Looking for Rachel Wallace

“God damn it,” Ticknor said. “You are right. If you’ll take the job, it’s yours. Two hundred dollars a day and expenses. And God help me, I hope I’m right.”

“Okay,” I said. “When do I meet Ms. Wallace?”

2

I met Rachel Wallace on a bright October day when Ticknor and I walked down from his office across the Common and the Public Garden through the early turn-of-fall foliage and visited her in her room at the Ritz.

She didn’t look like Carry Nation. She looked like a pleasant woman about my age with a Diane Von Furstenberg dress on and some lipstick, and her hair long and black and clean.

Ticknor introduced us. She shook hands firmly and looked at me carefully. If I’d had tires, she’d have kicked them. “Well, you’re better than I expected,” she said.

“What did you expect?” I said.

“A wide-assed ex-policeman with bad breath wearing an Anderson Little suit.”

“Everybody makes mistakes,” I said.

“Let’s have as few as possible between us,” she said. “To insure that, I think we need to talk. But not here. I hate hotel rooms. We’ll go down to the bar.”

I said okay. Ticknor nodded. And the three of us went down to the bar. The Ritz is all a bar should be—dark and quiet and leathery, with a huge window that looks out onto Arlington Street and across it to the Public Garden. The window is tinted so that the bar remains dim. I always like to drink in the Ritz Bar. Ticknor and Rachel Wallace had martinis on the rocks. I had beer.

“That figures,” Rachel Wallace said, when I ordered the beer.

“Everybody laughs at me when I order a Pink Lady,” I said.

“John has warned me that you are a jokester. Well, I am not. If we are to have any kind of successful association, you’d best understand right now that I do not enjoy humor. Whether or not successful.”

“Okay if now and then I enjoy a wry, inward smile if struck by one of life’s vagaries?”

She turned to Ticknor, and said, “John, he won’t do. Get rid of him.”

Ticknor took a big drink of his martini. “Rachel, damn it. He’s the best around at what we need. You did needle him about the beer. Be reasonable, Rachel.”

I sipped some beer. There were peanuts in a small bowl in the center of the table. I ate some.

“He’s read your book,” Ticknor said. “He’d read it even before I approached him.”

She took the olive on a toothpick out of her drink and bit half of it off and held the other half against her bottom lip and looked at me. “What did you think of Sisterhood?”

“I think you are rehashing Simone de Beauvoir.”

Her skin was quite pale and the lipstick mouth was very bright against it. It made her smile more noticeable. “Maybe you’ll do,” she said. “I prefer to think that I’m reapplying Simone de Beauvoir to contemporary issues. But I’ll accept ‘rehashing.’ It’s direct. You speak your mind.”

I ate some more peanuts.

“Why did you read Simone de Beauvoir?”

“My friend gave it to me for my birthday. She recommended it.”

“What did you feel was her most persuasive insight?”

“Her suggestion that women occupied the position of other. Are we having a quiz later?”

“I wish to get some insight into your attitude toward women and women’s issues.”

“That’s dumb,” I said. “You ought to be getting insight into how well I can shoot and how hard I can hit and how quick I can dodge. That’s what somebody is giving me two hundred a day for. My attitude toward women is irrelevant. So are my insights into The Second Sex.”

She looked at me some more. She leaned back against the black leather cushions of the corner banquette where we sat. She rubbed her hands very softly together.

“All right,” she said. “We shall try. But there are ground rules. You are a big attractive man. You have probably been successful in your dealings with some women. I am not like those women. I am a lesbian. I have no sexual interest in you or any other man. Therefore there is no need for flirtatious behavior. And no need to take it personally. Does the idea of a gay woman offend you or titillate you?”

“Neither of the above,” I said. “Is there a third choice?”

“I hope so,” she said. She motioned to the waiter and ordered another round. “I have work to do,” she went on. “I have books to write and publicize. I have speeches to give and causes to promote and a life to live. I will not stay in some safe house and hide while my life goes by. I will not change what I am, whatever the bigots say and do. If you want to do this, you’ll have to understand that.”

“I understand that,” I said.

“I also have an active sex life. Not only active but often diverse. You’ll have to be prepared for that, and you’ll have to conceal whatever hostility you may feel toward me or the women I sleep with.”

“Do I get fired if I blush?”