Superior Women (40 page)

That is, then, one of their better, more successful evenings together. However, walking home in the chilled October dark, stumbling across the ancient corn furrows in her smart New York boots, it is clear to Megan both that she has drunk too much wine, in her nervousness, and also that it would have been a better evening for the three of them without her.

“The three of you get along so terrifically,” she tells Henry later, as they are both quickly undressing, in his unheated bedroom. “It’s like a good triangle,” Megan says. “I throw off the balance. In fact I think they’re both in love with you, in very harmless ways, of course. What we used to call ‘unconscious.’ And they don’t understand the fact of me. They don’t know what they feel.”

“Will you please stop talking and come to bed? I know what I feel: cold but concupiscent. Is that how you feel? Megan, come here.”

But how would it be if they were, in fact, actually married? Megan of course has wondered about that, has sometimes mulled it over. Where, for instance, would they live? Would Henry look for a teaching job in New York? They could both easily live on what
she earns, and very well, but Megan cannot quite see Henry as “kept,” and besides, what would he do? Or, conversely, what would she do in Chapel Hill? It would seem silly, somehow, to marry and still live in separate places, Megan thinks, despite various recent magazine articles to the contrary. Maybe she could find something useful to do down here? As she thinks this, Megan is stricken with a vast distaste for the work that she does, in New York: all those nonbooks decked out for marketing. So much execrable prose. The sheer unreality of it all.

She is thinking all this as she lies drowsily, warmly awake, next to sleeping Henry, after love. She wonders about that too: would they make love as often living together, married? Well, very likely not, how could they? every night? But maybe an occasional passionate return to earlier habits and practices?

In the morning what could be considered an amazing coincidence occurs, which is that Henry, just waking, turns and reaches for Megan to kiss, and then he says, “You know, I really think we should get married. I really want to, don’t you?”

It is like the several times that they have waked to similar dreams. Only now, to her vast surprise, Megan feels a rush of new blood to her heart, lovely new crisp air in her lungs, as she gasps, and then laughs. “Well, I guess
so,
” she tells him.

“I love you, just amazingly,” says Henry.

However, Megan and Henry do not marry right away, as they might have been expected to do, having once made up their minds and being of certain ages: Megan by now is in her early forties, and Henry is five years older.

For one thing, the November that follows their October morning of decision is that of Richard Nixon’s election to the presidency. Both Megan and Henry find it surprising that this event should be a factor in their personal lives, but the truth is that they are both so depressed by Nixon that they are stunned into a sort of immobility. “I simply cannot believe it,” they repeat to each other, in a sort of litany with minor variations. “He’s so terribly, transparently dishonest. Self-serving.
Creepy. Ugly,
” they both say, from time to time.

Nixon’s election has managed to shatter their personal hopes, along with their wishes for the general future; they do not exactly say this to each other, but that is more or less the case. These days, when they talk about what will happen now, they do not mean to themselves. The Vietnam war will go on forever, they hopelessly say, or at least until everyone is dead—both countries beaten back into the Stone Age, in the immortal words of that general. Civil rights and liberties pushed backward, social progress all shrunken, because of “defense” expenditure.

Noting the political tone of almost all their conversations, these days, Megan observes to herself that this in itself is very odd. Is it indeed simply because things are so bad? Are she and Henry simply reacting in an intelligent, responsible way? Or, is she herself becoming a more political person because that is what Henry is? Or (yet another possibility) is the personal connection between them now on the wane, as it were?

And none of the possible answers to any of these questions is cheering, in any way.

In fact, for Megan this is one of those periods when everything in her life is going so badly, along with everything out in the world that she observes and reads about, that she could almost believe in the onset of some era of plague, of universal misfortune.

One of these terrible events (perhaps, in its way, the worst) is a call from Cathy—California, where at the time of the call it is only about nine o’clock, but midnight in New York; it is entirely out of character for Cathy to have forgotten. It is also out of character for her to be a little drunk, which almost immediately she announces that she is. With apologies, of course.

“Oh, Megan, I’m so sorry, I’ve waked you up. It’s just that I’m a little, well, more than a little drunk.”

“Cathy, it’s all right, I just happened to go to bed early.” Megan does not say that Henry is there with her in bed; they went to bed early, together, which somehow they had not managed to do for several weeks.

“Oh, Megan, I’m so sorry,” Cathy repeats. “Stephen’s at Mother and Bill’s, and I’ve been drinking this brandy.”

“But Cathy, why? I mean, are you okay?”

A silence, during which Megan imagines that she can hear the hum of transcontinental cables, in the dark. She knows of course that she cannot, but she can imagine California, now in November, in early nighttime. The whole north coast muffled and blanketed in fog, probably. Winds, foghorns. Megan shivers, there in New York, in her overheated room, next to warm Henry.

Cathy says, “I’ve been taking these tests, and there seems to be something wrong. You know, uh, malignant.”

“Cathy—”

“Oh, and I woke you up! Megan, I’m so stupid. I forgot the whole time thing—”

“But Cathy—”

“Megan, I’ll be okay. I’m sorry. Honestly.”

“Cathy, will you please tell me what you’re talking about. I
am
awake.”

“Well, I had all these, uh, aches and pains. More than my normal share, I mean.” Cathy laughs, one short harsh note. “So I had some tests, and it isn’t good. My bones aren’t good. I did not pass the test with flying colors, you might say.”

“How many doctors did you go to?” Megan hears and is appalled by the sharp impatience in her own voice.

“Well, just one, actually,” Cathy admits.

Yes, and probably some ignorant biased Irish Catholic, Megan does not say. But she had that thought, very clearly, and again, she is appalled by herself. What she actually does say is, “Well, Christ, Cathy. You have to see a lot of doctors. That one could be absolutely wrong. They make mistakes all the time. Even lab tests are wrong, all the time.” Her voice is cross, uncontrolled.

“Oh, Megan, I feel so bad that I woke you up.” Cathy’s voice is dim, fading out.

“You mustn’t feel bad, please don’t.”

“Megan, good night. I’m
sorry.
”

And Cathy hangs up, a tiny click, three thousand miles distant.

Megan lies awake, next to Henry, who is soundly sleeping at her side. She can still hear her own impatient, unsympathetic voice, without warmth, none of the affection, the love that she actually feels for Cathy. It is enough to make her cry, which she does, softly, in the clear November eastern dark. She does not want to wake Henry, partly because she cannot bear, yet, to say the words to him: “Cathy has cancer.” Even to herself she does not quite say them.

Then, a week or so later, Barbara Blumenthal leans back heavily in her chair, in her office; she looks straight at Megan and she announces, “I seem to have cancer, Megan. I hate to just throw it at you like this, really, I’m very sorry.” She looks away, toward the grimy window, the thin December sunlight on gray buildings, other grimy windows.

Looking back to Megan, who has not managed to say anything, yet, Barbara continues. “I’m partly trying to get used to the word. Not to mention the whole idea.” She laughs and coughs, and apologizes. “Sorry.” Looking at Megan, her large eyes tear. “Poor Norman,” she says. “He just cries, he can’t stop. God, what a thing to do to him.”

“Oh, but Barbara—”

“Well, I know. Not exactly a ball for me either.” Barbara wipes at one eye with an already wadded Kleenex. “Megan, I’m really sorry.”

Wanting to take Barbara into her arms—big Barbara, all of her—Megan cannot quite make that gesture (nor, probably, would she have been able to embrace Cathy, in that way, if she and Cathy had been together when Cathy told her about her illness).

Megan simply stands there, still and helpless, saying, “Barbara, I’m so sorry, that’s terrible.”

“Well, it’s terrible to put it on you this way.”

“Jesus, Barbara, please don’t apologize.” (Cathy, don’t apologize!)

“Well.” In a determined, executive way, Barbara puts her hands down flat on the desk before her, and she looks up at Megan. “We have to talk about what you’re going to do. I really forced my doctor, what a jerk, I had to twist his arm, almost, but he finally admitted that I’d be damn lucky to go on working for another six months.”

“God.”

“Well, I know. This is so sudden and all that. I repeat, I’m very sorry to throw everything at you.”

“Please,
Barbara.”

“Well, the point is, I’m going to divide the majority of shares between you and Leslie. I know you’re not crazy about her, Megan, but you’ve got to admit she’s first-rate with contracts, my stuff. Norman will have the rest, of course; in a way you’ll be working for him, but you know how easy he is.”

“Well, Jesus. I just don’t know.”

“Well, think.” And Barbara smiles her old warm reassuring smile, or almost.

That night, as they so often do, Megan and Henry have a long expensive conversation, North Carolina to New York. Having told him about Barbara as briefly and factually as possible, Megan then muses, “It’s so odd, about the agency. Ten years ago I would have thought something like that was the greatest thing that could happen to me. All that money. Knowing everyone, and all that.
Power.
But now all the inner voices that I can hear are saying no. They’re telling me to get out of the whole thing. And not just because of Leslie.”

“I’ve corrupted you,” Henry tells her. “Turned you into an un-American.” He laughs gently, then clears his throat. “But that’s terrible about Barbara. Terrible,” he repeats, with emphasis, although his voice is oddly distant.

“Yes, and Cathy. It’s more than I can think about. Or cope with. All this cancer. Death. Jesus Christ, why doesn’t Nixon have cancer?”

Henry laughs, but some condition of their phone connection makes the sound fade in and out, eerily. Unclearly he says, “I’m afraid things don’t work out like that, generally speaking.”

“Isn’t there some Catholic heresy about evil being in charge? Is that Manichaean?”

“I’m not sure. Ask Cathy.”

“I guess. At least she’d think it was a funny question. Probably. She might laugh.”

Some minutes later, hanging up, Megan reflects that this has been a conversation during which nothing at all was said about themselves; for various reasons, they are no longer discussing, making plans.

Peg and Cameron Sinclair are invited to the inauguration, Nixon’s, but to Cameron’s dismay (rage, horror, panic: he thinks she must be getting sick again) Peg refuses to go.

On the day when Cameron triumphantly divulges the fact that they have been invited, Peg simply announces that she will not, will not go. “No,” is what Peg says, and all she will add by way of explanation is, “I don’t like him.”

Cameron responds reasonably—very reasonably, considering. “Of course you don’t like him,” he tells her. “No one does. The fellow has no class at all. But he’s the only person who can turn this country around.”

“But maybe in the wrong direction?”

Is this one of Peg’s infrequent, never funny, slightly disturbing
jokes? Cameron wonders, as he stares at her large, familiar blank white face. He finds no clue. And after a silent moment or two he decides that she was not joking.

How little they have talked to each other, over the past few years especially; but it has been forever, really, now that Cameron thinks of it. It is astonishing, in a way, how little they have spoken. And for the first time this fact strikes him as very sad; more often he has concluded that it is just as well. If they talked a lot all kinds of garbage might be exposed.

For instance, although both the twins are up in Berkeley, doing God-knows-what (being hippies, very likely; they don’t come home), Peg has continued to write to them, which he, Cameron, will not do, not until they shape up, come to their senses. He is farily sure that Peg even sends them money. Rex, thank God, is just the opposite, a natural athlete, an SAE at Tulane, and headed for law school. He can’t tell yet about Kate. But Cameron has often thought that it was just as well they did not have the boring conversations about the kids that most people seem to be having, these days.

However, Cameron is aware that he has little knowledge of any of Peg’s real ideas about the world, about this country, even assuming that she has any such ideas, and he is not too sure. He is only aware of her very overly permissive feelings about her children. And about colored people, come to think of it.

Peg would like to pin some bigot label on him, Cameron firmly believes, to make him out a real KKK type of guy. But he fooled her on that one; when she wanted to bring home, for a visit, that colored girl she met in Georgia (they said she was a Mexican, but it was obvious to Cameron: a dinge), he was perfectly nice about it, which must have surprised Peg a lot. He treated Vera just like any other guest.

And so, now he gets this quite unexpected, inexplicable nonsense about not liking Nixon. Not wanting to go to the inauguration. (He could understand Peg better if she drank, for instance; a lot
of Midland wives do. Poor Barbara had to be carted off to that place in Connecticut, finally. But Peg barely drinks.)