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and his talking about his breakdown or, as he now called it, his “breakthrough” to clarity and to his instincts about who and what were right for him. A state of grace.

    But the engagement day was not over. That night was another of those multi-tiered evenings: a party, a late dinner, and then, very late, Bon Soir, a stinger, or two, on the rocks, and just us. One of our favorite acts was on, Tony and Eddie, two comics who lip-synched songs, parodying the lyrics until the audience went limp with laughter. Their star turn was “Hey there, you with the stars in your eyes,” from The Pajama Game . The swish camp of them. We loved it. We sang it to each other as Clem walked me home, and it became our song. A few weeks later, as a Christmas present joke, I gave Clem a picture of me at age three, wide-eyed in a garden, holding the ears of a stuffed bunny. I inscribed it with the song’s opening line. He kept it in his middle desk drawer until he died.
    Over the next days, we talked a bit, a tiny bit, about getting married. There wasn’t really much to talk about. Clem’s scenario was very clear: no big deal, roll out of bed one morning, a civil ceremony, and that was that. Considering we had never been to bed together, I found that rolling-out-of-bed part a bit off-putting. But for the rest, I had never been the kind of girl who mooned over wedding fantasies, and the notion of Clem in a rented tuxedo in front of an altar seemed rather far-fetched. In fact, we both laughed at the notion.
    At some point he moved on to the future: “As long as nothing changes.” The remark was so vague that, if it registered at all, I would have thought, Yeah, right . After all, change was exactly what I had in mind. What could be more changing than being married? In fact, Clem’s words were by way of being a preface to his next, rather offhand remark that our marriage should be an “open marriage.” Did that mean what I thought it meant? Christ, we were back to sex again. Clem went on to talk about having lived his whole life as a free agent, and realistically he didn’t see that changing, and how a good marriage was one where two people who loved each other would also be free to make choices . . .
    I heard, but didn’t hear. I was too busy sweeping the notion into a far corner of my mind. Whatever an open marriage really meant, it would never happen to us. After all, he would have me. So much for that December’s communication and miscommunication. Anyway, much more top of mind for me was the more immediate sex thing. I didn’t have a precise timetable for losing the scarlet V on my forehead, but I knew I had better
get a diaphragm, because it wouldn’t be long before I tumbled into Clem’s double bed. Christmas was coming, maybe . . .
    Â 
    There is another elevator, similar to the one at René Bouché’s. The paneling is as fruited, the velvet bench to catch me when I might faint is as red, and the elevator man is as short and immaculately uniformed and white gloved. However, this elevator is at 1155 Park Avenue at Ninety-first Street, and I will ascend only as far as the fourth floor. This time I know very well where I am. I have been riding in this elevator since I was in my mother’s womb. This is where my aunt Elfrida, my mother’s younger sister, my uncle Rolf, and my two cousins, Fred (Manfred), two years older, and Marlene, three years younger than I, live.
    I hadn’t planned to be in that elevator, but my aunt had called me twice that day to please, please come. When my aunt wanted her way, which was always, she would screw up her face and squeak like a baby badly in need of a good swat. She layered on the honey along with the misery I would cause our “Darling Betty,” how much she would miss her “Sweet Jenny.” Like my paternal grandmother, this grandmother didn’t acknowledge the word grandmother either. And what about