by Lisa Tuttle
“I've been feeling like that. Feeling I need to make a move. But it's hard to know what to do.”
“Don't go to India.”
She smiled and shook her head.
“Tell me about your writing. You've said hardly anything about it. What do you write? How did you begin?”
She shrugged dismissively, but gave him an honest answer. “I wanted to be a poet when I was very young, but I kind of gave that up in college—there was so much bad poetry being published in all the little magazines, and nobody really cared about it. I got depressed. I didn't even want to try to compete. I wrote prose instead. Stories. Little fairy tales, mostly. I sold one to a science fiction magazine the year I graduated, and a few others here and there over the years. And then one story just got longer and longer until it became a book—that was my children's book. Young adult, really. It's a fantasy. I've written a second one but I'm still waiting to hear from my publisher about it—I think I'm going to want to rewrite parts of it no matter what she says. And I've got an idea for another one, but I'm not sure it would be suitable for children. It might just be a regular novel. Or an irregular novel.” She laughed uneasily. Her voice suddenly sounded loud and blaring to herself, too loud, boastful. She hoped he didn't think she was egotistical, or trying to impress him. “There's not a lot to say about writing. I do it, it takes up a lot of my time—sometimes, it seems to be the most important, dominating fact of my life, but it's like a dream, it goes on mostly inside my head, it's very personal. I spend hours and hours dreaming these stories, but there isn't much I can say about the process.”
“I know,” he said, meeting her eyes. “I know. That's exactly how I feel. Exactly.” They went on looking at each other for what might have been a very long time, or no time at all.
It was nearly midnight when she dropped him off in front of the Driskill Hotel.
“I'll see you tomorrow,” he said, with a warm look, and got out of the car. She watched him walking away, waited until he was out of sight before she pulled away from the curb.
She had stopped drinking hours ago but was drunk with happiness, the sound of his voice still ringing in her ears. She could no longer remember if Graham Storey was as she had imagined him or not—he was real now. But she didn't feel sad about leaving him because she still felt she was carrying his presence with her.
The rented house she shared with Melinda Akers was dark when she pulled into the driveway, and she felt a moment's disappointment that she wouldn't be able to tell her housemate about the evening's adventure. Not that Melinda would understand exactly what it had meant to her, but it would be nice just to say his name out loud to someone else.
As she let herself in and made her way through the dark, quiet house, she thought about calling Roxanne. She would understand, and it was earlier in California. She didn't turn on a light until she was inside her own bedroom with the door closed. When she did, she saw at once that there was someone in her bed.
The naked man sat up, pushing spiky black hair out of his eyes. “So whereya been?”
It was Jack, of course, Jack Laroche, drummer for the Dead Babies, proofreader for the Texas State Legislature, and her boyfriend for the past six months. She liked him a lot, she even thought sometimes that she loved him, but for the whole of this evening in Graham Storey's company she had managed to forget his very existence.
Ashamed of herself, even a little shocked, she got mad. “I didn't know we had a date.”
“Date?” He sat up. “God, I'm sorry. Was I supposed to meet you somewhere?”
“No. That's the point. We didn't have a date and I wasn't expecting you so I made other plans and—”
“Ahh, that's okay.” He patted the blanket. “Come on to bed. I'm not mad at you, honest. You missed one helluva good dinner, cooked by yours truly, but that's okay, Melinda and her Big Guy were mighty appreciative. And if you're a good girl, I'll—”
“Why should you be mad at me? We didn't have a date, I didn't ask you to come over and cook for me. I can cook for myself.”
“Opinions differ on that score. Anyway, it doesn't matter.”
“It does matter. This is my room, in case you've forgotten. I live here; you don't. Who invited you into my bed?”
She knew as she saw his face tighten with hurt that she was being unfair.
“I didn't know I needed an invitation.”
“Look, we're not living together, right? We're not married. You don't have this automatic claim on me whenever you feel like it. I don't like being taken for granted.”
“I don't take you for granted.”
“No? What's this, then? You come over, I'm out, so you invite yourself to spend the night.”
“Why not? You never had any objections to sleeping with me before. I'm not going to force myself on you—we don't have to have sex just because I'm in your bed—even if we always have. If you want to stay up late I'm not going to complain.”
“You're not getting it.”
“What? You want us to go back in time? You want us to start dating again? I thought you hated dating.”
She fidgeted uncomfortably. “It's just . . . what if I want to go do something by myself?”
“Go and do it.”
“I don't mean now.” She couldn't call Roxanne to tell her about Graham with Jack in the next room. “I mean, I don't think you should just assume that we're going to see each other, be together, sleep together, every night.”
“I don't. I haven't been coming over here after my gigs, reeking of beer and cigarettes and trying to crawl into bed with you, have I?”
She felt suddenly very tired. She wanted to go to bed alone but she couldn't bring herself to throw him out. There hadn't been a car parked in front of the house, so he must have hitched or taken the bus. It would be a very long, dark walk home for him
“It's just—look, I'm exhausted, and I was expecting to crawl into bed and go straight to sleep.”
“I ain't stopping you.”
“I know.” She didn't move. “Look—tomorrow night—I'm going to a poetry reading on campus.”
“And you don't want me to come with you.”
“You'd hate it, you know you would.”
“Are you going with somebody else?”
“No.”
“Well, what time is it over? We could do something after, go to a late movie at the Dobie or hit some of the clubs—”
“No. Just forget tomorrow night. I'm busy tomorrow night, that's all.”
“And I've got a gig on Saturday. So do we see each other on Sunday? Can I have a date with you on Sunday?”
“Yeah, sure, why not.” She began to undress.
“I'll come over as soon as I get up, that'll be lunchtime. We can take a picnic to Zilker Park, maybe borrow somebody's dog and a Frisbee and have an old-fashioned good time.”
“Okay.”
“I'm sorry I made you mad. I didn't mean to take you for granted. I'd never do that; I know I'm only here on sufferance.”
“Oh, Jack, shut up.” She tried not to look at him as she finished undressing; she didn't want to catch his eye. She pulled on her kimono and went down the hall to the bathroom, thinking about the man in her bed, comparing him to Graham. She liked Jack a lot, she found him irresistibly sexy, but there was no magic. And how could you have love without magic? She'd had sex with seven men and had applied the word “love” to three of them, although always uneasily. She knew, intellectually, that what she had felt for Alex Hill in high school had been only an adolescent crush, a fevered fantasy briefly made flesh, but it still seemed more real to her than anything that had happened since. Her reunion with him in college had ended up being little more than a one-night stand, and after graduation, although they had kept in touch with occasional phone calls, neither had made any effort to build or sustain a relationship. It made her sad sometimes, but she knew it was sensible to let go. The Alex Hill she'd been in love with had never really existed.
She was hoping Jack woul
d be asleep when she got back, but although he was lying still with his eyes closed, she knew he was awake. The sight of his long, smooth back and the warmth of him as she slipped into bed aroused her. Her feelings had been at such a pitch all evening, she longed for physical consummation. But making love with Jack was out of the question; it wouldn't be fair to him.
Neither was it fair to him to go to sleep without a word, a kiss, a hug to let him know it wasn't his fault and she wasn't angry. They had never slept together without first making love, and it seemed wrong that the first time should be in the wake of a quarrel.
Just to let him know she wasn't angry, she moved closer, put her arms around him and kissed the knob at the base of his neck. She snuggled up against him and closed her eyes, meaning to sleep, but he felt so nice, she couldn't seem to stop herself rubbing against him and kissing his back and shoulders.
They ended up making love, of course, and she fell asleep blissful, mindless, satiated.
She bought a ticket and went into the auditorium like anyone else, like a stranger, and took a seat in the front row. When Graham Storey came onstage, wearing a white, open-necked shirt, dark blue corduroy trousers, and a dark blue jacket a little too small for him, he was a stranger until he looked at her. When their eyes met, a shiver went through her and she knew they would make love that night.
She felt embarrassed as soon as she had written it. Adolescent stuff, making magic, trying to anticipate and by anticipation control what would happen—let it be. She pressed the delete key and watched her words unbecome, swallowed by darkness. Then she turned her mind to what she was supposed to be writing: a piece on alternative medicines. Except that it wasn't, really; her brief was to praise physicians and to convince anyone who might be considering consulting a homeopath, curandera or other unlicensed practitioner to forget the idea. Lots of quotes from doctors and a few carefully worded descriptions of the loopier claims made by proponents of various methods. She had all the details, she knew what was wanted, she just couldn't bring herself to write it. Doctors traded on the faith of their clients just as much as the faith healers did. She thought that homeopathy sounded like a ridiculous pseudoscience, but if it worked for some people, then it worked. There was no sense in doubting that, or in chipping away at people's belief systems. You had to believe in something in order to get well, and if it worked, did it really matter whether it was pills you believed in, or God, or massive doses of vitamins, or the laying-on of hands? It mattered to doctors, of course, fearful of losing paying customers, but she was tired of being an apologist for doctors. This was one of those times when she was sick of her job. Often she enjoyed writing to order, thought of it as something like a crossword puzzle, satisfying but unimportant, but sometimes the spirit rebelled. She decided to take an early lunch break. Maybe if she rethought the piece she could come up with a way of writing something she wouldn't feel ashamed of which would still satisfy the people who funded the journal . . . or maybe she could just put it aside for a couple of months. In a couple of months she might be gone; she could have a different job in a different city, and this would be a problem for someone else.
On her way to lunch she stopped off in Scarborough's and bought herself a new perfume. She didn't wear makeup and felt embarrassed by overtly sexy clothes; scent was the only feminine magic she allowed herself. This one was called “Paris.” There wasn't one called “London” or she would have bought that.
Graham wore the white, open-necked shirt she had imagined, but his aged corduroys were an unpleasant mustard color, a color she couldn't imagine anyone buying from choice. She wondered if he was completely indifferent, or color-blind, or if he had some superstitious investment in the suit, perhaps bought for him by someone else.
His shoulders were hunched when he came onstage and he looked around shiftily. Then he saw her. His posture immediately changed for the better, and as he caught her eye he winked.
She spent the next forty minutes in a haze of blissful, sexually charged hero-worship. Sometimes she closed her eyes, just letting his voice play on her nerves. In accent and cadence it reminded her of John Lennon. It was the voice of the Beatles, magic from her childhood, almost as familiar and loved as her father's voice had been, and just as long lost.
When she allowed the content of his words to register, that, too, moved her, because it was already, most of it, the well-known poetry she loved.
After the reading she felt shy, deeply moved by him, and she hung back, afraid to approach until, as the autograph seekers began to melt away, he beckoned her to him, and said to the small group of people who remained, “This is my friend Agnes Grey.”
Lynne, the only other person she knew, did not look at her. She recognized another member of faculty, Dr. Jones, who smirked and said, “Ah, Miss Grey, the famous Miss Grey. You're a governess, I believe?”
“No, I'm a writer.”
“I was thinking of your namesake.”
His assumption of her ignorance irritated her. “I know that. She was a writer, too.”
“A writer? Well, of her own tale. But chiefly a governess, I think.”
“Jane Eyre was a governess. Agnes Grey only worked as one for a little while. She did other things to earn money, like writing for the penny dreadfuls, and of course she had all sorts of adventures.”
He frowned over his smile. “I don't remember any of that. I always thought it was a dreary little book, myself.”
“Dreary! It was my favorite book! I can still remember some of the scenes, especially the scary ones. And what about that feast scene, you must remember that, I'm sure it was an influence on Christina Rossetti when she wrote ‘Goblin Market.' And of course it was a huge influence on Daphne Du Maurier. And I think even Dracula must have been partly inspired by the Prince, all the mystery about his background, and the suggestion that he might be a shape-changer.”
“Prince? Are we talking about the same book?”
“The novel by Anne Brontë,” she said impatiently. They had been walking as they talked, leaving the auditorium in a group. She looked around for Graham and saw him in conversation with a woman she didn't know.
“You've read it recently?”
“No. I read it a long time ago. But I read it probably five or six times when I was a kid. I've tried to find it—I don't know what happened to my copy—and do you know, it's not even in print?”
“It's not really a major work. But of course someone should reprint it.”
“Grey!”
Hearing Lynne call her name she looked around. Then Graham's hand settled, marvelous rescue, on her shoulder. “Did you bring your car? Do you know how to find this restaurant? It's another Mexican one. Do Texans never eat anything else?”
“Of course, to all your questions. Let me just see what Lynne wants—”
“Me, I think.” Leaving one hand on her shoulder he waved at Lynne with the other and called out, “Meet you there! I have my trusty native guide, no worries!”
“Gray for Graham, of course. I thought she was calling me.” She smiled. “Could get confusing, both of us with the same name.”
“Surely no one calls you by your surname.” He sounded faintly disapproving.
“Well, yes, most of my friends do. I hate my name.”
“Agnes is a lovely name.”
“I don't think so. Although reading Agnes Grey did do something to reconcile me to it. I like the way it's pronounced in French, but try getting people around here to say ‘Awn-yes'—affected? Moi?”
“In Scotland girls christened Agnes are usually called Nancy.”
“Better than Nessie or Aggie. Ness is like mess, and Ag is like gag—oh, dear! You're not Scottish, are you?”
“By affinity only. My parents bought a second home in Argyllshire, before I was born. Have I told you about the bothy? It's in the middle of the most beautiful nowhere on earth, like going back to a better time. I've been going up there for holidays since I was tiny. After my mother died my father wanted to sell
it, so my brothers and I bought it off him. If I could have afforded to, I would have bought it all myself. I don't like sharing it, and I'm the one who goes up there and cares for it the most. Someday, when I've had enough of the world and all its vain illusions, I'll become a hermit and retire there.”
She thought of Aunt Marjorie's house in the piney woods of East Texas and felt an urge to tell him about it. But it was not the equivalent of his bothy, not really, and she'd only been there once. Before she could think of how to bring it up, or what she wanted to say, they'd reached her car and he'd changed the subject.
During dinner, separated by so many other people, they hardly spoke to each other, but she was happy just to watch him and sometimes hear his voice. After dinner he claimed tiredness when Lynne suggested continuing the evening at her house, but once he was alone with Agnes in her car he asked if they could go somewhere quiet to talk. “You seemed so far away at dinner. I've been missing you.”
Her heartbeat sped up. She wished she could take him home, but Melinda was having her monthly poker night, and there would be no quiet or privacy for them there. So she took him to yet another Mexican restaurant, this one a cantina with a verandah built over a small creek where they could sit in candlelit semidark drinking iced coffee and talking.
“God, it's wonderful to be in a climate where you can sit outdoors at night!” He leaned toward her, his nostrils flaring slightly. “I like your scent. What's it called?”
“Paris.” Feeling bold, she said, “I bought it today. If there'd been one called London I'd've bought that instead.”
He laughed loudly. “London! What a name for a perfume. Who'd want to smell like London? Come to that, who'd want to smell like Paris? The fumes from a million cars, with a subtle hint of the pissoir, coffee, bread, and old Gitanes.” He laughed again.