“You’re turning white,” the ever-helpful Dylan observes.
“We could die,” the bunny says, his long bunny ears bopping Dylan in the head when the elevator lurches suddenly. The doors won’t open.
“Any last confessions?” Evan encourages, edging closer to me.
“Any plagiarized cat poems you want to ‘fess up to?” Dylan needles. When the doors remain closed Evan senses my alarm and takes my hand, but when the doors suddenly open he releases it, aware of Dylan’s disapproving glare.
And then we’re in the loft, with its space all cordoned off into small partitions, the furniture sparse, the sunlight flaring through a wall of windows, and a lizard lounging under a lamp in a cage on the floor. This is the iguana that belongs to the female roommate, a wildlife photographer. Brandon says she takes the scaly creature to bed with her to cuddle when it cries in the darkness.
The Roomies are still kicking around ideas for a new name for the band. They have satisfactorily completed two songs for their six-song demo. Dylan has them booked at The Cat Club this weekend. I suggest Red Hunting Hat.
“It’s from The Catcher In The Rye,” I say. “Holden wears the red hunting hat all the time. And he bought the hat in New York, so there’s a hidden New York reference.”
“That would sound cool in interviews,” Joe says.
“I hated that book.” Dylan stretches his long legs before him, one arm resting along the back of the couch, a black shirt tucked out over his jeans, his hair caught into an inch of ponytail.
I glance at Evan as if to say, Can you believe this is my brother?
“You pride yourselves on being these big rebels.” I rest on the red velour overstuffed easy chair and Evan sits beside me on the arm of the chair. “It would be an homage to one of the great rebels in literature.”
“A what?” Joe asks, and I clarify, “a tribute.”
“The guy was a trust fund brat who brought all his problems on himself, because he had way too much time on his hands. If he had to work for a living he wouldn’t have had so much opportunity to brood and get into trouble.”
“Dylan thinks all the problems of the human condition can be solved by gainful employment,” I say, sipping the tea that Evan has brewed for me.
“Gainful employment goes a long way. I’m keeping a tab. You owe me for today’s train and theatre fare.” Dylan smirks in spite of himself, and I know he doesn’t really mean it.
“You are the most generous creature in the world,” I tease, and I do mean it.
“You can relate to Holden because you both blew a shot at a great education,” Dylan pontificates, perhaps embarrassed by my sudden sentiment, and I roll my eyes because this is becoming a theme with Dylan. “My sister is brilliant, but always dissatisfied and unable to stick with anything.”
“But I’ll always stick with you, my brother,” I say, saucily.
“Holden had the same ability that you do, to really see through to the essence of things.” Evan looks gently down at me from his position on the arm of the chair.
“Here’s a little reality check for the Holden fan club over there. Newsflash!” Dylan flicks his hands like high beams. “The guy ended up in a mental ward.”
Evan winks at me.
“Red Hunting Hat.” Brandon savors the words, giving it serious consideration. “Why did he wear that hat?” he asks the air, straining to remember.
“It was symbolic of his alienation,” I offer.
“Cool. We could wear red hats onstage,” Joe says.
Dylan pulls a face that says that won’t be happening anytime soon. Dylan knows his gorgeous silken hair gives him Samson-like powers over women, and he won’t be stuffing it under some hat anytime soon.
“I think he wore the red hat because of his brother, Allie, who died. His brother had red hair.” Evan leans his chin into his hand, sitting balanced on the arm of the chair, his strong muscled physique evident even through his thick clothing.
“I never thought of that,” I say, and I realize suddenly that I’m mirroring Evan, my chin in hand, as I look up at him thoughtfully. I straighten, self-consciously, and sip my tea.
Evan seems almost embarrassed by the compliment. “I don’t have more than a high school education, but I did read that book.” This is the first crack I’ve seen in his armor of impenetrable confidence.
“Look at us, talking books and art and theatre,” Brandon says. “We’re like our own little Algonquin Table.”
“Without the booze,” Dylan says, frowning into his tea.
“And without the table,” Joe adds, confused.
“We’ve got an iguana,” Evan offers.
I feel languid and content, with Evan so near, and then Dylan decides we have to leave.
“Okay, Mr. Places To Go,” I groan as my brother nags me to get up. I linger on the chair, as if caught in Evan’s powerful force field.
Evan and Joe are leaving, too. The Down elevator is within the loft, unlike the Up elevator, which is in the hallway. When Joe and Dylan file onto the elevator, Evan pulls me back and informs Dylan, as the doors squeeze shut, that we’re taking the stairs.
“So, I heard you may be leaving New York,” I say, as he guides me down the narrow, stale-smelling stairway. My boot heels echo on the slate; there is a slight run in my dance tights, and the little black cover-up is tight in the waist and stretched out of shape over my hips like some inverted tulip, and all I can think about is that someday I am going to be wearing a great outfit when I see Evan.
Evan informs me that he’s being flown to the west coast to audition for an upcoming television series on Fox. It follows the lives of four high school friends after graduation.
“I may not even get it,” he says, with a shrug, and loops around to take the outside so that I have the banister.
“You’ll get it.” I state this as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“How can you be so sure?” His hand hovers near my waist, not actually touching me, but there in case I should slip in my heels.
“Why would someone not want you?”
He looks off to the side, nodding, hiding a blush.
“So, you’re leaving New York.” We’ve reached the door at the bottom stairwell that opens onto the street.
“I’ll be back,” he says, his arm on the door, as if waiting for some cue to not push it open, but then he does open it.
“Yes, but you have to leave first in order to come back.” As I exit the door, I brush dangerously close against him, to give him a taste of what he’s leaving.
We step into the light. It’s a perfect autumn evening, a sky still blue and a faint warm breeze blowing through midtown. I can see Dylan and Joe where they’ve exited the other door. I’ve got only a few seconds to say something profoundly witty or devastatingly clever before they catch up with us, something that will stay with Evan and emblazon me in his thoughts while he’s out there with all the west coast starlets, but all I manage to say is: “I hate when you leave the room, much less leave the city.” This works some effect on him; he looks like someone who is rethinking his entire existence.
“You say beautiful things, Sylvia.” After a moment he adds, “Most people don’t.”
And that’s when the stampede hits. A herd of black and white jersey cows, clad head to toe (horn to hoof?) in fuzzy fleece, surround us suddenly, imploring us to sip samples of their new creamer.
I try to be gracious to the herd. I once had a job where I had to dress up like a cat in a black leotard to promote a new kibble and perform pas de chats on hard pavement outside a pet store. I feign interest in the cow’s spiel, glancing earnestly at the flyer foisted upon me by fervent hooves. Lips brush mine, and I look up quickly to see Evan, eyes full of mischief, his arms full of creamer.
And then Dylan and Joe are upon us, and before I know it we’ve parted, Dylan and I making our way down Seventh Avenue, and Evan pulled into the other direction, the opposite direction of me.
~ 7 ~
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A Loo With A View
“Most people don’t.” Careen swishes the words around in her mouth, along with her tea.
Careen’s Royal Daulton tea set is nowhere in sight. The new teapot is a red and black Oriental design, flat as a flounder, and with Chinese scribbling on it, in keeping with Careen’s current predilection for all things Asian. I’m praying there’s no seaweed in the pot. She has been assigned the Herculean task of analyzing my last encounter with Evan to find hidden meanings that will prove he is unequivocally and ardently in love with me.
“Do you think he means that most people don’t say beautiful things to him? Or most people don’t say beautiful things in general?” I prompt, venturing a sip of the tea, delighted to discover it’s good old English Earl Grey.
“I think he means in general. And I’ll give him that one. Most people are dreary as dishwater, always expecting the worst. While you, my dear, speak beautiful things into existence.” She uncovers a dish to reveal raspberry scones and clotted cream. “But it does not bode well that there is always a pervasive smell of pee about his tepid attempts at romance.”
“Most stairwells smell of pee. And frankly, there was more a smell of people sweating through fleece.”
“Ah yes, the cows. Who kissed you, exactly—the cow or the cad?” Careen’s red hair is bound up in a yellow bandanna, with little tendrils hung like chandelier crystals about her head. Lately I notice bandannas everywhere I go.
“It was Evan,” I say, feeling a flutter of butterflies at the memory.
“So, he leaned in for a kiss and was thwarted by a stampede on Seventh Avenue?”
“They were people in cow’s clothing,” I say, between bites. “Promoting a new dairy creamer. Udderly delicious.”
“Well, perhaps Evan is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Why doesn’t the man simply ask you out?”
Now Careen has stung me to the core with her common sense; this is the very question I’ve asked myself a hundred times. I lay out my theories. We rule out the struggling artist/lack of money excuse because the city is filled with free things to do: street fairs, museum exhibits, window shopping, and there’s every New Yorker’s favorite free activity: walking and talking. I tell Careen that Brandon let it slip that Evan was in a relationship for three years with another dancer in his company, someone fifteen years older than him, a detail that is a decided thorn in my side.
“A woman?” she asks.
“Yes!” and then, with sudden doubt, “Well, I assume so.”
“Well, he was a ballet dancer.” Her tone is sewn tight with innuendo. “Perhaps he and Brandon are lovers.”
I laugh out loud. “Brandon is not gay!” I sip my tea with trepidation; now I’m wondering about Brandon. Other than music, his shared passion with Dylan has always been the hunting and punting of women. I do a quick tally of Brandon’s recent lifestyle changes: his sudden defection from finance to the fine arts, his wardrobe overhaul from suits to shabby chic. Dylan says Brandon is now crashing at some dive of a pad up on One Hundred and First, and waiting tables at some joint called Exterminator Chili. And there is the feminine way he crosses his legs lately, at the knee, rather than slinging one ankle over the opposite knee, like the lumbering Dylan.
“That’s a European thing,” Careen assures me. “All Englishmen cross their legs at the knee.”
“Brandon’s not European.” Although it would be just like Brandon to suddenly want to be European.
She waves away my statement, having moved on. “You ought to track her down and thank her.” Careen resumes the topic of Evan’s former older lover who, for argument’s sake, we are assuming was female. “She broke him in for you. Now you don’t have to teach him about romance and compromise and female hormones and shopping and all the requirements of a relationship. The work has been done for you. She has laid down the groundwork. Better to be the second significant relationship in a man’s life; the first always has too much molding to do.”
“You make him sound like a piece of pottery.”
Careen is nonplussed. “Not to mention, I’m sure he now knows his way around the geography of a woman’s body.” Careen looks ebullient at this tidbit.
The image of Evan charting new territory on some other woman’s terrain makes me lose my appetite, even for cream tea.
That leaves us with the theory that Dylan has, perhaps, made it clear to Evan that I am off limits to his friends.
“Dylan glares at him anytime he comes within a six foot radius of me.” I am tingling with hope that we have now touched upon the correct theory. In my enthusiasm I forget to chew my scones; clumps lodge in my throat, and I try to wash them down with too-hot tea. Careen thumps me on the back. “Dylan recoils at the idea of me dating any of his inner circle. He doesn’t want a repeat performance of my doomed affair with his old clamming buddy, Charlie Jerimeter,” I hack out, hiccoughing on crumbs.
“The bloke who danced like he was punching?”
“Pitching,” I manage, through coughs. “Pitching softballs.” The writer in me feels compelled to clarify the image, even while choking.
Poor Charlie, he will never live that dance down, especially since it’s been caught on a family video of my cousin’s engagement party at a Knights of Columbus hall on Staten Island. I’m sure he rues the day he ever accepted the invitation to that event.
“Dylan is harmless; he’s a sheep in wolf’s clothing,” Careen declares affectionately. “Nevertheless, let us ask Mr. Palmer. Mr. Palmer!” She thrusts open the window and sticks her head into the little work shed with its rough stucco, where we can see him restoring some antique table that Careen rescued from the roadside.
“Under what conditions would a man hesitate to ask out a woman he’s clearly in love with?”
“Nothing can stop a man in love,” Mr. Palmer states with dry conviction, not looking up from his work.
“Would a sibling who glares be a deterrent?” Careen persists.
“Is the sibling armed?” Mr. Palmer’s movements are fluid as any ballet dancer, as he lays a lovely varnish over the newly sanded surface.
“Only with looks that kill,” I announce.
“Perhaps it hasn’t dawned on the poor bastard yet,” Mr. Palmer hypothesizes.
“That’s it!” Careen declares victory. “Ah, Mr. Palmer, you are a sage. When it dawns in Evan’s dull brain that he loves you, he will take the necessary action.”
In the meantime, Careen attempts to coax me into a blind date with her friend’s son, who will be arriving from Manchester, England next month with a year’s work visa. He’s two years my senior, with a doctorate in theoretical particle physics, a Cambridge valedictorian. He has already seen my photo, and is eager to meet me.
She shows me a photo of him. “He’s thin as a Popsicle, but I think he has rather a handsome face, although he could use some new spectacles. And he has good teeth for an Englishman,” is Careen’s unsentimental assessment.
I consider his photo and his credentials. He has a handsome look, a nice head of hair and pleasant features, but his type are a dime a dozen at Princeton, although Careen assures me this one is different—he has a sense of whimsy about life.
“Englishmen are the most romantic men in the world,” she lectures. “Although they have the terrible habit of reticence, and they often speak in riddles.”
“Oh, well, that’s encouraging.”
“With the exception of Mr. Palmer, of course, who shoots from the hip, and is irreproachably romantic.” This is true, as I marvel at the transformed table with its cherry wood sheen, the result of Mr. Palmer’s intensive labors. Only last week it was a chipped piece of pink junk that Careen had fished out of someone’s trash.
“Careen, I’m in love with someone else,” I state hopelessly.
“You cannot be in love with a man you barely know. You are drifting in a dangerous direction. This is just like the beans!” She throws her hands in the air, in reference to my Goya Bean debacle when I was four years old
. This story gets tremendous mileage in my family. “Why don’t you just ask Dylan to help you with Evan?” she caves, in response to my expressively dejected sigh. She opens her mouth wide, clearing a route for the gobs of clotted cream, so as not to smear her hot pink lipstick.
“No!” I state emphatically. Dylan is my only link to seeing Evan, and if he finds out how I feel he will work against me to keep us apart. I make Careen promise to conceal all.
“If you go on a date with The Whimsical Popsicle, it will throw Dylan off the scent of Evan.” She swings her spoon like a pendulum to hypnotize me.
I agree to consider it, as it may buy Dylan’s distraction, and Careen’s silence.
~~~~~
We are being fitted for costumes for the ballet performance. It’s a small regional company in Queens, within walking distance from Dylan’s apartment. After taking a few classes at the school, I was offered the bluebird pas de deux from Cinderella for their next performance. I sit on the hardwood floor, sticky from soda splashed there by the dancers to insure better friction when dancing. I’m the last to be fitted, perhaps because I’m the only one who didn’t speak up and demand to be attended to first.
“What is the percentage of gay to straight men in a ballet company, in general?” I venture to ask Madame Lazarr when the others are gone.
I instantly reconsider the wisdom of posing this question; there are rumors that Madame Lazarr was twice disappointed in love, both times catching her betrothed with a man. She has remained unmarried during her thirty-year tenure as a ballet mistress.
“Why do you ask?” she barks in her thick Hungarian accent. She arches a severely penciled eyebrow. She is stacking ballet albums, rather forcibly, as if the vinyl were invincible. “Who is he?” she asks sourly, disappointed in me. “Gilbert?”
“No one in this company.”
“Where did he dance? Give me a name and the company, and I’ll make inquiries.”
The thought of Madame Lazarr making inquiries into Evan’s sexual orientation is bizarrely beyond where I’d hoped this conversation would go. My face colors, as I hesitate. She dismisses me with a flick of her wrist, as if I were a fly landed on her perfect graying chignon. I’m spared further questioning, as she is called away to the other room.
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