Free Bad Connections by Joyce Johnson Page B

have to tell Conrad herself as soon as possible. And he will then have to tell Roberta. And suddenly she sees the disease in a new light entirely. It is a form of communication!

W HEN I’VE BEEN injured by someone close to me, I am astonished at first, almost paralyzed. And then I become more and more troubled by whatever is incomprehensible—the opaque and brittle crust that forms over an act, concealing motives, reasons, without which the act itself appears gratuitous, even irrational. I pick away at this crust as if at one of the scabs ever present on my knees during childhood—a bit of it flakes off and then more and I almost stop, anticipating the pain that will be like the ghost of the original wound. And yet I’m drawn to continue to the end, to reveal the contours of whatever lies beneath.
    Conrad was not like me. He often made the mistake of interpreting my questioning as vengefulness—not understanding that it was more my wish to gather facts than to sit in judgment upon them. It was a subtle game he played—he the embodiment of good nature, I the embodiment of suspicion and anxiety. His own good nature was certainly his most outstanding feature, shining forth even in the most inappropriate circumstances. Who knew what dark thoughts lurked in the mind of the Great Accepter?
    Here, for example, was how he greeted the news of my infidelity and its unfortunate consequences when I saw him that Tuesday evening.
    â€œI’m not going to ask you to explain, Molly. Under the circumstances, I hardly have the right.”
    All of this was uttered in the mildest tones. He might have been inquiring why his shirt had not gone to the laundry. I felt abashed in the face of so much generosity. Another man might have indulged in recriminations. I wondered why he felt he didn’t have the right.
    â€œI am a little surprised, though,” he admitted. “I know you weren’t considering going back to Fred.”
    â€œWill it make any sense if I tell you I honestly don’t know why I did it?”
    â€œWhy should I expect things to make sense? I just wish you’d picked a better time for your reunion.” He grinned philosophically.
    I turned away from him and stared at the rug.
    I had spent two days in dread of this meeting—preparing to deal with Conrad’s jealousy and rage, to confront him openly even at the risk of being thrust away. As soon as I’d come back from the clinic, I’d called his office. His secretary thought he’d gone away for the weekend and had not yet returned to the city. Intermittently I tried his apartment. In the evening my sense of responsibility drove me to consider leaving a note under his door. But what could I have written?
    Feeling a confusing bitterness, I waited for my guilt to return.
    â€œWell, I guess I’ll go to the clinic tomorrow,” Conrad said. “Where did you say it was?”
    â€œTwenty-forth Street.”
    â€œI wonder how early they open. I’ll have to go before the office. Dammit, I have a ten o’clock appointment.”
    â€œI’m really sorry about this, Conrad,” I said.
    â€œThere’s absolutely no room in my schedule for getting sick. But who knows?” he reflected cheerfully. “Maybe I don’t even have it. I haven’t felt any symptoms. What is it for men—a sort of burning sensation?”
    â€œI guess it’s still just incubating.”
    Conrad frowned. “Let’s see. You saw Fred on a Saturday?”
    â€œIt was my birthday.”
    He ignored the implication. “And when was it we got together after that?”
    â€œLast Tuesday.”
    â€œThat’s four days’ difference … ”
    â€œMaybe you’ll get the shot soon enough so you won’t come down with it in a bad way.”
    â€œThat would be good.” But he was sounding much less optimistic. An anxious look had become visible on his face.
    â€œI really