IN BED, Albertine and I squirreled under the covers, and she took my hand. “Did you always intend to have her kill herself?” she asked.
“No,” I said, “not at all. When I started, I just wanted to explore the erotic attractions of all of the young matrons in my neighborhood, to make something out of a twelve-year-old’s feelings for the mothers of his little friends, and to elaborate a bit on the way the existence of his little friends made their mothers all the more attractive, because it meant that they were sexually active.”
“Or had been, anyway.”
“Right. Very good. I didn’t think of that distinction when I started, because I was looking at them only from the man’s — or the boy’s — point of view. I didn’t even think about their disappointments, and I didn’t expect Mrs. Jerrold to stand out particularly from the others, but, more and more, she did, and as she began to elbow all the other mothers aside I began to see how disappointed and lonely and isolated she was, and I began to use her — deliberately — to find out how it feels to be an unhappy woman, and — well — she got away from me. Her unhappiness metastasized beyond my control.” I turned toward Albertine and held her and kissed her. “I used Mrs. Jerrold,” I said, “to find out what it felt like to be unhappy, because when I tried to get into your mind I couldn’t go very far. You’re too real.”
“Peter,” she said, “I am not an unhappy woman.”
“You were.”
“I — ”
“You were.”
“All right, I was, but I was only unhappy in the way that anyone would be unhappy if she were worried about money, and — ”
“You were feeling hopeless.”
“I — I guess I was. But it happens to everyone sometimes. Hope and happiness come and go. Unhappiness is a human trait, just as curiosity and hope and happiness are. It also comes and goes.”
“Are you happy now?” I asked her.
“I would be if you were,” she said.
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