by Betsy Berne
My brother had returned sheepishly, and he and my neighbor began baiting each other immediately. I’d put more than a little forethought into choreographing this dinner, and it seemed to be working out beautifully. I leaned back to stake out new arrivals. Neighborhood relics were beginning to stumble in, grumbling about the heat. Among them was Sam, who directed his first remark at Rachel: “Hey, you’re dressed like you’re looking to score tonight.”
Before she could retort, I interjected, “What are you doing here?”
“I’m gonna meet the schoolteacher. She wants me to pay her for sex.”
“You’re really hitting bottom. How much?”
“Two-fifty.”
“Wow.”
“I thought it sounded interesting. Who knows? She might not even show up.”
“If she doesn’t, you can always come to Deejay Night.”
“Maybe. I’m supposed to meet up with my girlfriend later.”
Sam was a big talker. I left him to Victor, who looked like he wanted to hear more, and as soon as we’d eaten, I said my good-byes. My neighbor followed me to the door and said nonchalantly, “Don’t come to Deejay Night if you’ve got other plans.”
I tripped through the door. How could I fool anyone else if I could no longer fool myself?
•
There were a couple of breathy hang-ups on the machine. I went straight to the chilled sanctuary, took a minor sleeping potion, and set the alarm for eleven-thirty. With the proper sedation, I could get in an hour’s nap before Deejay Night. Fifteen minutes later I followed up with a major potion. By the time the phone rang I was almost there.
“Hey, I’m downtown.”
“Huh?”
“It’s me. Am I disturbing you? You sound like you’re asleep.”
“Oh, no . . . I was kind of trying to take a nap, but I don’t think it’s going to work. I’m going out later—it’s Deejay Night.”
“What the hell is Deejay Night?”
“Oh, my neighbor deejays on Thursday nights. It doesn’t start till later, so I was just trying to rest.”
“How late?”
“Midnight.”
“Oh. I was calling to see if you’d like to go out for a drink, but it sounds like you’re busy—maybe some other time.”
“No, no, I don’t have to go out till later.”
“No, you’re busy. Another time, perhaps.”
“No, really. I can go there as late as I want. I don’t have to get there until . . . I have time to see you, it’s fine.”
“All right then. How should we do this?”
“You could come down here, I mean, all those bars downstairs. Where are you exactly?”
“Thirteenth Street. I’ll come by to pick you up.”
I stumbled over one of the pink shoes on the way to the bathroom. I was discombobulated but in a speedy way. You would think I’d have been slowed down by the evening’s accumulation of alcohol and sleeping potions. But the truth was I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been slowed down. I took a quick shower to calm myself and got dressed.
•
“You’re all dressed up for Deejay Night.” The idea that I might have dressed for him was too risky to consider; instead he tried to hide his pleasure with a look of amusement.
“No, I’m not. I’ve had this on all day. Business in midtown. Do I have everything? Where are my keys? Do you see my keys?”
I kept busy moving around the kitchen, and he shifted back when I came close. I’d never seen him in a T-shirt and jeans before, like he was trying to be cool.
“What are you listening to?” He pointed to the Walkman on the kitchen table.
“Oh, you know, my favorite tunes. All my hits.”
“No, I don’t know. What are your hits?”
“Do you see my keys?”
“You’re so cryptic.”
“Oh, here they are. Should we go?”
“Who’s this?” He pointed to a picture on the refrigerator.
“Should we go?”
“So what kind of music does your neighbor spin?”
“You go first so I can lock the door. Oh, good stuff mostly.”
“Big crowd?”
“It’s a tiny bar. I don’t really know who goes there. I just know the regulars, my neighbors’ friends. They’re my Thursday-night friends.”
He laughed—it was a little forced—and paused on the landing. I stepped around him and kept going.
“Do you have Friday-night friends?”
“Nope. Position’s open. Which bar should we go to? It’s so crowded out here tonight. It’s awful.”
“How about here?” We were in front of the downstairs bar, and I said, “No, I hate that place, the guy who owns it is disgusting. He’s opened three bars on this corner. I think they started as drug fronts. He used to be a drug dealer. He probably still is.”
“So what if he’s a drug dealer? You sound like a tight-ass yuppie.”
I followed him into the bar. “It’s just that his dealers used to live in my building and I heard them all night; they drove me crazy. No, I don’t want to stay here. I hate this place.”
I was all red and sweaty, and it wasn’t from the heat. Yuppie! I wasn’t the one with a couple of nightclubs, the fashionable wife, and the kid, an ex-wife and another kid, and who knows, miscellaneous progeny scattered around the globe, and no doubt a fleet of cars, and probably a country house or two.
“It’s so stuffy. Let’s just go to the place across the street, okay?”
There were two bars across the street. One was trying to be exclusive and sophisticated with a doorman and an opulent decor, but all the velvet loveseats and brocade curtains and ebony tables in the world didn’t muffle the scream of crass money. The bar next door, which I had suggested, was large and barren like a cowboy bar you would imagine out West, but without the character. The walls were all window, and I could see all of three people inside.
We sat at the bar, and he ordered drinks for both of us. I looked over at him for clues, and he stared back empty-eyed.
“So where were you when you called?”
“At a stupid dinner.”
“I went to a stupid dinner, too.”
“Guess who’s playing tonight? At that new club uptown.” He wouldn’t tell me, and when I grabbed his arm he pulled it away. It was only when I gave up that he told me.
“Oh, you’re kidding! Really?”
“I have to check out the place, you know, competition. I was planning to take you, but you probably don’t have enough time.”
“That’d be great. Maybe we could even dance!”
“I’m too old to dance.”
“You weren’t too old to dance three months ago.”
“Well, I am now. Anyway, you don’t have enough time.”
“I have enough time. I told you, I don’t have to go till later.”
“No, there’s not enough time. And you told me your neighbor gets upset if you show up late. You don’t want to hurt his feelings.”
“Joseph, come on.”
“And you don’t want to be late for your Thursday-night friends.”
“Joseph.”
“All right, you can come. But you can only stay for two songs, maybe three.”
“Four.”
“If you’re extra good, I’ll let you stay for five.”
We both looked down, sober again.
“What’d you have to do in midtown today?”
“The beauty editor wanted to see me, about the new assignment. Remember, I told you I got a new assignment.”
“What’s the new assignment?” He was real casual and took a long swallow of his drink.
“Oh, it’s dumb, not worth going into.”
“Tell me. I’m interested.” He fixed the stare on me.
“Why was your dinner so bad?”
“You big liar.”
“It takes one to know one.” He didn’t smile. “Okay. I wasn’t in midtown today for business.
I was in midtown yesterday for business. Business that is none of your business. I don’t want to talk about it, all right?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What does it matter? I told you I was doing this a long time ago. You just forgot. You have the ability to summon up memory loss at the drop of a hat. What’s the point of talking about it? What’s there to say? I never imagined that . . . that . . . I’d be remarked upon. Don’t worry, you’re safe. It . . . it was uncomfortable for me, all right? That’s all.”
Then the voice came out of nowhere. “I’m teasing you. Come on. Talk to me.”
I couldn’t. If I could have talked, I would have talked.
“Come on. Say something.” I went blank, so he went on. “I don’t know how you feel. If it weren’t for the baby thing, you know, we never would have gotten . . . started with this . . . this . . . friendship. What about that? Look at me. Tell me something. Hey, don’t do this . . .”
“I have a shy streak. I get tongue-tied.”
“That’s not it. No, that’s not it at all. You talk. You talk plenty.”
“No, really I do. Have a shy streak. I’m sorry. Just don’t torture me about it. It’s not on purpose.” I wanted more than anything to tell him, to tell him what I was thinking—or feeling—but I still wasn’t exactly sure what that was. Sure, at that very instant I was thinking, what is he getting at with this talk about a “friendship” that never would have happened? Sure, it disturbed me, made me feel diminished, perhaps irrationally, and sure, I would have liked to respond: “Oh, do you fuck all your friends?” But that wasn’t what I wanted to say. I also knew better than to tell him what I was thinking or, worse, feeling, even if I knew exactly what that was. He didn’t want to hear what I wasn’t exactly sure I wanted to tell him. He just thought he did tonight.
In a predicament such as ours you needed one, at least one participant to be all starry-eyed, to harbor grand illusions. If you had at least one, it wouldn’t be so hard to string the other along, to take the risks, to play it out. Oh, sure, we harbored some of the grand illusions—we wouldn’t be here otherwise—but neither of us harbored enough.
“I’m scared.”
“What?”
“I’m scared.” I whispered a little louder.
“Scared of what, for God’s sake?” If he had used the right voice, I would have been able to explain. I would have been able to explain that the grand illusions might escalate if this kept up—and that scared me.
“I . . . I . . . have secret thoughts. Look, don’t you have secret thoughts? That you don’t tell me? Don’t you?” His nod was almost imperceptible.
“So I clam up. I can’t help it. I just can’t. It’s not on purpose.”
“It’s okay.” He was zipped up tight again. He finished his drink. “Do you want another one?”
“I don’t know. Do you?”
“I don’t want one. If you don’t want one, don’t have one—I’m not forcing you.”
“No, I’ll have one.”
I put my hands on his knees beseechingly, but he didn’t move forward, so I had to lean so far that I came partway off my bar stool. He gave in gratefully, and the bartender stared when he brought my drink. Joseph Pendleton stared right back at him with his most scathing I-dare-you expression, and I sat back on my stool.
“You’re upset about the show.”
“No. I’m just sick of being a failure.”
“You’re not a failure.”
“I feel that way now.”
“Listen, the trip to Paris is off. I’m not going.”
“You’re not as good as you think.” I grinned.
“All right, it is happening.” His shame came out low and husky. “It’s just not . . . it’s just not a good time.”
“Okay.” A scrupulously unrepentant liar, he respected a good detective and actually appreciated being caught, but I didn’t want to know the truth and I looked down again.
“You’re not a failure.”
“I’m not saying it so you’ll tell me I’m not. I know it’s luck, but I’m sick of getting my hopes up. I’m sick of not having money. I’m completely broke right now.”
“Then what were we talking about Paris for?” He hurled the words with venom. Joseph Pendleton, he was as explosive as a tropical storm, certainly as explosive as one that was then erupting in sheets of beaded curtains against the bar windows.
“Credit cards of course.” I laughed into my new drink. “When did we talk about it? You must be confusing me with someone else. The other night you invited me, I said okay, and tonight you said it was off. Unless I’ve forgotten. Remind me, when did we talk?”
“Who pays for your fancy loft? Your parents?”
“You’re the only person I know who considers it a fancy loft. I’ve told you, it’s dirt cheap. You don’t listen to me.”
“I do listen to you.”
“No, you don’t, not when you don’t want to hear it. You listen selectively. It’s okay. Feel free to persist in your fantasy that I’m a princess. I’m just letting you know you’re wrong.”
“You’re just spoiled.”
“In a way I am. But you can be spoiled in different ways. I was spoiled with love, not money.”
“Don’t live beyond your means. It’s stupid. You’re not a kid anymore. You’ll regret it.” He spoke tersely. “What about the show in Paris? Your work is more European anyway—you could do well—you don’t know.”
“Yeah, maybe, but it’s not a sure thing.”
“You just need a good dealer who’s behind the work and can really sell it. Why don’t you try—”
“Don’t tell me how to make it in the art world. I’ve been doing it for almost fifteen years, and I know what I’m doing. The problem is I just can’t kiss ass anymore. I don’t know . . . Don’t you ever feel like you can’t do it anymore?” We looked at each other for a while—as equals, for the first time—and that caused us both to look away abruptly.
“Well, all right, it is arbitrary, I agree, and there is a lot of luck involved, but you can help it happen.”
“You’ve been in a position of power for too long. You’ve forgotten what it’s like not to be. I didn’t start out feeling this way, but it adds up . . . I mean, it’s understandable that you—”
“No, I haven’t forgotten. Look, it’s gutsy—”
“It’s not gutsy, it’s dumb.”
He reached his hand under the flimsy dress so deftly that I didn’t notice until I felt his fleeting touch. I looked away.
“Well, do you want to go see this band?”
“I don’t know. It’s kind of late, don’t you think?” The concert was no longer a priority. No, all I wanted now was to get us both back across the street and back up the stairs.
“You’re the one who’s going out till four in the morning.”
“Joseph, I never stay that late, I told you. I do want to go, but . . . sometimes those concerts are only really fun for the first twenty minutes, you know? You never can tell if it’s going to be depressing with these old bands—they might not be so good.”
“Yeah, I guess.” He was disappointed. He had wanted to take me out on a date—a date would make it all seem less criminal, less urgent.
“I have their records at my apartment. Maybe we should just go back there.”
He nodded resignedly and paid the bill without so much as an I-dare-you look at the bartender, who didn’t even attempt to hide his disgust for us. The tropical storm had petered out into something between a wet fog and a light drizzle. It didn’t deter the delirious crowds, or me, for that matter. I floated across the street like it was noon on a spring day. He didn’t. He looked like he was going to the devil.
“Joseph, do you think I’m a cliché?” That made him smile.
“Sure. You’re a complexity of clichés. But that’s all right, everybody’s a cliché.”
“Maybe I won’t even go to Deejay Night.”
“You have to go. Yo
u don’t want to disappoint your neighbor. Or your Thursday-night friends. Won’t they be disappointed?”
“I doubt it. Most of them won’t even notice. Victor, he wouldn’t notice.”
“Is that the guy you were with the night . . . Who is that guy? What does he do?”
“Artist.”
“Does he know about this—us?”
He sneaked it in real flip, and I was caught off guard because I was floating. “Um, well, yeah, I guess he does. He’s actually a photographer, you might like . . .”
We were separated trying to get through the crowd on my corner, so I couldn’t finish. Nor did we speak while I searched for my keys or walking up the stairs. The summer air accompanied us through the door in waves, devious waves. It trapped us in the kitchen until I couldn’t stand anymore and I leaned against the refrigerator and then I grasped the door handle.
Once we were in my room, he said, “Talk to me,” in the voice that I couldn’t not obey, and I talked. He talked back. He murmured, “I want you to be my baby.” His voice cracked on “baby”—it was hard for him to say it, and to make it easier so he’d say it again, I didn’t say back, “I want you to be mine.”
I whispered instead, “Oh, I am!”
It didn’t feel like a phony cornball line the way he said it, and if it was, I didn’t care. It didn’t matter because he wasn’t able to obey his rules tonight. Usually I could feel his rules holding him back. I could feel the weight of his rules just around the edges, a certain propriety, not for my benefit but for someone else’s. Tonight there was not a trace of it. There was something else in the air that made it like the first night, except that it was more—and it was less, but in a way that still felt like more—because there’d been too many nights in between that we couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard we tried.
But the propriety returned. It was a shame because I knew what I wanted to tell him now and I was ready but he moved away and when I tried to keep some piece of him, whatever was available, he took it away and then he got up and left the room. I lay there for as long as I could. He was sitting in the bright kitchen with his face in his hands.