A Strange Commonplace by Gilbert Sorrentino Read Free Book Online Page B

little present for you that I thought you would really like, something you’ve wanted for a long time. And for my darling Maureen, a doll with three complete outfits that cries and wets, she will love it. I would love to give it to her.
Please, please call. I love you and do not want to lose you. I will even talk to your mother and father if you want me to and if they will let me, although our marriage is none of their business. Do you remember that’s why we moved out to Rego Park so that we could live our lives without having them drop in on us whenever they felt like it, and being hurt and angry if we so much as hinted that we wanted to be by ourselves for a change. You were even more fed up with it than I was. But I will talk to them if you wish it, my dearest wife, I will crawl if that’s what they want.
Please get in touch with me, and please believe me that I have had nothing to do with Janet for months, actually, I never did except for that one terrible mistake that I made by giving in to temptation, that was only human.
Your loving husband,
Ray

Lovers
    I ’VE KNOWN IRENE GREENLEAF FOR A LONG TIME, SINCE the year that she and Bill were engaged, in fact. After they separated and then divorced over Bill’s affair with Charlotte, his secretary—whom he married soon after—Irene and I had a brief romance, if one can call it that, but we’ve been no more than friends for almost thirty-five years now. As if having an unfaithful husband wasn’t enough, her brother, a true deadbeat, who gambled away every penny he got his hands on, was beaten to death outside Papa Joe’s, a real bucket of blood, patronized by drunk lowlifes like the brother, whose name I forget, a small blessing. It would have been poetic justice had he been killed over a bad debt, but the fight apparently began with a shouting argument as to the relative merits of Rocky Graziano and Tony Zale. Perfect. In any event, Irene has lately become depressed, very obviously so, about Bill and Charlotte, which seems absolutely crazy, considering the lifetime that has elapsed since their initial dalliance. I don’t ever bring it up, nor does Irene, but it’s been clear to me for years—it was clear to me at the time—that our long-ago sexual fling, an expression, I grant you, even more stupid than “brief romance,” was simply Irene’s reaction to Bill’s infidelity, his cold and sudden abandonment of her. As far as I know, Bill was the only man that Irene had ever gone to bed with, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the first time was on their wedding night. I flatter myself that I may be the only other man she favored. At any rate, what I’m trying to get at is that Irene’s thoughts have never been far from Bill, and over the years she has shown an obsessive interest in him and Charlotte, an unhealthy interest, as they say, although I’ve never used that expression with her. This interest has become much more pronounced in recent months. The whole thing has not been helped by the fact that Bill and Charlotte live in a house in the old neighborhood, a house that Bill bought soon after their marriage. Irene still has many friends, gossips all, in the neighborhood, who have been and still are more than happy to report on Bill, Charlotte, and their three children: Irene and Bill, you may have guessed, had no children together. As I’ve said, Irene has seemed increasingly depressed, more stagnant, may be the word, and shows very little interest in anything, including her monthly trips to Atlantic City, sometimes with me, sometimes with one or another of her gossipy friends, to play the slots, drink Margaritas, and eat steaks. I knew that something was really wrong one night when we were sitting on her couch watching a television show, one of those in which actors who resembled large pieces of lumber moved spastically about to surges of hysterical laughter—this is the sort of show Irene watches lately, her face frozen. I suddenly felt her