Bad Timing

by Betsy Berne

  “What’s wrong?” I whispered. When he didn’t answer, I continued, “You’re all sweaty,” and gently brushed away the sweat on his back with my hands.

  “Yeah. I’m just going to sit here for a few minutes and dry off.” His voice was distant, and his hands remained over his face.

  I went back and tried to close my eyes. He followed momentarily, assumed the sign-of-the-cross position, and fell asleep. He slept heavily, although not so heavily that he didn’t shake me off like a bug each time I tried to touch him. I lay beside him like wood. My body was still and sated, but my mind was spinning fast, and my heart was racing. I got up and went out to the couch and sat in the dark. It wasn’t pitch black. In fact there was an eerie amount of light for this time of night, a six-bars-on-one-corner light.

  Everything would be fine once I got to Deejay Night. I just had to get there and everything would be okay. Rachel was probably waiting for me—what time was it?—and she would be worried. My neighbor would be wondering where I was. He wouldn’t be worried but he would be wondering. My brother might actually be worried. I hated it when he fell asleep, and I hated even more waking him up. If only we’d made it to the couch. He never fell asleep on the couch. It was the bed that scared him to sleep.

  Finally I got back in bed and whispered, “I have to go soon—to Deejay Night.”

  Eyes closed, he mumbled, “Yeah, yeah. Soon, soon, a few more minutes.” So I reached over to the night table for a sleeping potion—sleep would really be my best bet. If only I could sleep, too. For once I wasn’t even worried about whether he would get in trouble with her. If she got upset, she would just have to pedal extra hard at the gym tomorrow. I got out of bed again and stared out the window in the other room, considering my course of action.

  I went back in for another half hour, and then I crawled onto his chest again: “Joseph, I have to go soon.”

  “Okay, I’ll get up in a minute. Baby, go back to sleep.”

  I could take another shower. I’d be fresh for Deejay Night. Instead I got up and opened and shut the drawers loudly, stomping around the room. He didn’t stir. No, he did stir. He sprawled out wider until he took up the whole bed. I squeezed back into position, in a clean white T-shirt and a pair of pants. What am I going to tell Rachel? Oh, she wouldn’t care; she must have left by now anyway. Still, I had to get out of here, I thought. No, I had to get out of this. That was closer to the truth. I had to get out of this, and Deejay Night was a start.

  The third time he tried to stave me off with his hands. “We’ll get up in a little while. Why don’t you start getting dressed?”

  “I am dressed.” I said it in a small voice. He didn’t answer. I lay back down, and then I returned to the couch to wait the requisite half hour. It was so late there was really no point in going. There was no way Rachel would be there, she was home planning the wedding by now; my brother wasn’t really going to worry; my neighbor would know, and he would look at me with disappointed, disapproving eyes, and Victor would be off in a blank daze. But I had to get there now, if only to prove to myself and him that I was still mine. That I never was or would be his.

  “Joseph, I really have to go. It’s late.”

  I stood at the foot of the bed and hardly got the words out before he snarled, a sleepy snarl, but what a snarl: “Just go then, if you have to go! Just leave me alone. Can’t you leave me alone?”

  I left him alone. I wasn’t his, but I wasn’t mine either. When I went back in, before I had time to speak, he whispered in a low voice I’d never heard before, “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.”

  He lifted himself up, sat on the far side of the bed, and looked down, and instead of going to him, I panicked. He’d never actually said, “I’m sorry,” at the moment when it would make a difference. Instead, he said, “My deepest apologies,” politely, frostily, after the fact, if all else failed. For the same reason, perhaps, that I went mute at the moment when it would make a difference, when it might move us forward. But I didn’t go to him. I stood frozen far away and whispered fast, “It’s okay, it’s okay. Do you want to be by yourself to wake up? I’ll just leave you alone for a few minutes.”

  That’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? To be left alone? Only the faintest glow from the streetlights shone through the windows when I resumed position on the couch.

  “Hello?”

  I heard his hollow, weak voice—he didn’t say my name—and I answered something.

  “Joseph, I’m out here,” or “Yeah,” or “What?”—I can’t remember. I didn’t say it very loud, nor did I get up right away. I imagined he’d stop in the bathroom, and I wanted to give him some time to be alone. So I took my own time walking back through the pitch dark to the kitchen. It was empty when I got there, and at first I stood and stared. I looked in the bathroom, and then it hit me. He was gone. He’d left. He’d left without saying good-bye. I didn’t necessarily need words, but tonight I needed to see his eyes. I grabbed my raincoat. Only a few moments had gone by. Or had it been more than a few? I jumped the stairs two, three at a time, and then I ran to the corner where he always got a cab.

  It was still drizzling, and it was just me standing on the empty corner in the raincoat that had cost me time. A cab stopped instantly.

  Only Victor and Sam were still at Deejay Night. My neighbor was packing up, and he couldn’t help himself when he saw me.

  “You look beautiful!” he said wide-eyed, not at all disapproving.

  I sank between Victor and Sam, and they listened to me while I disobeyed the rules. I had no trouble disobeying the rules tonight because he’d disobeyed them first.

  “Oh, he split because he thought you did,” Victor said matter-of-factly. “He probably thought you were pissed-off. I wouldn’t bring it up next time you see him. Just forget about it.”

  “He thought I left?”

  “Of course, what did you think? He took the pussy and ran?” Sam yawned. “No one would do that, not at this stage of the game.”

  “He thought I left?”

  They just looked at each other. My neighbor came over and said, “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

  So it was my fault. Of course. In his eyes, it was always going to be my fault. That’s the way it had to be. In his eyes, that is.

  C H A P T E R

  15

  “I GUESSED, SO it doesn’t count.”

  “Well, if I’m struck down from above, or found dead in an alley, you’ll know why. I don’t even care anymore.”

  “You don’t care about which: the black boulder or being struck down or found in an alley?”

  “I don’t care about any of it.” Oh, I cared about Thursday night’s debacle and the subsequent silent fallout, but my neighbor didn’t need to know that. “It’s over. I’m sick of it. You are, too. Tell me about you.”

  “I told you. The usual. That review I just slaved over, they killed it because I trashed the artist and she’s the new colored messiah. She’s bi, too—and a feminist. Could you ask for anything more?”

  “Not that I can think of. They must’ve thought they hit the jackpot—and then you screwed them up.”

  “Yeah, they finally found themselves a colored messiah safe enough for the advertisers, but I was uppity—and I betrayed my people. At least I got paid the full amount—I mean, I will get paid . . . what’s your estimate as to when?”

  “Three to four months. If you start now and call them every day.”

  “And I told you, didn’t I? I think I’ve got a new deejay gig—one that actually pays at the end of the night. Whoring myself again. But dumbing down music is easier than dumbing down writing.”

  “I guess.”

  “It’s that new club down here. It’s pretty faggy.”

  “That place? Oh, yeah, my beauty editor’s been there every night this week—where fags go, you know what follows. But I thought you’d never been there.”

  “I lied. Anyway, it starts even later than Deejay Night.”

  “I’ll get t
here. I’ll bring Hank. He’s been calling lately. I thought he had a girlfriend, but it must have gone sour already.”

  “He’s not so bad. Hey, your brother’s finally broken me—I’m doing a piece on his band.”

  “You don’t have to do that. I’ll just make up some excuse—”

  “I know I don’t have to. I want to. Anyway, I’ve pitched the idea, and it might be fun—it would be a way to get out of this inferno. They’d pay for me to follow him on tour. We were talking about hooking up in Paris.”

  “Oh.”

  “Did I say something?”

  “It’s just that, it’s just that I haven’t heard a word and . . .”

  “It’s okay. You’re allowed. Just . . . hey, are you there?”

  “. . . I can’t explain, I mean I can’t and I can’t . . . oh, let’s not get into that. I mean, he still thinks I just left, after that night. I left a message at his office, but . . . and then it was Saturday, I couldn’t call, and he’s out of town. Anyway, by now he’s figured out a way to blame it on me, or he’s feeling too guilty . . .”

  “Guilty? Did you ever confirm the white blood? Maybe it’s Jewish.”

  “The disappearance act sure isn’t Jewish.”

  “Well, maybe he’s Catholic. The blame thing is a black thing. I told you before. It’s cultural.”

  “I’m sick of hearing about the black thing.”

  “Then find yourself a fat Jewish professor. What happened with David Mendelsohn? I told you he was interested in you, not me. He fooled me at first with the fag act, but I had a feeling.”

  “It’s the art world; they’ll go either way if it makes a sale.”

  “No, I think he just does the fag act because it’s easier to pick up girls.”

  “Probably both. I have to have dinner with him before I go to Florida.”

  “Good luck. Anyway, blame and black men—it’s survival.”

  “I know. Actually, though, I can think of several Jewish male blamers.”

  “With the Jews, the blame gets mixed in with their tedious guilt; it’s harder to identify.”

  “Do WASPs blame? I don’t think so.”

  “What’s there to blame? What can go wrong? A stubbed toe? Couldn’t get to Maine this summer? It’s like when a black person says they have no money and they really don’t, but when a white person says it, they actually have at least five thousand in the bank. I’m sure the boulder will touch down.”

  “No, he won’t.”

  “Why? You never know.”

  “No. No, my feeling is you do know. You always know.”

  •

  There was an unpleasant scene with the beauty editor over my grief piece before I left for Florida. Surely she meant well, but when she suggested that I include more details about the funeral home on Madison—did they accept credit cards, what was the average income bracket of the deceased, who was responsible for the fabulous urn that transported the ashes of the dead shoe designer—I snapped, “Who the hell cares?”

  “Okay, forget it!” she hissed back. “Just forget it. If you don’t want to write for the highest-profile women’s magazine in the country, then don’t. Do you know what? Seventy percent of our readers have six-figure incomes! Six-figure incomes! And Ivy League–educated—forty percent! Forty goddamn percent, does that mean anything to you? Does it?”

  No, it didn’t. But I backed down immediately, motivated by pure avarice: I wanted to get paid. I changed the subject. “By the way, I met a friend of yours, you know, through the film I’m doing, well, sort of a film.” I explained.

  “Oh, she’s terrific.”

  “She seems terrific.”

  “Great-looking, too.”

  “Oh, yeah, great.”

  “I’ve missed her at the gym lately. You know what it’s like getting to the gym—and she never usually misses a day. She’s in great shape, isn’t she in great shape? And those big beautiful eyes, you know?”

  “Great shape. Beautiful eyes. So she hasn’t been around?”

  “Oh, no, she’s been in Paris. She lived there for a few years—just moved back.”

  “Funny, she didn’t say anything about leaving last week. And she seemed anxious for me to finish the script. Maybe I can take a few extra days.”

  “I’m trying to remember . . . we worked out together that morning, Thursday, I think. She was going to the airport after she picked up her kid—what a doll he is. I was in such pain through the weekend. Two massages I had to have.”

  •

  I met David Mendelsohn for dinner right after the editing session. I encouraged him to choose the restaurant, so we sat outside in a greener-than-usual cement garden behind a new restaurant in Little Italy where young entrepreneurs were on a development binge, gobbling up properties faster than I could gobble up the oysters David Mendelsohn ordered. We talked business. I recited the results of the show: “Two paintings were sold—not bad for a dying art form. Paintings are so impossible to sell these days, aren’t they?”

  “I think we’re about to see a change,” he assured me. “Painting is coming back,” he continued, leaning forward. “There’s no doubt in my mind.”

  “They were sold to fairly decent collectors,” I added, “and some large drawings were sold”—to friends of mine, but I left that detail out—“and now the dealer is back in town. You never know—a lot can happen in the month after a show.” Except during the month of August, when everyone’s out of town, but I left that part out, too.

  “Absolutely,” David Mendelsohn said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “That’s not bad, not bad at all, why it’s good, very good—for these days.”

  “Oh, and some decent reviews are due to come out in the art magazines, not that anyone reads them.”

  “Not true, not true, that’s absolutely not the case. They read them in Europe,” he assured me. A very reassuring fellow, David Mendelsohn. He refilled my wineglass for emphasis. “No, that’s a definite plus.”

  “But no reviews in the paper. A disappointment.”

  David Mendelsohn agreed. He agreed with everything I said. “I know it’s old-fashioned, but I personally believe it is a dealer’s responsibility, his duty, to buy at least one painting from a gallery artist’s show,” he declared. The first bottle of wine was gone, and his speech was jumbled.

  “That’s nice to hear.” I nodded enthusiastically, wondering why, if that was the case, he hadn’t purchased a painting, perhaps as a vote of confidence, from the show of a freshly anointed gallery artist—or at least scammed a good deal from her studio now that the show was down.

  The second bottle of wine had arrived, and David Mendelsohn continued in a booming voice: “I pay my artists within days of a sale’s conclusion, without fail. Any of my artists will tell you: I never ever wait until I receive payment from collectors—unlike some dealers.” He glanced over at me after this speech and I gave an encouraging nod. “Collectors can be so impossible,” he added, glancing at me again for confirmation.

  “Right. Oh no, thank you, no more wine for me. I’ll fall asleep. I’ve had a long day.”

  “And I want you to know up front that I’m responsible for all the costs of the show—ads, shipping, framing, what have you. You have my word. Travel expenses, your accommodations—you won’t be responsible for a dime.”

  “Great.”

  Granted, David Mendelsohn had a pompous streak, and enhanced by drink it came perilously close to insufferable, but he really wasn’t that bad for an art dealer. I would have liked to lap up his promises, and not so very long ago I might have, but tonight I suggested a contract, spelling out our mutual obligations in cold black ink.

  “So there won’t be any misunderstandings after the show—you know how things get confused after a show,” I said, smiling. “It’s always seemed odd to me that so few dealers believe in contracts.”

  “Isn’t it?” he said, shaking his head. He beckoned to our waitress, who regarded him with a resigned just-another-assho
le expression on her face. He whispered something in her ear, then after she fled, leaned in closer with a lewd grin: “Enough talk about business. Let’s have champagne to celebrate.”

  He gulped down the champagne—I faked gulping—and said how fortunate it was that the heat wave had broken before he returned to Paris. The trip had been very productive, and there’d been some good times partying.

  “Oh, that’s nice.”

  “Reasonably good times,” he repeated in a low voice. “Not quite the kind of partying I’m accustomed to. You understand, I’m sure.”

  “Afraid I don’t party much.” I searched frantically around the garden in an effort to avoid the face that was looming dangerously close to mine. “What a relief this weather is. In fact I’m a bit chilly—I could use a cup of coffee. Where is that waitress?”

  “It’s a perfect night,” he murmured.

  “Where is that waitress?” I repeated. Not that I could really blame her for hiding.

  “Really a perfect night,” he murmured again with a queer gleam in his eye. My smiles were becoming less tolerant—I couldn’t believe this was happening. “A perfect night for . . . wouldn’t you like to get laid tonight?”

  What a peculiar technique, I thought. But maybe I had the wrong idea.

  “Not really.” I laughed nervously and added, “I mean, I’m kind of seeing someone, and he’s away.”

  “Oh, I had no idea,” he said. “Is it serious?”

  “Serious trouble.” I laughed again. “A long-distance relationship. I was up at the magazine closing a piece, and I’m exhausted. And you must be exhausted—all this running around. Aren’t you exhausted? In fact, forget the coffee. I’m too exhausted.”

  I declined his offer to share a cab. “Oh, no, thanks, I don’t want to take you out of your way. Besides, I need to walk, you know, walk off all that rich food.”