Faded Acts of Love

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

The tall and bony American Airlines flight attendant in the first-class section has been monitoring my alcohol consumption since we took off from Heathrow under a mat of dense, gray clouds. Her shiny brass name tag announces that her name is Sharon. She has an effortless beauty that demands attention, tinged with a malignant glitter that portends disappointment. I suppose all women can be every man’s type, under the right circumstances. Frankly, her feigned geniality turns me off, although her presence provokes an invisible current of desire. She doesn’t seem like the type of woman inclined to pay attention to any man that might be tempted to seduce her. Close proximity to any attractive woman still manages to faze me, but after awhile even beauty becomes one more thing you fail to notice about a person, even your wife. After I married Adrienne, the days of imagining perky girls cavorting around in French camisoles became irrelevant. Twenty-five-years later, exhausted by a dismal personal history and a marriage too troubled to withstand the trauma of even a hint of infidelity, the little boy in me had somewhere been lost.

Sharon brought a pleasant smell with her in the cabin. By now she has probably made an accurate assessment of me, and I’m 100 percent certain it isn’t flattering. I haven’t shaved since the Italian police confiscated my passport in Anghiari and detained me after Pio discovered Fiona’s body at the villa. They forced me to stay put in Tuscany until the forensics came back from Rome. Fortunately, the medical examiner ruled Fiona’s death accidental, contrary to her cryptic suicide declaration tucked safely away in my briefcase, which I stowed in the overhead compartment. I should have realized the Italian police would not be particularly inclined to quibble over the technical differences between an accidental overdose and a suicide, particularly when a British tourist was the subject corpse.

I haven’t taken off my clothes for days, except when I took a shower to escape the ants at Locanda di Sari, the inn where I stayed while I searched the countryside for Fiona. The part about explaining to Adrienne why I was in Tuscany in the first place was incriminating enough. Having to explain to her why I was the last person to see Fiona Burton alive proved to be my ultimate condemnation, my future happiness ruined by one careless act. The circumstances surrounding Fiona’s death ignited a firestorm of justifiable belligerence in her. I couldn’t blame Adrienne for demanding a divorce.

Sharon gives me an unsettled look when I ask her for another B&B on the rocks, my fingers still sticky from the first. Frowning and smiling complete her total repertoire of facial expressions. When she turns around and walks to the galley, I notice she’s slightly pigeon-toed, resulting in a strut that’s more about diligence than finesse. Her closely cropped auburn hair bounces in synch with each step. In my state of mental disarray it’s best to feign indifference when reckless imaginations of sexual opportunity intrude. If sex, the social imperative that rules our lives, is more or less the same scenario with the same ending, why does everyone make such a big deal about it? Sperm united with eggs in the confines of a petri dish accomplish the same end. That thought boinks around in my head like a cat trapped in a garbage can until Sharon brings my drink. By now there is a structural hatred between us that will never be masked by affirmations of caring.

Adrienne, my soon-to-be-ex-wife, had always been relentlessly logical. That’s what I loved about her: an uncomplicated woman with amiability so intense it could at times be annoying. Even after Nicholas died, in her darker moments, she never tried to lay the blame at my feet, although she had every reason to do so. As a wife she had a need to provoke desire in order to feel fulfilled. That’s what had made her tick and that’s why I loved her. Unlike Fiona, she never attempted to punish me by looking bored or hiding her emotions behind a firewall of invulnerability. After my reckless excursion to Tuscany, how could I ever expect Adrienne to believe that Fiona had really nothing to do with our married lives? What woman alive could be persuaded to believe such a nervy proposition?

Sharon struts back with my drink; the glass is brimming over with ice. The expression on her face is frosty, detached. Her disgust with me is communicated without saying a word. She’s figured out she’s dealing with an inconsequential loser with self-destructive instincts.

I recline my seat, close my eyes, and try to conjure up more hopeful thoughts, without success. (Unlike real life, nightmares are something you fortunately wake up from.)

Mr. Munger. Sharon’s soft voice interrupts from the aisle. We’ll be landing in a few minutes. Would you mind stowing your tray table? She takes my glass and disappears. I don’t think we’ll be exchanging fond good-byes.

My daughter Penny and her husband Ned will meet me at JFK with a suitcase of clothes Adrienne provided. That should hold me over until I get settled, another uncertainty I’ll need to deal with when my head clears. Penny promised to drive me into Manhattan, where I’ve booked a room at The Beekman Towers for a week.

I love my daughter, but when children grow up they unfortunately become your harshest critics. Penny knows the truth about Fiona, more than I dared share with Adrienne. Well, actually I would have revealed more before Adrienne hung up on me. Perhaps Penny understands why I had risked everything, even the marriage that spawned her, to track down Fiona, years after she should have lapsed into irrelevance. We all carry around within us experiences we’re not proud of, things we’d like to fix and return to a point in our life when we were actually happy. I’m not trying to make excuses for the way things turned out.

Chapter 2

In December of 1965, one week and three days after my twenty-third birthday, I slept with Fiona Burton for the first time. Granted, my youthful sexual ambitions were spectacularly unrealistic, but it was that unsettled time when young men were not looking for love-based attachments or a reliable mate willing to accompany you all the way to death.

Fiona’s uninvited intimacy caught me by surprise. I never expected her to consider me someone for whom her passions might be aroused. We shared ten consecutive weeks at a Manhattan workshop for fiction writers, barely acknowledging each other. I avoided approaching her because she seemed so much more intellectually advanced and self-confident, the consequence I imagined, of unfettered worldly adventures. Even if I had declined to pursue a relationship based on our obvious age difference—she had to be at least ten years older—I felt it distressing to be so intimidated by such an ordinary-looking woman. I took care not to convey notions of my ambient interest in her. Had Fiona and I been on conversational terms, I’m sure she would have been disappointed if I had admitted, over a cup of coffee, the transitory extent of my romantic experiences. But that night, after attending the ballet, I found myself sitting in Fiona’s living room with the lights out, alive with the certainty of knowing what had to happen next.

She didn’t seem like the type of woman inclined to debase herself for an intoxicated, testosterone-fueled, twenty-three-year-old eager to throw admonitory caution to the winds. Aside from the obvious age difference, I knew I wasn’t her type and never would be. Because I had convinced myself I could only be attracted to women who I imagined would be interested in making love to me, I automatically discounted Fiona. I knew that stream of questionable logic would save me from disappointment. As a woman who knew what her sexual currency was worth, she wasn’t about to waste it on someone whose intellectual ambition consisted of writing lame jingles for radio commercials—my first real job after grad school.

I signed up for the Washington Square Writers Workshop because it seemed like a positive step toward self-revoking my unfulfilling career in radio scriptwriting. I wanted to write print copy for a real advertising agency, one with big-name clients that spent millions on glossy ads in consumer magazines. After that I might try my hand in writing television commercials. At least that’s what the career counselor I hired told me to do. She said, Make it happen by creating a resume that stands out from the pack.

The assortment of characters who signed up for the ten-week writing course consisted of an odd collection of misfits driven by vain frustration with their dead-end jobs. My aspirations resided in the realm of selfish pragmatism; all I wanted was a better job and a certificate of achievement to help me get my foot on the next rung up the ladder.

A dingy windowless room, with a pair of conference tables pushed together in the center, served as our classroom. Was I the only one who noticed that none of the chairs matched? On the first night of class, Stan Halpern, a balding man with a dewlap of fat that hung over his collar, introduced himself as our instructor. He made all twelve of us stand up and summarize our writing credentials. Except for Fiona and me, no one in class could claim working in any field related to literature or writing. One man said he sorted letters in the post office, another admitted to being a bicycle messenger, and two shabby women, dressed in virtually identical peasant blouses with ankle-length print skirts, said they waited tables. God, not in those outfits, I thought. The balance of the class had similarly inglorious jobs. What could they possibly hope to learn from Halpern?

When Fiona’s turn came, she told the class, in her curt accent, that she worked in publishing. Transferred to New York by her London publisher, she had been assigned to sort through hundreds of American works of fiction with expired copyrights, with the idea of reintroducing them to British readers, a business proposition I could barely comprehend. With a graduate degree in literature from Manchester University, Fiona completed her dissertation on turn-of-the-century American writers. The names of authors she mentioned meant nothing to a business graduate like me, but Halpern seemed impressed. He gave her one of his stock, depleted smiles, probably wondering what she was doing in his class with credentials like that. When my turn came, a flutter of laughter erupted when I said I held a job writing advertising copy for radio commercials.

Don’t laugh, I said, flustered by the unwelcome outburst. It’s a lot harder than anyone realizes. I felt my face getting uncomfortably warm. I watched Halpern sit there with an incredulous look on his oily face, his mouth shapeless and loose.

So why do you want to try your hand in writing fiction? he asked. Fifteen minutes into class and the man had already filled me with unfathomable disgust. I wanted to get up and walk out, but when I glanced across the table I saw Fiona regarding me with an ineluctable gaze from which all subtlety had been removed.

I write radio commercials for a living, I replied. I thought knowing how to make the imaginary more real would be a useful asset in my line of work. Mentioning my advertising ambitions would have invited further ridicule.

But surely, Halpern whined, giving me an insipid look that turned my stomach, you can’t really call what you do at work writing, not in any sort of legitimate way. For God’s sake, even people who dream up road signs will start calling themselves ‘transportation writers.’ Wouldn’t that just debase the whole art of writing? I’m afraid, Mr. Munger, this class may turn out to be a disappointment for you.

I’ll take my chances, I replied, rankled by his pompous airs. I wanted to tell him the only thing that debases the art of writing is bad writers, but I realized that would have made him furious.

For seven weeks Fiona worked her unmistakably seductive gaze on me, although no one in the class, even Halpern, noticed. She would sit there (always managing to snag a chair opposite from where I sat), as she absent-mindedly stroked her long, dark hair, while scrutinizing me with her melting, moss green eyes. I tried to dismiss it as an innocent distraction. Unintentional or not, I found her stares intimidating, not only because she was older and more comfortably attuned to the process of critiquing writing, but because the way she communicated with the class made it evident she possessed a superior knowledge of how the world worked. I imagined that gave her the power to see through the reckless turmoil of my own life, something practically impossible for me to conceal with each passing class. I imagined what she really saw in me: a pathetic nobody doing a disastrous job of getting his life jump-started.

At times Fiona seemed to expect me to notice her. Did she subscribe to the pervasive notion that female attractiveness depended on the degree to which men noticed women? Except for her slightly above-average height, a somewhat libidinous mouth, and bizarrely long eyelashes, men who measured beauty against Victoria’s Secret standards might have found Fiona unattractive. I decided to keep ignoring her, assuming that if I did happen to engage her in conversation, the encounter would require a rambling explanation of why my youthful prospects had become so hopelessly stalled. I didn’t need a woman of uncommon experience grilling me about that.

Had it not been for Halpern’s fulminating outburst over a workshop story I had written, Fiona would probably never have found a reason to invite me into her apartment that night. For weeks, I continued to take extraordinary measures to avoid her. I would hurry out of the classroom as soon as Halpern announced a break and scoot into the lounge where most of the other students went to smoke. If Fiona showed up, I would pretend to dash out to feed the parking meter, although I didn’t even own a car. But then once, rushing down the hall, late to rejoin the class, we collided as she charged out of the women’s lounge. I felt like a cat trapped in a garbage can.

Sorry, she had said with a playful grin. She reached out and touched me on the shoulder and then backed away, letting her hand fall with palpable hesitation. It’s my fault, not yours. I wasn’t watching, Fiona said, blooming a practiced smile, as if she had arranged the collision. God, she looked so elegant when she smiled.

The class had savagely trashed my first story about an idealistic schoolteacher who spent her spare time teaching inner-city kids how to read. I got the idea from a newspaper article, thinking I could fictionalize it by changing a few names. Halpern joined the majority of the workshop participants in deploring it. With an extraordinary streak of malice in his voice, he described it as an archaic form of melodrama that shamelessly taps into the emotions of the reader.

Next time, Mr. Munger, he said with a forced, empty smile, try to give the reader some insight into why the main character in the story decides on a particular course of action. Without that essential piece of information, you can’t expect to have a genuine story.

Stunned by the scathing criticism I received for my first story, I wrote another, this time about a shy New York City bachelor who happily discovers he can dramatically increase his odds of picking up eligible girls in his midtown neighborhood by walking a borrowed, crippled dog. It didn’t take a lot of insight to figure out what motivated the character to go to such extraordinary efforts to meet interesting girls, considering my own spotty record along the same lines. I felt confident about my next story being discussed that night. A girl with a science fiction fantasy about alien beings discovering jazz after intercepting sounds from the distant planet Earth received brutally harsh comments from the group. Halpern had seized the opportunity to relentlessly disparage her ability to handle simple plot transitions. She rushed from the room in tears.

My turn came after the break. As much as I felt confident that my second attempt bore some resemblance to a reasonably crafted story, after the critical thrashing the first student received I sensed blood in the water and the all too familiar ugly mood of the class.

Now that we’re back on Earth, class, Halpern snickered. He glanced over at the young woman with the science fiction story, who had decided to return to class after reapplying her mascara.

Let’s open up the discussion on Mr. Munger’s story, he said. Who wants to go first?"

A very thin, spent-looking girl with shoulder-length hair gathered into a ponytail cleared her throat and then let out a huge, controlled sigh. If I have to read another story in this class about men objectifying women in such a crude overbearing way, I swear I’ll puke. Mr. Munger’s character uses a crippled animal to hit on women for Christ’s sake. Isn’t it about time that women take a stand and tell the male species that we don’t share their preoccupation with gross reproductive rituals?

The protocol for workshops required the writer to listen and take notes, but not respond to criticism until the end of the discourse. I sat there dreading the next assault on my story. Mildred, Fiona said, I think you may be missing the whole point of the story. As always, her carefully modulated accent commanded attention. This story is really quite ingenious and fresh. I found it to be a delightful parody about the absurdity of male-female dating rituals and what usually goes wrong when there is a misunderstanding of the rules. Actually, I thought the story was refreshingly funny.

I watched Mildred as she glared across the conference table at Fiona, her mouth drawn back in a tight grimace, leaving no doubt how she received her comments. If you think something disgustingly vile as depicted in Mr. Munger’s story is funny, you’d probably think a story about a raped nun would be funnier.

A playful expression flooded Fiona’s face. She tapped on the conference table with her pen. Possibly, she replied in a calm reassuring way. But given your bias concerning stories that indulge in romantic comedy, like this one, I’m certain you would be the most qualified to critique a story along those same lines, perhaps even giving it a try yourself for the next assignment. I could see from the tight knot in her jaw that Fiona had abandoned all pretense of cordiality, that Mildred was an aggravating woman not worth being careful with.

Is that what you call fucking for sport? Romantic comedy? Mildred screeched, in a surprisingly intense voice, tendons leaping from her neck as she stared fiendishly at Fiona.

The masterfully calm expression on Fiona’s face didn’t waver. Mildred, Fiona said, with an obvious measure of condescension in her voice, "you seem to have a generalized anger about men and women getting together. Unless I’m mistaken, there was no fucking in this story, but if that playful activity bothers you, I can recommend a few good titles on lesbian erotica."

That’s enough sniping, Ms. Burton! Halpern shouted. We’re here to discuss Mr. Munger’s story, and not hurl nasty remarks at each other. Anyone else want to say something?

Pam, a sluggish woman with heavily moussed blond hair and a troublesome complexion, spoke up. For me the story was sort of improbable. As a woman, I wouldn’t be so gullible as to fall for a guy just because he had a crippled dog.

Handicapped, one of the students chuckled. For the record, no one says crippled anymore.

It’s a dog, moron, Pam snarled.

Suppose a penis just popped out of the guy’s pants? Charlie Woods, a short, pudgy black student shouted out from the far end of the room. "I’ll bet that would get your attention."

Go yank your crank, loser, Pam tossed back.

Cut it out! Halpern shouted. What’s your point, Pam?

As I was saying, she continued, darting menacing looks at Charlie, assuming he’s walking the dog around a two-block radius, isn’t this guy going to get found out awfully fast, or eventually run out of susceptible women? Women aren’t that stupid!

A man with an Abe Lincoln beard raised his hand. I had forgotten his name. Listen, Pam, I get your point, but you see the story isn’t about the universal gullibility of women. The main character is just taking advantage of the inherent sympathy women have for injured pets. Actually, that’s pretty cool.

Mildred raised her hand and started to speak even before Pam had a chance to continue. Men always seem to have a natural inclination to debase women, Mildred stammered, but that doesn’t mean I’d enjoy reading about it in a story.

That night there seemed no stopping Mildred. She had a dazed, furious look on her face. I never imagined my story would have provoked such intense bickering.

Halpern slammed his notebook on the table. He picked up my manuscript and tossed it at me across the table, symbolically terminating the discussion. Unfortunately, this class has rather strong opposing views on Mr. Munger’s story. Under the circumstances I don’t see any point in discussing it any further. Anyone disagree?

I didn’t think there would be any dissention about leaving early. I glanced at the bent pages of the manuscript. Based on his usual custom, Halpern had scrawled some comments about the story on the last page. I would read them on the subway ride home.

Before you leave, don’t forget to pick up copies of the stories for next week. Halpern’s last minute instructions got lost over the din of a dozen chairs scraping across the tile floor and papers being stuffed into briefcases. The room emptied quickly.

Had the opportunity to venture a few words with Fiona finally arrived? Rather than rush out as I usually did—mostly to avoid running into her—I walked over to the student with the Abe Lincoln beard and thanked him for his defense of my story. Much better than the last one, he said with a nod of satisfaction. The bit about the maimed dog was very imaginative. Too bad the discussion didn’t touch on the better parts of your story.

I turned to Fiona just as she had started stuffing next week’s stories into her shoulder bag. I appreciated your defense of my pitiful story, I said, helping her with her coat. It smelled of wet wool and sensible perfume. "You did an amazing job of shutting down that dyke."

She spun around and gave me an intimidating, punitive stare. Blimey, that’s not a polite way to talk about your schoolmates.

I didn’t actually call her a dyke.

Then I must be mistaken. I thought I distinctly heard you say ‘dyke.’

Well, I didn’t say that to her face.

I don’t see the difference, she said, buttoning her coat and reaching for her shoulder bag. She shot me a combative look. Was she really serious?

Would it be more appropriate if I called her a lesbian?

Do you want me to answer that question using more primitive language? she asked.

I stood there unable to find my voice. A dreadful feeling swelled up inside me. Fiona held her ground. Observing her up close, I noticed that she wore no makeup, which gave her skin a diffused, porous look that resembled unpolished marble. The fine stress lines etched into the corners of her mouth made her face seem more dismissive than energetic, a bit melancholy perhaps. She gave a furtive tug at the straps of her shoulder bag, as if to confirm their durability. Then she started to back away. Wait, I said as she shouldered the bag. I didn’t have any fancy hopes; I just couldn’t let the moment pass. Do you need to leave so soon? I stammered. Why don’t we go across the street and grab a cup of coffee?

She looked at me with amusement while slowly pulling on her gloves like a