~ T h e R e s t a u r a n t ~
“Harry, were we always this boring?”
“Not sure what you mean.”
“Look at us. Here we are again on a Thursday night. But it’s not night. Not even close. We’re eating dinner at four-thirty. The sun’s still up. It’s hurting my eyes.”
“Should we move?”
“No. I’ll just keep my sunglasses on.”
“Dee, stop whining. We have the senior discount, add that to the early bird special, and dinner’s practically on them. Great deal. What’s the problem?”
“Harry, the specials are the same every Thursday. Meatloaf and pork chops. And the chef salad comes in ratty wooden bowls, and all we see are very old people wearing too much polyester.”
“You’re being cruel. Besides, we are them and they are us.”
“My God, how can you say that?”
“Take a good look at me.”
“Can’t see a damn thing with these sunglasses. Besides I’m wearing jeans, cotton jeans.” “You used to like this place.”
“The first and second time maybe. But it’s been over a year and here we sit. It’s become our life, an extension of who we are. ”
“Where’s the waitress? I’ll order you a drink.” “That’s your answer to everything isn’t it, Harry?”
“It’s not my answer to everything. However, it is my answer for the moment. Manhattan. Martini. What will it be?”
“Just water.”
“Miss, one Martini, very dry, with a side dish of olives.”
“.. . She’s very pretty. Such long legs.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“I was never that pretty.”
“You were very pretty.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Fishing for compliments?”
“I’m hardly fishing. I’m casting a desperately huge net and taking whatever I can snag.” “In that case you were not pretty at all. You were quite beautiful.”
“Coming from you doesn’t count.”
“Now why is that?”
“Because you’re my husband . . . Don’t shake your head. You have to tell me I’m beautiful. Otherwise we’ll get into a fight and won’t talk for the rest of the meal.”
“We may be heading in that direction anyway.”
“Okay. Let’s start over. I wonder what I’ll have tonight? Hmm . . . the meatloaf sounds redundant.”
“There are other things on the menu.”
“I ordered the steak twice, tough as shoe leather and overdone both times. And we always have chicken at home.”
“Try the fish.”
“Scrod? What the heck is a scrod? Sounds obscene.” “Obscene?”
“Like something that belongs in your pants.”
“I think that would be against the health code . . . Good. Here comes the Martini. Sure you don’t want a drink?”
“Positive.”
“Well, then we’re ready to order. The special, one of each. Two salads with the house dressing on the side. Two baked potatoes, sour cream on the side. After that coffee. Thanks.”
“Yes, thank you, Miss . . . She must be close to six feet.”
“Hmm . . . ”
“Do you still look at women, Harry?”
“That’s a loaded question.” “I still look at men.” “That’s nice.”
“Don’t you want to know what I look at?”
“Their eyes?”
“It’s their shoulders and the way they walk.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. The way they walk?”
“The walk says a lot about a man. Ask any woman.”
“How about my walk?” “You sort of slump.” “Doesn’t sound good.”
“Not necessarily. Some women might find it attractive. The lost boy thing. But you’re my husband and I love you anyway. Besides, I don’t think you always slumped. No, I think that came later. ”
“Changing times, changing ways.”
“You never answered my question.”
“What was the question?”
“Do you ever look at women?”
“Sometimes they float in my field of vision. Hard not to notice, I suppose.” “What specifically floats in your field of vision?”
“Hmm . . . the way they walk?”
“No fair, you stole my answer.”
“I liked your answer. It was a good answer.”
“You’re cheating.”
“I don’t think this is a healthy conversation.”
“You act like you’re afraid of me. What could I possibly do?”
“The Martini’s nice and dry. The good bartender must be working like battery acid. But this smooth. Want a sip?”
“No. So don’t answer me. It was a rhetorical question anyway.
“I know what you look at.”
“Really? What then?”
“You like rumps.”
“Hmm . . .”
“High ones.”
“Yes, you may be right.”
“My ass is like a pancake.”
“That’s not true. It’s quite round.”
“It’s totally deflated.”
“You’re feeling quite insecure this evening. Is there anything I can do?”
“I just wish the waitress wasn’t so damn tall.”
“Why do women do that?”
“Do what?”
“Compare themselves.”
“Insecurity, I suppose.”
“What does her height have to do with you?”
“If my legs were longer, maybe my ankles wouldn’t be so thick. Peasant stock, my father used to say.”
“I get it now. You wanted approval from your father, an Oedipal thing.” “Electra, actually.”
“Huh?”
“Father, daughter is an Electra complex. Oedipal is mother and son.”
“Yes, of course. Now I remember, although vaguely.”
“And there’s the societal pressure to fit the mold. Never too rich, never too thin.” “Where’s height in the equation?”
“Stands to reason if you’re taller, you’re thinner.”
“Here come the salads . . . Thank you . . . So, did you learn anything new today?” “Harry, I despise that question. Why do you always ask me that?”
“Because it’s critical.”
“How so?”
“Life is about lessons.”
“Oh dear, another life quote.”
“Humor me. You read the paper, saw the news. Did anything catch your attention? Make you wonder?”
“There was one thing. Those floods in the Midwest. How do people get stuck in their houses when they see the water rising? Why do they wait so damn long to leave?”
“They were probably on high ground.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Most likely the water filled the lower areas around them, then, when the waters rose, they got marooned.”
“So much for the high ground.”
“It has its disadvantage.”
“So, Harry, what did you learn today?”
“Thought you’d never ask. Let’s see . . . Oh, yes. Apparently Aristotle Onassis put up the front money to get Robert Kennedy assassinated.”
“Really?”
“Hmm . . . The two of them despised each other.” “Because of Jackie? Weren’t they both in love with her?”
“Possibly, but that was only a small part. I think it was more of an Eliot Ness, Al Capone thing. Good versus evil. All very Shakespearian. Onassis was not a particularly nice guy.”
“I suppose you don’t get filthy rich by being a nice guy.” “He was a thug.”
“And I must say, not very attractive. How did Jackie go from prime rib to . . . what’s the word? Oh yes – scrod.”
“Money, I suppose.”
“Now you see my point.”
“And what point would that be?”
“A woman can never be too thin or too rich.”
“Oh . . .
In that case, I’ll eat your croutons if you don’t want them.”
“About Jackie and John, do you think they loved each other?” “They were married weren’t they?”
“Harry, sometimes you’re so concrete. Of course they were married. But that doesn’t automatically mean they loved each other.”
“I don’t agree. They must have loved each other. Why else were they together?”
“For the children. Or maybe for his career, you know to get elected. Or for money, status.”
“Guess we’ll never know. How about a nice glass of wine?”
“Why did you marry me, Harry?”
“Let me think . . . Oh, yes now I remember. You asked me.”
“I most certainly did not.”
“You most certainly did. At Crystal Beach.”
“Crystal Beach?”
“We were stuck on the Ferris wheel. Sitting on top of the world. You’d had an argument with your parents. Remember?”
“Argument? About what?”
“I don’t know. But you said, quite clearly, ‘Harry, marry me. Take me away.’” “I said that?”
“My first and last proposal. Hard to forget.”
“If it happened, and I’m not saying it did, it was under duress.”
“Duress?”
“Maybe that’s when my father had found cigarettes in my coat pocket. Yes, now I remember. He wanted to ground me. Said only trollops smoked.”
“Trollops?”
“He was trying to be nice. Then my mother got hysterical and pulled the house apart looking for the rosary.”
“And all these years I thought it was about me, about wanting me, being with me. Oh, good
here comes the food. I’m hungry.”
“I can’t get over how tall people have become. I used to be tall. Well, maybe not tall, but average, normal. Now I’m a shrimp and shrinking besides.”
“What looks good to you? The meatloaf or pork chops? Or do you want to share?”
“Ugh. I’ll try one chop. You have the rest.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“I don’t know why you didn’t order something else. Here you go.”
“Come to think of it. You never did ask me to marry you.”
“Huh? I gave you a ring.”
“Yes. But you never got down on one knee. There was never a formal proposal. It was assumed.”
“That’s ridiculous. Of course I asked you to marry me.” “Really. When? Where?”
“When I gave you the ring.”
“The ring. Don’t you remember? We picked it out together at the jewelers. On a rainy afternoon. I had just found out I was pregnant with Marnie. We needed to act quickly.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Maybe if I hadn’t been pregnant, we wouldn’t have gotten married.” “That’s ridiculous.”
“You had said so.”
“Said what?”
“That it would have been better to wait, to finish college, buy a house.”
“I said that?”
“Yes.”
“That must have been your first husband.”
“It was after Marnie was born. We were living in that third floor walk-up by the zoo. The couple downstairs banged on the ceiling whenever she cried.”
“Oh. All I probably meant was that we should have done things in proper order.”
“Proper order?”
“Yes, finish college first, then buy a house, then have children. No matter what, we would have
gotten married.”
“I wonder . . .”
“I was crazy about you.”
“Whatever you say, Harry.”
“You’re in a very strange mood this evening, have a drink.”
“Ever chew linoleum?”
“Huh?”
“The pork chop.”
“Send it back.”
“When have I ever sent anything back?”
“Suit yourself.”
“Harry, did you ever cheat on me?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Harry, it wouldn’t bother me if you did.”
“Well, I never did. I think I’ll order another drink. Where’s that waitress?”
“I once heard Jayne Meadows say that no matter what Steve Allen did, she’d never divorce
him.”
“That’s nice.”
“And you know what Steve Allen said, ‘After forty years of marriage, now you tell me?’”
“Cute.”
“I always liked Jayne Meadows. Pretty and smart, but not showy, you know?”
“She was on the Honeymooners, right?”
“No, that was Audrey, her sister.”
“Right, now I remember.”
“Anyway, Harry, I agree with Jayne Meadows. I’d never divorce you, no matter what.” “That’s nice.”
“So I’ll ask you again. Did you ever cheat on me?”
“No.”
“Not once? Never?”
“Interesting.”
“Why is that interesting?” “What about Luisa?” “Luisa?”
“Yes, your secretary.” “Don’t be absurd.” “1978"
“What about 1978?”
“She came over that Christmas and told me.”
“Told you what?”
“That you and she were lovers.”
“Nonsense.”
“She had proof, Harry.”
“I don’t want to hear anymore. Oh, there she is. Miss?”
“Notes in your handwriting. Calendar notes signed, Love, Harry. Went all the way back to September.”
“She was good at signing my name. Had to for all my correspondence. Why are you bringing this up?”
“She said you were playing us against each other, and that we needed to stick together.”
“That’s ridiculous. Yes, another drink please. And my wife will have a Manhattan.”
“Harry, don’t order for me. Thank you, Miss, but I don’t want anything . . . So whatever happened to Luisa?”
“I can’t remember.”
“She left. I know that. I have to say I was rather surprised. I called your office and another woman answered, a new secretary. Why did she leave, Harry? ”
“Aren’tyou going to eat your potato?”
“I’m afraid I’m losing my appetite.”
“Listen, Luisa was a sweet girl, but nothing ever went on between us. I swear. I’m afraid the girl had an imagination.”
“Hmm . . . ”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Some nights you didn’t come home.”
“I always came home.”
“No you didn’t,Harry.”
“I should have known if I didn’t come home.”
“There were no towels, Harry. No tissues in the wastebasket.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That year after I spoke with Luisa I took a couple of trips. Remember? Down to Ithaca to visit Marnie in college. You tried to make the house lived in. I’ll give you that. But things were missing. No wet towels in the hamper, no tissues in the bathroom wastebasket. Harry, you always nick yourself shaving.”
“What do you want me to say? What you want to hear, or the truth?”
“The truth, Harry.”
“Well, then here goes . . . I swear I never had sex with that woman.”
“Not very original, Harry. And hardly comforting given the circumstances.”
“Circumstances?”
“So you didn’t have sex with Luisa. It was just you, her and a Cuban Cigar? I don’t believe you.”
“Dee, let’s drop it.”
“You’re upset.”
“I most certainly am not.”
“You never knew I knew.”
“There was nothing to know.”
“I got over it. Eventually. Now I’m just curious. Why did you do it? I thought we were happy.”
“We were happy. We still are happy.”
“Harry, there comes a point when the truth is important. Life’s about lessons, your quote not mine. I’m at that point, trying to learn, figure out things. There’s so much about life we’ll never know. Then there are those things that we can know if we make the effort. Harry, I – What’s that sigh supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“What a waste. All these years wondering, wanting to ask. Finally I get the nerve up and – ”
“Listen, if it makes you happy. Yes.”
“Yes?”
“I had an affair.”
“Oh . . . ”
“You said you wanted to know.”
“I’llhave that drink now.”
“But you insisted – ”
“Make it a double.”
Author’s Note:
Dorothy Parker often wrote short stories in dialogue form. I gave it a whirl. Ellipses made the job easier. There’s more to the story of Harry and Dee. Their plight continues in the form of a play with the working title of “Scenes From a Marriage (Not Bergman).” From a writing perspective, when I think of marital indiscretions, I also think of diamonds. Both are prism-like, sharpy faceted and uniquely intricate when put under a microscope. This story also begs the question. Does a spouse really want to know?