"Hello, Althea."
"Yes?"
"Don't you know who this is? It's Jeanne." The words came out in a rush.
"I do now."
"How are you?"
"Fine, I guess."
"Are you? Althea—"
"Jeanne," Althea broke into Jeanne's sentence, surprising even herself, "what is it? Why are you calling me now?"
"You mean, why now and not before?"
"That's what I do mean."
"If I could answer that, maybe I would have called you earlier. Will you talk to me now?"
"Talk?" said Althea, "I'm talking," and heard how hard she sounded, felt how angry she was.
At the other end of the line, Jeanne took a sip of coffee to rally her nerves. What will help me through this conversation? she wondered. I'm vulnerable, too, after all. "I've thought of you. It's not that I haven't." Jeanne paused. "How is your painting?"
"It's coming along. I'd rather not be teaching. But you've heard that before, that's an old story."
"It's all right. You can tell me about it."
"No," said Althea, "you didn't call me up for that. Besides, I don't feel like talking about it."
"I called you to see how you are."
"Well, I'm fine. Are you satisfied?"
"Althea, you're making it hard for me. I'd like to see you. Can you think of a time when we can get together?"
"I don't know. I'm busy tomorrow and teaching on Thursday and Friday. But I guess I could meet you some other time."
"I have my job. I didn't mean during the week. What about Saturday? Will you meet me for lunch?"
"That reminds me of your mother," said Althea, the memory recalling her to intimacy despite herself. "Didn't your mother used to meet her friends for lunch on Saturdays?"
"Actually she met them on weekdays when we were in school. None of them worked."
"You know, I don't think my mother ever did that."
"No?"
"No," said Althea. "Well, what do you want to do, meet for a burger or something?"
"Let's go somewhere nice. I'll take you."
"You know, Paul's dancing this week," Althea suddenly volunteered.
"Yes, I know," said Jeanne. "I saw him."
Althea's answer was to give no answer. "Will you meet me," continued Jeanne, "if I make reservations at two at Johanna's on Sixteenth Street off Fifth Avenue?
"A ladies' lunch with ladies' talk?"
"If you like," said Jeanne. "It's up to you."
"And up to you," said Althea, and her voice was as even as Jeanne's.
* * *
On a golden afternoon, Paul came strolling across Central Park from the East Side to meet Althea. This Wednesday was so warm that happiness seemed to float in the air. "Seventy-seven degrees, a record high for November 19," Paul had heard announced over the radio when he'd stopped to buy mints at a drugstore on Madison Avenue. In the park he heard seagulls and thought of the sea. At the edge of the Great Lawn, he saw them wheeling and settling. Behind him, Belvedere Castle, where the temperature was recorded, stood on its high, dark cliff. It's the kind of day, he thought, that makes you feel as if you'll live forever.
Just as he crossed the park's western boundary, he noticed a youth approaching the entrance whose beauty matched the day's. He reminded Paul of Christopher in the gallery of musical instruments in Boston. He had dark, curly hair, a Grecian profile. He was wearing jeans and a tee-shirt that revealed his smooth, rippling arms. Observing him, Paul's mood changed. He felt a pang thinking that he would never again be so young. The boy's smile was a flash of impersonal goodwill. Then, entering the park, he broke into a run, calling out to companions unseen by Paul, who had turned his back and was waiting for the light to cross the avenue.
Paul walked south and then headed west on a side street. A bell tolled the hour, thrice, thrilling and chilling his heart. When he reached the café, Althea was waiting for him outside at one of the small round tables placed right on the sidewalk. She was sitting peacefully, watching the street. Her menu was open, and he assumed that she hadn't yet ordered.
She rose to greet him, stately, her hair flowing over her shoulders. She was dressed plainly in a dark sweater and jeans. She stood a little stiffly, as if unsure what to do.
His forefinger grazed her cheekbone; then he stepped back. "Althea, I've kept you waiting."
"Yes, you have." Her voice was low, her complexion pale next to her clothing. Her eyes were gray flecked with yellow, like a distant horizon, her face so smooth it seemed nearly expressionless, emphasizing the strong, full curves of her jaw and cheek. Yet she was not really so composed.
"I thought we'd sit outside," she said, interrupting the silence she had opened between them. "It's so warm."
"Fine."
Their chairs were set beside each other at angles facing the street, not opposite, not touching. The young waitress brought Paul a menu. He scanned it rapidly. "I'll have something rich and gooey. Chocolate mousse cake and an espresso. And you?" he nodded to Althea.
"A lemon ice because it feels like summer." As the waitress departed, she continued, "I cut the review of your performance from Monday's Times. I thought you'd want an extra copy."
She opened her purse, unfolded the clipping, and laid it on the table. He didn't glance at it. "Are you trying to torture me?" he asked.
"I thought it was good. Well, most of it anyway."
Paul stared at her as though in disbelief. Althea felt defensive. She wanted him to know she was his champion. "Critics have to express reservations," she pleaded. "That's their job. They can't love everything. Remember, they're only critics. You're the artist."
"Where do they get off?" Paul complained. "They're so self important. I hate it when they write about the 'vocabulary' of dance."
"They're writers. They're trying to find a connection to words."
"Well, they could be more original." He took the clipping, dated November 17, 1980, and read from it: "'The audience got a special treat in the Kurt Matthews Dancers' opening performance at the Joyce Theater on Sunday night. Mr. Matthews' lead dancer, Paul Carmichael'—Eric and Hector have already given me grief about that," Paul interjected—"'premiered his first creation, a solo dance called Savage Landscape. Notwithstanding the terrible title, this is an interesting piece, which seems influenced by the Japanese form of dance called Butoh.' Well, I'll skip the dissertation," Paul said, "and head straight to the point, such as it is. 'There were some tantalizing sequences, which Mr. Carmichael performed well, but his intent wasn't always clear. His vocabulary is esoteric.'" Paul snorted with disgust, then skipped to the last line. "'Still, he's someone to watch for in the future.' Blah, blah, blah."
Althea laughed. "Well, I'm one to talk. I've never been reviewed. I'm terrified. Sometimes I think I'd rather not be reviewed, but if I'm ever to get anywhere, I realize I'm going to have to change my attitude. Still, I thought this part was good, about Alchemy." She rotated the clipping on the table, and read, "'Paul Carmichael stood out among the group. He exhibits a good performance quality, with striking lines, and is at ease onstage.' That's true," she commented, hoping to please him.
"What bothers me is the implication that I'm a dancer, not a choreographer, and I ought to stick to what I know."
"But this review didn't say that at all."
"The one in Newsday did."
"I didn't see it. Have there been others?"
"I'm waiting for the weeklies. Not exactly with baited breath. I'd like to say that the effect of the reviews is like water off a duck's back, but it's not true. However, I'm trying not to care too much. The audiences matter to me more than the critics, and you know, I think I really want my audiences to be speechless."
"But they could just as well be speechless with horror, shock, or dismay, as speechless with delight."
"That's true. But to me that's preferable to the ready-made responses that are about as automatic as reflexes. I mean when the audience thinks, That looks pretty, or el
se, That's a difficult execution, and then claps and immediately forgets about it. I want my audiences to have to digest what they've seen. I want to create a kind of magic so they're not quite sure of what they've experienced."
As he spoke, Althea found herself recalling his performance, feeling again the sharp pang when she'd recognized him onstage, existing in another realm, beautiful and unreachable and utterly remote. Before she could respond to his comment, their order arrived—an imposing hill of pale blond ice in a glass tumbler, a plump, dark wedge of cake, and black coffee in a small, thick china cup. The waitress placed the check face-down, one corner under the edge of Paul's saucer, and left them to attend to the next table.
"Looks great," commented Paul, spreading his napkin over his lap.
"Do you always eat like this before a performance?"
"It's not for hours. I don't eat just before. I really eat a lot afterwards, whatever I want." He grinned and took a huge first bite.
Althea scooped up her ice with a long-handled spoon, eating it slowly, dreamily letting it melt on her tongue. The coldness, the sour taste and grainy texture soothed her. It felt unreal to be consuming an ice in the warm sun of November with Paul beside her. He ate quickly but fastidiously, with evident relish. She wondered if he would offer her a taste, but he didn't. She repressed a counter-offer of her own, though inwardly savoring the fantasy of holding the spoon up to his mouth and his sucking up the contents of it.
He finished his cake, pressing his fork to the plate to get the last crumbs. Her ice was a diminished, still-gleaming heap, melting into a little pond.
She gazed at him, a smile curving her cold lips, and he watched her, smiling back. Without speaking another word, they acknowledged the intimacy between them in that look, and she luxuriated in what seemed to her was being admitted without actually being said. It felt like a freedom not to need to say it, while she sat beside Paul in the warm sun.
But he was not content; he had to speak. "What are you hiding, Althea?" he asked gently.
She had been uplifted; now she was being carefully set down. She sighed, regretting his question, regretting having to make her reply explicit in words. "I was thinking of how easy it is to be with you."
"But I'm a difficult person. Most people think it's hard to be with me."
"I know that." She watched as he stirred sugar into his coffee and took a small sip. "Right now, I find you restful to be with."
He laughed. "That's a new one."
She smiled and then felt her smile grow melancholy. "It's horrible to be the one who waits, Paul."
"I've been away, you know," he said. "I was on tour."
"How would I know?" Her voice was quiet and bitter.
"That's true, I didn't tell you. I've been up in New England for over a month, working very hard, dancing all the time. That's where I made up my dance." He looked her straight in the face. "To tell the truth, I hardly thought of anything else."
She didn't flinch or take offense. "Believe me, I understand artistic obsession. You know, I'd like to see your dance again."
"You'll have a chance, but not tonight. Tonight's the other program."
"Will you change the dance because of the reviews?"
"I'll probably change it in spite of the reviews. To spite the reviewers. Maybe I'll change the title. Do you really think it's terrible? Do you have any ideas?"
"I don't know. No." Their conversation had come close to her heart, and then veered off. Though afraid, she was determined to bring it back again. "You explained about the last month, but what about before that, Paul? Why didn't you get in touch with me?"
"I thought it better not to."
"Better for you."
"Oh, Althea." She heard the exasperation in his voice, and the pity.
"Has it really been so hard?" he asked, this time gently.
Her assent was a monotone so low it could scarcely be heard. Still she was dry-eyed. A truck came rumbling down the narrow side street, drowning out his comment. She looked at the doll fastened to the grill on the front, like the figurehead of a ship, a custom she had never heard described, but had often noticed. The doll was battered and dirty by now from its voyages through city streets.
A dissolve, and then distance. The distance between them. She thought that she still felt desire for him, but it was a different desire, having existed so long in his absence.
She had no choice; that was clear. Or, rather, her only choice was to say no.
As Paul watched Althea, he was aware of her beauty, sparer than in the summer, her tan long faded to the pallor of November. It was as if she were worn to a translucency, like old alabaster. He thought of taking her hand, and thought twice. He couldn't help, when she hung her head, the sudden thrill through his heart, the exquisite pleasure that came of seeing her suffer.
The sensation was so delicately wrought in him that at first he hardly understood it, and he didn't do it justice. His annoyance and pity didn't pass, but, as he divined her, he felt a kind of exultation compounded of both happiness and pain. Yet he was hardly able at first to show it.
Unable to understand him, she looked at him questioningly and shook her head. "You've puzzled me, and I've puzzled myself. I think perhaps in part you always meant to, yet I can't entirely believe it."
He didn't laugh. A look of strain came over his face, making him haggard. It was a complete change. For the first time, he appeared used to Althea, even tarnished. It was a flash of revelation, a new thought of him, as diminished as herself. The transcendence, the empowering energy that she had felt from him—they were gone. This Paul was not superhuman, but mortal and flawed.
Yet the sight of him was still affecting to her. The flicker of desire was in them both—she'd sensed it the instant he'd greeted her by touching her cheek. What she had really been trying to tell him, she reflected, was that it was easier to be with him than to long for him and to be without him. It made her sad to remember all the times when she was alone and had thought of him with such desire. She couldn't bear for him to know that. Yet in some sense she wanted him to have to know it.
However, what good could that possibly do her? she thought, as they sat beside each other, not touching, their desserts consumed. "That was an amazing moment," she recalled, changing the subject, "when those flowers came flying on the stage. They were from Bryce, weren't they? I looked for him afterwards, and I didn't see him."
"No, they weren't from Bryce."
"The roses were Jeanne's offering then?" Althea sounded incredulous.
"No."
"I didn't think so. It's not like her to make a gesture like that. Besides, she can barely throw."
Paul laughed.
"It's true. I should know," Althea went on. "We were in junior high school gym class together. Who did send the roses?"
"A secret admirer."
"Come on, Paul."
"Okay, don't believe me. You don't think I have secret admirers?"
He was enjoying this, she could tell, and she felt exasperated. She refused to indulge him. "But Jeanne was there, wasn't she, at your opening night?"
"Yes."
"Did you see her?"
"No," he said, meeting her eyes directly. "She sent me a note with the usher, saying that she would look for me, but I found you instead."
"Did she." Althea heard a resistance in Paul's tone and decided not to pursue the topic, although this information by itself was a frail intelligence to meet Jeanne with on Saturday against all that she did not know.
Her next question, however, was even less welcome. "How is Bryce?" was followed by a pause in which Paul said nothing. He simply sat still and waited as if he had not heard. A delivery boy whizzed by on a bike, ringing his bell for no reason at all. The sound, rather gentle for a warning, welled up in the silence. Without understanding why, she inferred that she was on dangerous ground, that Paul was keeping her at length, as if she were his adversary.
"We've spent all this time talking about me and my d
ance, and none about you and your painting. How's it going? Any shows coming up?"
He’s trying to disarm me, she thought. She felt as if she were being called on to play a part, to maintain a structure of courtesy, and she submitted.
"Shows? I don't even have a dealer yet. I suppose I ought to do the round of galleries with slides, but I've been putting it off. I have a number of excuses: I haven't yet made the slides, and I don't know where to begin. I don't want to go about it blindly, approaching dealers who won't be interested in my work. I'm not part of any trendy scene, and I don't have any connections. I need to research the different galleries, but I haven't had the time or the inclination. It puts me off to think about marketing my work while I'm in the midst of doing it. I want to finish these paintings first. They're my most recent and I hope my best."
"What paintings are they?"
"The ones I was working on on Block Island."
"Still?"
"Yes."
"I haven't seen them yet."
"No."
"I thought you would have offered if you'd wanted me to see them." Paul sounded defensive.
"I was waiting for you to ask."
"I didn't know that. Well, I'd like to see them now if you'd care to show them."
Between us are taboos, she thought, set by him, that I can't bring myself to break, but my paintings are no longer one of them. "You can if you like."
"Maybe I'll drop by one of these days."
"Come to think of it, perhaps you ought to wait until they're finished. I hope it won't be too long now. I'm trying to imagine them completed and then complete them."
"Maybe you won't know they're done until they are."
"Maybe." In her mind's eye she pictured her canvases waiting for her in the quiet dark of her studio. They were relics of her past, she thought, or recreations of it. Will he look at them, she wondered, and remember Block Island?
Out of the blue she recalled some cloud-and-wind-swept collages she once had seen in a Kurt Schwitters exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art. She wondered if they might have influenced her paintings. She recalled watching the somber light on the sea from the deck of the New London ferry with Paul and Jeanne beside her. It seemed no effort at all to bring her left hand over Paul's right one resting by his empty cup on the table.
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