.

“Look,” Margo had said, “this dinner is for Clare and Robin to get to know Andrew.”

“What about Puffin? She’s invited too.”

“Puffin is Clare’s daughter.”

“God, Mother, you’re always telling me who’s related to who around here, as if I’ve got an acute mental disorder.”

“If Stuart had another girlfriend, someone who was not my best friend’s daughter, she would not be invited to dinner tonight. Now try and get that through your head, Michelle, and if you feel that you can’t behave in a civilized way, then don’t come to the dinner table . . . all right?”

Michelle might not have come to the dinner table except that during English class, while Ms. Franzoni was telling them they could become members of a book club for only one dollar and get four books free, she had dreamed up her Man-of-the-Month Club number.

And it had worked beautifully. She’d waited until just the right moment to face Andrew and tell him about Margo’s lovers. Michelle had expected to ruin the dinner, had expected Clare, Robin, and Puffin to get up and leave the house, had expected her mother to dissolve into tears, and then, just maybe, to be slapped around a little by Andrew so that Michelle could call her father and tell him that Margo had a live-in boyfriend who was into child abuse. Upon hearing this news her father would order Andrew out of the house . . .
or else.
Michelle wasn’t sure what the
or else
would be, but her father would think of something, she was sure.

Michelle had been surprised that Andrew had taken it so well. You just never knew.

That night, after the dinner party, after Clare and Robin and Puffin had gone home, Andrew and Margo had put on their vests and had gone for a walk. Michelle was in bed reading
Franny and Zooey
when Stuart burst into her room. “What the fuck were you trying to pull tonight?”

Michelle did not answer. She kept her book in front of her face and pretended to go on reading. Pretended that she didn’t even notice that Stuart was standing over her, his face red, his breath coming hard.

But then he swatted the book out of her hands and sent it flying across the room. “I said, what the fuck were you trying to pull tonight?”

She could feel Stuart’s anger and it frightened her. But the best way to handle it was to stay calm. So she said, “Oh ho . . . aren’t we getting violent?” She scrambled across her bed and reached down to the floor to retrieve the book.

Stuart yanked her back by the arm. “It’s about time someone got violent with you, you little bitch!”

She was sure he was about to smash her. She tried not to cower, she tried to stare him down, and after a minute he punched her panda bear instead.

“I just don’t want Mom to be hurt again,” she explained. “I don’t want to go through another Leonard.”

“Leonard was years ago,” Stuart said. “Why don’t you just leave her alone for once. She’s happy. Or is it that you can’t stand to see her happy?”

“I’m the one who has to suffer through it every time one of her love affairs fizzles. Me . . . not you!”

“It’s her life, Michelle, so just butt out of it.”

“It’s my life too. And when she’s miserable, I’m miserable.”

“You better cut the cord, Michelle, before it’s too late. Besides which, she’s not miserable, she’s in love.”

“Oh, sure. Now. Today. But what about next week, next month, next year? You’ll be gone, so what do you care? But I’ll still be around.”

“You worry too much,” Stuart said. “You’re getting to be just like Grandma Sampson.”

“I am not! But somebody around here has to think ahead. And since when do you care about her anyway?”

“I’ve always cared.”

“Yeah . . . well, you’d never know it.”

“I keep my feelings to myself.”

“I’m glad to know you have feelings, Stuart. That’s a real revelation.”

“Hey, bitch . . . I’m the one who defends you every time somebody makes a rude remark about you and your Indian maiden.”

“What do you mean?”

“Wake up, Michelle . . . everybody’s saying you’ve got a thing going with Gemini.”

“That is the most intensely stupid remark I’ve ever heard.”

“Hey, look . . . it’s nothing to me if you’re gay.”

“I am not gay!”

“Or bi . . .”

“I am not bi!”

“Then don’t get so defensive. I just thought you should know what everybody’s saying.”

“Some people don’t recognize friendship because they’ve never experienced it. All
you
know is sticking it up Puffin.”

He grabbed her by the arm again, roughly, his fingers digging into her flesh. “I swear, Michelle, I’ll kill you if you ever say anything like that again!”

She pulled away. “Get out of my room, you fucking asshole!” He turned and left. As he did she threw her copy of
Franny and Zooey
at him, but it missed, hitting the wall instead. She looked at her arm. His fingers had left red marks on it. She began to cry into her pillow. Life was not turning out the way she had planned. Everything was screwed up. How could they say those things about her and Gemini? Gemini was the best friend she’d ever had. Gemini even understood her poems, calling them outstanding examples of contemporary thought.

A couple of times Michelle had thought about showing her poems to Margo. But at the last minute she’d always changed her mind. Margo was too busy. Margo wasn’t interested in Michelle, especially now that she had a live-in boyfriend.

One day Margo would be sorry. Sorry that she’d had a daughter and hadn’t bothered to get to know her. Sometimes Michelle thought about slitting her wrists, the hot blood flowing out of her body. She pictured her family finding her on the floor, dead. They would blame themselves, each of them feeling guilty forever. Plenty of poets killed themselves. Even modern poets like Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton. The only trouble with killing yourself, or with dying in general, was that you wouldn’t be around to find out how everyone took it. It would be different if you could come back and say,
Well, all right, now you have another chance and this time you better treat me right.