flush of alcohol gave it impetus. Unfortunately he usually gave himself too much impetus and went staggering home to his bachelor apartment under the arm of a grumbling friend. He was a draftsman in the office where Burr worked as an apprentice architect and he called his work “highly skilled labor.” He didn’t like it. But he did like the pay.
“Why do you do it, then?” Burr asked him once.
“It’s the only thing I know. But I’d much rather dig ditches.”
“Well, hell, go dig ditches then. Nobody’s stopping you.”
Jack could turn his wit on himself as well as on others. “I can’t,” he told Burr. “I’m so used to sitting on my can all day I’d be lucky to get one lousy ditch dug. And then they’d probably have to bury me in it. End of a beautiful career.”
Burr smiled and shook his head. But he liked him; they got along. Jack went out with Burr and Marcie before and after they got married. And after they got divorced. He was the troubleshooter until he got too drunk, which was often.
When he arrived with Burr on Friday night Laura was irked to find that she was taller than he was. She had made up her mind that she wasn’t going to enjoy the evening—just live through it. She’d have to spend the time mediating for Marcie and Burr and trying to entertain a man she didn’t know or care about. So she was put out to discover that she did like Jack, after all. It ruined her fine gloomy mood.
Marcie introduced them and Jack looked up at her quizzically. “What’s the matter, Landon?” he said. “You standing in a hole?”
Laura laughed and took her shoes off. It brought her down an inch. “Better?” she said.
“Better for me. Very bad for your stockings.” He grinned. “Have you read Freud?”
“No.”
“Well, thank God. I won’t have to talk about my nightmares.”
“Do you have nightmares?”
“You have read Freud!”
“No, I swear. You said—”
“Okay, I confess. I have nightmares. And you remind me of my mother.”
“Do you have a mother?” said Burr. “Didn’t you just happen?”
“That’s what I keep asking my analyst. Do I have to have a mother?”
“Jack, are you seeing an analyst?” Marcie was fascinated with the idea. “Imagine being able to tell somebody everything. Like a sacred duty. Burr, don’t you think I should be analyzed?”
“What will you use for a neurosis?” Jack asked.
“Do I need one?”
“How about Burr?”
“I’m taken,” Burr said. “Besides, you talk like a nitwit, honey. You don’t go to an analyst like you go to the hairdresser.”
Marcie’s eyes flashed. “Thanks for the compliment,” she said. “I’m not as dumb as I look.”
“Come on, Mother.” Jack took Laura’s arm and steered her out the door. “I see a storm coming up.”
But it was dissipated when Marcie grabbed her coat and hurried after them.
After the play they walked down Fourth Street in the Village, meandering rather aimlessly, looking into shop windows. Laura was lost. She had never been in the Village before. She had been afraid to come down here; afraid she would see someone, and do something, and suddenly find herself caught in the strange world she had renounced. It seemed so safe, so remote from temptation to choose an uptown apartment. And yet here she was with her nerves in knots, her emotions tangled around a roommate again.
Laura pondered these things, walking slowly beside Jack in the light from the shop windows. She was unaware of where she walked or who passed by. It startled her when Jack said, “What are you thinking about, Mother?”
“Nothing.” A shade of irritation crossed her face.
“Ah,” he said. “I interrupted something.”
“No.” She turned to look at him, uncomfortable. He made her feel as if he was reading her thoughts.
“Don’t lie to me. You’re daydreaming.”
“I am not! I’m just thinking.”
He shrugged. “Same thing.”
She found him very irritating then. “You don’t say,” she said, and looked away from him.
“You hate me,” he said with a little smile.
“Now and then.”
“I messed up your daydream,” he said. “I’m rarely this offensive. Only when I’m sober. The rest of the time, I’m charming. Someday I suppose you’ll daydream about me.”
Laura stared at him and he laughed.
“At least, you’ll tell me about your daydreams.”
“Never.”
“People do. I have a nice face. Ugly, but nice. People think, ‘Jesus, that guy has a nice face. I ought to tell him my daydreams.’ They do, too.” He smiled. “What’s the matter, Mother, you look skeptical.”
“What makes you think you have a nice face?”
“Don’t I?” He looked genuinely alarmed.
“It wouldn’t appeal to just anyone.”
“Ah, smart girl. You’re right, as usual. A boy’s best friend is his mother. Only the discriminating ones, my girl, think it’s a nice face. Only the sensitive, the talented, the intelligent. Now tell me—isn’t it a nice face?”
“It’s a face,” said Laura. “Everybody has one.”
He laughed. “You’re goofy,” he said. “You need help. My analyst is very reasonable. He’ll stick you for all you’ve got, but he’s very reasonable.”
Burr, who was walking ahead of them with Marcie, turned around to demand, “Somebody tell me where I’m going.”
“Turn right at the next corner,” said Jack. “You’re doing fine, boy. Don’t lose your nerve.”
“I just want to know where the hell I’m going.”
“That’s a bad sign. Very bad.”
“Cut it out, Jack,” said Marcie. “Where are we going?”
“A little bar I know. Very gay. I go there alone when I want to be depressed.”
It sounded sinister, not gay, to Laura. “What’s it called?” she said.
“The
