History of Art

by Margaret Luongo

  Avi and Elaine were supposed to be married. They had met at a JCC dance after Avi’s first summer in Israel. Elaine thought he resembled a statue, still and chiseled. After three dates, Avi proposed and she accepted. She waited for him to finish college; she hadn’t gone herself. Instead she had taken jobs—more than one, always, because she had too much energy, her mother said. During the day she worked as a receptionist in a dentist’s office; some evenings and weekends she worked the Guerlain counter at Bloomingdale’s. When Avi took her out—to dances at the JCC or to Asbury Park—he brought her home before twelve. She went to bed wide-eyed and impatient, grateful to have someplace to go the next morning.

  In the car on the way into the city, Avi cranked up the heat so her feet wouldn’t get cold. The thick glossy cover of a bridal magazine rattled in the breeze from the vent. She turned sideways to face him. At first, she had been intimidated by Avi’s lack of expression. Over time she grew to appreciate this steadiness of his; she took it as a sign of his seriousness. The world was full of clowns. She didn’t want to marry one.

  “Avi, don’t you think you’d better tell me what kind of wedding you want?”

  Avi’s face didn’t change. “I don’t want a wedding. I just want to be married.”

  “But what if you don’t like—”

  The corner of his mouth flicked upward, ever so slightly, and Elaine’s insides fluttered. “Whatever you do,” he said, “I’ll like.”

  He had recently returned from another summer in Israel and had started working full-time as a civil engineer. According to Elaine’s therapist mother, he was experiencing a difficult transition. Elaine agreed: everything that excited her about their new life together—the wedding, buying a house and making it homey—none of it interested Avi. They were supposed to be married in five months and so far had not made any decisions beyond setting the date.

  She tried another tack. “Tomorrow, on our way back, we could look at houses in Teaneck.”

  He didn’t take his eyes off the road. “I think I’ll be tired. I have to work Monday.”

  Elaine shifted so she could look out the passenger window. The leaves had just begun to turn, and the weather could go any way at any time: snow flurries could catch you without a jacket; Indian summer could roast you out of your boots. She considered what her mother had told her about college—that not going would put her at a disadvantage. She simply wouldn’t have the intellect to keep a college boy interested. “The truth is,” her mother had said, “you have no hobbies except for Avi.” She read the Times; she could always talk about current events, new films, books. Her high-school friends who had gone to college seemed no more or less interesting than she. Most were planning weddings, if not already married. The jobs they held, Elaine felt, were placeholders, something to do until kids came. They met for lunch in the city and discussed china and floor plans, baby names and reception sites. Behind the lipstick smiles and cashmere sweaters of her friends, Elaine couldn’t detect any substance very different from her own.

  She was slouching again. Lately she had been catching herself hunched over, her shoulders curving in, pressing the upper half of her torso into her lower half, making it difficult to breathe. Her shallow breathing made her drowsy, so that she often felt the urge to nap. She sighed.

  “Tired?” Avi said.

  “Sleepy.” She stretched. She imagined checking into a hotel with Avi, and this revived her momentarily. She sat up straighter.

  “Why don’t you quit one of your jobs?”

  “I like my jobs. I like the people.”

  “At the dentist’s office? You like the screaming children?”

  “At the perfume counter. I like the men who buy perfume for their wives.”

  Avi gave her a small knowing smile. “I take the hint.”

  “And I like the women who buy perfume for themselves. They have their own money.”

  “That’s why you work two jobs,” Avi teased. “When we get married you have to give all your money to me.”

  Elaine shrieked. “I think it’s the other way around.”

  “It won’t matter—it’ll be ours.” He glanced at her with one of his serious, unreadable looks and stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. She resisted the urge to pull away.

  “You can take a nap at Aunt Carol’s before the wedding.”

  The image of rumpled white hotel sheets that she’d been carrying with her for days dissolved. “We’re staying there?”

  “You are. I’m staying at Tom’s studio in the Village.”

  Elaine slumped in her seat and stared at the creased magazine cover. “I thought we would stay at a hotel. Together.”

  Avi shook his head. “We’re not married, Laney.”

  She didn’t say anything until they reached Aunt Carol’s in Murray Hill.

  The ceremony was held in a small art gallery in a brownstone uptown. Elaine never would have imagined such a thing. She squeezed Avi’s arm as they stood by their chairs waiting for the bride to make her entrance.

  “Let’s have our wedding here,” she said.

  “We can have the reception here,” Avi said, “but the ceremony has to be at synagogue.”

  She surveyed the guests, most of whom appeared to be friends of the bride and groom. The women wore silky dresses in jewel tones, and their manicured toes peeked out from dainty sandals. Without thinking about it, Elaine had put on her usual nude hose. She felt dowdy in her long black skirt and pumps. The older relatives kept to the back of the room, as if they believed it in poor taste to make a show of age. She and Avi had arrived slightly late and had also taken seats at the rear of the small room. Two ushers led a frail, stooped man down the aisle. She asked Avi who he was; he hesitated before answering.

  “Great-Uncle Lawrence. He sings at everyone’s wedding.”

  She had doubts about Uncle Lawrence’s ability to sing. Even with assistance, he could barely walk. The two groomsmen led him to a chair behind the bride and groom’s spot. Elaine felt someone should call an ambulance.

  A swell of music announced the bride’s entrance. Elaine gasped when Avi’s cousin stepped into view. She wore a short satin sheath, her legs bare, her tanned skin glowing against the white fabric. As she walked down the aisle, she made eye contact with certain friends and family members, smiling greetings to them. Her groom waited for her, also smiling and clear-eyed. This was not how Elaine had pictured herself on her wedding day. In her mind, she was all but engulfed by her gown; she could barely make out a trace of her dark hair and pale skin amid the layers of white satin and tulle. Her head seemed bowed under the weight of hat and veil. Some force moved her down the aisle; it wasn’t clear in her imagination that she even had legs. She craned her neck and stood on tippy-toes to see the bride’s feet, tan and lovely in a pair of delicate high-heeled sandals. Elaine remembered her own legs and felt physical and psychic pain. Who wore No nonsense pantyhose? She did, that’s who.

  When it came time for Uncle Lawrence’s part, he swayed slightly in front of his chair. Once he began to sing, his age fell away; if she closed her eyes, she could easily imagine a man of forty or so, old enough to have experienced love, pain, and disappointment, but still vital and strong. She thought she had never heard such a sad and pure voice. When he finished singing, he shrank into himself again and seemed every bit as frail as he had before. The bride and groom sat holding hands, glowing like royalty.

  Afterwards, she and Avi followed the crowd to the reception in the building’s courtyard. They passed smooth, dark sculptures, the forms of which Elaine couldn’t identify: a curve here, a spear or pointed tail there—objects impossible to identify, but something about them stirred her. Gas torches were arranged throughout the courtyard, and Elaine and Avi wove through pockets of heat. Elaine held onto Avi’s arm and squeezed.

  “Why does Uncle Lawrence sound so sad?” she asked. She expected something romantic—a lost love, an unfulfilled passion, a tragic accident.

  Avi stared straigh
t ahead. “He ruined his life.”

  She knew Avi could be hard on people. “What happened?”

  “There’s not much to tell. He liked to gamble. His kids won’t speak to him. His wife—my mother’s aunt—is dead. She was living with us while he hid from the people he owed. Pretty pathetic.”

  Avi’s mother was talking to Uncle Lawrence now, leaning down to him in his chair, smiling, both of them laughing. He could still laugh. She thought about Uncle Lawrence learning of his wife’s death, and her throat tightened. “He’ll sing at our wedding. To remind us how lucky we are.”

  “Luck has nothing to do with it,” Avi said.

  Elaine wiped her eyes. “Blessed, then.”

  “We choose how we live,” Avi said as he steered her toward their table. “It has nothing to do with luck or blessings.” He pulled out her chair. “Uncle Lawrence earned his sorrow.”

  She sat, stunned by his vehemence. “Does every sad person deserve his sorrow?”

  “I don’t know, Elaine—probably.”

  She tried to joke. “I’d forgive you, if you lost all our money.”

  Avi sat beside her, leaned his forearms on the table. “That won’t happen.”

  She knew he was right—nothing like that would ever happen to Avi. He would always be careful never to have regrets. “Mr. Perfect,” she said, meaning to joke, but the last syllable caught.

  He looked vaguely embarrassed, possibly apologetic. “I’m an engineer. I’m obligated to be correct.”

  “All the time—your whole life?”

  He blushed and looked down at the table. “I’m boring, Elaine, what can I say?”

  Avi, she knew, would take pains never to hurt her. She slid her hand over his with genuine affection. “Boring? No.” The guests at the next table raised their glasses, and Elaine noted their gleaming elegance. She had never felt as young as they looked. She thought the sooner she and Avi were settled, the better.

  She excused herself to the bathroom. In the stall, she peeled off her hose and stuffed them in the trash. “Better,” she sighed. The elastic had left a deep red line around her waist, and she vowed never to wear pantyhose again. On the way back to the table, she took longer strides. The satin lining of her skirt thrilled her skin. She hoped to get Avi on the dance floor; he was a natural, and he’d been taught, though she couldn’t say how much he enjoyed it. Usually he humored her with a waltz or a foxtrot.

  He was talking to a couple across the table about IRAs. She waited for a pause in the conversation, when she could insert a joke about the dullness of the topic. She tried to catch the eye of the woman, to exchange an exasperated glance, but she appeared just as engrossed as the men. As guests, Elaine thought they were obligated to have fun at the wedding. She thought it bad luck for the newlyweds if the guests were disagreeable or dry. Of course, Avi didn’t believe in luck. She sipped her champagne, and when she finished hers, she drank his.

  Avi’s friend Tom sat next to her. It occurred to her that she might talk to him. He was interning as a reporter at a paper in Florida—she couldn’t remember which. They all had internships, she realized, like grownups in training. Tom watched the band and fiddled with a crumpled straw wrapper.

  “It must be very interesting, what you do.”

  Tom regarded her frankly, as if surprised to hear her speak. “You’d think so,” he said, looking away again. “Turns out I’m a vulture.”

  Elaine wasn’t sure how to respond, and she was beginning to regret her decision to speak to him.

  Tom took another sip of his drink. “What do you ask a man whose son was just devoured by a wood chipper, or the woman whose daughter was found naked in a dumpster?”

  “I never thought about it that way,” she said.

  He gave a wry smile. “Neither had I.”

  “Well,” she said, “someone’s got to report on those things, right?”

  “Maybe,” he said.

  She looked down at her hands. “I don’t actually read those stories. I don’t want to read them.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I feel so much better now.”

  She spoke quickly. “It’s just an internship. You could do anything you wanted, I’m sure.”

  “I’ll find out, I guess,” he said.

  “Your job is the opposite of mine. At the perfume counter, people just tell me things.”

  Tom gave her another mild look of surprise. “Like what?”

  “For instance, this woman the other day, buying perfume. She was going to pretend a coworker had given it to her.”

  “To make her husband jealous?”

  “Exactly. Also there’s this man who, when he buys perfume for his wife, buys the same for his girlfriend. So he smells the same no matter who he’s with.”

  He smiled. “He told you this?”

  “No, I guessed.” She finished Avi’s champagne. “Don’t you just know things sometimes?”

  Tom sat back in his chair. “What do you know about me?”

  She crossed her legs and leaned closer, as if to tell a ­secret. “You’re different from them,” she said, gesturing to their table­mates.

  “That’s true. I’m not Jewish.”

  “Not like that.” She was a little embarrassed now, and she didn’t know how he would respond to what she had to say.

  “If you don’t tell me, I’ll tell Avi you’re a shameless flirt.”

  “He won’t believe you.” In fact, she had no idea what Avi thought about her. How would he describe her? Serious? Pretty? Smart enough? She felt suddenly defensive and delivered her judgment of Tom more passionately than she’d intended. “I bet that none of the people at this table would admit they’d made a mistake about their careers. That’s how you’re different. You have guts.”

  Tom smiled a little and rattled the ice in his glass. “We’ll see. Drink?”

  She didn’t bother alerting Avi, who was now engaged with the couple beside him. Tom placed his hand at the small of her back and guided her to the bar. Avi never touched her this way, and she found this careless gesture of Tom’s more exciting than Avi’s goodnight kisses. At the bar, Tom surveyed the crowd while they waited. “So, what do you think of the happy couple? Think they’ll make it?”

  “No wonder people don’t want to talk to you. You’re awfully blunt.”

  Tom laughed. “You like the direct approach, I can tell.”

  This was the first time she thought he might be drunk. She stared at the newlyweds: the bride in her cocktail dress, the groom in his Brooks Brothers suit. She guessed they would honeymoon in Jamaica and live on Long Island.

  “They seem right for each other.”

  He nodded. “Tactful. Very tactful.”

  “What about you? Will they live happily ever after?”

  “Yes. But she’ll have an affair.”

  She slapped his arm. “That’s not very nice.”

  “It’ll be a wake-up call for him. He’ll ignore her and get too involved in his work. She’ll feel lonely and neglected.”

  Their drinks came. Tom placed his hand on her back, and she shivered. “She’ll have an affair and get caught—on purpose.”

  “He’ll divorce her,” she said, watching Avi, who leaned back in his chair and appeared to sigh. She wondered what he was so impatient to do.

  “He’ll beg forgiveness and commit himself to a period of unseemly devotion.”

  “What!” She dragged her gaze back to Tom. “Why?”

  He slid his hand to her shoulder and squeezed. “You are so lovely and naïve,” he murmured. “Avi’s a lucky bastard.”

  Elaine blushed.

  “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s dance.”

  The reception ended too soon. Elaine and Tom were left panting and sweating in the middle of the courtyard. The last song had been “Shout,” and Tom had gotten down on his back and Elaine had stood over him, resting her foot on his chest as if to hold him there. When he rose, the gray silhouette of her shoe showed on his white shirt-front. He
said exactly what she was thinking.

  “We’re not finished dancing.” He swept her back to the table, where Avi was shrugging into his jacket. He gave every appearance of wanting to call it a night.

  “Have fun?” he asked Elaine.

  “Lots. I missed you on the dance floor.”

  “No, she didn’t,” Tom said to Avi. He turned to Elaine, and she marveled at how green his eyes were, now that their rims were so red. “You shouldn’t lie to him.”

  Avi smiled a little, but Elaine blushed.

  Tom talked Avi into going to a jazz club in the Village. Elaine clomped along in her heels, hanging on Tom’s big arm. He was meatier than Avi, and seemed made for holding onto. Avi was more like smoke, Elaine thought. You could sense his presence, but you could never be sure just how much of him was really there. He walked slightly apart from them, his hands in his pockets. He answered questions when asked, and talked to Tom, but Elaine found him curiously unresponsive to her. Tom, on the other hand, encouraged her every conversational whim. They talked easily about nothing much. During the first lull in conversation, Tom put his arm around Elaine and drew her close to his side.

  “Avi, I have a confession to make.”

  Elaine shivered, the coolness of the night finally penetrating.

  Avi turned toward them. She wondered what he thought of Tom’s handling of her. She wished some of his manner would rub off on Avi. “Oh?” Avi said. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a two-part confession.” He looked at Elaine and pulled her closer with every word, so that her feet barely skimmed the sidewalk. “One, I adore your bride.”

  Avi murmured, “Oh, you do, do you?” She thought he sounded slightly sinister, and she understood Tom’s compliment was for Avi, not for her.

  “Two: your bride has inspired me to make good on my threat to join the Peace Corps. I’m going to Africa.”