Ronald Rabbit Is a Dirty Old Man - Lawrence Block [5]
LARRY: But I wish to hell you would marry the son of a bitch.
LISA: Men are supposed to be upset when their ex-wives remarry. A virility-anxiety thing, I think it is. They don’t like to be replaced. I read that many of them even enjoy paying alimony, that they get their kicks out of the measure of control it lets them keep over their ex’s life.
LARRY: You read that, huh?
LISA: It makes sense, don’t you think? Except for those men who don’t have much virility to be anxious about.
LARRY: I’ve got to go now. My other phone is ringing.
LISA: Fun-nee.
LARRY: It was good talking to you, Lisa. It always is.
LISA: Sometimes I think it’s a shame we didn’t work out, Larry. But we had some good times, didn’t we?
LARRY: Some good times. No argument there.
LISA: How’s Fran?
LARRY: Fine.
LISA: Give her my love.
LARRY: Will do.
LISA: Bye, hon. And don’t forget the check, huh? I’m kind of broke.
LARRY: I won’t forget.
Outside, away from the air conditioning, the weather had gone to hell along with the rest of my life. It had turned hot and damp, and the air was foul. I took a taxi. Pecuniary emulation, your father would call it. Spending money unnecessarily because one lacks it. Ego food. Whatever the reason, I couldn’t hack the subway.
Bleecker Street had never looked bleaker. I dogged it up the stairs through the cooking smells and let myself in.
Nobody home. I had a drink and was building another when I found the note. It was on the kitchen table, and I suppose I must have looked at it several times without seeing it. The work of a benign Providence. Obviously God knew I ought to have a drink inside me and another close at hand before I read that fucking note.
I reproduce it for you, Lisa:
Larry:
I can’t go on living a lie. Steve and I have been lovers since March, and everything has grown ever more intense. No doubt you’ve noticed I’ve been acting strangely lately and I guess that explains why.
By the time you read this we will be on our way to Mexico. We will stay with friends of his in Monterrey for a few weeks and will probably wind up in Cuernavaca. Steve has been wanting to photograph the ruins.
Cowardly of me, I know, but I couldn’t face telling you all this. Nor could I help doing it. Thanks for some mostly good years.
With some (but not enough) love,
Fran
P.S.—I closed our checking account.
I went around the corner to the bank, and she was right. The checking account was gone. I sat down with a vice-president and we figured out how many checks were outstanding and cashed my final Whitestone check and put in enough money so none of the checks would bounce. I wound up with a couple of hundred dollars. There were still all those bills upstairs, and I still owed you $850, Lisa, the very $850 which I am not sending with this letter. The bank officer asked me if I wanted to open a new account; I decided to keep the money in cash. Not that I would be keeping it very long.
Then I came back here and finished the drink, and then I read Fran’s letter a few more times.
Friday, June 12th. It should have been the thirteenth. I had just lost my job and my wife and most of my money. I had retained my ex-wife and the privilege of defusing my virility-anxiety by paying her four times as much each month as I would receive in unemployment compensation. The only person I really felt like talking to about all of this was on his way to Monterrey with Fran. (And why, I wonder, did the silly cunt insist on furnishing me with their itinerary? Could I look forward to a parade of postcards? Having wonderful time. X marks our room. Wish you were here.)
I called Jennifer, who lives on East Seventh Street and weaves rugs and tapestries. We have an undemanding sort of relationship, Jennie and I. I drop over there once or twice a week and we smoke a little grass and listen to a little music and fuck a little. I told her I was at loose ends, which was as true a statement as any I have ever uttered, and that I thought I might go over and see her.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m kind of uptight. I just got my