I Love You, Stupid! Read online

  Her notice for a baby-sitter was still up. Then he’d wait till she came back. And what if she never came? Maybe she had put notices up in every store in the city. And if she did walk through these doors right now, what could he say to her? The answer was easy. I’ll take the babysitting job. Without another thought he took down the notice and folded it into his pocket.

  He called her from a street phone in front of the dry cleaners.

  “Hello?” It was her.

  “Uh, uh …” He didn’t know her name. He was nervous, afraid now that someone else had answered the ad and taken the job. “This is me … the man … the fellow at the market.”

  “Who?”

  “Marcus Rosenbloom. I got you the tack yesterday, to put up your notice.”

  “Oh, right.” A long silence.

  “Did somebody answer your ad?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Except me.” She didn’t get it.

  “I really need somebody very soon. Do you happen to know anybody?”

  “I’ll work for you.”

  “You? No, I want a girl. Do you know a girl, or a woman?”

  “I don’t, no. But I’m looking for a job. I like kids.”

  She was silent then, for a minute. “I couldn’t pay you enough. Besides, it’s not a full-time job.”

  “I don’t want a full-time job. I go to school mornings.”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  He closed his eyes, saw the silver bracelets slide down her arm. What are you doing, Marcus? Stop. But he was in the grip of those obsessive feelings and couldn’t stop.

  “Why don’t you try me for a couple of days and see how I work out?”

  “I never had a boy sitter before.”

  “I’m available now.”

  Silence. Then, as if she were thinking aloud, “I do need someone. Could you be here tomorrow at twelve-thirty?”

  Yes, he could! She gave him her name and address. He repeated them: “Karen Lambert, Thurber Street.”

  “You understand, it’s just for one day. If I find a girl?”

  “For one day,” he repeated, but felt as if he’d just won a wonderful prize.

  Before he went to Karen Lambert’s house the next day, Marcus showered and changed his shirt and jeans. At her house he carried the bike up on the porch, then blew into his hand. Breath okay. She lived in the upper story of a white, two-family house. Marcus climbed the steep narrow stairs. Besides his notebook he’d brought a book with him, The Web and the Rock by Thomas Wolfe. A big book, a thick book, a serious book. He was a serious reader, a student, a writer, not an irresponsible kid.

  “Mark?”

  “Marcus,” he said. “Marcus Rosenbloom.”

  She opened the door and looked down as if she were doubting the wisdom of letting him come any farther. Standing above him, she seemed taller than he remembered, tall and narrow, almost fragile, with narrow bony shoulders and thin ankles that aroused the most intense feelings in him. He felt helpless beneath her dark-fringed eyes, sure that she didn’t trust him, had changed her mind. She was going to send him away.

  He held up the book, a medallion, proof of his sincere intentions. “Am I late?”

  “Where do you live?” she demanded.

  He gave his address.

  “You go to school?”

  “Yes, mornings.”

  “What school?”

  He told her.

  “Why only mornings?”

  “I, uh, I’m doing independent studies. Writing.”

  “What does your father do?”

  “I live with my mother. She works at the State Employment Building.” He didn’t know at what moment she was reassured, but she finally let him pass. She glanced at her watch, then picked up her son. “Kevin, do you remember this boy from the market?”

  The child regarded him solemnly.

  “I’ve written out instructions for you,” she said to Marcus. “Here’s the phone number of the Everson. I’m a curator there. If you have any trouble, read the instructions. If it’s something you can’t handle, call me. I’ll be back between five-thirty and six.” She put Kevin down. “Honey, you be good. Remember, I told you Marcus was going to play with you.”

  “Nooo,” Kevin cried.

  “Sweetheart—” She looked at her watch, then kissed Kevin. “I have to go, honey.”

  Afterward Kevin stood stolidly at the door. “Let’s play,” Marcus said. Kevin shook his head.

  Marcus looked around the room, at the half-empty packing boxes, the stereo on the floor, the paintings stacked against the wall. It looked like she’d just moved in. What had he let himself in for? Who was she? It had started when he saw her in the market, and now here he was, the baby-sitter. He looked at his instructions.

  “Kevin has had his lunch … he’ll be thirsty … prefers o.j., but try to get him to take milk … can have crackers … no cookies, please …” There was a page of instructions: what to do when Kevin got tired, where to call if he hurt himself, what blankets he liked in his bed.

  “How about some milk and a cracker, Kevin?” He went into the kitchen, poured a glass of milk. What do you say to a kid? “Look what I’ve got. Hey, boy, this stuff is terrific.” He held out the milk. Kevin put his hands behind his back. Marcus drank a little. “Good!” He rubbed his stomach. “Mmm, makes me strong.” He made a muscle. Kevin watched. Marcus took another sip. “Want to share?” Kevin shook his head. “Tell you what, I’ll drink milk today, and you”—Marcus pointed dramatically at the small boy—“you, Kevin Lambert, you lucky, fortunate fellow can have orange juice.”

  He had to keep inventing things. When they sat on the rug it was a boat, their supplies the crackers and orange juice. That’s the way the afternoon went. Marcus made up a story about two Meows and an Ouch who lived under the rug. He kept racking his brain for more games and stories to keep Kevin happy. Finally Kevin fell asleep in his arms as he was telling him a story.

  Afraid he’d wake, Marcus left the boy there, but eased into a more comfortable position on the rug, then looked around. She had a painting of a Maxwell House coffee can, a big red plastic stuffed heart, an old-fashioned, yellowing wedding gown hanging from a light fixture, and, suspended from a hook in the ceiling, a mobile made of curls of silver foil. Everywhere he felt her presence. Everything he saw aroused that tightness in his center somewhere between his heart and his groin.

  Karen was home earlier than he expected. She caught him by surprise, rushing in and snatching up Kevin. Her face was full of color. He hardly dared look at her, she was so beautiful.

  “Did everything go all right?” She looked around, checking everything in the room, as if she didn’t trust him.

  “Fine, fine, fine, great. Kevin and I had a great time, didn’t we, Kevin old buddy?” Blabbing on: he could hardly stop himself.

  “Did Kevin get his nap?” With Kevin on one arm, she fished in her purse for money. He thought, She can’t wait to get rid of me.

  He looked around for his book. This was it. She would pay him and tell him not to bother returning.

  “I sleep,” Kevin confirmed. “Mommy, Mommy, under the rug, two meows and a bark.”

  Marcus reddened. “It’s a story I told him.”

  She handed him the money. “What about tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?” he said, confused.

  “Can you come again tomorrow?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “Yes, if you’re available. You do want the job?”

  “Yes, sure, if you want me.”

  “If it’s all right, I’ll pay you each day. Let’s go along this way and see how things work out.”

  “I’ll be here,” he said. He was so elated he practically flew down the stairs.

  On the way home he began to worry about what he was going to say to his mother. “Sally, I have a babysitting job.” “You’re baby-sitting!” He could just hear the way she’d say it. “Is that why you left school?”

  And what
could he say? Tell her it wasn’t the babysitting job, it was Karen? Never! He wouldn’t discuss Karen with his mother or anyone else.

  Then why was he baby-sitting? To know more about the younger generation. Children are an important step in the life process. Ugh! It would be just like him to make a pompous ass statement like that. But what was he going to tell his mother? Nothing. And put that off as long as possible.

  He was starved when he got home. To his surprise Wendy was there waiting for him. She followed him into the kitchen. “You invite me over and then you’re not here.”

  “Well, here I am.” He looked on the stove, then in the refrigerator. “You want to eat?”

  “Is that you, Marcus?” Sally called from the bathroom. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  “I want to talk to you,” Wendy said.

  “Talk,” Marcus said. He threw a package of frozen lasagna into a pan, then turned up the heat. “Do you want some of this?”

  “What is it?”

  “Cheese lasagna.”

  “I don’t know.” Wendy peered into the hall, then came back. “Are we private here?”

  “Do you mean is Sally listening?”

  “I don’t want anyone else to hear this. It’s about Alec and me.”

  Marcus spooned yogurt on a piece of bread, then added a green scallion. “I thought you two were going great guns?”

  “Who said so?”

  “Alec. Who else?” Marcus started to take a bite, but Wendy pulled his hand away.

  “He did? What did he say exactly?”

  “He said you were coming to rehearsals and you were very friendly.”

  “What does that mean!” Wendy frowned at the sandwich Marcus was about to taste. He offered it to her but she shook her head. “Friendly? I suppose that’s because we talk. Alec likes to talk.”

  “You can say that again.” Marcus bit into the bread. Yogurt spurted over his fingers.

  “Marcus, I can’t talk to you when you’re eating.”

  He licked his fingers, then sat up on the counter. “Okay, talk fast. I’m hungry.”

  “The thing is …” Wendy twisted the chain around her neck. “Alec and I have been making out and—”

  “Stop right there! I don’t want to hear about it. These confessions give me a pain in the buttinski. I don’t want to hear the sordid details.”

  “There are no sordid details. That’s just the problem. Making out makes it sound a lot better than it was. We kissed a little—no, it was a lot—one night.” Wendy’s eyes shone. “It was fantastic. We sat there and talked till everyone left and they turned out the lights. We had the whole place to ourselves and he put his arm around me—Marcus, are you listening?”

  He flipped the lasagna over and turned down the heat. “Sure.” But he was thinking about Karen, the two of them alone in her apartment … Karen with her arms around his waist … so crazy for him she couldn’t let him go …

  “Do you know what I’m saying? Do you know what it means when someone you like likes you?”

  “Of course I do.” But did he? Of all the girls he’d ever liked, had one of them ever fallen for him the way Wendy had for Alec?

  “I was in a daze, Marcus. Something started that night. The way I felt, it had to go someplace. I knew we were going to see each other again, and it was going to get better and better.”

  “What are you telling me for?”

  “The point is that was the first and the last time. Since then we talk, but aside from that, nothing.”

  “Maybe you have bad breath. Here, blow and I’ll tell you. What are friends for?”

  “Marcus, I’m going to hit you if you don’t stop joking. I’m not joking. It’s not funny to me.” She was upset. “You’re the only person I can talk to.”

  “Sorry.” Jokes. The worst part of him was making jokes about everything. With Alec, Pfeff, and the others, nothing was serious. The code was, nothing hurt. If you sat on a tack, you gave a hard-ass laugh. He looked at Wendy soberly. The Comforting Friend. There, he was making jokes again. The Embarrassed Adolescent. What was the matter with him? He did know how Wendy felt. Hadn’t he just come from Karen’s?

  “Do you know how exciting that first night was? I would have done it right there on the stage if he’d wanted to.”

  “Wendy!” Marcus’s hand went to his stomach. “I’m going to puke.”

  “It’s the truth, Marcus. Alec is terribly exciting, at least to me.”

  Marcus grimaced.

  “I’m talking too much, I know—” She broke off as Sally entered the room in a blue bathrobe, a towel wrapped around her hair like a turban.

  “You came in late tonight, Marcus. Where were you?” Sally poured herself a glass of grapefruit juice. “I’m catching cold. I’m going to lie down. I’m sorry I’m not better company, Wendy.”

  “That’s all right, Sally. I’m fine.”

  “Wendy came to see me, Mom, not you.”

  “Please,” Sally said with a nervous gesture. “Not tonight.” She went back to her room.

  “I’m a mother’s dream,” Marcus said, mocking himself, relieved that he didn’t have to talk to his mother tonight. He took the pan of lasagna from the stove and started eating, then, belatedly, he offered some to Wendy.

  “No, I can’t eat.”

  “Mind if I do?”

  “Wait.” She checked the kitchen door. “Don’t eat yet. There’s more to talk about. This thing with Alec, it’s the story of my life. I meet a guy I like and he’s not interested, or if he’s interested, he’s a turkey. Eighteen, and I’m still waiting. Do you know the pressure there is on girls? And it isn’t only that. I want something to happen. For me. How long do I have to wait?”

  “Let me consult my computer and I’ll give you a precise date.”

  “I just want you to tell me one thing: is there somebody else? Alec said he wasn’t going with anybody. Is that true?”

  “As far as I know.” Then he remembered Terri, but felt he couldn’t say anything. He was torn, loyal to Alec, but loyal to Wendy too. “I don’t know what goes on in Alec’s head. He’s always got a girl hanging around. You’d be better off if you got interested in someone else. Does it have to be Alec?”

  “I didn’t decide it,” Wendy said. “You don’t decide these things. It happened. Like lightning.”

  Like lightning. Like the first time he saw Karen. He was tempted to tell Wendy, but how could you compare Alec and Karen? Or the way he felt about Karen to the way Wendy felt about Alec?

  “Marcus, I want you to find out if Alec is interested in somebody else so I can know where I stand. And for God’s sake, don’t say that I asked. Just find out. If Alec’s not interested, I’m giving him up.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “I will. Once I make up my mind to something, I can make myself do anything. Anyway, sometimes I think it’s nothing but sex.”

  Was it sex that had attracted him to Karen?

  “And if it’s just sex—” She gave Marcus a tight little smile. “What if I picked up a guy and I said, ‘How do you do, sir, you just won a lottery and the prize is me?’ And off we’d go. I wouldn’t tell him my real name. It would just be that one time. I’d do it and get it over with. Then maybe I wouldn’t feel this way about every guy I like.”

  “You make it sound like a dose of medicine.”

  “I wish I could take it like medicine. Then I could relax and stop thinking about it so much.”

  “I know,” Marcus said. Did he ever know! That’s what he’d been saying all along: Let me do it and get it over with. But nobody was listening.

  10

  As he expected, his mother didn’t applaud when he told her about taking a baby-sitting job. She said things he didn’t really want to hear. “You changed our agreement without consulting me. I don’t understand why you’ve done this. Is it money you need? I’ll be glad to discuss your allowance.”

  He winced, but he stood there and listened because there was no wa
y his mother wasn’t going to say her piece. Karen! He could never talk about her to Sally. He wanted … he wanted.… Nothing his mother said would make any difference.

  Marcus was in love. Or was it lust? He couldn’t make up his mind. Where did love end and lust begin? Where did lust end and love begin? “Karen” … he said her name. She was perfect, she was different—those shell-like ears, that long regal nose. All his fantasies focused on Karen, in need, fragile, sensitive, helpless, turning to him. When he thought about her—about them, really, Marcus and Karen—everything was magnified and exaggerated. They were on a mountaintop, Karen raised in his arms, the sky behind them, the sun setting. And somewhere, hidden behind rocks, the voices of a thousand musicians. Pure Hollywood corn.

  Those were his good fantasies. Then there were his bad, low-down, raunchy fantasies. Alone with Karen, and she, calling him into her room … Or waiting at the head of the stairs, her robe falling open …

  Every day when he arrived at Karen’s it was the same thing. “Oh, there you are,” she’d say as if she were surprised to see him. And he’d raise his book in greeting, then give Kevin the dandelions he’d picked on the way, because he didn’t have the nerve to give them to Karen.

  She looked at him with a calm, mocking expression. He was sure she saw through him, what he dreamed and pretended. What do you know? she seemed to say. What have you done? What can you do? Prove yourself.

  When he was alone he studied his face in the mirror, wondering what she thought of him. Sometimes he knew he was good-looking. Sometimes he hated his smooth skin. When he got depressed, he thought he looked like a fat white egg.

  Karen was always friendly enough, but cool, the way you would act with a baby-sitter. She was paying, so she could have things exactly the way she wanted. Even me, he thought, and fantasy … her robe loosening … leaped up again.