“Don’t say that,” she said one day. “I was a virgin too long.”
“All your life you were a virgin waiting for me.”
“Somebody will catch us.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you being my mother’s neighbor. And it’s perfectly normal for your godfather to visit you.”
“What if they catch my godfather in my bed?” she said, thinking of Alex catching Roy in her bed, where he had been only twice, but twice is dangerous. The first was the afternoon she drove home to change for a fund-raising dinner at Holy Cross. Roy was with her, and leaving him in the car would have been rude, even racist. She should have dropped him someplace and come home alone, but there he was, so she said, “Come in.”
Whenever they were alone in the office Roy would touch her arm, or rub the ends of her long blond hair between finger and thumb, or run a fingernail lightly up her spine through her white cotton shirt, always backing off with a smile and an upraised hand, testing the wind, which proved to be fair. Now, as they went into Gloria’s apartment he ran a finger up her back. She turned to face him and found him unbelievably attractive. And there was the bed.
“I worry about your wife,” she said to Alex. “Doesn’t what we do affect her, even if she doesn’t know?”
“Don’t ever talk about my wife,” he said.
So she did not. But through the society pages she tracked her — Marnie Herzog Fitzgibbon, ash blonde from Boston whose grandfather had made a fortune in coal, who had gone to Smith, no nuns in her life, owned and rode show horses, golfed at Schuyler Meadows Country Club, handicap 15, raised funds for children of an African famine, and traveled often, unlike her husband who was moored to City Hall. Gloria clipped photos of Marnie in her lush gowns at balls, galas, and the famed parties she gave at Tivoli, the Fitzgibbon family estate. In early May Marnie came to visit Veronica and glimpsed Alex going into a first-floor apartment. She found that the apartment was rented to Gloria Osborne, about whom Alex sometimes spoke; something about Cuba. Marnie hired a private detective who discovered Alex’s repetitive, hour-or-more-long visits to Gloria. Also, when Alex took a week off to go trout fishing in Maine with his army buddies, the detective noted a visit to Gloria by a black man who arrived by taxi at mid-evening and stayed till dawn.
Gloria was naked in her shower when the doorbell rang. Roy, without calling? No. Alex? Never at this hour; he likes the afternoon, and afterward a whiskey before he goes back to City Hall. She called out, Just a minute, stepped out of the tub and wrapped herself in her terrycloth robe. Rubbing her hair with a small towel she opened the door to the face from the newspapers, Marnie Herzog Fitzgibbon, always three names.
“I’m the wife of your godfather,” she said. “May I come in?”
“Of course,” and Marnie entered the living room, bouncing slightly on her toes, feisty, her half-smile as aggressive as Mother Superior. Gloria followed, tension in her chest. MHF looked younger than forty-eight, tenaciously Junior League in a simple off-white summer dress, bodice stylish over those tiny breasts, but the short skirt doesn’t cover her knees and they’re not quality. Her hair was freshly coiffed — for this visit? — those waves much too tight, scold your hairdresser. MHF raised her hand toward the bedroom door, which was ajar.
“That’s the cozy corner, is it? I really don’t want to see it.” She touched the arm of the sofa. “I’ll bet anything you do it here too. It’s where he first did it in college.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Gloria said.
“Of course not. You are cute. So young, and a lovely figure.”
Gloria pulled her robe tight, accenting her formidable breasts. “This conversation is over,” she said.
“What a perfect thing to say. Lovely poise. I see what attracted him. I could give you the days and times he arrived and left, I could give you photos and tapes of your talks. I didn’t listen very long, but you do seem well educated for a little convent cunt.”
“I won’t listen to this tripe. Get out of my apartment.” Gloria, amazed with herself, opened the apartment door and raised her voice: “Out.”
“No, no,” Marnie said softly, and she did not move. “You’re the one who’s out. Didn’t you ever anticipate this? Probably not, innocent little puss.”
Vindictive bitch. Would she cut me? Hire somebody to do it? Disfigure. If Alex knew about this he’d have called. Gloria closed the door.
“Did you think you could just carry on and on without consequence?” Marnie said. “You’re finished at Holy Cross. The board of directors does not abide sluts. Was it those sweet little nuns who taught you how to succeed as a slut? You are quite achieved. I never did it with a Negro. I suppose I should have. Is your Negro larger than Alex? Alex would hate that. Oh, and he’s finished at Holy Cross, too, your Negro. No sluts, no pimps.”
Gloria screamed. Did anybody hear?
“Very strong voice,” Marnie said. “Are you in pain? I hope so.”
“Getoutgetoutgetoutgetoutgetouuuuuuut!” And she screamed again.
“Excellent,” Marnie said. “I suppose it is time. Be smart. Take that sexy little ass of yours back to Cuba where it came from.”
Her impulse was to call Alex, scream at him, do you know what just happened, my godfather, my love? No, he probably doesn’t know. She would save it till later, relish retelling the pain. Call him anyway, am I his? And she picked up the phone, but it’s tapped, and she put it back in its cradle. She searched the room with the frantic eyes of the trapped fox. Take what? — the good jewelry, the Oshun necklace Renata gave her, the letters from Mama and Max, clothes, makeup, no, leave them, leave them. She couldn’t find the necklace. She put the letters in her purse and abandoned the rest. Alas Oshun. She drove to an outdoor pay phone on Madison Avenue and called him, can they tap City Hall? She got his secretary, tell him Gloria, and he said, Yes? And she said I’m coming to see you now, a disaster, your wife, I’ll be in front of City Hall. No, he said, yes, she said and hung up and double-parked on the corner near his office window. He came down the City Hall steps and bent to her window and she said your wife knows everything and has photos and tapes. He looked over at Academy Park, up toward the Capitol, looked both ways on Eagle Street, anybody could be on a bench, in a car filming this. I can’t talk here, he said, and she said I can’t talk anywhere, where do I go, what do I do? They’re firing me from Holy Cross. How long have you been seeing the nigger, he asked. Is that all you can say? And he said nothing. She stared at his mouth. Handsome mouth, betrayed, betraying, no reverence for what was and which now is without meaning. Sex is death and God is angry with Gloria. In hell you run in the putrid swamp, devils scourge you when you fall, and your blood colors the slime. She smiled at Alex, put the car in gear and turned on the radio. Aretha Franklin. My hero, she said to him, and drove off.
Traffic at the bar in the Havana Club had picked up and Roy was busy. Max was avoiding conversation with newcomers at the end of the bar, and George Quinn and his old friend and newfound blonde, Vivvie, were on their second beer when Cody Mason came through the door. He looked the place over and then walked directly to Max and shook a finger at him, “Hey, Mighty Max, where’d you come from?”
“Roy tells me you’re sick,” Max said. “You don’t look it. Sick — it’s your con, right? Tell ’em you’re sick and it’s a sold-out concert.”
“Yeah, man, and I get to stay in bed all day. Where you been?”