Good in Bed

“… knew the first time I saw her that she could have feelings for me…”

I struggled to sit up, and groped for a reporter’s notebook. This was too bizarre not to be recording for posterity. By the time our conversation ended, I’d filled nine pages, made myself late for work, and learned every detail about Tanya’s life. I heard how she was molested by her piano teacher, how her mother died of breast cancer when she was young (“I coped with my pain with alcohol”), and how her father had remarried a not-nice book editor who refused to pay Tanya’s tuition to Green Mountain Valley Community College (“they’ve got the third-best program in New England for art therapy”). I learned the name of Tanya’s first love (Marjorie), how she wound up in Pe

“So I moved out,” she told me.

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“And I devoted myself to weaving.”

“I see.”

Then it was on to how she’d met my mother (passionate glances in the ladies’ locker room sauna – I’d almost been forced to put the phone down), where they’d gone on their first date (Thai food), and how Tanya had convinced my mother that her lesbian tendencies were more than a passing fancy.

“I kissed her,” Tanya a

“Uh-huh,” I said. “I see.”

Tanya then proceeded to the analysis and reflection portion of the speech.

“The way I see it,” she began, “your mother’s devoted her whole life to you kids.” She said “you kids” in precisely the same tone I would have used for “you infestation of cockroaches.”

“And she put up with that bastard…”

“Which bastard are we talking about here?” I inquired mildly.

“Your father,” said Tanya, who was obviously not going to tone things down for the benefit of the bastard’s offspring. “Like I was saying, she’s devoted her life to you guys… and not that it’s a bad thing. I know how much she wanted to be a mother, and have a family, and, of course, there weren’t other options for dykes back then…”

Dykes? I could barely handle “lesbian.” At what point did my mother get promoted to “dyke”?

“… but what I think,” Tanya continued, “is that now it’s time for your mother to do more of what she wants. To have a life of her own.”

“I see,” I said. “Uh-huh.”

“I’m really looking forward to meeting you,” she said.

“I have to go now,” I said, and hung up the phone. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I wound up doing both at the same time.

“Beyond awful,” I said to Samantha on the car phone.

“A freak like you wouldn’t believe,” I told Andy over lunch.

“Don’t judge,” Bruce warned me, before I’d even said a word.

“She’s… um. She’s into sharing. Lots of sharing.”

“That’s good,” he said, doing his squinchy-blinky thing. “You should do more sharing, Ca

“Huh? Me?”

“You’re very closed with your emotions. You keep everything so tight inside you.”

“You know, you’re right,” I said. “Let’s find a total stranger so I can tell how my piano teacher groped me.”

“Huh?”

“She was molested,” I said. “And she told me all the gory details.”

Even Mr. Love Everyone seemed taken aback by this information. “Oh my.”

“Yeah. And her mother had breast cancer, and her stepmother convinced her father not to pay her community college loans.”

Bruce looked at me skeptically. “She told you all this?”

“What do you think, I drove home and read her diary? Of course she told me!” I paused to poach a few french fries off his plate. We were at the Tick Tock Diner, home of the enormous portion and the surliest waitresses south of New York. I never ordered fries there, but I used all my powers of persuasion to get Bruce to order them, so I could share. “She sounds seriously cracked.”

“You probably made her uncomfortable.”

“But I didn’t say anything! She’s never even met me! And she was the one who called me, so how could I make her uncomfortable?”

Bruce shrugged. “It’s just the way you are, I guess.”

I scowled at him. He reached for my hand. “Don’t get mad. It’s just that… you have this kind of judgmental thing going on.”

“Says who?”

“Well, my friends, I guess.”

“What, just because I think they should get jobs?”

“See, there you go. That’s judgmental.”

“Honey, they’re slackers. Accept it. It’s the truth.”

“They’re not slackers, Ca

“Oh, come on. What does Eric Silverberg do for a living?”

Eric, as we both knew, had a full-time temporary job at an Internet startup, where, as best we could both figure, he spent his days trading Springsteen bootleg tapes, meeting girls on one of the three online dating services he subscribed to, and arranging drug buys.

“George has a real job.”

“George spends every weekend in a Civil War reenactment brigade. George owns his own musket.”

“You’re changing the subject,” Bruce said. I could tell he was trying to stay angry, but he was starting to smile.

“I know,” I said. “It’s just that a guy who has his own musket is such an easy punchline.”

I stood up, crossed the table, and sat down next to him on his side of the booth, squeezing his thigh and resting my head against his shoulder. “You know the only reason I’m judgmental is because I’m jealous,” I said. “I wish I could have that kind of life. No college loans to pay, rent taken care of, nice, stable, married heterosexual parents who’d set me up with their slightly used furniture every time they redecorate and buy me a car for Chanukah…” My voice trailed off. Bruce was staring at me hard. I realized that, in addition to describing most of his friends, I’d just described him, too.

“I’m sorry,” I said gently. “It’s just that sometimes it feels like everybody’s got things easier than I do, and that every time I get close to having things be kind of okay… something like this happens.”

“Did you ever think that maybe these things happen to you because you’re strong enough to take them?” Bruce asked. He reached down, grabbed my hand, and moved it up on his thigh. Way up. “You’re so strong, Ca

“I just,” I said, “I wish…” And then he was kissing me. I could taste ketchup and salt on his lips. Then his tongue was in my mouth. I shut my eyes and let myself forget.

I spent the weekend at Bruce’s apartment. It was one of those times where we got it just right: good sex, a nice meal out, lazy afternoons trading sections of the Sunday Times, and then I was on my way home before we started grating on each other. We talked about my mother a little bit, but mostly I got to just lose myself with him. And he gave me his favorite fla

Be brave, I thought back home in my bed. I pulled Bruce’s shirt tight around me, tilted my cheek toward Nifkin so he could give me an encouraging lick, and phoned home.

Thankfully, my mother answered. “Ca

“I went to Bruce’s,” I told her. “We had theater tickets,” I lied. Bruce didn’t do well in theaters. Short attention span.

“Well,” she said. “Well. Um, I want to tell you that I’m sorry for springing things on you like that. I guess I should have… well, I know I should have waited and maybe told you in person…”