Leap Year

by Peter Cameron

  “I’m not going to call him. It’s late.” David sat down at the kitchen table. Loren got a glass out of the dish drainer and filled it at the tap. “There’s seltzer in the refrigerator,” said David.

  “Water’s fine,” said Loren.

  “How are things at the girl’s bank?” David asked. Loren worked for the New York Bank for Women. She called it “the institution whose time has come and gone.”

  “Oh, please,” she said. “It’s Friday night. I don’t want to talk about work.”

  They sat there for a moment, then Loren stood up. “Let’s go to bed,” she said.

  After they made love, they lay in bed, holding each other. Some of Loren’s long hair was in David’s mouth but he didn’t want to move his head. Finally he sat up and looked at Loren.

  “Well?” he said.

  Loren smiled at him. “Let’s not talk,” she said.

  They were just about to fall asleep when the phone rang.

  “Who could that be?” David said.

  “Maybe it’s Heath,” said Loren. “You should have called him.”

  “I’m not going to answer it,” said David. “It’s probably a wrong number.”

  They sat up in bed and listened to the answering machine.

  “Hi,” said Lillian. “It’s me. I guess you’re not home. I thought you were going home. Where are you? Maybe you’re at…oh, I don’t know. I just wanted to talk to you. Everyone’s finally left, and I just wanted to talk to somebody. I wanted to talk to you. I’m sad. I’m sorry, this is stupid. I was just lonely. I hate parties. Remind me never to give another party, okay? I hope you’re okay. I’ll talk to you later. Good night.”

  “Poor Lillian,” said Loren. “You should call her.”

  “I’ll call her tomorrow,” said David.

  They lay back down, but something had changed. They lay in the darkness trying, but failing, to sleep.

  CHAPTER 2

  FOR HER TWO-HUNDRED-DOLLAR sperm bank consultation fee, Lillian was sent six donor resumes. Instead of being identified by a name, each report had a number, plus a list of statistics: age, weight and height, hair and eye color, I.Q. There was also a self-evaluated temperament profile, where the donors rated themselves (numerically) on such characteristics as passive/aggressive, stable/unstable, artistic/analytical, humorous/sober, practical/romantic. Lillian spent an evening studying these forms. She worked out a system whereby donors scored points for respectable ages, tolerable heights, and high I.Q.s and lost points for excessive weight and personality defects. Number 72428 emerged at the top of the heap. He was twenty-six, six feet tall, brown hair and green eyes; both his I.Q. and his weight were an attractive 165, he was stable, slightly aggressive, artistic, fun, romantic, and, Lillian knew, too good to be true. Number 72428 was obviously lying.

  She set aside the forms and went to bed. And as she lay there, alone, she thought, Is this all wrong? Do I really want to have a baby? And the answer was yes, more than anything, yes, and she fell asleep and had a dream. She was pregnant and floating in warm ocean water; instead of weighing her down, her blossoming stomach buoyed her. The water was clear and shallow, and she floated on a current toward a small deserted island. As the island got closer she could see it wasn’t deserted; there was someone on it, waving her in, and the closer she got the more familiar the person looked. The surf deposited her gently on the shore, and David leaned down to help her up.

  The next day Lillian met Loren for lunch at Burger Heaven. Their waitress was an older woman whose hair looked as if it had just been done. All the waitresses in Burger Heaven looked like that. There was something tribal about them. Lillian wondered if they all lived together.

  “So what happened the other night?” she asked once they had ordered.

  “What night?” asked Loren.

  “After my party. You and David left together.”

  “Did we?” asked Loren.

  “Yes,” said Lillian. “So nothing happened?”

  “What are you talking about?” said Loren.

  “I just wondered if anything happened between you and David.”

  “No. What could have happened? We’re divorced. Everyone keeps forgetting that.”

  “I just wondered because I called David after the party and he wasn’t home.”

  “Maybe he was at his boyfriend’s,” said Loren.

  “Maybe,” said Lillian. “I just wondered.”

  The waitress delivered their beverages. “Enjoy,” she told them.

  In Heath’s photographs everything is out of focus, but some things are more out of focus than others.

  “These are interesting,” the woman viewing his portfolio said, “but they look kind of unfocused.”

  “That’s the way they’re supposed to look,” said Heath. He had dropped into this gallery on his way to work. He worked as a bartender at a restaurant in Tribeca called Cafe Wisteria. He always referred to it as Cafe Hysteria. Every night on his way in he tried to stop in a different gallery and have his portfolio rejected. It was a good way to start an evening of insanity.

  Heath lived in Brooklyn with his ex-boyfriend, Gerard. Gerard was a dancer with Alvin Ailey and an insufferable egomaniac, but Heath couldn’t afford to move out because he had invested about $3,000 building a darkroom in the loft. It wasn’t really that bad living with a horrible ex-lover: Gerard was on tour a lot.

  “What are you trying to do with them?” this evening’s gallery owner asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Heath, aware that that was a bad answer. “I want each photograph to be like a little world, with all this stuff happening in it.”

  “Well, as I said, I find them interesting. Unfortunately, we don’t represent photographers, so we can’t be of much help to you.”

  “Don’t you represent Holly Pierson?”

  “Well, yes, but she’s more of a…well, I think her work transcends these categorizations.”

  “Oh,” said Heath. “How nice for her.”

  The woman zipped his portfolio shut. “Well, we thank you for the look. We’re always interested in new artists.”

  “How nice for them,” Heath said.

  The Cafe Wisteria was continually changing managements. Since Heath had been there, three different people had owned it. The cuisine and decor were in constant flux. At times it all got a little out of synch, and the effect was surreal—Cajun food in an Italian country-kitchen setting. Currently the food and decor were billed as American Bistro, whatever that was.

  When Heath arrived about five o’clock, the restaurant was empty. He helped set tables with a waitress named Tammi. She was a performance artist and was always trying to get Heath to come to her performances, but because they were scheduled at inconvenient places and times, like the Staten Island ferry at five o’clock in the morning, he usually passed.

  Heath was folding napkins. He was a great napkin folder. His mother had taught him six different ways. Tonight he was making them look like pine cones, only the napkins were too big—they looked more like corn cobs.

  “What are you doing after work?” Tammi asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Heath. “I might see David.”

  “Is he the yuppie?”

  “I guess so,” said Heath.

  “He seems kind of old for you,” said Tammi. “I mean, he wears a suit and everything.”

  “I like men in suits,” said Heath.

  “Well, listen, do you guys want to come hear this band? My brother’s in it. They’re supposed to be really great. They’re called the Barbara Bushwhackers.”

  Heath laughed.

  “A lot of people think George Bush will never get elected because Barbara Bush looks like his mother. They think she should dye her hair. Personally, I’ve always voted for president on the basis of the wives. I think most women do. Do men? Maybe everybody does.”

  “I wanted John Anderson to win in ’80. Then we could have had a first lady named Keke.”

  “The Duke’s wife is n
amed Kitty.”

  “I like Keke better. I’d like to hear Dan Rather say ‘Keke.’ ”

  “What about Tipper Gore? There’s a name.”

  “She’s the one that wants to censor music lyrics. She doesn’t sound too groovy.”

  “She probably wouldn’t like the Barbara Bushwhackers, then,” Tammi said.

  Around ten o’clock Anita, the hostess, told Heath he had a phone call. He picked up the phone behind the bar and said hello.

  “Is this Heath Jackson?”

  “Yes,” said Heath.

  “This is Amanda Paine. We spoke earlier this evening at the gallery. The Gallery Shawangunk.”

  “Yes,” said Heath.

  “Oh, good,” Amanda said. “You remember.”

  “Of course,” said Heath. “We talked about Holly Pierson.”

  “Exactly!” The woman laughed. “What a memory! Well, I’m sorry to bother you this late and at work, but I’ve just had the most interesting talk with my colleague, Anton Shawangunk, about your photographs. And I found the more I described them, the more my interest was piqued. I’m sorry if I was brusque before, but, well, it seems to me that your work is just complicated—I can’t think of a better word for it—and I’m so used to looking at work that is so easy, you know, so evident, that I think my critical eye has atrophied. I’ve gone blind, so to speak. But I do so hope it’s not a tragedy. What I mean to say is that I hope we haven’t missed our chance at Heath Jackson.”

  “You mean you’re interested in representing me?”

  “Well, of course I can’t promise that. What we’d like to do—both Anton and I—is to have another look at that fascinating portfolio. Would that be possible?”

  “I don’t see why not,” said Heath.

  “Super! We were thinking perhaps we would meet for lunch. Would that suit your schedule?”

  “I think I have some free lunches,” said Heath.

  “Well, let’s see…today’s Tuesday. How about Thursday next? At Raoul’s. Do you know Raoul’s? On Prince Street?”

  “Of course,” said Heath. He had applied and been rejected for a waitering job there—he couldn’t fake a good enough French accent.

  “Then we’ll see you there, on Thursday April fourteenth, about one o’clock?”

  “Fine,” said Heath.

  “Well, it’s been nice talking to you, and I look forward to lunch. See you then.” She hung up. So did Heath.

  “I need a Tecate with lime,” said Tammi. “Who was that? El yuppie?”

  “No,” said Heath.

  “Who was it?”

  “That was either the sickest woman in New York or my savior. I’ll find out next week.”

  CHAPTER 3

  LOREN WAS LYING IN BED, listening to “Morning Edition,” watching Gregory’s head appear and disappear. Every time it appeared, his face was redder and more contorted: He was doing his sit-ups. She was supposed to be counting for him, but she had lost track. She was thinking about David and wondering if he was listening to “Morning Edition.” Throughout the day she would often find herself thinking of David, wondering what he was doing. It was funny, she thought, how the heart and the brain worked at different speeds when it came to forgetting someone. Some days she would be curious about David, some days she would desire him, and other days would pass without a thought of him. Those were the best days, when she felt entirely consumed in her new life and truly divorced. Today, apparently, was not going to be one of them.

  Gregory collapsed on the floor, out of sight. “How many?” he gasped.

  “Fifty,” Loren guessed.

  “Are you sure?” Gregory asked.

  “Yup,” said Loren. “On the button. Come here. Let me feel.”

  Gregory stood up and fell, face down, beside her on the bed.

  “Turn over,” Loren commanded.

  Gregory turned over, and Loren looked down at his flushed, handsome face. His brow was sweating; his skin was hot and moist. She stroked his stomach, pinching for fat. “Not bad,” she said.

  Gregory opened his mouth and beckoned her, downward, with his tongue. He had been back in town for a week, and she had not told him about spending the night with David. She wanted to. She felt maybe if she told Gregory, tried to explain it to him, she might herself better understand it: this incomprehensible, impossible, seemingly unwitherable need—or was it love?—for David.

  Uptown at David’s, Kate was brushing her teeth. She had recently learned about the perils of cavities at daycare and vowed she would never have one. She brushed her teeth with a ferocity that David, who was supervising, found alarming in a four-year-old.

  “Easy does it,” he suggested. “Nice and easy.”

  “What?” asked Heath from behind the shower curtain.

  “Nothing!” David shouted. “I was talking to Kate.” Heath turned the water off.

  “Heath, are you bare naked?” Kate asked.

  “No,” said Heath. “I have my swim suit on.”

  “What color is it?”

  “Flesh,” said Heath.

  “We have to bring a potato to daycare,” said Kate.

  “What for?” asked David.

  “I don’t know,” said Kate. “For art.”

  “I don’t think I have any potatoes,” said David. “We’ll have to stop at the store.”

  “I want a big one,” said Kate. “Can I pick it out?”

  “You may,” said David. “Enough brushing.” He unarmed her. “Now spit.”

  Kate spat and studied the foamy design in the sink. This spit interpretation was a ritual step in her morning ablutions. “It looks like a fish eating popcorn,” she concluded.

  Heath emerged from the shower, a towel around his waist. “It looks more like a Jackson Pollock to me,” he said.

  “Go get dressed,” David said to Kate. “Your clothes are on your bed. If you need help, call me. What kind of juice do you want?”

  Kate thought for a moment. “Cran-raspberry,” she said. She turned on the tap, washed her art down the drain, and departed.

  David closed the bathroom door. “Was there enough hot water?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Heath.

  David watched Heath dry himself. Heath’s body was slight and white and, to David, always surprisingly beautiful. The first time he had felt this unexpected attraction to Heath had been last December. The offices of Altitude were miserably overheated, and Heath had worn a loose-fitting, short-sleeved bowling shirt that had slid up his arm as he pointed to something—a man dancing with a small Christmas tree—on the roof of the opposite building. David looked at the dancing man, and for a brief perplexing moment he realized he wanted to be looking in the other direction: at Heath’s bare upper arm, at the shadow of hair he had glimpsed beneath it, at the whole elegant, upraised limb, but by the time he turned his head Heath had lowered his arm, the sleeve had descended, the hand was hidden in Heath’s pants pocket. So David had looked at Heath’s face, and Heath had looked at him.

  “What time is your lunch?” David asked.

  “One,” said Heath, who was finally having his lunch with Amanda Paine and Anton Shawangunk of the Gallery Shawangunk. “What do you think I should wear?”

  “I don’t know,” said David. “I don’t eat lunch in SoHo. Something black and groovy. Wear your sunglasses.”

  “I wish I smoked,” said Heath.

  “Daddy,” Kate called from her bedroom.

  “What?”

  “Are there boy potatoes and girl potatoes?”

  Lydia Aronso, David’s assistant, was the director of South Americans for Jesse Jackson (SAJEJA), a position that of late seemed to occupy most of her energies during the working day. She assured David that after the primary things would return to normal.

  “Hello, baby,” she said to David, when he arrived at his office. “If you want coffee, I have to send out. The coffee machine exploded.”

  “You know I don’t drink coffee,” said David. “I never drink coffee.” />
  “You could have changed,” said Lydia. “There is a capacity inside each of us to change. And that’s how we’re going to change this country. And the only way this country will change is if Jesse Jackson is elected president…”

  “Please, Lydia, save it.”

  “But you’re uncommitted. You’ve said as much. You are an uncommitted Democratic voter. And therefore it is in your power to change this country.”

  The phone rang. Lydia picked it up. “Hi, Altitude,” she said. She had to—it was a rule.

  David went into his office and opened his briefcase. Inside it was a large Idaho spud. “Shit,” he said. He picked up the potato.

  Lydia came into his office. “It’s the cartographer,” she said. “What’s with the potato?”

  “It’s Kate’s, for daycare.”

  “Aren’t you carrying this healthy snack thing a little too far?”

  “It’s for arts and crafts. I forgot to give it to her. Call for a messenger. We’ll messenger it over.”

  Heath had left his portfolio at home so he took the subway from David’s to Brooklyn. Gerard, his roommate, had returned from tour and was lying on the couch watching “Jeopardy,” drinking a Diet Cherry Coke, and smoking. Like most dancers, he had a very strong love-hate relationship with his body. He was always either admiring or poisoning himself.

  “Hi,” said Heath. “When did you get home?”

  Gerard just smiled cryptically. He seldom spoke before dusk.

  “I’m going out to lunch with a gallery owner,” said Heath. He couldn’t help boasting. He and Gerard had always been competitive.

  “Is it a boy gallery owner?” asked Gerard.

  “Yes,” said Heath.

  “He probably just wants to fuck you.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Heath.

  “Of course you don’t think so,” said Gerard. “You’re Mr. Naivete 1988. Where were you last night?”

  “Out,” said Heath, who hadn’t yet told Gerard about David. For some reason he was embarrassed about his relationship with David. It was just a little weird to be dating an older, divorced, short in-flight magazine editor. It was certainly a change from Gerard.

  “I haven’t heard of Club Out before,” said Gerard. “Is it for people who are out of it?”