Because she doesn’t enjoy sex, he told himself with anger, a saddened, dissipating fury. She doesn’t really enjoy anything. Not work, or sex, or me.
Marion arrived shortly after this judgment. She rang the bell and Fred found her slumped against the hallway wall, her leather bag drooping at the end of a hand. She opened her fingers and let it drop. He said, “Hello!” valiantly, trying to discourage her performance of fatigue.
Marion closed her eyes and let her head rest against the wall.
“Come on!” Fred said, irritation erupting through his brief attempt at good cheer. “Wake up.”
She opened her eyes and walked into his arms, burying her head in his shoulder and sighing. He was home to her: a safe port whose criticisms and praise were equally familiar, and becalmed of harm or excitement.
This physical request, that he be her protector, secure and comforting, made him feel hopeless. He needed help: rescue from the battering storms of his constructions into the dangerous world; not a plea for shelter, a plea he was both unwilling and unable to answer.
She put her arms around him and squeezed, saying, “Mmmm.” But it was a sound of childish coziness, not a passionate preliminary. He eased her away, pulling her arms off. She kept her face on him, leaning forward, threatening to topple if he moved away.
“Come on,” he said, trying to keep irritated emphasis out of his tone.
Marion abruptly breathed in deeply and straightened, her face impassive, and returned to the doorway to get her bag.
“Rough day?” Fred asked.
“The worst.” She walked past him, taking off her trench coat and hanging it up. “Did you buy anything for dinner?”
“No,” Fred said. He rapidly calculated that if he hoped to get lucky with her, he’d better compensate for his oversight. “I thought we’d order Chinese,” he said casually, pretending to a carefully thought-out plan.
“Not again,” she moaned. “Why didn’t you buy some steaks? You never think of buying anything. What would you do if I weren’t living here?”
Fred guffawed. “Order Chinese,” he said, delighted by this witticism.
Marion, to his surprise, smiled. “You’d turn into a humongous dumpling.” she said, patting his flabby belly. “I can’t eat Chinese again.”
Fred beamed. “How about pizza?” And then guffawed at himself.
“What a diet,” Marion said, and walked into the kitchen, opening the freezer, only to frown at its contents. “You want hot dogs?” she asked doubtfully.
“Oh yeah. That’s much healthier than pizza.”
Marion laughed and looked at him affectionately. He walked over, putting his arms around her and kissing her, like he did when they dated in college, his tongue out, pushing into her mouth rudely, anxiously selling his desire to penetrate her. Marion welcomed this embrace without enthusiasm, but with a gentle touch on the back of his neck. He broke off at this response and looked in her eyes. “I love you,” he said almost in a tone of apology.
She smiled sweetly.
The phone rang. Marion sagged. “You get it,” she said, her eyes looking pained at the sound of the second ring.
“Hello,” Fred said cheerfully into the kitchen wall phone.
“Hello, Fred? It’s Tom Lear.”
“Oh.” A jolt went through him; a shock of transition. “Hello.”
“I got your message. Listen, thanks for thinking of me. I really appreciate it.”
He’s going to say no, Fred thought, and he felt the dark troubles of the world stir, a monster growling in the slime.
“It should be a great game,” Fred said, hoping to appease the beast, remind it of its self-interest. Could Tom be so disdainful that even to sit next to Fred would spoil a superb basketball game?
“Great? It’s the game of the year! Game of the century! At least — it’s the best game this week.”
Fred laughed, but feebly. Suddenly he was uncertain of defeat. Tom sounded natural, at ease. Maybe he was going to accept.
“Anyway,” Tom went on, “I do want to go to the game …”
Here it comes, Fred thought.
“… and I would have loved going with you, because you’re a real Knick fan, but I already accepted an invite from Sam Billings, the producer of my movie. He’s invited me into the studio’s box. I could beg off to do something else, but I think he’d be insulted if he spotted me there with you.”
“The tickets I have are courtside,” Fred pleaded. “Do you know where the private boxes are? They’re way up top. In fact, they’re built above the cheap seats.”
“Oh, I’ve been in the box before. You’re right, they’re terrible seats. Only good thing about it is the private bar. Most people end up watching the game on the TV in the box. Most ridiculous thing in the world. Go to Madison Square Garden to watch the Knicks on television.”
“I don’t think your producer would spot us.”
“Oh, if your tickets are courtside, the way I jump up and down, they’re sure to notice.” Tom laughed at himself. Fred did not. Tom cut himself off at the lack of response. “No, I’m kidding. I know he probably wouldn’t. But if, by some chance, he did, it would be very embarrassing. Anyway, I was going to suggest that you come up to the box at halftime and have a drink. Meet whoever’s there. Maybe a starlet or two.” Tom laughed. “I assume you won’t bring the wife.”
Who am I going to bring? Fred wondered. Especially if he planned on visiting the box. He could hardly invite his old childhood friend Pete. Pete still used words like “farout” and “heavy.” “Um, I don’t think she wants to.” he said, not loudly. Marion was standing nearby, laying out hot dogs on a frying pan. Marion might want to go but Fred wasn’t sure he wanted her to come along. Not because he had any illusions about picking up starlets: he had an uneasy sense he didn’t want her on his arm in a private box at Madison Square Garden. It was a peculiar feeling. Marion, after all, was bright and well-spoken.
“Well, whomever you bring, come up at halftime. It’s Box Nine. All right? I have to rush out to meet someone for a drink. Thanks again for the offer. I’ll be courtside in spirit.”
“You’re welcome.”
“See you at the game.” He rang off.
Fred hung up slowly. Marion opened a can of baked beans, pulling back the metal lid with a scraping noise. “Who was that?”
“Tom Lear.”
“About the poker game?”
“No. He was inviting me to join him at one of the private boxes at the Garden.”
“Really?” Marion looked surprised. And pleased.
“Yeah. What’s so amazing about that?”
“I didn’t know you were friends.”
“Oh. Well, I guess I’m the only person at the game who’s a basketball fan.”
“So what did you say? Are we going to go?”
Fred stared at her. “Uh …”
Marion’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t ask if I could come,” she said, making an accusation, not asking.