Leap Year

by Peter Cameron

  “Oh,” said Loren.

  “I was thinking maybe we should move to California,” said Gregory.

  “Oh,” said Loren. She drank more champagne. A vaguely famous looking woman entered the restaurant. Who is that? Loren thought. Is that Pat Harper?

  “What are you thinking?” Gregory asked.

  “I don’t know,” Loren said. “I mean, wow—California. I’d have to leave my job. And what about Kate?”

  “You have joint custody. You could work something out, I’m sure.”

  “I don’t know as I’d want to. And what about David?”

  “What about him? How does this concern him?”

  “Well, taking Kate. He wouldn’t like that. It would be horrible. And I don’t know, you know…I like seeing him. I mean, Los Angeles is pretty far away.”

  “I think that’s good. I think it would be good for you to get away from David. Otherwise you’ll never…”

  “What? Never what?”

  “Nothing. It’s really none of my business.”

  “No,” said Loren, “tell me.”

  “Well,” said Gregory. “It just seems odd to me. Like it’s not really resolved.”

  “What?”

  “You and David. How you feel about each other. At least that’s the feeling I get.”

  “We’re friends. I mean, maybe we’re more than friends, but is that so strange? We were married.”

  “But now you’re divorced.”

  “I know we’re divorced. It was my idea. I’m glad we’re divorced.”

  “Oh,” said Gregory. “It’s just hard to tell sometimes. And I just thought, maybe if you moved away, you know, really got far away from him, you could…I don’t know, figure out better what’s going on.”

  “I know what’s going on,” said Loren. “Nothing’s going on.”

  “Okay, then,” said Gregory, “don’t get upset.”

  “I’m not upset,” said Loren, sounding upset, so she said it again. “I’m not upset,” she said more calmly.

  “Good,” said Gregory. He reached across the table and touched her arm. “I’m glad you’re honest with me,” he said. “I love you.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “I WAS SERIOUS BEFORE, YOU KNOW,” Anton Shawangunk said.

  “You were serious?” said Amanda Paine. “Good God, let’s call a press conference.”

  “Don’t be a bitch,” said Anton. “I hate you when you’re bitchy.”

  “I thought you hated me period,” said Amanda.

  “I never said I hated you. You’re such an alarmist. No, baby. I just, you know—my candle for you kind of flickered out.”

  “You have such a way with words,” said Amanda.

  “Do you think these oysters are still good?” Anton asked. “Don’t they spoil after a while?”

  “I’m sure they’re fine, darling. Why don’t you just slurp them all up? I love watching you slurp oysters.”

  “Whatever turns you on,” Anton said. He picked up an oyster and sniffed at it. “It smells funny,” he said. “Here, try it.”

  “Fuck you,” Amanda said.

  Anton laughed. “It was a joke, baby,” he said.

  Amanda picked up the platter of oysters. She took them into the kitchen and dumped them into the garbage. There was a little bit of champagne left in one of the bottles and she drank it. It tasted flat. She went back into the living room.

  Anton was lying on the floor, on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He had a bad back and often lay on the floor. When they were having their affair, Amanda had thought it was sweet. She’d often woken up at night to find him asleep on the floor. She’d get out of bed and join him.

  “So what’s the story with you and that guy?” Anton asked.

  Amanda stood gazing out the window. She had the feeling Anton was looking up her dress, but she didn’t care. Let the bastard get his sick thrills, she thought.

  “What guy?” she said.

  “The guy who was here. The photographer. Heath Bar Crunch or whatever.”

  “His name is Heath Jackson. Heath Edward Jackson.”

  “So do you have the hots for him?” asked Anton.

  “You wish,” said Amanda.

  “I could care less,” said Anton.

  “You mean you couldn’t care less,” said Amanda. “At least that’s what I presume you mean. God only knows. Actually, I doubt God knows. Anyway, I think he’s gay.”

  “Who, God?”

  “No. Heath Edward Jackson.”

  “So you don’t have the hots for him?”

  “No. And I wish you’d stop using that expression. I’m an adult. I don’t get the hots for people.”

  “Too bad for you,” said Anton. He reached out and clasped her ankle. “So why are we giving him a show?”

  “Why do you think?” asked Amanda, shaking her foot from his grasp.

  “I told you why I thought. I thought you had the you-know-whats.”

  “That’s not the way I operate.”

  “That’s how you operated with David Vaiden.”

  “David Vaiden is a great painter.”

  “So what’s Heath Bar Crunch?” asked Anton.

  A joke, Amanda said to herself. A sweet talentless goon. “He’s a very interesting photographer. You had your chance to see his portfolio, but you were too busy mooning about Paris.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” said Anton.

  Amanda smiled.

  “What time is it?” asked Anton.

  “I don’t know. About four,” said Amanda.

  “I still have time,” said Anton. “I’m serious, about going to Paris.”

  “To chase after Syringe? How pathétique of you.”

  “Her name is Solange,” said Anton. “Stop calling her Syringe.”

  Solange was Anton’s wife. When she had found out about Anton and Amanda—she had come back early from a weekend in Mustique and discovered them in bed—she had ditched Anton, and Anton had subsequently ditched Amanda. Amanda was pursuing vendettas against them both.

  It was naptime at the New York Bank for Women’s daycare center. The babies had been put in their cribs and the older children—Kate included—had unrolled their pallets, laid down upon them, and covered themselves with blankets. Kate liked to cover her head with the blanket so that she could keep her eyes open. It was also good for pretending things. Like you were in a tent, or in a cave. Or frozen in an ice cube.

  She traced the blanket’s plaid pattern with her finger, and then her finger became a car and the stripes a road. She drove from Daddy’s house down to Mom’s. She could hear Kate Wallace, who was lying next to her, make seagull sounds. Seagull sounds were made by squooshing your spit between your teeth and your lips.

  “No squawking,” Miss Coco said. “Eyes closed.”

  The light coming through the blanket cast a plaid shadow on Kate’s body. She could feel her own warm breath trapped around her face. Her finger drove down Greene Street and parked outside of Mom’s house. She liked the elevator in Mom’s house. It was like a cage. Sometimes when they were in it, she and Mom played circus. Mom was always a chimpanzee. She’d make funny noises and scratch herself.

  Miss Coco pulled the blanket off her head. “What are you doing, Kate?”

  “Nothing,” Kate said.

  “Shut your eyes,” said Miss Coco. “Go to sleep.”

  Heath and David and Ms. Mouse were eating Chinese food and watching “Nature.” Heath was sitting on the couch, and David lay with his head on Heath’s lap. Heath alternately fed cold sesame noodles to himself, David, and the cat. David sucked the noodles into his mouth while Ms. Mouse delicately and deliberately chewed up each thin strand, the way an insect devours a leaf.

  “I never knew Ms. Mouse was such an epicure,” said Heath.

  “Hold it still,” said David, meaning the noodle Heath was swinging back and forth above his face.

  “I’m hypnotizing you,” said Heath.

  David opened his mou
th under the noodle. “Drop it,” he said.

  “Wait,” Heath said. “I have an idea. Close your eyes. Hold still.” He lowered the noodle into David’s eye socket.

  “This feels disgusting,” David said. “What are you doing?”

  “Just relax,” said Heath. “It’s for art.” He coiled a second noodle over David’s other eye. “Now hold still. I’m going to take a picture.” He gently lowered David’s head onto the sofa and went to get his camera. He came back and stood over David, adjusting the light meter.

  “Hurry,” said David. “The MSG is eating through my eyelids.”

  “There is no MSG,” said Heath.

  “Yeah, sure—the check is in the mail,” said David.

  “I won’t come in your mouth,” said Heath. “Smile.” David smiled.

  “On second thought, don’t smile,” said Heath. He took some pictures. David started to get up.

  “No, wait,” said Heath. “I have another idea. Keep still.” He picked up Ms. Mouse, who was watching disinterestedly, and put her down on David’s chest, her face poised over David’s. He pointed to the noodles over David’s eyes. Ms. Mouse sniffed at them and then tentatively began eating. Heath laughed and began taking shots.

  “This is great,” he said. “It looks like she’s eating your eyeball or something. It’s disgusting.”

  “You’re sick,” said David.

  The phone rang. “Hold still,” said Heath. “I’ll get it.” He went into the kitchen and answered the phone. “Hello,” he said.

  “Hi,” Loren said. “David?”

  “No,” said Heath. “Just a minute.”

  David stood up, removing the noodles from his eyes. Ms. Mouse licked her tiny lips. David took the phone from Heath. “Hello,” he said.

  “Hi,” said Loren. “Am I interrupting something? Do you have company?”

  “No,” said David. “That was Heath.”

  “He’s screening your calls?”

  “No. I was just indisposed.”

  “Ah,” said Loren. “I can only imagine…”

  “We were watching TV. And eating Chinese food.”

  “We used to eat TV and watch Chinese food,” Loren said. “Or something like that.”

  “Did you call me to talk nostalgia?”

  “God, no,” said Loren. “ ‘Never look back’ is my motto. I was looking forward. I was wondering if I could take you out to dinner some night this week. There’s something I want to discuss with you.”

  “What?” asked David.

  “I can’t go into it now. How about Friday? Or is that a date night?”

  “Friday would be fine,” said David.

  “Good, then, I’ll talk to you Friday. Don’t hang up. Kate wants to talk to you.”

  “Okay,” said David. “Good night.” He waited a moment for Kate to assume the line. He looked at Heath. He was studiously watching the fish on the TV, trying to appear as if he weren’t listening to David’s conversation.

  “What are they doing?” David asked him.

  “Spawning,” said Heath.

  “I’m sorry,” said Loren. “Kate’s changed her mind. She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  “Why not?” asked David.

  “She’s watching something on TV. Something about fish.”

  “So are we,” said David.

  “Well, then, we’re just one big happy family.”

  “Have you talked to Lillian recently?” asked David.

  “No,” said Loren. “Why?”

  “It’s just that I saw her the other night, and she seemed kind of sad.”

  “I think she feels left out,” said Loren.

  “What do you mean?” asked David.

  “Forget it,” said Loren. “It’s just hormones. I’ll give her a call.”

  “Okay,” said David. “Good night.”

  When he reentered the living room, Heath had put his jacket on.

  “Where are you going?” David asked.

  “Home,” said Heath.

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” said Heath. “I just don’t feel like staying over.”

  “Why not?”

  Heath shrugged. He knew David had a perfect right to talk to his ex-wife on the phone, but it bugged him. He had this feeling lately that maybe he should play it cool with David, so he wouldn’t get hurt. He had to figure it out. “It’s no big deal. I don’t feel like talking about it.”

  “That’s real helpful,” said David.

  “I’m sorry,” said Heath. “I know I’m being a jerk. I’m just in a bad mood. I just want to go home.”

  “But you were in a good mood just a minute ago,” David said. “Was it something I said to Loren?”

  “No,” said Heath.

  “Then I don’t get it,” said David.

  “I know,” said Heath. “I mean, neither do I.”

  CHAPTER 7

  THROUGH THE CRAZED horizontal windowpanes of the NoHo Star, Loren was watching people walk to work. It didn’t seem to be raining out, yet everyone was carrying umbrellas. They all must have been a little asleep still and had not noticed the rain abate. Her waiter approached with the coffee pot, offering refills, and Loren accepted even though her mug was three-quarters full. She accepted for the luxury of it, for what it implied: She was in no rush, she was a free woman, free to linger over coffee. So she would be late for work. So she would miss the Tuesday Morning Management Meeting. Ever since Gregory had implanted the notion of Los Angeles in her mind, it had blossomed there, a sunny oasis, and she had spent her recent days in rainy, gray New York like a tourist. She would look about her—now at breakfast, later on the subway, or crossing 57th Street—and say to herself, This is New York, this is me in New York, trying to be aware of the city in a way only a visitor can be, really seeing things, and wondering, am I happy here?

  ***

  “Wait up!” called Tamra, the receptionist at the Margaret Sanger Medical Cooperative Clinic. “Judith, you have some massages.” Tamra always called messages massages. She called everything the sexiest thing she could think of.

  Judith accepted the pink slips. She was between patients and had gone out to get some yogurt and Evian. In Pennsylvania she would have died before paying a dollar for a bottle of water imported from Switzerland, but here in New York she didn’t resist.

  She returned to her office and scanned her messages. Two were from patients canceling appointments, the third was from Henry, the last name looked like Fank—who could that be? Well, there was only one way to find out. She dialed the number, which was answered by a vaguely familiar male voice.

  “Hello,” said Judith. “This is Doctor Judith Connor. Is Henry—I may have this wrong; I’m sorry—Fank there?”

  “Hello, Doctor Connor. This is Henry Fank. Thank you so much for returning my call. It is very kind of you.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Judith. Who is this person? she thought. “What can I do for you?” she continued.

  “I don’t think you remember me,” Mr. Fank said. “May I refresh you?”

  “Please do,” said Judith.

  “We met in the park. The Central Park, in Manhattan, last week. We did some chat together—do you remember? And watched for birds.”

  The man in the park. The incredibly white teeth.

  “Of course I remember,” Judith said. “Could I ask you how you got my phone number?”

  “You had told me the place of your work. This Margaret Sanders Clinic. And I call directory information, and they tell me its number.”

  “I see,” said Judith.

  “I call to see…to ask you if, well, perhaps you like music? Is that true?”

  “Yes,” said Judith. “I like music.”

  “Do you know of Ravi Shankar? He is an Indian musician?”

  “I’ve heard of him,” said Judith.

  “He plays a concert next week—on the eleventh of May, at Alice Tully Hall, and I wondered if you might be happy to come t
o hear it with me?”

  “Oh,” said Judith.

  “Am I being rude in asking you?”

  “No,” said Judith. “It’s just that…”

  “Well, perhaps you must think about it? Maybe you do that, to think about it, and then call me back? Or I could call you?”

  It is all well and good to meet a pleasant man in the park, Judith thought, but it is quite another thing to, well, to let things progress. Not when one is a married woman of a certain age; not in New York City in 1988. No, thought Judith, definitely not. “I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to join you,” she said. “It was very kind of you to ask me, though.”

  “Oh,” said Henry. “I’m so sad. I had hoped…”

  “I’m sorry,” said Judith.

  “Perhaps another time? Could you join me another time? You see I have a subscription.”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Judith. “Good-bye.” She hung up and discarded the pink piece of paper. She sipped her Evian. She thought of Leonard far away, in India. Ravi Shankar, she thought, how funny…what a coincidence. Perhaps it is a sign? And then perhaps I am being an alarmist; what danger is there in a concert? None. This is my year to do things, she reminded herself. To have fun. To meet people and go places. I do not want to return to Ackerly with any regrets. She leaned down and retrieved the pink paper from the garbage. It was stained with coffee yogurt, but the telephone number was quite legible. It marched itself boldly across the page, and Judith found dialing it delightful.

  Lillian’s law of health clubs was this: Never join. Several times throughout her somewhat sedentary past she had forked over exorbitant sums of money to become that privileged thing—a member—only to discover that once she could have it all, do it all, see it all, it all lost its allure. No, never join, Lillian realized. Keep moving, like a shark. Move from free-trial class to free-trial membership, from Nautilus to free weights, from low-impact to top-volume.

  Tonight she had talked Loren into a free-trial aerobics class at Tomorrow’s Bodies, a New Age fitness salon. The class was very strange. It involved guttural chanting and a lot of sitting perfectly still but visualizing yourself in hysterical motion. This was called telekinetic exercise.

  “Well, that’s my kind of exercise,” said Lillian, après, in the locker room. “Except when we were supposed to touch each other. That was gross.”