Leap Year

by Peter Cameron

  They rang the doorbell and were admitted to the shoe store, which looked more like a shoe museum. Inside glass cases, shoelike objects reclined on velvet pillows.

  “This is absurd,” said Loren.

  “I told you I’d pay,” said Gregory.

  Something in the tone of his voice silenced her. She explained her dilemma to a saleswoman, who bade them sit, and disappeared into the stockroom, in search of some non-couture shoes.

  The store was empty and freezing. “Are you all right?” Loren asked Gregory.

  “I’m fine,” said Gregory.

  Loren reached out and touched his bare arm. “You’re tan,” she said. She leaned forward to kiss him, but he gave her a strange smile and stood up. He remained standing, examining the caged shoes, till the saleslady returned.

  He was odd like that all evening: cordial and distant, as if Loren were a tiresome visiting relative rather than the woman he supposedly loved. At first Loren thought this uncharacteristic coldness was due to trouble at work: Things had been tense on the set. But her presence failed to thaw him. In fact, he seemed to get more tense as the evening progressed, and by the time they had returned to his rented house high in some canyon, she could stand it no longer.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “Gregory, something’s wrong. This is hardly right.”

  He shrugged.

  “Tell me, what’s wrong?”

  They were standing on his terrace. There was a glimpse of dark lawn, moonlit pool, palm trees, and garden wall. Someone was watering his lawn, a dog barked. Under other circumstances it would have been beautiful, but to Loren it was all too quiet and so poignantly foreign she wanted to cry. She felt she was at the end of the world. In some abstract, nightmarish way she understood that Gregory had stopped loving her, but she could not believe that. It was impossible to believe. How could the warmth she felt in his presence not be reciprocated? It seemed to contradict some rule of physics, some basic ancient fact about the properties of objects. But the truth is that people fall out of love without the wonderful swooning symmetry that brings them together.

  She touched him again, and this time he allowed it. “What’s wrong?” she repeated.

  “I think I’m angry at you,” Gregory said.

  “Angry? Why?”

  “I think, I mean, I feel, I don’t know, that you don’t love me. That you never really did.”

  “That’s not true,” said Loren.

  “But that’s how I feel.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you love David?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He looked at her. “You know what I mean: Do you love David?”

  “No.” Loren shook her head. “Not in the way I think you mean. I love you in that way.”

  He looked away. “I don’t believe you do.”

  “But why? I just said I did. What more can I do?”

  “Maybe I don’t believe it,” said Gregory, “because I don’t really love you.”

  Loren was silent. She covered her mouth with her hand. A bird swooped low over the pool, ruffled its surface, winged itself away. “Why have you stopped loving me?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Gregory.

  “But why?”

  “When I heard you had left David this time, for a while I was so happy. I know that sounds mean, but, well, that’s how I felt. I thought I had been right to let you go like I did, and I thought it would all work out…”

  “And?” said Loren.

  “It’s all so shallow,” said Gregory, “how you flip back and forth. It makes your love seem so arbitrary, so inconsequential. It made me sick to think about it.”

  Loren sat down. “And you had me fly all the way out here to tell me I make you sick?”

  “No,” said Gregory. “I mean, when I asked you to come, I wanted to see you. And then the more I thought, the more I realized how I felt. I couldn’t tell you these things…I felt it was important I tell you this in person.”

  “I’ve had a very hard year,” said Loren. “A lot has changed for me, but I…I mean, my God, I’ve finally figured things out, and I know what I want. I know who I love. You can’t just leave me like this.”

  “You left me.”

  “But I had to do that. You understood. You said you did.”

  “I didn’t really, though. In a way I understood, but I was very hurt by that.”

  “I’m sorry, Gregory. In retrospect I realize it was the wrong thing to do. But, I mean, I couldn’t have known that then. I didn’t mean to hurt you—”

  “I know,” said Gregory, “but you did.”

  “And I’m sorry.” Loren stood up. She wanted to touch him, but she was afraid to. “I’ll never hurt you again.”

  “I know you won’t,” said Gregory. “I’ll never let you.”

  David opened the door to the witness room. Heath was sitting at the table. He was alone.

  “Hi,” said David. “Colette told me you were in here. Is it okay if I come in?”

  “Sure,” said Heath.

  David sat down. “I just wanted to see you—”

  “Before they send me up the river?”

  “No. I meant…well, I just wanted to see you.”

  “It was nice of you to come down.”

  “Lillian came too. She said to say hi.”

  Heath nodded. “I’m glad you came. I didn’t get a chance to thank you the other day.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better witness.”

  “You were fine. I really appreciate it. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” said David. He sat down across the table from Heath. It was a beautiful old wood table. David touched it. He thought how a year ago he had met Heath. A year ago he had thought his life would change, and it might have—things might have happened very differently. There were a million ways things could have happened. But for some reason they had boiled down to this: this sitting on opposite sides of a table, waiting. David wanted, more than anything, to stop making such a muddle of things. To move through the world with assured, purposeful grace. To speak and act and love forthrightly. But he was a coward. He could not even reach out and touch Heath’s hand, and there it was, lying just inches from his on the table.

  “I thought your testimony went well,” he said.

  “Until that schlitzed business.”

  “That was just stupid, I thought. I’m sure the jury thought so, too. I was watching them.”

  “Well, we’ll find out soon enough.”

  “When do you think they’ll…you know, come back?”

  “Colette says maybe tomorrow. But it could be anytime. She says the longer they’re out, the better.”

  “It must be awful.”

  “It is. I don’t really want to talk about it. Tell me something about you. How are things with Loren working out?”

  “They didn’t. I moved out a couple of months ago.”

  “Actually, I knew that. Lillian told me. What went wrong?”

  “Nothing, really. It just wasn’t right. It was a stupid thing to do because we both basically knew that. But the whole business with Kate confused us, I guess.”

  “How is Kate?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “I miss her. Tell her I said hi, okay?”

  The door opened. It was Colette. “The jury’s coming back,” she said. “Can I see Heath alone for a minute?”

  David looked at Heath, who had stood up when Colette came in. He looked awful.

  “Sit down,” Colette told him. “Would you leave us alone, David?”

  “Sure,” said David.

  There were no seats left in the courtroom. David stood against the wall, beside a woman with long red hair and sunglasses. Heath and Colette came in and sat at their table. Heath looked a little better. The judge appeared. When everyone was assembled, the jury entered. It took them a while to weave through the crowd at the back of the room. The woman next to David was applyi
ng lipstick. A passing juror jostled her arm, causing her to draw a scarlet line across one cheek.

  “Merde,” she said.

  David could see only the back of Heath’s head. He watched it as the jury seated themselves. There was a moment of silence, and then the court clerk stood up. “Madame Forelady, has the jury reached a verdict?”

  The forelady stood up. She was an elderly woman. “We have,” she said.

  “In the matter of the State of New York versus Heath Edward Jackson, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?”

  The forelady looked down at the slip of paper she clutched, as if she might get it wrong. “We find the defendant guilty,” she said.

  David watched Heath’s head fall forward, ever so slowly. Beside him the red-haired woman began screaming, “Shame!” and pushing herself through the crowd.

  “Shame! Shame!” she shouted, mounting the steps to the witness box.

  “Silence!” yelled the judge, rapping for order. “What do you think you’re doing? Who do you think you are?”

  The woman waited a moment before answering. In her struggle to gain the stand her hair had become disheveled. She reached a hand up as if to smooth her coiffure but instead pulled it from her head, revealing her own dark, sleek hair.

  Amanda Paine, who had been sitting in the front row, cradling a huge bouquet of red roses that she intended to give to the convicted murderer as a peace offering, stood up and promptly fainted.

  The woman on the stand removed her sunglasses and turned to face the jury. “Shame on you,” she told them. “How can he be guilty when I am alive?”

  CHAPTER 38

  DAVID WAS THE FIRST PERSON to arrive at Lillian’s New Year’s Eve party. He lay his coat on her bed and followed her into the living room. “I thought you said you were never going to give another party,” he said.

  “Did I? When?”

  “After your spring cocktail party. Remember?”

  “Well, this isn’t really a party. It’s more of a get-together. I hardly invited anyone.”

  “Did you invite Loren?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is she coming?”

  “Later. She had a party at Charlotte Wallace’s first. Do you want something to drink?”

  “What are you offering? What does one drink at a get-together?”

  “I, myself, am drinking sparkling apple juice. But there’s champagne and beer and seltzer. It’s all in the refrigerator. I’m going to put some music on.”

  David went in the kitchen and helped himself to a glass of seltzer.

  “Who do you want to hear?” Lillian called from the other room. “Chris Connor or Ella Fitzgerald?”

  “It’s your party,” said David.

  “Ella, then.”

  “Chris Connor was singing at Nell’s a couple weeks ago. Not that I went.”

  “I thought Chris Connor was dead,” said Lillian.

  “Apparently not,” said David. He sat down on Lillian’s couch. Ella began singing “Things Are Looking Up.” “Is that a sonogram on your refrigerator?”

  “Yes,” said Lillian. “Isn’t it amazing?”

  “It’s great. Can’t you tell the sex from a sonogram?”

  “Not really. It’s hard to tell penises from fingers.”

  “Have you decided on names yet?”

  “Yes,” said Lillian, “Marina, if it’s a girl—Marina or Lesley.”

  “Marina Galton is very pretty. What about a boy?”

  “I don’t think it’s going to be a boy.”

  “But what if it is?”

  “Heath,” said Lillian.

  “What about him?”

  “That’s what I’ll name my baby if he’s a boy.”

  “It’s a nice name.”

  “They’re having a party for Heath at Cafe Wisteria tonight.”

  “I know,” said David.

  “Did he invite you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I get depressed when I see Heath. It just reminds me of all the mistakes I’ve made in the past year.”

  “But don’t you think it would be nice to congratulate him on his victory?”

  “I sent him a note.” Actually David had sent flowers, but he was embarrassed to admit this.

  “Actions speak louder than words,” said Lillian.

  “Yeah, but I’m a one-party-a-night kind of guy,” said David. “Consider yourself lucky I came to yours.”

  “You always come to my parties,” said Lillian. “That’s why I love you. Anyway, this isn’t really a party. Technically, it’s a get-together.”

  Gilberto Arnot and Solange Shawangunk were sitting in the office of the Gallery Shawangunk, waiting for it to be late enough for them to make an appearance at Gilberto’s opening. They drank champagne and smoked tiny cigars.

  Solange exhaled fragrant blue smoke. “How often have we done this?”

  “A thousand times, it seems,” said Gilberto. “I’m getting too old for openings.”

  “Well, this year you almost didn’t get one. That’s why I’m opening it tonight, my dear—while it’s still officially 1988. You should have seen what almost went up instead—doodles by a doorman. The thought of it still makes me quake. Luckily I reappeared in time to set things right.”

  “Yes,” said Gilberto. “I heard about all that nasty murder business. How are you feeling? You’re looking splendid.”

  “Thank you. There’s nothing like a little death to rejuvenate one. I plan to rededicate myself to the gallery. It was obviously a mistake to entrust it to other people.”

  “Obviously. Although that Paine woman seemed to know what she was doing.”

  “Oh, she did. Until she became undone. It was all over Anton, you know.”

  “Was it? Fancy Anton—the old devil. I take it you’ve forgiven him?”

  “Well, I don’t know if ‘forgiven’ is the word I’d use. I’d say it’s more like a conditional pardon. You see, I could easily incriminate him in my attempted murder, and I find the prospect of holding that over his head far too delicious to resist. It makes for a very doting husband.”

  The door opened, and Margot Geiger entered the office. “Excuse me,” she said, “but there’s quite a crowd, Mrs. Shawangunk. Everyone’s asking for Mr. Arnot.”

  “Gilberto, have you met Margot Geiger? Margot is the gallery assistant.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Arnot.”

  “Likewise, I’m sure.”

  “So are you ready, Gilberto? Shall we make an appearance?”

  “One supposes one must.”

  “The last time I did this, someone shot me,” said Solange. “I do hope tonight passes less eventfully.”

  The streets outside the China Bowl were thronged with revelers hurrying toward Times Square, but the restaurant itself was curiously deserted. Judith sat alone at the bar, nursing a Manhattan. She had ordered a Manhattan for the sound of it. Lately she had taken to saying “Manhattan” whenever the opportunity arose.

  Through the slits in the Venetian blinds she saw Henry pause outside. He removed a pair of furry ear muffs, hid them in his coat pocket, and then entered the restaurant. He sat on the stool beside her. Judith leaned forward and kissed his cold cheek. “It’s nice to see you,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Yes,” said Henry.

  The bartender, a tall Chinese man with a smile that revealed a combination of teeth that seemed to have been assembled from several different mouths, asked Henry if he would like a drink.

  Henry pointed to Judith’s. “I’ll have one of that,” he said.

  “A Manhattan,” said Judith.

  “Yes,” said Henry. “A Manhattan.”

  They were all three silent while the drink was concocted and delivered. Then Judith spoke. “I’m very excited,” she said. “I’ve never spent New Year’s in Times Square. Have you?”

  “
No,” said Henry.

  “How have you been?” asked Judith.

  “I have been well,” said Henry.

  “Did you have a happy Christmas?” asked Judith.

  “Very happy,” said Henry.

  “How is your family?”

  “My family is fine. How is your family?”

  “Pretty good. I spent Christmas with them in Pennsylvania. I’ve just come back.”

  “And your husband? Did he have a good travel in India?”

  “Fairly good,” said Judith. “He’s glad to be home.”

  “And you? You are not also glad to be home?”

  “At the moment I don’t quite know where my home is,” said Judith.

  “Ah,” said Henry. “That is a problem.”

  “Well, I’m planning to stay here in New York, at least until the summer. I’ve managed to sublet my apartment for another year.”

  “So it seems as if New York is your home.”

  “I think it may be,” said Judith.

  They sat for a moment looking at each other. “I would be very glad if New York were your home,” said Henry. “If it would make you happy.”

  “It does make me happy,” said Judith. “That’s why I’m here.”

  Midnight loomed. Downtown herds of people migrated from one loft party to another. Outside the Cafe Wisteria, a line of people waited to be admitted to the Heath Jackson New Year’s Eve Party. Inside pandemonium reigned. A dozen decorated Christmas trees hung upside down from the ceiling, like a surreal, inverted forest. From somewhere among them Shirley Bassey sang “Goldfinger.”

  Heath and Tammi were hanging out in the women’s room, avoiding the mass of schlitzed well-wishers. Tammi had made an impromptu champagne bucket by filling a sink with cold water. She extracted the bottle they’d nipped from the bar and topped off Heath’s nearly full flute.

  “You don’t seem to be having a very good time, bucko. Drink up.”

  Heath looked pensively at his effervescing beverage.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Tammi. “Doesn’t being absolved of murder agree with you?”

  “No,” said Heath, “I’m happy about that.”

  “Then could you try to exhibit a little joy de viver?”