by Susan Conley
Annabelle shook her head and sat back in her seat. “No way!” she cried, and a homeless guy, pushing his shopping trolley down the aisle, agreed. “No frickin’ way!” he hollered. The only connection between The Irish Guy and herself was Kelli, and no way could she imagine that Maria Grazia, much less Lorna, would kick off some master plan between the three of them.
The homeless guy turned to her as she rose to get off at Second Avenue. “Stranger things have been known to happen!” he bellowed with glee, and Annabelle rushed off the train, up the stairs, and into the fresh air of a semi-balmy spring evening. As she strode up the avenue toward the theater, she was blind to the usual mayhem that was the Lower East Side: the newest generation of Mohawk-sporting teenagers, the steady stream of guys with guitars slung across their bags on their way to early gigs, the gaggles of bridge-and-tunnel girls, over-dressed and over-loud, descending on the cheap Mexican restaurants and the even cheaper pitchers of margaritas. She wasn’t nervous, excited, hopeful — nothing. She had too much on her mind, the last thing she needed was … expectations. She was too raw to flirt, too tender to even fathom anything that would be more than a soulless one-night stand. Resilience was one thing; another entirely was the kind of flexibility that spoke to low standards and lack of self-respect. “I have self-respect,” Annabelle mumbled. “I know what my limits are. I’ll know when I’m ready to date again.”
Not that she and Wilson had really ‘dated’, in the strictest sense of the word. They met, and went out, and went out again, and never had any issues around availability or exclusivity; it was an unspoken assumption that after the first weekend away, they were officially a monogamous couple. That tended to be her pattern, actually, and Annabelle, lost in thought, narrowly missed being flattened by the Second Avenue bus. I must be a serial monogamist. I’ve never, like, had to juggle men — and the ensuing mental image of herself in red nose and curly green wig, tossing around fully grown men like bowling pins, made her laugh out loud. Maybe I should try that, she thought — and immediately discarded the idea. It’s just not me, she thought, running across the avenue against the light. It’s good to know that.
She warily approached the door to Two Two Two, an experimental theatre and dance space at 22 East 2nd Street. Negotiating the gauntlet of junkies and winos certainly added to its cutting edge cachet, and Annabelle wondered, not for the first time, how people could bear to work in dives like this one.
She was surprised upon entering the lobby to see an elegantly designed room, all chrome and low lighting; sheets of chain metal hung down the walls to the tiled floor, and the exposed girders of the ceiling were antiqued to look like weathered copper. Recessed lighting threw only the most flattering illuminations onto the people thronging the lobby, but the cool and distancing lines of the room were not equal to the absolute chaos of opening night, an excess of energy in the air that translated itself into high-spirited chatter and bursts of laughter. It was exciting, and Annabelle told herself that’s what had those rogue butterflies doing another circuit of her stomach. Opening night nerves. They must be contagious.
Annabelle began to work her way toward the box office when her phone rang. Lorna.
“I’m here, over by the door.”
“Darling, can’t make it after all. Crisis.”
And that, Annabelle knew, would be all that she’d get in the way of explanation.
“Great,” she said. “Thanks so much letting me know.”
“Oh, of course.” Silence.
An explanation might be nice. “Yeah, I don’t know if I’d be good company, anyway. My plant died. You know, the one that grew out of my hazelnut?” Take that!
“Your … what?” Lorna shrieked.
Any intent Annabelle had about goading Lorna disappeared as she realized that she was really sad about the mystery monster plant. “I did a ritual, last week, and all the branches disappeared, and then there was just this one big bloom, and now the flower’s all shriveled up and it looks like it’s sinking back into the dirt.”
A deep and arctic silence greeted this remark. Annabelle, lost in regret, went on. “I guess I kind of got used to it, you know? I’ve been living on my own for four years now … but it wasn’t like having a roommate, not exactly. It didn’t leave dirty dishes around and drink all my milk, although it did deface some photographs and steal my favorite toothbrush.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Annabelle could the furious clicking of Lorna’s lighter.
“Is that a rhetorical question?” Annabelle pushed her way through the crowd; it was almost show time.
“No. It isn’t. Are you completely insane? Little bags of herbs to hang over the door are one thing, a crystal or two to put on the windowsill is another. All that is fairly harmless, but this? You cannot expect me to believe this.”
“Hmmm. Now, if I understand correctly, if I’m really crazy, then I wouldn’t know it, and I would say ‘No, I’m not crazy!’ But if I wasn’t crazy, then I’d freely admit the possibility that my sanity was questionable. So … yes, Lorna, I am crazy!” Her voice rose as she continued. “I am out of my tree, ready for the booby hatch, the nuthouse, I am certifiable and ready to go quietly with nice men from Bellevue!”
She hung up as triumphantly as one could on a cell phone, and spun around, not looking where she was going and —
She plowed into the The Irish Guy.
“Fancy meeting you here!” Annabelle snapped, glaring at him.
He laughed. “Has the show already begun?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Annabelle was beginning to feel a little foolish, combined with a dash of recklessness: a potentially potent combination, since she suddenly didn’t care if this guy thought she was totally crackers, and she didn’t care if the whole thing blew up, because she knew, she just knew that her friends were behind this ‘chance’ meeting. The hell with it, she thought. If it all blows up, then I can just blame it on them.
“Stella! Stellllllaaaaa!” Jamie started howling apropos of nothing, tearing at his white T shirt, and Annabelle couldn’t help it, and cracked up. It’s not his fault after all …
“You do a much better Brando than a Mae West.” She edged her way over to the box office, and he followed.
“My family are great ones for the impressions. Okay, who’s this.” Jamie composed his face into hang dog lines, his eyes drooping at the corners, his forehead creased with the weight of the world. “’Play it again, Sam,’” he lisped, and Annabelle applauded.
“Ingrid Berman! Very good.”
Jamie sighed dramatically. “You’ve no ear at all.”
“I think the problem is actually your mouth,” Annabelle retorted, and then wanted to die. I can’t believe I said that, she thought, and in effort to stop staring at aforementioned mouth, which was grinning at her, she turned to the annoyed and clearly put-out box office girl.
“Annabelle Walsh,” she said briskly. “NYC Weekly.”
This terse statement had a galvanizing effect on the box officer, who flipped through an index box furiously, as if one moment keeping Annabelle waiting would impact on the imminent review of the show.
“Nice one.” Annabelle looked at Jamie quizzically. He nodded to the obsequiously searching box office manager, and grinned. She shrugged, smiled, and turned to accept her effusively proffered envelope and program.
“Really nice,” he murmured, although, given his proximity it was hard for him to say if he was talking about Annabelle’s effect on the woman behind the little window, or the effect Annabelle’s perfume was having on him, a kind of lemony-limey thing that made him want to lick the little pink earlobe that was nestled in a sweep of lush blonde —
“Wha’?” he asked inelegantly, looking down into her eyes, those wide, smiling blue eyes.
“Your turn,” Annabelle breathed, and edged back to lessen the nearness.
“Ah, yeah. Jamie Flynn.” And with no less enthusiasm, the attendant trawled through the reservations.
Her confusion turned to sheer desperation as she looked between Annabelle and Jamie. “I’m afraid I haven’t got a ticket for you.”
Yup, Kelli is in it, too. There will be hell to pay. “Funny enough, I have a spare.” She smiled comfortingly at the distraught box office girl, and looked up (up!) at Jamie. “That’s handy. Both Maria Grazia and Lorna cancelled on me tonight.”
“Lucky me.” Jamie’s eyes twinkled as he followed her into the auditorium.
She angled her head over in his direction. “Oh, I don’t know. I feel I should let you know that this whole thing is a conspiracy.”
“You mean like the thing with the kidneys and the tub full of ice?”
“No, that’s an urban myth,” Annabelle said. “Anyway, if I was in your position, I think I’d like to know what was what, and the what of this is that my friends are throwing me at you.” That ought to do it — she had yet to meet the male who didn’t run like the wind at the first whiff of romantic interference.
“Are you afraid I mightn’t catch you?” He gave into a lesser form of temptation and whispered in that tantalizing ear, inhaling a lemony-limey-womanly blend that went straight to his head.
“You’re assuming that I want to be caught.” Annabelle tried to edge away, but the aisle was impassable, and she was, for all intents and purposes, trapped.
“Typical male self-centered behavior. It’s terrible, I know.” He kept the tone light as he recognized the mutinous set to her jaw, the anxiety that underlay the brash tone — not for nothing did he have three older sisters, and Annabelle’s mood was reminding him of his second oldest sister, the sensitive one whose heart was all the more defended for being worn on her sleeve. He knew he’d have to go easy, or else he’d blow it. Why this had become so important, he’d wonder about later, but between the gorgeous scent and the vulnerable blue eyes, he was lost.
As masses of people pushed them first left, then right, Annabelle was turned completely around to face Jamie. He sounded flippant, but there was something going on his eyes, that even his usual layer of light amusement couldn’t cover. She couldn’t tell what it was, but it wasn’t self-centeredness at all. Someone shoved vigorously into his back, with a force that would have toppled them both had Jamie not quickly grabbed Annabelle’s shoulders, taking all the weight.
Nose to nose, eye to eye, the sound in the manically busy theater seemed to fade, and Annabelle thought, Why not kiss him right now? That’d definitely send him running for the door and put an end to all this machination and manipulation and, and, then I’ll know for sure whether or not he was any good at kissing and —
“Looks like I’m throwing myself at you as well,” he murmured, and Annabelle stared at him as he stared at her mouth. She took a deep breath and moved back a fraction. Holding up the tickets, she raised an eyebrow. “J7 or J9?”
“J9. ‘I’m feelin’ lucky.’”
“Pacino?” Annabelle wondered aloud. “Or Ned Flanders?”
“Missus, you’ve no thought to my ego at all.” Jamie plucked a ticket out of her hand without looking, grinning down at her, his gaze lingering on her mouth, and Annabelle — Annabelle swept by him into the row of seats with what she was sure was aplomb. I can handle this, she thought, and then almost tripped over her own feet when Jamie laid his hand on the small of her back.
• • •
‘Johan Und Johannes’, a deconstructionist mime/dance/musical that purported to dramatize the history of Gutenberg’s movable type with a nod to queer theory, was reaching its climax: as the two main actors sung their last exchange with one another, one symbolically in jail via marriage, and the other actually in jail for what had once been termed ‘gross indecencies’, twenty-six mimes, each representing an individual letter of the alphabet, threw themselves around the stage to compose some of the more provocative and significant words. That there was a deficiency of vowels didn’t seem to noticeably detract from the overall effect. Annabelle had hand to them, for despite the overall mimic element of ‘pretending to be in a box’, the music was quite beautiful, and the setting evocative and spare. It was sophisticated if a little self-conscious, and at seventy-five minutes straight through, vigorous yet thorough. Annabelle heaved a little sigh of relief. It made her job that much easier.
As she and Jamie reluctantly joined in the rapturous standing ovation, whatever irritation Annabelle felt with her friends passed. What was the point of staying mad? They meant well, and, as all her books told her, whether witchy, self-help-y, or otherwise, nobody could make her doing anything she didn’t want to do; nobody but her dear departed plant, the thought of whose passing making her sigh as the stage lights went to black, and the house lights rose.
“Sorry it’s over?” Jamie leaned over and shouted in her ear over the continuing applause.
“Huh? Oh, well, it wasn’t that bad, was it? Thank God. I really don’t like to write bad reviews. I mean, I write excellent reviews, but I don’t like to — you know what I mean.” Annabelle sighed. “No, I had a plant, and I think it died before I left the house.”
“Like, it just keeled straight over? Plants usually take their time about dying.”
Annabelle shook her head. “This wasn’t an ordinary plant.”
They filed out with the rest of the audience, the majority of whom were openly enthusing about the show.
“That really was kind of okay.”
Jamie nodded. “I don’t know why Kelli had me come to see the set, sure, there was none to speak of … ”
An awkward silence fell as the penny dropped, and Annabelle started folding and unfolding her program. Should they go for a quick drink? Would he ask for her number? Would she ask for his? What difference did it make — did it make a difference all of a sudden? Oh God — this wasn’t happening … was it?
“What?” she blinked and looked up at Jamie. Apparently, in the midst of asking herself questions, Jamie had posed one of his own.
“Are you off? Now?” He repeated.
“Um. I have to write this up, file it. I kind of need to do it right away, and I never go out after, people always want to talk about the show, which is natural, of course, but I can’t risk, you know, not having my own … thoughts.”
“Right. Okay, Well — nice seeing you, even it was under imposed circumstances.” He took a step back, stopped, stuck his hands in his pockets.
“Not so bad, really, after all,” Annabelle said “And not your fault, or anything.” Damn him with faint praise, why don’t you.
“Okay, so. Good luck with the review.” He took his hands out of his pockets. Put them back in. “Have a nice, uh, Saturday night.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Two matching, searching grins later, and Jamie was out the door, and Annabelle was feeling slightly forlorn. Damn it, she thought. What happened to all that righteous indignation? Where had all that high dudgeon gone? How had The Irish Guy gotten under her skin? What difference did it make? Why did she feel like she’d blown it?
Chapter Eighteen
At four A.M., after blindly stumbling to the bathroom, Annabelle stumbled out again, slightly less blindly, awake enough to take in the state of her practically dead hazelnut plant. Blinking rapidly, trying to focus, her head throbbing, she was shocked to see that the huge bloom was now one-tenth its original size, and that the stalk was so weak that it couldn’t even support the bloom’s diminished weight. The plant hung limply over the left side of the pot, like a rag doll.
The rush of regret that Annabelle experienced seemed excessive, given that all of her energy since encountering the nut had to do with getting rid of the damn thing. Was it too late for her to administer a blast of reiki? She placed her hands on either side of the pot, cupping it gently, but it
was so frigidly cold that she pulled her hands away in surprise. Damn it, she thought. Freezing cold, cold as the grave? “Oh no. I’m not going to cry, am I, not over this?”
She reached out — then hesitated. In all this time, she’d only once touched the plant directly. “I wish there was something I could do for you.” She stroked the wilted stalk, and lightly touched a desiccated petal. “I wish I could help.”
Sadly, Annabelle shuffled back to her bedroom, and quietly shut the door.
At 4:07 A.M., the plant rose up one last time, and like a drowning man, slowly sunk beneath the surface of its soil.
At 4:08 A.M., the beautifully glazed and celtically decorated pot began to shake violently.
BANG!
At 4:08:01 A.M. on Sunday morning, Annabelle shot out of the bed she’d only fallen back into seconds before. Her heart racing, her mind choosing ‘gas explosion’ to explain the noise, she fell onto the floor. She crawled to the door, and edged it open, not at all sure what to expect, pretty sure she should put on some sweat pants, definitely sure that Nosy Ned would come knocking any second now.
Still on her hands and knees, she crept forward. Would the oven be in pieces? Was the window in the ‘dining room’ shattered? Was there danger of suffocation, or something? Should she just crawl out the front window and run for the cops? What if the —
“Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” Annabelle shot to her feet and surveyed a disaster that had nothing to do with a gas stove, and everything to do with that flippin’ plant! Dirt covered everything — everything! — table and chairs, couch, coffee table, the dishes in the drain, the dishes in the sink, her computer, her filing cabinet, the fridge, the stove, the bookshelves. Mounds of muck lay on the floor, and Annabelle realized that every single book, framed photo, knick-knack and tchochke she owned had flown off every shelf and surface, landed on the floor, and gotten covered in soil.
Shards of pottery were scattered throughout the place, and she leaned down to pick one up. The remnants of a beautifully hand-drawn spiral was etched into the small piece of broken clay.
