by Jen Sacks
At dinner that night, Grace and I avoided discussion of the closet incident and focused instead on the male-female battle of the streets.
"You can't be on guard every moment," Grace explained. "We just try to pretend it's not happening, I think. Because most of the time, it's not. You know what I mean." She shook her head thoughtfully. "Sometimes, I think—just to stay sane—we're trained not to believe the worst until we have to."
But unfortunately, it is not always possible to calibrate one's response with absolute accuracy.
31
Grace
The man sitting to my right was beginning to get on my nerves. I had noticed him as soon as he sat down next to me at the bar. It was a tiny bar, and people were crowded up against one another, but it was right near my office, a convenient way station. I was lucky to have gotten the stool I was sitting on, and I had no intention of leaving it. But this guy was definitely tilting toward me, trying to catch my attention. He wasn't succeeding, so he moved on to more drastic measures. He spoke.
Now this was a mistake. There's almost nothing any man can say to a woman in a bar that she hasn't heard before, if not in life, then in the movies. It is a plumbed well.
"What's that you're drinking?" he began.
I looked at him skeptically. The thing is, I was a little distracted. I was wearing my cowboy boots, and I couldn't help thinking about when I'd last had them on. I find it really impossible, however, to snub someone completely.
"Alcohol."
"That looks like a pretty fancy drink."
"It is."
He paused. He wasn't quite sure what I was thinking. I was thinking that you have to be optimistic to the point of deep denial to come on to a woman at a bar. But that's me.
"Well, what is it?" he smiled ingratiatingly. "I might want to try it someday."
"It's a girlie drink."
"Oh, I'm comfortable enough in my masculinity," he said.
"It's a cosmopolitan. Vodka, cranberry juice, Rose's lime juice, and Cointreau."
"You don't mind drinking alone?"
"I prefer it."
"I don't believe that. You could be drinking that at home."
"It's a very sticky drink to make."
"My name's Ted."
"I'm waiting for someone, Ted."
"What's your name?"
"My name is legion, Ted."
"Seriously."
"I'm serious as a heart attack, Ted."
"Geez, what are you, a lesbian?" Ted had apparently arrived at this bar prelubricated.
"No, Ted. Just not interested."
"You know, I'm only trying to be friendly." Now, he had pasted a hangdog look on his face.
I cocked my head at him. "I know you are, Ted. But I'm afraid there's no future for us, Ted." I paused a moment and really looked at him. That felt a little strange. I almost never really look at them, but it wasn't so bad at all. I could see the little wrinkles around his eyes. I could see the tiny bit of flesh that was beginning to gather under his chin. He wasn't bad-looking. "You know, Ted, you're kinda cute. I'll bet you'll make some lucky girl a great one-night stand. But not me."
He raised his hands in a surrendering gesture, then leaned toward me one more time. "From your mouth to God's ear, babe." He turned away and started to scan the area for his next victim.
Sam materialized behind me. I had no idea how long he had been there. Not long enough, I thought.
"Are you going to finish that?" He gestured at my drink.
"I don't know. I usually don't."
He picked the drink up and tossed it down. "So I have noticed. Shall we dine?"
"Lay on, Macduff."
"So sophisticated. Tell me, do you come here often?"
"What are you smiling at?"
"You. Did you know that you could be such a consummate bitch?" he asked, winking at me.
I decided to answer him seriously. "No." I didn't.
Sam just looked at me and smiled.
"Should I feel sorry for him? I feel sorry for him."
"No need. He has already forgotten about it," he reassured me.
"I don't know. Geez, I was really mean, wasn't I?" I asked as Sam steered me by the arm toward the exit.
"You must not backslide now. You did him a favor. If you had taken him home, he would be a dead man by morning."
I looked disapprovingly at him. By now, he should have known I don't appreciate that sort of joke. "Isn't there something in between?"
"Yes, but men in bars are incapable of receiving on that frequency. Particularly when they are bewitched by beautiful redheads."
I smiled and suddenly relaxed. Nothing terrible had happened. We'd both live, Ted and I. "You know, I should tell you something about that," I said, touching my hair.
"I have no need to know," he said, cutting me off. Taking my hand, he led me to his Jag, and a moment later we were on our way to dinner.
32
Sam
She was early. She must have finished with her day's work sooner than she had predicted. This left her with extra time to sit in a bar, fending off potential suitors. I gathered this sort of interaction had been a trouble spot for her in the past. I must have arrived only shortly after she had, since I am habitually punctual. Her drink was only partially sipped, but really, that meant nothing; she is the slowest drinker in the world, and I am not someone given to hyperbole.
I noticed the man immediately. I recognized at first glance that he presented no threat to her, but would she? I stopped a little distance behind her, but neither one noticed me in the crowd.
I overheard the entire exchange. She was marvelous. She treated him almost the same way she treated me—no holding back. For a second, I might even have been a tiny bit envious. I quite prize our rather special relationship. But it can be only to the good if she learns to appreciate her own power. I did not want to have to interject myself in the situation, although I would have if she had shown signs of being overwhelmed.
She is definitely making strides. Still, I cannot always be around to protect her; I am thinking about giving her a gun.
33
Grace
I often think, as I sit beside Sam at plays or concerts, that his appreciation of these things, the so-called finer things, seems like an essential part of his character. Self-contained, worldly—it is fitting that the old-fashioned pleasures are his preference. His Jaguar, his understated Euro designer suits, his self-possession—all match. I am the only thing that doesn't fit.
I don't mean outwardly. I'm no great beauty, but I clean up pretty good. Lots of men date significantly younger women, and he seems very middle to me, not old; fit, not decrepit. We don't look funny together or anything. I am just so not his type, except that, while I don't know exactly what he does for a living, I have a good idea that it is something shady. Not everyone knows how to get rid of a dead body calmly, nor is it usually their first instinct on encountering one. I am not about to forget that. But what is he doing with me?
Until I know who he is, I can never figure that out. All I know about is what I respond to. He is someone who saw me first at my worst. As a result, I've just never gotten into the habit of covering up from him. But yet, there is no "result" stage. From the first moment, there just seemed to be an understanding. He calls it "chemistry." Maybe. To me, he seems to be able to see me and know me and not to be appalled. Not to judge. Or else to judge from another set of standards than most people. I'm not an ordinary person. I knew that before people started dying around me. But it's kind of nice that he doesn't hold that against me. Let's face it, he's got to be a bad guy. No good guy could like me. Not just because of what I've done— as remarkably easy to live with as that has proven to be—but because of who I am. Whoever that is. Maybe he knows. People always say that there's someone for everyone, but I never believed it.
But he, too, wants something from me. Why am I not avoiding him? He leaves me be most of the time. He's courtly, but not oppressive. Why did I kil
l those boys? Oh, yeah, because I didn't like them around, and I didn't know how to break it to them. I didn't know how to leave them. I guess I just don't get the sense that Sam would be devastated if I turned him away. (The worst he would do, I think, is kill me. And I don't think he'd even do that. But he wouldn't try to make me feel bad.) Maybe because by every set of rules I've ever known, that's exactly what I should do. He's bad news. If he leaves me, I win. And if he stays, I… Maybe it's that he doesn't seem helpless and innocent, the way the first two guys did. He doesn't seem to need anybody psychologically. He doesn't remind me of me at all.
It's funny. I was nice to those guys, and they liked me. Which is how it's supposed to be, I guess, except if I'd stopped being nice, then they probably wouldn't have liked me. But I couldn't do it. I'm not nice to Sam, and he likes me anyway. He gets me, I guess. But how can someone so different get me so well? And what would happen if I decided I didn't want him around?
I think it was the Ravel that did it. We had gone to a concert, and the Frenchman was the featured composer. Frankly, Bolero is his weakest work; it's flashy, but everything else I heard was moving and transporting. My head was full of it by the end; I wanted to go to a quiet bar somewhere, but Sam insisted on a little spot in NoHo with continuous loud music, so loud and so unmusical, he argued, that it was almost as good as none at all.
Sam seemed moved as well after the concert, though perhaps a little strained. It's pretty hard to tell with him, but I thought I detected something. Maybe because I was looking at him harder than usual. He doesn't smoke nearly as much as I do, but he lit one up immediately.
"The Pavane," I yelled across the tiny table at him.
"Yes," he shouted back, looking up.
"That was kind of magical for me. I thought I recognized the name, Pavane pour une Infante Défunte. When I was a little girl, I read these wonderful books. They were each about a lonely preteen, and there was always something supernatural in the stories, something that enabled the kid to come to terms with whatever was bothering her. And one story had this girl in it who was a pianist, and she was in a house for the summer that was haunted by the ghost of a dead young Spanish princess, and the girl spent the summer working on getting that piece of music right and setting the dead girl's spirit at rest. It was a wonderful story, and I didn't know there really was a song like that."
"It is like that," Sam agreed.
"What gives?" I asked.
"Perhaps you can set my spirit at rest."
"Are you haunted?" I asked.
"I am a killer," he shouted, simply. There were tables on all sides of us. We were in a corner, sharing the banquette. Through the din, there was absolutely no chance anyone could hear us. I could only just hear. And anyway, this was New York.
"Who isn't?" I observed, being a bit flip, I admit.
"I am a professional killer," he said very clearly and distinctly. Again, I looked around, but no one had heard a thing. Everyone was shouting.
"Hmmm," I said. He was as nervous as I'd ever seen him—that is, barely perceptibly.
"I think it is only fair to tell you. That is what I do for a living."
What do you say? He chose well; it's not as if I was in a position to criticize.
"Did you just not know how to tell people good-bye?"
He laughed a little. "Ah, I know only too well how."
"Why?"
He looked at me.
"Are you ashamed?" I asked.
"Ashamed of not being ashamed. But less with you than I would be with most people, I imagine."
"Let's not talk about me here. How long? For whom? Why? Still?"
"Since I was twenty-one. For my government. I have a gift. The last time was…" He paused for a moment, gazing away into space. "Sometime before we met. For the private sector now."
"What kind of gift?"
"I can always find a way. And I have no qualms."
"You know, I would have said that about you."
"You are the only civilian I have ever told."
"Gee, this gives new meaning to the joke 'I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.' "
"I will never hurt you." He saw my mouth begin to move. "Or kill you painlessly." He smiled a tiny bit.
"To what do I owe that honor?"
"Can you say the same to me?"
I frowned and looked down at the table.
"Not to worry," he said generously. "I will never give you the opportunity."
"No, no. I don't want you to think like that. To have to be on guard all the time. That would be too awful, to live like that."
"You tell me."
"You stop that. Don't you be understanding and analyzing me right now. We're talking about you… Did you ever want to stop?"
"No. I never saw it as a problem. I never had any higher aspirations."
"God, this is like that movie, The President's Analyst, where the CIA agent tells his shrink that he kills people, and the shrink says, 'It's a sensational solution to the hostility problem.'"
"Show it to me."
"Mmm, it would be a major step in our relationship if I started forcing you to watch my favorite movies."
"Maybe I can look forward to that." Jesus, he sounded almost, well, wistful, if you can be wistful through major decibels.
"I don't know what to think," I said.
"There is no set response. Unless it is to run shrieking from the room. Which is what you probably should do. If you were to heed my advice."
"I'm not good at taking advice."
"For which, at this moment, I am eternally grateful."
"Why are you being so human?"
"I apologize. It is rather an awkward moment for me."
"That's better. Jesus."
"Maybe I should take you home."
I let him guide me out of the noise and into the quiet of his car. An assassin, huh? Hmm, is that how he always manages to find a parking space? It'd be one method. He walked me to my apartment door and then followed me in. I was putting my backpack away and taking off my shoes. 'Cause of the rug. He was lingering.
"Should I make some tea?" he asked.
"No. I'm fine."
"I would like to stay with you tonight."
"Gee, dare I say no?"
"This is something I never want you to joke about. Of course you may dare."
"I don't think we should have sex again yet," I said slowly. "I don't know how I feel."
"Then sex is out. We can merely sleep."
I looked at him with my eyebrows raised and a skeptical expression.
"I can if you can," he teased.
Geez. I didn't really want to kick him out. Actually, I wanted him to stay. As he drank his tea, I washed my face and changed into a T-shirt and boxer shorts, two actions that should certainly have kept his libido at bay. A little awkwardly, we crawled into bed, in matching outfits, as it turned out, although my boxers were prettier than his. I turned on my left side, away from him, and he, surprisingly naturally, curled his body around me— spooning, it's called.
We were both quiet for awhile, but neither of us was sleeping.
He must have noticed how tense my body was. How could he not?
"Do you not want me to be here?" he whispered.
"No."
He thought a moment, then muttered, "I know what I just asked… Do you not want me to kiss you?"
"No."
He kissed the back of my head.
"What do you not want me to do?" he continued.
"The real eternal question: What don't women want?" I chuckled.
"I am actually happy just being here," he said straight out. "I see no reason why it ever has to end."
"No," I answered, "but I never do."
"But I might be your Comrade Right," he cooed into my ear.
"Former comrade," I murmured.
I consciously tried to relax. It was easier than I thought it would be. His arms were around me and his breath was on my neck. It was hard for me to believe t
he next morning, but it wasn't long before I fell deeply asleep.
34
Sam
That night, I experienced something dangerously close to delirium. As I lay in the bed by her side, I felt safe. Oddly, I felt trust. I cannot think of a time when I have felt so comfortable, playing as little of a role as it is possible for me to play. I would never have thought I would willingly make myself so vulnerable in front of someone, but that is exactly what I have done. Grace now knows who and what I am, yet there she was, knowing that, and lying, relaxed, in my arms.
There is no coercion here, no double threat, no misunderstanding.
There is, in fact, the hitherto unimaginable possibility of understanding. I do not yet comprehend her by any means, but I feel a sense of responsibility toward her. And I have laid upon her something almost anyone else might consider a burden, but that she just might be able to accept.
While, at first, I thought her refusal to have sex with me was the result of my self-revelation and her consequent revulsion, it took only a few moments to conclude that it was something else entirely. She was not afraid of me, but of what I represent: the promise—or threat—of a genuine bond, something that, had I not been so absorbed in her reaction, I might reasonably have focused more on myself. Even curled up in my embrace, she was attempting to maintain her distance. I was literally holding a paradox in my hands.
Or is the more apt metaphor that of a hand grenade from which I had just removed the pin? Like any other man, I have no idea what the woman I love will do. But I have large reserves of patience; it is a prerequisite in my line of work. I can wait.
35