Perfect on Paper

by Janet Goss

  His accent was about as authentically Italian as a can of SpaghettiOs. I happened to know the guy had grown up in Bensonhurst; the gallery director had confided in me after downing too many glasses of chablis during an art opening the previous year.

  But Lark’s pleading expression finally got to me. “Well, I guess one glass won’t hurt.” I unlocked the front door and trudged upstairs. Sandro scooped up his conquest and carried her, giggling and squealing, over my threshold.

  “When did all this… happen?” I asked once we were settled in and we’d raised our glasses in a toast.

  “I surprise her,” Sandro said, taking in the humble environment with a pitying smirk. “The divorce, it become final last week. So I come to the home of my beautiful maiden last night, and I swoop her off her feet!”

  Lark beamed and refilled my glass before I could stop her. “Don’t you just love the way he talks?”

  Sandro got up and asked if he might visit my gabinetto. I pointed in its direction, realizing with a sinking heart that I’d hand-washed half the contents of my underwear drawer the night before last. Bras and panties were strung across the length of the bathtub. The guy was in for a real treat.

  Lark came over and hugged me, refusing to let go for what seemed like a week. “I’m sorry we caught you at a bad time. But I just had to come over and share this moment with my mentor!”

  Some mentor, I thought. All I’ve ever done is humor this poor girl. And now look what she’s gotten herself into.

  Then again, maybe it wasn’t too late to start being a mentor. At least I should try.

  “Lark,” I said, “you’ll keep in touch with me, won’t you?”

  “What do you mean? Of course I will.”

  “And if anything—you know—happens with Sandro, I want you to promise you’ll let me know about it right away.”

  She blinked. “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, if things don’t work out…”

  “Of course they’ll work out! We’re married now.”

  “Well, sure, but Sandro was married when he met you.…”

  I watched anger replace the confusion in her eyes. “Sandro would never cheat on me.”

  Sandro’s been in my gabinetto for so long, I think he already has, I silently responded. “I’m sure you’re right, but just in case he does…”

  “He won’t.” She sprang to her feet and stomped over to the bathroom door. “Come on, darling. We’re leaving.”

  “So soon?” he called. “Uh… just give me the one minute, my dearest.”

  Yuck, I thought to myself, making a mental note to burn half the contents of my underwear drawer the instant my guests departed. Could this day get any worse?

  Finally I heard the hinges creak, and Sandro returned to the living room. Lark grabbed her coat, thrust her husband’s jacket into his hands, and pulled him outside, slamming the front door behind her.

  Swell, I thought, shaking my head. Now even my biggest admirer can’t stand me.

  But who could blame her? I couldn’t stand myself, either.

  The results for the crossword tournament were posted on its Web site by the time they left. I’d finished one hundred and thirtieth, which landed me in eighth place among the rookies. Under ordinary circumstances I would have been elated, but now all I felt was rage.

  And guilt. Bucket loads and bucket loads of guilt.

  Hank had promised to call as soon as Gordo and Jolene took off for Mullica Hill, but the light on the answering machine wasn’t blinking, and the only messages on my cell were from an increasingly concerned Elinor Ann. Of course, I’d have to tell him what had happened—her, too—but at least I had a little time to figure out how to go about it.

  I flopped on the bed, staring at the bulletin board on the opposite wall and the Valentine’s card signed, Luv, Eggs. I sighed. Maybe I should have been as dumb as Lark and married Ray. For all I knew, he might still be alive. My whole life would have turned out differently. And then I’d never have made such an awful, selfish mistake with such an awful, selfish man. No—boy. No—bastard.

  Despite my revulsion, I flashed on an image of Billy from the night before, poised above me, and I stopped breathing for a minute.

  I shook my head in disgust. Some mentor I was. Lark was well rid of me.

  The phone rang, and I consulted my watch: It was half past two. Billy was probably still out in Brooklyn, where the final championship round had just concluded, so it was safe to pick up.

  If talking to Hank could be construed as safe.

  “Hello?”

  Click.

  I gaped at the receiver in disbelief before hurling it across the room, where it shattered into pieces just above the bulletin board. Ray’s Valentine’s card tilted forward, then tumbled facedown onto the floor.

  Great. Now even he had given up on me.

  The phone rang again as I was tacking the card back into place, but of course, there was no way to answer it now. I rooted around in my purse for my cell while the answering machine picked up.

  “Hey, darlin’—just wanted to let you know the coast is clear. Jolene and her redneck got out of here about five minutes ago. Oh—and I just went on that crossword Web site to see how you did, and boy, am I impressed. I sure am proud of you, Dana. Can’t wait to see you.”

  “That’s what you think,” I said to the machine before pulling a pillow over my head and curling into the fetal position.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCES

  “You have to tell Hank,” Tom-Tom said over dinner that night.

  “I know.” I sighed. “That’s what Elinor Ann said, too.” Actually, she’d said, “Oh, Dana, do you really have to tell him?” then quickly reversed her position. I’d had the same conversation with myself, ultimately concluding it was the only decent thing to do. I’d had enough of lying and cheating—and my own duplicitous nature—for one lifetime.

  My half brother had come all the way down to the Village once I’d alerted him I had an emergency—and about what had precipitated it. This effectively allowed me to postpone my confession until the following day. I’d told Hank I had no choice but to meet with Tom-Tom that evening; he needed to pick up the Hannah he’d promised to Graciela in advance of their Monday appointment.

  Another lie. What was one more at this point?

  Tom-Tom reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “You don’t know what people are capable of until you put them to the test, sweetie. Honestly, I never expected Dad would be so sanguine when I informed him his namesake was a flaming fairy. Maybe Hank will surprise you.”

  Before I could respond, my cell phone rang. I pulled it out, checked the name on the screen, then returned it to my purse.

  “The youth?”

  I nodded. “For at least the sixth time today.”

  “Well, they are indefatigable at that age.”

  “No kidding. Thirteen letters.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Never mind.”

  “I really think you’re being overly pessimistic about Hank, Dana. Don’t forget—he wasn’t entirely forthcoming with you, either. You didn’t even know his real name until—when? A matter of days ago?”

  “True.” For a moment, his words gave me hope—until I remembered what had taken place in Brooklyn. “But he didn’t fuck a beautiful twenty-five-year-old boy.”

  “Oh, sweetie. If Hank were fucking beautiful twenty-five-year-old boys, then you’d really have cause for concern. Now, have a little faith, and finish your manicotti.”

  Thank god for Gay Daddy, I thought, walking back to Ninth Street. Then again, maybe if my actual daddy had been more involved in my upbringing, Tom-Tom could have just been my big brother. And Ray Daddy could have just been my coworker. And…

  No. Ray had been worth it. Even though we had no future and it could never have lasted, my only regret would have been not going through with it. When someone you love that much loves you back, all you can
say is yes.

  I got home and listened to the messages on my cell phone, deleting the three from Billy the instant I heard his voice.

  The fourth was from Hank.

  “Hey, genius—just hoping you got a second wind after dinner, but I guess you’re still with your brother. Well, you know where to find me. I’ll be up for at least another hour or so.”

  And I’d be up all night, rehearsing what to say to him tomorrow.

  I did my best to keep myself busy the following morning, getting a good jump on the final Hannah I owed Vivian. But by one o’clock, I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer—or the plaintive mea culpas Billy kept repeating every time I checked my voice mail. I called Hank to let him know I was on my way over.

  When I arrived, the brownstone was a hotbed of activity. Plasterers were fanned out on both floors.

  “I didn’t realize it would be so… frenetic around here,” I said.

  “It’s got to be. Pretty much all the surfaces are done, ’cept the walls.”

  I looked into the parlor and up the stairs. Hank was right. The house had really come together over the past few weeks, so gradually I hadn’t realized it until now. All the floors were sanded and stained; the partitions upstairs had long been demolished to re-create the original layout; the bathrooms were glitzy showplaces.

  Hank leaned in to kiss me. I kissed him back, but then I pulled away. “Listen—I have… something I need to tell you.”

  He assessed my expression, which I could only assume was doleful. “This got anything to do with Jolene and Gordo?”

  “Not at all.” Now I felt even worse, if that was possible. His first instinct had been to shoulder the blame for whatever bad news he was about to receive. “Your family’s not the problem—I am.”

  His brows knitted together. “Guess we better talk out back.” He turned and started down the corridor to the little room off the kitchen.

  Stay calm, I instructed myself. Remember what Dad always says: When under pressure, always answer a question with a question.

  When we got inside, Hank shut the door and turned to face me. “This is about that guy you were with last weekend, isn’t it?”

  “How’d you know?” I said, before realizing that the question I should have answered his question with was, “What guy?”

  But it was too late.

  “I didn’t know,” he said, averting his eyes. “I do now.”

  “Hank, I—I made a terrible mistake. I wish I could undo it. I wish…”

  But what else was there to say? No words could justify my behavior.

  He looked at his feet, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “I don’t know, Dana. Last month you’re crying over a dead boyfriend. Now you got a live one, too. Anybody else I should know about?”

  “It isn’t like that. I’m not—”

  Yes it was. Yes I was.

  Then he did something I could never have anticipated. Still refusing to meet my eyes, he began to unbutton my shirt.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Show me what he did to you.”

  “What?”

  “Show me. How did it start?”

  Despite my trepidation, I was becoming dizzy with arousal. “He… put my legs around his waist.…”

  “Like this?”

  It went on for hours, just as it had with Billy. But this was different. This was hostile sex. For which I had no one to blame but myself, of course.

  Although “blame” was hardly the correct word. More than once I found myself biting on the quilt to stifle a scream—of pleasure, not terror. I really was shameless. If Hank thought he was punishing me, my responses made it obvious he’d failed in his mission.

  Or was he trying to show me what I’d be missing out on from this day forward?

  “I do love you, you know,” I said, once it was over—even though it had become glaringly obvious to me I didn’t know the meaning of the word.

  “Yeah, well.” He was still looking anywhere but into my eyes.

  “Hank, is this—it? Did I ruin everything?”

  He shrugged and reached for his clothes. “You’re going to have to give me some time to figure that one out.”

  “Well… you know how to get hold of me,” I said, slipping on my jeans.

  “Yeah, well…” He opened the bedroom door. “Guess everybody else does, too.”

  Ouch.

  I walked into the kitchen, where Dinner regarded me solemnly from his kennel, then through the corridor and out the front door, past a sea of smirking workmen.

  “I suppose it could have been worse,” Elinor Ann said as I made my way home up Avenue A. “He could have just thrown you out.”

  “I think he just did. But first he had to—”

  What was that all about, anyway?

  “I guess he had to mark his territory,” I surmised. “You know—the way dogs have to pee all over their neighborhood.”

  “Please—whatever you do, don’t mention pee.”

  “Still?”

  “The vet said Lurch should be house-trained any day now, as long as we stick to the walking schedule.” She hesitated. “Dana? Maybe this would be a good weekend for you to come visit. You know—see the puppy, get away from all… that. Them.”

  “I don’t know. If Hank decides he’s ready to talk, maybe I should be in town.”

  I turned the corner onto Ninth Street and jumped when I found myself looking into the eyes of the meanest woman I’d ever seen. She was the subject of a formal portrait—a very old one, based on the weathered, ornate frame—that had been set out with the trash for tomorrow morning’s pickup.

  “Elinor Ann, you wouldn’t believe what I just found.” I described the photograph.

  “Who would throw out an ancestor? That’s terrible. Bad karma, too.”

  “If this was your ancestor, you’ve probably got worse things to worry about than incurring the wrath of a dead woman. Like how to pay for your nose job, for starters.” I picked up the portrait. “I’m taking her home with me.”

  “Why? She sounds creepy.”

  “She is, but… maybe I can do something with her.”

  Or with the frame, I concluded after I’d been in my apartment for about ten minutes. The woman’s steely gaze was undeniably unsettling, as if she were saying, “I know what you did, you unscrupulous miscreant. See you in hell.”

  I turned the picture around so it faced the wall and went to check my email. As I’d expected, there was one from Billy, with “Please, please read this” in the subject line:

  Dana—I don’t even know where to begin, other than to tell you how sorry I am, but you’ve probably heard my messages by now and already know that.

  The thing is, I didn’t know my—our—puzzle was going to be in the tournament at all. Not until after I’d paid your entry fee. Turns out the one they’d planned to use had a repeated word in the grid, and no amount of tweaking could get rid of either one of them. When they asked if they could use mine—ours—as a last-minute substitute, I agreed, never dreaming you’d be battling for a spot in the top hundred.

  And I apologize if that sounds like I wrote you off in advance, but some of those hard-core competitors can coast through one of my Saturday puzzles in minutes. I had you pegged for a respectable top-third finish.

  Which is still no excuse for not telling you until Sunday morning.

  But if I’d told you earlier, I might have missed out on Saturday night.

  Come to think of it, I don’t regret what I did at all. You were so, so worth it.

  Come to think of it, yes, I do. Because now I’ll never get the chance to be with you again.

  But if you could just forgive me for being such a selfish, thoughtless asshole, that would at least be something.

  Love (and I’m not just saying that),

  Billy

  Despite my anger and remorse, I couldn’t help but go a little gooey when I got to the part about Saturday night. Billy’s shirt—the one I’d borrowe
d on Sunday to conceal the sweater I’d been wearing Saturday—still hung from the bedpost. I picked it up and breathed in his scent.

  Maybe, seeing as how I’d already screwed things up so disastrously with Hank…

  Maybe I should pick up a damn paintbrush and get back to work.

  But before I did, maybe I’d put Billy out of his misery.

  Message received. Apology accepted. And you’re not the only party who’s at fault here. (Or, truth be told, thought Saturday night was so, so worth it.)

  But now I really need you to back off. I paid a very high price for the transgression.

  Sincerely,

  Dana

  I read it over, deleted the sentence referring to Saturday night, hit Send, and went into the kitchen to finish the final Hannah.

  “Well, halle-fucking-lujah,” Vivian said when I walked in with the painting Tuesday afternoon. “Thought I’d be dead by the time you turned up with that thing.” She was surrounded by cardboard boxes.

  “What’s all this?”

  “My picker down in Tampa hit the eighties mother lode.” She slit open one of the cartons and pulled out a hideous sequined jacket in a zebra print, fashioned from thousands of glittering paillettes. “Bob Mackie. How Alexis Carrington can you get?”

  “Are your customers actually going to… purchase this stuff?”

  “The decade’s having a bit of a moment in the clubs these days. And of course the drag queens will pounce on anything they can squeeze into.”

  I gave the jacket another look, and an idea began to germinate. “Do you mind if I borrow that for a little while?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  “And how about some necklaces? Is any of that sixties costume jewelry still around?”

  In response, she opened a drawer of the flat file used to store accessories. “I definitely overestimated the market for this crap. Pile it on. The pig will look fabulous in that getup.”

  But it wouldn’t be the pig this time.

  I went upstairs and laid the portrait of the evil ancestor on the bed, where I positioned the jacket and necklaces on top of her. It was high time she received a makeover.