The Klone and I (19 page)

I was still lost in my own thoughts as Peter walked off the plane, and I didn't even see him until he was standing next to me and pulled me into his arms without a word. He kissed me and then pulled away to look at me more closely.

“Are you okay?” he asked, looking me over carefully, as though he expected me to be different, but I was still the same, and just as in love
with him as I had been since the summer. He was wearing a blazer and gray slacks and a gray turtleneck sweater, and a new pair of Gucci shoes he had bought in California. He looked as handsome as ever. He'd had a haircut while he was gone, and he looked sexy and powerful. “I've been worried about you.”

“I've been fine.” I had been, except for my back, of course, after two weeks of the triple flip and the occasional quadruple. Paul had suggested I look into either a trainer, or a brace. “How was California?”

“The same.” He told me about his trip as he went to pick up his luggage, and much to my surprise, he never asked me once about Paul. But as we headed for the garage, he noticed the heart-shaped ruby ring on my finger. “Where did you get that?” he asked, looking worried. But I knew he suspected where it came from. And who was paying for it.

“From you,” I said quietly and he was polite enough not to comment. But he frowned and then groaned when he saw the purple Tornado.

“Did you have to rent a car that color?”

“It was all they had left,” I explained politely.

“How long will the Jaguar be in the shop?”

“Three months.”

“He's not having it repainted, is he?”

I hesitated for a fraction of a second and then
nodded. ‘It's a lovely shade of periwinkle blue. Paul thought you'd love it.”

“Why not orange or lime green?” he said irritably, tossing his bags in the trunk and glaring at me.

“He thought you'd prefer the blue.”

“I'd prefer it if he didn't drive it when he visits. In fact,” he looked at me unhappily as he slipped behind the wheel, “I think I'd prefer it if he didn't visit you. He just causes a hell of a lot of trouble, and he's a bad influence on the kids.”

“That's up to you,” I said meekly. I had never seen Peter in such a bad mood. It must have been a rough trip, or maybe he was just upset about the Jaguar.

“Yes, it is up to me,” he said sternly.

He didn't relax until we got home and I offered to massage him. He said his neck had been bothering him all week. It was obviously tension. But I'd had my fair share of that too. Bouncing back and forth between the two of them like a Ping-Pong ball wasn't exactly easy for me. And by that night, I was utterly confused again. I was beginning to feel as though I needed an exorcist more than a boyfriend. It was as though Peter had never left at all and Paul had never existed. It was eerie. I was in love with whichever one I was with and always slightly less enamored with the other. At that moment, I was once again profoundly entranced
by Peter. He made omelettes for me and the children, and acted as though he'd never left us. The children no longer even looked surprised to see him in gray flannel instead of chartreuse. They had seen him make that switch before, and still blamed it on stress and mood swings, or trouble at the office.

And after they went to bed, we wound up in my bedroom, predictably, and he looked at me with longing. I knew what he had in mind, and I had the same intentions, but I warned him that I wasn't up to the double flip. He looked upset when I said it, and walked into the bathroom without saying a word. It was as though he didn't like hearing about Paul anymore, although it was Peter who had sent him.

I heard Peter take a shower, and he came out in his navy pajamas, which I had washed that morning, and the cleaning lady had pressed with infinite precision.

I had locked the door, and we were very quiet, so the children wouldn't hear, and it was only after we had made love, that he started to unwind. He put an arm around me, sighed deeply, and told me how much he had missed me. And just as it had been before, I knew with utter certainty that my heart was his and not Paul's. It was always so much fun being with Paul,
but my relationship with Peter was more powerful and had deeper meaning.

But the transition still wasn't easy for me, and when he left at three o'clock that morning, all I could think of was Peter and not Paul. Being with Peter just seemed so much more real to me. But the odd thing was I was afraid that it was Paul who really loved me, and not Peter.

“I'll call you in the morning,” Peter whispered before he left, and I was sound asleep before he closed the door, dreaming of both of them, as they each held a hand out to me, and I wasn't sure which one to reach for.

And when I awoke the next morning, the sun was streaming into the room, but I felt a certain sadness. It was odd not waking up and seeing Paul. And I didn't know why, but I felt as though sometime during the night, I had lost him.

Peter said that I seemed quiet when he came by at lunchtime, but I told him I was fine. I had just been thinking of some of the things that Paul had said. But more than ever, I was aware of how difficult it all was, changing back and forth from one to the other. Being so comfortable with Peter, and then having to adjust to Paul. Getting used to all his tricks and pranks, and wardrobe, spending my nights doing triple flips, and then letting him go. Back to Peter again. From love to lust and back again to the point of madness. As
much as I loved this man, it was asking a lot to expect me to love both man and Klone. And I didn't want to say anything to Peter about how difficult it was. But I suspect he knew it. I didn't want to hurt his feelings, and it all sounded so absurd. I didn't know anymore how long I could continue. The only thing I did know was how much Peter meant to me, what a rare gift he was in my life. I knew that was a turning point for me, but I didn't think he was ready to hear it.

“You miss him, don't you?” Peter asked when we went for a walk in Central Park that afternoon. It was snowing, and very cold. And I looked at him and nodded. I did. But he was, after all, only a Klone. I knew that now, a conglomeration of computer chips and wires enclosed in fuchsia satin. Peter had a mind, a heart, a soul, and much quieter taste in clothes. But in spite of that, I really loved him. “I thought about it on the way home,” Peter said quietly. “I haven't been very fair to you, have I?” He hadn't. But then again, what man was? Roger hadn't been fair either. And Peter seemed fairer than most. He was more of everything than any man I'd ever known. And he had a Klone, which made him doubly entertaining.

“I'm not complaining.” But I had to Paul. I had complained a lot about Peter's insensitivity to the situation, and my feelings.

“What does the ring mean? Just another gift, or something more?” He actually looked worried, as snowflakes settled on his hair and nose. He had stopped walking and was looking at me, with eyes full of questions. He looked tortured.

“Just another gift,” I said, looking pensive, remembering when Paul had put it on my finger. I hadn't taken it off since then.

“Did he propose?” I hesitated for a long time before I answered, not sure what Paul would want me to tell him. But my real loyalty was to Peter, and not to the Klone. I nodded silently as we walked.

“I thought so. And what did you say?” He looked grim, but as though he thought he had a right to know.

“I told him I couldn't marry a Klone,” I said simply.

“Why not?” Peter stopped walking again and looked at me as the snow fell all around us.

“You know as well as I do. I can't marry a Klone. He's a computer, a machine, a creation, not a human. It's ridiculous to talk about it.” Besides, and perhaps more importantly, I loved Peter, and not in any real sense Paul. No matter how appealing he was, Paul was merely an illusion. Peter was whole, or at least I thought so.

Peter was strangely quiet as we walked home. He said he had to go back to his apartment then,
and he'd call me later. But by dinnertime, he hadn't called. The kids were with Roger for the rest of the weekend, and I called Peter several times that evening, but he never answered. I left him several messages, and then sat in the dark, in my bedroom, watching the snow, wondering where he was, and what had happened between us.

I didn't hear from him again until the next morning, and when he called, he sounded oddly cold. He said he'd had a call from California, and he was leaving that morning. He didn't want me to take him to the airport, and he'd be back in a few days. “Before Christmas,” he said vaguely.

“Is something wrong?” The tone of his voice frightened me. He seemed suddenly very distant.

“No, it's just an emergency meeting. Nothing crucial, but I want to be there.” He offered no further explanation.

“I mean with us.” My voice was trembling as I asked. I had never heard him sound so cold. He sounded like a different person.

“Maybe. We'll talk about it when I get home.”

“I don't want to wait that long.” I could hear it in his voice. The end had come. I suspected he wouldn't even bother to send Paul. Peter sounded as though he were retreating into his own world, and there was no room for me in it.

“I just need some time off,” he explained, but his voice sounded icy, as the snow continued to fall beyond the windows. ‘I'll see you in a few days. Don't worry if I don't call.” I told him I wouldn't, and was crying when I set the phone down. Maybe it was another woman. Maybe that was why he was going back to California. Maybe this time he, instead of Paul, had been recalled, by a blonde in San Francisco. Another Helena. I was deeply worried about it.

I sat alone, in the apartment that afternoon, turning it all over in my mind, wondering what had gone wrong, what I had done, why he seemed so cold and angry. We had been together for exactly five months by then, which seemed like a healthy chunk of time to me, but in the perspective of a lifetime was but a moment. I wondered if I'd hear from him at all, or if he'd even come back for Christmas as he'd promised. And his “We'll talk about it when I get home,” sounded anything but happy. He said he'd call when he got back, and then hung up, without telling me he loved me. I could smell another heartbreak in my future. Perhaps even by Christmas, if I was very unlucky.

The children were due back at five-thirty, and half an hour before that, the doorbell rang. I figured Roger was dropping them off early, and went to open the door, still looking glum. I was
very depressed about Peter. And as I pulled open the door, I saw Paul standing there, shaking the snow off his mink coat. He was wearing it over red spandex leggings and a shimmering red Versace sweater, with red alligator cowboy boots. Peter had sent him after all. For a moment, I was relieved. At least I wouldn't be alone now.

“Hi,” I said glumly, as he swept me into his arms and off the floor, and spun me around till I was dizzy. He had on silver mittens with little ermine tails on them, and as he hugged me, he pulled them off and dropped them at my feet like gauntlets. I noticed then for the first time that he had new luggage. The purple alligator Hermes had disappeared, and he had bright red ostrich cases, made by Vuitton, with
P.K.
emblazoned on them in tiny pave diamonds.

“You don't look happy to see me,” he said, taking his coat off and looking disappointed. The truth was, I wasn't. I just couldn't play the game anymore. I had said my good-byes to him two days before, made my peace with it, knowing it might be the last time we would see each other. And then my heart had turned to Peter. He was all I could think of now, as I looked at Paul, desperately sorry this time that Peter had sent him to me.

“He left,” I said sadly, as twin tears rolled down my cheeks, longing for one of my old flannel
nightgowns. I was in no mood for fun, or Paul. It was just too much for me to handle. I felt as though I were living in a revolving door, ricocheting from one to the other. But I knew where my heart had stopped now, and I knew better yet that Peter didn't care, and Paul was unable, or unwilling, to understand it. But at least, for once, I did.

“I know why you're upset,” Paul said happily, grinning as he marched into the kitchen, tracking snow all over my front hall with complete abandon. He opened the cupboard where the bourbon was, and this time pulled out a bottle of vodka. And within seconds had tossed down two shots, and poured himself a third one. It was the first time I'd ever seen him drink vodka, but he seemed to love it. “Peter said you were missing me terribly,” he explained, looking pleased with himself, and tenderly at me, “that's why he sent me.” He was strolling around my kitchen, looking as though he owned it, which annoyed me severely. He was, after all, only a Klone, and he didn't own me.

“I wish he hadn't sent you, Paul,” I said honestly. “I'm not up to it. I don't think you should stay,” I said sadly.

“Don't be silly.” He ignored me, as he sprawled across a chair, and tossed back another shot of vodka. “He's not good for you, Steph. I
think he depresses you. It must be the way he dresses.” All I could think of was that Paul looked like a giant strawberry as he sat there in my kitchen in his red spandex leggings. They were blinding.

“I
like
the way Peter dresses.’ I defended him, and meant it. “He looks wonderful and virile and sexy.”

“You think gray flannel is sexy?” I nodded and he groaned, licking his lips after the vodka. “No, Stephanie, gray flannel is
not
sexy. It's boring.” He looked completely confident as he said it.

“I love him,” I said from across the room, watching him, wondering why I had ever thought I loved him. Paul was a cartoon, not a person. Actually, he was neither, but we both knew that. It didn't seem to daunt him.

“No, you don't, Steph. You love me, and you know it.”

“I love being with you. I have fun with you. You're wild and funny and sweet and entertaining.”

“And great in bed,” he added, feeling the glow of the vodka. “Don't forget that.”

“You don't have to do acrobatic acts to be great in bed,” I said quietly, I had never wanted to be in the circus.

“Stop making excuses for him. We both know the score. He's pathetic.”