The Work Is Innocent (8 page)
He mechanically kissed her nipples, biting them lightly. She relaxed and enjoyed that, but to Richard it was no answer. How do I get in? He had the distinct feeling his erection was gone so he pushed forward toward that opening. He found his erection, it almost hurt on rebounding away from her, but he found no opening.
Joan’s body tightened up and he was afraid she had decided not to fuck him. He had to hurry. He pushed forward—nothing, not even a hint of that moist warm place he expected. It felt as if his penis had bent backward on hitting her, so he let it rest on the inside of her thigh and hoped to discover if it was erect. It seemed to be, but, scared that it wasn’t enough of a test, he grabbed it with his hand. It was elongated but not completely hard. He squeezed it several times, fascinated that it gave under pressure. He was sure that his pressure was making it more limp and he stopped. Joan was hardly breathing. She must hate me, he thought.
He put his hands on the bed and pushed off of it, scurried to his clothes, and violently pushed his legs into his pants. The swishing was loud and embarrassing.
While reaching for his sweat shirt, he heard the covers rustle. Joan switched the lamp on and Richard turned to face her. She had the blankets up to her chest. “Are you all right?” she asked, apparently without irony.
He didn’t know the answer to her question. “No,” he said, and covered his face while he pulled his sweat shirt on. The smell of the laundered cloth comforted him. But he felt just as lost when the world reappeared. He picked up his socks and sat down on the bed to put them on. It seemed like an act of great daring: the brilliant bit of business a great actor might devise to keep up the pretense of being normal.
Joan looked at him, her eyes still sleepy, full of trust and concern. “Are you going?” she asked.
She was a woman lying in bed, her shoulders bare, her hair loose. Richard found himself leaning over and kissing her full on the lips. “I love you,” he said, pulled away for a moment, and kissed her again. She murmured as he did so. His penis shifted in his pants like a bear awakening. He was depressed by that. The heaviness in his chest returned, welling in his throat.
He moved away from her. Joan’s arms clung slightly to him, only hinting that they objected. “Don’t freak out about it,” she said. And even though it was apparent from her tone that she meant well, he was furious. He got up abruptly from the bed and began to walk out of the room, but was stopped by a sharp pain in his groin.
He stood still in the middle of the room, frightened by the ache in his legs. He moved one foot forward tentatively and almost yelped from the sensation of having one testicle strain away from his body. Was it real?
He heard the sheets rustle and saw Joan go over to her clothes. The patch of hair that formed a deep V and then the sight of her buttocks as she bent over were tantalizing. His excitement pushed his penis up even higher, and his balls felt very small and too far away. He put his hand into his pants and reached down toward them, his thighs aching, his testicles being crushed by his pants. He was tilted forward on his toes as his hand reached them. They were burning hot. He slowly pulled them up and they felt distended. It hurt. It hurt a lot. Was he really injured? It was ridiculous, he couldn’t be.
“Oh, God,” he groaned. His throat and eyes were teased with tears of pain and frustration and defeat, but he held them back. He couldn’t face her, so despite the sharp pangs that accompanied every step, he walked out of the room. By taking very small ones he avoided most of the agony. His right hand hit the plasterboard wall of the hallway with a hollow thud as he tried to keep his balance. There were banging noises from Joan’s room as if she were trying to dress in a hurry. He stopped himself from rushing out of the apartment—hoping to escape embarrassment—only by realizing how much more humiliating that would be.
But he didn’t want her to see him walk in that absurd birdlike step. He braced himself and walked quickly to the living room and sat down on the couch. The muscles in his thighs and groin felt like ropes pulled taut.
“Richard,” he heard her call, with even a note of desperation in the voice.
He didn’t answer.
Joan came running out of the hallway in her bare feet and looked toward the door. “Hello,” Richard said in a feeble voice. Her head turned to look at him. “Oh,” she said. “You’re here. I thought you’d left.”
Somehow he didn’t feel silly just sitting there and saying nothing. Only the ache in his groin concerned him. He was worn out and disgusted, too tired to care if he’d made a fool of himself.
Joan obviously didn’t know what to say to him. She stood there, bewildered for a moment, and then walked over to an easy chair facing the couch. She sat with her feet curled beneath her. When she looked at him again, the hardness of her normal self had replaced the look of tenderness on her face. It seemed to Richard his own face had sagged into a disgruntled frown. He knew then it made no difference if he’d humiliated himself—he hated her anyway. “I have to go,” he said.
His voice was abrupt, almost threatening. She looked away and said, “Okay,” quietly. He groaned and got up, taking his novel. He was furious he had brought it. He goose-stepped to the door to disguise his pained walk. Richard stood in front of it and waited for her to let him out. But when he turned in her direction, he saw she was still sitting. He turned the lock, opened the door, and left.
He took a cab home, afraid of the train in his hobbled state. Slouched in the back, watching New York’s lights pass by, he felt very small. The cab crossed Central Park: dark and motionless, it seemed like a trip through outer space. And when they finally reached Broadway and were going uptown on it, Richard looked at the people strolling the streets. Some in costumes pretending to be pimps, or junkies, or whores; others, young couples looking like they were in love, older couples looking severe. He thought they all had to be kidding. And at times he’d see them look curiously, almost mockingly, at him.
Fumbling with his money, he paid the driver and got out of the car awkwardly. The group at the twenty-four-hour grill looked at him. The wino who was trying to stay out of sight of the cop getting coffee and the cop waiting in the patrol car all seemed fascinated by Richard. He hurried into his building and reached the elevator just before it left. A few people were in it. He didn’t look at them, but their presence put a tangible pressure on him. He felt his embarrassment deepening as each floor slid by. He got out with no relief, because it was early and his parents would be awake.
As he opened the door, it occurred to him that his parents weren’t aware that he was supposed to have lost his virginity. That he had assumed they would know amused him enough to face them cheerfully. They were both reading in the living room, his father leaning forward eagerly, resting his elbows on his legs—a big man looking oddly like a schoolboy—his mother with manuscript papers littering the couch.
“Well,” Aaron said, drawing the word out. “My boy, you’re back early.”
“Yes, I’m very dutiful.”
“Oh ho,” his father said, amused. His mother had twisted about to look at Richard. She seemed merely bewildered. He had wanted her to appreciate his comeback.
“Hi ya, Richard,” she said with sudden cheer.
“I’m going to make a cup of tea, shall I make you some?” Richard felt very clever and good about himself for offering. They did take it as a charming novelty. He was thanked with pleased smiles, but they declined. He went into the kitchen and put water on. His father called in. “Did you have a good time?”
“Yes, I did.”
“You took your ms., eh?”
Richard showed his head from the kitchen and drawled his words pretentiously. “Yes, I thought I’d show it about, you know, impress the rabble and all that.”
“Really?” Betty said. “Somebody read it?”
He was in trouble. “Uh, yeah.”
“So?” his father said. “Don’t tell me she didn’t like it?”
“Did you really go and see a girl tonight, or is that just what your father’s been telling me?”
He almost blushed. “Yes, I did. I went to see Joan.”
“Betty!” Aaron said. “Don’t ask him embarrassing questions like that. You don’t want him to think you’re just a nosy Jewish mother.”
“Oh sure,” she said to Aaron. “I’m very worried my son, my
darling
son, is ruining himself with a tramp.” They laughed. “You know,” she went on, “
my
mother used to insist that all my brothers bring home their dates.”
“Because she was worried they were tramps?” Richard asked, relieved to be on another subject.
Betty laughed and Aaron said, “You don’t remember Mama?” Richard shook his head no and Aaron went on. “She was a marvelous woman. Betty is always acting as if she were Mrs. Portnoy, but she was really very sophisticated and very funny about her children.”
“She liked you, Dad?”
“Oh, God,” Betty said. “She thought he was the greatest.”
The pot whistled in the kitchen. After making his tea, Richard was able to go to his room without any further questioning by his parents. He turned on the television and let it soak up the recurring, shameful memories of his love-making.
The next morning at breakfast, Betty told Richard that his sister had called, saying she was going to Europe in a week and would stop off in New York. He asked when they planned to move into the house in Vermont and was told in about a month. It occurred to him later on in the afternoon, while typing the final draft, that he could go up there ahead of time and have three weeks of pleasure with John. There was no fun to be had in the city.
His parents agreed, provided John had no objection. When Richard called that evening, John urged him to come, and he decided to leave the next morning at seven. His father said, “My God, I had no idea we were boring you that much.” His mother was quiet. Later on, Richard overheard snatches of a conversation between them: they speculated that his date had caused his sudden desire to leave. Before going to bed his father tried to talk him into going by plane, but Richard insisted that he really was too scared to fly and preferred the scenery of the bus drive anyway.
It was odd to return to his room and work on a novel about a situation that still engulfed him: his parents retained their sympathy for his cute problems; the trials of adolescence were either funny or exasperating for them; he could never behave with dignity or force.
But writing had helped him. His father knew quickly that Richard was disgusted by his attempts to encourage him out of his desire to go by bus. “I’m really torturing you, eh kiddo?” Aaron said, and hugged him to his side.
“It’s okay,” Richard said. “You can’t help yourself. But you’re getting me depressed.”
Aaron stood back, shocked, and opened his expression in wonder. “Why? I don’t mean to.”
Richard wanted to make his point without a fuss but still flash a glint of steel. “I heard you and Mom talking about my date.”
“Oh no,” Betty said quickly. “You can’t blame us for anything you heard. That’s what you get for eavesdropping.”
“No, no,” Richard said. “That’s not what bothers me. I thought my novel was so good that you’d never dare to guess at my motivations any more.” He meant them to laugh and they did—with the vigor of relief.
It took over ten hours to reach Vermont by bus, Richard nearly going mad in his eagerness to arrive. When he stepped down from the bus and saw the trio approaching, he thought they looked like a schoolchildren’s book illustration of the future: John in a big, white woolen sweater, faded dungarees, and heavy rubber boots; Naomi in a gray poncho, jeans, and boots; and Nana in an amusingly scaled-down version of her father’s clothes. John greeted him in his self-conscious way—a big smile with his eyes looking beyond Richard into the distance with apparent fascination. But his sister was abandoned, saying, “It’s your uncle,” to Nana. And then she flung her arms open and cried, “Ah, brother, to see you again is good for these ancient eyes.” He hugged her and planted a kiss on a reddened, frozen cheek.
They got into the truck and John, giving Richard a mischievous look, reached under the seat and came up with a can of beer. Richard laughed and took it. Naomi, her gaiety amazing Richard, said, “John’s decided to make a drunk of you. No,” she went on with an apologetic glance at John, “we’re celebrating your triumph.”
“My triumph? What are you talking about?”
“School. You don’t have to go to school. Don’t tell me you’re taking it for granted already.”
It came as a shock. That struggle had ended with a whimper. He screamed, “That’s right! I forgot. I mean I didn’t realize. I won!”
They laughed together and shared his first sense of victory and release.
The five days before Naomi left were peaceful for Richard. John worked without a stop upstairs, Richard spent most of the day typing up the final draft, and Naomi took long walks, returning with her big shocked eyes, her body erect, making quick stiff movements. Richard was awed by the abstraction from life that she seemed able to achieve. He was convinced she had the soul of a poet and decided one afternoon to encourage her. He was sitting in the kitchen having a cup of tea when he spotted her coming up the long pine-covered driveway. When she came in he offered her some tea and she rubbed her hands together with excitement. “Goody,” she said. “I’ll make a little fire in the stove.”
While he was busy making the tea, Naomi went outside to the woodbox and returned with split wood cut small to fit into the Franklin stove that had been connected into the kitchen fireplace. She poured a little kerosene onto the wood after stacking it in the stove and stood back with her face averted, tossing a match in. It went up with a roar.
“It’s scary putting the kerosene in,” Richard said.
“I know. But this is a badly made chimney. The wind blows the smoke back into the room. But if the fire starts quickly that doesn’t happen.”
It annoyed Richard that she explained it to him. He had been there the day the house filled with smoke and also the day they tried using kerosene. John had put too much of it on and two streams of flame had leaped out of the stove’s drafts, nearly blinding Richard. Even though he had lived with her in the country she was still expounding on it, apparently thinking him ignorant. “So are you almost done?” she asked as he put her cup down.