When You Don't See Me (5 page)

Sister Divine's face had a childlike innocence as I looked at her, and I itched to have my sketchbook with me again. I wanted to protect her, even though nothing about her sleep showed fear. That comforted me, and I knew why.

There would always be before and after. I'd been in Manhattan for almost a year before September 11. A year when I immersed myself in every day and thought the adventure would last forever. Then came the nineteen months after.

Seeing Sister Divine asleep made it feel like before again. Like I was cradled by the city the way she seemed to be while lying there.

Kendra pulled impatiently at my sleeve, and the spell was broken.

 

We were greeted with warm, stale air inside Cutter's. I held my breath, not knowing if Cookie would let me stay or make me bounce. Cutter's was the kind of place where your eyes had to adjust once you went inside, no matter what time of day it was. But I spotted the ex-Marine watching us almost as soon as we went through the door. I kept my head low when I walked past the bar, where he was setting a beer in front of a guy with a hard hat hanging from the back of his stool.

“No trouble tonight,” Cookie said.

It was more of a decree than a warning. I got the idea that he didn't blame me for what had happened the last time I was there. And I was sure he'd supported Dennis in that battle. I did a quick scan of the bar, but Dennis wasn't with the rest of the blue collars.

I led Kendra to the usual table, where Fred was flanked by Roberto and Melanie. Melanie, who looked like a younger version of Meg Ryan, had been popular at BHSA. I wasn't sure if she was in school anywhere now. A sculptor of rare talent, she could shape stone, wood, or metal into astonishing beauty and motion. It wasn't often that she joined our group, but I always liked it when she did. She had a certain upbeat purity to her, a little like Kendra's sunny disposition. I couldn't quite put my finger on why the two were different. Sometimes Kendra had a childlike quality that I was pretty sure Melanie hadn't had since she was about five.

I'd often thought that unusually talented people were robbed of childhood. It showed up in different ways in each of them, whether in their art or their personality. If Dr. Mark had been there, I could have told him that this was where my romantic streak showed itself. I was a fool for anyone gifted with creativity.

“You're late,” Fred said, smiling at me in a way that I found sexy.

“Since you're already here, I must be,” I said.

“My own special blend of spiced tea,” Melanie said, reaching to fill two empty cups as Roberto introduced her to Kendra. “Unless you'd rather have a beer?”

“Tea's fine until I get warmed up,” Kendra said, shaking out of her coat. “My grandmother made her own tea. I was never allowed to have any, though.”

Everybody stared at her until I introduced her to the group; then I said to Fred, “You won't believe this, but I saw Sister Divine again on the way here.”

“The homeless woman? What was up with that?” Kendra asked. “I thought you were going to kiss her or something.”

While Fred explained about Sister Divine, I sipped my tea, wondering why Cookie put up with us. He couldn't make any money selling us hot water. I saw Roberto staring at me, but before I could ask him how he'd known to join us, I felt a presence swoop in behind me, and then two strong hands fell on my shoulders. As Blythe loudly pulled out the chair next to me and straddled it, I turned to see who'd taken possession of me.

“Davii! Aren't you supposed to be on some remote island styling Lillith Allure models?” I asked.

“I needed him,” Blythe said, running a hand over her new spiky haircut. It was colored mostly dark red, with just the tips of the spikes hot pink. “He had to give me good luck hair.”

With one last squeeze of my shoulders, Davii slid into a chair between Melanie and me. More introductions were made for Kendra's benefit, and Fred and I exchanged a glance. We both thought that Davii was possibly the hottest man we knew. Tall. Slender build. Icy blue eyes that contrasted with his nearly black hair. We competed to be the focus of his good energy, because it was calming and stimulating at the same time. As far as we knew, Davii was single, but Fred had never gotten any farther with him than I had.

“I only repaired what she did to her hair,” Davii was saying. “Then I escorted her to her opening.” He turned to me and added, “The photo shoot was rescheduled. Although I think they should do it here. How could a beach in Puerto Rico be more fabulous than Cutter's?”

“Opening? Are you a performer?” Kendra asked Blythe.

“She's the most amazing artist ever,” Melanie said.

“Ever?” Blythe asked and tried to look modest. “That may be stretching it.”

“Pay no attention to her false humility,” Davii said. “When we left, the Rania Gallery had already sold a half dozen of her paintings.”

“It was four,” Blythe said.

“Not that you noticed,” Roberto said, and I could sense the envy under his joking tone.

I understood his frustration. Roberto was happiest when he was consumed by his art. As a little kid, he'd been intrigued by stories about the Quetzal, a rain forest bird that was part of Latin American mythology. He'd gotten in trouble for drawing the bird on the walls of his bedroom. He shared the room with his brothers, so he tried to pin the blame on them. His childhood misbehavior had foreshadowed the times he'd gotten busted for defacing public property as a teenager. But when an artist didn't have money for materials or a space to work in, tenement walls, dirty buildings, and sidewalks became a canvas for creativity, anger, and beauty.

Although Roberto's art had become more abstract, I still saw evidence of the quetzal in his paintings. A bit of wise eye. A trace of wing. The colors of tail feathers. The bird was his muse, totem, and guide. But because Roberto had to work at Drayden's to pay rent and to help his family, he wasn't painting. It wasn't surprising that he envied Blythe's ability to support herself with her art.

However, at least he had a job that allowed him to express himself creatively. Drayden's windows and displays were extremely elaborate and always changing. What kind of creative outlet did I have with my job? Sometimes I wrote my name in the cleanser before I started scrubbing.

Roberto had a unique vision and knew how he wanted to express it. When he did paint again, everything would probably just explode out of him. I envied him the way he envied Blythe. I could sketch anything. I could paint and get good grades in art classes. But everything I did was derivative of someone else's work, and it bored me. Studying art or being expected to imitate the styles of other artists seemed like a sure way to extinguish whatever creativity I had. No matter what my uncle thought, dropping out of Pratt had been my first step toward self-preservation. I didn't have a quetzal to inspire me, but there had to be something in the world that would help me develop an original vision.

I only half listened as the others talked about Blythe's installation. I shifted my focus from Roberto to Melanie. Her sculptures had begun selling when we were still in high school, sometimes even before she finished them. I didn't think she was making as much money as Blythe, but sooner or later, she probably would be. In the meantime, her parents paid for the Chelsea space where she lived and worked. She had a few neighbors who looked out for her. She was always trying to get Fred or me to hook up with them. A lot of our female friends seemed to share Melanie's delusion that all single gay men were in desperate need of a boyfriend.

At least Kendra hadn't tried to be my marriage broker. She was too focused on her own problems, and was struggling financially even more than I was. Even though she worked two jobs, I assumed she was always broke because she was putting herself through college. But Kendra wasn't an artist. Her goal was to produce television shows, so going through Pratt's Media Arts program made sense for her. Not only did she need to learn her craft, but she needed to make contacts.

As for Fred…I could stare at him as much as I wanted, since he was preoccupied with Davii. It was fun to watch him flirt. Fred lived the way most of us probably would if we believed fate was our guide. Things just worked out for him. Right now he might be pulling coffee at Starbucks, but I was sure that one day he'd luck into the perfect life for himself. Just like he'd gotten into art school through his uncle.

Or the way he'd gotten his apartment. A teacher from BHSA was on a yearlong yoga retreat in Okinawa, so Fred was living in his apartment, rent-free, to take care of his two cats. Being Fred, he'd almost turned it down because he couldn't smoke there; then he found out it had a private rooftop terrace. The phrase that best applied to Fred's life was one I'd learned from Aunt Gretchen: He could fall in a bucket of shit and come out smelling like a rose.

A wave of nausea washed over me, and all I wanted to do was leave. I felt selfish. Blythe was obviously in the mood to party, but I found it hard to celebrate her good fortune. When was I going to have good news to share? When would people be able to say, “Hey, Nick, that's great news. I'm so happy for you.” I was tired of congratulating other people on their luck and was ready for some luck of my own.

The others didn't notice how quiet I was. Or maybe they thought I was in a bad mood and wanted to give me space. I alternated between feeling sorry for myself, being angry for feeling sorry for myself, and being angry with everyone who was making me feel sorry for myself.

I mumbled something about getting a beer and left our table. Cookie tore his gaze from the basketball game on the TV over the bar when I slid onto a stool. He leaned forward with narrowed eyes, almost like he was mad at me. It was possible that I'd been wrong and he was holding a grudge.

“MGD, please,” I said.

“I told you before,” he said, “no ID, no drinks.”

“Huh?” Maybe he'd gotten me mixed up with someone else. He'd never asked for an ID from me. I glanced toward the men at the pool table, the only cops in the place. But they were off duty and weren't looking our way.

“I can't serve you without seeing an ID,” Cookie repeated.

“Fine.” I took out my wallet and handed him my fake ID.

“I'll need to see that ID, too,” a man seated on the bar stool next to me said.

“Wh-wh-wh-what?” I stammered.

“Sorry,” Cookie said as the man reached over and took the ID from him.

I was such a dumbass. Of course Cookie hadn't given a shit about my ID; he'd been trying to warn me. I should have just said I didn't have my license with me and walked away.

“Peter?” The man squinted at the ID. “Would you care to step outside with me?”

“Outside? It's cold outside. My coat's over there. With my friends.” I tried to sound innocent. I glanced toward our table, unsure what they could do to help me, but at least Blythe, Davii, and Kendra were all of legal drinking age. Unfortunately, everyone at the table was oblivious to what was happening to me. I felt like I was in one of those nightmares where I screamed and no sound came out. “What are you, a cop?”

“Something like that,” he said. He gripped my arm and gave me a little push. I glanced again at my friends, but they still hadn't noticed that I was being manhandled. I wondered why Fred had chosen this night to stop paying attention. But of course, he was. To Davii.

“Am I being arrested?” I asked.

“We'll let them decide that at the precinct,” the man said. Then he repeated with sarcastic exaggeration, “Peter.”

The cold air blasted us as we went through the door, giving me a moment of clarity.

“Peter's my friend,” I said. “I must have picked up the wrong license. Mine's probably at home.”

“Like I said, we'll let them figure that out at the precinct.”

He walked me to a van, where a uniformed cop opened a door so I could get in. Three other people barely glanced my way as I sat down. Two of them were girls with black-rimmed eyes and dye jobs as bad as Morgan's. One of the girls was putting on dark lipstick, and the other was on her cell phone.

“Just tell Daddy to get there,” she snarled into the phone before snapping it shut.

“Hey, can I use that?” the only other guy asked. He was short, even thinner than I was, and covered with acne. Why had he imagined anyone would think he was old enough to drink?

The girl tossed him her phone with indifference. She looked at me and said, “You can use it, too. If they're too stupid to take it away from me, I figure we can call whoever we want, right? I'm sure as shit not sitting in jail.”

“I've got my own,” I said, reaching into my pocket for my cell phone. I stared at it for a minute, realizing that more than anything in the world, I didn't want to make my call.

I dialed the number and waited.

One ring.

Two.

Three.

“We're not here. To leave a message for Daniel, press one. For Blaine, press two. For Gavin, press three. For anyone else, hang up and dial your number again.”