Man, woman, and child(11)

Her back to him, she kept playing with the clock.

"Sheila?"

Now she turned.

"He's got your mouth," she said.

"Does he?"

"I'm surprised you didn't notice.*'

Sheila slipped her robe off and burrowed under the covers. She lay silent for a moment, and then turned and said:

"She must have had brown eyes."

"I really don't remember."

Sheila looked at him, and with a melancholy smile said, "Come on, Bob."

Then she took her pillow and curled herself around it in the comer of the bed.

"Good night," she said.

He leaned across and kissed her on the cheek. She did not stir. He put his arm around her. She did not respond. He had vaguely hoped if they made love it would somehow make things better. He now saw that they were much too far apart for that.

He turned over on his side and picked up the



American Journal of Statistics. Better than a sleeping pill. He idly leafed through a particularly unoriginal piece on stochastic processes, and thought, Christ, I've said this stuff a million times. And then he realized that he himself was the author. It's still boring, he thought. I should've asked Sheila to tighten it up.

''Bob?" Her voice startled him.

"Yes, honey?"

He turned toward her. There was such pain on her face. And yet somehow she looked younger and so vulnerable.

"What exactly did I do—or rather not do?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, you never really told me why you did

"What?" He knew damn well, but wanted to buy time.

"What exactly was wrong with me that you had to have an affair?"

Damn, thought Bob. Why doesn't she understand that it was—what? Weakness? Chance? What could he say to mollify her?

"Sheila, nothing was wrong with you. . . ."

"With us, then. I thought we were happy."

"We were. We are." He said the last words with as much hope as conviction.

"We were," she said, and turned away again. To sleep.

Oh, God, thought Bob, this isn't fair. I can't even remember why it happened.



JLiEY, Beckavith, there's some fantastic stuff at the mixer."

'Tm studying, Bernie."

''On a Saturday night with two hundred Vassar lovehes gracing our campus?"

"I've got midterms next week."

''So does everybody. That's why you need a piece of ass to loosen up."

Robert Alan Beckwith, Yale '59, put his math book down on the table and sat up on the moth-eaten couch of the Branford College suite he shared with Bernie Ackerman.

"Bernie, you talk like you get laid every weekend."

"I'm trying, Beckwith. At least you'll grant me that."

"Sure. You get an E for Effort—and a V for Virgin. Ackerman, you're pathetic."

"At least I take my swings. Bob. I try to score."

"But, Bern, you're batting zero. And I am too. But at least I don't make an asshole of myself. Besides, I came to Yale to get an education."

Bernie eved his roommate.

"Listen, schmuck, this mixer's free of charge.

39



Doesn't that imply that Yale considers getting laid to be a part of the educational experience?"

"Bernie, I know myself. I'm shy. I lack your amazing charm and wit. I'm not competitive. . . ."

''In other words, you're scared."

"No, Bern. In those very words. I am scared."

And he buried himself once again in numerical analysis. Bemie simply stood there.

"Beckwith ..."

"Bernie, go back to the mixer. Go get yourself blue balls. Just let me grind in ignoble peace."

"Beckwith, I'm gonna help you."

''Come on. You can't even help yourself."

*'I have a secret weapon. Bob."

*'Then you use it."

"I can't. I'm too short."

Bob looked up. Bemie had snared his interest.

"Willya come if I lend you my secret weapon? Willy a, willy a, willya?"

Bob once again sat up.

"What is it, Bern?"

"Willya come? Willya?"

"Okay, okay. The evening's shot anyway. I might as well get a free beer."

Bernie did not argue. The important thing was that he had persuaded Bob to drop his customary reticence and make the social scene. Who knows— with the secret weapon he might even score.

"I'll take a shower/' Bob said, growing steadily more nervous.

"You took one after dinner, schmuck. Come on— we've only got an hour before the stuff is trucked back to Poughkeepsie."

"Can I at least shave?"

"Beckwith, you got about as much hair as a canned peach. Just put on the weapon and we'll enter the fray."



Bob sighed. "All right. Where is it?"

Bernie's eyes flashed with excitement.

"It's hanging in my closet. But shake ass."

Now he was hopping up and down.

Bob got his college blazer, combed his hair and washed his face. Then, after spilling Old Spice in every conceivable place, he reentered the living room, where Bemie stood like a midget colossus on the coffee table, holding ... an article of apparel.