masochist-type. She likes to have things done to her, instead of taking the initiative herself. Which is what a woman ought to be. Sexually, she’s always been adequate, more than adequate, for me. We’re well-matched like that.”
“That’s nice,” I murmured, then felt it wasn’t adequate. “Nice to hear, I mean.” It’s strange how things which have terrified you so in your imagination, when they actually come to pass, are digested so easily, and with such dispatch.
He only made a kind of gesture with his cigar. “How do you explain to a woman that you can love her and adore her and still want to fuck around a little on the side?—especially when it’s all right there waiting for you, practically, so to speak? All ready to fall back down on its back and open it up wide for you?
“Well, I didn’t try to tell her that it just was different with men. That it’s a kind of adventure. What was the point? You couldn’t talk to her. So I made her a solemn promise instead. That night. And, that night, as you may have guessed by now, was the night McKenna was conceived. She wasn’t anticipated or planned for. But I know that happens with lots of people. It’s happened with lots of my friends. I call them Reconciliation Babies. Some deep emotional spark down deep inside them somewhere makes contact and catches hold and sticks.
“And I haven’t laid a glove on another broad since.” He moved in the chair.
“But wasn’t that miraculous? That she should come to me like that? I mean, she didn’t have to. She could just have taken Hill and left, and left me a letter. Or not even left me any note at all! And where would I have been then? No, I think that part was marvelous.”
“Yes,” I said from deep within the open mouth of my glass. “That part was certainly marvelous. But then, she’s a marvelous woman, Louisa.”
“She sure is, and I don’t mind telling you that I’ve had several pretty long hard dry spells because of that solemn promise, since then,” Harry said. “That’s why I’m not so very hot on going down to Madrid for this job without her.”
Such self-centeredness as that demands a certain respect. He reached for the bottle. I quickly held out my glass. It had been a brand-new bottle when he got it from the bar. But I felt I needed a drink. I felt dishonest. But I did not quite see how I could tell him now, six years after, about my share in his reconciliation with his wife—and by extension, in the conception of his daughter. It was too personal. It was too—intimate. The very idea embarrassed me. And yet some devilish part of me was enjoying having my secret with Louisa, even if she wouldn’t acknowledge it. At that moment, I hated the whole evening.
Harry poured himself more than half a tumblerful of straight Scotch, and poured almost as much for me, before I stopped him. He took very little Perrier. I took more. I never was able to drink and keep up with Harry drink-for-drink, though I’m a serious drinker. The studio kitchen had its own refrigerator and ice, and Harry knocked some loose. Then when he sat back down in the big black leather chair and put his feet back up on the desk corner, I realized he wasn’t finished.
I was pretty well worn-out emotionally, and I didn’t want to hear any more. The thing I was most terrified of hearing—his revelations about his sexual life with Louisa—had come and gone rather placidly, without causing any earthquakes or seismographic oscillations, and I thought that was enough. Of course, he had not been very graphic. But I still thought it was enough. But I apparently did not have any way of communicating this to Harry; or if I did, it was not getting through to him. For whatever reasons of his own, Harry had gone beyond receiving any signals from me.
I’m convinced that the emotional tensions of the evening with the two producers were the initial cause of it. Add to that all the brandy and then all that Scotch, and those ungodly
“That’s nice,” I murmured, then felt it wasn’t adequate. “Nice to hear, I mean.” It’s strange how things which have terrified you so in your imagination, when they actually come to pass, are digested so easily, and with such dispatch.
He only made a kind of gesture with his cigar. “How do you explain to a woman that you can love her and adore her and still want to fuck around a little on the side?—especially when it’s all right there waiting for you, practically, so to speak? All ready to fall back down on its back and open it up wide for you?
“Well, I didn’t try to tell her that it just was different with men. That it’s a kind of adventure. What was the point? You couldn’t talk to her. So I made her a solemn promise instead. That night. And, that night, as you may have guessed by now, was the night McKenna was conceived. She wasn’t anticipated or planned for. But I know that happens with lots of people. It’s happened with lots of my friends. I call them Reconciliation Babies. Some deep emotional spark down deep inside them somewhere makes contact and catches hold and sticks.
“And I haven’t laid a glove on another broad since.” He moved in the chair.
“But wasn’t that miraculous? That she should come to me like that? I mean, she didn’t have to. She could just have taken Hill and left, and left me a letter. Or not even left me any note at all! And where would I have been then? No, I think that part was marvelous.”
“Yes,” I said from deep within the open mouth of my glass. “That part was certainly marvelous. But then, she’s a marvelous woman, Louisa.”
“She sure is, and I don’t mind telling you that I’ve had several pretty long hard dry spells because of that solemn promise, since then,” Harry said. “That’s why I’m not so very hot on going down to Madrid for this job without her.”
Such self-centeredness as that demands a certain respect. He reached for the bottle. I quickly held out my glass. It had been a brand-new bottle when he got it from the bar. But I felt I needed a drink. I felt dishonest. But I did not quite see how I could tell him now, six years after, about my share in his reconciliation with his wife—and by extension, in the conception of his daughter. It was too personal. It was too—intimate. The very idea embarrassed me. And yet some devilish part of me was enjoying having my secret with Louisa, even if she wouldn’t acknowledge it. At that moment, I hated the whole evening.
Harry poured himself more than half a tumblerful of straight Scotch, and poured almost as much for me, before I stopped him. He took very little Perrier. I took more. I never was able to drink and keep up with Harry drink-for-drink, though I’m a serious drinker. The studio kitchen had its own refrigerator and ice, and Harry knocked some loose. Then when he sat back down in the big black leather chair and put his feet back up on the desk corner, I realized he wasn’t finished.
I was pretty well worn-out emotionally, and I didn’t want to hear any more. The thing I was most terrified of hearing—his revelations about his sexual life with Louisa—had come and gone rather placidly, without causing any earthquakes or seismographic oscillations, and I thought that was enough. Of course, he had not been very graphic. But I still thought it was enough. But I apparently did not have any way of communicating this to Harry; or if I did, it was not getting through to him. For whatever reasons of his own, Harry had gone beyond receiving any signals from me.
I’m convinced that the emotional tensions of the evening with the two producers were the initial cause of it. Add to that all the brandy and then all that Scotch, and those ungodly
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