We Could Be Beautiful (8 page)

“Do you make any art yourself?”

“No, it’s so sad—my sister’s the creative one, not me.” I briefly recalled my favorite painting of Caroline’s, a realistic oil of a man getting out of a bathtub, and the way his hand reached for the towel, which was just out of reach. It was a shame she’d stopped painting. She’d done half an MFA at Yale and then dropped out when she got pregnant. “I’m not creative at all.”

“How interesting, about your sister. I suppose sisters aren’t always alike.” He sipped his martini. “Do you look alike? You and your sister?”

“Sort of,” I said.

“I’d like to see a photo sometime. That would be interesting. It’s always interesting to see people’s siblings.”

Was that true? I guess it could be interesting, but it wasn’t
that
interesting. “Sure, I’ll show you sometime,” I said. Was it a little odd that William wanted to see a picture of my sister? But no, I told myself, it was sweet. If he cared to know about the people in my life, that was because he cared about me.

“Splendid,” he said. “And I am envious of Caroline’s creativity. I’m not creative either. When I was younger, I made cutouts. Simple designs mostly. But I inherited none of my parents’ skills. I’ve often thought that might be a reason I value art so highly. I respect it because I am incapable of creating it myself. But you, you seem like a creative person. Were you artistic as a child?”

“Not really.” I smiled slyly, aware of how he watched my mouth.

“Violin was my art, I suppose. I began playing when I was very young. And in fact, on this subject, I got a call back today from Dalton.”

“You did?”

“About tutoring the fourth graders who need extra help.”

I made a face like I’d just seen the cutest puppy in the world. “That is so sweet. Oh my God, so sweet.”

He said nothing to this because he was modest, and smiled as though slightly embarrassed by how cool I thought he was. He had the jawline of a superhero, the strapping shoulders of an athlete. The soft glow from the candle cast him in a warm and easy light. He was too big for the furniture at Joseph Leonard, but he still somehow managed to look comfortable, sitting there with his manly biceps slung over that chair. He could break that chair into sticks if he wanted to. And yet despite his mighty build, there was something delicate about William, something soft and small. He was almost like a teenager in a growth spurt—he carried himself as though he didn’t fully understand his own heft. I wondered what this boyishness meant, if anything, and what it had to do with the Dalton boys. Maybe he wanted to be near them because he still felt he could be one of them.

The restaurant was cozy and bustling, filled with good-looking people and a few tourists in windbreakers. The drums of an African song beat alongside throaty French lyrics. Silverware clinked. I felt good in my dress. I moved my hair from one side to the other.

“How’s Herman?”

“He’s doing very well, thank you. I think he had a good time with us at the park.”

“There are other nice places to take him to up there,” I said, “but I guess you would already know that.”

“Yes,” he said, “there are so many parks.”

We paused there, looking at each other dumbly again, and then picked it back up with a conversation about how New York City had more green space than people generally realized and how lucky this made us and how we should take better advantage.

When the waiter returned with our meals, William ate his and I picked at mine like a dainty lady. That’s how I would bring it up—carefully, like a dainty lady. I tossed the rest of the martini back in one cool sweep (I was glad I pulled that off without spilling) and said, “I saw my mother today.”

“Yes?” He wiped the corners of his mouth with the napkin, his expression attentive, as always.

“Caroline and I had lunch with her. You’ll have to come see her at some point, and meet Caroline.”

“Right, of course,” he said. “And how is your mother? Elizabeth, is it?”

“Good memory.” I speared a piece of kale. Too big for my mouth. I removed it from the fork, tried a smaller piece. “She was okay today. You know, it’s very hard. We never know what version we’re going to get.”

“Right, yes.” He began to twirl his hair.

“Anyway, I asked her about you.”

“Oh? Did she remember me?”

“She did.” I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but I did want him to know what the situation was. If they were going to meet again, he should know. “I’m not sure she liked you very much.” I laughed to ease the blow.

“No?”

“Which is odd—you’re so likable.” I stopped there, smiled at him. “But, well, you know her. You knew her, I mean. She’s…how should I say this? Hard to please.”

William looked concerned. He continued to twirl.

“Oh God, don’t take any of this personally. She’s just, well, yeah, like I said, very hard to please. And she could have confused you with someone else. It’s…Ugh.” I threw my hands up, a little more dramatically than I meant to. Blame the martini. “It’s so hard to know, you know?”

He removed his hand from his head as though he suddenly realized where it had been and took a bite. He looked stressed. He probably wasn’t used to being disliked. “What did she say? Did she say anything about me at all?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“I see.”

“Why? What would she have said?”

“Oh, nothing, no, I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“You didn’t steal anything from her, did you?”

“Heavens, no.”

“Don’t worry, I’m kidding. She thinks everyone steals from her.”

“Oh, I see. All right.”

“You didn’t tell her her plants were ugly or something?”

“No.”

“Were you a gum chewer?”

He considered that and answered sincerely. “I chew gum, but not regularly.”

“Okay.”

“Your mother did know me when I was very young. And, well, let’s just say I was something of an obtrusive child. Overly curious. I asked too many questions.”

“Oh.” I laughed. “Mom hated that.”

“Yes. Yes, she did,” William said. “So perhaps it was that.”

“Did something happen?”

“Well, yes, something did. I’m a bit embarrassed. But it was so long ago.”

“What happened?”

“One day in the fountain room—I remember the sound of that water so clearly—we were hanging around, the adults having tea and me walking around with a yo-yo I had gotten that day. I was twelve or thirteen, I believe. It was right before we moved to Switzerland. Your mother said, ‘Be careful with that, please,’ and my mother of course agreed, and I thought I was being careful, but then, well, I must have been trying to do a special trick, and I lost control of the yo-yo, and suddenly there was a crash and broken glass at my feet. Your mother leapt off her seat and screamed, ‘That was very expensive, William! That was a very, very, very expensive vase!’ I think she even went on—yes, she did—long enough for my mother to intervene and say that we were so very sorry, we would replace it. But it was irreplaceable, unfortunately. It was something very special I had broken, and your mother, rightly, was inconsolably upset.”

“Oh no,” I said. I could see the whole thing happening. My mother turned into a very scary person when she was angry. “You poor thing.”

“So that must have been it.” William draped his arm over the empty chair next to him again. He seemed relieved to have gotten this off his chest.

“You must have been traumatized. I’m so sorry. God, my mother. She traumatized us all.”

“Well, I’m okay now.”

“Yes,” I said, studying him, “you seem pretty okay to me.”

The waiter cleared our plates. Of course I said, “I always have room for dessert,” because that’s what you were supposed to say when you were fun and dating and wearing a pretty dress. And of course by
room
I meant I would have one dainty lady bite.

We ordered the chocolate mousse. When it appeared and he spoon-fed me that bite and I said, “I feel like I have known you much longer than I have,” I forgave myself for being so cliché. If happiness really was a Kodak moment inside a Hallmark card inside a Diamonds Are Forever commercial, then that was fine with me.

We walked arm in arm back to my place. The air was thick with dew. It made everything look like a dream. The Open sign on the bodega blinked red in peaceful throbs like a beating heart. Our footsteps barely made a sound. Under the dimly glowing streetlamp in front of my house, he kissed me. Those lips.

“Do you like the red door?” I asked, gazing up at him, his strong jaw.

I distinctly remember the words he used to answer. He said, “I do.”

“Do you want to come in?”

“Yes.”

He closed the door behind him, said the requisite thing. “What a stunning home you have.”

He was gentle; he moved my hair away from my face gently. His sensitive eyes. The shapes the shadows made on his cheeks: hollow, eager. With just one finger, his pinkie, he pulled the strap of my dress off my shoulder and kissed the spot where it had been. He was good at this, better than I had imagined he would be. I wondered if he’d been with a lot of women.

I unbuttoned his shirt. I knew I was supposed to do that. Sex made me nervous. I disconnected. I would float up out of myself and watch the woman, me, unbutton the man’s shirt, watch her take it off, maybe too quickly, and kiss the center of his chest, and undo his belt and rip it away, maybe too quickly again. It helped that I was tipsy. It also helped that William was so sure of himself. He compensated for my uncertainty.

He took my dress off so I was standing there in heels and a nude thong, and carried me up the stairs, our breath heavy, and his hands, my God, his hands, they were huge. How big William was, how tall. He made me feel safe and small in a way I had never felt. He saw the bed through the open door and moved toward it. We didn’t turn on any lights.

He was so strong. Black boxer briefs and legs like a centaur’s. He fucked me like an animal, like he had to fuck me, it was instinct, it was the only thing. It was good, but it was painful. He was big, very big. He was huge. I didn’t want to fake it. I didn’t want to fake anything with William. I wanted this to be different. I wanted to be honest. I tried to settle into the pain, I tried to get past it. But it was too much. I faked it because I needed it to be over. Yes, he was bigger than the men I’d been with, but the truth was that it had nothing to do with him. I had never not faked it, with anyone, ever.

Afterwards, he kissed me. He trailed his fingertips down my cheek. He traced my ear. “Was that okay for you?”

Maybe he knew I had faked it. But I couldn’t admit to that—it would hurt his feelings, and it would make me a liar. “It was,” I said, which was also a lie, but a smaller one. And I was about to say something about how huge he was, maybe as an excuse, in case he knew I had faked it, but then he kissed me again. Later, when we knew each other better—we could be more honest then.

He held me, his breath on my neck, me stroking the length of his back. The sheets were damp, but just barely. This was different from Fernando. Fernando was a sweater; he drenched the sheets in sweat. While he lived here, I’d had Lucia wash the bedding three times a week.

“May I stay?”

I kissed his forehead. “Of course you may stay.”

When I woke up later that night, I found him sleeping in the most perfect position. You could have taken a picture and called it
Sleep.
He was on his back, hands clasped over his chest, head on the pillow. His body was even, balanced, not tangled up like most people’s. He looked like a pharaoh, serene and elegant and almost too angelic to be real. His chiseled face, the weight of his arms, the weight of him on the bed, and yet the lightness of him, like he could have been floating, like he could have been hovering just above the sheets.

6

H
e moved in two weeks later. We wanted to wake up together in the morning and sleep in the same bed at night and watch bad TV together and drink good coffee together and talk about art and walk the dog and make love. This is what we said when we talked about it, looking at each other dumbly—we looked at each other dumbly a lot in the beginning—at a Vietnamese fusion restaurant where all the dishes came with a decorative spattering of bright multicolored sauces. We said we were infatuated. We said we were blessed. We said we were insane.

Of course I knew everyone thought we were moving too fast, and my response to that was, I am too old to care. That was a lie. Of course I cared. I probably cared too much. But the hourglass was running out of sand. It sounds so cheesy, but I had a constant image of that, literally: the hourglass I pictured was the blue plastic one that came with the Boggle game Caroline and I had played with as kids at the beach house.

The move was easy. He’d only been subletting on the Upper East Side and had barely lived there long enough to unpack his things. And he didn’t have many things. He’d sold a lot of them before leaving Switzerland. He wasn’t a packrat. What he did have, besides Herman, who he assured me was potty-trained, was art, good art, and I loved it. Well, most of it.

There was this one crocheted piece that said the Lord’s Prayer, the entire thing: “Our father, who art in heaven,” etc. I didn’t like the content of it or the look. Red stitching on white gauzy fabric, it appeared to have been made by either a child or a mentally ill person with fat fingers. The words sloped in the center like a hammock and got very small at the end so they would all fit. The artist was an actual artist, William said, a protégé of Sister Gertrude Morgan named Zoe, and Zoe had given this piece to William years ago, while William was at university. He held the piece up with his long arm. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“It’s interesting,” I said.

“Where shall we hang it?”

“Well…” I looked around the room. Herman was sniffing the boxes lining the wall, and then he was following one of the movers, who said, “Hey, little guy.”

“I’m not sure it belongs in this room,” William said. “How about the massage parlor?”

“I love how you call it a parlor.”

“Well?”