Page Turner Pa

by David Leavitt

  She left. To her surprise, Pamela found she was still standing in exactly the same spot where she'd been interrupted. In her hand the same plate on which someone else's not very good brownie, too dry, was breaking up.

  All at once she was glad she'd taken the trouble to dress up, wished only that she had gotten a haircut.

  "Well, what did you think?" Diane asked, coming up to her. "Was the meeting good for you?"

  "Oh, fine. Still, that poor woman I was talking to just now, with the teeth"—she pointed in Muriel's direction—"I must say, I do feel sorry for her. It sounds like her son's really promiscuous!"

  Diane smiled feebly, as across her own cheerful face, a tiny tremor passed. Then she said very primly, "Promiscuous is a word we don't use. It's judgmental."

  She moved on.

  Surreptitiously dashing the bad brownie into the trash, Pamela served herself up two of her own lemon nut bars.

  All in the same boat indeed.

  She wiped crumbs from her lips. I'll get rid of that tree tonight, she decided, then, saying a fast good-bye to Diane, hurried out to her car and drove home. It was eight-thirty—eleven-thirty in New York. Too late to call? No matter. They were young.

  In the kitchen, before she'd even taken off her coat, she picked up the phone and dialed Paul's number.

  Three rings.

  "Hello?"

  "Is this Teddy?"

  "No, Teddy's not home."

  "Who is it then?"

  "Bobby. Teddy's friend."

  "Oh, I see. Hello, Bobby. This is Paul's mother, Mrs. Porterfield."

  "Oh, hi!"

  "I gather Paul's not there."

  "No, he's—"

  "Practicing. I know. Listen, could you tell him I—no, on second thought, I'll try him back."

  "No problem, Mrs. Porterfield."

  "Thanks, Bobby. Bye."

  She hung up. Of course she had the other number, too. Kennington's number. She'd copied it from Paul's address book. And yet would a phone call really be adequate?

  Terrible, terrible: to lead a woman on like that, to keep her guessing. And the whole time he was...

  She moved toward the bedroom. A delicious feeling came over her: it was power. For now she could rescue Paul, and even though he would be furious on the surface, underneath, she knew, he would be afraid. And she would let him stay afraid. She wouldn't tell him he was once again a boon to her. She wouldn't tell him about the woman in green, moving even now across a landscape of uncertainty to her lover of the Summit Motor Lodge, and her son of the scarlet sore.

  THE HAND THAT FEEDS YOU

  17

  KENNINGTON AND JOSEPH were trying to make love. In that commodious bed where he had slept with Paul Porterfield a week before, Joseph rooted around on top of his lover, licking at his chest until the hairs got stuck in his teeth. Under him Kennington squirmed, grimaced.

  "Ouch! Not so hard!"

  "Sorry."

  "And slide down, all your weight's on my stomach."

  "Is that better?"

  "Yes."

  Joseph licked Kennington's balls. Silence.

  "Are you all right?" he asked after a moment.

  "Fine. Just tired. I didn't sleep much on the plane."

  "Why don't you take a little nap, then?"

  "But you know that's the worst thing for jet lag."

  "Don't worry, I'll wake you before too long."

  He climbed off. Turning on his side, Kennington pulled the bedspread to his neck. "Are you still horny?" he asked after a moment.

  "Some."

  "Why don't you watch a video?"

  "Ssh. Rest. The last thing you need is to have to listen to the television."

  "But it wouldn't bother me."

  "Don't worry. I'm tired too. I'll rest too."

  Kennington closed his eyes. Through the drawn blinds the sun turned orange. A silence peculiar to Sunday afternoons in winter gathered round him, soft with the woolly gratification of arrival. Then a creaking noise interrupted his reverie. With excruciating slowness the bedside drawer was being inched open. Farther and farther it emerged, wood abrading wood, until it yanked the phone off the table. Joseph cursed; replaced the phone; opened the lotion bottle, which, being nearly empty, made farting noises as he shook it over his palm.

  After a few minutes there was a grunt. Joseph got up. From the bedroom, Kennington heard the sink run, the toilet flush.

  He was gone by the time Joseph came out again. Wondering what had become of him, Joseph put on his robe and followed a trail of light to the kitchen, where he found his friend examining some garlic he'd taken out of the pantry.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Making dinner."

  "But I thought you wanted to nap."

  "I changed my mind." He opened the refrigerator. "You got anything in this icebox of yours?" he asked, his voice going high in imitation of Butterfly McQueen. "But really, this refrigerator is a disgrace. I mean, look at this butter. It expired last year! And what's this, pray tell?"

  He plucked a desiccated carrot from the vegetable bin.

  "Sorry," Joseph said. "When you're away, I don't always—"

  "Never mind. I can still make a simple spaghetti."

  Kennington pulled a cutting board out of a drawer and started to peel the cloves.

  "I guess I must have woken you," Joseph said, sitting down on a stool.

  "You have a habit of making more noise when you mean to make less."

  "I do. I know I do."

  "So much so that sometimes I can't help but wonder if you're trying to get my attention."

  "Why should I want to get your attention?"

  "You tell me."

  "I didn't know that I did." Joseph could be willfully obtuse when he chose. "By the by, did I tell you what happened with Bernice?"

  "No."

  "Well, you remember that after she retired, I kept waiting for the go-ahead to hire a new secretary? So yesterday morning, finally, I get this memo from personnel telling me that due to 'budgetary downsizing'—that was the phrase they used—they've decided that instead of hiring someone new I should share with Peggy. Me, share a secretary!"

  "So?"

  "So! The point is, it's not really about downsizing, just like that business with the phone bills wasn't really about cutting back on expenses. It's a way of saying, 'You're not the big shot you think you are.' As if I couldn't get a job anywhere in town just by making a phone call."

  Kennington started chopping the garlic. "Maybe I'm naive," he said, "but I'd be more inclined to take them at their word. Everyone's tightening their belts these days."

  "Be careful! You nearly sliced your thumb off."

  "The knife was nowhere near my thumb." Brushing the garlic peels onto his palm, Kennington tossed them in the trash. "Are you ever going to get a garbage disposal put in? I keep telling you to."

  "You know they're illegal in New York."

  "So? You can still get them. I got one."

  "Oh, I am so tired of this!" Joseph clapped his hand against his forehead. "It's the same old trick you've been playing for years. Instead of telling me you're upset, you pretend everything's hunky-dory, and then you stick your hand into a garbage disposal, or threaten to whack it off with a knife, or—"

  "But I'm only chopping garlic!"

  "Why don't you just admit you're pissed off because I woke you up? Then we'll have something to talk about."

  "I would if I were, but I'm not."

  Joseph shook his head. "I have to be honest. I don't know how much longer I can take this."

  "No one's making you take anything." Kennington put the knife down. "Christ, do we have to have a psychodrama every time I walk into a kitchen and start to cook?"

  "I'm sorry. I'm probably tired."

  "You're tired! I'm the one who just got off a plane from Tokyo."

  "Look, let's just pretend this conversation didn't happen, all right? Turn back the clock."

  Sighing loudly, Kennington ret
urned to chopping the garlic.

  "I love you," Joseph said after a moment.

  There was no reply.

  "Aren't you going to answer me?"

  "No."

  "Why?"

  "Because you're only saying it so that I'll say it back. So that I'll reassure you."

  "No I'm not. I'm saying it because ... oh, never mind. Call me when dinner's ready, will you?"

  "I will."

  Joseph left, the door swishing shut behind him.

  18

  TUSHI STRAUSS had been married three times to three famous conductors, by each of whom she had a son. The two older boys, now twenty and seventeen respectively, lived in England, where one studied at Cambridge and the other at Eton. The third, who was thirteen and called Nicky, lived in New York with his mother. A sullen child, he spent most of his time in his room, listening to Pearl Jam CDs, picking his pimples (which his mother tried to stop him from doing), and smoking pot (which his mother didn't know he did). He remained on bad terms with her young man, whom he seemed unable to perceive other than through a scrim of apprehension and ill-concealed loathing, no matter how often the young man offered to take him to the zoo, or play ball with him, or go to the movies with him. Indeed, the only person in Tushi's circle whom he seemed genuinely to like was Kennington. And Kennington, though he couldn't explain exactly why, liked Nicky back. Perhaps it was because something in the boy's ugly duckling constitution spoke to a similar strain in his own. Nor did it matter that at thirteen Kennington had been playing Chopin études. The identification took place below the level of achievement. It was a matter of soul, of how they addressed the world. So every couple of Saturdays, if he was in town, Kennington would head over to Tushi's apartment on East End Avenue, pick Nicky up, and take him out for some sort of treat. Nicky always got to choose. Usually he wanted to eat Chinese food, of which he was preternaturally fond, then go to the movies—ideally an action movie. And Kennington, especially if he was just back from a tour, enjoyed the movies as much as Nicky did. They seemed to offer a tonic to the cerebral labor of performance. Toward mayhem—villains exploding, planes crashing—the two of them would incline their faces for an hour and a half, much in the same way that a child inclines his face out the open window of a fast-moving car, letting the wind tug his hair back to the roots. Then Kennington would buy Nicky an ice cream cone, and take him home. "Did you like the movie?" he'd always ask, and Nicky, in his glum fashion, would always answer, "It was okay"—as if to admit even the slightest pleasure would be to violate a principle or ethic. "Thank you," he'd conclude when they got back to the apartment, before shaking Kennington's hand and retreating once again to his fetid room. And Tushi, too, would say thank you, and make tea. They would talk. Kennington enjoyed these talks at least as much as he enjoyed the movies. No matter the season, Tushi's apartment lay muffled in a cottony gauze of languor that the absence of her young man, this particular afternoon, served only to deepen.

  Tushi looked good these days. Because her complexion was pale and her hair dark, at unhappy moments she tended (as did he) toward pastiness. Being in love, however, had put color in her cheeks, color that her signature black leotard and skirt only accentuated. When she was suffering, the same black leotard and skirt played horribly off her white skin, making her look like a statue of Brescian marble.

  Pulling her hair back over her shoulder, she poured tea. "So I've been meaning to tell you something," she said. "You'll never guess who I ran into just before Christmas. That well-dressed page turner from San Francisco. Do you remember?"

  Kennington, who was eating a cookie, stopped in midbite.

  "Yes, I remember," he said.

  "Actually, at the time I didn't recognize him. I mean, I recognized his face, I just couldn't place it. Then a few weeks later I couldn't sleep, and it flashed on me. He must be at Juilliard."

  "Where did you see him?"

  "At Joseph's. Remember when you were in Japan, he hosted that recital in his apartment, the one where I played with the Vietnamese boy?"

  "He said something about it. Only what was Paul doing there?"

  "Is that his name? Paul?"

  "I think so. I think it was Paul."

  "Well, he was turning the pages, of course." Tushi laughed. "A funny boy. Very formal and stiff and yet at the same time ... I'm not sure quite how to put it. Tragic, sort of."

  "What did Joseph say?"

  "I haven't talked to him about it. I only remembered last night."

  Taking another cookie, Kennington crossed, then recrossed his legs.

  "Speaking of Joseph," Tushi went on, "how are things going between you two these days?"

  "Why should they be going any differently than they usually do?"

  "Well, Richard"—she played with her ankh—"you know as well as I do that when you were in Rome, he was upset, to put it mildly."

  "Did he tell you that?"

  "Only that there was some sort of communications problem. Once you got back, I assumed you'd worked it out, since he didn't say anything more."

  "Yes, we're okay. He's okay." Kennington put down his cup. "I guess the truth is that we get along best when I'm out of town a lot, so I just ... arrange to be out of town a lot."

  "But I thought you hated traveling."

  "I do. More than ever my dream is only to make records."

  "Then why don't you? You could afford it."

  "Because if I did, Joseph and I would be on top of each other all the time. Also, he wouldn't have enough to do."

  "Of course he would. He has other clients."

  "But we grew up together. We made our reputations together. If I quit ... it would feel too much like the end of something, wouldn't it? For Joseph especially."

  Tushi, silent, stared into her tea leaves.

  "Is something wrong?" he asked.

  "Richard, forgive me if in asking this I'm overstepping my bounds, but is the thing you really hate so much going on concert tours, or being with Joseph?"

  "Tushi! That's a terrible thing to say. I love Joseph."

  "I know you do. Even so, I can't help but notice that for all your talk of wanting to quit, you always find some excuse not to. It's as if being away is the lesser of two evils."

  "But I told you, it would hurt Joseph too much. Also, he's not as young as he used to be, he doesn't have the kind of clout he used to have at the agency. Without me—"

  "He's just taken on that Vietnamese boy, hasn't he?"

  "Why are you giving me the third degree?"

  "Because what you're saying isn't consistent. I mean, I believe you when you say you're afraid of hurting him. But, Richard, don't you see that you're hurting him a whole lot more right now, being on the road all the time and having affairs and—"

  "So what are you suggesting? That we give up our—how shall I put it—extracurricular activities and become your average monogamous couple? I mean, when I'm on tour Joseph isn't exactly sitting at home making jam, Tushi—"

  "I'm not saying that he is. I'm simply saying that maybe it's time to think about moving forward."

  "But I could never leave Joseph."

  "No, I don't believe you could. And yet you could make things so intolerable for him that eventually he'd have no choice but to leave you. And if that's your plan, you've got to give it up. It's childish."

  Kennington put down his cup in annoyance. "Oh, I am so tired of being told I'm childish: 'the little prodigy who never grew up, the little boy who never grew up.'"

  "But you haven't, in certain ways. And you can't blame Joseph, either."

  "Why not? If I still think of myself as a boy, it's his doing. For instance, he used to call me 'son'—when we were in bed." Kennington glowered. "I wasn't much older than Nicky at the time. Does that surprise you?"

  "No."

  "Fifteen years old, and Joseph leaning over me and saying, 'Now I'm going to fuck you, son. Are you ready to get fucked by your daddy?'"

  "Richard—"

  "I made him do
it. He didn't want to, at first. But once he started, you can't imagine how excited he got, how excited we both got—"

  "Please keep your voice down," Tushi said, gesturing toward Nicky's door.

  "Oh, the child! Forgive me if I should offend the child's tender ears!"

  Tushi was silent. Across from her, Kennington moved his fingers through his hair with tourettic intensity.

  "Well, there you have it," he said after a few moments. "The lurid detail, always guessed at, never discussed."

  "Richard, it's not—"

  "And now I have something to ask you. That boy, that page turner. Why did you really tell me about him? Was it because Joseph put you up to it?"

  "No, of course not. Why would he have?"

  "Because..." A beat of silence passed. "Well, Joseph can be jealous. Maybe he wondered if in San Francisco—"

  "As I told you, Joseph and I have never discussed that boy."

  "I guess I have a suspicious mind." Kennington stood. "Listen, I'd better be going. I've got to—" He broke off the sentence. "You know what my real problem is, Tushi? It's that it's so easy to pretend you're doing something to save someone else, when really you're only doing it to save yourself."

  "Richard—"

  He held out his hand, as if to block her. "It's all right. Please don't say anything. I've told you too much already."

  "What have you told me that I didn't already know?"

  "I'm afraid I really have to go. I promised I'd be back by seven."

  She brushed back his hair. "I'm worried about you. Both of you."

  "Well, don't worry. Even if I'm a boy, I'm a big boy. Thanks for the tea."

  They kissed, and she walked him to the door, where he turned. "Oh, I've been meaning to ask you," he said. "Something someone asked me once. If your hands were cut off and put in a lineup, would you recognize them?"