The Men's Club Read online

  *

  In the silence following my story, I began to regret having told it. Then a man who had said nothing all evening asked, ‘Did you make it with Marilyn that night?’

  ‘No. Nothing changed. I don’t think it ever could.’

  The man started to say something, then stopped.

  I said, ‘Do you have a question?’

  It seemed he was a shy man. He said, ‘Was it a true story?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He smiled. ‘I liked Marilyn.’

  ‘I like her, too. Maybe I can fix you up with her. What’s your name?’

  ‘I’m Terry.’

  ‘Terry?’ shrieked Berliner. ‘Terry, you’re supposed to phone your wife.’

  Grinning at Berliner, Terry seemed less a shy man than a man surprised. ‘It’s not my wife,’ he said, intimating complexities. Old confusions. As if to forbid himself another word, he shook his head. Round and bald. Sandy tufts of hair beside the ears, like baby feathers. His eyes were hazel. His nose was a thick pull. ‘I mustn’t bore you fellows with my situation.’ He nodded at me as if we had a special understanding. ‘We’re enjoying ourselves, telling stories about love.’ He continued nodding. For no reason, I nodded back.

  Cavanaugh said, ‘Talk about anything you like, Terry. You say the woman who phoned isn’t your wife?’

  He grinned. ‘I’m a haunted house. For me, yesterday is today. The woman who phoned is my former wife. A strange expression, but what else can I call her? Ex-wife?’

  ‘Call her by her name,’ I said.

  ‘Her name is Nicki.’

  ‘How long have you been divorced?’ asked Cavanaugh.

  ‘Usually one asks how long you’ve been married. Nicki and I have been divorced ten years. Nicki—’

  ‘It’s better,’ said Berliner, ‘if you say former wife. Nicki, Nicki – you sound like a ping-pong game.’

  ‘All right. After ten years of divorce we’re closer than during our marriage. If you don’t remarry, this is natural. She phones me two or three times a week. Listen to how personal I’m becoming. Why is everything personal so funny?’

  ‘Who’s laughing?’ said Berliner. ‘Do you sleep together? To sleep with your former wife, I think – I mean just to me – I couldn’t do it.’

  ‘You couldn’t do it,’ I said. ‘Who asked you to?’

  ‘He’s right. I’m sorry, Terry.’

  ‘It doesn’t happen often. Nicki has a boyfriend. His name is Harrison. But they don’t live together. Nicki can’t get along with kids. She doesn’t like kids. More complicated yet, Harrison’s daughter, eleven years old, is a very sad fat girl. His boy, six years old, has learning problems. Harrison phones me, too. I meet him now and then to talk about his kids.’

  ‘He wants to talk to you?’ I said.

  ‘I’m a doctor. Even at parties people come up to me for an opinion. “Terry, I shouldn’t discuss professional matters in these circumstances, but my aged aunt Sophie has a wart on her buttock. She wants you to know.”’

  ‘So what about Nicki? She was crying on the phone,’ Kramer says.

  ‘She always does. Your Marilyn story reminded me of a fight we had when I was in medical school in Montreal. We lived in a two-room flat above a grocery store. It was a Saturday morning. I was studying at the kitchen table. Can I tell this story?’

  Berliner said, ‘Only if it’s miserable.’

  ‘A blizzard had been building for days. I watched it through the kitchen window as it attacked the city. The sky disappeared. The streets were dead. Nothing moved but wind and snow. In this deadly blizzard, Nicki decided to go out. She had been saving money for a particular pair of boots. Fine soft leather. Tight. Knee-high. They had a red-brown tone, like dried blood. Totally impractical and too elegant. The wind would tear them off her legs. Nobody in our crowd owned such boots. Our friends were like us – students. Poor. Always worried about money. Nicki had worked as a secretary all year. She never bought presents for herself. I had a tiny scholarship. It covered books and incidental tuition fees. We were badly in debt, but she wanted these boots. I don’t know how she saved a penny for them. I pleaded with her not to go out in the blizzard. Something in my voice, maybe, suggested more anxiety about the price of the boots than her safety. The more I pleaded, the more determined she became.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go with her?’ I asked.

  ‘I wanted to. But the idea of the boots – so trivial, such a luxury – and her wanting to go get them that morning – made me furious. I could sympathise with her desire for beautiful boots. She deserved a reward. But why that minute? I was trying to study. My papers and books were on the kitchen table. Also a box of slides and a microscope I carried home from the laboratory. Today, though I own a house with ten rooms, I still use the kitchen table when I read medical journals or write an article. Anyhow, I was trying to study. I needed the time. It’s difficult for me to memorise things, but I can do it if there is peace and quiet and no bad feelings in the air. You don’t have to be a genius to be a doctor. But now I was furious. I yelled, “Do what you like. Buy the stupid boots. Just leave me alone.” She slammed the door.

  ‘For a while I sat with my papers and books. Outside the blizzard was hysterical. Inside it was warm and quiet. I worried about her, but my fury cancelled the worry. Soon I began to study. I forgot about Nicki. Maybe three hours passed and, suddenly, she’s home. Pale and burning and happy. I didn’t say hello. My fury returned. She had a big shoe box under her arm. She had returned with her boots. While she put them on, I continued trying to study. I didn’t watch her, but I could tell she needed help. The boots were tight. After a while she managed to get them on by herself, then she walked up to my table and stood there, waiting for me to notice. I could feel her excitement. She was trembling with pleasure. I knew what expression was in her face. Every muscle working not to smile. She waited for me to look up and admit she was magnificent in those boots. But the blizzard was in my heart. I refused to look. Suddenly my papers, books, slides, microscope – everything on the table was all over the kitchen floor. Nicki is strong. She plays tennis like a man. I felt I had been killed, wiped out of the world.

  ‘She still claims I hit her. I don’t remember. I remember rushing out into the blizzard with no coat or hat. Why? To buy a gun. I didn’t really know what I wanted until I passed a pawnshop with guns in the window. I had a pocket watch that my father gave me when I left for medical school. Gold case. Gothic numerals. A classic watch. Also a heavy gold chain. In exchange for that watch I got a rifle. I asked the man for a bullet. I couldn’t pay for it, but I told him the deal was off unless he gave me a bullet. He said, “One bullet?” I screamed, “Give me a bullet.” He gave it to me. If I’d asked for a ton of bullets, he would have thought nothing. Ask for one bullet and there’s trouble.’

  ‘The police were waiting for you,’ said Berliner.

  ‘The police car was in front of the house, its light blinking through the storm. I went around behind the house and climbed a stairway to the roof, and loaded the rifle. I intended to go to the flat and blow my brains out in front of Nicki.’

  ‘I thought you were going to shoot her,’ I said.

  ‘Her? I’d never shoot her. I’m her slave. I wanted to make a point about our relationship. But the police were in the flat. I was on the roof with a loaded rifle, freezing in a storm. I aimed into the storm, towards the medical school, and fired. How could I shoot myself? I’d have been on that roof with a bullet in my head, covered by snow, and nobody would have found me until spring. What comes to mind when you commit suicide is amazing. Listen, I have a question. My story made me hungry. Is there anything to eat?’

  Kramer rose from his pillow with a brooding face. ‘Men,’ he said, ‘Terry is hungry. I believe him because I too am hungry. I suppose all of us could use a little bite. I would suggest we send out for pizza. Or I myself would make us an omelette. But not tonight. You are lucky tonight. Very lucky. Tomorrow, in this room, Nancy is havin
g a meeting of her women’s group. So the refrigerator happens to be packed with good things. Let me itemise. In the refrigerator there is three different kinds of salad. There is big plates of chicken, turkey and salmon. There is also a pecan pie. I love pecan pie. There is two pecan pies and there is two lemon pies. There is a chocolate cake which, even as I speak of it, sucks at me. I am offering all this to you, men. Wait, Berliner. I have one more thing to say, Berliner. In the alcove, behind the kitchen, rests a case of zinfandel. It is good, good California. Men, I offer to you this zinfandel.’

  Berliner was already in the kitchen. The rest of us stayed to cheer Kramer. Even I cheered. Despite his tattooed arms, which reminded me of snakes, I cheered. His magnanimity was unqualified. No smallest doubt or reluctance troubled his voice. Every face in the room became like his, an animal touched by glee. We were ‘lucky’, said Kramer. Lucky, maybe, to be men. Life is unfair business. Whoever said otherwise? It is a billion bad shows, low blows, and number one has more fun. The preparations for the women’s group would feed our club. The idea of delicious food, taken this way, was thrilling. Had it been there for us, it would have been pleasant. But this was evil, like eating the other woman. We discovered Berliner on his knees before the refrigerator, door open, his head inside. We cheered again, crowding up behind him as he passed things out to us, first a long plate of salmon, the whole pink fish intact, then the chicken, then a salad bowl sealed with a plastic sheet through which we saw dazzling green life. It would be a major feast, a huge eating. To Cavanaugh, standing beside me, I said, ‘I thought you had to leave early.’ He didn’t reply. He pulled his watch off, slipped it into his pocket, and shouted, ‘I see pâté in there. I want that, too.’ The cheers came again. Some of the men had already started on the salmon, snatching pieces of it with their fingers. Kramer, who had gone to the alcove, reappeared with black bottles of zinfandel, two under his arms, two in his hands. He stopped, contemplated the scene in his kitchen, and his dark eyes glowed. His voice was all pleasure. ‘This is a wonderful club. This is a wonderful club.’

  Two

  SAINT AUGUSTINE confesses to a night of vandalism with a gang of boys. They stole some pears. No big deal, but it troubled him that human company inspired evil. He hung out plenty. There was his mother, his mistress, his students and always there were men. At Kramer’s table with a gang who’d stolen more than pears, I felt no evil, only a kind of exhilaration, though I remembered telling my wife I’d be home early and I worried a little about that. Why? Because I had no urge to leave. Neither did anyone else. Even Canterbury, the lean blond man who told no stories and hardly ever laughed, was still here. I worried then for no reason, only for the sake of form, maybe, as when you’re about to be unfaithful to your lover. How can I do this, you think, doing it. Paul and Berliner, to intensify the occasion, smoked marijuanas. The cigarettes quickened them grossly, putting nutty lights in their eyes. We’d eaten rapidly and very heavily, without much conversation, communicating in the action, in the food, deeper than words. Only Terry hadn’t yet finished eating. He’d started on a second slice of pecan pie, chewing steadily and studiously, as if caught up in the sheer momentum of his personal meal. Paul and Berliner smoked. The rest of us drank wine, Kramer’s good zinfandel. We’d emptied six bottles. Two more stood open on the table, beautiful things with long black necks and high curving shoulders. Watusi maidens.

  Tomorrow, I supposed, my students would see me hung over, struggling with my voice. If one of them asked a question, I’d probably answer just the words and hope sense turned up on its own, like a lost dog. I didn’t care about tomorrow. I was feeling adventurous, the way I used to feel years ago when I’d meet my buddies after school and say, ‘Let’s shoot some eight ball.’ We’d take off for a pool hall in downtown Manhattan, morbid theatre of men and sharp sensations. No natural light. No street sounds. You’d hear the gritty crunch and squeak as the tip of a cue is chalked, and the racks smacking slate, sliding across felt. Men always leaning against walls and smoking cigarettes or shuffling about the tables, ‘seeing’, then calling, shots. I became one of them, cue stick gliding through the hook of my index finger towards a mottled bone-white moon ball. Then the measured stroke, soft thud, balls clacking, whirling apart, plopping into pockets. Always an ethical clock on the wall, but I didn’t know about time as I leaned over luminous green felt in the shadowy dusty air. When I lost a game, a hot screw started to turn in my chest, a ferocious need to play another game, redeem my place among the men regardless of the time.

  Later my mother would say, ‘You’re ruining your life,’ thus reminding me of that enormous other thing to do. It came to me vaguely now, that other thing – classes to prepare, books to read. The kitchen faucet needed a new washer. There were cracks in the stucco walls of my house. The privet hedge out front was too tall, too bushy, millions of leaves striking in every direction, threatening property values with life. I would go home soon, put in a new washer, seal cracks, trim hedge, resume the homeowner’s war against chaos. Right now I was at Kramer’s table with the men.