You Are Here (8 page)

Janet's detailed character sketch began to emerge at his desk the following morning. The afternoons at the bookstore were more tedious than usual because of Kerry's concession speech. James spent most of the nights that week lying in bed with the phone pressed to his ear, listening to nostalgic descriptions from her past, that he would rework in the morning on his laptop. On Thursday night he brought a pint of bourbon home and left a thoughtful message on her answering machine before cracking the seal. After finishing the pint he went down to the bar on the corner and described the affair he was having with a woman that he'd met at The Strand a few weeks ago. The bartender and a few of his acquaintances hunched over pints of tap beer exchanged skeptical glances. Beneath the din of The Buzzcocks' “Why Can't I Touch It?” he boasted of the great sex they'd had last Friday night. After he had rattled off a detailed inventory of the contents in her West Village apartment, the bartender—a gum chewing self-taught painter in her late twenties—asked if she owned it. He exclaimed that the apartment was just a small part of her divorce settlement. The bartender wanted to know what she did for a living. James claimed that she didn't need to work, that her second husband was some big shot CEO and still took very good care of her, to keep up appearances, James presumed, because he had recently left her for his secretary. When James returned from work on Friday night he discovered a perfumed letter in his mail box that contained a brief passage from Baudelaire (written with a fountain pen on handmade paper) and a black and white photograph of Janet when she was his age and living in Paris. He sat at his desk and assessed her youthful beauty beneath the lamp. He tacked the picture to the wall above his desk and spent the rest of the night reading Richard Howard's translation of
Les Fleurs du Mal
. He spent Saturday morning lying in bed and imagining her Parisian world—as a painter's assistant during the three years she lived there—of studios and galleries, dancing till dawn in new wave discotheques, drinking in Left Bank bars, and the array of lovers she had in addition to the German sculptor she was briefly married to. After masturbating, he showered and then shaved in the foggy mirror above the sink. The sidewalks had been swept by the wind and the blue sky was cloudless. He caught himself staring at the digital clock on the cash register an hour after he got to work. An unending line of customers who claimed that they were all going to move to Canada filled the long afternoon. He had to wait for twenty minutes on the frigid subway platform with his hands jammed in his pockets. The Gerber daisies had been purchased at the deli by the subway station and were shoved beneath his right arm as he walked up her block. He pressed the bell with his right index finger and then waited for her to buzz him in.

James gently mocked her tone, “Do you really say what you mean?” She nodded with conviction, “always.” “I don't know if I believe you.” Janet gave him a wounded look, “oh is that so…” while refilling their glasses. James cleared his throat, “tell me more about the director of that play we saw last week.” She placed the bottle on the coaster, “Who Cindy?” He nodded, “the one you introduced me to.” The hem of her skirt rose as she re-crossed her legs, “it's funny that you should mention Cindy,” exposing the little black bow on her shimmering garter belt, “because she called this afternoon,” and an inch of bare thigh. “It must be my precognitive powers kicking in again.” Janet weighed all the time she had invested in compromised company to dull her loneliness, “or the champagne,” and how often it transformed her expectations into pain, “it's gone straight to your head.” “And?” Janet's hand returned to his thigh, “Cindy called to see how I was doing,” and she squeezed it reassuringly, “and to tell me that she misses me,” then paused briefly to gauge his response, “she also wanted to know if I liked the play.” James laughed maliciously and Janet smiled with relief. “Wasn't she jealous,” he sipped his champagne, “seeing us together?” Janet frowned, “I think she was confused.” “What else did she say?” She conceded his question with a nod, “Cindy was afraid that the play might have offended me.” James exclaimed, “so, it
was
about us.” Janet rolled her eyes, “uh-huh,” before taking a sip, “she said that she wanted to come by sometime soon so we could talk,” and her lie was complimented by a faint blush. “When, tonight?” “Sometime soon,” she looked closely at his eyes, “Cindy is a deeply unhappy person.”

Janet was reminded of seeing Cindy again for the first time… a tall brunette in a knee-length black leather jacket who stepped toward her as she stood in front of the fountain by the Met on a drizzling March afternoon. They recognized each other from their online photographs and readily acknowledged that neither looked as good in pictures as they did in person. While climbing the marble steps leading to the museum entrance they talked about the miserable weather and shared subway horror stories while waiting to check their coats. After a brief tour of the modern wing—the Klee's on the mezzanine were Cindy's favorites—they spent a few hours in the café. Cindy tactfully described the deteriorating relationship she was in before claiming that it was almost over. Cindy confessed that she was still living with her boyfriend while secretly searching for a studio. Janet was tempted to offer her place as a temporary share that afternoon but waited until the following week, while they were having lunch at Pastis, before making her offer. Cindy moved in the first Wednesday in April and it took Janet just a few days to realize that she had made a serious mistake. She made no effort to find her own place and Janet was afraid that her stay was becoming indefinite. Any mention of the apartment search or finding a job was met with a scowl and hours of sullen silence. When Janet showered her with affection, Cindy confessed that she was really depressed, equated her life with nothing and tearfully apologized for being so worthless. Janet gently suggested that she should see her therapist and was promptly mocked for having one. By their second week together Janet had retreated to the couch and discovered that sleeping there was almost impossible. Janet spent days hovering around the bedroom door as Cindy lay in bed with Esther watching television. On the night Cindy sullenly announced that she had decided to have lunch with Andrew, Janet snuck in the bathroom with the phone and made an appointment with the locksmith.

Janet claimed, “And I'm not interested in digging up any more ghosts from my past.” James was unaware of how aggressive he sounded, “Can't you do it for me?” “What…” She wanted to change the subject, “Does that arouse you?” “No,” James stammered, “I mean yes of course it does but that's not why I want you to tell me about her.” She looked perplexed, “But why then?” He drained his glass before saying, “I'd just like to get to know you better.” “Because,” Janet coyly deduced, “you want to sleep with both of us.” The words caught in his throat, “Could you arrange something like that?” Janet said, “why you dirty boy,” as Esther entered the living room, “oh look,” with her bushy tail raised like a swaying periscope, “who decided to crash our little party,” and as the cat walked over to the couch she added, “speaking of threesomes… this kitty just loves them… come here sweetheart.” Esther cautiously smelled the laces on both of his sneakers before leaping onto the cushion between them. Janet ran her right hand through Esther's thick fur, “I'm afraid that you haven't been making yourself very clear,” and then caressed her chin with the tips of her fingernails, “how unusual for such a gifted and ambitious writer.” Esther began to purr. James looked down at the scuffed tips of his sneakers, “When were you going to tell me that she called?” “That really isn't any of your business.” James repeated the question as a demand, “When were you going to tell me that,” that cast a shadow over her bewildered expression, “that you're planning on seeing her again?” Hunching her shoulders, “I just told you that I'm not interested in digging up any more ghosts from my past.”

 

S
tephanie picked the phone up before the second ring, “hello,” hoping that Alan was finally confirming for tonight, “oh hi mom.” She studied the overcast sky and considered returning to the apartment to get an umbrella. A Manhattan bound F train pulled up to the platform as she descended the stairs. “Okay,” the alarm clock on the night stand, “actually I was,” indicated that it was one o'clock, “on my way out the door,” therefore it was ten in California where her mother was calling from, “I really don't have much time.” The clouds gradually revealed patches of blue sky. A crowd stood before the open doors while the people exiting the train shouldered their way past. Her mother had recently moved from Philadelphia to San Diego, where her third husband owned a camera store. The three young Indian boys from the first floor were gathered around an overturned mountain bike. She entered the air-conditioned train just before the doors closed. Stephanie had met her second stepfather only once, at their wedding in '98, and always had trouble remembering his name. They looked up from the detached chain and waved hello with grease-smeared palms. “I'm taking the day off,” Stephanie cleared her throat, “I'm not feeling very well,” and ended her sentence with a sigh. She crossed the street before Vincent's Hair Design and then walked towards the corner. “No,” she pulled away the sheet, “it's not that,” swung her bare legs off the bed, “I'm probably getting my period,” and stood on the hardwood floor, “but I have an appointment in Manhattan that I can't be late for.” The Chinese man from the liquor store was leaning on a parking meter with a blank expression on his face. The conductor announced the next station stop before the train pulled away from the platform. Holding the phone away from her ear, “well,” away from the laughter on the line, “I'm glad that amuses you,” as she crossed the bedroom. Women in flowing saris were pushing baby strollers down 37th Avenue. A Hispanic man reading the
Daily News
was dressed in a navy blue security uniform.
DEADLY DRIVING LESSON
“Why would you call me during the day,” she opened the closet and yanked a black skirt off a hanger, “if you thought I was at work?” The gray cat from the newsstand ducked between the wheels of a parked car. “Isn't it a little early in the day for you to be doing this?” Stephanie's passing reflection in the furniture store window was superimposed upon a living room set.
Brooklyn Man Dies, Teen Critical As Minivan Jumps Barriers Into Water
“No I'm not,” she examined herself in the mirror above the dresser, “I'm not attacking you,” in lacy black panties and a snug pink T-shirt that outlined her yellow bra, “But when did you start drinking again?” The grainy black and white photograph of a minivan being pulled out of New York Bay. A blue haired retiree in a lime green polyester pantsuit weighed a half-pound of cherries outside the Korean grocery. She overheard the voices on her mother's television while they shared an awkward pause.
Madonna Rocks The Garden On Her Drowned World/ Substitute For Love Tour
A blind man and the woman clutching his arm were talking about where they were going for lunch while waiting for the light to change. The black and white photograph of Madonna in a plaid mini-skirt and a tight top adorned with thin patent leather straps. “Does everything,” Stephanie turned away from the mirror, “have to be a test with you?” She walked by the table displaying battery operated plastic toys and their cacophony of canned rhythms, sirens and whistles. She pulled the skirt up to her waist, “What am I supposed to say?” Indian women and their children stood outside the grocery store on 74th street, where Stephanie bought henna for her hair, as the smell of fresh basil mingled with tamarind and curry powder hung in the humid air. “Fine…” her blue heels were in the closet, “I've been just fine.” The sun emerged from behind the clouds and cast diffused shadows on the sidewalk. She stepped into the shoes, “I'd really like to visit,” and leaned over to buckle the thin ankle straps, “you know that,” around her narrow ankles, “but I am so busy at work.”
Woman Hit With Brick, Man Busted
The smell of cooking oil and rotting vegetables mingled with car exhaust. The table displaying gilded passages from the Koran and framed color photographs of pilgrims in white robes kneeling towards Mecca.
Bronx Girl Was Killed By Cousin—Boy Admits Shooting
She walked out of the bedroom, “it's fine,” with the telephone tucked beneath her ear. A shop window displaying gold filigree jewelry made her think of the earrings she had bought several months ago, the ones with tiny flowers woven to the tails of songbirds, that she rarely wore. A colorful poster of Ganesha, the boy God with the elephant's head, was taped to a glass door. The F train swept through the 65th street station and the crowds waiting on the local watched it pass.

Stephanie really missed Alan; it had been a week since they had seen each other and then it had only been for dinner. They had watched the sun set while sitting at a candlelit table at The River Café drinking Gewürztramminer. She had asked him about the two weeks he spent with his wife and daughter in Martha's Vineyard and he described it in a few laconic sentences. “You never talk about your wife,” Stephanie had quietly mused. He leaned back in the chair, “I can't imagine that she is of any interest to you.” “You're right,” she laughed, “she isn't.” He smiled, “Then why did you say that?” She raised her glass in a toast, “I was paying you a compliment.”

Stephanie retrieved her purse from the kitchen table, “I spoke to dad last week and he sounded fine.” She was offered a seat as the train pulled out of the 21
^st
Street/Queensbridge Station. “Listen, mom, I'll call you later but I really have to go,” she pressed the end button on the phone after adding a curt, “goodbye.” The young man sitting beside her was engrossed in a guide to writing fiction.