by Anna Wood
Most of the guests left and the staff got back to work, but Annie stayed to finish her big glass of pink wine and Jerry lingered in his armchair after his friends had gone. The evening arrived; time was melting. There had been a lamp on her mum’s desk, when Annie was a child, a bronze miniature, a naked woman with her arms held out at her sides as if she was preparing to dive into deep water. All at once Annie could see it again, see the tiny woman’s poise, see the light snap on, the gleam on the bronze, the about-to-go-ness of it.
When Jerry walked past she smiled at him, said hello, and he looked so relieved, so eager, like a sweet dog. They went upstairs, to her room this time and her big double bed. They drank more whiskey and talked, and talked about sex and had sex and then lay hot on the bed for a while, and then had more sex – hard, happy, nuzzling, grabbing sex, more of it. Then they showered and they smooched a bit, and then they headed out.
It was Saturday night and they went to the bar on Frenchmen where they had both been, when they hadn’t yet spoken, the previous Saturday, and maybe the Saturday before that. There was live music, the saggy-faced man with the saggy voice sang, and the bartender made huge margaritas. Annie sat at the bar and watched him. Jerry’s friends were at a table nearby, and they all said hello and smiled, one even waved to her. She didn’t talk to them, though, and they didn’t talk to her either. The city seemed to be getting sadder, more scared, it did not look like so much fun.
“Is this fun?” she asked the woman sitting next to her. The woman laughed, and then leaned forward and kissed Annie on the cheek.
She could see Jerry reflected in the mirror behind the bar. She imagined herself going home, back to London, and her face screwed up like a pantomime dame sucking a lemon.
“I’m staying here,” she said and smiled at the kissing woman. The bar was full and hot, and people were dancing in pairs as well as in groups, jiving but doing it badly because they were young and didn’t know how to do proper dancing. Doing it badly but looking so good too, getting it all wrong. The clamour, the stamping and swinging, the racket, the din, the hubbub, the twisting and spinning and the sweat, the holding hands. Drinks wobbled and spilled.
Jerry was right next to her, one hand on her waist and one hand on the bar. She imagined the others all washed away, so that it was the two of them, with him just so beautiful. There was a fantastic logic, a certainty, the sort you feel in a dream or after you’ve stumbled headlong into the right dose of music and tequila. She didn’t really want to hear his voice. He said something but it was too quiet, underneath the music. He caught her eye in the mirror and smiled, then leaned in so his nose almost touched her neck. She smiled too and leaned back towards him. Then his friend, the boy with the blond hair, pushed through to help with the drinks and Annie said she fancied an early night. “Ah, okay,” he said, surprised but still sweet and smiley. She kissed him, just a peck and a squeeze, slipped down carefully from her barstool, bobbed through the dancing crowd and let the night air dry her sweaty skin on the way home.
*
Annie came down late the next day, after lunch, because she’d eaten poached eggs on toast and drunk tea, lots of tea, in her room and watched trashy television and enjoyed her hangover. Across the street and over towards the murky Mississippi, Jerry and his friends were playing on the patch of grass in the park, dashing and yelping like little boys. She walked over, felt like she’d arrived at the cinema just as the film was starting. There was an empty bench, so she sat down and waved hello to Jerry and the others. They were wrestling, tumbling around, and the blond one got Jerry in a headlock. He had Jerry face down, straddled him, tickled him, but Jerry was shouting, he didn’t like it. The blond boy swung off him, as if he was getting off a horse, and Jerry jumped up. He was sulking, like a child! Annie watched, almost laughing, smitten.
Jerry had walked off, ignoring the shouts – “Jerry! Sorry Jerry! Sorry sorry Jerry, so sorry!” – of his friend. It was hot and he looked tired. He would be going back home soon. She watched him, one hand on his hip, wearing his shorts and his pink shirt, aloof, alone, so pretty, looking out at the grey water and looking down a little. All at once, as if she’d poked him, he turned right round and looked at her. He turned softly like the little doll in a child’s jewellery box and gave her a beautiful smile. The fuzzy sun was behind him, and the arm that was on his hip lifted like a helium balloon, as if he was beckoning her over. She didn’t move so he came to her, floating really, and when he got close enough that she could see the tangle of his eyelashes and the soft tip of his tongue, she stood up.
“Let’s go back to bed,” she said, and he smiled, and they did.
*
That evening, as it was starting to get dark, Annie went for a walk by the river. She went past the market, past the railway lines, past the bridge, past empty yards and car parks, flowerbeds and water fountains, down to where the houses got scrappier and there were fewer people around. She walked to the edge of the Mississippi, where the water lapped on silty ground, and barely paused. The great grey river reached her knees, then her waist, soft and not as cold as she’d expected. The water squeezed her ever so gently, lifted her ever so slightly. It was dusk, a little beyond dusk, and the lights on the opposite shore twinkled and shimmered. Annie stumbled a bit on the pebbles with her arms raised, like a tightrope walker, because she wanted to get further in, closer to the opposite shore. As the water reached her chest her arms were lifted anyway, floating on the soft surface. She looked at the grey ripples, felt herself tall beneath them, felt that twinkle and shimmer from the other side, felt herself getting lighter, rising. If anyone yells, she decided, I won’t even turn round, I’ll ignore them and keep going.
Meeting
I remember how, alone on the front step, I waited so long that I forgot I’d ever knocked on the door and I just stood there, rather enjoying myself, the sun warming one side of my face, pink-purple flowers on a trellis to admire and a damp crumbling section of doorframe to investigate. I gazed, already fond, at the brass knocker and almost reached up to stroke the shiniest part of it. Then the door opened and there I was: another me, looking at me, not older or younger, just another me, warm and happy to see me. So comforting. “Ah,” she said. “Come on through.”
And I remember we took a chair each in the parlour, at a dark wooden table with shallow drawers underneath full of bits of paper and elastic bands and a box of matches, a stubby pencil.
A shuffly pretty young man sat down beside us, looking miserable. We didn’t mind or care.
“So tired,” he told us. “I’m so tired. Can you help me?”
I felt perhaps that I actually should try to help him, but I didn’t want to. Other Me agreed. And what could we do anyway?
“I feel bitter,” he told us. “And I feel shame.” He sighed. “Shame and bitterness.”
I looked at Other Me, and then we both looked at him, at his pale arms and bony wrists, at the pores around his nose, greasy, at his long eyelashes. He smelled like washing powder and cigarettes.
A young woman came in, chucked a glance of solid disdain at the young man, and sat right down at the table. Four of us. Two of me, and two of them. The young woman was beautiful; young people are so beautiful. She had been crying and now she was biting her lip and huffing a lot.
“Nothing brings me joy,” she said, a propos of fuck-knows-what. The young man nodded. I didn’t want to know what they were talking about, and neither did Other Me. I put my hands on the table, like a woman with a ouija board, and began to wiggle my fingers. I wiggled my toes too, reminiscing already about the quiet time I’d enjoyed on that warm doorstep.
Other Me saw that I was zoning out, bored. “Be not afear’d,” she said, and winked. “We’ll go next door, it’s sunnier in there.” I liked having her in charge.
I could already smell vanilla-scented cake from the next room and felt no doubt there’d be paper doilies and friendliness. Not quite puppies and pink roses and brown paper packages tied up with s
tring, but also not far off. We left the grumpus pair to it, went through to the lounge.
My friend Janey was in there with her three children, chatting and listening, and they didn’t seem at all surprised to see two of me. Her children were each so different and all so similar to Janey, like three bright colours on a flag or a turning tree. The youngest ran over, to both of me, for hugs. A chatterbox, a smiler. Mandy was in the sunnier room too, and she was indeed putting paper doilies onto the coffee table, and then Midwinter plates, and then eclairs, chocolate eclairs. Dear beloved Frank was having a nap in the corner. Proust, more or less, went through to the kitchen to make tea.
“We’re going to sit here and talk for a little while,” Other Me told me. “Then I’ll have to go out the front door, and you’ll head out the back.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Nobody will know I’m not you,” she said. “After all, I am you.”
And then Other Me told me about the back garden, and what I’d find out there. Soft sweet air, she said, and the walls pulsed gently. Rain on greenest leaves, mossy earth underfoot, a nice cup of tea, if I want one, the cuddliest cat and a pond for paddling. All days of glory, joy and happiness.
“What do you think of that, dear pal?” she said. And I loved it.
♥
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