Tapestry of Fortunes A Novel

14


When Jonathan and I enter the restaurant, I hear a piano playing softly. In the far corner, I see a smallish black man, dressed in a tuxedo and a crooked black bow tie, seated behind a baby grand. He is older, his hair gray, his face lined. He is smiling—sadly, I believe—and playing elegant background music. He sees me staring and nods at me. “I know,” I feel like telling him. “I don’t want to be here either. Let’s go somewhere I can wear jeans and you can play what you want.”

“Two, for eight o’clock,” Jonathan tells the maître d’, who looks as though he has been stuffed into his suit. Were he not so smuglooking, I would feel sorry for him. “Certainly, Mr. Schaefer,” the man says, checking a name off in a cream-colored register. “Right this way.”

Oh, fine. Mr. Schaefer. Jonathan’s been here a hundred times. No wonder he’s perfectly relaxed. I never saw the point in going out to fancy restaurants. It’s not that I don’t appreciate good food; I love good food. But why go to all this trouble? Why put on fancy clothes to eat?

I follow the maître d’ to the table, Jonathan close behind me. I don’t like having him so close behind me. Probably hairpins are sticking out of my French twist. I could have runs in the back of my nylons; I forgot to check. I have never learned to walk quite right in heels; I always wobble. I have never liked dressing up for any reason and I will never, ever do this again. It’s my life.

Plus I hate Jonathan. Who can’t even be honest enough to spell his name with an H. Stupid prep school name. The name of a man who walks around flinging his hair back off his forehead, talking endlessly about sailing.

When my chair is pulled out for me with a flourish, I sit down, furious. What is the point of all this formality? Why should my chair be pulled out for me? Do I look incapable of pulling a chair out for myself? Why doesn’t the maître d’ pull the chair out for Jonathan? Why must it always be the women doing these circus tricks? And then, watching the maître d’ pull the chair out for Jonathan, I think, Oh. Never mind.

Well, here we are. Only a couple more hours to go. I smile tightly at Jonathan, then at the white-coated waiter, who has glided smoothly as a swan to my side. I know his type. He will pour coffee starting low and then let his arm rise up spectacularly high, as though the stream should be roughly comparable to Niagara Falls. And he will sneak up on us, using ridiculous silver tongs to place sculpted pieces of butter on our bread plates. And everything he does will be done with an air of distant disapproval.

“Good evening,” he says, and I jump.

“Oh!—Good evening,” I say, and wish so much that I were at home, asleep.

“Would you care for a cocktail?” the waiter asks.

Would I care for a cocktail? I would care for about ninety cocktails. “Yes, a glass of white wine, please,” I say. I hate white wine. I like red wine. Out of jelly glasses, like the gangsters in movies. But I think it might be wrong, red wine. Lightning-fast, the waiter recites a list of choices for white wine. Show-off. “I’ll have the first one,” I say. “The first one you said.”

The waiter nods, turns to Jonathan. “A gin martini,” Jonathan says. “Bombay Sapphire. Extra dry, extra cold. Two olives. Straight up.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Excuse me,” I say, and when the waiter turns to me, I tell him, “I’d like to change my order to what he’s having.”

“Certainly.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s quite all right.” He glides away.

I smile at Jonathan. “So!” I clear my throat, look down at my purse. What’s in here? A lipstick, some tissues. A few bucks.

“Are you nervous?” Jonathan asks.

I look up quickly, laugh, and then, to my absolute horror, snort.

Tomorrow I will kill my mother.

“Me too,” Jonathan says.

“Pardon?”

“I’m nervous, too.”

“No, you’re not.”

He smiles. “I assure you, I am. I’m just sneaky about it.”

“So do you … what makes you think I’m nervous? Is that why you asked that question? Because you think I am? Nervous?”

“It’ll get better in a few minutes,” Jonathan says. “Honest.”

“Right.” I lean forward a little, try to relax my hands, which have been clutching each other, rigor-mortis style.

He is handsome, there’s no doubt about that. I wish I could freeze time so that I could stare at him for as long as I want. Thus far, I have taken polite little looks. He is blond, his hair nicely streaked; his eyes a deep blue. He wears a pair of tortoiseshell glasses that I like very much. He is tall, slim. What the hell is the matter with him that he has to have blind dates?

Our drinks are delivered and we both take a sip. I lean back in my chair.

“See?” Jonathan says. “It’s better already, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It is.” Inside my pointy shoes, my toes uncurl.

It is over dessert that Jonathan brings up Veronica. “According to my father, she’s quite an extraordinary woman.”

“Oh, yes,” I say. “She really is.” I take another bite of crème brûlée. It is delicious. It is so delicious! It makes me happy, the rough burnt-sugar surface, the smooth insides. Maybe I’ll have another one. If I can have two martinis, I can have two desserts. The silver spoon I’m using is so elegant, so right. Look at these thick linen tablecloths, these lovely ivory-colored candles with their gentle, flickering flames, their flattering glow. I should go back to Tiffany’s and get some candleholders. I was right, when David first left, to want to live this way. This is the way to live.

I take another bite, rub my tongue against the roof of my mouth. It feels wonderful. I look at Jonathan’s mouth. Sexy. Deep inside me, a pleasant stirring. I want to kiss him. Oh, I want to kiss him. Later, I will kiss him.

Or now.

I stand up, go over to his side of the table. “I just want to do something,” I say. I bend down and kiss him lightly on the mouth. Then I go back to my side of the table.

“There,” I say.

“Well, thank you,” he says. “That was nice.” And then, “Are you … all right?”

“I’m fine.” I sigh, rest my head in my hand. I wonder where my shoes are. Well, they couldn’t have gone too far.

“I’m afraid we’ve had a bit too much to drink,” he says, but his voice is kind, and rich, and he makes our overindulgence sound stylish.

“Yes,” I say. “We certainly have.”

“I don’t usually—”

“Oh, me either!” What friends we are, able so soon to complete each other’s sentences!

“You know, Jonathan,” I say, “you are a very good-looking man. And: I would like to kiss you again.”

“Well,” he says. “Likewise.”

“Should we do it here? Or should we go and make out in the car with the heater turned up?” I am quite pleased with my forwardness. This is really very good for me. I need to do more of this, yes, I do.

“Why don’t I get the check,” he says.

Oh, he’s paying. What a wonderful, wonderful man. So … Gregory Peckish. I feel for my shoes, slide into them, and then stand, only a bit unsteadily. “I’ll just go to the bathroom,” I tell him.

I should have said “powder room.” That would evoke the image of me sitting before a beautiful gold mirror, a vase of fresh flowers nearby, freshening my makeup, rather than sitting on a toilet. “Just want to powder my nose,” I add, lightly touching his shoulder as I pass by him. There. All fixed. See? Life is easy. Full of choices and quick remedies, if only you look. There’s no reason in the world to mourn one relationship when another is so easy to find. Why, Jonathan is reading the same book as I am!

After I use the toilet, I stand before the mirror, put on lipstick, then blot it. I arrange my hair with my fingers, pull down on a strand to make it rest near one eye. I put on a little more eyeliner. Then a touch more blush.

I have always been a champion kisser, and I have a feeling Jonathan is, too. I can’t wait to get back to him. I am a woman in my forties, and I know what’s up. I can do whatever I want. I take in a deep breath, straighten my belt, head back to the table. This urge is growing stronger and stronger. Well, good. It’s good. I’d thought I was broken. I’m not broken. I am an attractive woman, out with my new friend Jonathan, who is a very attractive man. My mother is quite good at this fixing-up business, I will thank her; yes, I will send her a pretty little bouquet and on the card will be “Thanks.”

No. More.

On the card will be, “You were absolutely right.”

No. Not that much.

Well, something will be on the card to tell my mother what a good matchmaker she turned out to be. Maybe I’ll call Stuart Gardner, that guy who called before, the other one my mother recommended. Maybe I’ll just be a dating fool, have a stable of studs. A blond, a brunet, and a redhead. None of them with male-pattern baldness. None of them on Viagra.

When I arrive back at the table, Jonathan looks up at me. “Ready?”

“Oh, yes,” I say. “Yup.”

Of course we do not make out in the car. We make out in his bed. I am in my forties and so is he, and we have admitted to each other that we have in our lifetimes had our share of back trouble. And so here I am lying on the bottom, and here he is lying on the top, and he is kissing me and I could not be more content. On the weekends when David has Travis, I will live here, and Jonathan will bring me champagne when I lounge in the tub after we make love. He will bring me champagne with a strawberry floating in it, and he will read to me from a book of poetry by Pablo Neruda.

He unzips my dress and I panic for a moment, wondering about the state of my bra; then remember that it’s a push-up, a nice one, and I am eager for him to see it. It’s got lots of lace.

I feel him pulling my dress down slightly. Then he stops, kisses my neck to make for a pleasingly painful pause. The man is a master. I should pay him.

He pulls my dress down farther, kisses my collarbones, moves down, stops just above my breasts. I pull lightly on his hair, inadvertently moan. He pulls my dress down to my waist and kisses my breasts through my bra. And now, finally, there are his smart fingers undoing my bra and his mouth at last on my bare skin. He runs his hand up my thigh, and I think I might burst with lust. And then, somehow, my bra is over my face, the underwire poking into my right eye.

“Hold on,” I say, laughing, and start to pull away.

“Oh, no,” he groans.“Don’t.”

“No, I just want to … wait a second.” What I’ll do is just take everything off. Well, maybe not everything. No. Everything.

But he is squeezing me tightly, holding me down, kissing me harder than before. It is not entirely unpleasant. But then, suddenly, it is.

“Jonathan,” I say. “Wait a minute!”

He pulls back, his eyes narrowed. “What the f*ck is this? You want it just as much as I do.”

I breathe out an astonished laugh, feel myself descend with a lurch into instant sobriety. “I just …”

“Forget it. The hell with it.” He sits up at the edge of the bed, turns on the light. I regret that his clothes are still on, while I am in a state of undress that is sexy no more. No, not anymore. I pull down my bra, fasten it, sit up, and pull my dress onto my shoulders. With some difficulty, I zip it.

Jonathan takes one sharp look at me, then looks away. He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of the bedside-stand drawer, lights one.

“You smoke?” I say, and the whole, whole card house falls down, down, down.

Outside, I look up at the night sky, blink back tears. It’s too cold to cry. It’s clear, the moon full, the stars like pinholes in black velvet. On the lawns I walk past are the reaching patterns of moon shadows, cast by the bare limbs of trees. I walk carefully, slipping often. “Goddamn men,” I say, out loud. “They’re all pigs. All of them.”

But Travis. He won’t be a pig. I’ll make sure of it. I may not ever contribute much to this world, but the one thing I will do is make sure Travis is a gentleman. A gentle man. I am going to start paying very, very close attention to him, and shape him so that he will come out like a gay man, but be straight. Unless of course he wants to be gay. But it doesn’t look good for that. Signs of inattentiveness and carelessness abound.

I slip again, and this time fall gracelessly onto my side. My purse slides a few feet ahead of me, then stops as though it is looking back, playing a game. I start to get up, but then instead turn onto my back. It’s not so bad, here on the sidewalk. It’s restful. I move my arms and legs, checking for pain. Nothing terribly wrong—nothing broken, anyway. The door to a nearby house opens. I see a yellow rectangle of light, then the silhouette of a woman in a bathrobe leaning out. “Hello?” she calls. “Are you all right? Miss?”

I struggle to my feet. “I’m fine,” I say. Liar. “I just fell.”

“I saw. My goodness!”

“Well, it’s slippery, you know! You’d fall too, if you were out here wearing three-inch heels!”

The woman closes the door.

Oh, I hadn’t meant to sound so defensive. I should have been nicer, asked the woman to use her phone to call a cab. I brush snow off my coat—funny, I’m not so cold now—and continue walking.

A car slows down, and I quicken my step. It is Jonathan, come to beg forgiveness. Well, he is not forgiven. Then the car pulls over, and I see that it is not Jonathan, it is a bunch of teenage boys. The window rolls down and the boy riding shotgun leans out, starts to say something. Then, seeing me more clearly, he says nothing, rolls the window back up, and the car drives away.

Pigs.

When I finally arrive home, I let myself in the back door, go into the kitchen, and upend the vase of roses Jonathan brought me into the garbage. Red for romance. Right.

“Hello?” King calls. He comes into the kitchen and leans against the doorjamb, watching me. I rinse the vase out, shove it back into the cupboard.

“Didn’t go so well, huh?”

“Ha!” I fling wet hair off my face, kick off my heels.

“What happened?”

“Well. For one thing, I ended up walking home.”

“Really!”

“Yes, that’s right. I walked home. And let me tell you, that was the best part of the evening.”

“You walked all the way home from the restaurant?”

I look up from unbuttoning my coat. “Yes! Well … No. It was … from his apartment, all right? It was from there. But it was still far!”

“What happened, Sam?”

I burst into tears. And when King comes toward me, I hold up my stained evening bag to keep him away. “No,” I say. “Don’t.” I weep silently for a moment, then stop suddenly and say, “I am sorry to tell you this, King, because you’re a man. But men are a*sholes. Every single one of you. This can never change.”

“Well. Not every one of us.”

“Yes, you are. I’m sorry. But, yes, you are.”

“You must be freezing. Go change out of those clothes. Then come down here and I’ll make you some tea.”

“I don’t want any tea. And I don’t believe I want to talk. Thank you for baby-sitting. I mean, I’m grateful. I am. But I do not want to talk to you.”

He shrugs. “Okay.” He starts for the closet and his coat.

I regret myself instantly; King has never been anything but kind to me; none of this is his fault. “Wait,” I say. “I’m sorry. Don’t leave. I’ll go change.”

In my bedroom, I throw my dress on the floor, then kick it into the corner. I pull out a pair of jeans and a faded blue sweatshirt from my dresser drawer, start to put them on, then throw them on the floor as well. From another drawer, I pull out plaid flannel pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I change into them, add thick socks and my old, battered terry-cloth robe. In the bathroom, I take off my makeup and contacts, and put my glasses on.

On my way back downstairs, I peek into Travis’s bedroom, then tiptoe in to watch him sleep. I want to kiss his forehead; and I want to wake him up and say fiercely between my teeth, “Listen, buster, don’t you ever treat a woman the way I was treated tonight!” I do neither; instead, I stand beside him, cotton-headed, realizing the alcohol hasn’t quite worn off yet.

In the family room, a grainy black-and-white movie is on TV. A dinosaur is shaking a skyscraper around in his mouth, his eyes rolling unconvincingly from side to side. People cling to the side of the building like ticks. When King sees me, he turns off the television, folds his hands over his stomach. Waits.

“I think this was date rape,” I say, finally. “Almost.”

He starts to say something, then stops.

“I mean it!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, what did I expect? This is what always happens, one way or another.”

“Come on, Sam. It’s not what always happens. You know that.”

I stand still for a moment, wondering if I have enough energy for a good debate. He reaches forward, pulls my glasses off my face, and polishes them with his sweatshirt. “You can’t even see,” he tells me.

“Can too.” I watch as he rubs the glasses, holds them up to the light, rubs them again, and then places them carefully back on. The gesture is so tender it makes me start crying again, for all that is not tender in the world.

“Was Travis good?” I ask, finally, through my tears.

“Yeah,” King says gently. “Travis was fine.” And then, “You know, I’ve never been too good at fighting, but I could go over there and sit on the guy for you. Where’s he live?”

“That would be great,” I say, laughing, imagining the scene. The elegant Jonathan would be flattened cartoonlike beneath King.

Then I stop laughing, feel the tail end of my drunkenness wash over me like a mild flu. I realize I am not particularly capable of anything. “King?” I say. “Could you just stay here for a while, just until …”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Okay. Good.”

The phone rings. “Who’s calling so late?” I say, and then, of course, know. “It’s him, the bastard.” I glare at the phone.

King picks it up, says hello. Then, “Yes, she’s here.” He looks over at me. “Do you want to—”

“No!”

“She’d rather not,” King says. Then, turning slightly away from me, “Probably you shouldn’t call her anymore. That’d be my advice.” A pause, and then, “A friend. I’m her friend.”

I feel a rush of feeling start in my center and then spread until I can feel it in my fingertips, in my toes. Safety, is what it is. And the blanketlike relief of it is awesome.

“You walked home?” Rita asks, later that night.

“Well, it wasn’t that far. A couple of miles.” Now that I have the outraged sympathy I was looking for, I can feign nonchalance.

“It’s winter! You were wearing heels!”

“It’s not winter yet. It’s still November.”

“It’s always winter in Massachusetts. Except when it’s August and then it’s hell.”

“I didn’t have a choice. I had to get out of there fast.”

“Was he really that bad?” Rita asks. “Maybe he was just frustrated. Maybe he thought you were teasing him.”

“No, he was that bad. It wasn’t just nasty. It was scary.”

“Well, don’t go out with him anymore.”

I hold the phone away from myself, look at it. Don’t go out with him anymore. Great advice. Gee, and I was going to call him tomorrow, ask him to come over and maybe hold a knife to my throat.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Rita. I’m going to sleep.”

“Wait, listen, I was thinking about coming out there. How would that be?”

“It would be great, what do you think? I’d love to have you come out here! When?”

“Next week, I thought. Right after Thanksgiving. I’ll come on Saturday, leave the next Saturday.”

“A week?”

“Yeah. Why, do you think that’s too long?”

“No! Well … yes. But no.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be helpful. I’ll fold all the socks. I’ll chop the onions for dinner. I’ll help you find a new roommate.”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

“Maybe you’ll get someone better.”

“Nobody would be better than Lydia. You’ll see.”

After I hang up the phone, I stare at the ceiling, thinking. Rita hasn’t visited for a long time. Last time she was here, Travis didn’t have any front teeth. Now he doesn’t have a father, and his mother dates sociopaths.

And yet.

I turn off the bedside lamp, realize that nothing hurts. I take in a deep breath, as though the inhaled air will check around and let me know if that’s really true. It is.