“There,” he said.
It felt cold without his arms around me. I leaned back into him.
“If we stay up all night, we’ll sleep on the plane, right?” I said.
“That’s the plan.”
“I want to walk and see the city. I want to say good-bye to it.”
“It’s late,” Jack said. “Maybe a little dangerous.”
“Find a bar, then. Find a place that’s warm.”
“Let me ask,” he said.
He walked over and asked one of the band members where we should go. That band member didn’t seem to know, but another band member, a guitarist, said something, and Jack nodded. When he came back, he put his arm around me and walked me to the table.
“Not far from here,” he said.
“Remember when we slept in the stable in Amsterdam?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“I thought you were going to try to seduce me. A roll in the hay, I guess.”
“I knew just how to play you.”
“You did, did you?”
I grabbed my purse and checked the table to make sure I didn’t leave anything. Jack pushed in the chairs. He came and put his arm around me again and started walking me toward the door.
“That was the first night we slept together. In a haystack in Amsterdam. That’s a good story to tell. We can dine out on that story for quite a while.”
“That’s an old expression,” Jack said. “Dining out on a story.”
“What do you think the puppy I included in your toast really means?”
“I think the puppy symbolizes innocence.”
“So do I,” I conceded. “And the hope of something pure.”
“Puppies symbolize sexual perversion,” Jack said. “Freud said as much.”
“He did not.”
“Sure he did. You can say that about anything, and no one will know. Freud said as much. Try it.”
“Men who play clarinets have a phallic obsession. Freud said as much.”
“See? It works.”
“Better than it should.”
We reached the door and pushed through. It was not sunrise, but the sun was in the neighborhood. You could feel it as much as see it. The city felt like a flying carpet, a carpet that possessed magic but lacked the will to get up and move. A few pigeons stepped sideways on their perches on the building window ledges. Jack pulled me closer.
“You frozen?” he asked.
“A little.”
“Why are women always cold?”
“Because we wear things that boys can look down.”
“True. And we are grateful.”
“I always thought you were after nipples. Now it’s not as disturbing.”
“Freud said as much.”
“Of course he did. Do you know where you’re going?”
“Just up here, I think.”
“My father is going to be a bit standoffish at first. I have to warn you. Then he will lighten up. I promise.”
“At some point, you have to meet my parents, too, you know?”
“I know. I want to meet them.”
“So you say. Wait until you do.”
“Are they horrible?”
“Not horrible. Just self-involved, I suppose. I paint them to be worse than they are. It’s part of my self-mythos.”
“Freud said as much.”
“It didn’t work just then. I can’t give you that tool if you misuse it.”
Then he stopped and kissed me. We kissed a long time. It was not chaste, and it was not fully passionate. It was a companionable kiss, as if we had entered a different level, a more comfortable level, in what we meant to each other.
“Sun’s going to be up soon,” Jack said when we broke apart.
“I liked dancing with you. I liked the martinis. I liked everything.”
“We could fall in love this way, you know?” Jack asked.
“Freud said as much.”
Jack smiled. Then it was morning.
38
“You don’t believe in Bigfoot?” Jack asked on the bus to the airport, his eyes inspecting me as if I had said something preposterous. “How can you deny science? Bigfoot is pure scientific fact. Haven’t you followed the expeditions that have proven, beyond doubt, that Bigfoot exists and is hanging around the rain forest of Washington State?”
“Freud said as much.”
“See? You are using that way too much. That’s an improper use of the Freud card.”
“I thought you said it always worked.”
“Not always, Heather. Nothing is always. Nothing in the universe is always. ‘Freud said as much’ is a line that fits in some places but not others. The trick is to know when.”
“Freud said as much.”
“See? Again, penalty flag. You’re like a parrot that has learned to say, ‘Polly want a cracker.’ You keep repeating it without any understanding.”
“Why would a parrot want a cracker, anyway?”
“You really don’t get this stuff, do you? Sorry, but you’re a little joke deaf. I didn’t know the extent of your disability until now. I apologize if I have been insensitive.”
He looked at me and put his finger to his lips.
“Don’t say it,” he warned.
“Freud said as much.”
He sighed.
“Maybe we could get you into a program. Maybe we can get you some kind of joke help. You’re a deserving minority. You are humor impaired.”
I put my head on his shoulder. I felt sleepy. I felt calm and happy. I didn’t like flying especially, but I liked where flights brought me. It was time to go home. I wanted to see my parents and Mr. Periwinkle, and I wanted to be in one place for more than a night or two. Travel sheds skin, and it takes time at home to grow it back.
“I have to ask you something else,” he said, sounding more serious. “Are you in the mood to take on something kind of important? It could change our relationship.”
“What?”
“Are you?”
“I guess. Is this a joke?”
“It’s not a joke, Heather. I need to know your attitude toward air guitar. I need to know if you think playing air guitar is acceptable.”
“Why? Do you play a lot of air guitar?”
“Au contraire, Ms. Heather. I believe anyone who plays air guitar should be forced to look at a never-ending loop of themselves playing air guitar.”
“You hate it that much?”
“Oh, more than hate, Heather. Much more. Hate does not begin to describe it. I mean, what is air guitar? What does it mean? A person holds out his hands as if he—or it could be a she, but more typically it’s something guys do—as if he were playing a guitar. Of course the guy just happens to be able to play the best guitar licks in the world, usually without practicing anything at all. And then he looks around as if he’s actually doing something, and he makes these rock-and-roll faces like he’s getting the last squeal out of a note he just played. It’s an insult to everything that is holy on this earth.”
“So I can never air guitar?”
“You can air guitar, Heather. Be my guest. I will never stop you from air guitaring. I will simply have to leave the room, that’s all. I could never look at you in the same way afterward. I just couldn’t. It’s kind of the white man’s overbite of musicianship.”
“So yes to Bigfoot, but no to air guitar. Got it. Anything else I should know about? Is there a manual that accompanies you?”