Any Woman's Blues_ A Novel of Obsession - Erica Jong [73]
Another night, I find a letter from Dart among my things.
My dearest [it reads], This short life we are given can be spent in agony or bliss. Depending on one’s perspective, life can be tragic, funny, or wonderful.
The time appears even shorter if we do an hourly breakdown. Of the twenty-four hours in a day, at least a third of them are spent sleeping. Another three to six hours are given over to eating. Two hours go to grooming, bathing, and dressing. Then we seem to lose an hour or so (more) getting from one place to another; then there’s time on the telephone (two hours), decision-making, and instructing the help (one hour); and somewhere along the way we waste or lose an hour unexpectedly. This leaves us with three hours to work, write, make love, exercise, laugh, be with our family, be with ourselves, explore a new idea (did we feed the dog or water the plants?), go over the day’s events, etc.
Now, are we going to spend those precious three hours a day worrying or fearing the worst? Let’s take those three hours and do a little planning with them. Three hours times the 365 days in a year is 1,095 hours. Now, how many years are there left in our lives? Maybe forty! So we multiply this times forty and we get 43,800, and then we divide by the twenty-four hours in a day and we get 1,825, which we divide by 365 days in a year and we get five.
That’s five years. Five waking; five aware; five short years in forty that we’re together.
Oh my darling I want to spend all of eternity with you, not five years.
All my love,
Dart
I start to cry, remembering the eternity we had before we lost our paradise. And I remember how sweet and tender Dart could be before things went awry. I have been trying not to remember that, because it is easier not to remember.
Then something about the letter hits me—work. Dart has barely mentioned work in his hourly breakdown. “Instructing the help” is what he relates to. It is as though he has done a description of his father’s life. This letter is the equivalent of Ven’s greeting cards, my sane mind says.
“When is Dart coming back?” Mike asks one day, going to bed.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“We figured you guys had another one of your fights,” says Ed.
“I don’t think he’ll be coming back,” I say.
“Oh, Mom,” says Ed.
“I’m glad,” says Mike. “I was always scared of him.”
“Me too,” says Ed. “Ever since he took down Mike’s pants and spanked her.”
“He did what?” I asked. “When?”
“Just before we left.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We didn’t want you to worry, Mom,” says Mike.
“Yeah,” says Ed. “You’re such a worrywart.”
“What you need, Mom, is a rich husband,” says Mike.
“Someone with a Porsche,” says Ed.
“Or a Rolls-Royce,” says Mike.
“Or a BMW,” says Ed.
“Someone rich,” says Mike.
“Yeah,” says Ed.
“If they’re all jerks, might as well get one with money,” says Mike.
“That’s dumb,” says Ed.
“Men don’t like it when you have all the money,” says Mike.
“But what about liberation?” I ask.
“Men don’t like it,” says Ed.
“And they still run stuff,” says Mike.
“I’m sorry, Mom, they just do,” says Ed.
“But we have to change that,” I say.
“Forget it, Mom, and take their money,” says Mike.
“Get one with a Porsche,” says Ed.
12
The Proper Millionaire
I got a Eldorado Cadillac
with spare tire on the back—
I got a charge account at Goldblat’s
But I ain’t got you.
—Calvin Carter
Danny Doland from Dallas drove a Porsche. Danny Doland from Dallas was tall, fat, fifty, funny, and absolutely loaded. Danny Doland was the answer to a ten-year-old’s prayers.
“Marry him,” said Mike.
“Yeah, Mom,” said Ed.
I was introduced to Danny Doland on a blind date. By an old lover of mine named Tyler Levinsky, who had recently married the shiksa of the year. (Another one: the category is crowded.) Tyler was fit, fifty, rich (though not as rich as Danny): he was in the antiques business. He wanted to see me conveniently married off to one of his cronies so that we could take trips as a foursome and he could intermittently visit