Loss of Innocence (11 page)

“I’d like that,” Whitney told him, unsure of whether she would. As if perceiving this, he turned abruptly, got back in the truck, and drove away.

She watched him go, trying to imagine how it felt to be Benjamin Blaine. Then she heard footsteps on the gravel.

Turning, she saw Peter, freshly arrived on the Vineyard, still wearing a suit from work. “Who was that?” he asked.

“Just a guy I met—the caretaker next door. He’s teaching me how to sail.”

Peter’s usually guileless eyes were questioning. “Looked to me like you were pretty caught up in him.”

“Hope so. Mom always taught me to look at whoever was speaking to me.” Before he could answer, she kissed him, pressing her body against his. “Only two days, and I’ve missed you already.”

Mollified, Peter took her hand. “Not as much as I’ve missed you. Why don’t we get a gin and tonic? Pretending to be a grown-up is hard work.”

The next morning, Whitney drove to Dogfish Bar alone. Instead of swimming first, she opened her journal, wanting to write but unsure of where to start. Finally, she began.

She stopped, thinking about his family, feeling lucky in her own. Then honesty caught up with her, and she picked up the pen again.

Nine

Sitting beside Whitney on a beach towel, Clarice languidly spread suntan oil on her slender, perfect legs. The sky was clear; the air, cut by a fitful breeze, was temperate and dry. On the transistor radio beside them Grace Slick was belting out “White Rabbit.” Casually, Clarice said, “Sorry if I barged in on you yesterday.”

Lying back, Whitney put on her sunglasses. “It’s your boat, after all. Anyhow, I thought you and Ben really hit it off.”

“If he’s not careful,” Clarice responded with a laugh, “that chip on his shoulder will turn him into a hunchback. But I’ll admit to being intrigued. Especially since your dad called mine to ask about him.”

Surprised, Whitney turned on her elbow. “Did your dad say why?”

“Obviously, your parents are curious about who you’re spending time with. I just thought you should know.”

Angered, Whitney wondered if Charles had also spoken with Peter. “That’s pretty irritating—it’s like I’m two years old. What did your father tell him?”

“I guess Dad allowed that Ben was a pretty good sailor. He did ask me what
I
knew about him. ‘Next to nothing,’ I told him, and decided to see for myself.”

Whitney felt on edge. “Please tell me that you’re not reporting back to your dad. Who’s reporting back to mine.”

“Of course not,” Clarice protested. “I love both our dads, but you’re my best friend. Besides, a certain level of obliviousness is good for parents. Sometimes cluelessness really
is
bliss.”

“I guess I’ll bite, then,” Whitney found herself saying. “What
did
you think of Ben?”

Gazing up at a skittering cirrus cloud, Clarice considered her answer. “He’s sex on a sailboat—and knows it. But there’s something dangerous about him. You can almost feel it on your skin.”

As usual, Whitney thought, Clarice was able to put her own instincts into words. “And here I thought it was poison ivy.”

“You know what I mean. He seems like a guy who knows what he wants and how to get it.” A quizzical look crossed Clarice’s face, as though she had just surprised herself. “In a funny way, he reminds me of your dad.”

Whitney turned on her elbow. “What drugs are you taking? I can’t even imagine them in the same room.”

“You’re talking about politics, Whit, or maybe class. This is about who they are. Your dad’s the best, but would
you
want to cross him?”

“How do you mean?”

Clarice gave her a shrewd look. “He’s your father, I know, and for you he’s charm incarnate. But if you back up and watch, you can sense a very cool brain at work, constantly alert to whatever might affect his interests.” Her tone became mollifying. “I’m not comparing them as people—Ben’s got an edge that is all his own. I’m just saying that he looks like someone hell-bent on having his way in the world.”

Whitney eyed her friend. “You seem to have gotten a lot from those five magical minutes.”

“I did, actually,” Clarice responded with serene assurance. “I hope it doesn’t irritate you to talk about Ben Blaine.”

“It doesn’t. I just wonder why it’s worth our time. It’s not like I’m going to sleep with him.”

Clarice pushed her sunglasses down her nose, scrutinizing Whitney over the rim. “That’s a funny thing to say. Especially for someone who’s getting married.”

A Frisbee landed at Whitney’s feet. Waiting for a lanky guy and his terrier to retrieve it, Whitney composed her response. “What I’m trying to suggest, Clarice, is that it should be unremarkable for men and women to spend time together. The way we were brought up is antiquated: guys are the people you marry, and women the ones you get for friends—segregation by function. All because our genitals are different.”

“But they
are
different,” Clarice responded with the patience of a teacher whose student is a bit dull-witted. “And we’re different. Since time began we’ve played different roles in the world.”

Whitney scanned the crowded beach—men and women and families clustered together, some under bright umbrellas, one mother reading as her husband built a sand castle with a small girl and smaller boy. “Maybe that made sense when we lived in caves—I’m pretty sure Peter would eclipse me in killing saber-toothed tigers. But my dad uses his brain, and there’s no inherent reason I couldn’t work with him just as well as Peter does.”

Clarice gave her a thin smile. “Start expressing these uncomfortable truths aloud, Whitney, and people will think you’re a feminist.” To ward off Whitney’s retort, Clarice hastily continued, “I’m not trying to put you down—honestly. But men are competitive and less nurturing. They start wars; we have babies. They get erections from looking at pictures of naked women. We don’t look at pictures of naked guys with erections. Just be glad that most of them don’t get erections looking at pictures of other guys with erections. Imagine the implications of that.” As Whitney began laughing, Clarice concluded with mock profundity, “You and I wouldn’t exist, and the world as we know it would end. Which is why
Playboy
is part of God’s plan.”

This explication of the world according to Clarice piqued Whitney’s curiosity. “
Is
there a God, Professor Barkley?”

“Seriously? We won’t know until we die, will we—the ones who die before us don’t give exit interviews. So it’s just easier for people to say they
do
know.” Pausing, Clarice asked pointedly, “Aren’t you and Peter having an Episcopalian priest perform the wedding ceremony?”

“Of course.”

“Then expect to hear more about God than you and Peter. And nobody there will ask if God exists, or why He isn’t a woman. I certainly won’t—some things aren’t worth the trouble of upsetting anyone. In our circles, at least, most people don’t like thinking about things they’ve already decided are decided. If that makes sense.”

Once again, Whitney was impressed by the cynical wisdom concealed by her friend’s sunny façade. “It does, actually.”

Encouraged, Clarice went breezily on. “Once the honeymoon starts, God will return to His proper place, and you’ll be back in the world of men. One man, particularly, who’ll want you to go down on him every so often. In that way, Venice will look a lot like Dartmouth. Assuming Peter likes that, though I never met a man who didn’t. Sometimes my vagina just can’t compete . . .”

Amused and appalled, Whitney interjected, “Good God, Clarice . . .”

“God has nothing to do with that one,” Clarice persisted blithely. “Funny how that’s when they gasp the loudest.”

Covering her face in mock horror, Whitney remembered her mother’s one remark on oral sex: “Thank God your father never insisted on it, let alone the other thing. When I think of homosexuals, it’s hard to imagine an entire relationship based on that.” Between her fingers, she murmured, “This conversation would simply horrify my mom.”

“What a surprise. Mine would sooner turn communist than utter the words ‘blow job.’ But moms aren’t exactly our target audience.”

“Put it this way,” Whitney acknowledged, “I don’t think Peter minds a lot.”

“You’re a truly keen observer, Whitney.” Lying back, Clarice stretched out her body to take full advantage of the sun, reminding
Whitney of a cat lying beneath the window. “Speaking of which, do
you
think young Mr. Blaine is sexy?”

“At the risk of disappointing you, I’ve never thought about it.”

“Come off it, Whit—it’s just how people are. I’m sure
he’s
thought about it, not to suggest that he’s obsessed with you. I bet he even wondered about me—he’d probably wonder about your mother, if he ever met her. According to a highly scientific survey I read in
Cosmopolitan
, if you only think about sex every fifteen minutes, you’re probably dead.”

“I think part of him is dead,” Whitney retorted. “Or at least in a coma.”

Turning her head, Clarice looked at her with renewed curiosity. “What do you mean by
that
?”

“Until a month ago he was traveling with Bobby Kennedy. It sounds like Ben knew him pretty well—for sure he believed in him enough to drop out of Yale. The assassination has made him really bitter.”

Clarice took this in, her expression changing from surprised to sympathetic. “I’m sure it must have,” she allowed. “Look how it upset you, and even me. But people outlive grief, and so will he.”

“Maybe so. But Ben had a pretty rough time before that. Bad family, no money. All his life he’s been pretty much on his own.”

“You seem to know a lot about him.”

“He talks, I listen. Right now he needs that, and maybe it’s better with someone he’s not close to.”

A skeptical look surfaced in Clarice’s cornflower-blue eyes. “So maybe you’re his therapist. But while he’s pouring out his heart, he’s still thinking about sex. If you’re human, there’s no escaping human nature.”

It was time, Whitney decided, to divert the conversation from herself. “So what did
you
think when you were looking at Ben?”

Clarice emitted a theatrical sigh. “I always have to be the brave one, don’t I? Okay, Whit. Ben’s no boy. If he ever got around to it, a girl would know. You wouldn’t have to teach him anything.” She regarded Whitney seriously. “He has a certain fascination, I’ll
admit—danger always does. But you see a brooding, lonely guy. I see a hungry and ambitious guy with trouble written all over him, who’s had more women than I’ve got fingers and toes.”

“I’ll be sure to ask him about that,” Whitney replied sarcastically, and decided to change the subject altogether. Ben meant little to her; she wasn’t even sure she wanted to see him. But talking about him like this felt invasive and uncomfortable, just like her father’s questions. For reasons Whitney could not name, she sensed no good would come of it.

Ten

Half-teasing, half-curious, Whitney said, “Just between us, Clarice, how many guys have
you
slept with?”

“More than you have,” Clarice answered briskly, “which wouldn’t be hard. But please don’t play the innocent, Whitney. Both of us broke sexual barriers.”

“Me? How did I manage that?”

“By sleeping with Peter. We’ve already rejected this ridiculous notion of being virgins until we marry, turning our honeymoon into the Amateur Hour. Because of the Pill, we can have the freedom men do. The difference being we still have to pretend we’re different.”

“I thought you just said we
are
different.”

“Women have more self-control, for sure—we’ve had to. But for the longest time I thought we were another species, because that’s what our mothers said. They raised us in the cult of virginity, to be sacrificed on the altar of marriage in exchange for eternal love. What nonsense.”

Whitney smiled in recognition. “After we were engaged, my mom said, ‘Peter will be gentle, I’m sure. But if it hurts, tell him.’ I couldn’t figure out whether she really believed I was still a virgin, or just wanted to preserve the myth.”

“Such a trap,” Clarice said ruefully. “Sleeping with my first guy was really a big deal. So I tried to believe I loved him. Then I realized I didn’t have to marry him just because I’d opened up my legs. And if
that
made no sense, neither had saving it for marriage.”

“And you didn’t regret it?”

Clarice shook her head. “I was free to do what I wanted. Don’t you ever want to have sex just because you feel like it?”

“Sure,” Whitney conceded. “That’s when I remember my suitemate’s paper on masturbation. Required reading among our friends.”

“Sometimes you have to be your own best friend,” Clarice concurred with a smile. “But the Pill has given us choices—no pregnancy, no risky abortions, and all we have to worry about is getting some disease. We can sleep with whomever.”

Whitney paused to scan the beach: in the warm mid-afternoon sun, kids scampered in the surf, and a few fishermen with fly rods had begun casting into the waters. Pensive, Clarice pulled out a pack of Chesterfield filters and lit one, another small act of rebellion indulged out of her parents’ sight. In her friend’s contemplative silence, Whitney reflected on how Clarice’s commentary echoed in her own life—anxieties about missed periods, the silence between girls and their mothers. Though it occasionally unnerved her, Whitney valued Clarice’s candor.

Still, she sometimes wondered about her friend. The more reckless of her college acquaintances had picked up guys at Charlie’s, the townie bar, and one had even bragged about sleeping with Wilt Chamberlain before she contracted herpes. For Whitney, she became the cautionary tale that confirmed Anne Dane’s advice—if you sleep around, bad things will follow, and your reputation will be ruined. Ostensibly, Clarice’s code was different: she could sleep with who she wanted as long as she was discreet. But in an odd way, Whitney realized, both Clarice and Anne arrived at the same place—reputation was perception.

Stubbing out her cigarette, Clarice interrupted Whitney’s musing, “On the subject of Peter, let me pose a hypothetical. If you hadn’t decided to sleep with him, would you be getting married now?”

Whitney recalled the pressure she had felt to yield: though Peter’s desire had been sweetly pressed, she was overcome by the fear of losing the first boy who had ever loved her. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “But I’m glad I did.”

“You should be,” Clarice said firmly. “Men care even more about sex than they do about baseball. It’s only a fraction of the time they spend with us, and their orgasm is over in ten seconds. But they think about it for hours, which keeps them coming back. Though they don’t know it, their penises empower us. And when we lose our figures, or our looks, the power goes away. We can only hope that our husbands sentimentalize us when we’re old. Unless, of course, they’re much older than we are.”

Clarice said this so clinically that Whitney felt the chill of loneliness. “I wonder how much power Janine has.”

“Very little,” Clarice responded with a phlegmatic shrug. “She’s way too anxious to have any sense of strategy.”

“But you do.”

“I’d like to think so. God knows women should have one. Men like our fathers make the world, allowing others to live in it. The difference is that your dad could eat mine alive.” Clarice’s expression became serious. “Your grandfather Padgett was smart—your mother too. They needed a man to preserve their place in business, and picked out Charles Dane. Now your family goes on as it should. Maybe that’s what I meant about Ben resembling your father—someone who can take life by the throat.”

It was revealing, Whitney thought, that Clarice had doubled back to Ben and her father. “Do you mind me asking, Clarice, if something’s worrying you?”

Clarice frowned at this, as though begrudging an answer. “My mom worries.”

“Should she?”

“I’ve got no way of telling, and no interest in Dad’s business. All I know is that we made our money three generations back. My father runs the company because he’s the only son, not because he’s good at it.” Clarice gazed off in the distance. “Lately, I’ve thought he’d rather be painting landscapes. Which would be fine, except that it concerns my mother. Which has started me wondering if there’s trouble.”

Through other friends, Whitney had seen fathers who had frittered away a family business or squandered an inheritance, trading affluence for struggle, respect for pity. But she had never imagined this threatening Clarice. “If it came to that,” she assured her friend, “I’m sure my dad would help.”

Clarice smiled a little. “I guess he could, couldn’t he?”

The next morning, Whitney returned to Dogfish Bar.

This time she brought a book to read, chosen over
The Confessions of Nat Turner
by her parents’ friend, Bill Styron—John Updike’s
Couples
, a novel of adultery among the upwardly mobile residents of a New England suburb. But though the first few chapters were seductive enough to intrigue her, she turned back to her diary.

Today, she found, her subject was Clarice.

Pausing, Whitney gazed out at the calm blue horizon, waiting for fresh thoughts to surface. But the one that did stirred discontent with herself.

Putting down the journal, she headed for the water, resolved to exorcise her toxins through a vigorous swim.