That antiwar demonstration was to be my last contact with her until the spring of 1966, when she phoned my apartment, and in an even and matter-of-fact voice said to me, “I want to talk to you about a divorce, Peter. I am willing to talk sensibly about all the necessary arrangements, but I cannot do it through that lawyer of yours. The man is a moron and Dan simply cannot get through to him.”
Could it be? Were things about to change? Was it about to be over?
“He is not a moron, he is a perfectly competent matrimonial lawyer.”
“He is a moron, and a liar, but that isn’t the point, and I’m not going to waste my time arguing about it. Do you or don’t you want a divorce?”
‘What kind of question is that? Of course I do.”
“Then why don’t the two of us sit down together and work it out?”
“I don’t know that we two could, ‘together.’”
“I repeat: do you or do you not want a divorce?”
“Look, Maureen-“
“If you do, then I will come to your apartment after my Group tonight and we can iron this thing out like adults. It’s gone on long enough and, frankly, I’m quite sick of it. I have other things to do with my life.”
‘Well, that’s good to hear, Maureen. But we surely can’t meet to settle it in my apartment.”
“Where then? The street?”
“We can meet on neutral ground. We can meet at the Algonquin.
“Really, what a baby you are. Little Lord Fauntleroy from Westchester-to this very day.”
“The word Westchester’ still gets you, doesn’t it? Just like ‘Ivy League.’ All these years in the big city and still the night watchman’s daughter from Elmira.”
“Ho hum. Do you want to go on insulting me, or do you want to get on with the business at hand? Truly, I couldn’t care less about you or your opinion of me at this point. I’m well over that. I have a life of my own. I have my flute.”
“The flute now?”
“I have my flute,” she went on, “I have Group. I’m going to the New School.”
“Everything but a job,” I said.
“My doctor doesn’t feel I can hold a job right now. I need time to think.”
“What is it you ‘think’ about?”
“Look, do you want to score points with your cleverness, or do you want a divorce?”
“You can’t come to my apartment.”
“Is that your final decision? I will not talk about a serious matter like this in the street or in some hotel bar. So if that is your final decision, I am hanging up. For God’s sake, Peter, I’m not going to eat you up.”
“Look,” I said, “all right, come here, if that’s all we’re going to talk about.”
“I assure you I have nothing else to converse about with a person like you. I’ll come right from Group.”
That word! “What time is ‘Group’ over?” I asked.
“I’ll be at your place at ten,” she said.
“I don’t like it,” said Spielvogel, when I phoned with the news of the rendezvous I’d arranged, all on my own.
“I don’t either,” I said. “But if she changes the subject, I’ll throw her out. I’ll have her go. But what else could I say? Maybe she finally means it. I can’t afford to say no.”
“Well, if you said yes, it’s yes.”
“I could still call her up and get out of it, of course.”
“You want to do that?”
“I want to be divorced, that’s what I want. That’s why I thought I had better grab hold of the opportunity while I had it. If it means risking a scene with her, well, I’ll have to risk it.”
“Yes? You are up to that? You won’t collapse in tears? You won’t tear your clothes off your back?”
“No, no. That’s over.”
“Well, then,” said Spielvogel, “good luck.”
“Thanks.”
Maureen arrived promptly at ten P.M. She was dressed in a pretty red wool suit-a demure jacket over a silk blouse, and a flared skirt-smarter than anything I’d ever seen her in before; and though drawn and creased about the eyes and at the corners of the mouth, her face was deeply tanned-nothing urchinlike or “beat” about this wife of mine any longer. It turned out that she had just come back from five days in Puerto Rico, a vacation that her Group had insisted on her taking. On my money, you bloodsucker. And the suit too. Who paid for that hut putz-o here!
Maureen made a careful survey of the living room that Susan had helped me to furnish for a few hundred dollars. It was simple enough, but through Susan’s efforts, cozy and comfortable: rush matting on the floor, a round oak country table, some unpainted dining chairs, a desk and a lamp, bookcases, a daybed covered with an India print, a secondhand easy chair with a navy-blue slipcover made by Susan, along with navy-blue curtains she’d sewn together on her machine. “Very quaint,” said Maureen superciliously, eyeing the basket of logs by the fireplace, “and very House and Garden, your color scheme.”
“It’ll do.”
From supercilious to envious in the twinkling of an eye- “Oh, I would think it would do quite nicely. You ought to see what I live in. It’s half this size.”
“The proverbial shoe box. I might have known.”
“Peter,” she said, drawing a breath that seemed to catch a little in her chest, “I’ve come here to tell you something.” She sat down in the easy chair, making herself right at home.
“To tell-?”
‘I’m not going to divorce you. I’m never going to divorce you.”
She paused and waited for my response; so did I.
“Get out,” I said.
“I have a few more things to say to you.”
“I told you to get out.”
T just got here. I have no intention of-“
“You lied. You lied again. You told me on the phone less than three hours ago that you wanted to talk-“
“I’ve written a story about you. I want to read it to you. I’ve brought it with me in my purse. I read it to my class at the New School. The instructor has promised to try to get it published, that’s how good he thinks it is. I’m sure you won’t agree-you have those high Flaubertian standards, of course-but I want you to hear it. I think you have a right to before I go ahead and put it in print.”
“Maureen, either get up and go, under your own steam, or I am going to throw you out.”
“Lay one finger on me and I will have you put in jail. Dan Egan knows I’m here. He knows you invited me here. He didn’t want me to come. He’s seen you in action, Peter. He said if you laid a finger on me I was to call him immediately. And in case you think it’s on your lousy hundred dollars that I went to Puerto Rico, it wasn’t. It was Dan who gave me the money, when the Group said I had to get away.”
“Is that a ‘Group’ you go to or a travel agency?”
“Ha ha.”
“And the chic outfit. Therapist buy you that, or did your fellow patients pass the cup?”
“No one ‘bought’ it for me. Mary Egan gave it to me-the suit used to be hers. She bought it in Ireland. Don’t worry, I’m not exactly living the high life on the money you earn through the sweat of your brow four hours a week at Hofstra. The Egans are my friends, the best friends I’ve ever had.”
“Fine. You need ‘em. Now scram. Get out.”
“I want you to hear this story,” she said, reaching into her purse for the manuscript. “I want you to know that you’re not the only one who has tales to tell the world about that marriage. The story-“ she said, removing the folded pages from a manila envelope-“the story is called ‘Dressing Up in Mommy’s Clothes.’”