Gould

her room, she said “You want to wash up now, because I’m tired and want to get to bed quickly,” and he said “I don’t have a toothbrush and I’d seriously like to use one,” and she said use hers, it’s the pink one and told him where the bathroom was and as he went to it he passed her roommate’s door, it was open a little and he could smell cigarette smoke and hear soft music, chamber, Vivaldi or Bach or one of those from the Baroque, she was a dancer and good-looking too and he thought maybe one day she might want to do a threesome with them; he’d never done it, but these two, they seem so free or unconcerned or something like that about sex and men sleeping over, so who knows if they might not go for it — it’s been a fantasy of his for a while; he’ll be sure to be extra nice and polite to the roommate and also but in a subtle way do what he can to be physically attractive to her and after a while hint at it to the girl. She was naked when he got back to the room and she said “Any special preference to which side of the bed you want?” and he said “Either,” and she said “Then take the left one; traditionally, I’m a smack-dab-in-the-center sleeper, but with a guy I like to be on the right,” and went to the bathroom without putting anything on. When she came back he was on top of the bed with his clothes on and she said “What are you waiting for? Oh, itty baby wants momma to undress him?” and he said “That wouldn’t be so bad, though it’s not essential; but first time, it would’ve been nice to remove each other’s clothes and, you know, gradually reveal what’s underneath,” and she said “That’s hogwash; as you can see, what I’ve got underneath every girl’s got — boobs, bush and cracks — unless she has one of those third nipples or something, which I don’t have. Look, you just want to screw and so do I, but if you insist — next time, if there’ll be one, the slow shedding of clothes and striptease, all right? Tonight, let’s just get it over with, if you’re not too tired — I am, almost — because I do have that early rehearsal call tomorrow, which means neither of us sleeps late.” She helped him take off his shirt, only because it got stuck around his ears, he took off his pants and shorts and they got under the covers and made love. He wanted to make love in the morning and she started to but looked at the clock and said “Oh my gosh, sorry, gotta catch a bus,” and took his hand away from her vagina and got out of bed. He saw her a couple of times a week for months and she had a number of boyfriends, she said, but she liked him most and he was her best lover too, and he said “I don’t believe a word you say about that,” and she said “Really, you are, for two of the other three guys are demi-fags so they sometimes want to do it to me as if I’m a man, and that I want no part of, none. All I need is a ruptured rectum or torn sphincter, if that’s what you get. Not just that it’ll hurt like the devil, but try and dance with it.” Sometimes he felt self-conscious with her on the street or in a restaurant, for some reason never on movie lines or in theaters or bars or at talks. People occasionally stared, pointed them out, more like touching someone’s arm and saying “Don’t look to your left too quickly but there’s something there I want you to see,” sometimes he’s sure because she was so beautiful, and her height and figure, and she talked so dramatically, her gestures and big voice, but he knew the looks from others were also angry at times, though some people smiled at them in a way which said “Good, white and Negro can go together, they can even fall in love, it’s healthy and right and important and time for that and this couple proves it can work.” But he’s getting away from the point. The point’s abortion. He held hands with her on the street, put his arm around her at bars, kissed in those places, did everything anywhere he would with any girl he was seeing, though he was never in love with her; they had a good time, got along well, made each other laugh, saw other partners during all this time, and then they broke up. She said she wanted something more stable, just wanted to see one man now, maybe even think of eventually marrying and having a kid or two and she for sure knew it wasn’t going to be with him. She had fun with him, the sex was great, he was smart, nice-looking enough, pleasant and witty most times though too often a bit removed and cold or grim, but she didn’t feel anything — what should she call it? help her out with this, he’s good with words, which was another thing she liked about him and that he didn’t parade it — anyway, nothing deep or just really emotional toward him, and don’t kid her, he didn’t for her either, so she thinks they ought to break up and without any fuss. Not “ought,” they have to, that’s all; some things you don’t want to take beyond their natural life spans and maybe even some things you should end while they’re still pretty good so before their natural life spans are up. He said okay, he likes her but as she said he doesn’t love her, though he thinks he did a few times and sometimes for days, but enough about that, and they were silent, not looking at each other, or at least he wasn’t to her, as they walked to her building from the bar they’d had this talk at, and he said goodnight at the door and she said “Look, one last time won’t kill us and it’ll be interesting too, knowing that unless there’s this tremendous sexual emergency of some kind in the future that the other one can quickly relieve, this is the last for all time,” and he said “You think there’s a chance for some future thing like that, because I wouldn’t mind?” and she said “No, I was really just talking, but so what.” They went to bed and in the morning he wanted to do it again and she said “Last night’s was fine as a fond fare-thee-well-my-undarlinged — how do you like that one? better than even you’ve made — but now I’m not in the mood and don’t see myself getting in it, so I wouldn’t want this time to be the one I remember as the last,” and he said “Last, fast, we both have no clothes on and we’re all greased up for it from last night so let’s just do it, and you can get into it for a few minutes,” and she said “I mean it, don’t make me think I made a mistake by suggesting the one last night, and I would have to put more gook in the diaphragm when what I want to do most is take the damn thing out.” She called him a few months later and said “How are you?” and he said “Fine, but surprised to hear from you after so long,” and she said “Uh-oh, your voice, it’s so unwelcoming — so I should probably get right to it, why I called, right?” and he said “It’d be appreciated,” and she said “Well, guess what? I’ve gone and got myself pregnant by you, how’s that for openers?” and he said “What’re you talking about? I haven’t seen you for three months,” and she said “That’s exactly how many months pregnant I am, and I have to get an abortion now unless I want it to be an induced miscarriage or worse,” and he said “Why do you think …no, this once got me into trouble, not with you, but — oh, I’ll ask it anyway, for it fits here: Why are you so sure it’s mine? You were always seeing three to four other guys,” and she said “No more than three others, and because I know who I sleep with and at the time I hadn’t slept with anyone for about three weeks before you. Not those fags, if that’s what you’re about to say; we just petted or did other things but no penetration — and nobody the weeks after you or till I skipped my regular period. It’s you,” and he said “Also, which makes me curious, why’d you wait so long in telling me, if it is me who you say did it?” and she said “I thought I could take care of it myself, but I put it off too long, for reasons of my own making but which have nothing to do with you, and I now see where I need the money for the operation,” and he said “What reasons that don’t have to do with me — the whole thing seems to have to do with me, am I wrong?” and she said “Boy, you’re stubborn. Reasons, I’m saying; stupidity on my part, I’m saying. I don’t know; that I thought I was smarter and cleverer and more capable than I am and also maybe believing that some cheap home remedies, as someone told me, would work, and which I never even got around to try, I’m so lazy — okay?” and he said “I’m still a little skeptical about this,” and she said “Does that mean you’re not going to help me?” and he said “Let me think about it,” and she said “I’ve arranged an abortion in two days and I need help fast if you’re going to help — that means money right away and it also means, if you really want to be helpful, coming with me when I go in for it,” and he said “I still have to think about it first; I’ll call you tomorrow,” and she said “You were never like this, that I remember — so what happened?” and he said “We’ve been split up for a while, you know, so I don’t have the right to be skeptical?” and she said “I don’t see where the two equate. No, I’ll say, you don’t have the right, because haven’t I always been straight-out and open with you, holding nothing back?” and he said “Yeah, I guess, but I also think I do have a reason for being at least somewhat skeptical, for who knows what could have happened with you the last three months; but I’ll call tomorrow, I swear,” and she said “Fuck you then, you shithead; call nobody tomorrow as I never want to talk to your ugly snake face again,” and hung up. He didn’t call and a month later got a letter from her saying “Don’t ask me why I’m being so conciliatory to you in relating all this, but here goes: the good news. Everything worked out A-OK. If you want to contribute to the fund that made it this way, you can send whatever you want, although $200 would be fine and rock-bottom and quite fair. No matter what, papa is off the hook, even if he contributes zero. How’s that for gracious pardons, and I don’t mean the excusez-me kind. Best and much luck. Yours sincerely and honestly.” He thought why should he send her anything? It probably was some other guy who was responsible, or easily could have been. Sure, she was usually honest and direct to him, or seemed to be, but sometimes he didn’t think she was telling the truth. Even with the two homosexuals. He bets both those guys, or has a sneaky suspicion, were straight and she just said they weren’t . for what? So his ego wouldn’t be bruised, or something? Or so he wouldn’t feel he was one of four guys sticking it in her, and all the images that brings up, and maybe sometimes the four of them in a week, or five guys, even, or six — because how would he know for sure? As for the contribution, he didn’t know what to do. Maybe a hundred, or more like fifty, which was about what he could afford. Either would help out a little and shut her up — for sure a hundred would — and cut him off from her for good. Well, maybe, but a hundred the max. He sent nothing. He never heard from her again. About a year later he was at a friend’s apartment for dinner, a married couple, and while the woman was washing the dishes and he was drying them she said “You know, of course, that Lynette Taylor died,” and he said “What? What’re you saying? Lynette? The dancer?” and she was nodding and he said “But what do you mean? What could’ve happened?” and felt faint, at least his legs got weak, and he had to sit and was still holding the dish and towel and the woman took the dish out of his hand and said “Why are you so white? What’s wrong? You look sick,” and he said “Don’t you know?” and she said “Know what? That you went out with her a couple of times and more than likely shtupped her? — for she was a free bird if there ever was one. But what of it? So did a lot of men,” and he said “I went out with her for months; maybe a half year. Two to three times a week. She wanted to marry me. I was very close to her. She was pregnant with my baby once and had an abortion — a year ago, or sometime around that,” and she said “That I also didn’t know — Monty, come in here, Gould’s not feeling well,” and her husband came into the room and said “What’s wrong, your stomach?” and he said “Anna just told me Lynette, the dancer, died,” and Monty said “And you didn’t know? I thought everyone who knew her had at least heard about it. Overdose, at a party; got sick, went into the bedroom to rest and she never woke up. What, a month ago?” to Anna and she said “I think so; no more than that,” and Monty said to him “She wasn’t an addict; it might have been the first time she took the stuff. Cocaine with the booze, they said. But she just stopped breathing,” and Anna said “He took it so badly before I thought he was going to have a stroke himself. Did you know they were so close?” and Monty said “I knew they saw each other sometimes, and that Tim Rudd was pissed, someone said, because Gould took her away from him at a party — or something like that happened, anyway — but that’s about it,” and she said “That’s what I remember too, except for the Tim thing. Once at a party I saw Gould and Lynette, is all, though I don’t recall any incandescence between them, do you?” and Monty said “Never, which is why we’re both so surprised, Gould. What were you doing, hiding it?” and he said “What do you mean, because of her color?” and Monty said “Yes, if you want me to be honest about it,” and he said “But it’s not so; I came to a few parties with her that you two were at, you don’t remember?” and Anna said “Just that one that I can recall,” and he said “Well, I haven’t been invited to many for the past year or so, so maybe that’s why,” and she said “To be frank with you, I think that’s because you were usually telling people off at parties — getting drunk, maybe, to do it — and they were getting bugged by your attitude,” and he said “Well, I don’t know, people we know have become so freaking . . middle class or something, lately, and it got to me — long ago — and their minds like compression machines, so old before their time when before they were so lively, talked about writing, thought about art, were going to chip away at walls in whatever field we went in, were freer and didn’t just think advancement and money. But I still can’t believe it about her — Lynette, her dying. There wasn’t a funeral? Or there was and you went and never thought to tell me?” and Anna said “What did they do with her, honey?” and Monty said “Her family came up and brought her back to Raleigh to be buried and there wasn’t even a memorial here for her, that I’m aware of. Was there and we just missed it?” and she said “We would have known, and gone to it, of that I’m positive,” and Monty said “True, we would have known, but why would we have gone to it? She wasn’t, to be perfectly honest, anything particularly special in our lives, though really a nice, beautiful girl, I thought, and from everything I heard, a terrific modern dancer,” and he said “Poor Lynette,” and Anna said “She was beautiful — gorgeous, is more like it. Those cheeks, and with a gorgeous figure, which is to be expected. I can see why you were drawn to her — I think Monty, by what he said, was too — but I’d think she’d be too wild for you after a few times for almost anybody. Unlike Monty, I wasn’t surprised when I heard about it; nor do I believe what I’m saying is I’m almost positive she was involved with hard drugs for a while, or she was heading for it. She seemed to want to try anything; you could see it in her gaze and by what she said. That wasn’t the time I saw her with you, Gould, but — Tim, for instance; I forget if that was before or after you — and with others, I think, or alone. But you said she was pregnant with your baby?” and Monty said “She was? I never heard that,” and Anna said “Don’t believe it, Gould, just don’t, or have very strong doubts. It could have been no baby or one from any number of men, because someone as wild as she was could also be an imaginative and, all right, I’ll say it, a conniving liar too,” and he said “She said she was pregnant and that I was the father, and when a woman says that you have to believe it unqualifiedly and help her out,” and