The Bohemian

by Bill Bowler

Chapter 11: Me and Cynthia

Mrak’s meetings in Washington had generated publicity and he was becoming a big celebrity on campus. The bookstore on 8th Street put his picture in the window with a display of his new book. For a brief period while he was settling his affairs, Mrak commuted between New York and Washington. He disengaged from his obligations at the university and prepared to move on to government service.

In my own mind, I no longer associated Mrak with Cynthia. Since the night of his party, he had become a sore subject with us and I found it more convenient simply to ignore him and deny the existence of any relationship he might have had with her. I had seen, at least in passing, that they had had some kind of thing going. Yet I felt sure now that whatever it was between them was over and I proceeded on that assumption. With his dramatic political ascent, he seemed to have risen up out of my life. I was glad he was leaving New York.

Cynthia and I were sleeping together a couple of times a week at this stage of our relationship. I was still spending a few nights home alone at my apartment to maintain a veneer of independence. I had thought to maintain my self-reliance and not become dependent on her for emotional support, as I considered her unreliable.

I recognized that Cynthia had serious emotional problems. But you’re neurotic. I’m neurotic. Everyone’s neurotic. So why single her out? Now, whether I was part of the problem or part of the solution remained to be seen. As we spent more and more time together, I thought she was acting more and more rationally. She was thriving under my benevolent influence. She was more relaxed, more coherent. My love was a soothing balm.

I remember, she was lying beside me. I was drifting off to sleep. The sound of sobbing woke me.

“What are you crying about?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she sobbed.

“Okay, it’s your decision.” I rolled over, my back to her, annoyed. She kept sniffling and crying quietly. I was tossing and turning, trying to get some sleep.

She rose and stumbled through the dark bedroom towards the bathroom. I heard her retching in the toilet. When she came back to bed, I turned on the light and lay there, trying to analyze the situation and control my annoyance.

“Why did you put the light on?” she asked quietly.

“I just felt like it.”

After a moment of silence, she said, “I don’t think you can give me what I need. You don’t... You have it in you, but you don’t give it to me when I need it. You remember when we first met, you told me you can’t fix my head, and I said I don’t want to? That’s still the essence of our relationship.”

She lit a cigarette.

“How many packs have you smoked today?”

“One.”

“How do you feel about lung cancer?”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t care about your health?”

“No.”

“Brilliant!” I rubbed my temples.

“I gave you a headache?” she asked.

“No. It’s from tension.”

I turned off the light and turned over, away from her, with a sigh. She started to cry again.

“Sometimes I just want you to put your arms around me.”

“But sometimes you don’t. I’m not always sure which is which.”

She was crying in earnest. I took her in my arms, “C’mere, honey. C’mon, don’t cry.”

* * *

Cynthia had school the next day. I called her in the evening.

“How do you feel?”

“I’ve been throwing up. It’s because of you.”

“What?”

“You don’t understand. I’m nervous because of you. I was terrified of you when I first met you. I’m afraid you’ll leave me.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere. You know, all this terror and throwing up, it’s selfish. You’re just thinking of yourself. Think about me once in a while, too.”

“You’re being rational. This is emotional. I have no control over it. It’s a deep, deep fear. That’s why I’m going into analysis. To cope with this. I used to be much worse. Drunk all the time, stoned out on drugs. That was how I coped. I was afraid to go to the corner store, afraid to go outside.”

“But that’s in the past now.”

“No it’s not.”

To be continued...