Dream Girl(16)

Or lack thereof.





1986




“MY FATHER DRANK VANILLA when he was desperate. It was awful.”

Gerry had heard this story before. So had Luke. Tara had shared tales about her father’s alcoholism their freshman year at Princeton, in that fit of hyperconfiding that happens in college dorms, when one finally realizes that everyone has secrets. Even then, Gerry had been careful with his. But they were the three amigos, the ones who joked that their eating club should be called Descendants of Shitty Fathers.

But why was Tara telling this story again, here at this new club, Dante’s? They were only twenty-eight, after all. Weren’t they too young to be repeating themselves?

Weren’t they too old to be in this bar? Gerry hadn’t left his marriage and moved to New York to sit in clubs and shout over the music. He was a serious writer and nothing felt more serious than living off his savings in an illegal sublet on the Upper West Side. Thiru had gotten him a modest advance for his second novel, but the jackpot of the Hartwell Prize, even halved by his divorce from Lucy, made it possible for him to live without teaching for the first time. Tara and Luke were living similar lives, although their parents subsidized their ambitions.

It was nice, spending time with Tara and Luke again, but Gerry wasn’t sure they brought out the best in one another. Tara was drinking too much and dating an abusive jerk. Luke, always on the prowl, seemed determined to make the worst choices. And Gerry—well, Gerry had no criticism for himself other than his loyalty, which led him to meet his college friends in these loud, frenetic places and then sourly contemplate their lives.

“Do you worry,” he asked Tara now, “that you might share your father’s legacy?”

“What an offensive question,” she said. “How would you feel if I asked you the same thing?”

“There’s a genetic factor to alcoholism,” he said. “Surely you know that.”

“There is not,” Tara said. “You’re full of shit.”

Luke laughed.

“I’m sorry, Tara, but that’s just a fact. I’m not trying to be provocative or cruel.”

“Oh no, Gerry is never provocative. Or cruel.” She threw her arms out, her drink sloshing. Tara had taken to drinking vodka martinis. It was a calculated choice. Everything Tara did was calculated, a conscious decision to create an image. She was wearing a teeny-tiny hat with a veil tonight and a 1950s vintage dress. She would look so much better in those ski pants and oversize shirts other women were wearing now.

“Tara, I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Gerry never wants to fight,” Luke said, his eyes searching the club for tonight’s entertainment.

Gerry got up to go to the bathroom. In this particular club, the bathrooms were designated as “devils” and “she-devils.” There was a long line of she-devils waiting. He noticed one woman in particular when he went in. She was still waiting when he came out. She looked out of place, a preppy girl, in pearls and a sweater. He was charmed by her, although her calves were quite thick.

“If you want to use the men’s room,” he said, “I’ll spot you.”

The gym nomenclature meant nothing to her and she stared at him as if he had said something rude.

“I’ll guard the door, I mean. There’s a stall. And it’s, um, relatively hygienic.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “I’ll wait my turn.”

“I’m Gerry,” he said.

“I’m Gretchen.”

“Okay if I wait with you?”

“It’s a free country.”

Charmed by the cliché, which she did not appear to know was a cliché, he waited with her. And he waited when she went in and used the bathroom. Then he proposed they go to a diner. She ordered french fries, nothing more, and ate them daintily, dipping them in mayonnaise instead of ketchup. She was the most earnest person he had ever met. He walked her home, to her apartment in Gramercy Park, the first sign that this apple-cheeked girl had a real life, a real job, at a brokerage. He kissed her on one of her apple cheeks, but that was all. “May I have your number?” he asked. She wrote it on his wrist, with an ink pen.

He called her the moment he got home.





February 20




THE PHYSICAL THERAPIST, a man named Claude, comes twice a week. By all appearances, he is constantly, chronically high, but it’s a low-grade buzz that doesn’t interfere with his job or, Gerry has to hope, his driving. He is a quiet man, which normally would be a relief, but Gerry is desperate for masculine company, cooped up with only Victoria and Aileen. Funny, he never thought of himself as much of a man’s man. He rather dislikes men. Of course this goes back to his father; Gerry has never bothered to pay an analyst to delve into that matter. Writing is better than therapy—same results, but he gets paid for it. His wastrel father, then the Gilman jocks, who were nice to him yet still kind of awful, directing so much energy into destruction. He noticed, even then, that they were especially dangerous when they had too much time to spare, given to cow-tipping and other stupid pranks. And, although he never thought about it before, probably date rape and trains and other horrible things.

“What’s going on with you, Claude?”