Summer Hours

by Amy Mason Doan

  Eight minutes before showtime, Yvonne walked over and hugged Serra. “Aren’t you proud of this girl?”

  I had to resist the temptation to roll up Yvonne’s long sleeves to hunt for a whisker tattoo. I’d promised Serra I’d be patient.

  “Yes,” I said. “Proud but not surprised.”

  “She’s going to be huge,” Yvonne said, blowing her garnet bangs out of her eyes. Today she wore earrings that looked like Lichtenstein comics. She leaned in close. “We shouldn’t crowd it. Give potential buyers alone time with your work. Lesson number 125 from Mother Yvonne. Come on, let’s find you champagne.”

  I stayed in the Emerging Artists room, pretending to look at the other stuff but secretly babysitting Serra’s piece from ten feet away. A man with round glasses and spiky white hair paced around it for a long time, and I had to resist the temptation to say, “Isn’t it fantastic? What a bargain!”

  He left, and then an older woman in a wrap dress and pashmina, who looked like she had a healthy art budget, examined it. I was pretending to admire some waxy masks on the wall, trying to resist peeking at pashmina lady, when someone draped an arm around my neck.

  “Got anything with puce in it?” he asked. “I’ve got a lot of waaaall space.” His nasal Daniel-Stern-as-Dusty-the-rock-star imitation from Hannah and Her Sisters. He smiled at me. “How’s she holding up?”

  “She’s calming down. You look nice.”

  He had made a serious effort: unripped black jeans, black shoes that weren’t Vans, a thin sweater in a heathery gray that made his deep brown eyes and hair look even darker against his olive skin. He’d pasted his hair down with water and smelled of Rainbath. Eric had been stealing pumps of it in the shower all summer, thinking we wouldn’t notice. But the vaguely spicy scent was appealing on him.

  “You look nice, too,” he said.

  And then something amazing happened. The next time I saw Serra’s plaque, there was a small red dot on it.

  It sold.

  I searched frantically for Serra, tugged her over by the elbow to show her.

  She stared at it in shock. She went to the gallery manager to double-check, and when she came back she was surrounded by a colorful scrum of beaming women in organic black cotton and statement jewelry. Yvonne’s turpentine mafia, high-fiving Serra and toasting her first sale.

  I scanned the women clustered around Serra, wondering how many were in Yvonne’s collective. Hoping to glimpse a secret handshake or the cylindrical outline of a spray paint canister behind flowy trousers. Nothing.

  “They look so benign,” I said under my breath to Maggie.

  “Is it killing you not to tell anyone?”

  “A little.”

  “So what’s up with your Eric?” Maggie flicked her kohl-rimmed eyes across the room to where Eric stood.

  “He’s not my Eric.”

  “Does he know that?”

  “We’re just friends.”

  “Oh, right, I know.” She nodded, sipped her beer.

  “Maggie, don’t.”

  When the show finally wound down, we went to a café down the street. A shabby, tiny, overwarm Greek diner—me and Eric on one side of the booth, me in the window seat, Maggie and Serra across from us. Exhausted, Serra leaned against the glass, a red sale dot on her left earlobe over her two piercings. She glowed, ornamented and triumphant.

  There was a poster of a Greek island above Maggie and Serra. No people. Only simple white buildings tumbling down hillsides, the water around it an impossible blue. Eric said, “Maggie, what island is that?”

  She turned and read the bottom of the poster. “Nisyros. Dodecanese island chain.”

  “It’s the bluest water I’ve ever seen,” Eric said. “It’s like what everyone thinks California’s like before they get there and notice the smog and the cars.”

  “And the McMansions,” Serra said.

  “Let’s all go sometime,” Eric said. “Deal?”

  “Deal,” we said.

  Out the window, kids were hurrying up and down Bancroft. We’d join them in a little while; we were part of that fast-moving current. But for now our ripped red vinyl booth was an island of stillness within it.

  French fries and friends my age in a booth on a Saturday night, a Fleetwood Mac guitar solo on the speakers.

  I’d been a fool to think it wasn’t enough.

  36

  Souvenir

  2008

  Friday, 6:30 p.m.

  Our hotel suite is on the top floor. It’s done up in pale yellow silk. Thick cream carpet, a sitting area with tufted club chairs and ottomans, acres of space between two separate bedrooms and baths. We have our own fern.

  Except for the line of luggage trolleys bisecting the sitting area, marring the elegant decor, it’s beautiful.

  I shudder at the expense. Though Eric clearly doesn’t worry about money anymore, I still do. And he’s wasting a fortune to make his point. To rub my nose in my mess.

  “Can we keep these up here tonight or will you run out?” I ask our name-tagged porter, Bryce W., about the two luggage trolleys holding the gift. “I hate to hog them, but it’s breakable. And that way we’ll be all ready to go tomorrow morning. We’re leaving early.”

  “Of course, ma’am. Keep your souvenir on the carts overnight. Good plan.”

  Bryce is on my side. He’s a planner, like me. The rest of the trip may have slipped out of my control, but at least I can get Serra’s wedding present up to Oregon in one piece.

  “And where would you and the other party like these?” Bryce asks, indicating our bags.

  Bryce is a pro. He doesn’t stumble over your partner...your friend...your husband. He says the other party without missing a beat. What a tactful, useful phrase. It gracefully sidesteps any potentially offensive assumptions about our sex life, or lack thereof.

  Bryce has seen it all. Not just whatever mysterious, oversize souvenirs he’s had to transport. All kinds of sleeping arrangements. Platonic friends. Honeymooners. Couples who are perfectly content, but haven’t slept in the same bed for decades because she snores and she’s got restless leg syndrome. People who only picked this most romantic of hotels because it’s in a Joni Mitchell song.

  Couples who only pretend they’re sleeping together to keep up appearances, but retreat into opposing corners, shutting the two sets of French doors between them, before Bryce’s white-gloved finger is on the elevator down button.

  And whatever we are.

  The other party gives me no help. He’s sitting in a pale yellow club chair in the left bedroom, flipping channels on the TV. He’s picked his corner.

  “Just leave everything on the trolleys. Thanks.”

  Bryce shows me how the Jacuzzi settings work. Thermostat, room-service menus.

  He says we shouldn’t miss the famous roof garden. Recommends that we order the champagne and fresh seafood platter for two. It’s his favorite. There’s a seasonal special right now, the oysters and crab are local. “Caught this morning.” He smiles, nodding west, toward the hall. His way of indicating the ocean.

  Our windows face east; we have an incredible view of the city from the sitting room. The point of the Transamerica building and the firehose-tip shape of gray Coit Tower, the Bay beyond, covered in an evening layer of fog as dense and white as cotton batting.

  “One of the best views we have,” Bryce says.

  At least someone’s happy we’re staying at the Fairmont.

  7:00 p.m.

  Eric’s been in his bedroom with the door shut for half an hour.

  When I came out to our shared sitting area after splashing water on my face, his suitcase and hanging bag were gone from the trolley train, and the door was closed.

  I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s locked it.

  Just so I don’t get any ideas about sexy seafood pl
atters for two, or long, heartfelt talks about him and me, or anything else he feared, making this reservation.

  I press my ear to his bedroom door.

  He’s still got sports coverage on, louder than before. It’s not something predictable, like baseball or soccer. It’s dressage, some pre-Olympics event. Eric doesn’t like horses; he got thrown at a Chaco Canyon summer camp when he was little and broke his collarbone. The horse’s name was Mr. Salty, and Eric told me once he could still remember the feeling of flying through the air, how he hadn’t been scared so much as hurt that Mr. Salty, up until then a placid, plodding animal, had turned on him.

  But Eric would rather watch anything than be with me.

  I’m mad about the dressage on the TV. I’m mad that we’re stuck here for the night, that he accepted my bluff in the car when I claimed it was no big deal for us to stay here.

  I wanted him to say, Of course it is, it’s a huge deal. No way are we going near there, Becc. It’s too much.

  I set my ear to the door again, hold my breath so I can hear. Someone on Eric’s TV is describing the different braids the horses get in their manes for a major event. There’s the rosette braid and the continental style and the hunter plait.

  I kick the door. A quick, quiet knock a few inches from the floor.

  A kick just for myself, because Eric won’t hear it over his horse hairstyle report. He’s stretched out on the bed, or lounging in his stylish club chair in front of his TV.

  The feelings between me and Eric that have loomed so large for ten years have been reduced to these small, petty gestures—scone throwing, Date Insurance, a changed reservation, a toddler’s tantrummy kick.

  But the kick feels so good I do it again, a little harder this time. Jamming my big toe, leaving a black scuff on the glossy eggshell paint.

  Shit. I crouch to rub at it, but it doesn’t come off. I’ve officially defaced the Fairmont.

  There’s a scrabbling from the other side of the door and he yanks it open so fast I don’t have time to bolt.

  “What’s going on?” Eric’s voice is accusatory.

  He’s taken off his button-down so now he’s only in a white T-shirt and shorts. Barefoot. He could use a shave, his eyes are bloodshot, and he has a cowlick sticking up at the crown of his head. Even his fancy stylist in New York can’t tame his hair. Not completely.

  “Oh. I was...”

  I was just thinking of ordering room service and wondered if you wanted anything?

  I was just thinking we should decide what time to leave tomorrow morning?

  “I was just kicking your door.”

  He narrows his eyes.

  “And I left a mark.” I point at the black scuff.

  He bends to inspect it. When he rises he nods slowly, as if everything makes perfect sense now. “Oh.”

  “I’ll pay for the damage,” I go on. “I’m sorry I disturbed you, I didn’t think you’d hear me over the TV.”

  He looks over his shoulder—sailing is on now—and runs a hand through his hair. He puffs air out his nostrils in a humorless half laugh as he sinks down onto the carpet, rests his forehead on his knees.

  I sit down across from him. I want to reach through the doorframe. Touch the crown of his head, run my fingers through his hair.

  We’re quiet, listening to the reporting from Beijing. It’s about the opening ceremonies now. It’s going to be spectacular...jaw-dropping...epic. Tickets have been sold out for weeks...

  He looks up at me, shaking his head ever so slightly. “Why the fuck are we here, Becc?”

  I smile. “Because we’re both stubborn.”

  “Yes. We’re children.”

  “The creatures inside Serra’s art are more mature.”

  “I did try to get us a different hotel reservation, I hope you believe me,” he says. “I tried to fix things. But it was too late.”

  “I know.”

  37

  Kind of Blue

  Late August 1997

  The second-to-last workday before Eric had to fly back to school, we met for a 1:00 p.m. showing of a noir, The Lady from Shanghai at the Balboa. The theater was halfway between our offices, and matinees were $3, so it was our favorite.

  I settled next to Eric in the fourth row, content, laughing.

  “So this is set in China?” I asked as we dug into our tub of popcorn with Milk Duds melted in. Instead of sneaking in bootleg candy I’d bought it at the concession stand as a splurge, a goodbye treat for him.

  “No, you’ll see. You’re hogging all the Milk Duds!”

  “Why would they want Dud in their product name?”

  “It hasn’t stopped you from hogging them.”

  Our hands battled for an extra gooey clump at the bottom of the tub. I won.

  “Seal-on-repeat kind of morning?” Eric asked.

  “Yes. But surviving.”

  Eric was the only one I could be honest with about my job, the despair I felt after hundreds of hours keying in sales figures and vacancy rates. Trying to pretend my real estate newsletter was anything close to my dreams. He didn’t tell me to suck it up, or insist that it was just a stepping-stone. He simply asked what I was playing on my Discman and understood. Our private code.

  We licked our fingers as the lights went down, and a man described Rita Hayworth, how she’d shattered him even though he knew getting involved with her would bring nothing but trouble:

  “And from that moment I did not use my head, except to think about her.”

  It was a good story, tense and moody. I watched for twenty minutes before I realized that my right arm and Eric’s left, sharing an armrest, were touching.

  I concentrated on breathing normally. Half an hour into the movie his pinky touched mine. Ever so slightly, brushing my curled, still hand.

  I stared straight ahead, just as he was. I didn’t breathe.

  Maybe it could happen. I could open my sticky hand, take his. Only that, for now, in the safety of the dark theater. And we’d see what came next.

  In high school I’d been curious. Now that Eric had returned, older and wiser, more up-front, curiosity was tinged with an appreciation for how rare it was—the connection between us. How good it felt just to be in his company.

  I leaned forward, startled. On the screen was a familiar dock, steep hills, a white frame house in the trees that I knew well. Unmistakable.

  Eric tilted his head close to whisper in my ear. “Filmed near here, isn’t it cool? In San Francisco or Sausalito. I forget which.”

  Sausalito, Eric. See that dock there? I’ve walked on it dozens of times with your favorite person, late at night. It wasn’t that long ago.

  Although I like to pretend it is, try to put the memories in black and white.

  Thank you, Orson Welles, for reminding me this was impossible. I’d almost lost my head.

  I shifted my hand away from his.

  * * *

  WHERE I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE | A party

  WHERE I WAS | A party

  We threw Eric an epic going-away bash. Serra strung fairy lights on the Plato House roof, I picked the music, and Maggie made the cocktails—not just her famous Chocolate Margs but martinis and Jell-O shots, and something she’d invented in Eric’s honor called a Logan. It was tasty, perfect for the hot night because she’d blended it with crushed ice. Sweet but with a sparkly aftertaste I couldn’t identify.

  “What’s in me?” Eric shouted to her, examining the mint-green slush in his cup. Word had gotten out that Plato House was having a party, and I couldn’t recognize half the people bouncing on the roof to Moby.

  “Vodka, limeade concentrate, ginger ale, and a splash of Scope.”

  “Eric doesn’t drink,” I told Maggie, downing mine and taking his.

  “Logan, you should’ve told me.” Maggie and I went down
stairs to concoct a virgin drink for him.

  When I came back to the roof with it, he was talking to a girl. Some delicate blonde in a yellow floral shortie sundress and high-tops. The sunset behind them had shot her wispy pale hair through with orange, like a spotlight. Like it had chosen her. She was a foot shorter than Eric so he had to lean down to talk to her, his temple grazing the crown of her waify little head, and even from across the room I could see that she was a giggler, and I knew they were going to spend the night together, and probably the rest of their lives, too, and I hated her with every cell in my body.

  I had another drink, danced two songs. Had two more drinks. I lost Eric in the crowd. Hot and queasy, I pushed my way through the sweating bodies downstairs, across the front room to the porch for fresh air. My desire for cool and quiet took over.

  It carried me to the bus, the ferry terminal, my favorite outdoor bench.

  I was only dimly aware of what I wanted—the cool of the ferry wind and the quiet of the Sausalito house. Cal wouldn’t be there on a Saturday night, and I still had a key.

  Maybe I’d even sleep over. Blow off taking Eric to the airport tomorrow. Let his roof waif see him off. They were probably having sex right now, in the tiny room Eric hadn’t slept in all summer thanks to Maggie’s vacant mattress stack. Using the proximity of the walls to brace themselves, to contort into all kinds of sexy, acrobatic positions.

  By the time the fuzzy male voice on the speaker told me it was time to please disembark, I was almost sober and irritated at the Logan-guzzling Becc for taking me here.

  I heard the jazz first. Kind of Blue; he loved it.

  Polite laughter. Not the wild whoops I’d just run from, but gentle titters and chuckles. Manufactured amusement, not joy.

  There was another party going on, this side of the Bay. No dancing. Older crowd. Miles Davis instead of Moby, drinks mixed with gourmet bitters instead of mint mouthwash.

  Cal was having those VC types we hate over for cocktails.

  I spotted him right away: gorgeous, smiling, deeply tanned, his sleeves rolled up. Ready to be amused.

  He could still command a room. His hair was longer, a little lighter after a summer in the sun, sailing around the Pacific. But the rakish, attractive swoop over his forehead was the same.