minute. It couldn't be; but I had to ask her anyway: "Are you in love with him?"
She looked up, startled. "God, no."
My heart sank. Confusedly, incongruously, I had wanted her to say yes. Had she felt deeply for him there'd have been an excuse: something I could understand; forgive. And I wanted to forgive her; I wanted to, desperately. I had lost Brad; not yesterday, but years ago: a hundred times, over and over again. Was I now to lose Frannie too?
"In love with Brad?" she was saying. The idea seemed actually to amuse her. "Really, Jo —how could I be?"
Once more I felt the stab of resentment: if she rejected him, she rejected me. "Well, if it isn't that, what is it?"
"It's that he's so —" She tried to laugh, and then closed her eyes tightly against the embarrassment of what she felt to be ridiculous. "It's because he's so—beautiful." The hurt began to dissolve inside of me. It would be all right now. Her admission of his beauty as the cause of her vulnerability was, however shallow to the rest of the world, a peculiar backing for my own enslavement. If Frannie with all her stress on depth, with all her crackpot, hell-bound standards of intellectuality, could accept a man whose total vice of failure was mitigated solely by the virtue of his face, then I too might be redeemed.
It was like the books she had given me to read and the records she had made me listen to. Let anyone question or disagree: when Frannie laid the seal of her approval on a thing it was, for me, elevated to a level of importance and well worth my own embrace.
It was not merely forgiveness that I felt for her now; it was a sense of the sharing of frailty; but a frailty which, because she too had fallen prey, was sensitive and moving.
The Other Woman, I thought; and smiled. Because, of all the Other Women in history, from the classics all the way to Hollywood, she was, without guile and glamour, by far the most endearing. And I, the Wronged Wife, seated before her confession, had, oddly, not the slightest wish for bare-clawed retribution. I wanted, almost, to laugh out loud: not derisively, but with love.
"You're a little girl," I said softly. "You're a little girl with a crush..."
"Am I...?" She lifted her foot to the chair and began pulling at the rip in her moccasin. For a minute there was no sound but the slap of the leather against her toes. "Where is he...?" she asked finally.
"Some dive in Trent Place."
"Call him."
"Like hell I will."
"You've got to, Jo."
"I haven't got to at all."
"Please."
"Please, nothing! I don't ever want to see him again. Nor do I feel like ever seeing you again either."
"You can't mean that," she said, stricken.
"Oh yes I can and do." But could I? It was a game I was playing now; and I knew it: a game of hurt-for-hurt's sake. But suddenly she seemed to know it too, and a sixth sense gave her back the advantage. "Can the Drama, Jo," she said. "It's all happened before, hasn't it? I'm merely Number Twenty-Five, remember? Why should it matter so much this time?"
"I don't know, I said, wavering. "I just don't know. But maybe it's because this time —it's you."
"It isn't me anymore," she insisted. "And it won't be, ever again. It's over. Believe me."
"If its over," I said, "why do you care if he comes back or not?"
"For you," she answered. "I care that you have him. In some funny way I kind of need for you to have him. And then —for Marc. He doesn't know yet. But if you and Brad split up the whole thing will get around. Even now I think Jeri's caught on. She says when Brad's around I have that Look on my face. You know how it is with this gang: eventually everybody always knows..."
"I'll have to think it over," I said.
She got up then, to go. I walked her out to the driveway. The first snow was on the ground. The slush came up over the sides of her moccasins onto her bare feet. "You'll catch a cold," I told her. "Why can't you dress like a human being?"
She ignored me. "Call him, will you?" she
She looked up, startled. "God, no."
My heart sank. Confusedly, incongruously, I had wanted her to say yes. Had she felt deeply for him there'd have been an excuse: something I could understand; forgive. And I wanted to forgive her; I wanted to, desperately. I had lost Brad; not yesterday, but years ago: a hundred times, over and over again. Was I now to lose Frannie too?
"In love with Brad?" she was saying. The idea seemed actually to amuse her. "Really, Jo —how could I be?"
Once more I felt the stab of resentment: if she rejected him, she rejected me. "Well, if it isn't that, what is it?"
"It's that he's so —" She tried to laugh, and then closed her eyes tightly against the embarrassment of what she felt to be ridiculous. "It's because he's so—beautiful." The hurt began to dissolve inside of me. It would be all right now. Her admission of his beauty as the cause of her vulnerability was, however shallow to the rest of the world, a peculiar backing for my own enslavement. If Frannie with all her stress on depth, with all her crackpot, hell-bound standards of intellectuality, could accept a man whose total vice of failure was mitigated solely by the virtue of his face, then I too might be redeemed.
It was like the books she had given me to read and the records she had made me listen to. Let anyone question or disagree: when Frannie laid the seal of her approval on a thing it was, for me, elevated to a level of importance and well worth my own embrace.
It was not merely forgiveness that I felt for her now; it was a sense of the sharing of frailty; but a frailty which, because she too had fallen prey, was sensitive and moving.
The Other Woman, I thought; and smiled. Because, of all the Other Women in history, from the classics all the way to Hollywood, she was, without guile and glamour, by far the most endearing. And I, the Wronged Wife, seated before her confession, had, oddly, not the slightest wish for bare-clawed retribution. I wanted, almost, to laugh out loud: not derisively, but with love.
"You're a little girl," I said softly. "You're a little girl with a crush..."
"Am I...?" She lifted her foot to the chair and began pulling at the rip in her moccasin. For a minute there was no sound but the slap of the leather against her toes. "Where is he...?" she asked finally.
"Some dive in Trent Place."
"Call him."
"Like hell I will."
"You've got to, Jo."
"I haven't got to at all."
"Please."
"Please, nothing! I don't ever want to see him again. Nor do I feel like ever seeing you again either."
"You can't mean that," she said, stricken.
"Oh yes I can and do." But could I? It was a game I was playing now; and I knew it: a game of hurt-for-hurt's sake. But suddenly she seemed to know it too, and a sixth sense gave her back the advantage. "Can the Drama, Jo," she said. "It's all happened before, hasn't it? I'm merely Number Twenty-Five, remember? Why should it matter so much this time?"
"I don't know, I said, wavering. "I just don't know. But maybe it's because this time —it's you."
"It isn't me anymore," she insisted. "And it won't be, ever again. It's over. Believe me."
"If its over," I said, "why do you care if he comes back or not?"
"For you," she answered. "I care that you have him. In some funny way I kind of need for you to have him. And then —for Marc. He doesn't know yet. But if you and Brad split up the whole thing will get around. Even now I think Jeri's caught on. She says when Brad's around I have that Look on my face. You know how it is with this gang: eventually everybody always knows..."
"I'll have to think it over," I said.
She got up then, to go. I walked her out to the driveway. The first snow was on the ground. The slush came up over the sides of her moccasins onto her bare feet. "You'll catch a cold," I told her. "Why can't you dress like a human being?"
She ignored me. "Call him, will you?" she
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