by Betsy Berne
What finally broke me was the party the downstairs musicians gave on Sunday night. It was a lost August weekend—even my neighbor was away. I knew better than to stick around for the party, since communal living was the price you paid for life in a so-called glamorous loft—that is, one with cardboard ceilings and walls. I stayed at my neighbor’s apartment, which was the only tenement left in the neighborhood, at the very edge of the neighborhood, and what a barren, lonely edge it was. It was like the edge of a neighborhood you’d imagine on Mars. The water and the sky met there, and New Jersey hovered menacingly, and a single spanking-new skyscraper stood in a brand-new concrete park. I scurried over at dusk and huddled in my neighbor’s musty brown living room, and then I huddled in his dark-purple bedroom. In the morning I woke with my face wet from bad dreams. When I got home I called him. It was like taking too many drugs or smoking—you know you’re going to die eventually anyway.
The call was brief, considering. Even he was undone by the brevity.
“Okay? Okay? Is that all you have to say?” It was the first time I’d heard Joseph Pendleton come close to a stutter. “Okay? Is that it?”
My “uh-huh” was weak, but he recovered. Smoothly, he suggested we have lunch when he returned from Long Island, but his delivery was a little sheepish. “Don’t forget, I owe you money,” he added with a feeble half chuckle intended to be wry. “I’ll call you when I get back.”
Overall, the call had not been smooth. I had trapped him, once again, with the bomber technique, minus the stealth.
“Joseph, look, if you want to get out of this, just do it.” No hello, and my voice was flat, an unfamiliar voice that provoked an uncharacteristic response.
“I don’t know.” His voice was also unfamiliar, unrehearsed, in fact, frighteningly real. When he repeated “I don’t know,” I wasn’t sure if it was his voice or an echo inside me. “Things are . . . well, I’m not all there, and it’s starting to show.” He was practically whispering. My heart opened wide, and I tried to shut it.
“I know,” I whispered back, and I did know.
“And the guilt . . .”
“I know, I know. But why now and not before?”
“My family . . . that’s what’s most important to me. I can’t do this.”
“But why couldn’t you tell me before? I never had any illusions, but why didn’t you just tell me? It was cruel not to.”
“I wasn’t sure. I didn’t know. We don’t know each other that well, and I . . . and I couldn’t . . . look, it’s not like it wasn’t complicated from the beginning. And I haven’t had my evenings free.”
“Christ. We could have had fucking lunch.”
He didn’t answer.
“It was cruel.”
“All right, all right, maybe it was, but it was only going to get worse. Look, this isn’t good for either of us. You told me you wanted a baby.”
“I know. I know. You’re right. I just, I just . . .”
The rest of his words were vague and far away. I pretended to listen, but my answers were rote. Not that expecting the worst wasn’t second nature, but I was losing my innate ability to gauge the worst. I hadn’t gauged well this time at all. Afterward, I sat and stared, and out of sheer desperation I called my neighbor. He suggested politely that we meet at the downstairs bar, and I didn’t argue. I had a feeling, which was confirmed when I saw his eyes. They told me he’d run out of steam and empathy. He cut me off before I began.
“It’s just like what happened with Jack.”
I said it wasn’t like Jack at all, that I’d taken a risk this time, and he looked at me with polite exasperation, and then we both stared at the sidewalk until he muttered, “Well, I have to go.”
I was almost glad. I couldn’t take any more politeness.
C H A P T E R
17
GETTING THROUGH LABOR Day was just that: laborious. To risk holiday exile in the city was asking for trouble, so I marched in time with the celebrators and when I got home I was bone tired. September had always been exhilarating in the past, but with every year it grew less so. This year was no exception. During the next few weeks, clumps of people straggled back to the city reluctantly but refreshed and ready for action. I greeted them stale and in a fetal position.
He didn’t call, there was no lunch, and I was silly enough to be surprised, silly enough to feel betrayed. When I dialed, he answered on the first ring and I confessed in a frill-free monotone that I wasn’t okay, that I needed a better finale—in person. I just don’t want to hate you, I said. Maybe that reached him. Maybe it was my sudden candor. Whatever it was, something swayed him. He suggested coffee and I said fine.
I ignored the fact that summer hadn’t really ended yet and dressed for fall. He was waiting when I got there.
“I tried to be late.”
He smiled wearily. “That’s a nice coat. But it’s hot as hell out. Why are you wearing—”
“It is nice, isn’t it?” I busied myself taking it off and placing it carefully over the chair next to me.
“It is nice, isn’t it?” He repeated it with an expression of mock horror. “You’re supposed to say thank you when someone gives you a compliment. Who taught you your manners? So who designed it?” I didn’t answer. For one thing, I didn’t care to take the bait; for another, my mouth was too dry. I rummaged in my purse for a mint, and my headphones fell out.
“I have a great new tape,” I said. “Want to hear this song?”
He listened for a minute.
“It’s not bad. Your neighbor’s all over the place; he’s turned into a real hotshot deejay.”
“Oh yeah, have you read about him?”
“I didn’t actually read the . . . I couldn’t . . . I mean . . . do you want coffee or what?”
At four o’clock the coffee shop was deserted. It was a run-down coffee shop west of Times Square, but it was still too bright and shiny. We had arranged ourselves carefully at a round table that could easily have accommodated six. Neither of us was particularly forthcoming; he was brisk and snappy, and I gave stunted responses. When we gradually fell into our easy rhythm—it was inevitable—we moved closer, unwittingly, and when our knees touched we moved apart and looked away, and then he curtailed the festivities.
“You said you had some questions.”
“You know, I never realized that this, what happened to us, well, what a common soap opera plot it was. I must’ve seen at least five movies based on it since. I’d never even seen that one, you know the one—”
“Yeah, well . . .” He started to smile, thought better of it, and tried again. “You said you had some questions.” It was too late. He’d charmed me. I was easy game and I stepped into every trap. To make matters worse, each answer he gave me triggered twenty more questions. I asked him if he thought I’d been in this for a lark or did he think I’d cared, and he chose the former gratefully, without hesitation. I said, no, I did care. He looked toward me but past me, like I was the school principal across a great big wooden desk, and said that he cared, too, he still cared. “This isn’t a rejection,” he added.
I replied, and I meant it, that I had never taken it as a rejection. Then I said, “How come you could stay so late?”
“There’s always the club, but she knows I don’t usually . . . They weren’t home.” A fine-mesh screen lowered across his face. The screen fell away abruptly, and then softly but ever so vindictively he murmured, “You were there that night.”
I stared with my mouth open and my mouth closed. Of course I was there! What do you think, I’d have left you? I wanted to scream, I know they weren’t home that night. Were they away every time? Why didn’t you tell me? But instead I diligently asked him what had changed so suddenly—at least it had seemed sudden to me.
“I couldn’t go home anymore after being with you,” he said. “My kid—” he began.
I interrupted: “I respect you more for that,” and again I meant it, but inside I was screaming, Why all of a su
dden? Does your goddamn precious kid have ESP?
“You’re a good egg,” he said, leaning in.
“No, I’m not,” I snapped. That was the closest I came to expressing anger. Not very close.
He asked the waitress for more coffee. My bones ached from being solemn and mature, and though he would have denied it I’m sure his bones did, too. When I retreated tight-lipped, he didn’t badger me like he used to. He cajoled me gently, earnestly; he even used my name once, but my mind was racing with loose ties and even anger. I believe I was finally getting in touch with my anger, maybe not expressing it, but I was absolutely in touch with it. The old questions were fading, the new questions were looming, and they canceled each other out.
Getting in touch with my anger now was probably not such good timing. He began to fidget, although he was too seasoned to glance at his watch. When my face began to fold, he looked away and said he had to go back to the club to take care of a few things. I said maybe I had the flu, change of seasons and all. I had been feeling fluish for the past few days, but I’d chalked it up to the change in Joseph Pendleton, not the change in seasons. He nodded, looked off to the side, and said, “Yeah, it’s going around.” He added, “I have to leave in fifteen minutes,” and I told him I’d better go to the bathroom first.
When I returned, he’d paid the check. His lips were pressed together and his eyes lifeless. We walked together for a block, and he gave his all to the cause: the cause of cordiality, the cause of no hard feelings. Choked responses to his questions were all I could muster because, boy, did that anger make me dizzy.
“So is the coat new?” he tried.
“No, old.”
“It doesn’t look old.”
“It is.” I plodded, head down.
“You don’t feel very well,” he said softly. The voice hijacked me. I glanced up and realized he’d stopped. I turned to face him.
“So,” he said. “Did I answer all your questions?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And we’re friends?”
“Uh-huh.”
He was muddy-eyed but not in the old way; it was pure shame. When he hugged me, it was fake and awful.
“Be strong,” he mumbled when we came loose, and that was worse, that was pitiful. I stepped back.
“I am strong.”
“Oh, okay then, forget it. Hey, there’s a cab. You take it.”
“No, I don’t need a cab. I want to walk.”
“Okay, then I’ll—”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I will take a cab. Maybe I should, I guess I should.”
“All right then, we lost that one but there’s another one.”
“No, you go first. I can get one myself.”
“If that’s what you want. Listen, I’ve got to run . . . if you don’t mind, I’m going to take this one.”
It was all very mature, unrelentingly mature. I had never realized how exhausting maturity could be. I guess I wasn’t as strong as I’d claimed to be, because when I got home and tried to resume sitting and staring, I couldn’t. I had to lie down. I was more confused than I’d been when I set off. The solemn session at the coffee shop had been a farce. What was it about that night that made him run? Because it was clearly something about that night. My questions were the real farce. I was so concerned that he be able to emerge from the coffee shop guilt-free that I didn’t leave room for the only question I needed answered: Was the whole thing a farce?
Seven-thirty and it was already dark, a blessing, proof that fall was making a valiant attempt to arrive, that summer was going to end after all. I curled up tighter on the couch and turned on the TV, but the fall programming season hadn’t really blossomed yet. TV was in a state as graceless as my own.
In the morning nothing was fine, although there was good news: A cold front was rumored to be approaching from Canada around midnight. Midnight seemed as far away as Canada, as far away as that damn closure. I’d never get to the closure if I didn’t act fast.
His hello was cocky, breezy. By now he’d had more than enough time to congratulate himself on the clean and honorable getaway I’d engineered, and he was probably feeling pretty good, pretty damn sanctimonious about the whole affair. He deflated instantly when he recognized my voice.
“Joseph, I hate to say it but I still don’t get it. I just feel worse; everything you said just made me feel worse. There’s something missing still.” I sounded like a record at the wrong speed.
“Excuse me?” He was stalling for time. Or maybe he really hadn’t understood—it was plausible. Either way his voice was harsh and poisonous, and I had to take a deep breath to continue.
“Listen, I promise it’ll only take—”
“I asked you . . . I asked you yesterday if I’d answered your questions. You told me yes.” He was furious.
“I really wasn’t feeling well yesterday. And you charmed me. I couldn’t think straight.” The silence was thunderous, but I pressed onward. “Were they away every night?”
“No. Christ no, it was just that one night.”
“What happened that night? Just tell me. It was that night. What happened to make you run? That night.”
“I’ve told you, my family, I—”
“But before we were just going along and . . . why, all of a sudden?”
“You’re not listening to me!”
“I am too!”
“I’ve explained over and over. I’ve told you, it’s my kid, it’s the way—”
“But it didn’t matter before; it wasn’t like that before.”
“It’s not before anymore! Listen to me! I’m telling you the truth. I swear. Oh God, I hate this, I hate going over things. It’s not going to—”
“Why did you invite me to Paris? It made it more, it made it seem like something more . . .”
“I, I . . . you charmed me. All right? You charmed me. That’s all. That’s it. Simple. Case closed.” His words sliced like paper cuts, deep ones, the kind that linger.
“It was that night, I know it was something that night. What was it?”
“Can’t you stop with that? Look, this was doomed from the start. It was a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes. You don’t need this in your life.”
“I just thought it would go on . . . it was just so abrupt, I just wasn’t ready and you never said anything. It was so cold.”
“Christ, you’re acting like a victim.”
“I am not acting like a victim. Don’t be ridiculous. I could have taken the victim route long ago if I’d wanted to. You said things that made me think . . .”
“Name one thing I promised.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know, just things.”
“I never said I’d leave home.” His voice, bitter and malevolent, wasn’t only directed at me.
“Leave home?” He said it, not me, the significance of which did not occur to me until later, much later. “Come on, Joseph, we never even got close to talking about . . . I’m not attacking you, I’m just trying to find out . . . I just . . .”
What had he promised? Nothing. I knew it almost as well as he did. Almost as well as he did, because though I’d fought hard not to, I’d heard silent promises—made wordlessly with his eyes, with his mouth, with his hands, and then there were the vague intimations. They were not silent. They were articulated, often quite eloquently, but they were never close to promises.
“Tell me. Tell me what I promised.”
“Well, you said we’d have lunch and you would give me the money for . . .” It was all I could come up with. There was a pause.
“I forgot. Just tell me how much it is and I’ll put it in the mail this afternoon.”
“Did you ever care?”
There was another pause.
“I cared about you . . . as a friend,” he said stiffly, and then he softened. “Look . . . we had fun.”
“Oh, was that abortion fun? Oops, I forgot—you missed that part of the fun.”
“That wasn’t my fault! You did
n’t let me—”
“Joseph, just tell me, what was it? What happened? What was it about that night?”
“Okay, okay, okay! You won’t let up. I felt so split, I couldn’t do what I had to do . . . that night, that night . . . it was too intense! It was all too intense! Everything was getting out of hand, too serious. It was too intense! And it was only going to get worse.”
“All right, okay,” I interrupted. “I . . . all right, it’s . . . okay.” That was all I needed. I didn’t need much. But I needed something—I knew without hearing the rest. His animosity was scaring me, and I tried to inject some levity. “Now, are you going to atone for your sins?”
“Oh, sure.” He barked a short laugh. “How do you suggest I atone for my sins? My so-called sins?”
I couldn’t answer. The animosity was too overwhelming, so I whispered good-bye. His “take care” was tacked on begrudgingly, accusingly; still, he had given me what I needed, maybe not everything, but I had to be satisfied with what I’d gotten, for now. My anger was gone. It had only lasted a day. How could I be angry at him? He had never promised me the future, and he had given me a taste of the present. It was a generous gift because I was ravenous for the present. But he’d overdone the present and needed to study the past so that he could better steer the future. He gave me back the present, and I like to think I nudged him toward the future. We both needed to change time zones. Unfortunately, we couldn’t do it with each other.
I continued to search for the anger, the surefire path to the much ballyhooed closure. I searched during the coming weeks, which became months, no longer truant autumn months but real autumn months, and then winter months, and—can you believe it—spring months. But anger is sly. It can sneak up on you when you’re not looking, but it can also be elusive, maddeningly elusive. I never found it again. It was nowhere to be found in the jumble of the past. I must confess that I wasn’t letting go as fast as they said you were supposed to, I wasn’t moving forward as fast as they said you were supposed to. That damn closure evaded me. How could you close something that had never been opened?