Going Home Part 17

"Yeah, I know." And for some reason, there was Marilyn again. I could see him thinking of her too, and she was there, blowing bubbles up to the surface of our bath water, like a fart.

"Okay, now wash my chest."

"Come on, Chris, you can do that yourself."

"No, I can't, I want you to do it. Wash my chest. And listen, will you do me a favor on Monday? Get some decent soap, will you please. Get rid of this orchid c.r.a.p."

"It's not orchids, it's gardenias. From Magnin's."

"Well get rid of it, try something from the grocery store."

"You plebe."

"I may be a plebe, but I am not a f.a.g, and I don't want to go around smelling like a G.o.ddam gardenia. Now wash my chest."

So I soaped up his chest and leaned over to kiss him . . . he was smiling again.

"Come here, little fat girl . . . come here, you," and there we were slathering soap all over each other, like some ridiculous French movie, and trying to make love, slipping around, slapping water all over the floor, and laughing hysterically, like two kids.

"Come on . . . ," and Chris pulled me out of the tub, still half-covered with soap, and we lay down on the bathroom floor and made love.

Afterward, we lay there and grinned at each other. . . .

"Chris?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"I love you."

"I know. I love you too," and then he squeezed me a little and stood up. "I'm going to take a shower to get this soap off. Get me a gla.s.s of milk, will you?"

"Sure," and life was back to normal again, Chris was singing his lungs out in the shower, and there I was with soap drying on me, my pregnant belly, standing naked in the kitchen, pouring him a gla.s.s of milk. As I stood there I thought of Gordon. This was a far cry from what I had with him. He was my old side, this was my young side. This was the side of me that still had all the dreams left in it, and they just wouldn't quit.

I left the gla.s.s of milk on the bathroom sink and walked back into the bedroom while Chris continued to steam up the bathroom, when the phone rang.

"Gillian? How about some lunch?" It was Gordon . . . oh, Jesus . . . what could I say? At least Chris was in the shower, so he couldn't hear.

"I can't. Something has come up, the weekend is kind of screwed up."

"Anything wrong?"

"No, but I really can't go into it now. Let's have lunch Monday."

"You're sure nothing's wrong?"

"No, really, I'm sure. Don't worry. And Gordon . . . I'm really sorry.

"That's all right. I have some work to do anyway. See you Monday. But I'll give you a call later. Good-bye."

"Who was that?" Chris's voice, between gulps of milk. I hadn't heard the shower stop.

"A friend from the office."

"Oooohhh . . . does little fat girl have a lover boy?"

"No. And stop calling me little fat girl."

"Okay," and he blew me a kiss.

It struck me that he seemed to feel totally at home, which was a quality Chris had. And I headed for the tub to rinse off the soap and wash again. I was thinking of Gordon and what I had said to him, and to Chris. No, Gordon was not a "lover boy." And no, "nothing was wrong." Except that I had lied to both of them, and I didn't like doing it. Chris's stay was going to be an interesting month.

Chris slapped my a.s.s as I walked back to the bedroom. . . . "Put on your grubbies, Gill. I want to go for a walk."

"Okay, love," . . . and the door slammed and Samantha's shrieks of "Uncle Crits" reverberated through the apartment. "Uncle Crits! Uncle Crits! . . . Hi, Mommy. Guess who I saw on the way home? Gorrrdon," She rolled it around her mouth like a marble. "I told him Uncle Crits is here, and he said that was very nice. He said to say h.e.l.lo."

Oh s.h.i.t. Happy Thanksgiving . . . and at that point in time I felt an overwhelming kinship with the turkey.

25.

I stood before the door to Gordon's office, and hesitated for a moment. What in h.e.l.l was I going to say?

"May I help you with something, Mrs. Forrester?" His secretary eyed me curiously as I stood there, and I no longer had any choice. I had to go in. I turned the k.n.o.b carefully in my right hand, as I knocked with my left, and then stopped with one foot in the room. He was in the middle of a meeting. As he saw me, the look he gave me chilled me to the bone.

"Yes, Gillian?" His eyes were cold and blank, and his face looked taut beneath the beard.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know you were busy. I'll come back later."

"I'll call you when the meeting is over." His eyes moved away from me then, and I felt unwelcome in the room. I closed the door softly behind me and walked slowly back toward my office, wondering what lay in store.

Distractedly, I bought a cup of coffee and a Danish from the coffee wagon and sat down at my desk. Whatever was coming, I could tell it wasn't going to be pleasant. And I couldn't blame him. I know how I'd have felt in his shoes. Rotten. And p.i.s.sed.

The phone rang almost an hour later, when I was absentmindedly trying to get into my work, without much success.

"Gillian, meet me downstairs in ten minutes."

"Gordon, I . . ."

"I don't want to talk about it, we'll discuss it downstairs."

"Fine." But the word went unheard, he had already hung up. I closed my eyes and tried to clear my head, and then got up to go. It would have been ironic had we met in the elevator on the way down, but we didn't. He was waiting on the street when I got there, and as soon as I reached his side he started walking uptown on Lexington Avenue at a pace I could hardly keep up with.

"Why didn't you tell me he was coming? Did you think I couldn't take it?"

"Of course not. I didn't know he was coming. He called right after you left, and a few hours later he was here."

"By what right?" That was a tough one to answer. And we were crossing streets against the lights, taunting traffic and moving along at breakneck speed. It was obvious that Gordon was livid.

"It's not a question of rights, Gordon. He's making a film here and he doesn't realize how things stand."

"And precisely how do they stand? I'm not sure I understand myself. Is he your lover or am I?"

"He's the father of my child. I lived with him. And we left each other under difficult circ.u.mstances."

"How terribly tragic. And if I recall, the difficult circ.u.mstances you just mentioned were that he threw you out? Have you forgotten that? Or doesn't it matter? All he has to do is get on a plane and arrive and everything's fine. I imagine he's staying with you." My "yes" caught in my throat, and Gordon grabbed my arm and spun me around "Isn't he?"

"Yes! He is! So what for chrissake?"

"So plenty. I don't want that sonofab.i.t.c.h near you, Gillian! Not for an instant!" People were beginning to stare at us in the street, and the grip Gordon had on my arm brought tears to my eyes.

"Gordon, I've got to get this thing sorted out. Please."

"Grow up for G.o.d's sake, and be honest with yourself. There is nothing to sort out. The man doesn't want you. Don't you understand that?"

"Maybe he does." And then I was horrified at what I'd said.

"So that's it, is it? Well at least now I understand. I make a good fill-in when he's not around. You b.i.t.c.h!" He pulled back his arm and for a moment I thought he would hit me, but he restrained himself. "Well, I'll tell you something. Do you want to know why the men in your life have treated you badly? Because you want them to. You wouldn't know what to do with them if they didn't. You eat it up. I'm the first man who's ever been decent with you, and look at what you're doing. Take a good long look, because it's the last look you'll take." He stared at me with fire leaping from his eyes and a sense of horror grew within me as I realized what he was saying.

"Gordon, there's nothing I can say. I don't want to be dishonest with you. I loved the man. But you mean so much to me too. I love you. I need you."

"You want to use me. And I'm not up for that. It's too G.o.ddam late for that. I'm too old for that bulls.h.i.t. I haven't gotten this far to play games with some hippie film-maker and his f.u.c.ked up girl friend. Because that's just what you are. f.u.c.ked up!" He had a grip on both arms then and was shaking me until my teeth rattled, and with sudden shock I saw a policeman approaching us from across the street.

"Gordon! Let's talk about this someplace else . . . there's . . ."

"There's nothing to talk about." He gave me one last shake and then pushed me away. "To h.e.l.l with you!" And then he walked away and turned the corner, just as the police officer reached me.

"Lady, are you all right?"

"Yes, Officer, I'm fine thank you."

"Looked like that guy was giving you a bad time. I thought I'd check it out."

"Just a little misunderstanding." And feeling shaken, I started back toward the office. The whole scene with Gordon had been awful, I had lost him, it was over. And for what? In a few weeks Chris would be gone again. Maybe this time for good. What in h.e.l.l was I doing?

The prospect of returning to the office was dismal.

I had no desire to face the tasks of the business day anymore. I just wanted to go home and hide. But I didn't want to see Chris, so I was better off at work.

The day crawled by, and my heart felt like it was sitting on my feet. And suddenly I couldn't stand it anymore. I put my head down on my arms and sobbed. The phone rang and I didn't answer it, I didn't give a d.a.m.n who it was, it could wait, and the tears just wouldn't stop. G.o.ddam Chris Matthews, all he ever did was screw up my life.

"Gillian?" I heard a voice, but before I could look up to see who had come in his arms were around me. "Darling . . . I'm sorry." He pulled me gently to my feet and I went on crying in his arms.

"Oh Gordon . . . I . . . I . . ." I couldn't find the words.

"Sshh. . . ."

"I'll tell him to go away, I'll tell him that . . ."

"Quiet. You won't tell him anything. We'll wait till he goes and see how you feel." I looked up at him, stunned.

"You can't do that!"

"I can do anything I want. And I think you're right, you've got to get it out of your system. So if you can put up with an occasional fit of the glooms on my part, let's just let it ride. How does that sound?" He kissed me tenderly above each eye, and the tears began to flow again. He was so incredibly good to me. Always.

"That sounds beautiful if you're sure."

"I'm sure."

He held me tightly in his arms, and half an hour later he walked me home.

And as I turned the key in the lock, I dreaded seeing Chris.

When I walked in, Chris and Samantha were roughhousing, her toys spread all over the living room floor.

"Hi, Sam. Hi, Chris, how'd it go?"

"Okay. They're a funny bunch though. Very 'Nyeww Yawwk.' And they're still trying to get their heads straight and figure out what they're making a movie about. It's all f.u.c.ked up."

"Watch the 'forks and spoons' with the little people around please!"

"Yes, ma'am. How was your day?"

"Okay. Nothing special. Looks like I'll be pretty busy for the next few weeks though. I might have to work late." Which meant I wanted time with Gordon.

"No sweat. Once this thing gets started I probably won't be home till eleven or twelve most nights."

"That's okay."

"Maybe it's okay with you. But it's not my idea of a swell time, but bread is bread, and in this case the money's good." I noticed that he wasn't offering to pay the grocery bills with it.

"Hey, listen, you didn't unpack the small suitcase, Chris. Want me to do it?" It was cluttering up the room.

"Okay, just dump it all in a drawer." As though I had twelve empty ones just sitting around, waiting for Chris. He really was incredible, in New York for three days and I was beginning to feel as though I were visiting him.

I went into my bedroom with the package of soap I'd bought at the drugstore and unwrapped it, waving a mental farewell to my gardenias from Magnin. I stooped down to open Chris's suitcase and fiddled with the catch for a minute before it opened. When it did, I saw that the bag was full of sweaters, and some extra underwear, and his ski clothes, and little yellow slips of paper-"i love you, m." . . . "who's kissing you now? m." . . . "more than yesterday and less than tomorrow, m." . . . "come home soon, m."-I gathered them up and put them in a pile on Chris's bedtable. There she was again. Marilyn in my bedroom, in my bathtub, in my kitchen, ramming herself down my throat incessantly. Chris walked in and said, "What're those?"

"Take a look. Messages from your lady." It was almost as if Chris had left that bag for me to find them.

"Hey, you don't think . . . ?" His voice trailed off.

"No, I don't think . . . but I don't enjoy them anyway. There are about a dozen of them. I only read four or five. Sorry."