by Dianne Dixon
Micah can see that what he’s offering her isn’t sex. It’s simple, unencumbered hospitality. Something she has almost forgotten the existence of.
***
The wine bottle is nearly full. The bread and the cheese are untouched. And the room—Micah is thinking, as she’s gathering up her underwear and bra—is unchanged. The black walls and the framed gold records. The plush carpet and staggeringly expensive furniture. All of it precisely as it was when she was here twenty years ago. When she thought she knew exactly what the future would bring. When she believed she was invincible. And didn’t understand that she could ever be old, or sick.
Eric, who has stepped back into his trousers and is buckling his belt, is apologizing—explaining to Micah: “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“I didn’t either,” Micah says.
“It’s not why I invited you in.” He sounds disappointed in himself. “I didn’t do it to take advantage of you. You looked so cold and lost. I wanted to help.”
Micah is thinking that he did help. What happened between them was extraordinary. An unanticipated and grace-filled exchange.
Micah is now in her sweater and jeans, pulling on her socks and her boots. “My last name is Lesser,” she says. “I’m Micah Lesser. Google it.”
There’s a glimmer of confusion in Eric’s expression.
“It’s important,” she tells him. “Google it.”
He goes to a laptop on a small stand near the window. After a moment, he looks up, stunned. “You took the photo for that last album cover? My god, you’re famous. That cover made history, there isn’t anybody over thirty who doesn’t recognize it on sight. It was the ultimate punctuation to the band’s legacy, and my dad’s.”
He takes a deep breath, overwhelmed. “Wow. That album and the cover was all anybody talked about. I remember I was thirteen when it came out and it blew me away.”
Hearing the ten-year age difference between them makes Micah wince.
Eric, as if recognizing her discomfort, says: “Now I’m thirty-three. It doesn’t matter how old I was then.” He has gone back to looking at the computer screen—scrolling through information on Micah’s connection to the album cover. “You were selected from a field of a thousand hopefuls…what a rush that must’ve been.”
Micah is apprehensive as she’s asking: “Did your father ever mention how he chose the winner?”
“I remember him saying the photographer was a young girl who didn’t submit a portfolio. Who just turned up at the last minute. And showed him a single photograph that became sort of a legend. He talked about that photo in all the press conferences but nobody ever saw it, because she…you…would never allow the picture to be displayed publicly.”
“The subject matter was very personal,” Micah says.
“But not too personal to show to a total stranger? In order to win a contest?” he asks.
There’s a taste, acid, like sulfur, in Micah’s mouth. “I was betraying something sacred when I handed your father that photograph. I was so greedy I was evil. I knew how extraordinary the picture was and I didn’t want to wait my turn—I wanted my career to take off.” Micah’s voice is softening, trailing away. “Being famous was all I was thinking about…”
The room is slowly filling with an awkward silence. And with shadows. Outside the window, the pale light of afternoon is surrendering to the pearl-gray of evening.
Micah is recalling how, after she let Eric’s father see that life-changing photograph, she had also let him undo her blouse. And jam his hand up under her skirt. And shove his fleshy tongue into her open mouth.
And in remembering this, she’s needing to know the truth about what actually launched her career.
“When your father talked about the girl who did the album cover, about me,” Micah says. “Did he ever mention why I got the job? Was it based purely on how good I was at taking pictures? Or was there something else in the mix?”
“That final album and your part in it is something Dad still talks about,” Eric tells her. “And it’s always the same story. The job was yours the minute you walked in the door. When he saw the one, single photograph you’d brought.”
Micah makes a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob—between relief and anguish.
“I know what kind of guy my dad used to be. There were a lot of women, back in the day. A lot of girls. But he never hired anybody because they were pretty. You got the job because you were a creative powerhouse.”
“Thank you for telling me. I’ve never been sure.”
He kisses her lightly. Then says: “No problem.”
It’s clear now that Eric knows exactly what he and Micah have been talking about. Her questions have told him there was something physical between Micah and his father. There isn’t any hostility in his attitude, but he’s distant. Somber. In a way that he wasn’t a few minutes ago.
“I would’ve loved to ask you out. To have bought you flowers and invited you to dinner,” he tells her.
Micah is thinking that she, too, would have loved it—the innocence of a first date and flowers.
As he’s walking her to the door, he’s saying: “It’s getting dark, will you be warm enough? Will you be all right?”
The only answer Micah gives him is a wave.
When his door closes behind her, Micah is experiencing sorrow. And a sense of strength. She has—quite by accident—faced down the ghosts on Acorn Street: the betrayals she committed there, and the mistakes she made.
And now, she’s saying to herself, it’s time to go home.
***
Micah has climbed the stairs to the room on the third floor of her brownstone. The room that’s cool and dark. And spare.
This is the last stop on her journey—the dwelling-place of the person she ultimately needs to settle things with.
Micah is opening the door and turning on the light.
Waiting for her, at the other end of the room, is the woman in the silver dress and pearl-button shoes.
AnnaLee
Glen Cove, Long Island ~ 1986
A wonderland is waiting for AnnaLee as she and Jack are walking out onto the rolling lawns of Mrs. Jahn’s estate—into the splendor of Mrs. Jahn’s party.
Tiny pinpoints of light are everywhere. In massive clusters. Netted in the tress and scattered across the grass. Like silvery stars.
And there are pairs of masked harlequins. Dancing through the night, side-by-side. Juggling flurries of slender, golden hoops. While unicyclists in sequined tuxedos are gliding in and out of the crowd. Twirling enormous, glittering batons.
At the edge of the swimming pool—his reflection rippling across its surface like a genie rippling out of a bottle—is a bare-chested man in white satin pants. A fire-eater. Maneuvering a flaming torch into his mouth with a flourish, and a wink.
And there is music. Bright and infectious. Coming from the lantern-lit gazebo in the center of the lawn. A brassy jazz band—playing Cole Porter and the Charleston.
AnnaLee is bewitched—she feels as if she’s strolling through a fabulously beautiful fantasy. And, at the same time, she’s terribly uncomfortable.
As she and Jack are moving through the sea of guests, all of them costumed in Gatsby-style elegance, AnnaLee is worried that she’s too scantily dressed. Too exposed by her outfit. By the plunge of its neckline and the shortness of the skirt.
She’s holding tight to Jack’s arm, asking: “How silly do I look…?…like Betty Crocker trying to pass as Marilyn Monroe? I look foolish, don’t I?”
Jack lifts AnnaLee’s fingers from where they’re resting on the sleeve of his tuxedo and kisses them, one by one. “Lee, you look like a woman beautiful to the point of being dangerous.” Then he adds: “You also look a little green around the gills.”
“I have a bad case of nerves. I keep forgetting to breathe,” she says. “We have so much riding on tonight.”
A ripple of tension moves along Jack’s jaw.
He s
ounds as if he’s being coerced as he asks: “Where do we start?”
AnnaLee stiffens. “By mingling.”
She knows she has sounded like a general giving an order to an obstinate soldier—but this is a battle she can’t let Jack back away from.
It’s apparent that Jack is annoyed by her tone. He’s looking at the partygoers rather than at AnnaLee, as he’s announcing: “I’m a coward. Not a traitor. I won’t let you down.” Then he mutters: “But first, I need a drink.” And he walks away.
Having him march off, without even a backward glance, is worrying AnnaLee. She made it clear, explained it to him in the car—this is a night that requires charm and diplomacy. Jack knows exactly why they’ve come to this party.
After she told him about the job at Mrs. Jahn’s foundation, and about this evening being a greased-wheel audition for that job, Jack had nodded and said: “As much as I hate being treated like a dimwit who can’t handle things on his own, I understand why you’re doing this, and I know I’ve brought the situation on myself. Tonight I’ll give you what you want, Lee, or die trying.”
But now while she is watching Jack (who isn’t a drinker) walk toward the bar—defeated and angry, head down and hands in his pockets—the frayed thread that has been connecting AnnaLee to hope is finally breaking. She’s seeing how slim the chances are that this evening will work out well.
And she’s numb with disappointment.
It takes a long time before AnnaLee moves—and begins, slowly, to maneuver through the crowd.
She’s working her way toward the bar. Where Jack is. To tell him she has given up. The battle is over. They’re going home.
In this same instant, a silver-haired man and a woman in fuchsia silk have just walked past AnnaLee—she barely notices them; her focus is on Jack. But the woman is suddenly whirling around in surprise, saying: “AnnaLee? Is that you?”
The woman, Mrs. Jahn, the party’s hostess and the person AnnaLee had hoped would transform Jack’s future, is now giving AnnaLee an enthusiastic hug, telling her: “Oh my goodness! You look completely different. I honestly didn’t recognize you.”
“It’s the wig Persephone found for me, and the makeup. I’m having a hard time recognizing myself.”
“And that dress…” Mrs. Jahn’s eyes are wide with admiration. “It’s outstanding—exceptionally dramatic.”
“You’re a vision,” the silver-haired man at Mrs. Jahn’s side tells AnnaLee.
“This is my husband Carl,” Mrs. Jahn says. “Carl, this is Persephone’s mother AnnaLee.”
“Persephone?” Mrs. Jahn’s husband asks. “The girl who helped with the decorating?” His admiring gaze is sweeping AnnaLee from head to foot. “You seem far too young to be the mother of a teenager.”
“Actually I’m not her mother, I’m her aunt. Persephone is my husband’s niece,” AnnaLee explains.
“I don’t believe it. I could have sworn you were mother and daughter,” Mrs. Jahn says.
AnnaLee is mystified. “Really, why?”
“—the way she talks about you. With such sweetness, such love.”
For a blink of time the problem of Jack, and the plans for the outcome of this party, don’t seem to matter as much—this news about Persephone is making AnnaLee unbelievably happy.
“As a matter of fact,” Mrs. Jahn is saying, “Persephone was singing your praises when I was talking with her just a moment ago. She was asking permission to use one of the phones in the house. It sounded like there was an important call she needed to ma—”
Mrs. Jahn has been interrupted by the arrival of an effusive woman in a dress composed entirely of peacock feathers. And over Mrs. Jahn’s shoulder, AnnaLee is catching sight of Persephone running across the lawn, in her audacious coral-colored costume.
Persephone is heading in the direction of the Jahn’s floodlit, music-filled mansion. And there’s something in her body language—a tension—that seems out of place.
AnnaLee is about to leave and go to Persephone—but Mrs. Jahn is intercepting her. Talking about Jack, saying: “I’ve heard such nice things about your husband from Mrs. Wang. I’d love to meet him, where is he?”
Jack is still at the bar. AnnaLee can see him from where she’s standing. He is turned away from her. His shoulders tense, his eyes downcast. “I’m not sure where he is,” she tells Mrs. Jahn. “I’ll do my best to find him.”
AnnaLee is simply being polite—she doesn’t have any intention of introducing Jack to Mrs. Jahn. She has abandoned any hope of making this evening a success.
Jack’s sullen look and the slumped way he’s bent over his drink are showing AnnaLee what a disaster it would be to try to force him to perform for Mrs. Jahn, to charm her. Small talk and hidden agendas are things completely foreign to Jack, not in his nature. The end result would be awkwardness and embarrassment for everyone.
Mr. and Mrs. Jahn have already moved away to visit with other guests—leaving AnnaLee to cross the lawn and walk toward Jack. She isn’t accustomed to wearing high heels. And a stabbing, intermittent pain in her left ankle is forcing her to move slowly.
She is utterly and completely disheartened. The strength to continue lifting Jack up is evaporating. She’s tired of trying to propel him into being somebody he doesn’t know how to be.
When AnnaLee finally reaches Jack’s side it’s obvious he knows she’s there. But he stays hunched over the bar, continuing to sip at his drink. His third. There are two empty glasses at his elbow.
“I want to go home now,” AnnaLee tells him.
“Me too,” he says.
Everything in AnnaLee is heavy. Worn out.
Jack puts down his half-empty glass and turns around, looking out at the party. “The woman in the purplish-red dress, is that who I was supposed to impress? Is that the magnificent Mrs. Jahn?”
AnnaLee nods. She wants to burst into tears, and fall apart.
He turns back to the bar with a wry smile, and slowly finishes his drink. Then, before AnnaLee fully comprehends what he’s doing, Jack is slamming his empty glass onto the bartop. He’s leaving—and heading in Mrs. Jahn’s direction.
When he’s several feet away from AnnaLee he loops back toward her. Holding his hand out, telling her: “Come with me, Lee. I’m always better when you’re with me.”
AnnaLee is almost afraid to believe what’s happening. “Jack, you don’t have to do this.”
“Come with me, Lee,” he’s saying. “I want to make you proud.”
***
Just after ten o’clock, AnnaLee is in the car, outside the babysitter’s house. Jack is silently bundling a sleeping Bella into AnnaLee’s arms. The silence remains unbroken as Jack closes the passenger door and AnnaLee settles Bella onto her lap.
When Jack has come around to the driver’s side of the car, he slips behind the wheel and closes the door—turns the key in the ignition, but doesn’t put the car into gear.
Jack and AnnaLee haven’t spoken, or looked at each other, since they drove away from Mrs. Jahn’s estate. It’s as if what eventually happened to them there was something so incomprehensible, so far from their norm, it has left them unable to speak.
And they continue to stay that way for a little while longer.
Then AnnaLee asks: “Was it hard?”
And Jack says: “It was like being marched out in front of a firing squad.”
Bella stirs, whimpering in her sleep. AnnaLee soothes her, then tells Jack: “I’m sorry it was awful for you.”
When Jack responds his voice is rimmed with wonder. “I did it, Lee. I stepped up. I did right by you.”
“Tell me again what she said.”
Jack laughs. “Lee, I talked to the woman for an hour and a half. You were there, you heard everything.”
Somewhere in the region of AnnaLee’s heart is the sensation of an expanding shaft of sunlight. Ascending happiness. “Tell me what she said—at the very end.”
“She said ‘I suspect I’ve found the perfect person to he
ad the Louella Jahn Foundation and I want to meet with you next week.’” Jack is slowly shaking his head, as if he can’t believe what he’s saying. “It looks like we’re finally on our way, Lee.”
In the long-held breath that AnnaLee is releasing, there’s an unspoken prayer—Thank you, God, for this miracle.
Jack meanwhile is putting the car into gear. And speaking so softly AnnaLee is having trouble making out the words, as he’s asking: “Should I be ashamed that I needed three drinks in me before I had the courage to finally be a man?”
***
AnnaLee and Jack are home now—they’ve been here for about ten minutes.
AnnaLee is upstairs, tucking Bella into bed.
She is kneeling at Bella’s bedside. Her head resting on the pillow beside Bella’s. She’s being lulled by the buttery scent of Bella’s skin, the clean sweetness of her breath.
The room is quiet and perfectly calm.
Bella’s eyes flutter open—she seems momentarily startled.
AnnaLee is still in her costume from the party. The wig and the makeup are probably making her look unfamiliar. “Shhh,” AnnaLee whispers. “It’s me, it’s Mommy. Go to sleep, baby. Sleep in heavenly peace. I’m here, watching over y—”
AnnaLee pauses. And listens.
A sound. Very faint. Is coming from outside. The crunch of tires on gravel. As if a car has pulled into the driveway. And stopped.
AnnaLee glances at her watch. She and Jack left the gala early. It’s not quite eleven. Too soon for the party to be over and for Rebecca Wang to be bringing Persephone home. AnnaLee goes to the window, raises the linen shade, and looks out. No one. Nothing. Only darkness.
In the time it takes her to lower the shade, AnnaLee’s thoughts have already gone back to the conversation with Mrs. Jahn, and to Jack’s triumph, and to the brightness that may soon be in their future. Jack is downstairs in the living room. Reading. And AnnaLee is eager to tell him, for a second time, how proud she is of him.
As she’s exiting Bella’s room, AnnaLee is leaving the door slightly ajar. She wants to be able to hear Bella, if she wakes up.
