You Are Here (9 page)

Alan and Stephanie rarely spoke on the phone and infrequently exchanged emails, yet she often found herself obsessing over him. There were times when it felt like she was falling in love with him.

The plot in a dramatic or narrative work is constituted by its events and actions, as these are rendered and ordered towards achieving particular artistic and emotional effects.

Or could easily fall in love with him, she knew better of course, and it was only when the distance between them stretched out for weeks and grew insurmountable that it felt like she could be falling in love.

Stephanie hadn't been involved with anyone since her fiancé abruptly ended their five-year relationship the year prior, claiming that he needed to be closer to his family, and moved back to London. She had learned on Christmas day that he was living with another woman, since then she had convinced herself that she would never find anyone with whom she was so compatible and reluctantly endured being alone although it was often very painful.

Her relationship with Alan often made her happy and it gave her a confidence that she never knew she possessed.

Alan paid her rent, covered her bills, bought her beautiful shoes and lingerie, took her to expensive restaurants and had promised to get her a high paying job. He made no unreasonable demands on her and the sex was usually satisfying, provided he was sober. She was treated like an equal—not like property—or as Karen recently claimed that she had become the occasional plaything of a wealthy alcoholic.

And so what if their relationship wasn't going to last? He had made it clear to her from the very beginning that they had to keep things casual and had even encouraged her to date other men.

Love doesn't last either. She now understood that her marriage, assuming it would have happened, would not have survived. Her exfiancé couldn't face conflicts or challenges, he always fled them, and his cowardice invariably followed.

In retrospect her failed engagement was nothing more than a useful life experience. For Stephanie the time she spent with Alan, however infrequent it may be, was it's own reward.

She removed a quarter from her wallet while walking up the stairs at the West 4th Street station. The crowds gathered around the high chain-link fence were watching the basketball games. She dropped the quarter in the payphone slot while clutching the warm receiver in her left hand and dialed his office number from memory. Cabs sped along 6th Avenue or slowed to abrupt stops to drop off and pick up fares. She asked Alan's secretary if he was available and then gave her name. Stephanie stated, “I am becoming my mother,” after he said hello. His warm laughter caused her to smile, “Would you ever call your mother,” as she imagined him standing in his office with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, “and apologize for being a bad liar?” A group of teenagers ogled her breasts as they sauntered by. “You know,” Alan closed the door to his office, “I think I have done that,” and sat on the edge of his desk. She turned away from the crowds and faced the silver keypad on the payphone, “How did you do it?” He glanced at the digital desk clock, “I'll tell you later,” and watched a few seconds pass. She swallowed hard before asking, “Tonight?” Alan sighed wistfully, “I'm afraid I can't tonight… I have meetings until seven and dinner with a group of potential investors who just might be up for backing some choice property in Williamsburg,” before half-jokingly suggesting that she could drop by later in the afternoon for a quick fuck on his desk. “Sure,” while rolling her eyes, “but what would your secretary say?” Paying no attention to his giddy explanation and simply waiting for him to pause long enough to change the subject. They talked about their upcoming weekend together in East Hampton. He described the house overlooking the bay where they were going to stay as modest and added, “that it's just far enough away from everything else.” When her quarter ran out she had enough time to tell him that she really missed him before the call was terminated.

 

T
he wooden blinds drawn before the amber streetlight outside her bedroom window, “The last memory,” projected a thin row of horizontal shadows across the bed, “of seeing my father alive,” onto the wall behind them, “was when I was sitting on the edge of his bed watching Nadia Comaneci,” and a portion of the ceiling, “on the parallel bars during the summer Olympics.” They were lying naked beneath a thick down comforter with their arms and legs entwined. Earlier, Janet had been able to appease James with earnest reassurances that his insecurities about any potential infidelities were unfounded and finally convince him that she had no interest in renewing her relationship with Cindy by describing how rapidly that affair had disintegrated. He cleared his throat before asking, “What summer was this?” The resolve in her tone while relating this memory, “the summer of,” countered her mounting suspicions, “July of Seventy-Six,” that the events she had been prompted to relate would be coolly deconstructed and fictionalized in his yet to be written first novel. “That was four years before I was born.” The warmth in her tone, “well,” and the bottle of champagne they had shared while sitting on the couch, “I was seventeen that summer,” fused with the clarity drawn from their intimacy, “and this city was another world then,” had led to his repeated proclamations of love. A pair of headlights slowly crossed the ceiling while he waited for her to continue speaking. Janet looked out the window as the cab she was sitting in sped across the Brooklyn Bridge. “I knew that…” she began again in a dry whisper, “I knew that something was wrong,” and the skyscrapers in mid-town were brown silhouettes in the smog filled distance. He caressed the nape of her neck, “How so?” The humid air blowing through the wide-open rear windows smelled of tar and diesel fumes. “He was really out of it after his last operation,” she cleared her throat, “and was having trouble walking,” while recalling the emptiness that had filled her chest, “and I was really reluctant,” as the cab gradually descended the ramp leading to the northbound lanes of the FDR drive. Cupping his palms over her breasts, “Where was this?” A car horn was muffled by the closed windows and then silence ensued as she placed her chin on his shoulder and closed her eyes, “in Turtle Bay.” “Where is that?” A tug pushing a gray barge filled with garbage down the East River moved slowly against the incoming tide while a large flock of seagulls trailed above it. “It's the neighborhood by the U.N.” The sun broke through a gap in the clouds as a passenger helicopter took off from the roof of the Pan-Am building. “That's where I grew up.” The cab driver had asked if she'd been following the news about that busload of children that had been kidnapped in Northern California. “Why is it called that?” Janet shook her head before saying that she had only read the headlines and that it sounded really terrible. “There was once a creek there and the Dutch had a turtle farm… I think they make silly pets.” The driver nodded before activating the blinker and merging into the exit lane. “Why is that?” Janet removed the cigarettes from her purse and tapped one out of the pack while claiming that she had enough to worry about and then placed it between her lips with trembling fingers. “You can't cuddle with a turtle.” The driver watched her in the rearview mirror, as she finally lit the cigarette with a small green disposable lighter, before asking if she was okay. “Not like cats at least,” James kissed her on the forehead before asking, “Where's Esther?” She exhaled a thin cloud of smoke before saying that she wasn't sure and then looked away from the reflection of his watery blue eyes as the cab slowly pulled through the intersection. “She is probably sleeping on the couch.” The Saturday afternoon traffic was sparse and they arrived in front of the apartment building before Janet had smoked half of the cigarette. “I've never eaten turtle before.” She paid the driver and thanked him for his concern while getting out of the cab. “I hear they taste just like chicken.” She stood on the sidewalk and finished her cigarette. “Why were you reluctant?” The marble lobby, “I had a premonition,” was as cold as a walk-in refrigerator. “I really can't imagine what New York was like then.” She chewed on her lower lip while waiting for the elevator as the gooseflesh rose on her forearms. “It was a good time to be young.” The doorman behind the desk glanced up from his comic book and nodded hello. “Do you ever feel guilty about being reluctant?” When the elevator finally arrived, “At times I do,” she stepped into it, “although we were never very close,” and pressed ten before taking the black plastic band out of the front pocket of her blue jeans. The ceiling fan circulated stale air in the narrow mirrored mahogany space. “Why is that?” She ran her fingers through her long brown hair, “My father had always been unavailable,” pulled it back into a pony tail, “even when I was very young,” then tied it back with the elastic band. “Do you want to fuck again,” when the elevator stopped on ten she considered taking it back to the lobby as the doors slowly opened, “Or do you want to talk?” Her silent footfalls, “Do you not want to do this anymore,” moved slowly along the carpeted hallway. She removed the keys from her purse, “I never talk,” and unlocked the door, “about this anymore.” Turning the cold knob in her right hand. “So he was alone after the surgery?” She entered the apartment, “He had fired his nurse,” and soon discovered the wide blood stain, “the day before he did it,” on the damp beige carpet, “and that was the day before I found him,” in front of the bathroom door, “when the neighbors downstairs called me at my aunt's in Brooklyn Heights.” She pushed open the door and stood there. “You know that we don't have to talk about this if you don't want to.” Janet recalled the memories that followed, “my father had been in a lot of pain,” and arranged them in sequence once more, “and he had been very depressed about their separation,” like playing a familiar hand of worn cards. She walked to the phone in the living room and called the police. “Where was your mother?” The conversation with the female dispatcher, “in Rome with her new boyfriend,” who kept her on the line until the two police officers arrived, “the way people couldn't look at me then…”and they just stood there with their backs to the bookshelves and asked a lot of aggressive questions, “like at the wake when my father's partners talked about how honest he was,” until the ambulance finally arrived. “Had they heard anything?” The coroner got there an hour later. “Who?” They removed her father from the tub and placed him in a black body bag. “The downstairs neighbors.” And when they finally wheeled it out of the bathroom on a gurney, “He slit his wrists in the bathtub,” she fainted, “there wasn't anything to hear.” “What did you do?” She came to on the couch, “I called the police,” and discovered her aunt standing above her sobbing uncontrollably, “and then I really don't remember what happened next.” The wind was pressing on the windows as it pushed through the bare trees. She opened her eyes, “I think I've blocked it out,” removed her head from his shoulder, “well,” and quietly sighed, “now you know.” James looked closely at her face, “you said that the neighbors called you,” in the faint amber light, “that's why I asked if they might have heard something.” Janet blinked twice, “they were very close to my parents.” He nodded, “so that's why.” She turned over on her back, “they used to play bridge together every Wednesday night,” and rested her head on a pillow, “and when he didn't answer the door they got concerned.” “Did your mother remarry?” She nodded, “twice,” with a smile in her voice.

 

“Y
ou know, there's going to be a full moon tonight.” The pines surrounding the deck were spotted with lichen. “Can we go for a walk later and take a look at it?” Massive cumulus clouds with pink underbellies had crowded above the bay. “Alright,” the drone of cicadas, “we'll get a better view from the ocean side,” and intermittent notes from songbirds flitting among the trees accompanied the view, “But haven't you had enough beach for one day?” The wooden deck gave off the warm smell of creosote. “No,” two wine glasses filled with rosé, “not at all,” were on the wide railing, “and a moon tan will soothe my burn,” beside the bottle of Tavel nestled in a copper ice bucket. Alan had dutifully coated Stephanie's shoulders and dabbed her nose with a torn aloe leaf after they showered together. “Does it feel any better?” They were on their first bottle of wine. “I feel so relaxed, but I'm sure that you're getting tired of hearing that.” Nearly invisible flames wavered above the graying charcoal briquettes as fat sizzled off the blackened grill. Alan turned to her, “on the contrary.” A CD of Coltrane's ballads that she had discovered in the living room was playing on the stereo. “That is such a sweet thing to say.” The sliding screen door was dotted with ladybugs. He stood before the wooden cutting board, “well,” grinding peppercorns onto a pair of plump duck breasts, “it's true.” The potato salad she'd prepared with olive oil, dry vermouth, chopped scallions and a pinch of sea salt was in the earthenware bowl on the table. “Could you imagine us together out here all year round?” Thick slices of garden tomatoes sprinkled with olive oil and garnished with basil leaves were arranged on the wide glass platter next to the bowl of potato salad. “It isn't going to get any better than this.” Four folding canvas chairs were situated around the wooden picnic table. She was wearing a yellow bikini top and cut-off jeans, “How can you be so sure that it isn't going to get any better than this?” The short flight of wooden stairs that lead to the bay sank into the yellow sand. “I think I would go crazy out here in a few weeks.” Her damp hair was pulled back in a ponytail, “How can you say such a thing?” An elderly couple stood by the shore and watched their Collie retrieve a tennis ball from a set of knee-high breakers. “That always happens when I go for too long without working.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and held him close, “I'll help you get over that,” then kissed him on the ear, “and keep you from going crazy.” The broad bay with its glassy rose-hued surface swayed beneath the clouds. He was wearing khaki shorts, “I think that women have a much easier time not working” and a white Polo shirt. A few gulls circled overhead. “How so?” Three people on the deck of a sailboat, fifty yards from the shore, prepared to launch it. “In the roles they're expected to perform,” he pulled away from her, “that job you had when we first met wasn't the least bit important to you and it certainly didn't last very long.” “Are you referring to all women,” she placed her hands on her hips, “or just the ones you're attracted to?” He turned to her and nodded, “all of them.” A cloud slowly passed before the sun. She shook her head dismissively, “I really hate your stereotypes.” He regarded her child-like indignation, “but you're okay with having me pay your rent,” while weighing her rapidly diminishing charms. “You know that,” she countered, “I would rather be working at something that makes a difference.” She had begun to put a serious strain on his energies, “Really?” and the time she demanded from him was becoming increasingly counterproductive, “like what for instance?” “I mean, doing something, having a job, something that I care about,” she shook her head, “ but I really don't think you want me to get a job,” and was surprised by how quickly their conversation had turned into another argument, “talk about stereotypes,” before recalling the fifth of Stoli that had materialized on the kitchen counter while she was slicing the tomatoes. He turned away from her, “I've had to do quite a bit of finagling on your behalf,” and attended to the smoking coals, “and that took up a lot more time then I had initially anticipated.” “Like what… What sort of finagling?” “What difference does it make now that you've gotten your interview,” he waved the tongs over the flames, “which is merely a formality.” She made an effort to appease him, “Why won't you tell me what you did that got me the job then?” “You do things for people, and in turn, they do things for you, like lending you their beach house for the weekend. And don't forget that when you ask someone for a favor you
are
expected to reciprocate.” She attempted to disarm him, “So what have I done to deserve all of this?” And when that failed she claimed, “my wanting you to help me get a job isn't a betrayal of our relationship.” “Wanting to make a difference…Is that what you just said?” He drained his glass and chuckled, “Would it be possible for you to be any more vague than that?” A warm breeze forced its way through the pines. “I said that I wanted a job that I enjoyed. Why are you in such a bad mood?” “Like I just told you,” he took the bottle from the ice bucket, “that interview on Monday is merely a formality,” and spilled some wine while refilling his glass, “so shouldn't you be out shopping for a new wardrobe,” then pointed, “you'd been out of work for a few months before we met.” She shrugged before quietly saying, “about three months.” He set the bottle in the ice bucket, “And you were okay with that?” “Not really… I was broke… I mean my father helped me out a lot but not having any money or health insurance really sucks… you should try it some time. ” “But you weren't really looking for a job?” She exhaled slowly through her nose, “I've always had a very hard time with rejection.” He knew the answer before asking, “Did you go on any interviews?” She shrugged again, “I must have gone on one or two.” He tried to sound insulted, “And you just couldn't find the right job?” “At least one interview, obviously,” she decided that tonight wouldn't be a good time to tell him that her period was almost a month late. “You went on one interview and that was when,” he jutted out his chin, “you had no other choice but to get a job?” She had wanted to tell him over the weekend, “I was broke and I couldn't borrow any more money,” so they could discuss their options, “and I took the first job that came along.” “I'm certain that you could have found a better job if you had bothered to look.” “But then,” she protested, “we would have never met.” He didn't respond. She resolved to take the test at home, and if the results were positive, confront him over the phone, what was the point of creating another conflict? He regarded the dark pink wine in his glass. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, “and that makes what you said before sound so disingenuous.” “Oh, does it?” He swirled the wine while adding, “men are forced into a very narrow set of roles,” then held the rim of the glass beneath his nose and sniffed it, “that are pounded into our impressionable heads at a very young age,” before taking a sip, “roles that have to be followed to the letter in order to insure our success as individuals… whereas with women it is much easier for them to live comfortably on the margins because less has always been expected of them.” “That's bullshit and besides not all men are like you.” “No it isn't bullshit Stephanie, to have ambition and talent isn't bullshit… and men who've perfected those roles as children… they succeed.” She rolled her eyes, “you're just talking about yourself.” It was his turn to shrug, “of course I am.” She conceded his point to avoid another argument, “I know that you're very hard working and ambitious,” while eyeing the wine glass in his right hand, “but maybe money doesn't mean all that much to me,” before looking down at the narrow wooden slats between their bare feet, “my family didn't have a lot of money… we weren't poor—” “You're from a suburban middle class family.” She nodded, “and after my parent's split we had even less.” “You went to public schools,” he counted the points off on his free hand, “you haven't finished college, yet, and you've never even been to Europe… But so what?” A broad ray of sunlight fell on the full sails of the boat as it glided toward the center of the bay. “Maybe I'd be happy just being a secretary and riding the subway to work five days a week.” The sailboat gradually shrank into a silhouette before the opposing shore. “There would be nothing wrong with that, assuming it paid well enough,” he assured her, “and nobody would ever expect anything more from you.” “Except you, because you place way too much importance on money.” “You say that now but you're always pestering me to help you.” “Because I don't want to be dependent on anyone.” “Do you know how much a weekend in this house is worth,” he sipped his wine, “in August?” “No I don't,” she shook her head, “and it doesn't matter to me anyway.” He wet his lips and grinned, “But I am just anyone?” The cloud had drifted away from the sun. “Sometimes you make me very happy.” He took a step forward, “Just sometimes?” She squinted from the glare off the bay, “when you make an effort. You make me very happy.”