“What’re you talking about?”
“Well, let’s see, how about telling him I write nothing but cat poems? Or, ‘Even a monkey could play that waltz!’ Or trying to make me look like an airhead every chance you get. You practically hauled me out of the loft tonight as if I’m a child. Believe me, whatever attraction he may have had to me at one time, you’ve killed it dead.”
He grins, dragging on his cigarette. We cross the avenue into the entrance to Penn Station, which is lit up like a Christmas tree. I drop some singles into the cup of a homeless man.
“I’m your big brother. Big brothers are supposed to tease little sisters. It’s an archetype,” he says. Dylan has been keeping company lately with some Columbia grad student who studies Jungian psychology.
“I noticed he asked you to spend the night,” he says, as we float down the escalator.
“He asked me if I wanted to crash on his couch to look after Sinclair,” I say, growing frustrated with the direction of the conversation.
Dylan drags deeply on his cigarette and blows it out with a roll of his eyes. “Okay, whatever.”
“Okay, now that we’ve got that settled. Do me a favor and don’t go around telling people that I write nothing but cat poems. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m trying to establish some sort of writing career.”
“Newsflash, Haley! Evan could give a rat’s ass if you write poems about cats. You could write communist manifestos, for all he cares. His interest lies elsewhere. This guy has had a woody the size of the Chrysler building for you since Day One.”
“Oh, gross! That’s disgusting. You’re disgusting!” I forge ahead of him now, past the newspaper and candy vendors toward the escalator leading to the Long Island Railroad.
“What’s disgusting about a woody? It can be a beautiful thing! Just not with my sister!” With a theatrical wave of his hands, he announces this from his high perch on the adjoining escalator. I’m halfway down the escalator, pretending not to know him.
“THIS is not like that!” I retaliate when we hit bottom. I realize a moment too late what I’ve said. I weave away from him, walking parallel but with three feet of space between us. I don’t want to hear any more. The dreamy canvas upon which are painted all my chastely erotic encounters with Evan seems suddenly soiled with some oily vile substance.
“THIS is not like that? Oh cripes, Haley. What have you done?”
“Nothing! I haven’t done a blessed thing!” I bob and thread my way through the crowds, to the board that announces arrival times of the trains.
“This is not like those novels you read. This isn’t England in the 1800s, like those Masterpiece Theatre shows, where the guy shows up at the ball and does some gay dance and in the next scene they’re engaged. This is not Jane Halston.”
“Jane Austen!” I snap, snatching two tickets from the vendor, and tossing Dylan’s ticket at him. “Halston is a designer, you big super-doofus!”
“This is New York City, circa 1988! Men don’t show up with flowers, asking permission from your father to take you to the malt shop. This guy is twenty-two years old. At that age you can barely keep it in your pants; any decent looking chick who passes your field of vision looks irresistible. I’m twenty-eight and I’m slowing down only slightly.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, that’s a boon for womankind.”
We determine our track and head for the stairs. “For someone with a genius IQ, you see the world through pink sunglasses sometimes.”
“Pink sunglasses? You mean rose-colored glasses?” I say, with a withering glance. “Most geniuses are naturally innocent; it’s part of the genius thing. And what have you got against Evan? Are you jealous of him, because he’s successful?”
“He’s not that successful, Haley. He’s made an art out of dodging his landlord when the rent is due. I have nothing against him. He’s a great guy. But he’s not for you.” We take the steps quickly to the lower platform. My embroidered mules snap like whips on the dingy slate.
“Oh, I’m not worthy of a great guy?” I adopt nonchalance, glancing down the track at the approaching train.
“He’s all over the place, Haley. He’s got some audition in Los Angeles next week for a movie. All he talks about is his career. If his TV series is picked up, that’s it, he’ll move to the west coast. He could up and move any day now, and that would be it. You’d be left in the dust. Remember the time that friend of mine, what was his name, Charlie Jerimeter, the guy who danced like he was tossing Frisbees—“
“Softballs. Pitching softballs!”
“Whatever, you were dating him and he went off to college and you bawled your eyes out for weeks, always begging me for any word of him.”
“Okay, I get it!” I roll my eyes and sigh forcibly, hoping to discourage further discourse on my failed love affairs. “So, you don’t object to Evan as a person, just his profession?”
“Men are their professions.”
“By that definition, I shouldn’t get involved with anyone in the Arts.”
“Exactly. No fellows on fellowships, and no artistes. Find yourself some doctor or accountant. I know you’re always trying to be this bohemian type with your depressing poetry and your vintage dresses and your Baby Jane red lipstick, but deep down you’re just The Girl Next Door.”
“But if I’m in the arts, wouldn’t it make sense to choose someone in the same field?”
“No, it would be insanity to choose someone in the same field. Somebody has to have an income. You need someone solid and stable, a salt-of-the-earth guy like Dad.”
“You’re in the Arts.”
“Yeah, I’m in it for the chicks.” As if to clarify, he pops a Chicklet in his mouth and winks at a passing woman in a pale blue wool coat carrying a briefcase. “I’m in it for the fun. I’m not out to prove anything. And I’ve got an accounting degree, a Plan B. But most people are in it for the attention. You and I have been so bombarded with attention from Mom and Dad for all of our lives, that we would happily welcome being ignored. Too many people are in the entertainment field to fill up something in them that’s lacking, some empty space deep in their gut.”
“You think that Evan is one of those people?”
“I don’t have a clue. I don’t know anything about his life or his motives. But just keep away from him. Trust me, Evan is not in a position to have a relationship.” He waves a finger of warning at me and flicks his cigarette just as the train bullets past us on the tracks. It screeches to a halt and we wait for it to empty, as harried passengers disembark onto the platform.
“I love the way you assume that I would be the one to get hurt. It never occurs to you that maybe I might hurt him. What makes you think I want a relationship with him?”
“Because I know you. You don’t do casual.”
“He has always been a gentleman to me,” I say.
“Look, I know he seems different, because he has those southern manners, but deep down he’s a Neanderthal just like the rest of us.”
“Southern manners? What’re you talking about? I thought Evan was from New England.”
“His sister lives in Boston. Evan is from Texas.”
We board the train and scope out a seat, one that is pointed in the direction we’ll be going in, because nothing makes me more nauseous than to be in a backward facing seat. As we settle in, Dylan scoops up an abandoned music paper, Good Times. Dylan is convinced that my sudden silence is evidence that he has successfully discouraged me, but his last comment has given me hope. Texas! I suddenly recall Evan’s inexplicable comment that I should move to Texas, where I might find relief from my claustrophobia in its wide-open spaces.
~ 14 ~
Bergdorf and Geldoff
I wake up to the sound of rain being scattered by cars, the gentle sluice of hydroplaning vehicles outside my bedroom window. Dylan and I took the train home to our parents’ house the night before. Dylan was up at the crack of dawn with Dad, repairing torn shingles on the garage that came off in last
week’s windstorm. I vaguely recall the sound of hammering in my sleep. The four of us head to brunch for my birthday, at the little place that Dad favors with the hand-carved wooden ducks lined along the shelves, and the best hash-browns in town, and afterward Dylan and Dad drive off to the hardware store for more supplies for the shingle repair.
I phone Sinclair. He answers, but all I can squeeze out of him is that he is home and has a hangover huge enough to level a skyscraper. I promise to visit him with some homemade soup, and he croaks out, “Stew would do. You are a modern day Flo Nightingale,” before he staggers the phone back onto the cradle.
I ask Mom to show me how to make a hearty stew. She accompanies me to the store, to the small village mart, where she suggests we park the car on the side street and walk down the main street and around to the parking lot, as it is a hassle to park in the small congested lot. A light rain falls sideways and gets at us, even under the big Monet umbrella that we share. Mom digs quickly through the chopped chuck, picking a good cut, and I round up the vegetables. Back home she shows me the proper amount of oil to add to the pot, how to brown the meat, when to add the vegetables, and how to thicken it with a jar of sauce.
“Does Dad dislike the boyfriends that I bring home?” I ask, chopping potatoes.
“Why do you ask?”
“Dylan says Dad is going to mutiny if I bring home one more Post Doc or another insufferable intellectual.”
“When are you going to learn not to pay attention to Dylan?” she says with a sigh, stirring the sauce.
“Dylan says I should bring home an accountant or doctor next time. Was David annoying? With all his left wing politics and high brow opinions?” David met my parents on two occasions.
“Dylan and your father could afford to stretch the perimeters of their worldview,” Mom states, with her characteristic serenity. She runs the jar of sauce under hot water to loosen the lid. “Dylan is not one to be lecturing people on who to bring home to dinner. I can’t remember the last girl he’s brought home for us to meet. These poor girls are always calling here, desperately trying to locate him, and they’re very inventive in their attempts to extract any shred of information out of me that they can.”
“He says my bookish boyfriends are being paid by Uncle Sam.”
Mom chuckles. “Well, he’s like your father. They are self-made men.”
It’s true about Dylan. He’s worked since he was twelve years old, was paying rent to my parents at sixteen, and put himself through college. He single-handedly funded the band, never borrowing a penny from my parents or a bank. But I’m not interested in contemplating Dylan’s many merits, so I change the subject.
“When you met Dad, were you ever afraid of him? I mean, were you ever unsure of yourself around him? Did he ever feel out of your reach?”
“Well, when I first found out that your father was six years younger than me, I said, ‘forget it.’ But he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He convinced me to give him a chance.”
“Dad was only twenty-two when you met. So, it’s possible that a person could find a soulmate at that young age, right?”
“Things were different then. He was just home from the war. People matured quicker then, because of World War II. But, on the other hand, women did not date younger men back in those days, so I suppose I was a bit of a maverick. And having children in your forties was rare then, too. Now it’s common. You must always go your own way in life, Haley. Make your own decisions, and do not be swayed by the opinions of others if you feel that something is right for you.”
“Dylan says that I have trouble committing to things.”
“Just tune him out,” Mom says. “You’re a free spirit, Haley. You are like your grandmother that way.”
I never knew my grandmother. She died when I was four months old. My grandfather was supposedly a stick in the mud, “thick Irish” as my mother often refers to him. He was a good provider, a bricklayer by trade, and they lived very comfortably in Boston before the Depression, but he never wanted to go anywhere or have any fun. But that didn’t stop my grandmother. According to Mom, she had a very colorful social life, with scores of friends in the theatre, male friends, too. She often took my teenage mother along, when meeting her gentleman friends at the opera.
“But maybe Dylan is right. I never finished my degree.”
“Well, if you’re unhappy with your choices, only you can change that,” Mom says philosophically and without judgment.
“There is this guy that I really really like. I’m so drawn to him, but something in me holds back. I don’t know why.”
“That may be a good thing. Women today give themselves away too easily. You cannot be too available for a man,” Mom warns.
I tell her about Sinclair and Joseph. “Do you think it’s possible to rekindle a lost love, after fourteen years?” I realize that I am not doing much of the cooking. Mom has taken over, which is probably for the best.
“Anything is possible. Perhaps the timing wasn’t right when they first met. Look at me. I tried for years to have children, and nothing happened, and then when I was forty-one along came Dylan, and you two years later, when I wasn’t even trying. Sometimes the longer you have to wait for something, the more you value it, and the greater your joy.”
Mom secures the lid on the stew, turning down the flame, so it can cook for two hours.
I ride the train into the city, securing a window seat and settling in with a book, although I can’t seem to concentrate. I catch an express, which delivers me within an hour into Penn Station, where Sinclair is waiting on the platform to inform me that we have a mission. Sinclair wants to light a candle at St. Patrick’s Cathedral for Gregory, the lover who died three years ago to the day. He thanks me profusely for the stew, which is so copious I’ve packed it into two containers. Sinclair offers one to a homeless man huddled on the street. “I’ll replace your mother’s Tupperware, I promise,” he says, finessing traffic with the moxie of a tightrope walker to flag us a cab.
He tells me during the cab ride uptown that Evan is meeting us there. I scold Sinclair for not giving me fair warning. I’m wearing jeans and my safety-blanket Flashdance sweatshirt, and the borrowed fur coat, which is doing a commendable job in this cold. I take comfort in the fact that I blow dried my hair this morning, rendering it fluffy and full, and that I’m wearing funky black shoes with a rainbow of flowers stitched over them, “even on the heels,” the hungover Sinclair manages to observe with admiration. I feel in the pocket of the coat for the little pot of red lip-gloss which I apply in the cabbie’s rearview mirror, pressing up against the glass dividing us, and maneuvering for a view of my lips.
Evan is standing, in his effortless beauty, on the steps of the Cathedral, wearing black jeans and a brown suede jacket, tucking his hair behind his ears as he turns away from the wind.
“I didn’t realize you were coming,” is my odd greeting.
“You wouldn’t have come if you’d known?”
“No, that’s not what I mean,” I stutter, realizing I’m not sure what I meant.
“Sylvia feels she is intruding upon our pilgrimage, as she has no dead lover to light a candle for,” Sinclair declares from behind his sunglasses that are mercifully shutting out the cold sunlight from his throbbing head. “I could throw myself under that bus, and then you could light a candle for me.”
We make our way into the huge cathedral that seems cast in a teal glow under a sky that threatens snow. My first instinct is to bless myself with the holy water from the fount. I can see Evan is not Catholic, as he looks at me questioningly.
“It’s holy water. It’s been blessed,” I whisper. He nods, but doesn’t partake.
“The Joseph called me this morning,” Sinclair reveals to us before the Blessed Mother.
“What? How did he get your number?”
“I’ve had the same phone number for fourteen years. I’ve gone nowhere, as you can see. I preferred to torture myself with memories, rather than chang
e residences.”
“It’s a soulful person who gets attached to places. Too many people these days are always moving on and discarding things and people,” I soothe him.
“Wow, the big fish is back.” Evan whistles, then flinches, remembering that he is in a church.
“Yes, the big fish that got away,” Sinclair bemoans.
“Well, he didn’t swim very far. You can always head downtown to Bowling Green with your bait and tackle and fish him out.” I tuck in the price tag of his new turtleneck, which is still dennisoned to the shirt.
“Perhaps he’ll return to his breeding ground, like all good salmon,” Sinclair banters.
Evan laughs at this, and Sinclair joins in, then grips his head, as if laughing were painful.
Sinclair stuns us with the news that The Joseph wants to take him to lunch on Friday. Before we can ask more, he moves to light a red candle. Evan follows suit, stuffing his dollar into the wooden box, taking up the taper and lighting a white one. We slowly walk the Cathedral, strolling behind other tourists. Sinclair pleads to sit down. He staggers into a pew, slumps back and shuts his eyes so tightly that passersby might easily mistake him to be in the raptures of piety rather than the vise of a raging hangover.
Evan and I continue to walk.
“Was she someone very special to you?” I muster the courage to ask, in the hushed vastness of the cathedral.
“Who?” He wrinkles his brow, and sets his devastating gaze on me.
“The one you lit the candle for. An old girlfriend?” We pause before an altar.
“I lit the candle for my brother. He died a little over a year ago. He was my twin brother.”
“You had a twin brother?” The notion that there were once two Evans in the world is as miraculous to me as the discovery of life on Mars, or the emergence of some undersea kingdom in the Carribean, or an apparition of a parallel universe floating above Central Park West. And then I hear, like an echo in my own ears, the insensitivity of my tone. “I’m so sorry,” I say, and something in his eyes curtails any further questioning from me.
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