The Nature of Love

Chapter 8

Copyright (c) 2014 Phyllis Zimbler Miller

All rights reserved.

Fierce fighting continues in the Cholon district of Saigon. – June 1, 1968

 

Jennifer’s Story

Cambridge, Massachusetts 1968

         I changed the channel on the television set for what seemed the 100th time. It was stifling in the apartment even with the windows open to the night air. Sweat dripped down my back and along the ridge of my nose. Steve, of course, was in his chemistry lab in the dank basement of some old Harvard building.

        Outside a few blocks away was the room where six years ago Trent initiated me into the pleasures of sex. Where was Trent when I needed him?

       Of course, that time with Trent was before I was married.  I had now been a married woman for three years this month. To have an affair now would be adultery.

       But Steve was never home. Maybe he was screwing his undergraduate students, those nubile young women who washed his test tubes and daily charted the slightest change in color or consistency of his experiments. Hell, he was probably too immersed in his work to notice the undergraduates any more than he noticed his wife, regardless of how many sets of lacy underpants and matching bras I bought.

       In contrast to Steve’s self-imposed schedule, history was such a gentile course of graduate study. I worked hard, but I also had time to relax, to hang out and read.

       Now I glanced at the coffee table – a plank of wood on cement blocks. Besides my glass of Coke sat a book by Simone de Beauvier.  Now there was a woman who knew how to live.

       The commercials ended and whatever I had flipped to began again.  It seemed to be a play, although I didn't recognize it. I did recognize the male lead – the cute actor who was in that sexual coming-of-age movie a few months ago. I saw it twice. By myself.

       On the screen a woman clasped her arms around the man and begged him not to leave. If Steve announced he were leaving would I ask him not to?

        What did motivate me to go out with him after that fraternity party? His not taking advantage of me when I was drunk? "I'm a gentleman." The chance to make my cousin jealous? "Jen, how can you go out with him when I saw him first? You know how cute I think he is."

      I had gone, for whatever reason. We attended a chamber music concert and walked to the student union for hamburgers. Talked about our respective majors, our roommates.  "Why'd you ask me out?" I said. "Thought I was an easy mark?"

       He'd taken my hands across the fries. "I just wanted to get to know you better. What you're really like."

      Three weeks later I let him poke me in his car. There was no reason not to, and I was curious. After that Steve the gentleman assumed we were a couple. Soon his fraternity pin and my sorority pin decorated my chest.

       My mother was ecstatic. "Such a nice Jewish boy. And he's going to be a doctor."

       "Of science, Mom. A Ph.D."

      "Still, Dr. Steve Silberman. And you'll be a doctor's wife."

       I hadn't wanted to disappoint my mother.

      The play on the television screen ended, the man striding off while the woman sobbed. "Don't forget what Scarlett said," I reminded the television screen. "Tomorrow is another day."

      Now on the screen appeared a talking head, a woman saying stay tuned for her interview of the male lead. I took this opportunity to visit the bathroom. A bladder could only hold so much Coke.

      When I returned to the living room the interviewer was welcoming "Rusty Korn, the young actor who has shown his talent in so many arenas."

      Rusty sat down, crossed one leg over the other, and smiled at the interviewer.

      "Tell us, Rusty," she said, "do you think fame is going to change you?"

***

      "Actor Rusty Korn is in Boston to star in a play" I read in an announcement in the newspaper.

      I grabbed the telephone and called a friend in the theater arts department. It was early; the morning paper had just arrived. The friend should still be home. When she answered the phone I said, "You have to find out for me where Rusty Korn is staying in Boston. I want to write him a fan letter."

       My friend laughed. I said, “I know it's totally unlike me, but there's something I have to tell him."

      That night, again switching channels for company, I sat down to write a letter to the address my friend had located.

Dear Rusty,

I am writing you a fan letter although I have never written one before.

Watching the interview of you last night compelled me to write to encourage you not to change. You are a versatile, sensitive actor. You are also a mensch. Please don't let fame change you.

 

Sincerely,

Jennifer Rubin Silberman

       I signed all three names to let him know I was married and not some groupie panting over his body. Then I walked the letter to the mailbox and marched on to Bailey's for an ice cream cone with jimmies.  It was the most excitement I could expect tonight.

***

       The envelope was addressed to Jennifer Rubin Silberman with no return address. How strange. The mail I received, except from the university, was addressed to Mrs. Steve Silberman.

       It was from Rusty Korn!

 

Dear Jennifer,

 How nice of you to take the time to write me a letter of encouragement.  I appreciate your concern and hope I won't ever disappoint you.  If I ever do let fame go to my head, I hope you'll write me and tell me to stop it.

 

Yours,

Rusty Korn

        "Yours, Rusty," I read aloud.

       Of course it meant nothing. Just a celebrity being kind to a fan.  Still, it couldn't hurt to write him back. Tell him that in my world married people from different disciplines could be intellectual friends, engage in a free exchange of ideas and creativity.

         I wouldn’t write more than two pages.

***

        The telephone awakened me. The clock said 9. How could I have slept so late?

       The headache reminded me. Last night, on one of Steve's rare evening visits to his own apartment, we entertained another couple.  We all drank a little and smoked some good weed.

       "Yes?" I said.

        "Is this Jennifer Rubin Silberman?"  The voice was familiar.

        "Rusty?" I said.

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If you would also like to read women’s fiction that takes place in the future rather than the past, check out THE MOTHER SIEGE here on Wattpad at http://budurl.com/MSintro