by Darcy Cosper
“Okay, look, can you meet me tonight for a drink?”
“You’re in New York?”
“Yeah, just for a couple of days.”
“I don’t think it’s such a fabulous idea to see each other.” I look at Henry, who chews on her straw and watches me through narrowed eyes. She shrugs.
“Joy, please. I need to talk to you. Just talk. I promise.”
“Don’t promise me anything.” All at once, I am exhausted. I consider crawling under the table to take a nap. “You know where Pantheon is?”
“Sure,” Topher says. “Meet me there at seven?”
“Okay. Seven.” I turn the little phone off and stare at it dumbly.
“Fresh hell!” Henry waves her straw at me like a sorceress with a magic wand. I wait for transfiguration, which is not, apparently, forthcoming. “Want another egg cream?” she asks.
I ARRIVE AT PANTHEON and find Topher seated at the bar talking to Luke. For some indiscernible reason, this strikes terror in my heart. I watch them from the front door, their faces in profile, and briefly consider turning right around and heading back out into the perfectly harmless autumn evening. Then Luke waves, Topher turns and sees me, he says something to Luke, and they both laugh, and I am trapped. I proceed.
“Hey, little gal.” Luke comes around the bar and lifts me into a bear hug. “How’re you doing?”
“Fine,” I tell him, my feet dangling. “Just peachy. Hi, Topher. Want to sit down?”
OVER DRINKS IN a small corner banquette, Topher reveals to me the source of Ora’s ire at Theo and Angelina’s wedding: Two weeks earlier, she’d arrived in Los Angeles to help the bride with prenuptial arrangements and anxieties. At a dinner party a couple of nights later, she was seated next to a recently disengaged Topher. They went home together that night, and the next, and the next, and most of the nights prior to the wedding. She became somewhat attached to him, as people tend to do when they have ongoing carnal relations with individuals they don’t loathe. Naturally, then, she was a touch miffed about finding Topher in the arms of another woman. More than a touch. She had, Topher said, thrown an epic fit, wept and raged, referred to her history of betrayal and abandonment by men, her vulnerability, her deep feelings for him, et cetera. (She did not, as far as I can tell, reveal to him any of her history with me. I leave him unedified.)
As he tells this story, Topher sounds baffled but sympathetic. I am baffled, too—by the fact that any man would fall for such a routine, or that any woman would be shameless, desperate, or stupid enough to stage it. To me it seems totally counterintuitive. I don’t have much of an opportunity to indulge my delicious scorn, however; it liquefies into dread as Topher describes how Ora unleashed her fury in my direction, threatening to reveal the indiscretion to Gabe unless Topher promised he would never see me again.
“So did you?” My voice quakes. I can’t decide which of the four of us I dislike most at this particular moment, but I suspect it’s me.
“Did I what?” Topher frowns.
“Did you promise?”
“No. Of course not. I told her that I understood how she might feel threatened, but that you and I were old friends, and that if she caused you any trouble, it would be over between her and me.”
“Oh. Right. Of course.” So I’m probably safe for now, though this puts me in the rather awkward position of wanting Ora to find happiness with Topher. Though if she has or hopes to, why is she still pursuing Gabe? It’s not altogether inconceivable that she has a predilection for men I’ve dated. I fleetingly consider negotiations: the phone numbers of my exes, a list notable for its brevity, in exchange for the surrender of my current beau. “So, Toph. How are things between you and Ora? Is it going well?”
“Fine, I guess, for what it is. She’s beautiful, she’s bright, and she’s completely insane, which has its charms. The sex is phenomenal. I don’t know how much of my interest has to do simply with how different she is from Evelyn. Very, very different. But I just broke an engagement. I don’t want to get serious with anyone, and she obviously does. And I’m in L.A. and she’s here.”
“Is that why you came to New York, to see her?”
“No, to meet with a producer. I haven’t seen her. I didn’t even tell her I was coming. I guess I wanted to set things straight with you first, and—I don’t know. I’m sorry. What a mess. I’m a mess. Sometimes I wish we were back in high school.” Topher gives me a slightly melancholy smile.
“Hey,” I say. “This is no time to get nostalgic.”
“I’m not.” He laughs. “I swear. But—this is all pretty funny, isn’t it?”
“Funny ha-ha? Or funny like something’s-rotten-in-Denmark funny?”
“Funny like isn’t-it-a-crazy-mixed-up-old-world funny.” He gives my chin one of those gentle, ironic mock-punches. “What-wacky-stuff-friends-go-through-together funny.”
“Well, well. Isn’t this cozy?” a female voice coos. We look up. Ora Mitelman is standing at our table, fangs out and fire in her eyes.
“Ora.” Topher stands, flustered, reaching for her. “Hi. What are you doing here?”
“I’m here rather often.” Ora draws back, gives him a subzero stare. “As your good friend Joy knows perfectly well. So nice of you to let me know you were coming to town, Christopher. We really must stop meeting like this, you know, the three of us. People will talk. Who knows what they might say? You can imagine, though, can’t you, Joy?”
“You know what?” I can’t look at either of them. “I’m going now. Lovely to see you both. Have a great evening.” Getting up from the table, I trip over a chair, steady myself, and depart the restaurant with as much dignity as I can muster, which is approximately none.
WHEN I GET HOME, Gabe is on the sofa with the dog; they are watching a television program about Tibetan monks in exile. I sit between them and stare blankly at the TV.
“Hi.” Gabe jostles my knee with his. “You look like you had a rough night. What’ve you been up to?”
“Aggh.” What can I possibly say at this point? Everything. I could say everything, I could tell all, I could clear the air, I could confess, I could tell the truth, I could ask for the truth. I could. Ora will probably be calling to tell him her version anyway.
“What does ’aggh’ mean in this particular situation, exactly?”
“It means… I had dinner with Henry.”
“Henry.” Gabe peers into my face, confused, compassionate.
“Yeah. She just kind of wore me out with wedding talk, that’s all. I’m going to go to bed, I think.”
“Okay.” Gabe gives me a forehead kiss. “Sweet dreams. I’ll join you in a bit.”
“Thanks.” I give him a little wave and head for the bedroom. Walking down the hall, I consider the implications of what I have just done. I consider my options, my obligations. I have just, in no uncertain terms, lied. It was a small lie, but there it is, a lie. And I am suddenly, perfectly, and hideously aware that it crowns, like a sad tiara, a season of lies of omission, lies of neglect, silence, misdeeds and deeds undone, willful blindness, denial—lies, damn lies, and so on.
Peekaboo. Where’s Joy? Where did Joy go?
Saturday, September 15, 200—
AFTER MANY ICILY GRACIOUS discussions between Gabe’s mother and mine, our engagement party this evening has been organized to take place at my mother’s apartment on the Upper West Side. So here I am, at ground zero of all my childhood traumas and delights, surrounded by cherished friends and family who have gathered to celebrate and sanctify this singular and unexpected occasion of my betrothal to Gabriel. And I can’t think of anywhere I wouldn’t rather be.
It’s an unseasonably warm evening and the air-conditioning in here is prehistoric and there are a hundred overdressed people crushed into the living room and dining room, crammed into the den, clustered in the hallway, sweating and flapping their hands at their faces and drinking vodka tonics like they were going out of style. And almost everyone seems to have gotten up on
the wrong side of bed; the general mood ranges from imperceptible edginess to barely contained hysteria. My mother and Mrs. Winslow are both perched near the front door, vying for hostess-greeting-guests position, the pretense of cordiality wafer thin and getting thinner as the evening wears on. Henry and Delia are in the kitchen conducting a fierce whispered argument that rises every few minutes to shouts that the other guests pretend not to hear. Josh and Ruth are doing their level best to make conversation with Gabe’s youngest sister and her new, incredibly uptight husband, and failing spectacularly. My mother’s husband, Howie, has inadvisedly decided to make the acquaintance of Nana and Papa, my father’s parents, while Charlotte and Burke attempt to run interference. One of Gabe’s old friends, a real estate developer with a taste for much younger women, arrives with his latest arm-charm, a scantily clad coed who turns out to be a maniacal False Gods fan; she corners Tyler and Maud by the fireplace and gushes at them about Tyler’s erotic power on stage. Erica and Brian stand fidgeting in the company of postadulterous Vassar playwright Tom Beggs, his new poetess wife, and their infant son, who wails without ceasing. My Gran chats with Charles, the wretch, who brought as his date the owner of Boîte. Gabe’s father shrinks in fear beside her as the boys camp it up, Charles putting on a full floor show for the benefit of my brother. James, for his part, oozes jealousy and makes loud, arch remarks to Max and Miel, upon whom his sarcasm is completely lost, and to Myrna and Luke, upon whom it is not. Pete and Anabel canoodle in a corner; when they arrived together, Tulley burst into tears and shut herself in the guest bathroom. It took fifteen minutes of coaxing at the locked door to get her out.
And it’s only seven forty-five.
In short, I’ve had root canals more enjoyable than this evening promises to be. I am standing in the doorway between the foyer and the living room, watching Rome burn and listening to my mother and Mrs. Winslow debate the rate of hors d’oeuvres circulation and placement of the bartender’s station, when Maud abandons Tyler to his one-woman fan club and sidles up next to me.
“Having fun?” She knocks her shoulder against mine.
“Oh, sure.” I lower my voice. “What could possibly be more fun than my family and Gabe’s trapped together in a stuffy apartment?”
“Just wait ’til the wedding. This, only much more so.”
“Thanks, Maud. I can hardly wait.”
“What are friends for?” She puts an arm around my waist.
“I’m glad you’re here, anyway,” I say. “See if you can keep me from insulting anyone, okay?”
“I’ll do my best. Hey, look. Joan decided to show up, finally. And—oh, my god. Isn’t that—?”
It is, in fact, none other than Ora Mitelman, who stands near the front door with Joan, greeting my mother and Mrs. Winslow. I resist the impulse to begin a horror-movie screaming fit, only because this scenario defies belief. It simply can’t be happening.
“That is the girl from that awful night at Pantheon, isn’t it?” Maud whispers. “You didn’t invite her, did you?”
“Yes, and emphatically no,” I whisper back, watching them come toward us.
“Hello, darlings.” Joan gives me a sleepy smile as she approaches, flaps her hands at Maud, and leans against Ora, who returns Maud’s murderous gaze with a defiant stare and a raised eyebrow. “Sorry we’re so late. I hope you don’t mind that I brought a friend, Joy. Bix left town this morning. I don’t know where. Or when he’s coming back. Isn’t that funny? And Ora—do you girls know Ora? Have you met? Ora, this is Joy and Maud.” The three of us manage curt nods. “Joy’s getting married, too. It’s her party.” Joan closes her eyes slowly, opens them again, struggles to bring us into focus. She sways a little on her feet. “Anyhow. Ora came over to talk with me because I was feeling a little low, didn’t you? She’s such a good friend. And I asked her to come along because I didn’t want to come all by my lonesome. Are you having a good time, Joy? Is it a nice party? Look. That man is serving drinks. A drink would be nice. Ora, darling, let’s go fetch us some drinks, shall we? Girls, we’ll be right back, okay? Don’t you go anywhere. There’s Miel. Hello, Miel!” Joan revolves in slow motion and heads for the living room. Ora moves to follow her, but Maud catches her by the wrist, and pulls her back.
“You’re really a piece of work,” Maud hisses at her. “How dare you show up here?”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t make a scene.” Ora removes herself from Maud’s grip. “Look at her. She’s high as a kite on who knows what, and I couldn’t convince her to just stay at home. What did you want me to do—leave her by herself in this state? She’d probably take a walk out the penthouse window.” Before Maud can reply, Ora turns and hurries to catch up with Joan, who moves through the crowd like a cheerful somnambulist. We watch in silence from the doorway to the living room as Joan accepts a glass of something from the bartender before drifting over to Max and Miel. Gabe, noticing the new guests, moves to greet them.
“Well.” Maud looks at me sideways.
“Well,” I tell her. “Well, well, well.”
An elevation of voices from the kitchen distracts us; after a moment Henry stomps through its swinging doors and marches in the direction of the bedrooms at the rear of the apartment. Delia comes out after her and rolls her eyes at me.
“How are you holding up?” she asks us as she passes. We decline comment, and she continues on into the crowded living room.
“You say the wedding’s worse than this?” I ask Maud.
“Maybe you should elope.” She shakes her head. “What do we do now? Should we have Ora kicked out?”
“I, myself,” I tell her, “have always been a champion of avoidance and denial. I see no reason to vary that course today.”
“Your call.” Maud shrugs. “I’m going to go spill a lot of something on her.”
“Knock yourself out. Let’s keep an eye on Joan, too. Probably best if she doesn’t add too much more to whatever chemical mix she’s got on at the moment.”
“Good thinking, Jojo. Come on, let’s go mingle.”
I commence to make the rounds, mouthing hellos and waving to people, returning their forceful handshakes, embraces, smiles. After a half hour of awkward introductions, obedient small talk, and discussion of my engagement ring, which seems to go on for an ice age, I hear someone call my name and turn to see Joan swaying toward me, smiling angelically. I smile back and remove from her hand a glass containing the dregs of what I estimate to be her second or third double bourbon. She doesn’t notice.
“Darling,” she says. “Bathroom?”
“Take a right. Second door on your left. You okay?”
“Mmmmm-hmmmmm.” She trails her fingers across my cheek as she continues on.
Across the room, Ora is chatting with Tyler and Gabriel, and as I watch them, I remember what she said to me last night: People will talk. Who knows what they might say? What, indeed. Well, with no further Topher-related incentive to keep silent, they might unfold a sordid tale of my misdeeds to my unsuspecting fiancé, is what. Thereby turning him into my ex-fiancé and Ora’s new boyfriend. If he isn’t already. I feel a sudden and urgent desire to lie down in the middle of the floor and take a nap, or to burst out laughing, or to gallop out of the party and down the street waving my arms in the air and wailing like an entire Greek chorus.
I decide instead to keep an eye on Joan, and trot through the hall to the guest bathroom.
“Joan?” I tap at the door. “Are you okay?”
“Go away, please,” Tulley’s voice comes faintly from within.
“Tulley, is that you? I thought you’d decided to come out earlier. Not that I blame you if you’ve changed your mind. Want company?”
“Go away, please.”
“Right. Okay.” I lean my head against the wall for a moment, then continue down the hall to the master bedroom, where I suspect Joan has gone in search of an unoccupied lavatory. I push the bedroom door open. It takes me a full five seconds to register that I am not alone; a m
an and a woman half-on and half-off the window seat opposite the entrance are locked in a very active and very passionate embrace. It takes a bit longer to register that the man and woman in question, who have not yet noticed my presence, are, respectively, Luke and Henry.
“Aggh,” I say. They leap apart. We stare at one another. I begin to back out of the room.
“Joy, wait,” Henry calls.
“Nope. Bad idea.” I lunge backward through the door, race unseeing down the hall toward the party, and run smack into Gabriel.
“Hey, I was just coming to look for you.” He catches and steadies me. “Are you okay?”
“In a manner of speaking, no. Not really.” I look up at him, feeling suddenly that I have reached critical mass and will spontaneously combust, very soon, if I don’t do something about it, if I don’t find some way to sort out all these conflicting thoughts that fill my head with this roaring, deafening white noise. “Oh, Gabe. We need to talk.”
“Hey. Red.” Gabe puts his arm around me. “Take it easy.
We will. Take a deep breath. Whatever’s going on, it’s going to be fine. I promise.”
“You do? You promise?”
“Yes, I do.” He laughs. “So relax. Let’s try to have some fun here. However unlikely that seems.”
“Ah!” Ora is coming down the hall toward us. “There you are. The couple of the hour.” She places herself ever so slightly between us. “Gabe, do you have a moment? Joy, you don’t mind if I borrow him, do you? We need to talk.”
Before I can respond to her—and I have no idea what I’m planning to say anyway, and my heart is in my throat, so it’s just as well—my brother Josh appears in the hall, waving at us.
“Joy! Gabe!” he says. “Get in here, you guys. James is going to make a toast.” The three of us turn and stare at him. “Come on! They’re coming,” Josh calls into the living room, and as we walk in, Gabe and I side by side, Ora slightly behind us, the guests stand and applaud. Ora brushes past us into the room, throwing a glance at me over her shoulder. I feel very much like fainting, but two days in a row seems excessive. Someone gives me a glass of champagne. James, standing on an ottoman, whistles for attention.