Leap Year

by Peter Cameron

  “That was the stupidest thing I’ve done in ages,” said Loren. “It was a complete waste of time.”

  “I don’t know,” said Lillian. “I feel kind of revitalized. Maybe you weren’t visualizing enough.”

  “It was bullshit,” said Loren.

  “All that telekinetic exercise has made me hungry,” said Lillian. “Do you have to go home? Do you want to get something to eat?”

  “Sure,” said Loren. “Gregory’s still in L.A.”

  They found a Japanese restaurant on Second Avenue and were seated next to an attractive, older couple. “Would you like something to drink?” their waiter asked.

  “Do you want to split one of those big bottles of Sapporo?” Loren asked Lillian.

  “No thanks,” said Lillian. “I’m not drinking anymore.”

  “Really?” asked Loren. “Why?”

  Lillian smiled mysteriously and ordered a seltzer. Loren ordered a Kirin Light. The woman at the table next to them was berating her companion. She was saying, “I’m not trying to tell you ‘I told you so.’ I’m trying to tell you to listen to me. Listen to me. You need help. You need professional, all-American, Grade A help.”

  “So what’s going on?” asked Loren. “Why aren’t you drinking?”

  “Guess,” said Lillian.

  Loren looked at her friend. In the warm benevolent light of the restaurant she looked…well, not beautiful, but something better: happy. Loren studied her face and tried to decide how that happiness was manifested. It was in Lillian’s eyes, which were alive with light; the skin around them was taut with glee. Her whole face seemed poised on the brink of a smile, on the lovely verge of laughter. Loren thought, When was the last time I saw Lillian look like this? She could not remember when.

  “Smile,” said Loren, smiling herself. Lillian smiled, and Loren leaned across the table and kissed her cheek, and when she leaned back there were tears sparkling in Lillian’s eyes, magnifying the light there.

  “You’re going to have a baby,” said Loren. It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes,” said Lillian. “At least, I hope so. I don’t think I’m pregnant yet. But if everything works, I should be…soon.”

  “So you’re going through with the sperm bank thing?”

  “Yes,” said Lillian.

  “When did you decide?” Loren asked.

  “A while ago. It was because of David.”

  “David? Why?”

  “I told him I wanted to change my life, and he told me to change it. He made it sound so simple. And it was, once I decided.”

  Their beverages were delivered.

  “Can’t you have a little beer?” asked Loren. “Just a little, to celebrate. A little beer can’t hurt.” She poured some beer into two gold-rimmed glasses, gave one to Lillian, and raised the other. “To you,” Loren said, “and to your baby.”

  For a second Lillian looked doubtful, as if Loren’s toast were in some foreign language, then she raised her glass and touched it to Loren’s, and they kept the glasses touching there, in the air between them, pressed tightly and hopefully together.

  Loren caught an express train and walked home to Greene Street from Union Square. It was a nice night, and Broadway was thronged with people, all elated at the weather, wearing shorts for the first time, eating ice cream cones. Cars drove by, windows open, leaking music into the night. This is New York, Loren reminded herself, this is me in New York. She thought about the City of Angels. She had only been there once, several years ago, for a business conference. She had liked it. She had liked the sun and the cars, the bare, tanned backs of women and the white, confident teeth of men. The palm trees. Here in New York if you looked closely, everyone seemed to be falling apart. I have been falling apart, Loren thought. Maybe I should move to L.A. and put myself back together. She pictured herself driving on the freeway, calm and purposeful. I could learn Spanish, she thought, I could swim in the ocean. I could reinvent myself.

  When she got home, Lorendiscovered Gregory in bed.

  “Surprise,” he said. “I escaped.”

  Loren sat down on the bed, leaned over, and kissed him.

  “I have to go back tomorrow,” said Gregory. “The writer’s strike is fucking everything up. You wouldn’t believe it out there.”

  “Why did you come back?”

  “To see you,” said Gregory. “Come to bed.”

  “Okay,” said Loren. She went in the bathroom. Gregory sat up in bed, waiting. Loren emerged, and he watched her undress. When she got into bed he held her very tightly. He parted her long hair, exposed her nape, and rested his lips there. He moved them, silently.

  “What are you saying?” Loren asked. “I can’t read lips.”

  Gregory pulled his mouth slightly away from her neck. When he spoke Loren could hear his words and feel them, too, bouncing against her skin. Each word was interspersed with a kiss: “Will you marry me?”

  CHAPTER 8

  “DAVID?” JUDITH CALLED through the door. “Is that you?”

  “Yes,” said David. It was Friday night, and he had arrived at Loren’s for their dinner date.

  “Just a second. I have to figure out these locks.”

  David heard the sound of canisters tumbling and chains swinging. Loren’s security system was designed around the premise that more is better. The door opened.

  “Come on in,” said Judith.

  David stood in Loren’s front hall, wondering what the proper etiquette was involving ex-in-laws. Was kissing expected, tolerated, or forbidden? He opted for a hug and pressed cheeks. He had always liked Judith.

  “It’s good to see you,” he said. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” said Judith. “I’m having fun here in New York.”

  “And how’s Leonard doing?”

  “The last I heard, fine, although he’s not the best correspondent.”

  David followed her down the hall. Loren was standing in the kitchen, talking on the phone. She turned to David. “I’ll be ready in a minute. Kate wants to see you. She’s in her room.”

  David went to see his daughter. She was playing with her Little Pony dolls. They were all stacked on top of one another, in trios and pairs, an equine orgy. David leaned down and kissed the top of Kate’s head.

  “What are they doing?” he asked, indicating the fornicating ponies.

  “They’re riding each other,” said Kate. “See.” She helped a pair of them scale the side of her bed.

  “Wow,” said David. “They can fly!”

  “No they can’t,” said Kate. “They’re horses.”

  Kate knocked the pair of horses off the bed, flinging them to the floor. “They’re dead,” she announced.

  “That’s too bad,” said David. “Listen, what’s new? How’s daycare?”

  “Okay,” said Kate. “I’m going to a birthday party.”

  “Great,” said David. “Whose?”

  “Kate’s,” said Kate.

  “There’s another Kate?”

  “There are two Kates,” said Kate. “And three Caitlins.”

  Kate had been Loren’s choice. David had voted for Claire.

  “What happened to your potato?” he asked.

  “What potato?”

  “Remember the potato we bought? That you needed for arts and crafts?”

  “Oh,” said Kate, resuscitating the dead horses. “That was for doo doo.”

  “What’s doo doo?” asked David, not sure he wanted to know.

  “It’s when you…you make the potato look like someone bad and then you stick things in it.”

  “That’s voodoo,” said David.

  “No it’s not,” said Kate. “It’s doo doo.”

  “Who did you make your potato look like?” asked David.

  “It’s a secret,” said Kate.

  “Tell me,” said David. “You can tell me.”

  Kate shook her head.

  “Is it someone I know?”

  No, Kate shook.

>   “Where’s your potato? Can I see it?”

  “No,” said Kate. “It’s gone. I threw it in front of the subway.”

  Wow, thought David, somebody must be hurting real bad. Loren appeared at the door. “Ready?” she said. “Kate, be good. Go to bed when Grandma tells you.”

  “Could we have a booth?” Loren asked.

  “Sure,” said the hostess. “This way.” David and Loren followed her to the back wall of Spring Street Natural Restaurant.

  “Do you want some wine?” Loren asked.

  “Sure,” said David.

  Loren studied the wine list.

  “Did you know Kate’s learning voodoo at daycare?”

  “Really?” said Loren. “How do you know?”

  “She told me.”

  “Well, I’m not surprised. There’s a new Haitian woman there. Her name’s Coco.”

  “But don’t you think it’s weird she’s turning kids onto voodoo?”

  “Well, I prefer it to Christianity,” said Loren. “Remember that awful born-again woman?”

  “Yeah,” said David.

  “I’ll look into it. And before I forget, Kate’s been invited to a birthday party next Saturday. It’s at the planetarium, I think. Charlotte Wallace is going to call you with the details.”

  “Okay,” said David. They ordered their meal. “Do you remember when we used to go to the old Spring Street Restaurant? When we first moved to New York?”

  “Of course,” said Loren. “That was nice.”

  At the empty table next to them, a pony-tailed busboy lit a trayful of votive candles. Then he began a pilgrimage around the restaurant, distributing the illuminants, his face bathed in the warm, flickering light.

  “Thanks,” said David, when their candle was delivered. He held it between his palms as if his hands were cold. “So,” he said, looking down at the flame, “what’s this all about?”

  “A few different things,” Loren said, but made no effort to elucidate any of them. “How are you?” she asked instead.

  “I’m okay,” said David. “Actually I’ve had kind of a rotten week. But I’m okay.” He hadn’t heard from Heath all week. He had left messages with Gerard, Heath’s roommate, and at the Wisteria, but Heath hadn’t called back. David was considering walking down to the restaurant after his meal with Loren: Would that be a good idea? Or should he leave Heath alone?

  “That’s too bad,” said Loren.

  David shrugged. “How are you?” he asked.

  “I’ve been a little crazy lately. Something’s come up with Gregory that has, well, made me think about things.”

  “What?” asked David.

  “God, this is really hard. I feel awful telling you this.”

  “What?” asked David. “Tell me.”

  “Gregory’s been offered this job in Los Angeles. I think I’m going to move out there with him.”

  For a moment neither of them said anything. The music and the talk of the place seemed to well up around them and then abate, as though someone was fiddling with the volume.

  “What?” said David. “You’re not—I mean, why?”

  “I think it would be a good idea. At least to try it. I don’t know. If it’s awful or something I can move back.”

  “But why?”

  “Wait,” said Loren. “Listen.” She paused. “I feel like as long as we’re both here, you know, in New York, things won’t change. And I need things to change. I think we both do. I know that in some ways I’ll never find another person like you, you know, someone that…I don’t know, I’m just comfortable with you, but it doesn’t work, you know, it didn’t work, and this isn’t working out, at least not for me, this being near but not together. I want to get away.”

  “Oh,” said David. He was playing with the candle, swirling the hot wax around the cup. “What about Kate?”

  “I’ll take her with me. We can work something out—six months and six months or something.”

  “Forget it,” said David. “You’re not taking Kate.”

  Loren was crying. “Don’t,” she said. “I know it’s not…oh, fuck.”

  “Are you going to marry Gregory?” David asked.

  Loren shook her head. She leaned back against the booth and tried to compose herself. David looked at her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  David didn’t answer. He realized he hadn’t been paying close enough attention to his life lately. He suddenly felt strangely disembodied, and now when he tried to inhabit himself, to concentrate on the fact of him sitting there, he felt it all only marginally. Everything flickered at the edges of his vision. He was looking at Loren—she was crying again, her face hidden by her hands, by her napkin, now she was getting up, looking for the ladies room, and he was left alone, still looking at the spot across from him where Loren had been sitting and he could still see her there, and then he finally felt something happening, and with peculiar effort he looked down at his fingers and found them touching the flame. He looked at them curiously, as if they weren’t his fingers but a display of some sort: an oddity or a beauty, and he held them there, in the flame—only for a second—but by the time he removed them they didn’t look like his fingers anymore, they had changed, and then, suddenly, they hurt.

  He lowered them into his water glass. It hissed; a tiny wisp of steam rose. Then he must have fainted, because the next thing he knew his head was on the table, and the glass had spilled. His face was all wet.

  “Take us to a hospital,” Loren told the cabdriver. “What’s closest? Take us to St. Vincent’s, at Seventh Avenue and 12th Street. And hurry, please.”

  “No,” David said. “I don’t need to go to a hospital. I just want to go home.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Loren. “Let me see your fingers.”

  David extracted his fingers from a cup of ice. “They’re okay,” he said. “Look.”

  Loren looked at them. “I don’t know,” she said. “They don’t look very good to me. They could get infected or something. I think you should see a doctor.”

  “I’ll go tomorrow,” said David. “If I need to. But I don’t want to go to a hospital. I’m going home.”

  “Okay, but then I’m coming with you.”

  “No,” said David. “Could you pull over?” he said to the cab-driver. “Could you stop?”

  “We’re not going to the hospital,” said Loren.

  The cabdriver pulled over. “What’s going on?” he said. “Where are you going?”

  David gave the driver his address.

  “Let me come home with you,” said Loren.

  “No,” said David.

  “David, really, I think I should. I want to make sure—”

  David turned to Loren, his face contorted. “Listen,” he said, “if you want to go to California, go to California. Just get the fuck out of my life.”

  For a moment they just sat there, stunned. Even the cabdriver was silent.

  Finally Loren spoke. “Okay,” she said. She opened the door and got out. The cab drove away. Loren stood and watched it disappear.

  CHAPTER 9

  TAMMI WAS RUMMAGING through the goblet of goldfish crackers, searching for the pizza-flavored ones. It was early Friday evening, and the Cafe Wisteria was dead—just a platoon of Japanese businessmen who had wandered up from the Vista and a middle-aged lady nursing a cranberry juice spritzer at the bar. The men were drinking bottles of champagne and acting giggly.

  “They’re kind of cute,” Tammi said to Heath.

  “It should be a great tip,” said Heath.

  “Let’s hope so. I need some bucks. I’m thinking about making a movie. I think performance art is dying. You know what I think is next?”

  “What?” asked Heath.

  “I think bad art films are going to be very hot. After all this Andy Warhol stuff there’s gonna be a resurgence of interest in that kind of shit. You don’t have a video camera, do you?”

  “No,” said Heath.

  “Too
bad,” said Tammi. “What’s the story with your show? Is it still happening?”

  “I think so,” said Heath. “I’m waiting to hear from Amanda Paine. We still have to hash out the details.”

  “That’s so wild,” said Tammi. “It’s un-fucking-believable.”

  “I know,” said Heath. “I just hope it all works out.”

  “It’ll work,” said Tammi. “You’re golden.”

  The cranberry spritzer lady signaled Heath. He walked down to the other end of the bar.

  “Can I get you another?” he asked.

  “Oh,” said the woman. “No thanks. I just…uh, are you Heath Jackson?”

  “Yes,” said Heath.

  “Hi,” said the woman. “I’m Lillian Galton. I’m a friend of David’s.”

  “Oh, right,” said Heath. “David’s mentioned you. You had the party, right? The spring thing?”

  “Yes,” said Lillian. “Listen, I’m sorry to come down here and bother you at work and all, but I just thought you’d like to…I don’t know. You see, David’s in the hospital, and I know he’s had a hard time getting in touch with you, but I thought you might like to know.”

  “Jesus,” said Heath. “What’s wrong?”

  “He had an accident with a candle and burned his fingers. And they got infected, and his whole arm blew up. So he’s on intravenous antibiotics.”

  “Is he going to be okay?”

  “I think so,” said Lillian. “I went to see him today and he seems—well, he seems pretty depressed. And I know, I mean, I know about you and him, although I don’t know what’s going on, and I know it’s not my business, but I just thought you might want to know what happened. I had the feeling he wanted you to know.”

  “Did he ask you to come down here?”

  “No,” said Lillian. “But he talked about you.”

  “Where is he? What hospital?”

  “St. Luke’s,” said Lillian.

  “Do you know how long he’ll be there?”

  “I’m not sure. Just a couple of days, I think.” She stood up. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Oh,” said Heath. “Nothing. Please, it’s on me. Are you sure I can’t get you another? Or something else?”

  “No thanks,” said Lillian. “I’ve got to run.”