Fall Love

by Anne Whitehouse

  "When your cast comes off, your skin will grow back. It will be the same as before," he assured Paul. He stirred the ice in his drink and tasted it. Just then, the bar, which had been quiet, was invaded by a group of five or six well-dressed, middle-aged couples. Even before he heard them speak, Bryce guessed that they were fellow Southerners.

  After overhearing their conspicuous accents, Paul asked Bryce, "How did you know?"

  "Their appearance gives them away as much as their accents," Bryce whispered, so as not to be overheard. "Obviously, these folks are prosperous. See the ladies' mink coats. Probably they came to New York to have an opportunity to wear them." He shook his head. "But they're so un-hip. See how perfectly coordinated their outfits are," he pointed out, as the ladies were removing their coats. "They're not dowdy, just behind the times. Every hair is in place, and they all have on such obvious make up. And the men are wearing plain gray or blue suits, loosely cut, unlike New Yorkers, who like a tailored, European look. And everyone's smiling."

  Paul giggled.

  "It's true," Bryce protested.

  "I see," said Paul. He had to move his coat closer to him on the banquette to make room for the two couples at the next table. Now that they were surrounded by the new clientele, Bryce and Paul turned their attention back to themselves. Bryce wanted to hold Paul's hand across the table, as they slowly sipped their drinks, but with these onlookers he felt inhibited.

  Like a surprise, he felt Paul's good foot prod his ankle under the table. Making no outward show, he pressed his calf against Paul's.

  Jazz piano music was playing over the sound system, the bar was humming with conversation. The whisky went to Bryce’s head. He leaned back in his chair. The atmosphere was so dense it was like being under water. He felt he was drowning. If I speak softly to Paul, I won't be overheard, he thought. Who else would care what I said anyway? he asked himself. Just because I'm surrounded by Southerners, I don't need to think that I'm back in Meridian, where they know me and would gossip about me.

  Yet all the same he eased the pressure of his leg against Paul's, as if the touch were forced and blatant, and he was ashamed of it. Admitting this to himself, it was as if he'd betrayed Paul.

  Feeling Bryce withdraw, Paul eyed him narrowly, but before Bryce had endured his stare long, Paul gave his attention to his drink.

  "Waiter, another!" he waved his arm to attract attention. "And you?" He levelled his gaze again on Bryce, challenging him to keep up.

  Bryce nodded, accepting the challenge. Suddenly we're in competition, but for what? he wondered. The clearest head?

  "Bottoms up," said Paul, after their refills arrived.

  "I believe you're trying to get me drunk," commented Bryce.

  Paul smiled. His smile is like a pirate's smile, Bryce thought. There's no mercy in it. "I could come to the party as your victim," Bryce proposed, "bound and blindfolded, ready to be thrown to the sharks."

  "You must be confusing me with someone else," Paul said.

  Bryce shook his head. Suddenly, he felt wistful. "Are you happy about the party?" he asked, his voice turning gentle. "You're sure it's not too much for you?"

  Paul shook his head. "I have too much time. Planning it has given me something to do. It used to be that half the day would be gone before I'd noticed. Now, time hardly seems to pass at all. But I've been able to lose myself in this party. And besides, I'm going to surprise you," he added.

  "Do you mean the decorations you've been so secretive about?"

  Paul nodded. "You're going to love them."

  "Why won't you tell me what you're doing?"

  "Because it sounds silly if I describe it. I want you to see it. I want to observe your reaction. Besides, the party's only two days away. They'll arrive in the afternoon to start setting up."

  "Who's 'they?'"

  "Some friends from the Kurt Matthews Dancers. If it all comes off, it will be beautiful. But you'll have to see it at night to appreciate it."

  He's sincere, Bryce realized, watching Paul's face lit by enthusiasm. Even with his secrets and surprises, he's transparent, whereas I'm the one with something to hide. Because even though I first suggested this party, by the time Paul decided he wanted it, my enthusiasm for it had waned. Though I pretended to be happy, my heart wasn't really in it. But I couldn't tell him that. To summon up the energy to make the party happen became burdensome to me, but it turned out that I didn't have to do anything, because Paul wanted to. Do I mind that Paul took over my idea and is making it his reality? Not really. Paul needs this party; it's allowing him to go forward.

  Impulsively Bryce took Paul's hand and kissed it. Close by, he heard a woman tittering, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw her alerting her companion. She's clearly averting to me, Bryce understood.

  He felt himself growing angry; his cheeks were hot. But he didn't let go; he grasped Paul's hand all the tighter. "I'm hungry," he said in a low voice. "Let's go eat."

  Paul returned the pressure of Bryce's hand. They looked at each other with perfect comprehension and then remained motionless, unwilling to budge, until they had outlasted their neighbor's attention.

  It didn't take long: she soon grew bored and glanced away. Bryce signed for the check. The two men rose. Bryce helped Paul on with his coat. Not until they were standing outside in front of the bar did Bryce speak again. "There are some Southerners I truly despise," he snapped.

  "Calm down, old man, calm down," Paul said. "There's no point in getting all worked up. It's not just Southerners who are pigs, you know. You don't have to look far wherever you are."

  "All the same, I'm glad I don't live in the South anymore," Bryce remarked, "and I'm glad we're out of the bar." Sobered by the cold air, he glanced around: it had all but ceased to snow. A few last flakes drifted down, illuminated by the streetlamps. On the salted pavements, the snow had already melted to slush. Not a cab was in sight. "We'll have to walk to Sixth Avenue," said Bryce.

  As they set out down the block, he asked Paul, "Where would you like to eat?" "One of those new Japanese restaurants on Columbus Avenue."

  Bryce was surprised by Paul's swift reply. He'd expected more deliberation. "You must have been planning this."

  "I was."

  It was so quiet that Bryce could hear the soft thuds of Paul's rubber-tipped crutches against the sidewalk. To Bryce, he looked angelic, in profile, his chin tilted into the night. At Sixth Avenue, he waited with a serene expression, while Bryce waded through the slush to hail a taxi.

  Decorating the window of the restaurant Jo-Ann were origami sculptures folded into the shapes of birds, animals, and party hats. Made of brightly colored papers, hanging on vertical strings, they caught Paul's admiring notice. "Aren't they festive," he commented. "They make me want to look twice to see what they are. I hope they stay up after the holidays."

  Bryce held open the door for Paul to pass through. They entered a long, narrow room, with tables of pale wood and austere paper scrolls decorating the walls. All of the tables were full. Paul was given a seat at the bar, while Bryce stood right next to him, trying to keep out of the waiters' way. While they waited, Paul gave his rapt attention to a man behind the bar making sushi and sashimi. Because Paul was watching, Bryce watched, too. The man worked rapidly, scooping up rice and shaping it into a plump little pillow, rubbing it with a bit of wasabi horseradish paste, and covering it with a gleaming rectangle of tuna, fluke, mackerel, or yellow-tail snapper. After each step, he rinsed his hands clean.

  Casually, Bryce rested his hands on Paul's shoulders, and Paul reached up to take Bryce's hand in his. It seemed to Bryce that they were testing the restaurant to see if they provoked a reaction as they had in the bar. But in here, no one seemed to care. As long as we're discreet, Bryce thought, we're to be allowed privacy.

  Soon a table was vacated for them. After Paul ordered sake and a platter of sushi, Bryce did, too.

  The waiter poured the fragrant wine into thimble-sized cups. "It's nice to be out
and about again, isn't it?" Bryce remarked. "Think of all we've done since we left the doctor's office."

  "There are worse fates than being housebound in your house," replied Paul.

  Bryce was struck by Paul's tone of conviction. I'm witnessing a transformation, he thought. What has happened to Paul's bitterness, his resentment, his despair?

  "I'm imagining the party as an improvisation," Paul announced, "as an event which I set in motion. The guests are the performers. They carry it off. Or they don't."

  The platters of sushi arrived. Delicately, with his chopsticks, Paul lifted a piece of tuna roll wrapped in kelp, dipped it into soy sauce, and popped it into his mouth. Bryce copied him. He thought to himself, Suddenly Paul has regained his old splendor. The aura which I hadn't seen since the summer has returned to him.

  "I'm beginning to look forward to this party," Bryce said. "Until now, I confess I wasn't."

  "Why not? It was your idea in the first place."

  Bryce shrugged. "Seeing those Southerners made me think about my family," he went on, changing the subject. "When I left Mississippi, I thought that things might be different with my parents, but they aren't, and it's my fault as well as theirs."

  "What do you mean?"

  "There's still the old silence between us," Bryce explained. "At Christmas, we exchanged boxes of fruit, like business associates. Before I left Mississippi, I mentioned something to them about a New York visit, but I was nervous, and so were they. We've hardly spoken since. I knew they wouldn't come, and the fact is, I'm not really sorry. I don't think I'm prepared for them to see my life with you, and I don't think they are, either. Ever since I got back, I've been wrapped up with you, because of the accident," Bryce continued. "I didn't pursue the connection with them, nor did they. So maybe there wasn't so much to preserve, after all."

  "I'm sure that's not true," Paul objected. "There has been a change. The regret you're expressing—it's new."

  "I don't know how to talk about you to them, and so I haven't called them."

  "But what would you have to say?" Paul wondered. "Really, you wouldn't have to say anything."

  "What do you mean?"

  "If you were to invite them for a visit, and then you acted as you just did with your compatriots at the hotel bar, that would be quite sufficient," Paul replied. "You made yourself clear without saying a word. I thought you were masterful." And he chuckled.

  Bryce blushed. "But it's different if it's your family," he argued.

  "No, it's not."

  "You're asked to account for yourself."

  "But you don't have to. You can choose not to."

  "Are you so free, then, with your own family?" Bryce wondered.

  Paul shook his head. "You've lived with me. You know how little contact I have with them. In many ways it may be similar to your situation." He spoke matter-of-factly. "It's easier to give advice than to take it," he admitted.

  "We've never met each other's families. We're missing this essential knowledge of each other. We're renegades from families. Whatever our life together is, we've had to invent it. We're not a family. We're not a marriage."

  Paul nodded. "We've distanced ourselves from what we came from. We've had the freedom to decide what we are. Yet in some ways, I think, it's not been so good for us."

  "What do you mean?"

  "When you went to Mississippi, it was as if you'd disappeared into a black hole."

  Bryce felt himself growing tense. Here is Paul, he thought, broaching the subject of our separation, which we've not yet settled.

  Paul remained silent, forcing Bryce to respond. "I don't know why you say that," he countered defensively. "After I got to Mississippi, I called you several times, but I never reached you. I wrote you a letter, but I never heard from you. After a while I gave up."

  "I was mad at you," Paul explained. "I'm not proud of it now, but there you are."

  Paul's reply upset Bryce. After all these months, he realized, I'm still hurt. "Why were you so angry?" he wondered.

  "Because of what I just said. Because you went home to your family and shut me out. Before you left, you told me next to nothing about why you were going. It was as if I didn't matter enough to you to know what was in your heart."

  Paul's accusation confused Bryce. "I didn't think you'd want to know," he pleaded.

  "How could you believe that?"

  Paul's fervent tone surprised Bryce. "You astonish me," he replied. "You act as if whatever I told or didn't tell you matters more than your deliberate silence."

  "No, I never said that," Paul replied coolly. "I just explained the reason for my silence."

  "I refuse to fight about this now," said Bryce.

  "Who's fighting?"

  "I feel as if we are." Suddenly, Bryce seemed about to burst into tears. "Maybe I couldn't tell you why I was going to Mississippi," he said. "Maybe I couldn't talk about it.”

  A stricken look crossed Paul's face. Like a mask of conscience, Bryce thought. "And when I was ready to tell you about my uncle," he continued, "when I needed to tell you, I couldn't reach you. How do you think I felt then?"

  "Did it ever occur to you," said Paul, "that I was out of town?"

  "But your dance tour didn't start until October."

  "That's right."

  "Where were you then, at the end of August?"

  "Remember Althea? I visited her on Block Island, where she was renting a house. Her friend Jeanne came, too."

  "Visiting two women? That doesn't sound like you."

  "No, I suppose not,” Paul admitted, “but I wanted to get out of the city, and she invited me."

  “You were using her.”

  “You could say that, if you wanted to, but why be so critical?” Paul eyed Bryce narrowly.

  “So your revenge on me was not to let me know,” Bryce concluded.

  “One sin of omission for another,” replied Paul.

  “Why didn’t you call me when you got back? Why didn’t you answer my letter then?” Bryce wondered. “You weren’t still angry at me, were you?”

  “No-o-o.” Paul spoke slowly, as if he were only now considering his reasons. “I don’t know why, really. I stayed in mostly. I didn’t see anyone. I didn’t make phone calls. You know, after a while, when no one sees you, you start to feel as if you’re invisible.”

  Bryce looked hard at Paul. He’s withholding something from me, he thought. He waited to see if Paul would continue. He thought of pressing him, but all of a sudden the restaurant, though beginning to empty, seemed too close. He couldn’t go on. His gaze swept over their empty platters. “Let’s go home,” he urged. “I’m tired.”

  * * *

  It had gotten colder. Icicles hung from the eaves of the penthouse. While Bryce had gone ahead, unlocking the door to the roof from the top landing, switching on the outdoor lights, Paul trailed behind. Ever since he’d left the doctor’s, he’d kept postponing his return home. Now he stood on the boundary of home, still not ready to cross the threshold. Though he was tired, he was unwilling for the evening to end.

  He stood on the roof. Under the floodlights, he saw a sheen of black ice, formed from water that had pooled on the uneven tar and then frozen. “Go for it!” he urged himself on, the show-off coming out in him. Starting from a stop, he pushed himself off on his crutches, holding them back and away like ski poles, while he slid on the ice on his good foot, his foot in the cast outstretched behind him.

  But it was only a patch of ice, and he lost his balance at the edge of it, and swayed, and nearly tumbled. Awkwardly, he caught himself on the crutches. The moment of exhilaration had lasted less than a split second. He looked up to see how Bryce would react, but Bryce had gone inside. At least he didn’t see me make a fool of myself, Paul thought, feeling silly.

  Part of him craved attention, and part of him didn’t want it. He was nervous, keyed-up—the way he used to feel before a performance. “Aren’t you coming in?” he heard Bryce calling him.

  “In a m
inute,” he called back.

  He gazed around at the expanse of roof, seeing it as an empty stage waiting to be filled in. Can I really pull it off? he wondered. Can I make my dream come alive? The ugliness of the roof, its bare, tar-beach aspect won’t have disappeared, but will be camouflaged, covered over, and lit by my devices. He pictured festoons of crepe paper radiating from a striped maypole, like the fragile spines of a tent. He imagined tinkling silver bells strung on ribbons and icicles hanging from the eaves, as they were now, like glass. He conceived of his guests, wandering as if in a magical wood, mingling and transformed by their own audacious costumes. He heard glasses clinked in toasts, felt the mood of celebration, conveyed in the taste of the Champagne that everyone was drinking. Envisioning all of this, he was captivated by excitement, and he trembled with sheer hope.

  How awkward I was, talking to Bryce about the party, he reflected. I wanted to tantalize him, but I didn’t. Because I also wanted to keep it a secret, and so what I ended up saying sounded stupid and banal.

  Leaning on his crutches, Paul ambled around the side of the penthouse. He sat down in the wrought-iron loveseat, looking at the ruined beds of his withered garden. This is the heart of the transformation, he told himself. Can I really bring it off? Instead of flowers growing from a rich loam, these beds will display once-discarded toe shoes blossoming out of the snow, of all colors and discolored, frayed, stitched and restitched. He wondered, Will they really be just as they appeared in my dream, spinning and whirling up as if they were still being worn by the ghosts of dancers past? How fortunate I was that Kurt knew how to lay his hands on a few boxes of old toe shoes. In the meantime, materials and supplies are accumulating, and all kinds of deliveries are scheduled. He mulled over the arrangements: Eric was taking care of the music; Hector was bringing the big floor fans and the cords to power them. And Benny Pensky was in charge of the lighting, just as in a Kurt Matthews production. So perhaps my comparison of the party to a performance wasn’t so far-fetched after all, he concluded.