Eastman Was Here

by Alex Gilvarry

  He called the waiter over and ordered something stronger than seltzer. A Tom Collins. Then he changed his mind and switched the order to a white wine, because it was the middle of the day, for Chrissake. While he struggled to make up his mind a figure appeared next to the waiter. A tall, elegant figure that just sidled up to the table with familiarity.

  “I’ll have the same,” his phantom said to the waiter, sort of joyfully. He smiled at Eastman and gestured toward the empty chair. “May I?”

  He was clean shaven and well dressed, younger than Eastman but not by much. There wasn’t anything to scrutinize about his appearance, nothing overly handsome about him that Eastman cared to admit, although he was in better physical condition. The prominent chin Eastman had noticed during their meeting in the suburbs of New Jersey wasn’t as pronounced as he’d thought. He had thick eyebrows that lent him some integrity, Eastern European cheekbones, and he was confident, Eastman could intuit, and he got some delight out of being confident.

  They shook hands, because that’s what one did when meeting for the first time, and the man introduced himself as Charles Lightfoot. It caught Eastman off guard. So who was Arnaud Fleishman?

  “I’m sorry,” said Eastman. “I thought you would be somebody else.”

  “Who did you think I would be?”

  “Did you shave your mustache?” The man in the car had a mustache, and that’s probably why Eastman was growing one. He subconsciously wanted to match his rival.

  “I’ve never worn one,” Lightfoot said. “I find them to be gauche. No offense. I see that you’re growing one. You know how I knew it was you? I recognized you from television. I knew it was you right away, as soon as I walked in. I said that’s him, all right. Alan Eastman, the writer.”

  “You did.”

  “Oh, c’mon. You must get this all the time. Answer me something. What’s it like to be on TV?”

  “That’s what you want to ask me? Of all things.”

  “I don’t know anyone who’s ever been on television. This is exciting for me.”

  “Does the name Fleishman mean anything to you?” Eastman asked. “Arnaud Fleishman.”

  “Is this some sort of test?”

  “No.”

  Lightfoot pondered the name for a bit. “It’s a German name, Fleishman. No idea what it means. And no, I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  His mind had created another fiction, like it had that night in Saigon at the presidential palace when he accused Channing of somehow being in cahoots with Heimish.

  The waiter brought them two glasses of white wine.

  “Sorry I can’t help you with your missing person,” said Lightfoot. “Anyway, I still want to hear all about what it’s like to be on The Dick Cavett Show.”

  “You want to talk about television, go talk to that guy. He’s been on television.” Eastman pointed to the movie actor seated at the bar, drinking a beer.

  “Who is that? Is that Elliott Gould?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Eastman said.

  “I don’t know either. He’s not very recognizable, at least from here. Unlike you. Now you have a very specific face. Your hair, the whole thing. Can’t be missed. You must get hounded.”

  “Are you always like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “This up. This hyper.”

  “God, I didn’t know I was being that way. Sorry, I’m a little nervous. It’s not every day you get to sit with a big writer like Alan Eastman. You know, I read most of your books. To Each His Own is really one of my favorites.”

  Eastman took a good swig of his wine. He wasn’t going to acknowledge Lightfoot’s compliment; it would steer the conversation into the wrong direction.

  “Do you know why I called you?” said Eastman.

  “Ah, you want to talk about that.” Lightfoot had the glass to his mouth and drank quickly. “This wine is excellent.”

  “Explain yourself,” Eastman said.

  “Where should I start? It’s a long story. You have time?”

  “I’ve got all the time in the world.”

  “Isn’t that a funny concept. Think about it. ‘All the time in the world.’” Lightfoot twirled his finger in the air, looking a little loopy, and Eastman thought he could be on drugs. “It’s impossible, right? To have all that time.”

  “How did you meet my wife?”

  “I can explain. I thought we’d get to know each other first. Maybe find some common ground before we got into it. But if that’s what you want . . .”

  “You know my wife. How?”

  “I knew we’d meet one day. Somehow I knew it. Like I was waiting for your call. It happens, when you . . . you know. Have relations. Like I have. You spend a good deal of time wondering if someone like you is going to come around knocking on your door. Well, not like you, exactly. You’re not angry, are you? It was a long time ago. How’d you find out? Did she just come out and tell you? I bet that was hurtful. But I can’t believe she gave you my phone number.”

  “I’m skilled in the art of conversation, too. You’ve seen me on TV, you know that. What I see is you slithering around. Delaying. And in delaying you’re attempting to weasel your way under my skin. But it’s not going to work.”

  “I’m sorry, this is really awkward for me.”

  “How do you think I feel?”

  “With all due respect, I think you have the upper hand here.”

  “How do you know Penny?”

  “We met a few years ago. I met her at a club. What was the name of that club? God, I can’t remember. It was on Fourteenth Street, a private club. People in the scene went there. You know, to meet other people. Married, single, it didn’t matter. That kind of thing. Dancing. Drugs. They had everything at this place. Whatever you wanted. The Vine! That was the name of it. The Vine.”

  “Forget the name.”

  “The Vine. I met her at the Vine. I could tell she wasn’t a regular. I think she came along with somebody on a lark or something. One of her girlfriends, I don’t know. Just to check it out. So we met, talked. Instead of going upstairs to one of the private rooms—I could tell that wasn’t gonna happen with a woman like this. To her credit.—we got something to eat. I think we came here. I don’t remember. We talked. Just talked. I really liked her.”

  “You had an affair.”

  “We went out,” Lightfoot corrected him.

  “When was this?”

  Lightfoot shook his head, trying to think on his feet. Eastman was bracing himself and he drank more wine because he wanted to numb himself for what lay ahead.

  “I guess it was . . . a couple of years ago now,” Lightfoot said. “Not a big deal. It was nothing, man. A fling. I figured Penelope was seeing plenty of people. So was I. I was cool with it.”

  “Penelope, is that what you call her?”

  “I mean, yeah. Penelope. That’s her name, right?”

  “Go on.”

  “I mean, what else do you want to hear? We went out.”

  “Did you know about me? Did you know she has a husband?”

  Lightfoot wasn’t so forthcoming anymore.

  “I knew it was you. I mean, c’mon, man. You’re Alan Eastman. Everybody knows who you are.”

  “How many times?”

  “How many times what?”

  “I want to know how many times you fucked over the course of your affair with my wife. How many times were you together. How often. Give me an estimation.”

  “Man, I don’t get graphic over things like this. You fixate on the details, it’s gonna ruin you. I’m not doing this because I want to do that to you. You know, I wanted to meet you.”

  “Think back after you met her here. When did you see her next? Where and when did you two meet? How regularly?”

  Eastman wanted to hear everything as it happen
ed. If they were ever going to get back together he needed to absorb all of the truth, not the fiction in his head. And after a little back-and-forth, Lightfoot provided what he wanted to know. They met in the afternoons at his place in the Village, close to her office at the university. He would make lunch, or have it delivered in advance, and when she arrived they would fornicate first and then eat lunch. Sometimes she wouldn’t eat at all, and they would spend the hour in bed. This carried on for a season and then began to taper off, though they still continued to see each other sporadically over the course of a year. Then Penny ended the relationship (he swore). He wanted to continue with the affair, he said, but she was racked with guilt. They never spoke about her family, although he was aware of them. It became a real drag, he said. He was more into “the scene,” sex clubs and orgies, and not wanting to bother with the intricacies of a relationship. He agreed they would end it. There was more. A few months passed with no contact and then they ran into each other again around Washington Square Park. Lightfoot asked if she wanted to see his new apartment, he had moved closer to Broadway, and if she still had his number. “I had my number transferred over to the new place. Did you know you can do that now?” That week she called him after work and they met, rekindling their relationship. Eastman pressed for details of the sexual variety. What was it like to sleep with her? What were her preferences? Top or bottom? What were the ways they did it? He wanted to compare, because all this time Eastman was also sleeping with her, about as often as one can with two young children, under the pretense of their marriage. He inquired about choking, asphyxiation, and if Lightfoot had introduced that to her.

  “Did you ever choke her?” he asked.

  Lightfoot denied it at first and then changed his answer. He couldn’t remember.

  “Which is it?” Eastman asked. “You didn’t choke her or you don’t remember?”

  “I didn’t and I don’t remember these things.”

  Eastman knew that Lightfoot was bullshitting him. Everyone kept a sexual memory that they could call to mind, the carnal imagery, whether the experience was pleasurable or not. Of course he had stored in his mind the images of Penny, her body, her breasts, her cunt, all those intimate sexual favors she performed on him. Lightfoot had the memories. And Eastman wanted to reach into Lightfoot’s brain and extract them. They didn’t belong to Lightfoot; they belonged to him. He was her husband. She had chosen him long ago.

  “So what you mean, Lightfoot, is that you were together so often that all the experiences just kind of blur together. Is that your story?”

  Lightfoot again took no responsibility.

  “I’m not the jealous type, Lightfoot. I couldn’t have stopped her even if I knew about the two of you. Nothing would have changed. I would have let it happen. Let it run its course. And with a stooge like you it would run its course. Maybe that’s why you’re the way you are—the clubs, the orgies, the women, the bisexuality. Because no one wants to be with a person like you for very long. Isn’t that the truth?”

  “You don’t have to insult me.”

  Eastman smacked the table so that the silverware rattled in place. The wine rippled in the glasses. The restaurant’s patrons turned to look at their table.

  “Take it easy,” Lightfoot said. “We’re fine,” he said to the waiter. “Can we get another white?”

  “Shut up,” Eastman said. “You’ve said enough. I’ve been listening to you here and I realized something. I’ve been where you are now. I’ve had my share of fun. Only I’m not stupid enough to sit down with my lover’s husband over a drink. Why are you that stupid?”

  “You don’t get it. I didn’t come here to tell you all those things. You wanted to know. I didn’t tell you anything you couldn’t figure out on your own. I didn’t want to say any of that. That was all your curiosity. You should be thanking me.”

  “Then why meet me? I don’t understand. Make me understand.”

  Eastman looked into Lightfoot’s eyes, trying to see behind them. If there was a soul in there. If there was a sense of morality or plausibility. This meeting had no logic to it, it felt out of time.

  “Because,” Lightfoot said. “I have something I want to give you.” From under the table, Lightfoot produced a manuscript. It wasn’t too thick, and he’d had it bound together. He put it on the table in front of Eastman. He wanted him to read it. “You called about a day after I finished it. It was like a sign or something.”

  “What is this?”

  “My memoirs,” said Lightfoot.

  Eastman pushed it back over to Lightfoot’s side of the table and said, “The only thing your life story would be good for is kindling. Burn it.”

  There was no greater plot against him. He no longer knew if there was even an Arnaud Fleishman. So much of his experience lately relied on misremembered facts and a failing imagination. However, there was a whole truth out there. The night he and Penny split, he waited for her in his study while she packed her things in their bedroom upstairs. She must have gone through everything she wanted to take with her and chose, perhaps deliberately, to leave him a clue. The matchbook from the Waverly Inn. That was the whole hard truth. She wanted him to know about her affair with Lightfoot and didn’t even care enough anymore to hide it.

  21.

  It had been a Sunday when she left him and he, the compliant husband, drove her to her mother’s. And so he thought it fitting to return home on a Sunday, a symbolic gesture. Had he grown superstitious while he was away? The lost and lonely will humor superstitions. They begin to believe their lives have been left to chance. So they read the horoscopes, consider the alignment of the moon, sun, the revolving planets—as irrational as any organized faith. He couldn’t peer into Penny’s head, had not a clue as to what she was thinking. All he knew for sure was what he witnessed on the street when he followed her the other morning. The article on Saigon she tossed away. A family, their marriage, she tossed those away, too.

  He saw his Saab, parked outside of the house, and noted that it needed a wash. A layer of pollen had adhered to the roof, hood, and windshield.

  Eastman hesitated before he went up the front steps. He bought this brick townhouse on the end of Pineapple Street because it was close to his mother’s apartment. He could have lunch at her place every day. He was thirty-eight when he decided to put some roots down after years of dealing with landlords—crooks, all of them. His mother encouraged him to buy in the neighborhood of Brooklyn Heights. He was single and told himself it was a major investment in his future with a partner he hadn’t met yet. He wanted a home with many rooms. His study he put in the first-floor living room and transferred the living room into what the real estate agent had called a small sitting room adjacent to the large dining area. Upstairs, he had a room for Helen when she came to visit from Mexico, one master bedroom for himself, and another were he to have more children. He had felt so lucky then, young, and full of promise, and the universe was rewarding him already.

  It was an early summer evening and still bright out. He used his own key and entered the house. In the foyer was that familiar smell of rubber raincoats and boots; even the tall woven basket that held the umbrellas had a scent he instantly recognized. He entered through the second set of doors and called out, announcing that he was home. The house was still; no one answered. He opened the sliding doors to his study first, and everything seemed to be as he left it. The two reading chairs, his own marked by the indentation of his ass. On his desk, his papers, untouched. He brought his luggage into the study, not knowing for sure if he would be staying the night.

  He walked through the rest of the first floor, peeked into the living room. An unfolded blanket on the sofa, the indent of her head on a decorative pillow. On the floor, scattered pieces of a board game, some comic books left open on the rug. Traces of fun while she took a nap.

  He was afraid to enter the kitchen. Before he went in, he thought of a few prec
ious things to say were he to find Penny inside, seated at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of tea. But he found no one, only the yellow walls and the white counter tops, clean and polished. It didn’t look as if anything had been cooked that day.

  He went upstairs to their bedroom, where the bed was neatly made. On the floor were Penny’s open suitcases. She’d been living out of them, not even planning to stay for very long. Where was she headed? He could riffle through her things but couldn’t put himself through it, not after following her the other morning. He’d rather not find out anything more hurtful. What a sad state the room was in, even with the bed made. How could he stand to live here? Would he have to sell the house? Move into a smaller apartment? Keep a room open for his children? Would that help? He’d been through a divorce before and knew that moving into a new space wasn’t a solution to heartbreak.

  He had thought of calling her from the hotel to let her know when he would be home, but he didn’t want to give her an excuse not to be there when he returned. She could slip out to her mother’s or leave for her lover’s place. Fleishman? He didn’t know anymore. And after his run-in with Lightfoot, he didn’t particularly care who she was seeing. It no longer concerned him. Better to talk to her to get everything out in the open. He should have had the strength to do that in the beginning instead of wallowing in his misery and plotting schemes.

  He sat down on her side of the bed and opened her nightstand drawer. He threw in the matchbook from the Waverly Inn; he was done with it. Done with his investigation.

  He lay down on the bed crosswise. Penny’s idea of happiness was now so changed that it didn’t include him. All of his best efforts—breaking things off with Meredith, trying to be a better husband to Penny, trying harder with the kids—all were doomed if he couldn’t persuade her to broaden her definition of happiness to include him. What was he going to do?