The Wages of Chastity

The Wages of Chastity MARGARET LAMB After Hugh got sick and went back to England, Amy was content to live without a man. It was pardy that the afterglow lasted, in remembered scenes that replayed ceaselessly, illuminating resignation. And then, the old friendly-fun-sophisticated love affair had always ended wretchedly for her: half-love, not enough to marry on, too much to break off, dwindling in half-life for ages. When friends reported their romantic syndromes— "Amy, I fucked it up the same way again!" —she listened with the swamp closing over her head. How could people manufacture the causes of their suffering? She rarely spoke of Hugh, and her pride increased in isolation. She promised herself: no man until he's right. "You can do it, lead a chaste life," she told herself. "You've had the disadvantages of being Irish Catholic, might as well get the good of it too." No more squandering Sunday on a walk in the park with some nice guy, when she could be writing. No more staring at the bigblack telephone. Then she met Francis. It was the graduate Shakespeare class, no hey nonny no, but a tired collection of Ph.D. commuters. One night a tall young man with redgold hair and beard livened it by describing Olivier's Othello in an enthusiastic rush of words, big gestures. Afterwards, waiting for the elevator, the young man was doing a slow heel-to-toe dance, his blue eyes abstracted. Amy spoke to him. He went into more detail. He spoke well. Amy tried to imagine the long powerful line of a great performance, like the path of a night plane shot in time delay. Margaret Lamb teaches in the Humanities Division at Fordham University. She is presendy writing a novel which will include "The Wages of Chastity." ROCKY MOUNTAIN REVIEW229 "Oh, I wish I'd seen it! I only saw the movie," she said. "I'm talking about the movie! I've never been to England." She had. Crossing Washington Square, they talked about performances , name after name, in the shorthand of those who suddenly discover a common bond. "Are you an actor ?" "Yes." 'Tm a playwright." In the subway he talked nonstop, generously, or bent to listen intently to her. He was handsome enough, strong regular features. He seemed very wholesome. "I'm reading Pinter. Pinter is my god. Beckett used to be my god, but now Pinter." He laughed. "I played Richard in The Lover this summer at P-town. My one stud role. I just read A Night Out. I can't understand—"—the Kennedy cawn't—"— why he doesn't want it done here." He got off at Times Square for an audition. After the next class they discovered they lived on the same West Side street, she in an apartment near the Park, he in a room in a railroad flat near Broadway. They would start a conversation in the subway, continue it at her place. "Come up for a drink." "Love to. Did you see the new Plays and Players interview—" "I have bourbon or—" "Oh, I don't drink liquor." Sprintingup four flights. "What kind of Irishman are you!" In her apartment Francis was perfecdy at ease, still talking, neither shy nor sending out signals. He sat on the spartan couch, oblivious to comfort, drink, any sexual possibilities of the situation (after midnight), even to food—unless it was some store-bought dessert: like most nondrinkers he had a sweet tooth. His talk was tonic to Amy. Lacking success as a writer, she'd crawled back to academia. Now it was fun to encourage Francis to desert the Ph.D. racket for the theater. His parents in Boston thought if he didn't 230THE WAGES OF CHASTITY want to be a businessman, college teaching would be steady and respectable . He had veteran money for school. "This lust for academic respectability—it's like the Irish peasant wanting 'a little bit of land'." He laughed. "The bog-trotter's idea of the gentry." They liked to go to the theater together. Francis was always acting. In the subway he would start to describe a scene—then...