You Are Here (12 page)

Janet filled the tall green glass with a few ice cubes, an ample amount of Gilbey's, a splash of tonic and a thin wedge of lime. Water droplets from a bare tree branch drummed on the umbrella that James held above their heads. Cindy really wanted to know what Janet had seen in him, “I'm not gloating.” Janet asked if he was worried about being drafted. “You're not…” she offered Cindy the drink, “…Not even a little?” They crossed the cobblestone street as he claimed that it might be a good time to start befriending Canadians. Her bare feet left damp prints on the linoleum floor, “and then I took a shower,” as she stood before Cindy in the spotless brightly lit kitchen, “as you can see,” while drying her hair with a pink towel. Janet encouraged his interest in a potential move to Canada by telling him that if he lived there he wouldn't have to worry about not having health insurance. “Is that a new dress?” She then added that parts of Canada were quite beautiful. “Yes it is… I spoiled myself today… Do you like it?” The yellow flame from a gas lamp cast its wavering glow on the blue slate before and after their passing shadows. Cindy held up the plastic hanger, “You look great,” the thin black velvet straps were clasped to, “especially without your makeup,” and admired the simplicity of its design. The rich scent of crushed violets mingled with the lock of her hair that brushed the tip of his nose. Janet said, “you're the only person I know who says that.” He asked if she was interested in hearing about the story he had just begun. While fingering the price tag Cindy asked, “Are you going to wear it tonight?” She hoped that the evening wouldn't be dominated by another endless conversation about his writing while assuring him that he shouldn't have to ask. “It's such a cold night though,” Janet placed a green bowl on the marble counter, “and it might be a bit formal,” before cutting up the rest of the lime, “but I guess it depends on what you want to do.” Another couple walked by them as he apologized for sounding so formal. “We can go get dinner and come back here,” she crossed to the bedroom, “or find someplace in the neighborhood that's suitable for our quiet celebration.” He told her how important her affection was to him and that the love they shared was extremely empowering. Cindy stood in the doorway and suggested, “or we could just have something delivered,” as Janet removed the beige terry-cloth robe and placed it on the edge of the bed, “because I'm really not that hungry.”

James claimed that the story he had just begun was loosely based on their relationship, it contained some of his best writing to date, and he had to thank her for that. She sprayed perfume, “I've been cooped up in here all day,” on her throat and wrists, “so it would be nice to get some fresh air.” Janet asked him just how close to their
relationship
this story actually was. She pulled open a drawer, “besides I'm starving,” removed a black lace bra and a pair of matching panties, “and the fridge is practically empty.” James assured her that he had no intention of exploiting her—that was the furthest thing from his mind. She looked at Cindy's reflection in the circular mirror hanging on the wall, “There's that new Brazilian place on Tenth Avenue,” as she stepped into her panties, “Or we could go to Matsuri?”

 

T
he front door slammed behind Stephanie as she stepped off the brick steps. It was a warm cloudless morning. She walked to the 74th street station in a knee-length black cotton skirt and a light blue blouse. Her oversized black canvas purse was slung over her left shoulder and contained her pink cashmere cardigan, leather wallet, house keys, and a tuna fish sandwich that was packed in a pink Tupperware container. It was five after seven and a few people had already gathered outside the newsstand to buy lottery tickets. Campaign posters for the primary election had been stapled to the poles of the parking signs — both Fernando Ferrer and Mark Green wanted her vote that day. The black and white cat in the drugstore window watched her pass. An elderly woman scrubbed the sidewalk before the diner with a bucket of sudsy brown water and a push broom. A few workers outside the Korean market were filling the bins with peaches, plums, tomatoes and ears of corn. Muslim men with prayer mats rolled up beneath their arms were waiting for the bus. The advertisement on the side of the bus stop for a new antidepressant featured an attractive brunette in her early thirties standing in the center of an elegantly furnished living room, dressed in a beige business suit and speaking on a cordless phone. Four delivery trucks were idling outside the grocery store. A rat was lying motionless on the sidewalk with its eyes open.

The warmth of the sun on her shoulders and the glare flashing off the hoods and windows of the passing cars reminded her of meeting Alan for the first time. She waited near the curb for a livery cab to drive through the intersection and recalled their meeting in front of that shoe store in Soho last June. The pale salesgirl with the blue-black bob and almost British accent who rang up Stephanie's shoes complemented her purchase by claiming that she owned the exact same pair except in silver. Stephanie slipped her Visa into her wallet while the salesgirl slid the shoebox into a clear plastic bag. She crossed the showroom while eyeing the patent leather pumps on display, then pulled open the door and passed from the near-artic air conditioning into a humid afternoon on Mercer Street. The man she had noticed just outside the window stepped forward. “Hello there,” he removed his hands from the front pockets of his black jeans, “I wouldn't normally do this,” then glanced at the watch on his wrist, “but you look very familiar,” as if he had been expecting her, “we've met before,” then studied her eyes for a reassuring sign, “Haven't we?” She shook her head, “no, we haven't,” and quickly walked around him.

Stephanie crossed against the light and continued walking toward the 74
^th
street station. A sanitation inspector stood before an irate butcher in a bloodstained smock and endured a torrent of insults while writing up a summons. A large black garbage bag had been torn open and pieces of rotten meat and blackened vegetables were strewn along the sidewalk. She didn't want to get angry when she thought about Alan because that meant she still cared about him; what she really wanted was for the memories of their time together to vanish. What would her summer have been like if she
had
ignored him? She would still be temping in a downtown or mid-town office, worrying about how long the job was going to last and what work would come her way next. Her rent was due to go up a hundred dollars when her lease expired at the end of October. If she had simply walked by Alan that day, she wouldn't have gotten an abortion.

“Hello there,” Alan removed his hands from the front pockets of his black jeans, “I wouldn't normally do this,” then glanced at the watch on his wrist, “but you look very familiar,” as if he had been expecting her, “we've met before,” then studied her eyes for a reassuring sign, “Haven't we?” She
hated
being accosted on the street and quickly walked around him.

Stephanie waited for the signal to change as a slow moving street-sweeper gathered garbage from the gutter along Roosevelt Avenue and a Chevy Nova raced by in the opposite direction.

Alan sank his hands into the front pockets of his black jeans, “Hey Stephanie,” and took a tentative step forward, “I'm really sorry about the way things turned out between us,” before looking at her eyes, “I had no intention of hurting you and now I feel terrible about it… Can you ever forgive me for that?” “As if…” shaking her head in disbelief, “Don't you think it's a little late for that?” “Couldn't we just turn the corner here,” the sleeves of his light green designer shirt were rolled up and exposed his muscular forearms, “Or maybe you just need some more time?” “That isn't very likely,” Stephanie gave him a charitable, “and all you're doing right now is trying to make yourself feel better,” yet dismissive smile, “and I'm afraid that isn't going to work on me again.” “Well,” Alan looked fleetingly at her legs, “I really miss all of the good times we had,” and then eyed her mouth, “Don't you?” “You were drunk every time we were together,” she surmised, “and I'm surprised that you remember anything at all.” “I was just trying to have a good time,” he stepped back, “Isn't that what you were doing?”

The woman who sold tamales from a shopping cart waited beside Stephanie and when the light changed they crossed the avenue beneath the elevated tracks. Stephanie removed the MetroCard from her purse and swiped it at the turnstile. She descended a flight of recently reconstructed stairs. Stepping onto the platform and walking through the crowds gathered by the stairs as a Manhattan bound E train pulled into the station. She continued along the platform as the train came to a slow screeching stop. A group of teenagers ambled out of the car before she could enter it along with two bleary-eyed Indian men in threadbare suits. She found a narrow place to stand and enough of the overhead bar to hold onto as the doors closed. A Chinese girl seated beneath her was sandwiched between two heavy-set black men. The girl's black hair was pulled back into pigtails and she was wearing a pink T-shirt with a grinning panda on the front, pink shorts with a smaller version of the same panda and a pair of scuffed pink sneakers that almost touched the floor. The smell of coffee filled the humid car while the surrounding bodies pressed into Stephanie and the train pulled away from the platform. The girl was engrossed in a copy of
Goodnight Dora
with illustrated cardboard flaps that pulled back to reveal sleepy woodland animals wishing Dora and her monkey sidekick Boots, “Goodnight,” and “Buenas Noches” on the facing pages. The girl's older sister was seated nearby and listening to Madonna on a pair of headphones that were held together with Snoopy band-aids. Stephanie squeezed the bar with both hands while swaying to the train's rhythm as Dora and Boots continued their walk through the darkening woods. At 42nd Street Stephanie sat between a man who reeked of cigarettes and a young woman engrossed in a romance novel. Glancing over her shoulder
Claire closed her eyes and considered Grant's sinister proposition. She felt his eyes on her body as his twisted logic began to burn through her like a dozen blazing suns
. The man standing in front of Stephanie was working on the
Times
crossword. He was dressed in a dark blue oxford shirt, pleated khakis and polished loafers. The woman standing beside him was dressed in a new pair of Reeboks, pink tennis socks, a knee length beige skirt and a white silk blouse. A woman standing by the doors had a greenish butterfly tattoo on her right ankle.
Claire rolled onto her stomach and slowly undid her string bikini top. She knew that her bronzed body would distract him from his elaborate scheming. “Grant,” Claire sighed, “be a dear and coat my back. It feels as if I'm melting.”
The advertisement for the New York Language Center in Jackson Heights, a block away from the station where Stephanie boarded the train, featured a large color photograph of the earth.
A cool dollop of creamy coco-butter was smeared onto her shoulders. Grant's muscular hands moved slowly to her lower back where they lingered. “I think it's foolproof,” Grant placed his hands on her narrow hips, “we'll cut him out of the picture by making him take the fall.”
Feedback droned on the speakers for a long minute after the conductor announced the next station.
Grant's husky voice had a powerful hypnotic effect on Claire, “the take will be much larger without him,” especially when his hands were massaging her well-toned flesh
. Stephanie recalled sitting on a crowded East Hampton beach with Alan and being lectured on what she should study, when and if, she ever decided to go back to college.
Claire found herself nodding in agreement, “three is a crowd.” She thought about her husband and said, “I always knew that he was expendable.”

Stephanie sat up on her beach towel and watched a set of waves roll against the shore. The sun was on her shoulders and suddenly all of Alan's self-aggrandizing advice was lost in the sounds of children shouting in the surf. A single engine plane pulled a wide Coppertone banner high above the shoreline. Stephanie watched the plane and its wavering banner gradually disappear in the blue distance. She looked over at Alan and discovered that he was gone. The surrounding scene had remained the same; another wave rolled against the shore, the family gathered beneath the large red and white umbrella continued eating their sandwiches and chips, and a few more seagulls had landed nearby to gobble up any scraps that might be thrown their way. The horizon still divided the sky and the sea but she no longer felt Alan's presence.

The woman with the romance novel got off at Canal Street and the seats on either side of her remained empty after the doors closed. She leaned back and clutched her purse in her lap as the train gradually picked up speed. Stephanie ignored the barefoot man panhandling for change, even though he was one of the regulars she sometimes gave money to, and closed her eyes. She was sitting cross-legged on a blue beach towel and watching a group of sandpipers pursuing a receding wave. The lightness in her chest that had replaced Alan caused her to smile. Sunlight glistened on a broad expanse of the sea as a few cumulus clouds hung motionless above the horizon. Stephanie opened her eyes as the train came to a slow screeching stop and yawned into her left hand before standing up. The conductor announced that it was exactly eight o'clock and reminded the passengers to take all of their personal belongings with them as they filed out of the car. The doors closed as she walked along the platform. A Queens-bound E train on the opposite track slowly pulled out of the station as she climbed a flight of stairs. She rode an escalator up to the bank of express elevators and one of them carried her to the ninety-second floor.