Eve in the City

by Thomas Rayfiel

  “Cancer is the bogeyman. The death sentence. The Big C. All science worships it, tries to solve its mysteries. People throw billions of dollar bills at it. For research, they say, but really because they hope it will go away, go murder someone else.” He let the liquid, a bright green, crème de menthe, seep gently over the side. It unrolled on top of what came before, some evil-looking cherry red. “So you would think, by now, with all that, they at least know what cancer is. But no, it is not clearly defined at all. ‘Cancer’ turns out to be a catch-all term for a number of different conditions. We give it a name to provide ourselves a false sense of certainty about what we are dealing with, to make it seem less what it actually is.”

  “Which is what?”

  “A random, all-devouring maw.”

  “Maw?”

  “That is so cool,” Brandy said.

  “Don’t come too close.”

  “Can I drink it yet?”

  “It is not for drinking.”

  “Maw?” I asked again.

  “Mouth.”

  He took his hands away, slowly. All his motions were careful. We weren’t allowed to lean on the bar. When the occasional order came, he made us come around to get it. He was obsessed.

  “Similarly, with love. The whole culture acts as if it is a universal goal, the aim of every young life. And more. The word is stretched to include ridiculous things. Love yourself. Love life. Love a sparrow. But even in its narrowest, simplest sense, loving another, there exist so many kinds, so many arrangements, that it is a joke, lumping them all under one heading. Again, it is to give us a feeling of comfort, that we are united in this great pursuit, that there is at least one common good upon which we can all agree. Love. Instead of the truth.”

  “Well, of course I can drink it. Otherwise, why is it in a glass?”

  “And what truth is that?” I yawned.

  “That we are merely seeking shelter in each other’s body.”

  “Shelter from what?”

  “Ah,” he said, like that was the big question.

  “Cancer is the Crab,” Crystal corrected.

  He shook one more drop of hideous yellow on top, stood back, and bared his teeth like the winning tiger in some show-down. They were white. You wouldn’t think they would be, the rest of him was so stained and crooked.

  It was two weeks since I came back. Nothing had changed. Nothing and everything. We all slipped into our old routine. Nobody mentioned my being away. Our engagement, if that’s what it was, had been added to the menu, a new item for conversation. It was referred to casually, almost as a joke. It didn’t bother me anymore. That was the weirdest part of all. The whole marriage issue. A big bumpy scar had grown over it, with the foreign object still buried inside. Instead of getting rid of it, my body had surrounded the idea with tough tissue. I guess that’s the way I felt about Viktor, too, that he was still inside me, but I had neutralized him, at this cost to my own feeling. The whole atmosphere was different, though. It was more self-conscious. Everything was about what went before, as if there had been this Golden Age of getting along and now we were just remembering, trying to reenact it. At least, that’s how it seemed to me. I could feel the bar turning into one of those places, a memory, a spot on my private map, a street I would find myself walking past and shiver. I looked around to see if everyone felt the same, but if they did, they didn’t give it away. It was business as usual, except business was off. The last of the summer tourists, who had trickled in all through the first part of the fall, were finally gone.

  “To drink it would be impossible,” he explained to Brandy. “The slightest movement would disturb the layers.”

  I saw her looking at the colors, one magically suspended above the other. I could see her mind working, see that little furrow form in the middle of her brow.

  “Well, I’d be really careful.”

  “Eve.”

  Nora nodded to the bottom of the stairs. Horace was standing there. I was surprised I didn’t feel more. I went over, not to lead him in. To bar the way.

  He was the same. His smile. His clothes. That space, somehow, between the waistband of his pants and his shirt, that made him look even thinner than he was. He was lovable, but dry. This Powder of Love you had to add water to, but once you did, watch out. That’s why I was being very careful. Protecting myself, looking right at him, straight, so he couldn’t get underneath me. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I felt, like I always did with Horace, how important it was, every move I made. How significant. Except maybe that was the phoniest feeling of all.

  “One?” I asked.

  “What?”

  I turned and led him to the farthest table. I knew enough by now not to look back. Instead, I looked at my friends, how they were not watching us, pretending to be spectators at Viktor’s mixology show, taking care of the few other customers, or just staring into space. But when I got to there and turned, he wasn’t behind me. He had veered off and was standing a small distance from the barstool, where I had been perched when he arrived. He looked back at me questioningly, as if to ask, Could he join us?

  Hey, you let me down, I complained, while the other part of me, the instant echo to everything I said and did, warned, Eve, you’re talking to your ass.

  I walked over, smiling.

  “What’s so funny?” Brandy asked.

  “Nothing.” It was true. I didn’t know what was funny. I was mad at him. The grin didn’t seem part of my face. “Everyone, this is Horace.”

  “Do not cause any disturbances,” Viktor warned.

  The next color was purple. It was good he was making the drink, because I could tell he didn’t want to look up, didn’t want to make eye contact.

  “Hi,” Brandy said.

  Crystal grunted. Nora examined him once, her gaze traveling from head to toe, like he was hanging off a meat hook, then went back to her cigarette.

  “Is that a pousse-café?”

  Viktor glared. I caught him glance over to the book and make sure, not wanting to reveal his ignorance, or, better yet, hoping Horace was wrong. Which he wasn’t. I could have told you that, I smiled. He is never wrong. That’s his only flaw.

  “Yah,” he said. With certain people he became more foreign, not just his speech but his whole manner. “Pousse-café.”

  I’m proud of him, I realized. Even though I’m mad at him, and mad at myself for liking him, still I want him to make a good impression. Why? To raise my status in the group?

  “Horace is an artist.”

  “Really?” Brandy straightened her shoulders and grew three inches. Her chest got bigger, too. I never understood how she did that. I mean, I saw she was just sitting up, but the way she gave her hair this little flick like she was blurry before and now she was bringing herself into focus, that still intrigued me. “What kind of artist?”

  “I paint.”

  “Paint what?”

  “Pictures,” Horace said. “Well, paintings, not pictures. When they’re good, they’re paintings. When they work.”

  “Oh.”

  And he speaks gibberish, I boasted silently, which I alone understand. Kind of.

  “I used to draw. In school. Remember, Cris?”

  Crystal frowned.

  “In high school.”

  “I did people. Do you do people?”

  “People are hard.”

  “Not really. I did Viktor. Remember, Viktor?”

  “It is true,” Viktor said. “Our Brandy is quite talented.”

  Horace took something out of his pocket.

  “I wanted to give you this.”

  I tried handling it casually, but found myself holding it by the edges as if it was precious. An invitation to his show. A postcard.

  “You could have just sent it.”

  “I guess.”

  “I mean, I’m on your mailing list, aren’t I?”

  “I don’t have a mailing list.”

  “You told me everyone had a mailing list.”


  “Let’s see.”

  Brandy took it.

  “Horace Dean,” she read. “Recent Paintings. The Panko Gallery, 41 . . .”

  His eyes were turquoise. Had I noticed that before? I must have, but didn’t remember. If I had a mailing list, they seemed to be saying, you would be the only name on it. The rest of him was silver. That’s what he reminded me of, that kind of jewelry from the Southwest, glowing and shiny, turquoise and silver. A belt buckle.

  “Lispenard Street,” he supplied, staring at me.

  “. . . Lispenard Street, November 13, 6 to 8 P.M.Wow,” she concluded, fanning herself with the card.

  “How come there’s no picture?” Nora asked.

  She seemed more knowledgeable, less impressed.

  “I finished too late for them to take photos. I just finished,” he added, as if he had thrown down his brush and come here.

  This tremor went through me. I put my hand on the bar.

  “Shit!”

  Viktor had been trying to pour the purple on top. For a second, there was this swirl, all the colors mixing, then it turned the color of water in a mop bucket.

  “Eve!”

  “I’m sorry. I slipped.”

  “We used to paint those in Color Theory,” Horace said. “The instructor had one.”

  “What do you mean ‘had one’?” Viktor asked irritably. “You mean he kept it on a shelf?”

  “Most of the time. They’re in display glasses. The layers are separated by clear disks.” He turned the book around. “That’s what this is a picture of. You can see. Look at the borders. There’s always this buffer of white. What you’re trying to do, make one from scratch, is almost impossible.”

  “Let me see.”

  Brandy held her hair back with both hands and leaned forward. She was pretending to be interested. It was so phony. Then she let her hair go and it tumbled against him.

  Hey, I thought.

  “Oh, I get it,” she exclaimed, in mock amazement.

  “Now’s your chance.” Crystal nodded at the ruined cocktail. “If you want to taste one.”

  “Oh, no. I want to drink what’s in the picture.”

  “But didn’t you hear? That’s not real.”

  Brandy had dropped the card on the bar. It was soaking in a wet spot. I got it back and tried drying it off without anyone seeing. Her stool was closer. She was practically on top of him. I guess I should have done something, but didn’t know what. It’s not like I had any rights. I wasn’t even supposed to want him here. What should I say? Get your hands off him! But her hands weren’t on him. Everything else was, instead.

  A group came. I went. I didn’t know if Horace counted as my turn or not, but I couldn’t stand this anymore. Nora came, too. She almost crashed into me.

  “Are you about to get your period?”

  “What?”

  “You’re acting like some kind of sex-starved kitten back there.”

  “How can a kitten be sex-starved? I mean, if it’s still a kitten? Kittens don’t have sex. No,” I said wisely, “you’re thinking of ‘sex kitten’ and ‘sex-starved.’ But together they don’t make—”

  “You’re acting like a bitch in heat.”

  “Why do you keep calling me names?”

  I smiled at the band of idiots, turning to lead them in. She walked alongside me, speaking in a normal voice. Both of us acted as if they weren’t there.

  “If you don’t like what she’s doing, then talk to him yourself. Don’t just glare like you wish he would disappear.”

  “But that’s what I do wish.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with your friend. You know that, don’t you? Viktor’s just jealous, and she’s picking up on that. She’s trying to make trouble.”

  “Who is?”

  “Brandy, you moron.”

  “I know that,” I mumbled. “Of course. It’s obvious. Stop being mean to me.”

  She shook her head and went off to the bathroom.

  “What do you want?” I asked the new people, rudely, and took their orders, at the same time putting the question to myself. What did I want? To buy a wedding dress and skip the ceremony. To honeymoon every night, not with my husband. To be someone’s little girl while staying fatherless.

  I was more like Brandy than I was willing to admit. That’s what put me in such a bad mood. I wanted to drink the drink you couldn’t touch, to be a hummingbird, hover over the surface, beat my wings, stay absolutely still, and sip each luminous layer of life, one at a time. Back at the bar, I gave Viktor my order and slammed the tray down right where he made the drinks, so he’d have to load them for me. Fiancée’s privilege, I felt like announcing.

  “Excuse me,” Horace said, “but do you think I could talk to you for a minute?”

  “Who? Me?”

  Nora had said I should talk to him, but she didn’t tell me what to say.

  “I know you’re mad.”

  “No, I’m not. And by the way, what are you doing here?”

  “I came to explain.”

  “Explain what?”

  Before he could answer, I was telling him everything that was on my mind, everything I’d been keeping inside all this time, keeping from myself, too. I was screaming, basically.

  “. . . and then, after all that, you leave me a note, saying you’re going to some stupid Opening. You didn’t even tell me to wait, or that you were going to call. Which you didn’t. While I’ve been sitting around like a fool for the past—”

  “Something happened that night.”

  “No kidding!”

  “It’s what I came to tell you. I couldn’t explain, but now, if you’d just give me a chance....”

  I grabbed the last drink before Viktor finished gunning soda water into it and yanked the whole tray, spilling each glass. I didn’t want to hear. I hated him, hated what he made me feel. I hated him for having control over my emotions. And the fact that he didn’t even know he had control, acted like he was this victim, this calm guy, sitting in a bar, chatting with my friends, getting yelled at, that just made it worse. I made my way through the maze of chairs and tables more by memory than vision. I got to the table, gave everyone their order so fiercely they didn’t even think about complaining the glasses were half-empty, then turned and smacked right into him. He had followed me, come up behind, invisibly, silently, like he had before, like he always did, materializing with no warning.

  “Go away,” I muttered. “Stop bothering me.”

  “Will you come to my Opening?”

  “Why should I?”

  “It would mean a lot. I have to know you’re coming. I won’t leave until you promise.”

  “Is everyone happy?” I shouted, turning away from him, to the table again, to my loyal customers. They were always my first concern. “Can I get anyone anything else? Are you sure?”

  “Did you hear me?” he asked.

  “Excuse me. I’m working. Do I ever bother you when you’re working?”

  “Yes. All the time. Not that I mind. Will you promise to come to the show?”

  I still wanted him to go away, now more than ever. Part of me. The part that was drowning in the other part. I held my tray in front of me to ward him off. But he wouldn’t go. He just stood there. He never seemed uncomfortable. Even when he had reason to be. Especially when he had reason to be. I mean, acting like he cared, there couldn’t be anything more embarrassing, could there? But he didn’t seem to think so.

  “Actually, miss,” a voice said, “this isn’t what I asked for.”

  “I’ll let you get back to work.”

  He nodded to the customer who was holding up his drink.

  Oh, don’t, I wanted to answer. It’ll only take me a second to crack that beer stein over his head.

  “But you are coming, aren’t you?”

  “Of course.” I acted as if it was never an issue.

  He’s back! I thought happily, watching him go up the stairs now, his beautiful lean body. He’s back and h
e’s taking part of me with him, wherever he goes. He’s wearing me around his neck, like a charm.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  There was a statue, past where kids sailed their boats, of a girl sitting on a mushroom. It was bronze, rubbed bright in places. Creatures—a rabbit, a mouse, a dwarf with a hat—ran around her skirt. What I liked was how the children were allowed to play underneath and on top of her. There were all these spaces, tunnels and mountaintops, except they weren’t closed in or high up. They weren’t scary. Grownups sat on benches and watched. Black nannies with white children. It was 10 A.M. I’m seventeen, I told myself. What am I doing here? I should be going to happening places, “clubs,” whatever they were, having wild times, not sitting in Central Park wishing I had children, a little girl I could dress just like me, so we would be twins, mother-daughter twins. Was there such a thing? Of course not. How could there be? My mind drifted, thought poured out of it, didn’t shimmer in layers like Viktor’s drink, but was more like that thick smoke from the ice that melts but doesn’t drip, dry ice. It wrapped itself around objects I never noticed before, the steel legs that held up this bench, the morning sky, these children. They played so seriously. Play was work, to them. I remembered doing that, bringing a sense of purpose to the smallest thing. Now it was the opposite. All this supposedly life-determining stuff was happening to me, but the more crucial it got, the more I decided to just wing it. I didn’t even decide, that was the point. Nothing you decided really mattered. It was an excuse or an afterthought or a wish. Things just were, and you had to deal with them.

  “So,” I’d asked Nora, as we climbed the stairs after closing, “what do you think?”

  For some reason, her opinion was the only one that mattered. Brandy and Crystal were ahead of us. Viktor was locking up.

  “About what?”

  “About Horace.”

  “He’s good-looking.”

  “Yeah? And?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “He’s young.”

  “Not for me.”

  “No. Not for you.”

  Do you really think he’s good-looking? I wanted to ask. I mean, I thought so, but hearing it confirmed by Nora, this woman who went upstate and slept with murderers in trailers, made me weirdly euphoric.