by Ann Hood
Foreign bodies
JULIA STANDS AT THE stove stirring risotto for her new lover, Daniel. Risotto is the only thing she knows how to cook, and she only cooks it when, like tonight, she has just made love with someone new. She always makes a different variation. An arroz con pollo with risotto. A paella. A risotto with Parmesan cheese, with marinara sauce, with clams. Tonight, she is making it with porcini mushrooms.
She tells her lovers that she lived in Italy. Or that she is actually Italian, a disowned heiress. Or that her first husband was from Milan. Milano, she calls it. Of course, none of this is true. She changes the story each time. She adds to it, she takes things away. Her lovers don’t last long enough for them to know she is lying.
She chooses these men for their own foreignness. Like Ayo, the man from Somalia who sold her an umbrella one rainy day on Lexington Avenue, across the street from Bloomingdale’s. And Yeorgi, the counterman at a diner on Sixth Avenue where she sometimes stopped for coffee. There was Mariano, her former downstairs neighbor from the Philippines, who boiled pig’s feet for her dinner, and Andrej, the man from Poland who spoke no English at all, but who made love relentlessly.
She tells no one about these affairs. Not even Lucy. Instead, Julia pretends that she has a crush on Barry, a man in her acting class. It is unlikely that Julia would ever really like Barry. He is as American as someone can be. And as ordinary. He is a generic man—brown hair, brown eyes, a medium build. She has told him he should become a mugger, that no one would be able to identify him. That is how nondescript Barry is.
These other men are exotic. They speak with clicks and harsh c’s. They slaughter w’s. They are confused by VCRs, MTV, answering machines. Their penises are mostly uncircumcised, resting beneath layers of flesh like treasures. She asks them over and over about their countries, but they are usually reluctant to tell her. Instead, they think she will teach them about the United States. She doesn’t want to.
Still, for a time, she takes them on what she calls her Dollar Tour of the city. They ride the Staten Island Ferry, drink egg creams, eat thick deli sandwiches of pastrami. They take the elevator to the Rainbow Room, just for a glimpse of the view, then stand and watch the ice skaters at Rockefeller Center. Julia does these things with the hope that the men will reciprocate. She wants them to show her where they are from, to call out to her in a language she cannot understand, to take her places she has never been.
Daniel emerges from the shower, naked. He is very dark, with curly hair everywhere—chest and legs and back. His eyes are so dark, they make Julia think of graves.
She met him five hours ago at a bar where she applied for a job. The bar sits way over by the West Side Highway, near the Hudson River. Almost everyone who works there is from Ireland. Daniel gave her free Guinness drafts, one after the other, until she got drunk. He had to finish filling out her application for her because she was so bleary-eyed. She rarely drinks, and cannot hold her liquor at all.
It’s funny to Julia how she is never shy with these men. Their nakedness does not disturb her. Her own body does not embarrass her the way it did in high school gym classes, or even now in the open shared dressing rooms in some stores. It is not that it is such a bad body. But her breasts are too large, her hips too wide.
Yeorgi told her she had a body that was perfect for bearing children. Julia had laughed when he said that. She had shamelessly thrust her breasts toward him and said, “I’ll have your children, Yeorgi. And we’ll name them after gods and goddesses and live on a small island in the Aegean.” “No,” he said. “We will name them after all the people on Dallas. J.R. and Bobby. We will live in Queens.”
That afternoon, her last one with Yeorgi, she had tied his arms to her bedposts until he agreed to name the children her body was meant to bear Philomena and Penelope. She does things with these secret lovers that she has never done with her two American lovers, whom she hid from under the covers in the dark.
Now, Julia studies Daniel’s body as he approaches her. He is still damp from the shower. She can see tiny drops of water clinging to his black hairs. She is naked too, and she stands at the stove stirring the risotto with no shame. She is sticky from their afternoon together, but she doesn’t even think about taking a shower.
“Rice?” Daniel says. He stares at her openly.
“Risotto,” she corrects him. “With porcini mushrooms.” She picks one of the woody mushrooms from the pan and presses it to his lips.
Daniel spits it out. “Tastes like dirt,” he says.
Julia laughs at this. Sometimes she wishes that she shared these stories with Lucy. Then she would have someone to laugh with later, after the affair was over. She could say how they were both standing naked in the kitchen discussing mushrooms.
He opens the refrigerator and stares inside. He is certainly a starer, Julia thinks. Those brooding eyes study everything. Still, she is not embarrassed at what he sees when they turn back to her.
“Tell me about Ireland,” she asks him.
“Ahhh,” he says, cupping her buttocks in his hands. There’s nothing to tell.”
“I grew up in Italy, you know,” she says. “My mother was an opera singer.”
He shrugs his hairy shoulders. “Ahhh,” he says again. “You’re a full one,” he tells her.
“Full?”
He runs his hands up the length of her. “I like women full. Most women here are too skinny. Nothing to hold on to, you know?’
The risotto is done. It is creamy, perfect.
Julia smiles at him. Since she has first laid eyes on him, his five o’clock shadow has already grown in. “I thought the Irish were redheads, fair-skinned,” she says, rubbing her face against his rough one.
“I’m Black Irish,” he tells her.
He pins her against the counter, takes the pan from her hand and puts it back on the stove. That’s where it stays, hardening, until Daniel leaves the next morning.
Many mornings, Julia and Lucy watch television together, over the telephone. They stay on the phone through Good Morning America and Live with Regis and Kathie Lee. Sometimes, they will sit like that for hours, each in her own apartment, watching morning television with one ear pressed to the phone.
“I thought you’d vanished,” Lucy tells Julia the morning Daniel leaves. “I tried calling you last night about a thousand times.”
It’s already past nine. Regis and Kathie Lee are telling the audience what they did the night before.
“Yeah,” Julia says. “I was working on a monologue for class.” She lies easily, but with Lucy she always feels a little bad.
“Which one?” Lucy asks her.
“‘Uncommon Women,’” Julia says quickly. It’s what Helen did in class the week before.
“Do you want to rehearse on me?” Lucy says.
Julia feels even more guilty then. “No,” she says. “I’m not ready yet.” She changes the subject quickly. “I can’t believe we have to sit here and listen to Regis Philbin talk about his rectum.”
“Listen,” Lucy says, as if she senses something is wrong, “I’m going to get to work on this My Dolly thing. Call me later?”
“All right,” Julia says. She knows she should ask about the illustrations, and about Jasper, but she doesn’t. She examines the pillowcase beside her. There are almost a dozen small black hairs on it. “I’ve got to do laundry today,” Julia says, forgetting she’s still on the phone.
“Fine,” Lucy says. “Then I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Julia says. Sometimes Lucy is worse than a boyfriend. She gets wounded too easily, needs too much attention. For an instant, Julia almost tells her about Daniel. To tell her about him doesn’t mean she has to tell her about all of them.
But Lucy is already hanging up.
When the phone rings again right away, Julia is sure it’s Lucy. So she is surprised when she hears a man’s voice speaking with an Irish brogue.
She swallows hard. She does not give her
foreign lovers her phone number, but somehow Daniel has found it. It takes Julia a minute to realize that this isn’t Daniel. It’s the owner of the bar where he works, where she left her application yesterday. He is telling her she has the job.
“But I don’t want it,” she blurts out. She can’t go in there and work with Daniel. That’s not how she does these things.
The owner is silent.
Julia frowns. She needs money. She hasn’t worked in almost six weeks, since she got fired from the Tony Roma’s Place for Ribs on Sixth Avenue.
“I’m not going to beg you,” he says finally. “Now are you coming in tomorrow or not?”
“Yes,” Julia tells him. “I meant” She can’t think of a lie, so she says, “Is there a uniform?”
“I don’t care what you wear,” he tells her. “The day bartender is named Daniel. He’ll show you the ropes.”
“Right,” she says.
She starts to strip the bed, then stops and calls Lucy instead.
“I got a job,” she tells her. “At the Shamrock and Apple.”
“Way over there?”
Julia takes a deep breath. “There’re some creepy people who work there,” she says.
Lucy laughs. “No kidding. This is New York.”
Julia can still smell Daniel. His scent is everywhere. “I’ve got to go,” she says.
When Julia hangs up, she goes into the bathroom and takes a long hot shower. Then, she scrubs the bathtub until it shines and there are no more black hairs anywhere.
After acting class, Julia goes to the Prince Street Bar for a drink with Barry. When the waitress takes their order, Julia orders a Diet Coke.
“Last time I had a beer,” she tells Barry, “I got in trouble.”
He nods. Barry works during the day for a caterer. Sometimes he brings leftovers for the class. But now he tells Julia that he’s going to quit and try to get a job on a soap opera.
“No more good food,” she says.
He smiles at her. “I’ll cook you dinner if you want.”
“No, thanks,” she says. “Anyway, I’m going on a diet.”
“Do you know that I used to weigh one hundred pounds more than I do now?” he asks her in a low voice.
“A hundred? How did you lose it?” She tries not to stare at him too closely. She wonders if he has stretch marks, cellulite, loose skin everywhere.
“A liquid diet,” he says. “And I started swimming every day.”
Julia studies his face. Suddenly, she is sure Barry is lying to her. She believes the part about his swimming, because when she stands close to him she can smell chlorine. But she doesn’t believe any of the rest of it. She doesn’t think someone who lost all that weight would be drinking beer. But it’s something else. She recognizes something in his eyes and his voice. Something false.
Julia sips her soda. She says, “I used to be thinner. I was married once and we lived in Milano. When it ended, I kind of let myself go.”
Their eyes lock for just a flash.
She says, “I’m getting back on track now, though.”
Julia works with two waitresses, Flanna and Fiona. They tell her that there is only one other person there who isn’t Irish. “So,” Fiona says, “you’re a minority here.”
Daniel is behind them, slowly polishing the bar. She can feel his eyes on her, penetrating her skull and back. The four of them will be working lunch. Flanna shows her how to do setups, and where everything is. Then she sends her over to the bar so she can learn how to order drinks.
Julia doesn’t look at Daniel. She straightens all the garnishes instead. She stacks the slices of orange, the wedges and twists of lemon, all the time he is explaining the bar system to her.
When he finishes, she mumbles, “Thanks,” and starts to walk away.
“Not so fast,” he says. He leans across the bar and tilts her face up to his. He holds her chin firmly in his hand. “Why are you acting like you don’t know me?”
“I just thought it wouldn’t be a good thing businesswise. You know.”
“I’ll take you home after the shift then,” he says, dropping his hand.
Julia tries to think of an excuse, a reason for him to stay away from her. She glances quickly around the Shamrock and Apple. It’s an old bar, all dark and cracked. It’s the kind of place that people like to know about in New York. It makes them feel special for some reason. She thinks she will not work here long. She doesn’t like to spend a lot of time with the men she picks up. She likes to use them, sleep with them until she is tired of them. Then never call them again.
Julia always makes sure the men wear condoms. Sometimes she jokes with them. She says, “Leave all weapons at the door, except Trojans and Ramses.” Sometimes, she thinks of Looking for Mr. Goodbar, of how dangerous this could be. But mostly she goes by her gut. She protects herself from diseases and figures that’s as safe as sex with strange men can be.
She looks back at Daniel. He has his arms folded across his chest, those bottomless eyes focused straight on her. She feels a shiver between her thighs. She wants him to take her home. For him to rub his rough face across her body.
Julia smiles at him. She says softly, “If you take me home, I’ll keep you there all night again.”
He leans closer. He presses his mouth to her ear and in his lilting voice whispers what he will do to her all night.
Julia thinks that she will have to find a new job soon. That working here could be dangerous.
Julia is in bed, the telephone pressed against her ear, watching Live with Regis and Kathie Lee and talking to Lucy. They are discussing Regis’ former cohosts, longing for the days when he sat up there with Cyndy Garvey and Ann Abernathy.
“Back then,” Julia says, “we didn’t have to hear about Frank Gifford. About true love and Monday Night Football.”
Lucy agrees. “Speaking of true love,” she says.
“Jasper?” Julia asks her.
Lucy sighs. “If only he were awful. If he’d cheat on me or act like an asshole. It would be so easy to leave him then.”
“I know,” Julia says. Jasper is almost too perfect. He adores Lucy. He lives for her. “If he got a job,” she adds. “Dancing, I mean.”
Lucy doesn’t answer.
So Julia says, “I quit the Shamrock and Apple yesterday.”
“That didn’t last long.”
Julia touches the pillow beside her, almost thinking it will still be warm from Daniel’s head. “The people there were too creepy,” she says.
They both go back to watching Regis and Kathie Lee. They do not talk again until the show is over and Lucy says she needs to work on My Dolly.
“Now,” she tells Julia, “they all look like Jasper.”
“You can have them look like me,” Julia says. “I don’t mind.”
Lucy laughs. She says that she will be home all weekend. She has no Whirlwind trip.
“Good,” Julia says. “Let’s go to three movies in a row.”
“At least,” Lucy says.
When she hangs up, Julia keeps the television on. Sally Jessy Raphael has on guests who had sex with the devil. Julia pulls her blankets tighter around her and listens to the women confess.
Secret ingredients
ANDY CALLS KATHERINE AND tells her that on Fridays he works in a clinic for people with Hansen’s disease.
“Hansen’s disease?” she repeats.
“Leprosy,” he says. “I bet you didn’t think there was leprosy in Massachusetts, did you?”
“I never thought about it,” she says.
“A lot of people,” Andy says, “know that the island of Molokai has a big leper colony. And there’s one outside Baton Rouge. But they don’t think there’s leprosy in their own backyard.”
Katherine says, “Thanks for sharing this with me, Andy.”
He says, “Won’t you come back now?”
She laughs and checks the cookies she has in the oven. “With a buildup like that, it’s hard to resist. But I’
m still staying here.”
The cookies are oatmeal raisin. One of the women she taught with in Connecticut told her this was Mrs. Field’s recipe, but Katherine can’t believe that Mrs. Field’s cookie recipe is so easily available. Andy has stopped talking and for an instant she thinks maybe he has hung up. But then she hears him breathing. She tries to imagine his face, but comes up with a circle as round and blank as all those My Dolly faces Lucy draws.
“Well,” he says finally.
“Right,” Katherine tells him. “Bye.”
Sometimes Katherine cannot believe how easily she has made the transition from doctor’s fiancée to big city single woman. She has a New Yorker Diary datebook, with men’s names and places to meet for dates neatly penned in. She gets her hair cut at Bumble & Bumble. She buys special cosmetics at Kiehl’s. She buys socks on the street corner. And she is doing it all so naturally.
She feels like she is in a movie about New York and everything is passing by her in one of those whirlwind spinning collage scenes—taxi cabs, new hairstyles, handsome men. Lately, she has started to write long chatty letters to her sister Shannon and a few friends. The letters chronicle her life here. She uses lots of exclamation points and parentheses in them. And when Shannon writes back, she always starts with, “Dear Katherine, I can’t believe all the great stuff you are doing!” Katherine can hardly believe it herself.
If only Lucy would warm up to her again. Katherine used to feel she knew everything there was to know about Lucy. Now, she knows nothing about her except the obvious things: there’s Jasper, and Julia, and her drawing. That’s it. Last night Katherine had asked her, “Are you going to marry Jasper?” and Lucy had almost bitten her head off. “That’s kind of personal,” she’d said.
Tonight, when Lucy returned from her Whirlwind Weekend in Paris, Katherine would try again to get her to talk. She’d give her the oatmeal raisin cookies, and wrap herself in a quilt on the couch, and tell Lucy some big secret about herself. Maybe she’d tell her something about Andy. About how she wrote those song lyrics on the ceiling. She’d talk until Lucy started to open up. Until they became friends again.