Winning is Everything (25 page)

54 

The shock treatment did calm Jean Bramer down. She also suffered the all-too-common side effect of several small seizures in the day after the treatment, and after she’d slept fourteen straight hours, she awoke in what the doctors described as a peaceful state.

To Kip, she seemed close to catatonic. In fact, he thought the whole treatment of his mother’s mental illness was archaic, more medieval witchcraft than scientific cure.

On Friday morning Kip dropped his father off at work and then drove out to the Packerfield Clinic.

Jean Bramer sat in a lounge chair, staring at a soap opera on the television in front of her. When she heard Kip she turned her head slowly toward the door. “I’m so tired,” she said, eyelids drooping. “And hungry. Do you know what time they serve lunch?”

“Mom … it’s me … Kip!”

Jean Bramer sat up in her chair. “Kip … Oh, Kip. I’m so glad you’re here. Come give your mother a big hug.”

Kip walked over to the chair, embraced his mother. “How you doing?”

“I hate soap operas.” Jean Bramer patted her son’s hair. “Everybody always screwing everybody else.”

“Don’t watch them if you don’t like them,” said Kip.

“What—and resort to being entertained by game shows? No, thanks! Even
I’m
not
that
crazy.” Jean Bramer closed her eyes. “Can’t stay #wake, Kip. All I do is sleep all day.”

“That’s probably good for you, Mom,” said Kip. “Get you all rested up. Isn’t that why you came here?”

“I came here, I’m sure, for the same reason I always come to these places. To get away from your father.”

Kip kissed his mother on the cheek. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” asked Jean Bramer. “It’s true. God, I’m awfully tired. I don’t know what makes me sleepier—the knockout drops they call medication or these boring soap operas.”

“Probably a combination of both,” said Kip. “You seem much less agitated.”

“Did you know your father married me for my money?”

“You’ve mentioned it,” said Kip.

“I was young and quite beautiful,” said Jean Bramer. “When he didn’t get his scholarship for law school, he asked me to marry him. Did you know that?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“He never loved me, you know. Never. But I was mad for him. Don’t ask me why … I suppose I was crazy even then. So I married him and put him through law school, and soon we were sleeping in separate bedrooms, and the next thing I knew, I was getting even with his coldness, his creepy aloofness, by flying off the handle. Let me tell you something, Kip. I’ve found no better bid for attention in this life than having a nervous breakdown.”

“You seem fine,” said Kip.

“I am fine,” maintained Jean Bramer. “Just can’t seem to keep my eyes open.”

The door to the room opened and a nurse walked in carrying a tray loaded with little plastic cups filled with medications.

“Good morning, Mrs. Bramer,” said the nurse as she walked into the room. “I see we have company today.”

“I’m Mrs. Bramer’s son,” said Kip.

“How d’you do?” said the nurse, lifting a small plastic cup off the tray. “Okay … here we go … morning’s medication, Mrs. Bramer.”

Jean Bramer looked up at the nurse. “I don’t want the pills. I want to visit with my boy, not nod off to sleep.”

“Come on, Mrs. Bramer,” the nurse coaxed cheerfully. “It’s medication time.”

“I don’t want to fall asleep!” said Jean Bramer.

“Come on, Mrs. Bramer. Don’t you want to feel all better real soon?”

Kip stood to address the nurse. “Why does she have to take these pills now?”

“Doctor’s orders,” said the nurse. “Two pills, five times a day.” The nurse placed the pills in Mrs. Bramer’s hand, handed her a small glass of water. “Let’s be a good girl, now. Let’s get healthier and healthier.”

Against her better judgment, Jean Bramer put the two small orange pills into her mouth and swallowed them with some water.

“That’s a good girl!” cooed the nurse.

Kip sat with his mother for twenty minutes until she was asleep. Then he walked down to the nurses’ station and asked to see his mother’s physician.

When Dr. Howit arrived, Kip came directly to the point. “I was wondering what medication you’re giving my mother.”

“A combination of things,” said the doctor. “We’ve been fooling around, finding out which work best.”

“Sounds rather hit-and-miss to me,” said Kip.

“I can assure you, Mr. Bramer, we know what we’re doing.”

“My mother seems more catatonic than comfortable,” Kip protested.

“She’s making progress,” said the doctor.

“But what is she on that’s knocking her out?”

“That’s not your business,” maintained the doctor. “We’ve worked out her program, and she’s responding rather well.”

“Rather well!” Kip raised his voce. “She can’t stand up.”

“One of the reasons I hate having visitors here,” said Dr. Howit, “is they’re so disruptive.”

“Disruptive?”
Kip was having difficulty controlling himself. “The woman is hardly functioning, and you won’t even tell me what it is you’ve got her on.”

“I told you, young man. She is my patient, and it is none of your goddamned business.”

That did it. Kip’s eyes grew wild and his face turned red and it was a good thing for Dr. Howit two orderlies were passing by, because they were able to stop him as soon as he grabbed Dr. Howit by the lapels of his medical smock and pushed him up against the wall.

One of the orderlies asked Dr. Howit if they should administer a sedative.

“No,” Dr. Howit told them. “Believe it or not, this one’s a visitor, not a patient. Why don’t you just escort him out of the building?”

Outside, Kip stood in the winter chill, taking deep breaths as he tried to calm himself down. His anger frightened him. He couldn’t believe he had created such an ugly scene, no matter what the provocation.

Walking to his father’s car, Kip figured the medical staff of the sanitorium probably wouldn’t give it a second thought. They’d probably simply figure the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree; that madness, like creativity, must run in the family.

Like mother, like son.

55 

“Adrienne?”

“Kip! You back in New York?”

“Just walked into the apartment.”

“Finally. Was it awful?”

“Pretty awful,” Kip said softly. “I’m certainly looking forward to getting away.”

“Me too,” said Adrienne. “Let me fill you in on the latest developments. Cynthia Hammel and Peter Gregory, my friends who have the house, they’ve decided to go up with us. They’ve been together, off and on, for the past five years and are both wildly temperamental. We leave tomorrow morning—if that’s okay with you.”

“Sounds fine,” said Kip. “The sooner I get away, the sooner I can begin to unwind.”

“Great. Peter has an old jalopy, a Chrysler, I think. You’ll love them both. Peter and Cynthia can be a lot of fun … that is, if they’re not fighting.”

Trouble was, Cynthia and Peter
were
fighting.

From the moment Peter pulled up to a screeching halt in front of Adrienne’s apartment house, it was clear the two principal dancers of the NYCB were having one of their
scenes.

“Cynthia’s in an absolute vile mood,” the tall, attractive Canadian told Adrienne. “She missed a jeté last night and has been cranky since the curtain went down. Try to humor her.”

Adrienne and Kip got into the backseat of the car and greeted the dancer sitting in front. Cynthia was a cool beauty with high cheekbones and a high chignon.

“You’re just going to have to put up with Peter,” she said. “He’s been impossible since breakfast. He read the piece about Nureyev in the
Times
and sank into an immediate depression of jealousy and hate. It’s up to you two to cheer him up.”

“Why can’t you cheer him up?” asked Adrienne.

“I couldn’t possibly,” said Cynthia.
“I’m
not talking to the bastard!”

They rode to Connecticut in silence. Kip and Adrienne napped in back while Cynthia watched the scenery and Peter watched the road, and neither said a word to one another. Two hours later they reached the thoroughly charming weekend retreat.

“It’s delightful!” said Adrienne, waking up.

Cynthia led Adrienne and Kip upstairs to their room. An old four-poster bed, lacy curtains, an ancient bureau fireplace, a washbasin, and wallpaper with small-flowered print. “Early-eighteenth-century,” said Cynthia. “That’s when they built the house. Don’t know how we’d live without it. This is where we come to
collapse.”

“It’s perfect,” said Kip, heaving the two valises onto the bed.

That evening the four of them went out for dinner to an old tavern just off the highway. Kip ordered roast beef and draft beer, and the dancers asked for vegetable soup and little salads. Cynthia said something about the Hungarians becoming better dancers since living under Communism and Peter took such umbrage at the statement, he threw his napkin down on the table and stormed out of the restaurant.

Cynthia apologized to Kip and Adrienne and then went out to the parking lot to find him. She and her boyfriend argued for a few moments and then Peter left the car, slammed the door, and came back into the restaurant, leaving Cynthia behind to be miserable.

After dinner they drove back to the house in silence. Kip and Adrienne retired to their room, where they lit a small fire and sat down on the carpet in front of the blaze to get warm.

Fifteen minutes passed before the next fight broke out.

“You stupid son of a bitch!” they heard Cynthia yell.

“What’s the fuss really about” Kip asked Adrienne.

“Oh, them,” Adrienne said with a wave of her hand. “They’re just a little melodramatic. If there isn’t something to get upset about, they’ll create some fuss, just to keep their dramatic dander up.”

“But why?” asked Kip. “Doesn’t make them seem like happy people.”

“They’re dancers!” said Adrienne. “They don’t expect to be happy. Besides, I know them quite well. Their scene is making scenes. Then they’ll go home and spend the night making love—that is, if they don’t have to rest up for a performance the following evening.”

“They don’t have a performance tomorrow,” said Kip.

“Exactly,” said Adrienne with a wink.

“Dancers sure are crazy people,” said Kip.

“No crazier than wrestlers, I bet,” said Adrienne.

“That’s probably true,” said Kip. “There were a couple of goons on the squad who were certainly certifiable.”

“Tell me …” said Adrienne, wrapping her arms around her knees. “I want to learn what it’s all about.”

“What?”

“Wrestling!”

“You want to wrestle with me?”

“Right!” said Adrienne enthusiastically. “You’re always telling me how similar ballet is to gymnastics and to the wrestling discipline. Show me how it’s done. Please! I promise not to hurt you.”

“Okay.” Kip slapped the floor as he got down on all fours on the carpet in front of the fireplace. “Get down here!”

Adrienne dropped to her knees. “Like this?” she asked.

“Like me!” said Kip. “Down on all fours.”

Adrienne did as she was told. “Now what?”

“Now,” said Kip, shifting his body around, “we go for a take-down.”

Kip wrapped one arm around Adrienne’s waist and placed his other hand at the top of her arm.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Sure … what do I do?”

“Try to get me down to the mat, or in this case the carpet. Try pinning my shoulders to the floor for a count of three.”

“That’s all?” asked Adrienne.

“That’s all,” Kip answered. “And remember … wrestling is like chess—with bodies.”

“A piece of cake,” Adrienne faked a yawn. “Ready?”

“Whenever you are,” said Kip.

“Wait a minute!” Adrienne protested. “We’re not wearing the right costumes.” She reached down and pulled her heavy blue sweater off her head and stood there in her bra and dungarees. “You too, Bramer.” She pointed at him. “Strip ‘em off. I’m not about to wrestle someone dressed for the blizzard of eighty-eight.”

Kip took off his sweater.

“Let’s go, Bramer. The shirt, too. If we’re going to do this, may as well do it right.”

Kip was suddenly in full agreement. He unbuttoned his shirt and took it off. Then he unzipped his pants, stepped out of them.

“This is getting to be exciting,” said Adrienne as she started getting out of her own pants. “May the best man win.”

“Don’t worry,” said Kip. “He will!”

They crouched back down on the floor and Kip put one arm around the back of her waist again and the other on top of her arm. He shifted closer and brought his hand beneath her left breast and cupped it gently. He felt himself harden and wondered how long he was going to be able to wait. Gently, gently, he flipped her onto her back. Then, smiling like Attila the Hun, he straddled her waist and with his large hands pressed down on both her shoulders, having no trouble at all pinning them to the carpet.

“Dirty fighter!” Adrienne protested.

Kip smiled. “Guess what?” He tapped the carpet three times with an open palm. “It’s a pin.”

“You’re a brute!”

“You lose!” said Kip, leaning down to kiss her mouth. “You were right,” he whispered when at last their lips parted.

“What about?” asked Adrienne.

“About your friends in the next room. Listen—they’ve stopped fighting.”

“Told you,” said Adrienne. “They’ll be making love all night.”

“I bet they won’t be at it as long as you and me.”

“What makes you think so?” asked Adrienne.

“Listen, lady, I won. You gotta do whatever I say.” Kip lifted Adrienne and carried her to the bed, kissing her all the while.

“You sure taste good,” he said, licking his lips.

“I ought to.” Adrienne smiled. “I brushed my teeth and I gave up smoking, just for you.”

Kip ran his tongue along her front teeth. “Mmm,” he hummed. “Crest. My favorite!”

Kip loved women. He loved the way they smelled, the way they walked, how they felt to the touch. He held on to Adrienne for a long while, luxuriating in her embrace. He had no need to think up new positions, work toward escalating thrills. He had no need to be like Ron, Mr. Technique, and “screw from the chandelier.” He was an old-fashioned, romantic lover. He liked to take his time. To cherish each step along the way, always kissing, always hugging, always loving.

For a while Adrienne tried holding back, reminding herself she couldn’t get involved. Then, despite herself, she began to share his growing excitement. Kip sensed at once the difference in the way she responded to him. Carefully and slowly he removed her bra and then helped her off with her cotton panties.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered as he sat up on his knees, stroking her skin all along the length of her body.

“You, too …” Adrienne whispered back, hesitantly touching his cock.

Kip eased her down and then brought his body on top of hers. Kissing her, caressing her, holding her, Kip never let her forget for a moment she was being made love to.

When he could wait no longer, he lifted her thighs into the air and slowly and ever so carefully entered her.

“Yes, yes, my darling,” Adrienne called out as together they reached toward a climax.

Kip felt the first spasms of release journeying from somewhere deep within him, traveling along some inner highway of jubilation. He moaned and he called but her name, and as he emptied the seeds of his astonishing feelings deep inside her, his orgasm met hers.

Adrienne held his face in her hands and watched as his expression mysteriously shifted from bliss to sadness. She knew she was sharing a deeply personal moment. Watching him, she realized how hard his visit home must have been, how much pain he had suppressed. Very gently she stroked his hair, whispering, “I know … I know. Go ahead and cry. I’m right here.”

“If only I could,” said Kip. “I try, but something stops me.”

“Well, Kip Bramer,” said Adrienne, kissing his forehead, “can I share with you a little secret? As an artist, you’ve eventually got to learn to trust your emotions, it’s important. And as a person, you must learn to openly express your feelings. It’s absolutely vital.”