What Is Missing

by Michael Frank

  “Honestly I don’t know anymore.”

  “Well, think about it.”

  Andrew nodded.

  “And, boychik?”

  Andrew nodded again.

  “At least run a comb through that hair of yours before you go to the party. Better still, a nice shampoo.”

  * * *

  1040 Park Avenue, 10A, Charlotte texted. After 8:00. Please come.

  At nine twenty that evening Andrew found himself standing at the corner of Park Avenue and Eighty-Sixth Street. Because he hated to be hot, he often misjudged the temperature, and he was shivering in a thin cotton sweater as he waited to see if he would in fact cross the street.

  He shivered. He crossed. He shivered some more.

  In the way of a native New Yorker he made a quick assessment: prewar, interior garden, lobby clearly renovated in the past few years. Someone had made or inherited a lot of money or bought years back.

  “Ten A?” asked the doorman, who had made a quick assessment of his own.

  Andrew nodded and was directed to the appropriate elevator. He heard the party even before its doors opened and he stepped into the hall. Music; voices; laughter; a flare of indignation, which must have been feigned or exaggerated, because it was followed by more laughter still.

  What had he been thinking? Under normal circumstances he felt out of place at a party like this. And these weren’t normal circumstances. Nevertheless Andrew pushed the door open and stepped inside. Across the foyer a large living room was packed with bodies. Young bodies; his peers. Some were standing in clusters and talking, with beer bottles in hand. A few were sitting on sofas; draped was a better word for one or two of the girls. The scene was, to Andrew, impenetrable.

  The apartment was stiflingly hot. He took off his sweater.

  “Hey.” A thin young woman with red hair was standing to his left. “Let me help you with that.” He gave her his sweater; she tossed it on a mountain of outerwear piled every which way on a bench. “Benjamin’s put me in charge of the drinks too. What’s your poison?”

  He wanted to say seltzer, but knew better than that. “I’m okay.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s a party.” She sized him up. “You look like a Stella guy to me.”

  “What does a Stella guy look like?”

  “Cute, a little nerdy. Expensive Italian shoes.”

  My father made me buy them, he did not say. “And what kind of girl are you?”

  “You tell me.”

  He looked her over. “Red hair, two tattoos, and—let me guess—a vintage dress. Anchor Steam?”

  “Not bad. Except I’ve got three tattoos and it’s some kind of craft beer I’ve never heard of.”

  She whirled around to a table full of bottles and glasses, plucked out a beer, and had it open and in Andrew’s hand in a flash. “If you’re wondering where the third one is, come find me later.”

  Andrew took a sip of beer. “I’ll do that.”

  He raised his bottle to her and took another sip. So he did know how to flirt, a bit. All you had to do was pretend you were on TV.

  This exchange gave him the courage to approach the living room. It was even larger than it looked, once he was in it. The furniture was spare and made of steel, leather, marble, and glass. Some impressive-seeming abstract paintings hung on one wall, big splotches of saturated color. Another wall was lined with books.

  Andrew tried hard not to look like he was looking for Charlotte, even though he was. Then, because he couldn’t think of anything lamer than standing in a room where everyone else was talking or dancing, he wandered over to the bookshelves.

  The books were alphabetized. There was a lot of history, organized, it seemed, by period. Many of the jackets were wrapped in plastic sheaths.

  “Pretty compulsive, huh?” It wasn’t a girl this time, but a guy. Thickset, round tortoiseshell glasses, navy blue polo.

  “You could say that.”

  “It’s Benj’s dad. He’s pretty precise.”

  Benj.

  “I’ve seen someone take a book down to look at something and put it back in the wrong spot. He’ll just be walking by, he’ll see it and reshelve it.”

  “Crazy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know Benj a long time?” Andrew had to refrain from putting quotation marks around that Benj.

  “Since sixth grade at Dalton. I started in kindergarten. A lifer.”

  Andrew nodded.

  “You want some?” The guy lifted up his hand. Only then did Andrew notice that he was holding a lit joint.

  Andrew had tried pot two times in his life, a record low, he was nearly certain, for his age group. He hadn’t cared for it much on either occasion. He shrugged, hoping the shrug would be taken as a no.

  The guy handed over the joint. Andrew hesitated, took it, then inhaled. His lungs burned, but he tried not to cough. After a few seconds he sent two thin plumes streaming out of his nostrils.

  “What about you? You know Benj a long time?”

  “Never met him.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m a friend of Charlotte’s.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m her ex-boyfriend actually.”

  “Oh. Wow.”

  Andrew shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s okay. We’re friends now.”

  “Cool. Or is that, cool question mark?”

  “Cool period works.”

  Andrew’s new friend offered him the joint again, and again he took a hit. This time, when the burning in his mouth and chest receded, he felt oddly happified. That was just the word for it too. As though something outside of him was working on his mood.

  “Good stuff.” Was that the kind of thing he was supposed to say? It sounded imbecilic.

  * * *

  By the time Charlotte found Andrew, he was in the middle of the dance floor, which was the dining room with its rug rolled up and the table moved to one side. He and two girls were dancing in a small raggedy circle when Charlotte came walking toward him in a short lilac-colored dress. A guy was following her, lagging behind by a few steps.

  Raising her voice over the music, Charlotte said, “Andrew, this is Ben.”

  Ben, not Benj.

  A hand came out to pump Andrew’s with a little too much muscle. Andrew grasped it dutifully and with muscle raised (he hoped) to a parallel pitch.

  It took a moment for Andrew, his focus a little bit askew from the pot, to take the guy in. When he looked, really looked, at Ben/Benj/Benjamin, he felt instantly off in his stomach, as though it had shifted places in his abdomen.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  The two of them stood staring at each other for a minute. It wasn’t entirely because of Charlotte.

  “Well, this is a little awkward,” Benjamin said. That was because of Charlotte.

  Standing there looking at them, first one, then the other, she was the first to say it: “You guys kind of look alike.”

  “We do?” they both said at almost the same time.

  Benjamin was taller than Andrew, but they had a similar narrow build, a similar well-made nose, similar long silky hair that was at that moment running to a similarly untended length.

  “You do,” Charlotte declared. “It’s weird.”

  “That must be why.” Andrew gestured at Charlotte, trying to make a joke.

  There was a beat, long and uncomfortable.

  “Must be,” Benjamin said.

  “Okay, time for a beer run,” said Charlotte.

  “Coward,” Benjamin said after she disappeared.

  He could say that. Andrew, at this juncture, could not. Much as he agreed. The music changed.

  “I kind of don’t know what to say,” Benjamin said.

  “Ditto.”

  There was a pause. A long one. Where was Charlotte?

  The music started up. “Come on,” Benjamin said.

  They rejoined the dancers. Benjamin danced and Andrew danced. They danced face-to-face, each on his own sp
ot and at his own rhythm. Now and then one, then the other, would close his eyes, but they both peeked. They were both curious.

  It had to be the pot. The pot and the beer. The pot and the beer and the day and the dancing. Andrew felt the room destabilizing. He kept looking, and not looking, then looking at Benjamin, who kept looking, and not looking, then looking at Andrew. This went on for several minutes. Then out of nowhere Benjamin reached over and placed his right hand on Andrew’s left shoulder. What the fuck? Andrew thought. But then he found himself mirroring Benjamin. He put his right hand on Benjamin’s left shoulder. They stood there linked like this, sort of dancing and sort of pushing or holding on to each other for several beats.

  They both looked up and held each other’s gaze. A shiver whipped through Andrew’s entire body, from his feet to his knees to his balls, which rustled in his shorts, to his stomach, chest, and neck. What was this? His homo moment? His palm was so sweaty he was afraid it was going to leave a handprint on Benjamin’s shirt, but he didn’t let go, and nor did Benjamin.

  After the shiver came a feeling he could identify only as a combination of nausea and pleasure. As though a pod, tight and closed, had popped open inside him. What the—? The two of them continued like this for several bars, dancing and looking, looking and dancing.

  Finally Charlotte returned. “Cute,” she said, before distributing the beers.

  * * *

  Andrew danced with a few different girls. He shared another joint. By the time he found the redheaded girl again—Allison—he felt bold enough to ask her to dance, and then, when he was invited, he guessed that her third tattoo was on her left thigh.

  “It’s on the right. Now guess what it’s of.”

  “A serpent?” It was late. He was drunk. She was drunk.

  “A lizard.”

  “Well, I was right about the reptile part.”

  Andrew drew her toward him. They danced. They kissed. The room began to spin. All those patches of bright color on the walls began to move and recombine like chips of glass in a kaleidoscope, and then Andrew felt his stomach rebel. “I’m sorry, I think I’m going to be sick.” As graciously as he could, he disengaged himself and hurried off to find a bathroom.

  Afterward he washed his hands and face and shoved his hair back behind his ears. Instead of rejoining the party, he looked for his sweater in the mountain of clothing. Either it was too deeply buried or someone had taken it by accident or snitched it. He’d never liked that sweater anyway. It was one of his father’s choices from some expensive Parisian shop. He headed for the door in his clammy T-shirt.

  When he opened it, a man and a woman were standing there, he with his key in hand, she with a worried expression on her face, her ear cocked. The parents, presumably. But not just any parents. Parents, or at least one of whom—the father—Andrew recognized. He lowered his head and tried to slip away.

  The woman had already stepped inside. “I’m going straight to bed. If I walk into the living room, I might have a nervous breakdown.”

  The father, looking Andrew over, said, “Wait a minute there. I know you.”

  Andrew nodded.

  “From where? Not here.”

  “No.”

  “Are you a friend of Benjy’s?”

  “A friend of a friend.”

  “You’re Henry’s son.”

  “You’re Benjamin’s father.”

  They both nodded.

  “We met in Florence,” Isaac Schoenfeld said. “At Zubarelli. The shirtmaker.”

  Andrew nodded.

  “You’re Andrew, the second one.”

  He nodded again.

  “You’re not wearing your shirt.”

  “No.” He looked at Schoenfeld. “But you are.”

  Schoenfeld glanced down. “I am.” Then: “Are you going out in the cold like that?”

  “I had a sweater, but it’s gone.”

  Schoenfeld nodded. “Wait here a minute.”

  “Really, I’m—”

  Schoenfeld put up his hand. The gesture had the force of a command. Andrew stayed put while Schoenfeld went inside. He returned after a minute with a thick gray cardigan with leather buttons. “Put this on.”

  “But I—”

  “Cashmere doesn’t suit you? I remember that you had strong sartorial opinions.”

  “It’s very kind of you.”

  “Just put it on.”

  Andrew put the sweater on. It was soft.

  “Are you all right? You look a little green.”

  “Too much party for me.”

  “You’re not a drinker.”

  “No.”

  “My son isn’t either—but he gets swept up in the moment.”

  Andrew didn’t know what to say to this. Schoenfeld peered over Andrew’s shoulder. “Benjy has trained us not to ask what happens at these gatherings of his.”

  That’s wise, Andrew thought. “I’ll return this to you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t worry about returning it. Just be warm. And take two aspirin when you get home with several glasses of water.” Schoenfeld sounded like the physician he was. Then he put out his hand. Andrew shook it and left.

  * * *

  Costanza was only half-awake when she shifted in bed and felt a gumminess between her legs. An exploratory finger into her underwear came up red. Her second period since the failed cycle. And what a period too. She had bled into her underwear and beyond, into, and nearly through, her nightgown. She discovered all this only after she pushed herself out of bed and into the bathroom. She wouldn’t even bother washing her panties; she preferred to throw them out and start fresh. She showered, inserted a tampon, put on clean underwear, dark jeans, a sweater. At seven in the morning she was ready for her day.

  But what was her day to be? The apartment was quiet. Henry was horizontal. Andrew’s door was closed; if he had come home at all the night before, he had come home late and was still asleep. Justin’s door was open and his bed was empty; he was off at school, but even when he was gone he was still there somehow, in Henry’s thoughts, on Andrew’s mind. She envied them: they had each other. At least they could keep disappointing or surprising each other; at least they could keep going back for another round and another after that.

  What did she have? No father, no baby; no prospect of a baby. She didn’t even have her rage anymore. She had had that—for days—after the blood test confirmed what the golden pregnancy test had already prepared her for. As she came off the progesterone, she felt her whole body, her whole self, turn into a geyser of raw anger, most of which she directed at Henry. It didn’t take much to set her off. One evening when he came home with a nice bottle of wine and, after looking—she saw it as pawing—through a few drawers, asked her where the corkscrew was, she lit into him. The corkscrew was where the corkscrew went, she railed, in the second drawer in the butler’s pantry, which was where she had found it when she first got to know the kitchen, and which was likely where Judith, who so easily became pregnant through IVF, that Judith, had originally put it. Henry stared at her and said “Right” with such evenness, such calm, that she felt an even hotter wave of anger rise up in her; it was so powerful and so luscious that when Henry poured her a glass of wine, she just let go of the glass and watched it drop to the ground and shatter and, what’s more, enjoyed watching it drop to the ground and shatter.

  For several mornings after that, Henry set off earlier than usual for work and returned well after dinner.

  Costanza was all over the place. One day she called up Alitalia and booked a ticket on a flight for Milan that left at eight o’clock that evening; an hour later she called back and had the money refunded to her credit card. (The twenty-four-hour grace period was a godsend to such a state of mind.)

  The following morning she packed a large suitcase, hailed a cab, and headed down to her old apartment. She had dived into Henry’s world too hastily. She knew that for certain now. The time had come to move out, slow things down. She was going to let herself cool
off, recuperate in her own surroundings.

  When the cab became stuck in midtown traffic, she thought she would jump out of her skin. She had the driver leave her at the corner. She wheeled her suitcase over to the curb and stood there at the intersection of Park and Sixty-First not knowing, until she stepped onto the sidewalk, whether she would head downtown or back to Henry’s.

  She headed back to Henry’s. On foot.

  That night she made a bouillabaisse. Not a simple dish; not a dish for someone as unraveled as Costanza was. Halfway through her preparations she looked around at the kitchen, wondering how she had possibly dirtied so many bowls and plates and utensils, and how those driblets of stock had ended up on the cabinets, and why the sink smelled so strongly of rot, and a moment later she found herself crumpled on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest and listening to the pilots on the stove breathe out their gassy blue exhalations.

  Henry praised the dish lavishly. He said it was the best he had ever tasted. Her eyes filled up in gratitude. She felt in sync with the world again. “I love you,” she said.

  He smiled at her. He breathed. He ground fresh pepper into his bowl and ate some more.

  As she watched him, the forgiving, adoring expression on her face turned fierce. “You don’t say you love me back?”

  “I love you back, Costanza,” he said affectionately.

  “But you need a prompt.”

  He started to speak—then elected not to.

  “Why do you need a prompt?”

  “I just—I think we could say that it has more often been the other way around, more you who needed—”

  He ducked to dodge the soup ladle. It flew across the room, trailing a shower of tiny drops of bouillabaisse. They both listened to it clatter to the floor. Henry remained silent. Costanza stood up, retrieved the ladle, and put it in the sink.

  She sat down again and stared at him.

  Henry sat back in his chair. “What can I say? That I know you’re coming down off some awfully powerful drugs? That you’ve been through an ordeal? That your behavior isn’t, just now, that of the woman I know, respect, and, yes, love? Is that what you’d like to hear?”