"Don't step on everyone who gets in my way?"
"I'm sorry."
"So maybe you'd like to make it up to me."
"Oh, I haven't seen Peter in ages."
"But you could do something about my play."
"Your play?" she said, as if she had no idea what I was getting at.
"You could do another production of Til Death Do Us Part. Because," I made myself continue, "I do agree it never did get the production it deserved. And you certainly have the pull to make it happen now. I know you're incredibly busy, but it would be so wonderful if you could fit it into your schedule somehow, because you really were great in the part of Julia."
"That's so sweet of you," she gushed, a bit too much. "Thank you so much for saying that. But don't you think I'm too old to play Julia now?"
"She's supposed to be in her twenties."
"Early twenties."
"Mid twenties. Late twenties." (Kelly's exact age was a mystery.) "It doesn't really matter."
"Well, it's a wonderful play," she said. "Why don't you send it to me, and I'll read it again. And anything else you've written since then. Does that sound good?"
"Sounds great," I said. It sounded like a brush-off, but at least I'd asked, and wouldn't have to go through the rest of my life annoyed with myself for not asking.
"It's wonderful to see you, Jennifer."
"And it's great to see you. Congratulations on all your success."
"Thanks."
We kissed cheeks good-bye. And I watched, along with the bellhop, as she went inside the hotel. Then he looked back at me and our eyes met, and he smiled. Very impressed. I smiled back. Let him be impressed. Maybe it wasn't a brush-off. Maybe she would do what she said. But I knew, as I turned west on Central Park South towards home, it was more likely I'd never hear from her again.
Chapter 15
The next day, I picked up the phone. Don't think, I told myself, don't feel. Act. I dialed Peter's number and got his voice mail. I didn't hang up.
"Hi Peter. It's Jennifer. It was nice seeing you at my play. Can you give me a call? My number is the same. Thanks.
I hung up in a sweat, pumped with adrenaline, and had to go on a walk to work it out of my system.
The next afternoon when the phone rang, I knew it might be him. Instead of answering, I froze. After all, he sort of chose Kelly over me and they had continued to be together for the run of my play and an unknown amount of time after that, and, okay, maybe he'd been under the impression that I didn't want him, and maybe I hadn't done enough to let him know that I did, but still, that didn't mean he had to go and have great sex with her. I picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Jennifer?”
“Peter?”
"I got your message," he said. "What's up?"
I swallowed. This was the moment. Screwing up my face as if bracing for a collision, I popped the question. "Would you be interested in having dinner with me tomorrow night?"
"Sure," he said.
I relaxed my face. "Great."
"Is there any place you have in mind? Because I've heard there's a cafe in Riverside Park.
"Riverside Park?" I'd never been in that park.
"It's supposed to be nice. Why don't we meet on Seventy-second by the statue of Eleanor Roosevelt."
"Okay. Around six?"
"Great," he said. "See you there."
When I reached the entrance to the park at Seventy-second street, I searched for Eleanor Roosevelt. A pigeon perched on top of her head. Peter stood next to her. My breath drew in at the sight of his tall leanness.
"You look nice," he said.
I had on a new indigo blue top with spaghetti straps that I'd bought at H & M after convincing myself to buy it by telling myself it was something Kelly might wear. Meaning it felt too tight and revealing.
"Thank you," I said. "You cut your hair."
"Just this morning as a matter of fact."
In anticipation of seeing me? "It looks nice."
"Thank you."
Though I did miss his curls. If something did develop between us, I'd have to work on that.
"Beautiful day, huh," he said.
"It's perfect." Sun out, not too humid.
We started down the path into the park, passing a big fenced-in area where some dogs were having the time of their lives running around unleashed with their tongues hanging out.
"I hope you don't mind," he said, "that I came to your play even though you asked me not to."
"I suppose I'll forgive you eventually."
The path took us down through a tunnel under the West Side Highway to a long stone staircase that led down to a promenade by the river where some kids were playing baseball. The idyllic scene was like an alternate reality. "I can't believe this is here, right in the middle of New York City.”
"Yeah. I don't get into the park as often as I should."
"I never do. I always think I'm going to get disoriented and end up in Long Island City."
"You can't get lost in Riverside. It's too narrow. You've got the river on one side and the city on the other."
"That's true." I decided that for a park, this one wasn't that bad.
As we strolled along the promenade, he asked how my play was going.
"Audiences seem to like it. But you know how it is. We haven't had any reviews, so it's tough getting audiences. We've been having a lot of nights where it's half empty. Or maybe I should say half full."
We paused at the railing and looked out over the water to the New Jersey palisades with its bedraggled skyline of high-rises and rows of houses. Not the most beautiful view in the world, but serene enough with the river and the calm blue sky.
"Whenever I come here," Peter said, "I ask myself why I don't come more often."
"Now that I'm here," I said, "I'm amazed I've never been."
We stood there taking it all in. Unpleasant thoughts entered my mind.
I wanted reassurance from him about Kelly so I could put my hurt feelings to rest. Bringing her up would spoil the mood. I told myself to forget about it. We continued down the promenade to the restaurant, crowded with people dining at white metal tables under colored umbrellas. They sat there as if idling at some nice resort on the French Riviera and not just the Hudson River, which everyone knows is polluted with sewage and dead bodies. We found an empty table, ordered "Boat Basin Salads," two glasses of red wine, and joined everyone else pretending to be on the Riviera.
As we drank our wine, the sun set before our eyes. It wasn't until we were almost done with our salads that I asked him. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"I know that I was giving off some mixed messages, and it's not surprising that you would be attracted to Kelly."
"That was a mistake,” he interrupted. “I don't know why I let myself get involved with her.”
Good, I thought. That was all I needed to hear. Leave it at that. "So how long," I asked, trying to fit a large piece of lettuce into my mouth, “did it last?”
"When she started rehearsals for Rocco's production. That's when she became impossible."
How much reassurance did I need? No need to question him further. "So a few months?"
"Not that long,” he said. “I don't know."
He sounded annoyed. With himself? Me? I took a sip of wine. Some people in a boat sailed by. People on boats could be so annoying. They always want everyone to think they're having a great time just because they're in a dumb boat.
"I don't suppose it makes much difference to you," he went on, "but she told me you didn't find me attractive. So when she told me that—"
"I didn't tell her that."
He was silent for a few moments. "Well, I'm sorry," he repeated. "I never meant to hurt you."
"She is a very sexy and attractive woman," I added unnecessarily.
"Yes."
"And we certainly aren't the only people in the world who think so," I added even more unnecessarily.
"Not by a
long shot," he agreed.
After the waitress cleared our plates, we argued over who was going to pay the bill. I said I should pay because I'd asked him out. He wouldn't let me. Finally, I agreed to let him pay if I could pay the next time. He agreed, and we started walking back along the promenade. I wondered if we might go to a movie together or something. Neither of us had mentioned any plans beyond dinner.
"So," Peter said. "I hope everything is all cleared up as far as Kelly is concerned."
"Yes," I said, dodging a man with hairy legs who was rollerblading right towards me.
"Because I was starting to think I made a mistake."
"What do you mean?"
"I went to the Helen Hayes Theater and bought tickets for Betrayal tonight. I thought we might go."
"Really?" I stared down at the cement path.
"Was it a bad idea? The day I ran into you on the street, I had the impression you wanted to go."
I couldn't admit that I'd already gone. "No. I don't really want to see it." And I didn't. Not that night. Not with him.
"It was a bad idea," he said.
"No, you should go. You'll have fun."
"Well. I suppose I could go by myself. I can probably sell the other one at the theater."
Instead of doing something with me? That was really annoying. And the idea of him sitting there by himself gaping at her like an adoring fan. Just as I had. Wasn't anyone immune?
We walked up out of the park without speaking. When we reached Riverside Drive he asked me what I wanted to do. Did he mean with him? Was he going to the play or not?
"I don't know.” All I did know, was I wanted him to tell me that he had no desire to see Kelly in Betrayal because he'd much rather spend the evening apologizing for ever having sex with her. “But you should see the play,” I said. "I'm sure the tickets were expensive."
"They weren't cheap."
"You can't just throw them out."
"Are you sure you wouldn't mind?"
"Of course not."
"I'll take the train downtown with you, then."
"Okay."
We walked over to subway station together. He tried to tempt me once more. "Front row mezzanine. Sure you don't want to go?"
"No thanks."
We descended into the station and stood on the platform in silence. If he stayed after the show to talk to Kelly, she would tell him I saw her. That would be embarrassing. The headlights of a train appeared in the tunnel. "Maybe it would be better..." I gave up on speaking; the supersonic, ear-splitting screech of the train breaking to a stop would've drowned me out anyway. We squeezed onto the packed train. "Did you say something?!" he asked as we both held onto a pole. I couldn't raise my voice above all these raucous people out for a good time. Didn't know what to say, anyway. Or welcomed the excuse not to say it. I smiled and shook my head.
As we pulled into the Fiftieth Street station, he raised his voice above the racket and said, "I'm glad we did this!"
"Me too! Have fun at the show!"
"Thanks!"
When I got out of the subway, I went into the corner deli and bought a huge bag of low-fat potato chips and a two-liter bottle of diet root beer. I went home and turned on the TV. There was an old movie on—Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn in Charade. I'd seen it before, but I remembered it was good. A commercial came on, and there she was. Kelly Cavanna in an ad for Betrayal that had little clips of her performance. A voice-over quoted her rave review in the Times. Play extended, they said. Due to popular demand.
Well, I thought to myself, I have my own play to go to. I could go and watch my own play. Maybe I had disdained the Matrix Theater, but tonight I was grateful they would have me. I turned off the TV and headed back out.
I arrived at the theater just as everyone was filing in after intermission and took a seat in the back row. It was a good Saturday night audience thank god, and the laughter was healthy. I let that wonderful sound enter my pores like medicine. Even if my audience had to sit in the stinky Matrix Theater, it was enjoying itself as much as the people watching Betrayal and at a fraction of the price.
But it was hard sitting through my ending. The fake me did what the real me couldn't.
Gabrielle: "The truth is—"
Paul: "Yes?"
Gabrielle: "I'm in love with you, Paul. I've been in love with you since the day we met, and you interviewed me, and I thought you weren't going to give me the job but then you did."
When Paul and Gabrielle kissed and the audience applauded, I felt disgusted with myself. Maybe I'd succeeded in getting the characters in my plays to be open with their (my) feelings. But so what? In my own real life, I was still hiding out in the back row.
I watched the actors take their curtain call and knew that I should've told Peter to throw those tickets out and spend the evening with me. Instead, right this very minute, he was probably watching Kelly sign autographs on her fan's Playbills. Maybe she was even signing his: "Let's go to your place and find out how many orgasms I can have before my next performance, XOXO Kelly." Within minutes they'd be having a passionate make-out session in the backseat of a cab on the way to Peter's apartment. And I would be returning home, once again, alone.
I stood up from my seat and decided to hightail it to the Helen Hayes Theater. It was only about six blocks away, and there was a good chance he was out on the sidewalk waiting for her to come out. I was so intent on snaking through the people from my audience who were taking their own sweet time getting out of the theater that I almost didn't see Peter standing there on the sidewalk.
"Jennifer?"
I turned to the sound of his voice. "Peter. What are you doing here?"
"I called your apartment and there was no answer. I thought you might be here."
"Yeah, I just thought I'd see how it was going."
"And?"
"The lights were on during the curtain call."
"That's good."
"Do you feel like getting a bite to eat?" I ventured.
"That's what I was going to ask you," he said. "I was thinking of this deli on Forty-eighth Street."
"That sounds good."
We walked up Eighth Avenue. I wondered if he'd seen Betrayal. Talked to Kelly. I wondered if I was going to be able to say the words I wanted to say.
The deli was crowded from the post-theater crowd, but we still managed to get a nice little table against the wall. A signed head-shot of Dustin Hoffman from the 70s hung over the table. Dustin had signed it, "Thanks for the corned beef."
"I'm so starved I want everything," I said, looking at the gigantic menu. "I know. Cheese blintzes. I'm getting that."
I put down my menu. He was looking at me funny. I wondered if Kelly had told him I saw her.
"I just want you to know," he began, "I meant to tell you this afternoon. The other week, after I saw the production of your play at the Matrix, I was going to call you."
"Why didn't you?"
"At first I was flattered. I thought it was about you and me. But then when I thought about it, I started to wonder if the part of Paul was based on Kelly."
"Really?!"
"You're not the only person around here who feels insecure."
"You're the one who slept with her," I reminded him.
"Only because you rejected me."
"I didn't reject you."
"You certainly didn't let me know how you felt."
"But neither did you. I mean, you gave up on me so easily and went straight to her."
"She made it easy, I'll admit that. But you have to believe me. She wasn't my first choice."
I felt myself blush.
"Well," I said, staring at a bowl of pickles on the table, "the part of Paul was based on you."
"Really?"
"Yes." I looked up from the pickles. Our eyes met. "When she says she loves him, that's what I wanted to say to you. And I do. Love you, I mean."
My heart was having such palpitations I thought it was going to explode and splatter blood
all over my menu.
"That's nice to hear," he said, "because that's what I wanted to say to you. And I do. Love you, I mean."
I relaxed. Breathed out. We looked at each other. And I knew. Everything was going to be okay.
The waiter came to take our order. "You know what you want?"
"The young lady will have the cheese blintzes," Peter said, still looking into my eyes, "and I will have a pastrami sandwich on rye."
Pastrami?
"Wait," I said. "Peter?"
"Yes?"
"Are you sure?"
I hadn't forgotten what he told me years ago about never eating it since his father died.
"What kind of bread?" the waiter asked.
"An onion roll."
"You know what?" I said. "Cancel my blintz. I'll have pastrami too. Put mine on rye."
The waiter took our menus and left.
"So," I asked, "when did you start eating pastrami again? Or is this the first time?"
"Like a virgin."
"Wow. And..." We both looked down at a jar of mustard next to the bowl of pickles. "Are you going to?"
"Yes," he said, moving it to the center of the table. "My first pastrami sandwich with mustard since my father died. Quite an occasion."
"What made you decide?"
"You."
"Me?"
"Yeah. You inspire me."
I inspired someone?
"You're a brave person,” he said. “You let yourself feel everything you needed to feel."
I raised my glass of water. "To no more guilt for being alive."
He clinked my glass. "When other people are dead."
And then we were both silent. I had to ask.
"So did you go to Betrayal'?"
"No. I gave the tickets to some friends. Now they owe me a favor. It's fine. I'm sure I didn't miss anything."
I refrained from admitting how fun it had been to see Kelly up there on the big stage. The waiter brought our food, and Peter put a big smear of mustard on his rye bread. I watched as he bit into the sandwich.
"Good?" I asked.
"Excellent," he said between chews.
And I took a bite of mine. I had to get over a slight psychological barrier of my own because usually I get grossed out by deli meat sandwiches. But I had to admit—it tasted really good. And I ate the whole thing, except for the crusts, which I always leave behind. When the waiter took away our empty plates and asked if we wanted dessert, I asked for a piece of cheesecake even though I was full. "My sister and I used to get it all the time,” I told Peter. “We'd share because it's so fattening.”
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