Just Friends

by Robyn Sisman

  The buzz came again: not a fly, but the doorbell. Jack opened a gummy eye and squinted at the bedside clock. It was almost noon. He rolled over and levered his body into a sitting position. After a painful interval his brain followed. Hemingway had probably felt like this much of his life, Jack told himself, a cheering thought that enabled him to rise to his feet and pull on a pair of jeans over his undershorts. He added a cleanish white T-shirt, raked his fingernails through his hair, and stumbled down to the front door. In the hallway, something bit into his bare foot. Hopping and cursing, Jack dislodged a metal bottle top from the soft flesh and flicked it back onto the floor. He remembered that Hemingway had shot himself in the end.

  On his doorstep a pretty young woman was smiling up at him. Automatically Jack smiled back. It took only seconds to recognize her as one of his students from the Creative Writing seminar he taught on Tuesday evenings, Candace Something-or-other. They had gone out for a drink after class last week. He’d been much struck by her listening skills.

  “I hope it’s okay to drop by,” she began shyly. “You said the other night that if I was in the neighborhood . . . We were going to do some more work on my structure, remember?” She gestured at her chest, which was ample and deliciously rounded, and after a moment of confusion Jack saw that she was clasping a bundle of books and papers. “But if this is a bad time—?”

  “No, no.” Jack found his voice. Dark hair fell to her shoulders in a glossy wave. Her skin was smooth and glowing. “It’s a perfect time.” He smiled down at her. “Just perfect. Come in.”

  He stepped back to let her pass inside, inhaling a fresh smell of soap that took him right back to high school.

  “Beautiful glass,” she said, admiring the etched panel in the door. “I love these old places. They’re so full of—”

  “Shit!” Jack recoiled from a rancid blast of last night’s fumes as he opened the living-room door. The scene that met his eyes, bathed in a lurid, curtained half-light, reminded him of a Tarantino movie. “I forgot.” He rubbed a stubbly cheek. “Wait here a minute, will you?”

  She stopped obediently in the doorway. Moving swiftly, Jack pulled open the curtains, then toured the room picking up bottles, glasses, ashtrays, squashed potato chip bags and other jetsam, which he piled higgledy-piggledy onto the center of the table. With an expertise born of practice he then flipped up the corners of the tablecloth, drew them tight to create a giant makeshift sack, and carried the whole clanking mess out to the kitchen. Returning, he opened a window, flipped over the seat cushions of the couch to dislodge any remaining debris, and patted one invitingly. “Sit down. I’ll make some coffee.”

  Candace was leaning against the doorjamb, watching him in frank amusement, a tip of pink tongue curled against her upper lip.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  Her smile broadened, revealing straight pearly teeth. “You are.”

  Jack decided this would be a good moment to tuck his T-shirt into his jeans. “Party last night,” he growled cryptically.

  “I guessed.” Candace swayed over to the couch, sat down and crossed her bare legs. She gave a dreamy sigh. “I love parties.”

  “Not that kind of party. This was a boys’ night. Cards and booze and all that bad stuff. You’re much too young and innocent for that kind of thing.”

  “I’m twenty-two!” Candace protested.

  “Exactly.” Jack retreated to the kitchen, smiling to himself: young girls were so adorable. He tried to recall which story she was working on. Was it the monologue of the suicidal teenager, or the one about the wolf? He had to stop drinking so much.

  While the coffee heated, he ducked into the bathroom, located some headache pills, and washed them down with a whole glass of water. Then he squeezed out a gob of toothpaste and squelched it around his mouth with his tongue. That was better. Body cleansed, his memory followed suit, and now he remembered how Candace had approached him as he was leaving the seminar room and asked him something about The Sound and the Fury. Well, that was it. William Faulkner was his hero: a Southerner, a genius, a whisky drinker. The fact that this fresh-faced young woman had ventured beyond the cordon sanitaire enclosing Sylvia Plath, Toni Morrison, and the usual crew of politically correct writers was stirring. He wanted to find out more about her. Three beers later, he was still holding forth about Faulkner, the South, literature, and himself, prompted by her flattering attentiveness and a need to dodge her more alarming questions about “modality” and “semiotics.” That was the trouble with these self-educated or semieducated students; sometimes they knew more lit. crit. jargon than he did. The next thing he knew it was midnight; somehow they never did get around to Candace herself, though he had a dim memory that she’d said she was secretary, originally from one of those dismal industrial towns like Pittsburgh or New London. He must have given her his address and some vague invitation as he left, though it was hard to remember now. He really must stop drinking.

  When he returned with the coffee he found Candace examining his shelves.

  “All these books!” Her tone was admiring. “I can hardly believe you’ve read them all.”

  Jack could hardly believe it either. “Publishers send me things for endorsement. And I do some reviewing.” He shrugged modestly, slopping coffee.

  “Here, let me do that.” Candace took charge of the tray, pouring coffee from the pot and milk from a carton in neat, efficient movements while Jack sprawled in an armchair.

  “So this is the home of Jack Madison,” she said, settling herself back on the couch. “You can’t imagine how exciting it is for me to see how a real writer lives.”

  Jack glanced vaguely around the familiar room. Piles of old magazines were stacked on the floor. A lamp shade hung off its metal frame, where someone had bumped into it last night. The smell of dope still hung in the air. “It’s kind of messy, I guess.”

  “Creativity is messy. Writing is just so involving, I’m beginning to discover that. If my roommate talks to me I’m, like, leave me alone, I’m thinking.” She paused. “Do you find that?”

  “Absolutely.” Jack felt a prickle of familiar panic. He did not have writer’s block; he was just letting his novel ripen in his imagination.

  “But maybe you don’t have a roommate to bother you?” Candace cocked her head inquiringly.

  “What? Oh, no. I hate sharing with other people.”

  “Even . . . women?”

  “Especially women. All those fights about the garbage, or who finished the milk. Who cares? I like to be able to do what I want when I want.”

  Candace nodded. “Solitude is an essential prerequisite for the artist.”

  “Yeah. Right.” She was very articulate for a twenty-two-year-old.

  “So, tell me, Jack, what are you?”

  Jack was nonplussed. “A writer, I guess.”

  “No, what star sign?” Candace laughed at his foolishness. “Wait, let me guess.” Her brow furrowed as she considered the alternatives. “Let’s see. You’re creative, sensitive, intelligent . . .”

  “Keep going.”

  “. . . and a little egotistical. Hmm. Aquarius?” Her head tilted. “Am I right?”

  “No idea. My birthday’s February first, if that’s any help.”

  “I knew it!” Candace clapped her hands with excitement. Her brown eyes grew wide. “That’s so awesome. It must be the Sagittarius in me—you know, intuition and stuff. I’m on the cusp with Scorpio.”

  Jack had no idea what she was talking about, but she looked so cute and perky that he smiled back.

  “I have a favor to ask.” Candace took a pen out of her purse, then reached for something in her pile of papers. Jack’s heart sank. He didn’t want to spend his Saturday in textual analysis of someone else’s dreary prose.

  She held a book out to him. “I know it’s corny, but would you—?”

  Jack was gratified to recognize his own book, the collection of short stories that had launched his career on a tide of rave rev
iews. In hardback, too. “Aw, you shouldn’t have wasted your money.”

  “I found it on sale, reduced to half price. Wasn’t that lucky?”

  Jack frowned. This was not something authors liked to hear. He turned to the title page, took the pen Candace offered, and thought for a moment. Then he wrote “Candy is dandy,” and signed his name with a flourish. He closed the book and handed it back.

  Candace stroked the dust jacket reverently. “If I saw my name on a real book I think I’d die.”

  “You’d have an awfully short career.”

  Candace laughed and hugged the book tight, so that her breasts plumped up above the stretchy top she was wearing. Jack wondered if that was what people called a boob tube. Or a bustier?—or a basque? Whatever it was, he’d like to shake its inventor by the hand.

  “Listen,” he said casually, “are you doing anything tonight?”

  “Me?” Candace’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Not especially. Why?”

  “I was thinking, you could leave me your script to read, and we could talk about it over dinner.”

  “Just you and me?”

  “Just you and me.”

  “But it’s Saturday night.” Her lips curved flirtatiously. “You must have plans. Isn’t there somebody—?”

  “Nobody,” Jack said firmly. “Not a thing. No plans, no ties, no—”

  A sudden commotion erupted in the hallway. There was a yelp of pain, a vengeful thump, a muttered tirade. Then a whey-faced figure limped into the room, wearing nothing but a striped shirt Jack vaguely recognized. He stared. It was his shirt. And the woman inside was Freya. He’d forgotten all about her.

  “ ‘Scuse me,” she croaked. “Oof!” She winced as the slanting sunlight hit her face and flung up a protective hand, then shuffled blindly across the room, depositing a metal bottle cap on the table as she passed. Jack watched, speechless, as she continued through to the passage beyond. There was the slam of the bathroom door, then the sound of somebody throwing up.

  “I have to go now.” Candace was already on her feet. The sparkle had gone from her face.

  “But you’ve just come!” Jack sprang out of his chair, blocking her way. He wanted to strangle Freya. “Look, you haven’t even finished your coffee. Sit down.”

  Candace shook her head. “I need to do some shopping. And you’re busy.”

  “No, I’m not. Oh, you mean her?” Jack sounded incredulous. “That’s just someone who came to play cards last night and got drunk. She’ll be okay.”

  “You said it was a boys’ night.”

  “I don’t think of Freya as a girl.” Jack chuckled at the very notion. “She an old friend. An old, old friend. I mean, really old.” He swallowed. “Practically forty!”

  Candace’s eyes darted to his. She looked suitably shocked.

  “Personally,” Jack lowered his voice, “I think it’s kind of sad when someone of that age gets out of control and has to be put to bed in the guest room, don’t you?”

  Candace shrugged.

  “Actually, my study. It’s so frustrating. I haven’t been able to do any work all morning. The sooner I can get her out of here and back uptown with her boyfriend, the better.”

  “That’s up to you.” Candace tossed her hair. “I mean, it’s none of my business.”

  “Good. So are we meeting tonight?”

  “I don’t know. . . .”

  “Come on,” Jack drawled persuasively. “How will I ever finish my novel if you don’t tell me all about semantics.”

  “Semiotics.” Was that the suspicion of a smile?

  “See, I can’t even pronounce it right. Why don’t you write down your phone number? When I’ve gotten rid of Freya I’ll give you a call.”

  “I don’t know,” she repeated, twisting a lock of hair. “I might be busy after all.”

  “Write it down anyway. Just in case.”

  Minutes later, Jack was standing on the sidewalk watching Candace’s tilting hips as she receded down the street. Sunlight gleamed on the curves of her smooth calves; he caught the flash of a gold ankle-chain. Everything about her signaled availability. Well, why not? he thought—so long as Freya hadn’t ruined the whole thing. Jack jabbed his hands deep into his jeans pockets and scowled. Thanks, Freya, you’re a pal.

  Back inside, Jack looked around for her. She could at least help him clear up last night’s mess. But it seemed she had gone back to bed with her hangover. It was somehow unsettling to think of her lying asleep in his apartment. Jack rubbed a hand across his chest, wondering what to do. He was sorry that Freya didn’t feel well, naturally, but she had already caused him major embarrassment and it wasn’t as if she were his girlfriend. Far from it. Michael could take care of her, he’d be good at that. Jack headed for the telephone. Unconsciously, his lips pursed and his steps became mincing as he pictured Michael prissily carrying a pot of tea and plumping up pillows. Then his expression sobered. What exactly was the etiquette of calling up another man to inform him that his girlfriend had just spent the night in your apartment?

  Pondering this problem, Jack slumped in a chair by the telephone and flipped idly through his address book. The pages were worn and dog-eared, each one crammed with names and numbers inked in, crossed out, scribbled over, doodled around, mysteriously emphasized with stars, tantalizingly cryptic. “Barbie (C’s sister)”—who was she? “Angelo’s Bar (pay phone)”—what was that? He could remember when the pages were crisp and white and empty, the leather binding a sensuous, glossy tan stamped with his initials—a going-away present from Lauren, his stepmother, “for all the wonderful friends you’ll make.” She’d already partially filled in the personal information on the first page, so that it read “Name: James Randolph Caldwell Madison III. Address: New York City. Occupation: Writer.” Jack recalled how his younger self had swelled at the stark magnificence of this description, though he had sheepishly discarded the page after a couple of weeks of city sophistication.

  Now the book was a satisfyingly fat compendium of publishers, movie theaters, girlfriends, favorite bars, magazine editors, libraries, pool clubs, restaurants, bookstores, photocopy shops—and friends, of course. Freya’s name sprouted all over the F section, like thistles in a meadow. He’d never known anyone who moved as often as she did. The very first entry, now crossed through, gave the address of that leaky old boarding house in Brooklyn where he’d come looking for a cheap room his very first week in New York. An image flashed up of long blond hair fanning out around her upside-down face as she leaned over a top floor banister to call out to him.

  In those days Freya had struck him as an impossibly superior being, a sophisticated twenty-five to his raw twenty-two. She knew where you could fill up on soup and bagels for five dollars, which flea markets sold the cheapest furniture, how to sneak into openings and gorge on canapés and champagne for free, what movie theater let you see the picture twice around to keep warm. She’d introduced him to “the gang”—a loose group of would-be artists, actors, and writers who shivered through the winters, dragged their mattresses onto roofs and fire escapes in summer, gossiped at Ambrosio’s over coffee and doughnuts, borrowed money and clothes, and assured one another they were geniuses. Freya was famed for her Celebration Spaghetti that marked their inching achievements, invariably followed by a disgusting English dessert called Bread and Butter Pudding, which Jack had learned to make almost palatable with a thick mulch of American ice cream. From the first, Jack had enjoyed her sharp wit and independence of mind—even her cool mockery, which was quite different from the flirtatious brand of teasing he was used to from the girls back home. There had even been a time, one particular night years ago, when he’d. . . .

  Jack frowned. He did not wish to revisit that humiliating occasion. He was different then, and so was Freya. Returning to the address book, he leapfrogged swiftly from one Freya entry to the next—uptown, downtown, this boyfriend, that boyfriend, this job, that job. Yes, ten years was a long time. They were still friends, would sur
ely always be friends—but he had his own life to lead, and she had hers. He found Michael’s number and dialed.

  CHAPTER 4

  . . . A wisp of silver strayed diaphonous beneath the moon, suspended in the inky well of night. Watching it, something dark and primitive stirred in Garth’s loins, and he emitted a groan of longing, like the honk of a lonely goose. He felt himself spinning down, down, down, in a vortex of despair. Was there to be no love for him in this cruel world, just because his skin was black?

  Jack grabbed the pencil from behind his ear. His hand hesitated over the page. Where to begin? In the end, he contented himself with correcting the spelling of diaphanous, ringed the dangling participle, and gave his pencil a couple of vicious bites before returning it to its resting place.