Blue Rose In Chelsea (19 page)

     Sinclair zooms over, worried that I’ve been injured.

     “Is our Sylvia alright?  You must take better care of our Sylvia!” Sinclair scolds Evan, jocularly.

     “I’ll hold her hand next time, I promise, Satan.”

     It takes Sinclair a moment to realize that Evan is referring to his devil costume at the party.

     “Ah, yes, but I have retired my horns, in part due to the influence of a certain angelic presence.”  Sinclair winks.

     “Sylvia has that effect on people,” Evan says, and I suddenly realize that I’m having a fun birthday.  I’ve got a gash in my knee that stings like hell, but my inspired choice of red tights provides camouflage for the blood, and Evan is near enough that I can smell his Halston cologne, and I am the topic of conversation between my two favorite men.

     “Our Sylvia possesses an ineffable quality.  I’ve tried these many months to pinpoint it.  It is like the secret ingredient in my grandmother’s sauce, although Sylvia’s is not attributable to an heirloom tomato.”  Sinclair drifts into hyperbole and dives into metaphor, rubbing his chin where a slight five o’clock shadow of a goatee has gained ground.

     “Sylvia is without guile,” Evan states simply.

     Sinclair claps his super-insulated gloves.  “By George, I think he’s got it!”  He does his best Rex Harrison.  “That is it.  That is Sylvia’s ineffable quality.  She is without guile.  She has no agenda.  She is perhaps the one true and only sincere person in this whole sorry city!”

     Evan is not looking at me, but at the crowds of skaters swirling past us, and I wonder if he is suddenly embarrassed by his sentiment, or if he didn’t mean what he said at all, perhaps he only said it off the top of his head.

     “Now, you must say something nice about him,” Sinclair instructs me as if I was a child, and standing there in my torn red tights with my bruised knee, I feel like one.

     Evan looks to me with a smirk of anticipation, awaiting his compliment.

     “Evan is like the moon.  You don’t always see it, but you are never free of its influence.”

     Sinclair flutters his hands in a flustered manner, touching his fingertips to his temples like a psychic at a séance.  “Okay, that’s a bit too deep for me.  I just sew buttons on things for a living.  I must absorb this a moment.  Now, if I were God, and omnipotent, the deeper meaning of this would be immediately evident to me—“

     “If I were God, my first decree would be that Evan should always be happy,” I gush in a torrent of emotion, and it feels like the truest thing I’ve ever said.

     “Followed by world peace, of course,” Sinclair sallies, but what I’ve said has done something to Evan.  He watches me with an expression I can’t decipher.

     “Oh, my dear, you have a boo-boo!”  Sinclair spies my bleeding knee, and fishes in his pockets for tissues.  I try to wriggle away from his mothering touch, as he orders me to hold still.  Evan has settled onto a bench, unlaced his skates and slipped on his shoes.  In one synchronized movement Evan sets his black skates at his feet and pulls me down, like an unruly child, onto his lap so that Sinclair may dab my knee with the ruffled tissue.  I struggle slightly, but only to provoke Evan, who then wraps his arms around me to hold me in place, his grip firm but gently folded across my waist, his breath in my hair as he leans over to watch Sinclair minister to my wound.  I feel suddenly as if I’ve been immersed in a steamy bath, as if I’m melting into the hot heat of his lap.

     “Sinclair!”

     Someone calls Sinclair’s name, a man of medium height, perhaps five foot nine, with a neatly shaped mustache, impressive haircut tinged with gray, and a general air of money and privilege.

     Sinclair’s face looks suddenly bleached, he turns that white.  He drops the bloodied tissue and steps away from us to speak to the intruder.  Evan, with his laser-sharp perception, senses something, too.  When I turn to look at Evan his gaze is fixed on Sinclair, with a look of open concern.

     Something about Sinclair’s altered demeanor sends a chill through me.  I feel suddenly cold and lean back against Evan for warmth.  He leans into me in response, resting his chin on my shoulder.

      Sinclair’s visitor departs.  Sinclair turns toward us but doesn’t see us, his gaze empty, his earlier animation vanquished.  Only the sight of Sinclair’s stricken face could wrench me from the best seat in the house.

     “What’s wrong?”  I rush toward him.

     “That was him.  That was Joe.”

     “The Joseph?”

     “Yes, The Joseph,” he says, weakly.

     “No way!”

     “Yes way,” he says, as if on autopilot.

     “What are the odds of that?”

     “After fourteen years?  I’d say quite good odds.”

     “Well, what did he say?” I prod.

     “I’m not sure.  I can’t really remember.  I was too much in shock.”

     He drops his upper body, as if doing a toe-touching exercise, and hangs there, bent at the waist, like a rag doll.  The Red Baron scarf floats to the dirty pavement, but he doesn’t notice.

     “I’ve got to get out of here,” he says, pulling himself up to eye level again.

     “Wait, I’ll go with you.”

     “You have a rehearsal in half an hour,” Sinclair protests.

     “I’ll skip it.”

     “You can’t skip it.  You need it.”

     “Gee thanks.”  I roll my eyes, but I’m not really offended.

     “Sinclair, wait!”  I try to chase him but I’m still wearing my skates.  “Oh, he should not be alone right now!”  I slap my hands at my sides.

     “I’ll go after him,” Evan offers.  He delivers his rented skates into my arms.  Struggling to keep Sinclair in sight over the crowds, he weaves in through the hordes of people.  I stand there a long while, twisting the Red Baron scarf in my mittens, and stretching my neck like an ostrich, hoping to see one of them emerge from the masses.

     No one returns.

     We are rehearsing the cygnets from Swan Lake.  Madame Lazarr wants us in costume, and so we don the white satin bodices and stiff white tutus.  For once, I breeze through it.  Linking arms with three other girls means I must stay exactly in step or I’ll be knocking one of them off balance.  Everyone is better trained than I, but I try to recall Evan’s comment about my natural grace.  Tonight I feel as if I’m wafting on the memory of Evan’s nearness, the euphoria of his arms about me, his head resting on my shoulder, the strong warmth of his legs beneath me when I sat on his lap at the ice rink.  The other dancers comment on the flush in my cheeks, the spring in my step, and my perfect timing.

     I think of Sinclair.  I’m hoping Evan caught up with him.  I’m sure he did.  Evan is the type of person who achieves what he sets out to do.  The receptionist informs me that someone has called and left a message that I’m to come to Brandon’s loft when I’m done with rehearsals.  I don’t want to wear the skating skirt, so I don a turquoise silk tunic that is hanging on the costume rack.  I change my white tights to black, and slip on my embroidered mules.  I’ll have to catch the train from Queens back into the city, and walk the few blocks to the loft.  With the darkness came the cold, and my short coat won’t cut it.  There’s a coat hanging on the costume rack, which feels like real fur.  It’s a rich sable color with a golden collar.  Since I’m the last to leave, I slip into it quickly and sprint for the exit, out into the bitter cold in my borrowed ensemble.

     I pick up something to drink at the store and wait on the windy platform.  I’m starving and I consider buying my usual un-chicken salad, but I don’t want anything stuck in my teeth in case Evan is there.  It’s a few short stops into the city.  I am consumed with the notion of seeing Evan, and almost feel ashamed that Sinclair is not uppermost in my thoughts.  I blot on my red lip-gloss, scrutinizing my reflection in the darkened train window.

     The coat serves me well on the windy Seventh Avenue.  I’m wondering who left the message.  It said only to come to the loft, where the guys are all watching football.  Someone buzzes me up, a voice I don’t recognize.  I ride the elevator up, and when the doors open I step into an empty hall.  Generally there is someone there, someone from the loft, to meet whoever gets off the elevator, but not tonight.

     I find the guys gathered around the television watching an Andrew Dice Clay video.  I hover there in my furry coat a moment, listening to the monologue.  Sinclair is slumped onto the couch with two guys on each side of him.  They don’t notice me at first, and I take advantage of the moment, standing still as a stone because it’s a priceless opportunity to watch men interact when they don’t know that a woman is present.

     They laugh uproariously at the raunchy jokes.  Brandon mentions some girls they met last night, one apparently smitten with Evan.  I feel a sudden stab in my gut at the thought of Evan being out at a club, talking with some girl.  But what do I expect?  That he is
thinking of me
?  He’s a young single guy in the city.  What else would he be doing in his free time?

     It takes them a moment to notice that someone has entered the room.  They glance up, and then back to the video.

     Evan does a double take when he sees me.  When he realizes that I’m standing there because there’s no place for me to sit, he surrenders his place on the couch, motioning for me to sit, but I good-naturedly wave away the offer.  He gets up anyway and walks over to me.

     “Good lord, I thought you were a bear!” Sinclair shouts, and I sense that something is amiss with Sinclair.  He’s drunk.  “I didn’t figure you for a fur girl!”

     Evan rubs his hand along the sleeve of my coat, having a feel of the fur, and pats it down, as if with approval.

     “I borrowed it, to make the long pilgrimage from Queens back here to see you!” I scold with feigned annoyance.  I’m glad to see Sinclair surrounded by people, rather than home alone in his apartment, doing God knows what in his despair.

     Evan offers me a cup of tea and I follow him into the kitchen.

     “Thanks for taking care of Sinclair, for bringing him back here.”

     Evan winks, and shrugs as if it’s nothing.  He puts the kettle on for water, and rummages for a cup through the mismatched sets of dishes in the cabinet.

     “Vivie, come here!” Sinclair orders.  “This young gentleman would like to make your acquaintance.”

     I return with Evan and the tea.  Sinclair introduces me to a guy in a blue sweater and jeans sitting on the love seat.  I sit down and make polite conversation.

     “Hey Evan, you didn’t tell me you had a beautiful single woman friend,” the guy says.  “Why were you hiding her away?”

     “She’s not single.  She’s got a boyfriend.”  Evan leans up against the wall, sipping his tea.

     “He’s not a boyfriend.  He’s more of a suitor,” Sinclair sloshes, pouring another shot of the Jack Daniels.

     “A suitor?  Do people still use words like that?” the new suitor asks.

     “A suitor is someone who seeks to win the heart of a fair maiden, often hoping in vain.”  I’ve never seen the fastidious Sinclair look disheveled.  He yanks at his turtleneck sweater as if it was choking him; his combed cotton pants are wrinkled, and with his hair pushed up on one side like an enormous cowlick, he’s an urban Alfalfa.

     “The suitor is on the other side of the Atlantic right now, but he’ll be back,” Dylan contributes.

     “Sylvia has many suitors,” Evan remarks, “so get in line.”

     “I thought her name was Vivian.  Do I have to take a number?  Like in a bakery?” the blue sweatered suitor jokes and everyone laughs.

     “Them buns don’t come cheap.  Ah, but Sylvia’s heart is not up for grabs, for someone else has stolen it.”  Sinclair, suddenly reflective, slumps back against the couch.  For a moment I wonder if he’s passed out.  Everyone eyes him, awaiting further disclosure.

     “Who’s the latest victim?” Dylan asks with his usual subtlety.  “I hope it’s not another Ivory Tower Toadie.  You know, if you bring home one more geek whose bills are being paid by Uncle Sam, I think Dad’s going to have a coronary.  Can’t you just pick someone with a real job?  She’s always bringing home these dudes on fellowships; it makes my old man crazy. ‘ Enough with the fellows on Fellows’, he always says.”  Dylan plops his big feet on the coffee table, using it as a hassock.

     “Don’t waste your time,” Sinclair says, regaining consciousness long enough to sell me down river.  “Sylvia is pining for someone out of her reach.  Actually, Love, he’s not so very far from your reach at the moment.”  Sinclair glances at Evan, as if to gage the distance between us.

     Alarmed, I’m hoping he’ll lapse again into unconsciousness, and if he doesn’t I’ll knock him out cold over the head with the bottle of JD.  I don’t dare look at Evan, but I can feel his eyes on me.  Sinclair has been unhinged by one too many shots of Jack Daniels.  Apparently, when drunk, Sinclair spills the suitor beans.

     Some new skit comes on the video and Dylan insists that everyone must not miss it.  I seize the opportunity to duck out of the limelight, wandering away to the piano, and slipping out of the bear coat.  I play a Chopin waltz from memory.  I’m hoping Evan may follow me to the piano, away from the others, but he remains where he is.