Why We Came to the City

by Kristopher Jansma

  For her part, Irene was mainly happy that Sara had someone nice to talk to, since she still had to schmooze for work and George and Jacob could never be pried apart. She knew odds were good that Sara would try to adopt William. Sara was forever picking up strays—after all, she’d once been one of them. Irene did notice that William kept looking over at her. Looking at her and then looking quickly away, that is, as if she were the sun and he might damage his retinas if he stared too long. She waited until he stared again and raised her champagne flute in one hand.

  William looked away so fast, he thought he’d pulled a ligament. Or whatever you had in your neck. What would she think of him, leering like that? Oh. Except that now she was mouthing “thank you.” What on earth for? Oh. For the champagne. All right then.

  Sara was explaining that George had become an astronomer as he’d always planned. Well, a researcher. Well, a research assistant. But at a quite respected observatory and certainly on his way to gaining faculty status when his research was completed. She was beckoning to George and Jacob so wildly that they finally had to come over. “Jacob was in classics too. You must have been in some of the same classes!” Sara insisted, “That department was the size of a postage stamp. There were only four professors—Douglas, Jones, Khan, and oh! the alcoholic one. Wilfrey!”

  “Why do you have the 2003 classics faculty memorized?” Jacob asked.

  Sara tapped her right temple. “Like a steel trap.”

  Jacob looked at William. “Well, mine’s a hunk of Swiss cheese. I swear I just can’t remember you. Nothing personal.”

  Sara knew he was lying. Jacob did remember him, and it damn well was personal that he was pretending otherwise. Why would he do such a thing? Jacob could be a jerk when he wanted to be, and he nearly always wanted to be. Over the years she’d tried to introduce several new friends to the group, but they never lasted.

  This time would be different though. William was blushing every time he caught sight of Irene. They were perfect for each other. At least a lot more perfect than the awful people that Irene had crashed in and out of bed with lately. Sara mentally reviewed the full 2008 batting order: Connie the bitter divorcée; Sasha the former figure skater with the “mild” coke habit; “Cowboy” Lenny who had turned out to be “Cult Member” Lenny; and Anne, a Lower East Side chef with a mean streak longer than the wait at her restaurant. But now there was something softening in Irene’s stance when she turned toward William.

  “I wish I’d stuck with classics,” William confessed. “I ended up at Yale for my MBA.”

  “You make it sound like you tripped and fell into it,” Jacob said.

  Sara flicked his ear. “Ignore Jacob. He hates anyone who went to Yale.”

  “Why? Did he go to—Sorry, did you go to Harvard?”

  “No,” Sara said wryly, “Yale rejected him, and his ego never recovered. You’d think Harold Bloom personally came over and strangled his puppy.”

  Jacob was pointedly ignoring the both of them now. He and George were whispering to themselves about something or other, though not as quietly as they thought they were. William stood alone, pretending to look out the window at the falling snow, trying not to appear to be eavesdropping on the boys’ conversation—even though they were standing right next to him and not even bothering to be quiet now that Sara had walked away.

  “Here,” Jacob was saying, “in front of everybody? You’re the living worst.”

  “It’s our anniversary,” George explained, so cheerily it seemed forced.

  “It is beyond lame of you to keep celebrating all these anniversaries. Eight years since you first made out! Eight months since you took your first trip together! Five years and six months since you first bumped uglies! Are you both in middle school? It’s revolting.”

  “Can you be quiet?”

  Jacob shrugged. “We may never know.”

  “She’d want me to do it here,” George tried again, “with our closest friends.”

  Jacob snorted. “What’ll you do if she says no?”

  “She’s not going to say no.”

  “I forgot you can predict the future. You should look at my stock portfolio sometime.”

  “You don’t have a stock portfolio. You barely have a couch.”

  “I’ve still got half my bar mitzvah money in Nintendo stocks, and don’t insult the blue foldout! We bought that couch together, remember? And I’ve bumped more uglies on it than—”

  William decided it probably wasn’t a good time to offer to take a look at Jacob’s portfolio, or to tell him that his own picks were still doing better than expected, despite the Dow being down about five thousand points since October. Actually he hoped to talk to Jacob about poetry—William had done his thesis on The Iliad—but the guy showed zero interest, and so William decided it was probably just as well that he take off. He moved away toward a waiter with a tray of duck meatballs smothered in bulgogi sauce. After he grabbed one and ate it, he realized the leftover toothpick was the perfect excuse to wander toward the kitchen, where Irene and Sara were whispering about something else. They didn’t notice him as he dumped the toothpick and began looking for a napkin to wipe his hands.

  “So what did she say at the follow-up?” Sara was asking.

  “I don’t know! She checked it out.” Irene refilled her champagne flute from the bottle William had brought, which she’d reappropriated from the bartender and was hiding behind an Estelle Danziger gigantic toy nutcracker with immodest genitalia.

  Sara held her flute out for a refill. “I hope she did more than take pictures this time.”

  “They—I don’t know—I think she stuck a needle in there.”

  “Well, did she or didn’t she?”

  “She scraped it or something. I didn’t look.”

  “Sweetie, you are hopeless.”

  Irene looked crushed and laid her head on Sara’s shoulder. Sara told her that it was all going to be fine.

  William wished he had any idea what they were talking about, but before he could hear more, he noticed Jacob blazing a path across the party toward the girls, with George a step behind. William pretended to be only just coming upon them all again.

  Jacob was in mid-rant. “I’m opposed to the whole institution! I’m pissed as hell they want to legalize it for us. Not having to get married was the only advantage we used to have over you people. That and our get-out-of-the-army-free cards . . . I swear, next they’re going to figure out how to get me pregnant.”

  Sara shot George a quizzical look, and George shrugged.

  William figured this was as good a time as any for him to make his exit, so he tapped Sara on her shoulder and, faking a yawn, said, “I should get going.” He reached in his pocket to grab a business card, but before he could get there, he found his hand intercepted by something else—by another hand, divinely smooth and soft.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” said Irene. “You’ve barely said a word to me yet.”

  William felt his whole body choke up. “Hello,” he managed to say.

  “Hey, Sara, could I see you on the balco—” George interrupted.

  But Sara was busy. “Jacob, did you know William did his thesis on The Iliad?”

  William nodded. “I worked with Professor Douglas. On the paradox of fatality and divinity . . . I mean, the idea that to some extent the mighty Olympian gods were restricted by the Three Fates, that they were some kind of independent panel—”

  “Sure, sure,” Jacob interrupted. “So what translation do you like?”

  “Lattimore.”

  Jacob coughed. “Lattimore? Come on! Fagles or Lombardo, even, did it way better. Christ, I can’t believe they let you into Yale with Lattimore.”

  Irene spoke mischievously, “Hey, don’t knock my man Lattimore. Besides, I heard Fagles and Lambada were total quacks. Hopped up on bennies, translating into the de
ad of night. A trail of broken hearts behind them.”

  “Oh, you be quiet,” Jacob poked her in the side.

  “Hey,” Irene pouted, “we’ve been here how long? How about a hello?”

  Jacob bowed toward her. “My liege.”

  William felt his face turn red. He’d never known people who ricocheted so swiftly between obnoxiousness and affection. He supposed they had had a lot of practice over the years.

  He tried to return to familiar ground. “Well, Fagles makes it sound very nice, but—”

  “Nice? Nice? This is Homer we’re talking about, not a Hallmark card! Nice? My God!”

  As Jacob began a familiar tirade about society’s overuse of certain adjectives and their eventually being rendered meaningless, George excused himself to the bathroom. Nobody noticed him slip away. There was a bit of a wait, so he polished off another tasteless Wasteland while he stood in line. The drinks were blotting out the surrounding party but also having the unfortunate effect of amplifying his nervous thoughts. He thought splashing a little cold water on his face might do the trick. At last he got inside, where there was relative peace, and took three long deep breaths.

  The bathroom was all white marble and great Greek arches. It was the only room in the suite that hadn’t been redecorated with contemporary art, and as he washed his hands and splashed cold water on his face, he appreciated the refreshing, comfortable hotel art—the white cliffs overlooking a Minos seaside, a round bronze platter covered in faux verdigris, the cherubic statuary above the bath.

  Alone at last, he let his expression fall and stared into his own eyes in the mirror. His hair was everywhere, and his suit jacket was too tight in the shoulders somehow. He wasn’t used to feeling nervous and self-conscious. He’d been perfectly fine until that stupid accident—but he didn’t want to think about that, tonight of all nights. Delicately, he took the engagement ring out of his pocket and placed it on the countertop in the light. He’d never understood before. Why diamonds? he’d always asked. Seems kind of arbitrary. But now that he was looking at the ring and trying to imagine putting it on Sara’s finger, anything less seemed unworthy, impermanent. What he’d said to Jacob was the truth. He couldn’t imagine any scenario in which Sara would say no. It had been such a foregone conclusion for so long that he was now worried only about doing justice to their decade together.

  He nudged the ring with his fingertip. Would it fit? He’d measured her finger with a little piece of string one night while she’d been sleeping. But what if he’d done it wrong? The ring seemed too narrow. He nudged it again. The drain in the neighboring sink was wide open, and a deep chill ran up and down his spine. He hadn’t realized. Don’t knock it into the sink. Don’t bump it. Pick it up carefully . . . Jesus! He lowered his fingers like an arcade crane, from directly above. Even being careful, it slipped just a little. He thought his head would explode. His head or his heart. But he had it, and he was lifting it, and he would not drop it.

  Still, some perverse imp inside his head was making him imagine it: his sweaty fingertips would loosen; he would try to grip it more firmly, but it would slip even more. Then he would hear it—the dread clink of the band against porcelain. He would look down into the basin just in time to see it clink again. He would reach in to snatch it, but he would only knock it closer. It would bounce around his groping hand like a glittering mosquito and then be gone. Gone. Down the drain. Lost forever.

  He clenched the ring tightly in his fist, feeling the diamond pricking his palm. He thought about praying for some kind of reassurance, but someone was jiggling the knob. God, he couldn’t wait until it was over, and he could wake up tomorrow feeling good again. Gently he put the ring back in the box and the box back in his pocket. He felt as if he might vomit, but then the doorknob was going again. There were people waiting.

  • • •

  The party simmered a little longer but never quite boiled. Four or five people made an attempt at dancing ironically to the Czech folk music being played off somebody’s iPod, and then there was a lot of laughing, and there was no more dancing after that. Someone almost knocked into the Chevrolet bumper, and someone else passed out in the attached bedroom, and someone was saying the caterers were nearly out of food, and someone else was saying the bartenders would only be on until two and why not grab a cab down to this new club on Allen Street, and then the suite was half empty.

  Irene barely noticed. People seemed far more willing to put their own coats on, now that they’d had a few drinks, and Abeba walked out with an arm around a buyer for the Goldman Sachs building. A minute later Juliette shoved an envelope into Irene’s hands and ran after her. Neither of them came back. Then, more or less without warning, it was all over. Irene got a text message from Abeba that said, Going tpo Jersey thxz v much for all hlp. Irene gave the caterers their checks and tips from Juliette’s envelope, and the bartenders kindly left behind a few half-empty bottles, and then there was no one left but them.

  This had never happened before, in the years they’d been coming to the party, and they were as thrilled as young children allowed to stay up long after the adults had gone to bed.

  “I’m going to defile some of this so-called art,” Jacob roared.

  “You can’t defile it,” Sara shouted. “It’s already disgusting.”

  “I shall hump the moldy yam!” Jacob announced. But its green plastic case proved impenetrable, so he settled for miming fellatio on the wrought-iron baboon.

  “What kind of art do you make?” William asked Irene nervously.

  Irene, through her laughter, managed to say, “Nothing like this.”

  “To the balcony!” Jacob cried, grabbing a fresh bottle of champagne in one fist and shoving the door open with the other. Freezing air rushed in, and flakes of snow danced around their heads before being obliterated by the room temperature.

  “The hotel wants us to stay off there!” Irene shouted.

  “Then they should have locked it!”

  “You realize it’s snowing. Like, a lot,” George said, even as he followed Jacob out. The dark tops of the neighboring skyscrapers waved like great trees in the wind, and it took him a moment to realize it was he who was leaning, not them.

  William took his jacket off and offered it to Irene as they stepped outside. She took it gratefully and held his arm to keep from toppling over on her heels.

  “A gentleman!” Sara cried, sticking her tongue out at George. He had gotten his jacket halfway off before remembering what was in the pocket. Then he got stuck getting it back on.

  “I’m a mess!” he laughed.

  “Uh-oh.” Sara was always a bit delighted when he’d had too much to drink, as if he were a child who had eaten too much cotton candy at the county fair.

  “There. Is. A. Hot. Tub.” Jacob said, staring over onto the far corner of the balcony, like he’d just spotted the shroud of Turin. “There is a hot. Tub.”

  “It’ll be freezing!” Sara shouted.

  Jacob skidded and slid as he raced over to the enormous plastic tub, which was covered by a thick pad. He pressed his hands against the covering, and his eyes rolled back into his head.

  “It’s warm!” he cried. “It’s warm!”

  “Not like anyone packed a swimsuit!” George shouted.

  “As if you all haven’t seen me naked a dozen times before,” Jacob shouted as he tore off his sweater and began in on his buttons.

  “William hasn’t! Jacob Blaumann, you put your clothes back on this instant!” Irene cried.

  But it was too late—George was already helping him push the cover off. The two of them were no better than fraternity pledges when things like this came up.

  Irene was worried that Juliette and Abeba might decide to return after all, or that some guest might come back looking for a forgotten purse or phone—but she was so tired of worrying. Worrying about her job and her doctor’s a
ppointment. She began to undo the tie on her dress. The cold air felt wonderful against her sore muscles, and her feet ached to be free from her shoes.

  “Irene!” Sara was screeching.

  “Come on, Mom,” Irene said, handing William his coat back again.

  “William! Sorry about this—we’re not usually quite this reckless.”

  His face was red hot despite the subzero air. “I think I’ll go.”

  “Seeya!” Jacob shouted, as everyone caught a glimpse of his ass lowering into the water.

  “William, don’t!” Sara screeched. “I’ll be so embarrassed if you leave.”

  Would she really? If they met twenty years from now, would she remember? That time in the hot tub at the Waldorf when we all got drunk and you left? William bet that she would, and that he would, and he was so tired of remembering all the times he had left before things became insensible. Plus, Irene had gotten her dress off at last. He wanted to look but didn’t dare. Instead he looked up at the red blinking lights on top of the building. Years ago his father had told him they were there to keep planes from hitting them.

  Half dressed, George rushed back inside to stow the jacket safely on the couch.

  “Now this is living,” he heard Jacob shouting.

  “Get bathrobes!” Sara yelled. “Or towels or something.”

  George dug two terrycloth robes out of a closet and grabbed a pair of towels from the bathroom. When he came back out onto the balcony, he found that his three friends—and William—had all gotten into the bubbling tub. The girls’ underwear had gone see-through, but they kept their shoulders level with the water. William kept his eyes fixed on the stratosphere.

  “Come on in, you big baby! We’re not going to look,” Jacob bellowed.

  George undid his shirt while the girls hooted and hollered, and by the time his pants were off, Jacob was doing old-timey stripper music. “Da da da DA . . . Da da da DA . . .”

  “No small bills!” George joked. “Fives and tens only, or I’m going right back inside.” He thumbed the elastic of his Superman-blue boxer briefs, just enough to make Sara and Irene shriek, and then he climbed into the hot tub and dunked his head under at the sound of the popping champagne cork.