Just Friends

by Robyn Sisman

  It was midafternoon. Over the last couple of hours he had done the dishes, cleaned up the living room, left a cup of tea by the bedside of a comatose Freya, and taken out the trash. Now he was lying on the couch under the large window, sneakered feet comfortably propped on the far armrest, a sheaf of papers on his chest.

  He checked to see how many pages remained, and sighed. From what he could make out, “Forbidden,” world copyright Candace Twink, was a story of doomed love set in the Civil War, featuring a feminist version of Scarlett O’Hara and a black slave apparently familiar with existentialism. Experience told him that it was not a parody.

  What was he going to tell her? Not the truth, obviously. Parts of her manuscript were very nearly not bad; but as a whole it was crap. Privately, Jack was doubtful whether creative writing could be taught. He loathed the word creative, which brought to mind women in floaty garments dancing barefoot and pointless artifacts made from sea shells. Good writing was a craft; great writing was an art; creative writing was all too often neither. But he needed the money. He wrote reviews and magazine pieces for the same reason. His allowance simply wasn’t enough to live on anymore. Jack thought resentfully of his father, with his beach house and his mountain house as well as the Madison mansion, his expensive cigars and even more expensive wives. Dad had no idea how much it cost to live in Manhattan. Jack’s allowance barely covered the rent for this apartment; but when he tried to ask for more, all he got was his father’s famous cock-of-the-walk smile and the suggestion that Jack get himself a “real” job. No wonder his novel wasn’t finished. A writer needed to breathe the pure, Olympian air of the imagination, untrammeled by petty anxieties, not to pollute his talent with demeaning hack work.

  Still, there were compensations. He skipped ahead through Candace’s script to see if there were any sexy bits; he might pick up some useful tips for tonight—assuming he talked her around, of course. Disappointingly, Candace favored metaphor, though Jack was encouraged by one reference to the “proud swell of manhood.” He leaned his head back against the armrest of the couch and closed his eyes, trying to picture the shape of the evening. First he’d take Candace for drinks at Z Bar, where they could sip cocktails on the roof terrace and spy on any celebs; girls always liked that. It would be important to get the business part over at the beginning, so pretty soon he’d take out her script and give her his critique. He practiced a few phrases in his head: original concept . . . acute observation . . . interesting—no, arresting use of simile. Excellent punctuation. Then, over the second cocktail, he’d suggest one ruthless cut—dropping the subplot about the amputee, for example—something to get her emotions going. They’d fight, she might cry, he’d apologize, they’d make up, and afterwards they’d move on to some dark, funky restaurant, then back to her place.

  Satisfied with his plan, Jack returned “Forbidden” to its nifty folder. After all that work he was starving; he would make himself a sandwich and refresh his intellect with the New York Review of Books—or perhaps a game on TV if the Yankees were playing. He got up from the couch, stretched his arms wide and yawned, sucking in his breath so vigorously that it made a curious noise in his throat. Hark! Was that, perchance, the honk of a lonely goose? He tucked his fists into his armpits and flapped his elbows experimentally.

  “Taking off somewhere?” said a voice.

  Jack whirled around. “Oh, hi, Freya.” He tried to turn the flapping into a vigorous rib massage. “Uh, feeling better?”

  “Fine.” She was fully dressed in last night’s clothes, purse over her shoulder, ready to go. “I just came to say good-bye, and thank you. I’m sorry to have been such a nuisance.”

  “That’s okay.”

  Her formal manner caught Jack off guard. He scanned her more closely. She looked very pale.

  “Can I get you some coffee? Aspirin?”

  She shook her head. “I’d better get back.”

  “Right.” Jack hesitated, wondering how much he dared question her. Freya always acted as if her private life were a state secret. “Back where?” he ventured finally.

  “Home, of course.”

  It was the of course that did it, uttered with such condescension that Jack was piqued into saying, “Why don’t you call Michael? He must be worried about you.”

  Immediately he regretted his cruel impulse. Freya’s face closed tight, like a fragile sea creature poked with a stick. “Oh . . . you know . . . let him stew. I’m not a dog you can whistle home.” She gave him one of her looks. “You know how to whistle, don’t you?”

  “You just put your lips together and blow.” Automatically he finished off the quote. It was an old game.

  Freya was unzipping her purse. “I’m sure I must owe everyone money from last night.”

  “Afraid so. Don’t worry, I paid for you since you were . . .”

  “Asleep.” She pulled out her wallet.

  “Whatever. The total’s kind of steep—two hundred and fifty dollars.”

  Her hand froze. “I don’t seem to have my checkbook on me right now. Is it okay if I pay you back next week?”

  “Well, of course it is!” What was the matter with her? “Take as long as you like.”

  “Thanks, Jack.” Her face softened, but only for a moment. “I’m sorry about this morning, by the way. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

  It seemed to Jack that her eyebrows arched in a knowing way. He did not care for the insinuation. “That was one of my students,” he said reprovingly.

  “Really? Are you teaching her the ABCs?”

  Jack glowered. “I’ll come and help you get a cab.”

  “No! I mean, thanks, but I think I’ll hop on a bus.” She half turned away, hesitated, then stepped toward him in that decisive, long-legged way she had. They kissed cheeks. “Thanks for the game, and thanks for the bed. See you soon.”

  “See you,” Jack echoed, following her into the hall. He opened the door for her and watched her walk out to the street. Where she was going? Some friend? Another man? She obviously didn’t want to tell him, and he knew better than to ask. Fine. He shut the door.

  Cheese and peanut butter, he thought, with a smidge of piccalilli, corn chips on the side, and an ice-cold beer. Yum. His mouth was already watering. He headed for the kitchen, yanked open the fridge door, and started assembling ingredients. What a mystery women were. He’d known Freya for over ten years, yet she wouldn’t tell him she’d split up with her boyfriend; whereas Michael, whom he’d met about twice and didn’t even like, had told him right away. Men were so straightforward. Jack still didn’t know the exact reasons for the breakup, but it was pretty clear that Michael wasn’t expecting Freya back. When Jack had protested that Freya was sick and needed somewhere to go, Michael had responded, “You’re her friend, you take care of her.”

  Of course, that was impossible. He had a novel to write. Jack ran a forefinger round the inside rim of the peanut butter jar and put it in his mouth: sensational. Anyway, you might as well try to take care of a saber-toothed tiger: Freya did exactly as she pleased, and always had. It was her own fault that she’d never settled into an apartment of her own, claiming that she liked to be “free.” Jack flicked a splodge of piccalilli on top of the cheese, pressed a piece of only slightly stale bread on top to complete his sandwich, and took a large bite. The real conundrum was how Freya and Michael ever got together in the first place. What could she see in a nine-to-five lawyer from one of those tight-assed Midwest states? And the guy had no style. He had actually complained to Jack that the bill at Phood had come to 365 dollars, “not including tip.” Jack chuckled, spraying out a few crumbs. He loved that—Michael’s entire character summed up in three words. In fact, it was so good that he wanted to write it down. Taking his sandwich with him, he walked through to his study so he could scribble a note for his “Ideas” file, a cornucopia of observations, bons mots, and scraps of overheard dialogue that was now actually longer than his novel.

  When he opened the door, the
first thing that caught his eye was the narrow divan bed. Normally a repository for papers, dirty laundry, broken electrical equipment, and other random articles, it was now a vision of tidiness. The bedspread lay flat and scrupulously symmetrical; in the exact center was a neat pile of folded sheets, with his striped shirt and a ten-dollar bill on top. Next to the money was a note: “For laundry—F.” Jack picked up the note, smiling at the familiar cryptic signature. What a funny person she was, for all her hoity-toity ways. He remembered all the crazy caffeine-fueled discussions she’d presided over at Ambrosio’s; the surprise party she’d organized for Larry when he got his first job in TV; the scores of old movies the two of them had watched together, legs hooked over the seats in front, sharing popcorn with double butter. The nagging guilt he’d been trying to ignore all morning exploded into some much larger emotion—concern? affection? shame? When he asked her where she was going, she’d said “Home, of course.” Except Freya didn’t have a home. Her family lived thousands of miles away in England. Michael had thrown her out. She was alone in the loneliest city in the world. And he was supposed to be her friend.

  Jack tossed the remains of his sandwich onto his desk. Stupid woman! Why did she have to be so proud? He hurried to grab his keys and ran to the front door. Wait a minute—what about his bicycle? Jack manhandled it outside, cursing as his sticky hands made him clumsy. He half scooted, half hopped down the path and across the sidewalk, bumped down into the street, and, swinging his leg over the bike, raced in the direction she had taken. Cars beeped at him. A voice yelled, “Hey, bozo, one-way street!” Yeah, yeah. Jack sped on regardless. There was no sign of her.

  At the intersection he came to a slithering halt. An uptown bus lumbered into view, gathering speed from the corner bus stop. Jack peered inside as it passed, but the windows were smeared with grime, and he didn’t have his glasses on. Anyway, if she wasn’t going back to Michael she wouldn’t be going uptown, would she? Excellent, Watson. So, where had she gone?

  He wove his way perilously across the stream of traffic, without waiting for the green light, and pedaled head-down toward Seventh Avenue and the downtown bus stop. This is crazy, he told himself, as his ancient bike juddered and squeaked. She could be walking on any of a dozen different streets. She could be in a coffee bar. She could have caught a cab after all—except she probably didn’t have any money. You’re a bastard, Jack told himself, clicking the rusty gear into first.

  When he was four years old, his parents had divorced, and his mother had taken him and Lane, his baby brother, to live with her in Atlanta. The house on Benning Street was the first he remembered—his bed made of hickory, and a maid called Abigail shelling pecan nuts on the back porch, and a school with girls in dresses, whose sashes he liked to pull. He didn’t remember his mother much—she was out a lot—but Jack remembered being happy. Then one day everything changed. He learned that his mother was to marry again and was going to live somewhere far away. She wanted to take Jack with her, of course she did, but his father wouldn’t allow that; it was time for “the boy” to claim his heritage and learn to be a Madison. Jack remembered the rumble of arguments and late-night conferences and the letters that made his mother’s voice harsh and scary. And then, shortly after his seventh birthday, the arrival outside the house of a big shiny car, his suitcases on the stoop, Abigail sobbing into her apron, and his father, a stranger tall and golden as a god, laying a heavy, claiming hand on his shoulder, saying, “Son, I’ve come to take you home.”

  Was that her? Jack squinted at a tall figure in black, walking purposefully. “Freya!” he shouted. But when he got near, it turned out to be a young Indian boy with made-up eyes and lips—a gay cruiser looking for some action.

  At Seventh Avenue he swooped left, joining the stream of traffic. Shit, he could see a bus ahead of him, letting out a pair of gym bunnies with their sports bags. There was a line of people waiting to get on. Jack bounced his bike onto the sidewalk and rode down it, swerving around pedestrians. “Excuse me, sir . . . excuse me, ma’am.” He thought he could make out a dark figure with pale hair. Was that her? He started ringing his bicycle bell.

  By the time he reached the bus, she had one foot on the first step of the bus, one hand on the rail.

  “Freya! Wait!” he called.

  She looked around, blinking, as if roused from a dream. Her eyes focused on him. He’d have said she’d been crying if he didn’t know Freya never cried.

  “Jack—? What’s the matter?” she said.

  There was no time for tact. “I know about Michael,” he bawled across the other passengers. “I called him this morning. You haven’t anywhere to go, have you?”

  Freya’s mouth opened and closed. “Yes, I do.”

  “Oh, yeah? Where?” Jesus, she was stubborn. He rolled the bike forward, balancing on his toes.

  She stood there, half on, half off the bus. Other passengers pushed past—a couple of old men in skullcaps, some hausfraus with bulging shopping bags, a fat black lady carrying a bunch of wilted flowers.

  “Come and stay with me. Just until you get yourself fixed up.”

  “No, Jack. You’ve got your writing and all your . . . students. I’d cramp your style.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” Of course, she’d cramp his style!

  “I’ll come if she don’t,” chuckled the black lady, her mountainous body aquiver.

  “Hey, Romeo, get lost!” barked a voice. It was the driver, mirrored sunglasses flashing, forearms the color of lard bulging from short sleeves. He bared his teeth at Freya in a sinister leer. “Come on, lady. Make my day.”

  Freya leaped back onto the sidewalk. The doors closed behind her with a swoosh of compressed air, and the bus took off.

  “It’s okay, Jack. Really.” Freya’s eyes flicked up from the sidewalk and back.

  “Have you got a place to stay?” he demanded.

  “Not yet. But . . .”

  “Then come home with me.”

  No answer. Her eyes were lowered, her lips pinched tight. He wanted to put his arm around her, but he didn’t dare.

  “There’s grease on your jeans,” she said at last.

  Jack smiled at this typical evasion. He turned his bike around, making a big production of it, giving them both time. Suddenly he had an idea.

  “Frankly, Freya, I need the rent.”

  That got her attention. “You? Don’t make me laugh. . . . Oh, God, you’re not serious, are you?”

  “Perfectly serious.” Moving slowly, as if she were a jittery horse, Jack took her purse off her shoulder and put it in his bicycle basket. She didn’t seem to notice. “Twenty dollars a day, two weeks absolute max.” He held out his hand, palm upward. “Deal?”

  She wavered for about five seconds, then gave his palm a decisive slap. “I warn you, I’m hell to live with.”

  Jack nodded. He could well believe it.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Men are such pigs.” Cat’s dark eyes glowed with sympathetic indignation. “So, then what happened?”

  “Well, after he’d fished out his stupid ring and made the waiter bring him a bowl of water so he could clean it up, he told me I wasn’t committed to him. Can you believe it? The creep dumps me, then twists the whole thing around so that it’s my fault!”

  “Typical male rationalization. I remember when I was going out with Perfidious Peter—”

  “He said I didn’t ‘relate’ to him, that I didn’t listen enough, that I was always criticizing him. He complained that I corrected his stories in public.”

  “Did you?”

  “Only when he was wrong.”

  “Men are never wrong.”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot.”

  Freya and Cat exchanged a smile of female solidarity. They were were sitting opposite each other at a Formica-topped table in a cramped restaurant in Chinatown. A teapot and two cups, pale blue with pink dragons, steamed between them. It was Monday lunchtime. The courthouse district was just around the corner, and the plac
e was bursting with journalists, lawyers, policemen, and paunchy City Hall apparatchiks talking at top volume, as well as local Chinese workers and a group of docile-looking shaven-heads from the Buddhist Temple nearby. Cat spent a lot of time down here in the course of her work as a family lawyer, and this was one of her favorite eateries. Freya had met her here before and couldn’t honestly share Cat’s enthusiasm, but she wasn’t about to complain. Officially, Cat was supposed to be working, but like a true friend she had canceled an appointment to hear Freya’s tale of woe.

  “When I think of all the hoops I jumped through for him!” Freya continued. “Drinking skim milk because of his cholesterol count, not seeing my friends so we could ‘beee together,’ pretending I liked those dreary concerts he took me to.” Her brow cleared momentarily. “One good thing: at least I won’t have to sit through that bloody Ring cycle.”