Sex and Death in the American Novel

by Martinez, Sarah

  She still thought he was some kind of hero. I couldn't wreck her feeling that she was in the presence of some positive way to remember my brother. Her face was like that of someone in church: turned up, rapt, worshipful.

  Jasper rolled up the sleeves on his crisp, button-down shirt and leaned forward, wrapping both hands around each side of the podium. He looked down at the pages in front of him, cleared his throat and said, “It's an honor to be asked to appear here. I will be reading from a speech I gave last year in the UK.” He arched his back, and put both hands down the back of his pants pushing his shirt down. “I don't get out much and it is great to see so many people willing to make an effort for the sake of literature.”

  “Oh brother, like no one else knows how to read. He's surprised that anyone else reads literature,” I said, under my breath. An older woman down below turned and looked into the balcony, unable to figure out exactly where the voice had come from. Mother shifted in her seat, looked around and faced forward and pretended she hadn't heard me.

  I decided to behave myself and pulled the fabric of my jacket over my lap and began to examine it. I did listen, though most of what I heard sat with me and lodged itself in the place where my worries went to harden into full-blown anxieties. The main thrust of what he spoke about was getting to the place where he as a writer was afraid, and working with that material, often for years before knowing if he had anything worthwhile. No wonder my brother had to end his life if this was what he had to look forward to.

  The performance was truly comic how many times he had to stop to correct some reference that wasn't applicable anymore. He lifted his head at one point and said, “I promise I'm going to go home and update this speech.”

  He got a soft patient laugh from the audience. I shook my head, and made a big show of putting my head in my hands. After a few moments the only thing I could do was sit still, lest I slip out an insult, or worse. Images of my brother hunched over his laptop, printing that stupid letter, scribbling on it, tossing it aside, starting over. Nausea rose in my throat imagining the reverent tone he was searching for, for hours and possibly days. Then my throat tightened again, almost a daily occurrence until a few months ago—apparently the feelings were back. Lovely. What had Tristan finally told his fair author? You inspire me…or more awful…how can I be like you? God, I hoped my brother hadn't sunk as low as soliciting advice. I imagined Jasper skimming the letter and tossing it aside, scurrying back to his work hole, blocking out the rest of the world.

  Jasper went on for another twenty minutes, then took questions from the audience. When the applause finally died down and the lights came back up, I was the first to stand.

  “So?” I asked my mother as we filed toward the reception area. “Could he have delivered that any worse?”

  “I think he is just a tortured soul, working so hard in seclusion.”

  “And he hardly ever gets out,” Eric offered to my mother, then gave me a pointed look before leading her ahead.

  “It shows,” I said.

  Barbara, the drag queen from Neighbours, fell in step beside us. She smelled of cigarette smoke and powdery-orange perfume. She was dressed well for an event like this. If I didn't know who she was, I might miss the fact that she was a guy.

  “You coming out tonight?” Barbara asked.

  “I hope so,” I said, hoping indeed I had enough energy to make it to the car after this. Her voice got low and said, “That was brilliant, absolutely brilliant.” Then she switched topics with a wide-eyed look. “What you did with your hair? You look great in purple.” She stroked my cheek with her large hand, then said, “Gotta run, I want to be first in line with that little one.”

  “He's not that little,” Eric said.

  Barbara gave him a long up-and-down look. “They're all little to me, sweetie,” and with that she blew past us toward the crowd forming on the balcony section of the lobby near where Jasper was supposed to greet everyone. At the moment, servers in black and white were setting out assorted cheeses and bread. A stiff young man stood next to a round table topped with assorted glasses of wine and big round water glasses.

  When we got to the area and could go no further, my mother turned to me. “Honestly Vivianna, I don't know what has gotten into you. I did not raise you to behave this way.” She looked to Eric, then to me, and stalked off to stand in line. I hung back with Eric.

  “What's the deal,” he said, squeezing my arm. When he did this, the façade I'd built began to crack.

  “I wouldn't tell my mother this,” I said. Hearing my voice waver, I took a breath and let it out my nose. The air was cool and I closed my eyes. “My brother loved this guy…wrote him letters…read every stupid long-winded book he ever said was an influence. He worshipped him.”

  “That's why your mother wanted you to come to this with her,” Eric said.

  I nodded. “So we go to this conference in Montana. He spoke there and Tristan waited a half hour to be able to talk to him, and then when he finally got there, Jasper just waved at him and ran off with this fucking bimbo.”

  “What did Tristan do?”

  “Nothing. Made excuses for him, typical Tristan.”

  Eric crossed his arms. “So what do you want to do?”

  I bit my lip, my stomach churned. I didn't want to make a scene—that was the last thing I wanted. I leaned over on tiptoes and saw that Mother was in line two people back and would soon be able to talk to Jasper. I paced while Eric watched me. On one hand, it would give me immeasurable satisfaction to tell Jasper what I thought of him, to tell him just what his lack of courtesy had cost my brother, had cost me. What would Tristan think? Silly, but I looked around the room, hoping to catch a glance of him or someone who looked like him, something that happened every so often, just enough to give me comfort.

  There was just Eric, and then my mother was stalking over. “Well, I did it. I told him he was a wonderful writer and that my son loved his work very much. He was very gracious…We can go now.”

  With a glance at Jasper I said, “I'm going to catch a cab home.”

  My mother put her hands up and let them fall. “You?” she looked to Eric.

  He gripped her elbow and said, “I'll walk you to your car.”

  As I waited my turn in line, Barbara passed me, took a look at me and stopped. “Everything okay?”

  I nodded and gave her my biggest smile until she stopped searching my eyes and whisked back toward the exit in a cloud of jingling bracelets and sandalwood perfume.

  I felt Jasper's eyes on me while there were still a few people ahead. I stared back hard, then dropped my eyes. There were now only three people left in line. Eric stood back against the far wall, arms crossed, and tipped his head lightly to me, urging me on. My stomach dropped and I stepped back to allow the people behind me to go ahead, buying time, and I watched him again. Every time I made contact with his deep green and gold eyes, I reminded myself that I had purpose.

  When the guy in front of me with a grey ponytail moved off, Jasper Caldwell stood before me, and I paused to let the moment sink in. Every fiber of me shot through with nervous tension, tingling at the back of my neck. I put out my hand, and he took it. Already I was farther than Tristan ever got.

  “Hello,” he said.

  I could feel him trying to release my grip. I held him firm, covering his hand with my other one. His smile was tentative, his eyes alert, and up close even taller than I remembered. He had to lean down to look directly into my face.

  “You met my mother earlier. Did she tell you about my brother Tristan?”

  “Yes, she did,” he said. “I am sorry.” His voice sounded tired, strained. “Well, it was nice meeting you,” he said, and again tried to release my grip.

  I squeezed further, feeling like I was rolling down a cliff as I opened my mouth. “He worshipped you. You totally blew him off at that conference in Montana.”

  His face clouded, lines formed on his forehead, and his eyes slid in their sockets lef
t, then right. He shifted his weight grounding himself, seeming to resign to the fact that he wasn't going anywhere soon. With his other hand he pushed his glasses back with the tip of his index finger. “I…don't remember that. When was this again?”

  I thought I saw recognition in his face though, so I plowed on. “And then, he wrote you a letter. You. Possibly…no, for sure, the most depressing, uninspiring person I could think of him to talk to, but that's what he did. He went to you for direction.”

  “Miss,” he said, and pulled his hand free, and stuck it in his jacket pocket. “I am very sorry about your brother…I get thousands of letters, especially when a book comes out. I get very busy.”

  I nodded and cringed when I heard the hysterical cackle that came from my mouth. “I thought about that. I can give you the benefit of the doubt for a few months. Then you know what I thought? Three months. That's how long he waited until he gave up waiting for you.” I glared, satisfied with the way he began searching the crowd beside me and behind me for assistance. I had finally gotten to him and I was insanely happy for a second. “And how many people write you three-page letters anyway?”

  When no help came, he hung his head low, his mouth a tight line, and looked at me from under his eyebrows.

  I backed away, and Eric took my arm. Before we turned to go down the stairs I caught sight of Barbara again, waiting at the bottom with an amused expression on her large, painted face.

  “This feels like when I wrote to my father after he flaked on Tristan's graduation. Funny how I could avenge slights against my brother before I could my own. You know why?”

  Eric raised his brows in expectation as he hit the elevator button.

  “Because I have already accepted human fallibility, and my dear, perfect brother couldn't. He needed his gods, failures in reality or not.”

  “You are a poet my love,” Eric said and eased me into the elevator. “A little confused at the moment, but you are a poet.”

  Chapter 5

  We rode in a cab up the hill to Neighbours. Inside I was profoundly grateful for the familiar surroundings, making it easier to put thoughts of the evening's adventures out of my mind. I danced with Eric, distractedly, and when he began to scan the crowd over our heads, I grew impatient, wanting to find someone to play with. We were here to celebrate. I had to enjoy this giddy happiness before I came down. Something about the way I felt was hollow, the sense that I'd gotten away with something huge was about to wear off and underneath I was going to be sick with regret.

  The place was packed, the air smelled like powder, chalky with stale smoke from the fog machine, and every few feet my nose would pucker with the scent of especially tangy cologne, calling up images of hard wood and exotic places.

  After dancing a few songs I figured it was time to give up and just get drunk. As I stood in line at the bar, I felt a pair of eyes on me. I looked up to the balcony hanging over the club to see a figure hunched over a long pair of legs, and higher up, something reflected the dim light. Did I know this guy? I didn't think so, nonetheless he was watching me. This wasn't a surprise—even in a gay bar there were still enough straight men lurking in the shadows. What mood was I in tonight?

  By the time I had three drinks in me, my body moved in fluid motions, one with the air around me, channeling the beat and rhythm of the electronics thudding from the speakers. I pushed through the crowd, past a couple I'd seen there a few times before. Leo was gay, and he lived with a girl he worked with, Kate. It was obvious Kate had a crush on him, dancing as close as she could. Leo, always the gentleman, took her hand and spun her around. She threw her head back and laughed, then fell into him. He touched his forehead to hers and pushed her back. As she lost herself in the dance, he scanned the crowd for a more interesting dance partner.

  I was glad I wasn't attached to anyone; I didn't need anything. I got up on the narrow stage that bordered the dance floor; the fabric of my jacket swirled around me, taking every worry to the floor worry with it.

  “Go Flashdance,” Vlad yelled in my ear with his thick Russian accent. He stood before me, working his shoulders in time to the heady beat. His chest was bare, displaying a fully defined set of muscles from stomach to forearms. What a work of art. This was a rare opportunity—usually he was off making out with someone, or surrounded by college boys and girls giggling and pawing. He came close, put his arms around my waist, I continued to sway my hips to the deep, surreal, techno rhythm, lay my head back and let him pull me toward him until our thighs touched. I held myself this way, drinking in the sounds and sensations all around me, opening my eyes to find the same pair of eyes on me, hardly moving. The stranger was in the same position, only he had turned his chair to watch me from this angle. The stage was four feet off the floor—I was higher up now, much closer this time, and saw who it was.

  I stopped moving, turning my head to get a better look. I must have been losing my mind, or projecting something from the night's events; the schmuck above me looked just like Jasper Caldwell. I knew it! He was gay. What would he be doing here, didn't he have to go to bed early?

  Then I remembered the woman in Montana. No matter, what a rush to have this attention on me, if it was him—fuck it—even if it wasn't. The fantasy was fun anyway.

  Maybe he was a masochist and enjoyed having women scream at him. How had he found me here if that was the case? I remembered Barbara watching me, but didn't know what she would gain from bringing him here. I felt the small glow one feels when someone says something that makes sense, and you don't want to admit you like to hear it. Part of me wanted to get away, flip him off, go up there and tell him off, but I was feeling too good.

  Vlad held me in front of him, and my thighs were screaming from holding myself back this far. I held tighter to his thick arms and pulled myself up as slowly as I could. Cool air washed across my stomach. My top had fallen back and the skin was exposed. Vlad wrapped one arm around my back, then with one hand traced his forefinger along the line of my pants, sending a lazy zing of sensation from my groin to my toes and back again.

  A hard beautiful man held me and I was the center of the universe. Unlike these situations with straight men, I didn't have to feel guilty for giving them the wrong idea or anything else that would justify them being an asshole later on. I straightened the rest of the way up, in time to the beat of the vaguely Latin rhythm until we were both face to face, still feeling the eyes on the back of my head. I slid my arms around Vlad's slick shoulders, moving behind so that I could now face the form watching me from above.

  I bore my eyes into the darkness above me. Then when a song came on that I loved from years ago, I broke my gaze and danced with abandon, movement coming from my waist, dictating the movements of the rest of my limbs. At some point Vlad slipped away, and I was on my own again.

  For what could have been hours but felt like minutes, I was completely lost. There was nothing like this. A warm pair of hands wrapped around my ankles, I tilted my head down and saw Eric below me motioning with his hand in front of his mouth like he was holding a drink.

  The back of my throat and tongue ached, I was actually parched. I hopped down and followed him over to the bar. The crowd had thinned considerably; we only had to wait five minutes. There were tables available, at last. We brought our waters and drinks and, for the first time in hours, I sat. I leaned forward and opened my mouth to tell him that I thought Jasper was here, but at the last minute I decided to keep quiet. He might feel the need to drag me out of there before I did something rash. The specific thought of doing something rash was what lent a special charge to the air. Maybe I could drink enough to give me the guts to tell him to his pale face what I thought of him again, or figure out what he was doing there. Was he plotting something I needed to worry about? I felt a strong surge of excitement at the thought that I didn't care.

  After finishing my water in one long, cold gulp, I went back and got another. When I looked back to the table, Eric was making circles in the air, he was ready
to go. I thought about my project up in the balcony. I turned my head and my heart sank, the chair he had been sitting in was abandoned, empty, dark…in fact, the entire floor was empty.

  I inclined my head toward him, agreement, and then saw a familiar figure leaning against the wall, beside the stairs. One skinny leg was hooked over the other, and his arms hung loose making him seem totally defenseless and the farthest thing from threatening I could imagine. As I watched, he crossed his arms over his front, grasped the bottom of his sweater and pulled it over his head, leaving him with just his sensible dress shirt.

  Shaking my head at Eric, I leaned over and said, “Head home kiddo, I'll be here awhile.” He looked disappointed though not surprised.

  Eric put his arms around me, held me for a minute, then kissed me on the neck. “Be careful, sweetie.” As Lady GaGa began the vocal lead up to “Bad Romance,” Eric walked away with his head down like he had failed at something.

  I moved out to the dance floor. Vlad was still there, as were Leo and a new male friend. I closed my eyes and spun around with my hands above my head. When I opened my eyes, there was Jasper Caldwell, not six inches from my face. I faced him, then turned in a slow circle, inviting him to come closer, though he did not at first. Was he shy, or working some angle? I fell back into my usual rhythm, hands slipping together, running along the length of my forearm, then down to my hips, absorbing the throbbing beat, moving through me, changing me, making me something other: something better, something strange, different, and wonderful.

  Dancing to loud music, the right music, was better than sex. A techno-enhanced female voice and the heavy beat pulsed and throbbed through every part of me, hoping the night would never end. I was on fire when the lights shone down on me, and my arms raised above my head, I felt free, so free, just me, nothing holding me back, just rhythm, bass and the limits of my physical strength.