2 a.m. at the Cat's Pajamas (12 page)

STARS:
Ben wipes his eyes with the hand that is not holding the phone. The conversation has ended. Across the street a dog sniffs a signpost. Connected to him via leash is a little boy. Connected to the little boy via hand is The Dad. Ben wants to call to them and wave. He wants the man to nudge his son to wave back. Then Ben could yell
hello
over the empty street.
“What’s your dog’s name?” “Jeb,”
the man would yell.
“Jeb?”
Ben would say, laughing. The man would point to his son.
His idea
. That man could be him, Ben thinks, that little boy could be his, the dog, too. He could be the one yelling
“Jeb!”
across the street to the man wincing through a phone call with his estranged wife. If she had ever liked dogs. Or kids.

Michael stumbles on a wrong note. He tries again. Still wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

In the first week of their marriage, Ben and Annie made three decisions: to install a home security system, to never have children, and to never, ever take salsa lessons. All three were meant to preserve what they owned.

The salsa lessons were Ben’s hard line. There was a dance
studio on his walk home from the law office. At night it was filled with desperate, churning couples, wagging themselves across the floor.

Whose idea was the kids? Ben wonders, turning to walk inside. He recalls the subject of children being lobbed into the air, Annie saying her flat stomach was her greatest achievement, then taking a call in the other room. The following day the security service arrived to measure the walls.

Ben halts at the window. Inside, Sarina scratches the ears of an earnest-looking cat. Pretty hands, Ben thinks, pretty lap. His breath makes clouds. How long had she been divorced? What had she said about sending a child home for having lice? How was lice the child’s fault?

Michael has found the right note and, la-la-la-ing, rejoins the melody.

Claudia returns to the family room and drapes herself over a chair. “I’m sorry Bella is being such a bitch tonight.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Sarina says.

“You’re sweet.”

Georgie and Bella return holding plates and forks, with Ben following, clapping warmth into his arms and legs.

My arms won’t free you,
Michael sings.

“Michael!” Georgie yells. “Quit the piano!” She unveils the key lime pie.

“Extraordinary!” says Sarina.

Michael pats his belly. “Full.”

Claudia says, “Couldn’t eat one more bite.”

Bella gazes at the pie. “Me too. Not another bite.”

Georgie frowns. “Sarina?”

“I’ll
have a piece.”

“Me too!” says Ben. “Biggest slice you can.”

Sarina and Ben eat the pie. Those who want coffee drink coffee. Occasionally someone sighs. After everyone is finished, Georgie says, “Let’s dance.”

Bella and Claudia exchange a glance. Michael digs his hands into his pockets and Sarina scrutinizes the carpet.

“It’s late,” Ben says.

Michael adds, “And we’re old.”

Georgie thinks about the dishes, the joint she will have after everyone leaves. The quick hush of the extinguished candle.

Bella, Claudia, Michael
, and Ben pause on the cold stoop, each considering his or her immediate future. For Bella and Claudia, it is a short walk to their South Street apartment. For Michael, a car ride to the suburbs during which he will have the option of looking at the moon through one of two sunroofs. Ben also has options: he can take a five-minute cab ride to his brownstone in Olde City or he can walk one of the tree-lined streets that connect this part of town to his. It’s a good night for a walk. The air is crisp. His wife is staying with her parents indefinitely. His scarf feels good around his neck and his coat is lined in down. Speaking of, where is his scarf?

Inside, Sarina insists she will help with dishes. She wants to avoid good-byes with the others. But Georgie refuses. She
reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind Sarina’s ear. “I’m glad you came.”

“Me too,” Sarina says, coating up. She opens the front door and collides with Ben, who has forgotten his scarf. He disappears inside as she lights a cigarette on the stoop. When he returns, the rest of the party is blocks ahead, too far to run or call out. His forgetfulness and her fear of good-byes have deposited them into this private moment.

Sarina says, “I’m going …” and Ben says, “… this way,” and they point to different directions.

“Please tell Annie I hope she feels better. The flu is going around. Everyone is dropping like flies at school.” It is a lie. For once, no illness is circulating the school, though every day she prays something will render Denny absent.

They descend the steps. She thinks his elbow will touch hers but they reach the sidewalk, separate. The brief holiday is over. She says good night and follows the rest of the party.

Behind her, Ben says, “Good night, Sarina.”

Good night, Sarina
, she thinks.
Because that is my name
. She wants to turn the sound of him saying it into a SEPTA card she can use to get around.

The city is in a perpetual state of being not quite ready to talk about it. Instead it lashes its wind against the banners of the art museum. Moody light changes down Market, the cars bitch toward City Hall. Puddles yearn toward the sewers. The unrequited city dreams up conspiracies and keeps its buildings low to the ground. You are never allowed to dream higher than the hat of William Penn. Dear
World, you think you’re better than me? Suck a nut. Yours sincerely.

A slip of a woman, trench coated, dips in and out of the shadows on Pine Street, toward the train. Restless wind dissects her.

Good night, Sarina. Good night.

T
he woman on the phone identifies herself as Diannarah from The Courtland Avenue Club. Her voice is fancy/chintzy.

“I do not wish to disturb you,” she says, when Lorca answers. “We have a gentleman here who we ask you to kindly pick up. I want you to understand I am using the term
gentleman
sarcastically as he is feeling up the girls and in general acting like an asshole. We’ve asked him to leave several times. He says he is an Olympic gymnastics coach, but the license I lifted from his wallet says Max Cubanista. Is he yours?”

“Yes.” A new headache blooms at the base of Lorca’s skull. “He’s mine.”

Sonny tells the
cold to screw itself. He and Lorca walk to his mustard-colored Buick he thinks can fit into every parking spot in Fishtown. It is crammed between two trucks, its enormous front sticking out into traffic.

Lorca slides into the front seat. “You use a shoehorn?”

Sonny reverses, spins the wheel, accelerates, spins, reverses. Lorca adjusts knobs on the console so heat sighs through the vents. Finally the car is free. Sonny smooths his hair in the rearview mirror and beams.

They ride in silence. Streetlights scan them. What Louisa said about Alex turns in Lorca’s mind but doesn’t allow him
to pinpoint its exact shape or form. “Louisa said Alex is going down a bad road. You know anything about that?”

Sonny’s eyes dart from Lorca to the road. He checks his rear view and changes lanes. Light slants in, making him glow. “He’s looking skinny,” he admits.

“What does that mean?”

The streetlight abandons them, throwing the car into darkness. Sonny sighs. “Come on, Lorc.”

“What does that mean? I’m asking.”

“I don’t know why Louisa has trouble talking to you,” Sonny says. “You’re such a goddamned peach.”

The car clamors over a pothole and part of the ceiling fabric comes undone, making a veil over Lorca’s head.

“You got a fix for this?” he says.

Sonny reaches over Lorca and punches the glove compartment open to reveal a staple gun.

“You’re a world-class musician,” Lorca says. “And your car is held together by string.” He shoots staples into the ceiling.

“Do it nice,” Sonny says. “Make a line.”

The Courtland Avenue
Club shimmers like a false sunset off the highway. They still have a snake girl. She is featured prominently on a banner that hangs over the entrance. Lorca hasn’t been inside in five years. Other than a new coat of paint, not much has changed.

In one of the lanes a group of Main Line girls prepares to bowl, trying out shoes and form-perfect throws. One of them,
a rotund, displeased-looking girl, wears a crown with tulle bursting out of it.

“In and out,” Lorca says. “Find Max and let’s go.”

Sonny nods. “You got it.”

The door to the strip club is behind the bar. Sonny exchanges words with the bouncer. He tells a joke that only he laughs at, but the bouncer lets him in. Lorca orders a whiskey at the bowling alley’s bar. Five years earlier he had stopped in on the way home from scouting a saxophonist in Jersey. Then, it had been Louisa getting his drink and not this girl in the new uniform: a bikini top and shorts.

Lorca swivels to watch the action in the lanes. The place has gained a following among bachelorette parties and hipsters. The yawking group of girls is still testing out grips and throws. One screams, are they ready? The others raise their arms and cheer. They nominate one girl to go to the bar for drinks. She waits for the bartender next to Lorca, so close he can hear her nails tap on the bar. “Are we making complete fools out of ourselves or what?”

“You girls are just right,” he says.

She points to the sour-faced girl. “That one is getting married so we drove down from the suburbs.”

He raises his glass. “Here’s to her.”

The girl orders, unfolds several bills from a change purse. Lorca throws a bill to the bartender. The girl attempts to hand it back.

“Please,” he says. “Tell your friend I’m happy for her.” Even he thinks he sounds desperate.

“I will.” She delivers the drinks and comes back. “My friend says thank you.”

“Tell her my pleasure.”

She takes the stool next to him, mouth knotted in worry. “I’ve never been to this neighborhood before,” she says. Girls were always saying things like this. Like bookmarks, to hold their place until they think of something real to say.

Lorca says, “Where do you live?”

“Princeton. Yardley, actually, but no one’s ever heard of Yardley. You ever hear of Yardley?”

“No.” He signals the bartender that he wants another, bigger whiskey.

“See?” She fiddles with her scarf and recrosses her legs, revealing the top of one thigh.

The bartender brings his whiskey. He asks the girl what she would like.

This time, she doesn’t refuse. “A vodka cranberry.”

“Barbara,” one of her friends calls. “It’s your turn!”

“I’ll come back,” Barbara says.

There is still no sign of Sonny or Max. Lorca says, “I’ll probably be here.”

Barbara jogs back to her friends and hurls the ball down the lane. It brings down a few pins. As she waits for her ball to return, one of her friends collects her into a huddle. They giggle, and separate. She throws the ball again with a sound of effort. It brings down the rest of the pins. Her group cheers. In the middle of their hugs she leaps and twirls.

She marks her score and returns to Lorca, hitting a pose. “Was that something or what?”

“That was something.”

“My friends are getting jealous.” Her breath is sweet with cranberry. “I have to stay with them, or people will say we’re in love.” She’s young, and thinks she has to say pretty things to seem interesting.

“You go with your friends,” he says.

“I wish I could stay and talk to you. I sounded ungrateful before. I don’t like to feel indebted.” At the crux of her collarbone, perspiration grows. She loosens her scarf.

“You were perfect,” Lorca says. “Really.”

The bartender yells, “Night bowling!” and the lanes are plunged into black light, revealing iridescent cartoon rabbits high-fiving on the walls. Everything white Barbara wears is glowing. Lorca wears all black. He checks his watch. Val will be into her second set already. They need to get back to the club.

He enters the back room and the door behind him closes, sealing out the noise of the lanes. Topless women wag themselves around a sparkling dance floor. A girl undulates over an elated coed, her expression fuzzed out. In a corner booth, a dancer works on Sonny, his hands clamped on her ass. A pop song belches out of the speakers. Lorca doesn’t see Max.

“Where is he?” Lorca mouths.

Sonny points to a farther booth and signals that everything is okay.

Hurry up
, Lorca mouths, and leaves. In the bathroom behind the lanes, he pats water onto his forehead. In the hall he collides with Barbara. “Goody,” she says. She clasps his wrist and leads him into the ladies’ room, where everything is the color of salmon.

She presses her mouth into his neck, feeling for his arms and hair.

“This is much nicer than the men’s room,” he says. She slides her hands underneath the waistband of his jeans. “Whoa,” he says, as if he is bringing a horse to a halt.

She tilts her head. “You don’t want to?”

“Do I want to?” he says.

He tries to undo her shirt, but the buttons are too small. She does it for him. She hitches up her skirt and spins so he can see her ass. He unclasps her bra. The bathroom’s lamp casts dirty blond light onto her bare skin. She wrenches his belt off, his pants down. She holds the top of the stall with delicate hands and he pushes into her.

A nagging sound from the fluorescent bulbs and the hard thrum of the club’s music.

“How are you soft everywhere?” he says.

“I know a guy.” She wants him to move into her hard. Her lips fill with blood. “Wait,” she says.

They are pressed against the stall but sliding toward the ground. Something inside him waits, but something else continues. It gathers and advances.

“Good things come to those who wait,” she says, in the pretty way that suddenly seems cruel. His shoulders tremble with effort. Then the quaking recedes and becomes one limitless thing. His thoughts jump off a cliff.

She says, “Go.”

It’s too late. He is slack.

“No,” she says. “Really?”