trembled touching her wrist and fingers, and his bass voice shook. He was not, she knew, the one who would mean more than her husband had meant, the one to rid her of the desire for others, but he was the one to break the link, her body’s link, with her child. On the unmade bed in his half-empty apartment, he uncovered her breasts that had given up the mouth of the child only a month before and still felt the communion with the child; now the mouth of the man destroyed the link and, though it had to be destroyed, under the excitement she was disturbed by its breaking. Where the child had emerged, the doctor had sewn her into a virgin again, and the pain that resulted in the man’s embrace seemed like an attempt of her body to repulse the stranger who was destroying the link with the child. She went up to his apartment often, and they lay in each other’s arms for hours, approaching a tender respect for each other that took faults and failings into consideration; but always, when he rose from the bed and she lay watching him dress, his shirt tentlike around his hips, he became troubling to her and futureless.
No word had come from her husband since the letter written along the route of his escape, and at her parents’ promptings she sued for divorce. The erotic atmosphere of the lounge was not, they implied, to be denied its possibilities. The child, at this time, receded from the center of her life. The Swedish cook and housekeeper, who lived in the servants’ quarters off the kitchen, took the child to her room on the evenings that Vivian sang in the lounge, and her wages were increased for this extra service to the family. Sometimes, when Vivian had stayed out all night and slept all morning, she would go down in her robe, a sense of guilt upon her, and find the baby asleep in the bassinet in the sun filtering through the lace curtains in the woman’s room, or gazing up at the canary in its cage. Although to sing and to be applauded was gratifying, and the nights with her lover exciting, she felt this was not enough to warrant her separation from the child. The separation seemed furtive, no matter how many accomplices she had. And she would make a show of love for the child, taking him up in her arms and carrying him through the house, laying him down on her bed or on a couch and nuzzling his belly and the soles of his feet; and the semblance of love passed over into the real.
3
With a grudging look of curiosity, her brother came into the lounge with a friend, a young resident doctor. She had met him, her brother told her, at her wedding, and she pretended to remember him. The young man, George Gustafsen, came in alone a few nights later and, talking with her, accidentally knocked his glass off the table.
He declared his undying love for her the first time he took her out and made the demand of her to love him as much. This declaration and demand were made while he sat apart from her in his car, then, without preparatory caressing, he threw himself upon her. She resisted him because his sudden ardor struck her as comic and because he was not pleasing to her physically—his face plump, his hips high and jutting; and he had the pomposity of her brother, as if he were emulating the other. After a few times with him, however, when he did not throw himself upon her but continued to declare his love and to demand that she marry him, she felt that his choosing her to be responsible for his happiness the rest of his life elevated her higher than anyone else had ever done, and she fell in love with him because of that oppressive honor and because a man so much in love, so possessive, so broodingly jealous, would surely take care of her forever and be true to her forever.
When she refused to go with the radio announcer to his apartment, he taunted her for her youth, predicting, with a pitiable meanness in his thick cheeks, her panic and loneliness at his age. She never saw him again. Even though she was sorry for him, some belief that no man was ever as helpless as he appeared to be, prevented her from feeling deeply about his condition. To think that a man was helpless was like thinking that the sun was helpless because it could not be other than a burning light.
The marriage to George Gustafsen took place in the home of her Aunt Belle, her mother’s sister, in St. Francis Woods, the house strewn with red roses and a fashionable pastor officiating. The guests were relatives and close friends, but, reserved and small as the wedding was, Vivian felt that it was more than it ought to be, even as she had felt about the first wedding that it was not as much as it might have been. By this time she mocked all marriage ceremonies except the brief, civil kind, and made a practice of glancing derisively through the society section of the newspapers for nuptial items that told the fraternity of the groom, the sorority of the bride, the color and material of the bride’s mother’s gown, and for photographs of happy pairs, startled-eyed in all their trappings and suspicious of what the years were to bring in spite of blessings from God and pastors and parents and the bureau of licenses.
She gave up her singing in the lounge and sat at home evenings with her husband—the evenings he was not on duty—and with her son, who was at the time of her wedding almost two. She was again a wife, and although it was expected of her to be desirable to other men, she was to cease the overt demonstration, as in the lounge, of her desire for them. They bought a modest, two-story house in a neighborhood of narrow, stylish houses not far from her parents but not as commodious as the houses of her parents’ neighborhood. She selected the decor with her mother, who was greeted by every manager in the six-story store, and in this decor, while David slept in his room upstairs and her husband read his medical journals and his Time and Fortune magazines, she sat curled up on the couch, knitting. She was acting, she felt, the role of a woman who has caused something important to happen to herself, and she was convinced that her husband was also acting; that his was the role of the young husband on his way to prominence and prosperity, content to be at home evenings with his wife, and proud that he was a loving father to another man’s child. His legs were stuck straight out to the velvet footstool as if ordered in that position by some director of the scene. It seemed to her that he was like a boy imitating some perfect adult in everything he did from paring his nails to lifting the child into the air, from clearing his throat to predicting Hitler’s next move. She sympathized with him, for this need of his to perform as others expected him to, but again, as with her lover, as with Paul, her sympathy was baffled by the conviction that because he was a man he was not in real need of sympathy, that he got along very well without it, and that to grant it to him was to take away some of his maleness—the more sympathy granted him the more of his maleness was taken away, and the less she thought of him. It was this troubling conflict that led her one evening to sit on his lap, for to be close against him, to be enveloped by his presence, would rid her of her conflict, and she slipped onto his lap with the innocence of a woman in the sway of her own femininity, placing herself within his arm that held the magazine and laying her head against his chest.
She pretended to be as absorbed as he in the magazine, but the close-set type in narrow columns gave her the same feeling of ignorance and insufficiency that was given her by blueprints and the financial sections of the newspapers. When he turned the page and a picture of Mussolini appeared, of his big face haranguing a crowd, she was instantly intrigued. She touched the dictator’s chin with her index finger and the gesture was like taking a liberty with the man himself, repulsing him and flirting with him at the same time.
“What’s that for?” her husband inquired.
“Isn’t that a monster of a chin?” she asked, afraid that he had guessed her trick of access into the lives of famous men. The only way she could get close enough to them to see that they were human was to imagine them making love.
“It isn’t that bad,” he said.
She waited for him to say something more and knew, unmoving in his lap, that there was to be some clash to enliven their evening and that both welcomed it and were tensed by it, and yet would have preferred to let the day go by without it.
“He excites you?” he asked, his voice as strained as if the Italian dictator were their next-door neighbor.
She felt a laugh readying itself in her chest at the comicalness of his jealousy, while her mind prepared itself for the seriousness of it. “I imagine he makes love like a bull,” she said placatingly.
“You’ve
