Jamey usually comes home and immediately turns on every lamp, but Elise can sit all evening without light. To Jamey, this darkness is sinister.
She throws herself onto the couch now, the city roiling beyond the open window, and she rakes under Buck’s chin. Jamey curls next to her in the grayness. He fears this half-light, when artifice’s power blinks off and the natural world—in its capriciousness—reigns, but it feels right tonight.
“Martine came by,” she informs him.
His heart double-beats. “Really.”
“She didn’t seem too happy finding me here.”
“What’d she say?”
“Not much. That was the problem. I just let her look at me like I’m nothing.”
Elise has a thousand talks with Martine from this day on, in her mind. The two women face off like gladiators. They bang foreheads. I don’t know who you think you are, it often starts.
And this French succubus hangs over Elise’s bed, waiting for her to fall asleep.
Or Elise is standing in the bathroom, putting on mascara, and suddenly Martine will be in the mirror too, in her stupid blue headband, like a scene from a horror movie.
Fighting is an inevitable necessity. Like God or rain or illness, it will happen; it’s not a matter of if but when. It’s beautiful, the ugliness of it, and girl fights are especially awkward and unredeemable aesthetically. There’s no boxer’s punch, no fast feet. There’s strength and intention, hatred communicated with nails, with teeth, box cutters. Hair in the eyes, or caught in the mouth, girls move and heave like fat animals even if they’re skinny. They grunt and squeal inside, not audibly. It’s oddly silent, a mute disaster.
Elise wishes she could have done battle and moved on.
Alex’s secretary calls to schedule lunch on Saturday for Jamey and his father. What a surprise!
When Jamey gets to the New York Yacht Club’s gilded lobby, Alex is jangling coins in his pocket.
“Hey there, Charlie,” Alex says to a man passing.
To the people Alex reveres he gives an operatic hello and stretched-arm handshake. The people he despises get a happy punch on the shoulder. His oldest, closest friends get something melancholy, distracted.
“Jamey,” he says sternly, hands on hips.
Alex studies the menu even though he knows it by heart. He has to order carefully because his stomach is tricky. He goes to doctors in Switzerland, Japan, California who prescribe seaweed and other regimens, but Jamey can always tell ten minutes into a meal when Alex is preoccupied.
“Look, Martine told me there was a girl in her loft when she stopped by the other day.”
“There was. There is. That’s Elise, she’s staying with me.”
“She’s staying with you.”
“She’s my girlfriend.” Jamey aims his heart-shaped face at his father and doesn’t let himself look away.
“Your girlfriend who you’ve not mentioned nor introduced to anyone.”
“If you want to meet her, maybe we could all go out to dinner.”
“James. I’m not sure how to say this, so I think I’ll just say it directly. Martine told me about Elise, and to be honest, this whole thing has me concerned.”
At the next table, the sommelier uses a pince-nez to look at a decayed label before uncorking it.
“Martine and Elise barely spoke. What could concern you?”
“Listen.” Alex painfully folds his napkin and begins his speech. “Certain people see the world as small. They’re directed by fear, Jamey. They get what they can, when they can, because in their experience, not much is coming their way. Their life is hard, and that breeds a certain attitude. Do I think these people should be helped? Absolutely. They deserve all the help they can get, and I think it’s most helpful to teach them how to do for themselves. Do I think someone like that makes a good companion to my son? I don’t, Jamey. It doesn’t add up. They’ve been beaten down. They have certain instincts, trust me. Guy goes into prison. He comes out, he knows exactly what to say to get by, to get over. It’s survival; he’s living in hostile environments. He learned to cry at his parole hearing. And he’s learned even better skills to rob you blind when he’s freed. It’s a cycle. They’re caught in a cycle. You can try to get them resources and programs, give some of these kids from certain neighborhoods some scholarship money. But usually? Known behavior is hard to get rid of, Jamey. Instinct wins. It’s not their fault.”
Jamey stares at Alex with mouth agape. “What are you talking about?”
“I think you understand.” Alex takes a big sip of wine and surveys the room, the maritime paintings and boat models lit by golden lamps.
“No one gave Elise any scholarship money, I can tell you that.”
“Well, let’s also talk about how challenging it is, even in this modern world, which isn’t really racist anymore, thank God, for you to be in a mixed affair.”
“Dad. Elise is white. Her skin is white, that is, which is what I think you’re talking about.”
Alex looks flustered. “Is she? Forgive me, then. Martine gave me the impression that Elise is—”
“She didn’t go to Yale. Is that what you mean?”
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on. I do know that I love my Jamey-roo. I’ve got meetings in Stamford and the car’s waiting. But this was a good talk—we nailed it, I think. Right?”
“You’ve really enlightened me,” Jamey says sarcastically.
Alex is so used to his son being nonconfrontational that he either doesn’t register or can’t acknowledge Jamey’s bitterness. “But um, you do need to fix the situation.”
Alex gets up and clumsily rubs Jamey on the head.
Jamey sits at the empty table and stares at red tulips. All around him, men tell stories over oysters, laugh, order another gin. Jamey washes his hands in the Old World bathroom, and then leaves, dazed with rage.
Walking down the street, he questions everything—why he’s doing this, why she’s doing it. He sees her in Newport, opening the jewelry box. He almost loses the will to keep walking. Is he na?ve?
But it’s…the way they lie in each other’s arms, the way they sweat, the way they laugh and whisper, the way they sleep and dream together. Right?
He walks with hands in pockets, face collapsed into a disappointment. He’s disoriented, capsizing like a tiny sailboat in a big wind.
When he gets home, she’s sprawled on the couch, and WKCR is playing Ornette Coleman. The sun is a brutal glowing heat in the window. Buck is curled into Elise’s stomach, and loves her too much to greet Jamey. The dog wags his tail instead.
“Yo,” she says. “What’s up?”
She’s just listening to strange notes and chords ricochet around the space, putting Cheez Whiz on crackers and feeding one to the dog and then eating one herself—
And he believes in her.
“Nothing,” he says, smiling, throwing his keys on the counter.