She got into bed. But she had chills and began to shake. She didn’t know any doctor and she didn’t want to bother Linda. Then she thought of Dr. Alpert. Of course. He certainly was a good doctor. Look at all the tests she had gone through before he gave her the shot. She phoned him, but his receptionist told her he didn’t make any house calls and advised her to come over immediately.
The office was crowded, but the receptionist slipped her into a small examining room. “I’ll get him to you,” she promised.
Five minutes later Dr. Alpert shuffled in. He looked at her, nodded, shuffled out and returned with the syringe.
“Shouldn’t you take my temperature?” she asked. “I mean . . . I know vitamins help everyone. But I feel sick. Like I’m coming down with something.”
He felt her brow. “No sleep . . . no food . . . too much energy. When did you eat last?”
“Why I . . .” She tried to think. Tom had berated her for leaving her steak the night before, and she had barely gotten a piece of toast down this morning. “Not since . . . well . . . maybe Friday. I’ve been nibbling. But I’m not hungry.”
He nodded. “This will set you right, I promise.”
She was sitting in dungarees and a shirt. She rolled up the sleeve and extended her arm, but he shook his head. “Take off the pants . . . this is an intramuscular shot.”
She pulled down her dungarees and lay on her side. The needle went into her buttock with ease. But there was no rush of exhilaration. She sat up and pulled on her pants. “I don’t feel anything,” she said.
“You didn’t come here to feel something. You came here because you were sick,” he said gruffly.
“Yes, but last time the vitamin shot made me feel marvelous.”
“When you feel good, the shot makes you feel marvelous. When you feel sick, it makes you feel better.”
She sat on the edge of the table and stared at him. She had to admit that the stiffness had left her neck. But there was no sign of that glorious euphoria she had experienced before. She walked into the outer office and paid the receptionist twenty-five dollars. As she walked home, she realized the shivering had stopped. She was feeling stronger and the pains in her back and neck were gone. But she didn’t have that “go out and conquer the world” feeling.
Tom returned Friday afternoon, and she rushed to the Plaza to meet him. He looked strong and somewhat less harassed. And when he opened the bottle of Jack Daniels, he insisted she join him. “I know I said I might give it up, and I have cut down . . . but we have to celebrate. I just got the news—a week from Sunday, I’m number one. And it looks as if I’m making a big picture sale. Right now Columbia, Metro, Century, and Twentieth are all bidding, plus a few good independent producers. And the best news of all—the big guy is going to make it, he’s out of the coma—so I won’t have to carry that guilt on my back.” Then he reached into his pocket and handed her a gift-wrapped box. “It’s not really a present. It’s just something I saw in a window and couldn’t resist getting for you.”
She opened the package. It was a beautiful silk scarf emblazoned with the word Capricorn. “Oh, Tom . . . I love it. . . But more than that . . . I love the idea that you thought of it.”
But that night when they went to bed, she was unable to arouse him. He held her close and tried to pass it off. “I’m overtired,” he said. “And maybe I didn’t cut down on the drinking like I promised. Let’s both get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow will be different.”
The following morning she told him she had a dentist appointment. He told her to cancel it, but she promised to be back in the early afternoon.
She rushed directly to Dr. Alpert’s office without calling for an appointment. Fortunately the office was not crowded, and Dr. Alpert was smiling again. He told her she looked better, and she told him she had eaten and kept regular hours. Almost as if she were reporting to a teacher for good marks. (See how good I am. Now will you give me the real vitamin shot?) She waited hopefully while he went out to get the needle. Her heart beat fast when she saw him shuffle back with the big syringe. She had not changed into the examining gown, but in a flash she had taken off her blouse and held out her arm. “You promise to eat . . . even if you aren’t hungry?” She nodded eagerly as he tied the rubber tubing around her upper arm. She watched the needle go into the vein. Once again she saw the rush of her own blood fill the syringe . . . then pump back into her arm. And once again the fantastic surge of electric excitement charged through her. She felt reborn. Fully alive for the first time . . . her senses were alert to colors . . . to smells . . . And above all there was the sense of power . . . there was nothing she couldn’t accomplish . . . her body tingled . . . suddenly she felt as if she was having an orgasm. She longed to get back to Tom. She threw on her blouse . . . hugged the doctor, scribbled a check for the receptionist, and rushed outside. It was cold again; but she knew spring was coming. She felt it. Everything good was coming . . . The Plaza was only a few blocks away, but she hailed a cab. She couldn’t wait until she was in Tom’s arms.
He was on the phone when she arrived. It was a long-distance interview, and she sat patiently as he answered the usual questions. Occasionally he’d look over at her and smile. Then he sighed; the man was going into questions about context against literary quality of today’s novel. Tom tried to be polite. “Look, I don’t think I want to get into that area. I don’t ever criticize any other writers. Hell, it’s even hard work to write a bad novel.” But the man was persistent. January got up and put her arms around him. He was still in his robe. She began kissing his neck. Then she swung around and got on his lap and cradled herself in his arms under the phone. Her hands slid under his robe. He grinned but grabbed her with one hand and tried to continue his interview. She began to kiss his cheek. Finally he said, “Look, I think we’ve covered everything and I’ve got another appointment. In fact it’s kind of urgent, so if you don’t mind, let’s cut it off here.” Then he hung up and held her in his arms. “You have just destroyed an interview.” He laughed.
“You were trying to end it.”
“I tried . . . but you finished it.”
She encircled his bare waist . . . then she opened her blouse and unhooked her bra . . . she pressed her breasts against him. “I love you, Tom. I really do.” Then she stood up and led him into the bedroom.
Later when they were lying together, he said, “How do I thank you?”
She snuggled against him. “For what?”
“For not giving me a chance to worry about last night. For turning me on this morning . . . right now . . . and having it turn out to be the best we’ve had so far.”
She kissed him violently. “Oh God! It was wonderful!”
“Was it for you? It was for me because I functioned normally . . . but nothing happened with you.”
“Yes, it did, Tom.”
“January—” He leaned over her, and his eyes were stern. “Wasn’t that part of our deal? Complete honesty. Don’t ever lie to me . . .”
She held him close. “Tom, a woman isn’t like a man. I don’t have to come all the time. Just holding you in my arms and knowing I make you happy makes me more of a woman than I’ve ever felt before.”
His dark eyes glowed in the semidarkness of the bedroom. “January, I can never be without you again . . . never.”
“You won’t have to be, Tom. I’ll always be waiting . . . whenever you want me.”
Then he smacked her across the bottom. “Okay. Let’s take a shower together. Hey, do you bike?”
“Do I what?”
“Ride a bike?”
“I don’t know . . . no . . . I never rode one.”
“Well, today, you’re going to learn.”
They rented bicycles and spent the afternoon in Central Park. She caught on immediately. Her balance was good, and soon she was whizzing past him on the bicycle lanes. They went to a movie on Third Avenue . . . ate pizza . . . and went back to the Plaza. And when they made love again, it was perfect,
and Tom insisted on satisfying her until she had to cry out.
The following day they rode downtown on their bicycles. He took her to Irving Place and showed her where Mark Twain had lived. He pointed out the brownstone house where Oscar Wilde had lived when he was in this country. They went to a little French restaurant and he told her stories about Sinclair Lewis—he had been a young man then, and “Red” Lewis had been on an acting kick—he told her about meeting Hemingway . . . how he had met Tom Wolfe when he was teaching at N.Y.U. He told her about his early days. He was born in St. Louis and came to New York and got a job on the Sun. Then a short stint in Hollywood. He had met them all out there—when writers were looked down upon by the movie industry. “That’s why I never do a screen treatment of any of my books no matter what they offer me. I wrote too many pieces of junk tailored to fit the stars during the forties, and I promised myself—if I ever got to be a novelist, I’d never write a movie script again.”
During the next two weeks, time and days fused into a meaningless maze for January. She forced herself to try to concentrate at the office. But her life only had content when she was with Tom. Mornings of waking up in his arms, having a quick breakfast together, escaping just before Rita Lewis arrived, rushing to her apartment to change, running to Dr. Alpert’s for shots every third day, returning to the magazine and accomplishing a day’s work in two hours. She did five tapes in one day after a vitamin shot, and even Sara Kurtz had to admit they were good. She told about the loneliness of a writer like Tom Colt . . . the demands on his time . . . his feelings about the circus atmosphere of today’s promotional efforts for a book. How he understood that the media had changed—New York had only three newspapers. She drew a fine impersonal picture of Tom Colt—she called it “Echo of a Lion”—and compared him to the lion coming out of the jungle to face civilization. At the end of the two weeks Sara said she had enough for a good story.
But it was at night that she really came alive. Bursting with this new incredible energy, she’d tear back to her apartment, shower and change, and rush to the Plaza. Sometimes they’d go to a show and stop off at Sardi’s. Once he took her to Danny’s Hide-a-Way for dinner and they sat at the front table . . . Mike’s old table. And sometimes if he’d had a rough day, they’d just stay in and have room service and she’d listen to his gripes about the interviews . . . the television shows . . . his agents . . . and then there would always be the wonderful tenderness of his arms when they lay in bed together. There were some nights they didn’t make love, when he said, “I’m fifty-seven, baby. And I’m tired. But I want you to be with me.” Those were some of the best nights. And when she got the curse and told him, and asked if she should sleep home, he had looked at her in amazement. “I want you in my arms at night, not just to hump you . . . but because I love you. I want to wake up and find you there, to reach out during the night and be able to hold you—isn’t that what it’s all about?”
Then there were nights when he wanted only to satisfy her . . . when he made love to her until she was limp with exhaustion.
And then there was always Linda. Always questioning. Always watchful. Growing slightly resentful because January had developed an expertise in evading personal questions.
At the end of March, Tom had to leave for another short promotional trip. Detroit, Chicago, Cleveland. “I don’t think you should come,” he said. “Why cause a lot of talk? I don’t care for myself. It’s you I’m concerned about. It’ll only be for five days.”
When he saw the tears in her eyes, he grabbed her in his arms. “January, for God’s sake, of course you can come. Please, baby, don’t cry.”
She shook her head. “It isn’t that. Of course you’re right. It’s only five days. And you will come back. But it just suddenly hit me that there will be a time when you’ll have to leave for much longer than five days, when you won’t be coming back . . .”
“I’ve thought about that, too,” he said slowly. “Much more than you would believe. It’s something I’ve got to think out while I’m gone. I told you once—I can never be without you. I mean it. I’ve also been thinking about the next book I want to write. The idea finally crystallized in my mind. And when that happens I can’t wait until I go off to write. Only it’s not quite happening that way now. I think of the book . . . and you come through. Before, a new book always took precedence over anything. I’d lock out the world and the book became my new mistress. But it’s not like that now.”
“That’s wrong, Tom. You’ve got to write.”
“I know . . . and I’ll have to figure it out. Look, we’ll talk about it when I get back.”
When he was gone, it was as if all the oxygen had been taken out of the air. She skipped her usual appointment with Dr. Alpert. After two days she felt nervous and listless, but she forced herself to have dinner with Linda, who was now in love with one Donald Oakland, a newscaster on a local television show. They went to Louise’s, and January listened while Linda gave explicit details of her sex life with Donald. “He doesn’t give good head . . . but that’s because he’s Jewish. Jewish boys never really think it’s proper to give head. But he’s learning. I’ve assigned Sara to do a story on him,” she said as she chewed on a piece of celery. “He’s on local news right now, but when the story comes out and he gets a taste of real fame and realizes what I can do for him, he’ll unload his wife and stick with me. I can’t stand this three-evenings-and-one-afternoon-a-week scene.”
“Do you want to get married?”
Linda shrugged. “I’m pushing thirty . . . so why not? Or at least I’d like him to live with me. And I’m also learning a lot from him. His I.Q. is 155—that’s near genius. And I’ve just realized how little I know about politics. He’s been explaining things to me. I don’t dare tell him I’ve never voted. He’s given me a lot of books to read. He’s a big hot Democrat. I want to be able to hold my own with him and his friends so I’m reading The New Republic and The Nation like they’re Cosmo or Vogue. Until now I was always busy watching my competition and trying to make Gloss as good. But I suddenly realize that while Gloss has grown, I haven’t. I mean, like I don’t know anything except things that concern the magazine. Donald thinks Women’s Lib is great, so maybe I’ll join one of the groups . . .” She laughed. “Except when he stays over he forgets all about Women’s Lib and even expects me to wash out his underwear.”
“Do you?” January asked.
“Of course. I even bought him a toothbrush and his favorite mouthwash to keep at my place. I make him breakfast when he stays over . . . a good breakfast, better than that wife of his makes. She wants to be a poet, so she’s up writing half the night and is always asleep when he leaves Riverdale. And some nights I cook dinner—almost cordon bleu type because he really can’t afford to take me out each time. I mean he’s paying for his house in Riverdale . . . and his wife just put in a pool . . . and he’s putting his brother through college and—”
“Linda, can’t you ever find a nice available man?”
“No. Can you?”
Twenty-one
TOM CALLED every night. They discussed the shows he had done, the hassle he had gotten into with a critic on Kup’s show, the endless interviews he had given, the mixed reviews his book had received. He was still number one, but he was concerned about the new books coming out on the spring list. He mentioned nothing about his future plans.
By the middle of the week January began to feel unstrung, physically and emotionally. Tom was due back Friday night. He had said he could never be without her. But he was without her now. And he had admitted that his work had always come first. Had this brief separation given him time to have second thoughts?
The following morning she was at Dr. Alpert’s office before he arrived. Once again the receptionist slipped her into a booth without an appointment, and once again Dr. Alpert came shuffling in, and when that needle went into her vein, every doubt about her future with Tom vanished, and she floated out of the office with a golden feeling o
f confidence.
He returned Friday night and stopped off at her apartment without calling her. She let out a shriek of delight and fell into his arms. They clung together, both talking at once, both insisting each had missed the other more. And as he held her, she knew that her worries had been groundless. He would never leave her.
When he broke the embrace, he turned and looked at the apartment. He was so massive; the room seemed to shrink.
“How long is your lease?”
“It’s a sublet. I have it until August. But Mr. Bailey wrote and said that if I wanted it for another year, he would stay on in Europe.”
“Get rid of it. I’m going to buy us an apartment. You’re going to pick it out. I want it to be on the river, with a wood-burning fireplace, a bedroom, a living room, and another room for me to work in, because that’s where I’m going to write my new book.”
“But what about California?”
“What about it?”
“Don’t you have to go there?”
“Yes. We’re leaving next week.”
“We?”
He looked at her earnestly. “Look, I don’t know about you . . . But these last five days seemed like five years. I did a lot of thinking. In a couple of years I’ll be sixty. You’ll be—well, you’ll still be a child. So we’ve only got now. I don’t know how long ‘now’ will last. But let’s grab it. I love you. I want you with me. I’ve got a final two-week blast of publicity to do out on the Coast. I can’t afford to be separated from you for that long. I called Nina Lou and told her about you. I didn’t tell her your name, but I leveled with her and explained how it was with us. I told her I was bringing you out . . . and that as long as you’d have me, I was going to be with you. I told her I’d check into a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel—the publisher is paying for that. And to make things look okay, I’ll get you a room at the hotel which you won’t use. And for all concerned, you are out there to do the story on me for your magazine. I’ll go to the beach to see my kid. But that’s the extent of it. Nina Lou says it’s fine. She’s pretty hung up on some actor, so as long as I don’t make her look bad to her friends, she couldn’t care less.”