He hailed a cab and gave it his address, to which Charlene responded with a satisfied, thin smile. Clay stared out the window as they neared his place, then paid the driver. Charlene waited for him to extend a hand, then climbed out of the cab herself, sorely put-upon.
“So what’s this grave catastrophe of yours?” he said once they were inside and he’d shed his tie.
“May I have a drink, please?” He despised that pout; no doubt in thirty years he’d still be able to describe it perfectly. Surely the world was filled with people more like Louey than like Charlene; he’d just had bad luck finding them. Fixing Charlene a Scotch, he handed her the glass and lit her outstretched cigarette obligingly. She inhaled, shaking smooth hair off her neck, and settled back as if recovering from a journey. “Well, I’ve just been treated wretchedly, that’s all. I’ve been—disposed of.” She eyed him as if daring him to come to her defense.
“You mean dumped?”
“Please.” She took a long drink and several melodramatic puffs on her cigarette.
“Well, everyone gets dumped, Charlene. You even dumped me, remember?”
“Clayton.” She shook her head. “I thought we’d put all that behind us. You should be over me by now.”
He laughed. “You’re right, Charlene, I should be—and guess what? I am. Now what has this got to do with your big problem? You were nearly hysterical on the phone.”
“You don’t think it means anything that someone I’ve been dating for two years should up and discard me like an old mink coat?”
Heightened emotion made her face quite vivid, prettier than usual. How could someone so lovely be so dull? “Well, it’s a jungle out there, Char.” He downed his drink and made himself another. “So that’s the reason for the call, to tell me this?”
“As if it weren’t enough,” she sniffed. “You’d obviously prefer even worse things happen to me.”
“But what’s it got to do with me, Charlene? What is it you want me to do about it?” He didn’t know why he’d been so stupid as to bring her here; now he would have to come up with some excuse to make her leave.
“I just don’t want to be alone tonight,” she said.
He stared at her. She looked at him in earnest; she couldn’t see a thing wrong with what she was asking. “Charlene—”
“Now don’t get all mean, not to me, tonight. I’ve had an awful day.”
“Charlene, you can’t seriously expect that after you and I have hardly spoken three words to each other over the last five years, you should snap your fingers and expect me to—”
“Clay, I’m very unhappy.” A tear coursed down her cheek; she had no shame. This was too much. “Please, Clay, just let me stay with you tonight.”
“No.” He turned to make another drink, and she rose off the couch, draping herself around him from behind and licking his ear. “Jesus!” He moved away, angry to find himself responding even slightly. “Cut it out!”
“You’re lonely, too,” she said. “I can tell. And you know we were always good together.” She swept her hand across the front of him, brushing his crotch; he flung himself across the room, eyes blazing.
“Cut it out now, Charlene.” He knew he looked insane; this was ridiculous. He didn’t want her shallow, mindless self. “Co home and find yourself another nursemaid.”
“I know you want to.” She smiled, brushing a fine strand off her forehead. He tried to look menacing but couldn’t hide or will away his arousal, looming like part of some completely unrelated body. He felt only contempt for her, but her caresses had been sure; she knew his body better than her own, and it had been too long since anyone had touched him.
“Give me a break, Charlene,” he said. “I’m not a robot, but I’m not about to sleep with you. It’s very sad your boyfriend dumped you, but you can’t stay here. I don’t have a thing to offer you.” At the sight of her smirk, his desire subsided, happily, and he regained a grip on his emotions. “Be reasonable, honey, you’ll find someone else,” he added more gently. He turned to put her glass in the sink. Before he knew it, she was kneeling at his feet, her arms around his legs. He was mortified. “Jesus, Charlene, pull yourself together.” He tried to raise her to her feet, but she went slack. Then, when he bent to help her, she unzipped his pants and reached inside. Before it had dawned on him what she was doing, she had taken him into her mouth. “Christ—!” he swore, and tried to extricate himself, but she soon followed, expert as she’d always been. To catch his breath, he leaned against the sink; then, looking at her, he felt his will evaporate. It was hopeless. He would pay for this, he knew. Louey’s face came floating before his eyes and he knocked Charlene’s head against him in self-loathing and excitement. Then he came, despairing, and covered his face. The last thing he wanted was to spend another minute with this woman. But as she rose, brushing her breasts against the front of him, he knew he would do everything she asked.
After not quite a month of Charlene, vermouth, and a hint of lime, Clay decided it was time to start looking for a woman he could enjoy while sober. The perfection of Charlene’s body only emphasized the emptiness it encased; she’d been a fitting complement to his post-Louey phase, but once he snapped out of his minor coma, he had no excuse to keep seeing her.
To his surprise, meeting new people turned out to be far easier than he’d expected. Soon he was socializing with a vengeance. One immediate result of this was pure poetic justice: Charlene met somebody at a party they attended and left Clay for him. Now all he had to do was find someone to take his mind off Louey.
He often thought of calling her, but never got past picking up the phone. What would be the point? Even if she conceded that the situation had been stupid all around, she’d never care for or desire him. What had prompted him to choose such an unlikely object for his affection? He must be insane.
One day he got a letter from her office, followed by a pile of revised pages from his manuscript, which Kevin had discovered cleaning out her desk. He couldn’t believe she’d left her job! Well, that took care of that, he thought; she’d quit and hadn’t even tried to call him. There went the lingering possibility of getting his book finished, much less published: Bright Lights, Dead Pussy, he thought grimly. What if they’d had a formal contract, he wondered, instead of just the hope of one? He flipped through several sections, catching glimpses of her scrawl, and had to put the pages back inside the box, the force of his reaction startling him. He poured himself a Scotch, toasting the now-defunct manuscript, but put the glass down without touching it, his hands shaking slightly. In a sudden burst of inspiration, he emptied the trash can next to his typewriter and lit a sheet, igniting the pile of manuscript pages with a feeling of perverse satisfaction at the theatricality of his gesture.
The next week he went out and got himself a job playing piano at a quirky late-night restaurant. This was easy: he could be like every other trendy pseudo-artist in Manhattan, he thought. Playing gave him pleasure, but though strangers spoke to him easily and often, he could hardly bring himself to see them as potential lovers, friends, companions. Night after night he let music enfold him. It was a strange relief to feel so empty, unattached.
The depths to which he’d sunk became apparent when Clay found himself accepting dinner at his father’s house. Although he sensed a setup in the making, he could hardly bring himself to care. Sure enough, his stepmother opened the door (his father had never seemed to feel the need to open a door in his life) and steered him toward a tall, dark, handsome woman, who took his hand in greeting. Her name was Brooke, it turned out, and she was an associate at his father’s firm. She was intelligent, he had to give his father credit—as substantial as Charlene was frivolous. He almost enjoyed talking with her (despite the gleam in his father’s eye), but though he felt himself responding to her charm, he couldn’t imagine spending time alone with her. So many men and women his own age seemed wholly without whimsy, he’d discovered, so unswerving in the pursuit of goals that it was hard to picture their
ever having been children. His father alluded to his future—giving up the vagabond’s life, a brief foray at law school, and then instant partnership—but for once he didn’t press, no doubt owing to the presence of his lovely guest.
After several hours of dining pleasure, Clay wondered how to end the evening; he was clearly expected to squire Brooke home, or at least to ask her out, a prospect he didn’t view with much enthusiasm. He was being rude to her, he knew. He was equally unfair to women whom he met at work, at parties: nice ones, women smart enough to be involved with, but never anyone he could feel inclined to see again. It didn’t seem quite right to waste the time of some nice, normal person when all he really wanted was to be with one small oddball. See you later, Pops, he thought. Bidding an abrupt good night, he ignored Clayton’s obvious displeasure at his failure to take conclusive action. Sorry, I’ve got to go home and carry a torch for a dyke, he thought as Brooke smoothly got her things and left with him. As they rode the elevator in silence, he strained to think of something light to put her off. She surprised him, saying, “My car’s outside. I’ll drop you.”
Who had a car in New York City? he thought, falling in beside her. Her decisiveness was impressive; he was almost curious to see what she would do with him.
Instead of asking where he lived, she drove him to her place—luxurious and immaculately furnished, he soon learned. Why he’d been silent, simply following her lead, he couldn’t say. As long as there were women to take charge of things, he supposed he’d never have to make a move. Was this the way the world worked, really—was the notion that men were the ones in charge pure myth?
Impassively he watched as she made drinks, then slipped out of her clothes as casually as if she were preparing for a bath in total solitude. He took in the well-formed body as he sipped his drink. She sat down next to him, kissing his neck, then worked the buttons of his shirt with expert hands. (He felt as if he were some large device she was employing for her own release.) Surely they could do better than this, he thought, and willed himself to fondle her, caressing her smooth skin (though in truth he felt more genuine enthusiasm for the drink set to one side of her). Rising slightly off the couch, he let her slip his pants off, brushing her shoulders as her hands moved across him smoothly. Finally she lowered herself onto him. Hearing himself cry out, he put his arms around her, stroking her cool back. The sound of her soft breathing echoed in his ears as she moved over him. Whatever they were doing seemed to go on for a very long time.
The next day Clay walked across the Brooklyn Bridge at dawn, watching the skyline of the city change. So many people were awake early he felt as if he’d happened upon another universe, one that went on all around him as he splashed about in a tiny corner like a child, oblivious. The air was hushed and slightly damp; his feet protested slightly as he walked through Brooklyn Heights until he reached the Promenade.
He sat down on a bench as joggers passed and women in Reeboks and business suits walked dogs. Putting down his things, he gazed across the water at the view of downtown Manhattan, serenely beautiful in the morning light.
I hate Louey, he thought suddenly. He couldn’t fathom her complete abandonment of him; it didn’t seem within her nature.
A group of teenage girls ogled him. He sighed: he’d write a wry, insulting letter; that would do the trick. Yawning, he rose and made his way down to the subway. “Dear Heartless Bitch”—no, that was far too understated. He’d show her he wasn’t some lump who pined for women with no use for him—no matter what their sexual persuasion. “Sincerely and with tragically misplaced affection,” he thought, getting on a train.
Changing his clothes, Clay ran around the reservoir in Central Park, gritting his teeth each time a woman passed him. He should be in better shape than this, he thought; and why should women passing him make him feel so inferior? No doubt it meant deep down he thought he should be better than they were at whatever he might do. Another flaw, he thought—offending people right and left. A gay man eyed him curiously, as if he’d spoken. Clay thought of asking for advice about this lesbian he knew, but luckily the man had passed before he had the chance.
After half an hour he gave up, hobbling away from the energetic horde. He should go and work on his book, but he was damned if he could bring himself to write when Louey couldn’t even get herself to speak his name. He threw himself down on a park bench, next to someone’s grandmother. After several moments, he began to notice that the conversation she was having was with him. “I’m sure your children love you,” he said once she’d mentioned what was troubling her.
“Young people,” she went on, “all they think about today is making money. Selfish.” She sighed loudly, watching several teenage boys in running gear pass, arguing. “What do you do for a living?”
I’m the coroner, he nearly said. “I’m a musician.” Where had that come from?
“I was a singer when I was a girl.” He stared at her. “Before the Nazis came.” She clucked her tongue.
Clay thought of how he’d heard his father tell his mother he wouldn’t be a Jew “for all the money in the world.” (It had seemed odd to Clay, as if it were a fate something as simple as money could arrange.) His father hated everyone, he’d realized early on: poor people, women, men “who might as well be women,” “niggers.” (The word still made Clay’s chest tight, as it had when he was a boy, though at the time he hadn’t quite known why.) How could someone like that be his father? he’d thought. What if he grew up to be just like him?
“At least in New York City people let each other be,” he mentioned to the woman. In New York you could walk down any street and hear ten different languages, not one of them English. Black faces mixed with Asian, Latin, white ones from around the globe. It was a marvel—where else could the product of so many different lands mix in one place?
“The blacks, they hate the Jews,” the woman said. “The Puerto Ricans hate the black ones, too.”
“Not everyone.” It pained Clay when he came upon dissension among people he had hoped would be more sensitive than he. Well, he had one small problem now himself: gay people.
“Ach, America.” The woman gazed off into the distance, and Clay looked with her.
When he’d met Mia years ago, he’d started noticing gay men—gay women were far harder to pick out—somehow both intrigued and put off by the air of insulation they projected, angry self-protection, proud defiance. When he’d gotten to know Louey, some of the strangeness had worn off: her world seemed private, magical, a family that lived underground but snuck out every night to play. He’d almost envied her for being different, even for having to fight to prove what she was.
Now suddenly he found himself consumed with hatred for the very thing he had admired. Why the fuck did she have to be gay; why couldn’t she want him, like other women? Would it have killed her? Would loving him have been so goddamned horrible?
He had nothing to be proud of, he knew that: his lordly, stupidly oblivious background, his shiftless life. He hated the intolerance that had overtaken him, as if before his very eyes he was fulfilling his worst fears, turning into his father. He remembered fleetingly how he’d once wanted to be black; it seemed ironic now.
Well, he loved her. He thought about the friend he’d laughed with, teased, and fallen for, though surely all the physical insanity would soon have passed. He loved her. Even as he clung to newfound bigotry as if his life depended on it, it made him happy just to think of something she had said, some teasing, silly conversation. He loved her; it was the worst thing he had ever done.
After a shower and some hours of lying on his bed composing letters, Clay went down to get his mail. Along with several bills and six requests for money was a postcard of a surly, nude young man whose name appeared to be “Kept Boy.” Next to his blond head was the caption: “‘Not another goddamned Mercedes,’ he whined.”
Clay turned it over, feeling slightly dizzy. “Glad to hear the wife’s hair is beginning to grow back after that nasty led
erhosen incident,” he read. “Too bad you couldn’t both have been here for the firing.” He blinked, feeling a strange sensation in his chest. “Hope you’re hard at work. (Any chance I can get you to rewrite the character of the bitch editor your hero murders? I know, wishful thinking.) Miss your tawdry face. Best to the little ones.” Clay stood in the middle of his lobby, staring at the card until the doorman came and asked if there was anything he wanted.
“No,” he said. Nothing worth mentioning.
Louey unpacked the last of her boxes, filling one corner of the shelves in the small office. Taking a folder from the pile across her desk, she began to hang up photographs and cartoons to give the room a warmer, lived-in look. In the midst of hanging up a poster, she heard a sound and looked down from the chair she was standing on to see the smiling face of her new boss. She started to step down.
“No, go on with what you’re doing,” the woman stopped her. Gloria was nearly as young as she was, tanned from a business trip out West. “I see you’re making yourself at home,” she went on. “We’re glad you’re here.”
“Thank you.” Louey smiled at her. It was odd not having to be tense whenever her boss came into a room. At this new office, everyone was friendly, casual.
“Agents have been calling to tell me what a catch we got,” Gloria added, handing her a pushpin.
“They live to flatter.”
“They think they’re telling me something I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Well, give a holler if you need anything I haven’t thought of. The phones should be connected by tomorrow; your business cards will take a little longer.”
“Thanks.” But tell me, she wanted to ask, when is this elated mood of mine going to fade?
She’d met the editor in chief of one of the few existing civilized publishing houses at a dinner party that an agent friend had thrown; to her surprise, Gloria was not only smart and sane, she even liked Louey. Louey went through the next weeks in shock: she was being courted by a reputable publisher, she might even get a decent job! The thought was overwhelming.
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