Kennington's kitchen, though small, was very fancy. It had Carrara marble countertops, polished birch cabinets, a Sub-Zero fridge, and Thermador ovens. It had a clever little revolving cabinet in the corner, and pullout spice racks, and a disposal, into which Kennington was at the moment furiously scraping stale vegetable mousses and celery ends. Periodically he would switch the thing on, so that its roar might further abstract his and Joseph's conversation, already muted, for Tushi and her young man, by the voice of Billie Holiday, the scratchy sinuous tonalities of a blues band.
"I'm telling you," Joseph was saying, "you've got to call the police. To protect yourself."
"And I'm telling you there's no need."
"Are you kidding? Don't you remember what happened to that girl, that actress, in California? Or Versace, for God's sake."
"Joseph, listen to me. You are overreacting. There's no reason to think—"
"Easy for you to say, when it's my apartment he was prowling around in. And God knows what else he pawed over."
"Please give me some credit as a judge of character. Paul's not like that."
"Then why did he steal that picture?"
"I don't know. He admires me. Anyway, stealing a picture doesn't mean he's packing a revolver."
"I'm not saying it does. I'm just saying you can't be too careful these days,"
Kennington thrust a bowl under the tap, scrubbed at it, put it in the dishwasher.
"I hope you realize I'm only bringing all this up because I want to protect you," Joseph went on. "Because I'm worried about you."
"Are you?"
"Why else would I make such a fuss?"
"I don't know. Maybe because you're jealous."
"Do I have reason to be jealous?"
"No."
"Good."
"Still, that hasn't stopped you before."
"Wait a minute. This isn't about jealousy. It's about the fact that clearly you became much more involved with these people than you've let on, otherwise that demented woman would never have—"
"Pamela's not demented. She's in the middle of a divorce. And anyway, she's not Paul."
"They could be working together. They could—"
"Will you keep your voice down? None of this is their fault. If it's anyone's fault, it's mine."
"So you did sleep with him. Was he underage?"
"That never stopped you."
"And what about the picture? If he was underage..."
"I don't know. Jesus, it's just a snapshot, Joseph. It was days before you even noticed it was missing, and now you're acting like he committed grand larceny." Kennington breathed shakily. "I'll say this one last time. Paul Porterfield is a perfectly decent, somewhat naive boy who—"
Joseph laughed. "You can really be so naive sometimes—"
"Don't talk to me like that."
"That boy really took you for a ride, didn't he? He had you thinking he was Little Mary Sunshine. Didn't it ever occur to you it might be a tactic?"
"Did it ever occur to you that not everyone in the world is out to get something?"
Joseph grimaced. "There's no way around it. I have to tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"He did it to me too."
"Did what?"
"Came on to me." Joseph hesitated, as liars are inclined to do. "Of course I knew better than to take him up on it—"
Kennington stepped back. He laughed.
"I've only kept it from you to protect you. But now we have to face facts. After he turned pages for Thang that evening, he stuck around."
"Joseph—"
"It was hard to get rid of him. And I'm sure we're not the only ones. A boy like that never barks up just one tree. Later, I saw him at a concert. I introduced him to Harry Moore. For all I know Harry might—"
"I don't want to hear this."
"You have to. You're not a child anymore. Today you're forty. You've got to accept that people will try to use you."
"Do you have to be so loud?" Hurrying toward the sink, Kennington switched on the disposal.
"Oh, so it's going to be that again, is it?" Joseph yelled over the noise. "The disposal game?"
"No."
"You're too old for that now. Too old—"
"Please shut up. Can't you shut up?"
Joseph was silent. Crossing the room very calmly, he switched off the disposal, so that once again the voice of Billie Holiday penetrated into the kitchen.
Oh my man I love him so,
he'll never know
all my life is just despair
but I don't care...
In the living room, Tushi leaned her head into the young man's shoulder. "I hope they're all right," she said.
"I'm sure there's nothing to worry about," he answered, nuzzling her ear.
Again, the disposal switched on.
Nothing to worry about, Tushi repeated to herself.
And they continued dancing.
21
THE TAXI had dropped Pamela off, and she was once again alone on a sidewalk, in a neighborhood—if this was possible—even more sinister than Kennington's. Dirty buildings rose up around her, the bricks gaudy under yellow streetlamps. A homeless woman, wrapped in cardboard and blankets, lay asleep on Paul's stoop, while near the corner several boys, their jeans drooping at the buttocks, stared at her, legs restless as they shuffled amid the dirty snow heaps. One of them held a boom box from which dance music pulsed like a faint and harrowing heartbeat.
They were staring at her, not so much malevolently as assessingly, which was perhaps worse.
Picking up her suitcase, she stepped carefully over the sleeping pile of blankets and rang Paul's bell. Instantly the door clicked open, for which she was grateful; just as quickly she let herself through and shut it behind her, causing the glass pane to rattle so loudly she feared it might break. But it didn't. Safe, for the moment, she breathed. The corridor was narrow, lit by a popover-shaped lighting fixture inside of which several insect corpses reclined. The walls smelled of smoke, of unwashed hair.
Footsteps sounded overhead. She could hear the loud tripping of boyish feet taking the stairs three at a time. Then two faces were laughing in front of hers. One of them she recognized as belonging to Teddy Moss. The other reminded her, inexplicably, of a chipmunk.
"Teddy!" she cried in relief, and kissed him. "Oh, it's so good to see you, sweetheart!"
"Good to see you too, Mrs. Porterfield. This is my friend, Bobby Newman."
"Pleased to meet you, Bobby."
"Likewise, I'm sure."
"Well, shall we? I'm afraid there's no elevator."
"That's all right, I'm strong."
"Let me take your suitcase," Bobby said as they started climbing. "That's a pretty perfume. Wait, let me guess. L'Air du Temps, right?"
"In fact it is. My, you've got a good nose."
"I know my fragrances," Bobby said. "Especially the classics. I always prefer the classics. For instance, have you tried the new Chanel? Allure? My feeling is that it's too—"
"Bobby," Teddy said, "I don't think Mrs. Porterfield wants to talk about perfume right now."
"Actually, I don't mind."
They had reached the third landing, where Bobby put down the suitcase.
"My, this is bracing," Pamela said. "How many more floors do we have to go?"
"Only three. Paul's not here yet, though we expect him any minute."
"Teddy, I hope I'm not making trouble for you all, showing up like this."
"It's no trouble."
"I'm glad. I just hope that Paul won't ... well, you know, it probably does cramp a young man's style, having his mother just appear out of the blue."
"Here we are," Teddy said, unlatching the door. "I'm afraid it's nothing splendid. Still, it's home."
"Oh, it's ... lovely," Pamela said. The apartment, from what she could see, consisted of a long corridor off of which several rooms opened. The first of these, to which the door was closed, was Teddy's bedroom, he explained
. The second was the kitchen. The third was the living room, which Paul's bedroom adjoined. The fourth was the bathroom.
"And speaking of the bathroom, might I—"
"Of course." Bobby opened the door for her.
"Thanks." She stepped inside. It was the tiniest bathroom she'd ever been in, with a sink the size of a piece of stationery. Rough lengths of Scotch tape framed a yellowing patch on the wall, as if a poster had just been taken down. What might it have depicted?
Having peed and fixed her make-up, Pamela rejoined Bobby and Teddy in the living room. This was a square about ten by ten, furnished with a sofa draped in Indian bedspreads, a large television, and several plywood bookcases. Three windows lined the far wall, all locked and grated, looking out onto a fire escape across the way from which, in another living room, a fat girl was watching I Love Lucy and smoking.
"Well, this certainly is a far cry from Menlo Park," Pamela said, sitting down.
"Mrs. Porterfield," Teddy said, "I hope you won't mind my asking you this, but if you happen to speak to my mother, would you try not to worry her too much? About the apartment, I mean. She's never been to New York, so she has no idea how little a thousand dollars a month gets you."
"You pay a thousand dollars a month for this?" Pamela hadn't known, as it was Kelso who paid Paul's half of the rent.
"That's a bargain for two bedrooms," Bobby threw in. "Would you like some herbal tea, Mrs. Porterfield? Fruit juice? Water?"
"No thanks." She crossed her legs. "I hope Paul's all right."
"I'm sure he's fine. In fact"—Teddy cocked his ear—"I suspect that's him now."
Indeed, the door was unbolting. Pamela stood.
A few seconds later Paul walked in, looking flustered and pale.
"Hi, Paul."
"Hi, Teddy."
Bobby coughed significantly.
"Oh, Paul, this is Bobby. I guess you two haven't met."
"A pleasure," Bobby said, taking Paul's hand.
"A pleasure," Paul repeated.
He did not look at his mother.
"Paul?" she said after a second.
"Teddy, would you and Bobby mind leaving my mother and me alone for a little while?"
"Of course not. In fact, we were just on our way out."
"We're going to Coney Island tonight," Bobby added.
"Have fun, boys. Be safe."
Gathering up their coats, they left.
"You boys certainly do keep late hours," Pamela remarked, sitting down again.
"What are you doing here?"
"That's no way to talk—"
"I asked you a question. What are you doing here?"
"I decided I wanted to see my son. Is there anything wrong with that?"
"So you got on a plane, flew to New York, and went to Kennington's apartment? To see me?"
"You're never home."
"Christ, Mother, what were you thinking, just showing up there? How did you even get his address?"
"Never mind how I got his address." She took a tissue from her purse. "We need to talk, Paul."
"All right, what? And I hope you don't think I'm staying all night. As it happens I was in the middle of a very enjoyable dinner party when you called, and it's my full intention to be back at it within half an hour. So you'd better start, because according to my calculations you've only got"—he checked his watch—"twenty-two minutes."
"Oh, Paul, for God's sake."
Again, he looked at his watch.
"Aren't you going to sit down, at least? Aren't you going to take off your coat?"
"You've just wasted another minute."
"Paul, I can't believe you're treating me—" She arched her back. "Oh, all right, have it your way. I'm here because I know what's going on between you and that man, and I've come to put a stop to it."
"What man?"
"Don't pretend with me. You know who I'm talking about."
"No, I don't."
She pushed back her hair. "All right, if I have to spell it out for you, I will. Richard Kennington. I know what's going on between you and Richard Kennington."
"But nothing's going on between me and Richard Kennington."
"I may not be a woman of the world, honey, but I'm not naive. And you don't live half your life within spitting distance of San Francisco without becoming aware of ... homosexuals."
"Oh, Jesus—"
"I mean, probably I should have seen the signs from the beginning, you know, that he wasn't married, that he knew all about clothes and hairdressers. Only I suppose, well, I suppose I didn't want to. I was so unhappy myself, after your father left, that I preferred to believe ... And he took advantage of it. He took advantage of both of us."
"Christ." Sitting down, Paul cupped his head in his hands.
"I didn't really put two and two together until Christmas, when you—"
"You have misunderstood everything, again. It's your goddamned French exam, again."
"How? What have I misunderstood?"
He looked up. "I haven't seen Richard since Rome. I haven't even talked to Richard since Rome. Didn't he tell you that?"
"Of course he did. To protect himself."
"You assume. Assume makes an ass of you and me. You told me that. You."
"But if you haven't seen him since Rome, where did the picture come from?"
"What picture?"
"The one you had at Christmas. The one he signed to you."
"What are you telling me, that you went through my suitcase?"
"I was terribly, terribly worried, sweetheart, after you said you were going to quit the piano. And then when I found the picture, everything suddenly made sense. That was why I went to his apartment. To get you away from him."
"Jesus, you have really fucked things up this time."
"Don't talk to me in that tone of voice, young man. I'm your mother—"
"Oh, be quiet—"
"And no matter how grown-up you may feel, the fact remains, you're eighteen years old. There are things you don't understand."
"Look, why don't you just go away? You're a walking disaster, you know that? The best thing you could do is just go home, get on with your life, and leave me alone."
"Don't say that!"
"And don't cry!"
"I can't help it. I come here to help you, and you treat me like—"
"I don't need your help. You need help."
"It's horrible, I might as well just ... kill myself, just go over to that window and throw myself out. Then you'll be rid of me, you and your father and Richard—"
"Don't be so melodramatic."
"All I am to anyone is trouble. That's all I am to myself, even."
Standing up, Paul took off his coat and walked to the window. Through the grates, in the square realm of his neighbor's television, Lucy was struggling with a round of pizza dough.
Eventually he turned. His mother was perched like a bird on the extreme edge of the sofa.
"All right, look. I'm going to explain this once. Not because I owe it to you—I don't—but because I don't want you going home with the wrong impression."
"Thank you, Paul. I'm listening."
"First of all, that picture isn't mine. It belongs to Joseph, to Mr. Mansourian."
"But then how—"
"I stole it, all right?"
Silence, for a moment. "Why did you steal it?"
"Because I wanted it. Because I liked it. Because I was pissed off at Richard for dumping us in Rome. It was a stupid thing to do and I shouldn't have done it, but there it is. Also, Joseph never noticed, he has so many pictures of him already."
"He does?"
"And the only reason 1 have Richard's address and phone number is because I copied it out of Joseph's Rolodex. I've never been to Richard's apartment and I haven't talked to him. Not since Rome."
Sitting very still, Pamela removed the ring from her left index finger, twisted it several times, replaced it on her right index finger.
"And yet in Rome, som
ething did happen between you, didn't it?" she asked after a moment.
Paul was silent.
Suddenly she stood and tried to embrace him. "Oh, I knew it! I knew it! So not only did he take advantage of your admiration for him, your reverence of him—"
"He didn't take advantage of me. Don't! I was perfectly conscious of what I was doing."
"Then why did he run away like a coward?"
"I don't know. Maybe it had nothing to do with us. He's an artist, and artists can't be held to the same standards—"
"Did he tell you that?"
"No, he did not."
"Being an artist doesn't justify lying."
"What, you wanted him to say, 'Mrs. Porterfield, I'm having an affair with your son, I hope you don't mind'?"
"No, not to me. Lying to you."
"He never lied to me."
"Then what did he tell you about that man? That Mansourian, or whatever his name is."
"Mother, Joseph is Richard's agent."
"Also."
"Also!"
He looked at her, his brow furrowed.
After a moment, he sat down. She sat next to him. He was studying with great intensity the patterns in the Indian bedspread that covered the sofa.
Then: "You didn't see it, did you?" Pamela said.
"Maybe I didn't let myself see it."
"Honey, I'm sorry. If I'd realized—"
"But it all makes perfect sense, doesn't it? An idiot could have put the pieces together."
"Not necessarily. You're young. Maybe you have to be my age before you can recognize a lie."
"But I should have. It was so obvious."
"Sweetheart, I just feel so bad, I just want to hug you ... only I suppose ... Oh, damn all that." And she hugged him.
He did not resist.
After a few minutes he pulled away from her. "It's late," he said. "You can sleep in my room."
"Oh, that's sweet of you, darling, but I'd just as soon find a hotel."
"At this hour?"
"Well ... on second thought, maybe you're right. Only I refuse to throw you out of bed. I'll sleep here, on the couch."
"Don't be silly, Mother. Come on." And he led her into his room, where the shades were drawn, the writing implements tidy on the desk.
Page Turner Pa Page 16
