You Are Here (11 page)

“Besides, he already thinks that I'm incompetent. What would he say now if he knew that I was pregnant?” Stephanie swallowed the sour taste in her mouth, “And if it isn't over already it will be as soon as I tell him… I'm really sorry… so please don't be mad at me for doing this,” she stood up, “it's not just because I don't have anyone else to talk to,” and walked out of the bathroom with the phone tucked beneath her left ear. “No,” she crossed to the bedroom, “no I don't need any money,” took the Tums off the dresser, “it works on a sliding scale there,” and peeled three from the roll. She put two of them in her mouth, “I think it's about eight-thirty,” and began chewing on the chalky tablets, “you know, if this was a weekday I would already be at work,” while rolling the third one between her fingers. “It's like forty thousand a year before taxes,” she glanced at the travel alarm clock on the night stand, “yeah, it's a real job and I'm really happy there which is pretty strange when you think about how I got it,” it was ten past eight. She sat on the edge of the unmade bed with her back to the open window, “no the results were almost immediate. I mean I peed onto the stick and by the time I washed my hands there was the blue cross.” A plane flew above her building. “Do you want to call me before you leave?” She smiled at the thought of Karen's company. “I mean I'll be around all day.” Sunlight reflecting off the windows of the apartment building across the street, “okay, okay… maybe some chicken soup,” cast a bright triangle of silver light onto her bedroom wall. “Okay,” Stephanie said, “so I'll see you around noon,” before pressing the end button on the phone.

 

I
woke up on the carpet as the radio repeated the election results that I had attempted to erase with a bottle of wine and a six-pack. At five a.m. the Republican pundits on the radio, Giuliani in particular, were demanding that Kerry concede. I swallowed a few aspirin with a glass of water, turned out the lights and crawled beneath the covers. The streetlight in front of my bedroom window went out just before I fell asleep.

My cell phone was vibrating on the floor beside the bed as it rang. I picked it up and pressed talk before Cindy said, “Hey Donald, how's it going?” I squinted at the sun that was suspended in the tall bedroom window, “not good at all.” She was standing in front of a shuttered storefront church, “Did I wake you up?” “What time is it?” I rasped. A young black woman pushing a stroller walked past her, “almost noon.” Bands of windswept clouds expanded in the pale sky. “My head is killing me.” A plane bound for Laguardia flew overhead. “Are you doing anything today?” I rested my head on the pillows and closed my eyes, “I'm not even going to try.” “So you're at home,” She sounded so happy, “at the new place on Spencer Court?” The co-pilot instructed the passengers to fasten their seatbelts as the plane descended through the patchy clouds. “Yeah why?” The oak tree down the block, “I'm on the corner of DeKalb and Bedford,” swayed in the wind, “and I really need to see you,” while shedding its brown leaves. The view from the cockpit revealed a low lying grid-work of houses, factory chimneys, and incinerators that were spewing pale smoke, slow moving traffic filled the bridges spanning the East River and the broad expressways. “You're there right now?” The plane flew above elevated subway lines as trains moved between the stations. “I've got to talk to you.” A runway bordered by blinking red lights approached in the rapidly diminishing distance. “You're on the corner right now?” “Yeah that's what I just said.” I opened my eyes, “What's the matter?” She began walking toward my building, “I'll tell you in a minute,” and crushed a few acorns beneath her thick heels, “It's number ten right?” A half-dozen tall cans of Ballantine were on the carpet where I had passed out. “Give me a minute though.” “Why,” she stopped walking, “what's the matter?” A heavy bass rhythm was vibrating the car pulling up to the corner. “Can you pick me up a cup of coffee,” I noticed the stains on my T-shirt, “milk no sugar, please,” and that I wasn't wearing any pants. The tinted window on the driver's side opened as animated rap was punctuated with loud gunshots. “Yeah sure,” Cindy added, “I'll be there in a few minutes,” before hanging up.

They got high while sitting together on Janet's couch, “Remember that woman,” with Esther nestled on Cindy's lap and purring quietly beneath her caresses, “that I was telling you about?” “The one who was at the play on Friday?” Janet's small brass bowl was in Cindy's left hand, “yes that one,” and smoking from both ends. “The one who left before the second act?” Janet tactfully apologized for hurting Cindy before wondering out-loud if what she had recently endured had been a suitable lesson in humility, but thankfully because of this happy coincidence, and then Janet's voice trailed off because words weren't really necessary to complete the sentence they were now sharing on her couch. “The woman that the character was based on.” The cup of hot coffee warmed my left hand, “What about her?” Cindy dutifully accepted Janet's apology and even shared some of the blame for what had happened last April. “I spent the night at her place,” Janet kissed Cindy on the mouth and then they embraced, “and I told Andrew last night,” her eyes were shining in the sunlight flooding the windows behind my head, “that we were hanging out with a few people from the paper,” as she sat in my armchair with her legs crossed, “and watching the election results at Galapagos,” slowly kicking her right leg back and forth, “and that I was going to sleep on your couch,” with a blissful smile on her face. I frowned, “But I don't own a couch.” She began rummaging through her purse, “I wanted to give you this,” and pulled out a manuscript, “the guy she was with on Friday night wanted me to give you this story.” I took a careful sip of coffee before asking, “He was with you last night as well?” “Yuck,” she looked at me with disgust, “I've been carrying it around since then, and I was going to throw it away, but I think you should read it.” My headache was coming back, “I'm not looking at any unsolicited work right now.” “I don't want you to publish it…” She was adamant, “just read it.” I stood up, “okay,” slowly crossed the room, “okay,” and took it out of her hand, “Jesus Christ.” “I guess you're responsible in some way for what happened last night.” I dropped the story on the pile of unsolicited fiction behind a row of bird guides, “How so?” Oscar entered the room and walked toward her shoes. “If you hadn't asked me to direct the play this would have never have happened.” He smelled her outstretched hand before allowing her to caress him. “I really wish you wouldn't say that Cindy.” She looked up from the cat, “Why not?” Steam rose from the Styrofoam cup. “Because you are very good at what you do,” I sat down, “And what about the guy she was with on Friday night?” She shook her head, “That can't be serious.” “Oh, but it is with you…” I clutched my forehead, “And why do you want to spend your time with someone that vapid?” Oscar jumped onto her lap. “Because she isn't really like the way we depicted her onstage… she isn't just one of your characters.” Another plane flew above the windows. I closed my eyes, “she locked you out of her house Cindy,” as the pale lights began to throb behind them, “and she lied to you.” The co-pilot instructed the passengers to fasten their seatbelts as the plane descended through the patchy clouds. “I don't want to dwell on the past.” The view from the cockpit revealed a low lying grid-work of houses, factory chimneys and incinerators that were spewing pale smoke. “Are you in love with her?” Slow moving traffic filled bridges spanning the East River and the broad expressways. “Maybe I am.” The plane flew above the elevated subway lines as trains moved between the stations. “Well,” I opened my eyes, “ I really hope that she doesn't hurt you again.” A runway bordered by blinking red lights approached rapidly in the diminishing distance.

 

S
tephanie was wearing a knee-length black dress and black pumps. A pink cashmere cardigan was neatly folded in the oversized black canvas purse by her feet. Alan saw her standing by the railing and facing the harbor. She was silhouetted by the silver glare of the sun reflecting off the water. He made his way through a group of tourists milling around the war memorial. Alan had called her at work on Tuesday morning, was told that she had taken a personal day, and left a message on her voicemail. She returned his call on Wednesday, after her boss had left for the day. She was unresponsive when he asked her out, yet he persisted, and she finally agreed to meet him after work on Friday in Bowling Green Park. Stephanie turned around when Alan said her name. She gave him her right hand, “How are you?” His reflection was cast in her circular sunglasses. He noted her thin smile, “I'm fine,” and when he kissed her, “you're being so formal,” she offered him her cheek. Stephanie turned toward the harbor, “I like coming here after work.” A police helicopter flew past them. “Why is that?” She waited for the noise to fade, “it makes me feel grounded after being in the office all day.” He regretted leaving his sunglasses in the glove compartment, “How is that working out?” Gulls hung on the breeze and wheeled overhead. “It's fine,” she nodded, “I can't thank you enough for doing that for me.” Sirens were caught up in the distant noise of traffic. “Well let's celebrate,” he sank his hands into the front pockets of his khakis, “I've made dinner reservations for us at—” “—I haven't had much of an appetite lately,” She pursed her lips. “What's wrong?” Alan thought of the call he made on Tuesday, “Are you trying to lose weight?” A ship's wake washed against the wall beneath them. “I can see your building from my office.” “What floor are you on?” She turned around, “the ninety-second floor,” and leaned against the railing, “I didn't realize that I was so afraid of heights until I started working there.” The twin towers dominated the lower Manhattan skyline. “Isn't the view from up there a lot better than the panorama at the Queens Museum?” “Yeah I guess so,” Stephanie nodded, “but my desk doesn't face the windows anymore,” then quietly added, “and I haven't been out to the museum since we were there in June.” A group of elderly women strolled past conversing in Polish. He shifted his feet, “that seems like a long time ago.” Their shadows stretched across the shimmering asphalt. She brushed a lock of hair away from her mouth, “I guess it was,” and tucked it behind her ear. “Not really,” Alan clenched his jaw, “it was only three months.” A group of teenage boys on roller blades wove between the groups of tourists. “You weren't afraid of heights when we had dinner at Windows on the World.” A few pigeons were pecking apart a hot dog bun. “That was a different time,” she shook her head dismissively, “But why are you saying this?” He turned to her, “because I really miss you.” Raising her eyebrows, “now I'm confused.” Alan removed his hands from his pockets, “we had a lot of fun together,” and placed them on his waist. “You haven't even…” Stephanie removed her sunglasses, “when we last saw each other you made it clear that it was over,” and fingered the tortoise shell frames, “and now we're going out to dinner to celebrate?” “Sure,” he shrugged, “why not?” “What could we possibly be celebrating Alan,” her heart was pounding in her throat “you were only interested in me when I was a convenient distraction,” as she looked at him, “So what are we celebrating… Did you just buy a new car to drive me around in?” “Elaine and Olivia are out of town,” he glanced at his watch, “and our dinner reservations are for seven-thirty.” She thought of all the time she'd spent by the phone waiting for him to call, “So what?” It was six forty-five. “And I really miss having sex with you.” She had wasted the summer on him, “you're a pig.” He looked closely at her eyes and smiled, “That shouldn't be news to you.” “You know that,” she folded her arms across her stomach, “did you know that I had an abortion on Tuesday… That's why I wasn't at work when you called.” He didn't blink, “Was it mine?” Shaking her head in disbelief, “what a stupid fucking question.” He took a step back before asking, “Why did you agree to see me then?” “You know why Alan,” she reached down and grabbed her purse, “because I really don't care about you anymore,” then slung it over her shoulder, “and I
really
wanted you to know that.”

 

J
anet held the phone in her left hand, “I thanked him for the time we shared,” while saying that she didn't think they were right for each other, “he sounded surprised at first,” that she was very sorry, “and I don't think we talked for more than five minutes,” but she really didn't want to see him anymore, “he took it well I guess,” because it didn't feel like they were right for each other, “at least until the surprise wore off,” suggesting that it probably had something to do with their difference in age, “but isn't it always that way,” then assured James that he would be much happier with someone younger, “and then he asked if my decision had anything to do with you and I changed the subject,” who was equally ambitious, “that was when he got angry with me,” or a woman who could appreciate him for his writing, “and said that I was superficial,” because to be perfectly honest there had been many times when his single-mindedness had really put her off, “he even called me vapid,” and she countered by stating that she had never pretended to be an intellectual, “and claimed that I hadn't given him a chance,” or had the slightest desire to continue being a cheerleader for an aspiring writer, “before hanging up on me.”

Janet and James stood next to each other in front of the broad mirror in her lobby while she buttoned up her mink-lined wool coat and he ran a hand through his hair. Janet placed the phone on the side table and walked to the kitchen to mix herself a drink. He opened the black umbrella as the heavy front door banged behind them and then they stepped off her stoop in unison. “Oh my god,” Cindy rolled her eyes, “he sounds like such a parasite,” while recalling the clammy handshake that accompanied his hostile sneer, “but I guess I should be grateful for that,” his dismissive opinion of the play, “because if he wasn't then you would have never been there,” and how she had watched in dismay as Janet was dragged away before the second act began. She clutched his left arm and rested her head on his shoulder as they walked through the fog blanketing the neighborhood. Janet frowned before saying, “you mustn't gloat Cindy,” like a teacher reprimanding her favorite pupil, “that's beneath you.” James ticked the week's headlines off on the fingers of his free hand—Ashcroft's resignation, Arafat's death, the continuing assault in Falluja—while they waited on the corner for a series of cabs to pass through the intersection.