The Truth About Lorin Jones Read Free

will,” Jeanne said. “Some of them, anyhow. That’s the way men’s minds work. And second, they could try to seduce you just because that’s the traditional male response to an attractive unattached woman. It doesn’t matter if she’s gay or straight. A woman who doesn’t need men — they’ll do anything to destroy her, prove she doesn’t exist. When they hear of someone like you, or me, they say to each other: ‘All she needs is a good lay.’ ”
    “Sure, some men do, but —”
    “You remember what happened to Cathy when she was up in Vermont? If Ida hadn’t come back from the village in time, their redneck neighbor, that Cathy thought was such a nice guy, would have more or less raped her. He would have told himself she was asking for it, because she always invited him in and gave him a cup of coffee after he finished mowing their field.”
    “Yeah,” Polly said. “Still, I figure I’m pretty safe. Paolo Carducci is over seventy and has a heart condition, and Garrett Jones is over seventy and married.” She laughed.
    “Yes; but from what you told me, he used to have quite a reputation. All I’m saying is, watch out.” Jeanne extinguished her cigarette delicately in her saucer.
    “Okay, I will.”
    “That’s right. Well, I guess I better be getting back to Brooklyn before the muggers start their night’s work.” Jeanne gave a long sigh.
    “You could stay over if you liked,” Polly said. “Stevie’s room’s free now.” She sighed in her turn; Stevie, now thirteen, had just left to visit his father in Colorado.
    “Oh, thank you; I’d love to, it’s so peaceful here. But I can’t tonight. I think Betsy’s going to call.” Jeanne stood up; her usual serene expression had been replaced by one of tension and anxiety. She had recently become involved with a young married woman who taught part-time at her college, and who had what Jeanne described as a neurotic, abusive husband.
    “Good luck,” Polly said.
    “Thank you,” Jeanne replied distractedly. “Maybe some other time.”
    Alone, Polly scraped tabbouli into a bowl and covered it with plastic wrap. As she opened the fridge to put it away she was reminded that somehow she had to use up the crunchy peanut butter, grape jelly, raisin bread, milk, Pepsi, and hot dogs left behind yesterday by Stevie. There was no use saving any of it as she’d ordinarily do, because this time he wouldn’t be home in a week or so; he’d be gone the whole fall term. Logically, Polly could see the point of this. It would give Stevie a chance to know his father better, and free her to travel and do research for her book. But illogically she felt awful about it. Her son had been gone only twenty-four hours, and already she missed him terribly.
    And what would happen to Stevie while he was away? Raising her eyes from the sink, Polly stared past the smudged glass in the direction of Colorado. Her view was restricted, for though the building was on Central Park West, her apartment didn’t face it, but confronted another building the color of birdshit and a vacant lot littered with broken glass and stunted sumac.
    When Stevie looked out of the windows of his father’s new architect-designed split-level in Colorado (clearly pictured in the background of a snapshot of him taken earlier that summer), he wouldn’t see a dirty brick wall and piles of trash, but a wide-open vista of mountains and plains and long drifting Ansel Adams clouds. Would New York, and this apartment, seem cramped and dirty then, a place he didn’t want to come home to?
    Jeanne thought it was a good idea for Stevie to stay in Colorado for four months. She believed he needed a maturing experience; also she believed that Polly had invested too much in him emotionally. She thought it was a mistake to care too deeply for male children, or become too close to them, since they would inevitably grow into men — that is, into aliens.
    But whatever Jeanne said, Polly couldn’t think of Stevie