“Uh…”
“I’ll get us tiny wineys.”
“Tiny wineys?”
She nods and leaps up. I gaze at the decor. The lights are off, and I can see more outside her room than inside.
Kara comes back with two miniature bottles of wine and two glasses. “Ah, living alone,” she says. “Can’t live with it, can’t live without it.” She sets the wine bottles down on the table that’s tucked into the bay window.
“They come in packs of four,” she says. “Wine for one.” I open mine and pour. She does the same. Waves of vino bounce off the sides of the glass. Suddenly I feel jubilant. I haven’t had much alcohol since my incidents with David. I screw the top back on. Kara lights little candles and puts them on the windowsill. “I love candles,” she says. “They really warm things up.”
“Yup.”
We hear a door creak next door. “Oh, Pat and Steve must be home,” she says. She lights a cigarette. It makes her face glow for a second. Despite all of her drinking and smoking, her lipstick is still on perfect. I don’t know how women do that. It must be one of those things they all taught each other in eighth grade that I missed because I skipped it.
I lift my glass and take a gulp of wine.
“So, do you really think people are sex-obsessed?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It just seems like it’s such a priority.”
“Well, it is a driving force, that’s true,” she says. “I know you probably think I’m sex-obsessed because I bring it up all the time. But I swear, there are also times when I’d rather sit in bed and read a book. In fact, after my last breakup, I was honestly thrilled to stay home, plow through some Chinese, eat a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and watch old movies. But then I’d pick up some old romance flick, and I’d be watching it alone, and it would be really steamy, it would get me all wistful.”
She pauses. “Carrie?”
“Sorry,” I say. “I was getting all wistful.”
“See?”
“No, for Ben & Jerry’s. I love Cherry Garcia.”
She laughs. “You are hysterical.”
She leans across the table. Her nose really is perfect. I’ve never seen a nose like that. I wonder if it’s sculpted. “I bet you want to kiss me,” she says.
“How much do you think I’ve had to drink?”
“I bet you want to anyway.”
“I want to go hang out with Pat and Stephen.”
“I’ll bet David was okay, but I’ll bet there are things he really didn’t know how to do.”
“He was…over forty. He must have known what he was doing.”
“He may have thought he knew. Obviously he didn’t, if he wasn’t pleasing you. Some people, especially if they haven’t been in a long-term relationship, only rise to the level of their sexual mediocrity.”
“David told me he was supposed to get married right after college,” I say. “It fell through.”
“He didn’t know anything,” Kara says. “You were with him all winter and he never figured out how to get you to enjoy him.”
“I enjoyed talking with him.”
“Do you enjoy talking with me?”
“Yes.”
She fixes a gaze on me.
“Talking,” I add.
She takes her index finger and runs it in a circle around my lips. It tickles. “The wine is getting your lips red.”
“David used to say that.”
“Did he do this?” She runs her finger down my neck, then around one of my breasts, concentrically. Then she leans in and kisses me.
I stop her and wipe my mouth. “He never got lipstick on me.”
“This isn’t supposed to wear off,” she says.
“I think I should go,” I say. “Obviously we’ve had too much to drink.”
“Excuses.”
I stand up. “It was good to talk to you again.”
“It’s late. You sure it’s safe to go out?”
“I’m going to take a cab.” I step backward and knock over a stack of papers and magazines. “The New York Review of Books?”
“My ex-boyfriend used to get it.”
“He must have been smart,” I say. “Do you have his number?”
“You’re denying your sexual orientation again.”
“I’m not gay.”
“Maybe not. But you’re at least a tenth bisexual. Maybe twenty percent.”
“I’m going to get a cab. Thanks for everything.” I leave and run down the stairs. I want to forget about this by morning.
Chapter Eight
I wake up feeling considerably better than a few days ago, but strange, of course. But it’s an interesting kind of strange. Not much happened, at least. I left lines uncrossed.
There must be something I can do to avoid analyzing last night. I have made up my mind to visit Natto’s church tomorrow. But not today.
Maybe today I’ll buy a journal and use it to help figure out what happened. I’ve been wanting to get a journal for a long time. The nice thing about living in the Village is that it means you’re close to New York University, and NYU has the best stationery shops in the world, I suppose because of the writers and film students. You can find forty-two colors of paper clips; twenty-three sizes of envelopes; seventy-six kinds of pens; markers with gold ink, silver ink, chartreuse ink, invisible ink, disappearing ink, peppermint ink, glittering ink, pink ink, scented ink and glue ink. It’s been too long since I’ve been stationery shopping. The problem is, I suddenly need everything I see. Take those long pink erasers. All of my pencils have their own erasers, so there’s no need for me to buy a pink eraser, but they just look so clean and nubile that I have to caress them. Forget what Nabokov said: the real pleasure in life is fondling office supplies. I could bite those pink erasers.
Petrov will be proud of me if I buy new office supplies. I’ll be giving in to an urge to do what makes me happy. While I’m out, I also could pick up some new socks. It does feel good to have warm, clean socks in the morning. Heck, might as well go on a simple pleasure spree.
I’ll also stop at one of those stores like Balducci’s that have groceries for the wealthy and buy some things, even if a quarter pound of lunch meat is six dollars. Who cares? I have the money.
Yes, I know—there is something laughable about a person who thinks she’s getting wild because she’s going to buy office supplies. Well, you have your fun. You can watch your pornos and smoke your pot and climb onto your rooftop with a bottle of hooch and howl at the moon, but I will RUN MY FINGERS OVER MY NUBILE PINK ERASER AND GASP IN ECSTASY. And I won’t wake up with a hangover or unsightly teeth marks on my neck.
After I get dressed, I stroll outside and feel jubilant. It’s unseasonably warm. I smile at an Asian girl who’s walking past, her mittened hands half-shoved in her coat, and she smiles back, then looks away shyly. Wow, a smile between strangers. I wonder how many I can get today. I head in the direction of Avenue of the Americas and smile at a lot of other people, who also smile back. It’s strange how my moods can change. There are reasons for my good and bad moods on some days, but other days, there aren’t. I wonder if most people feel as good as I do today all the time. If so, should I find out what they’re doing, and do it? If it’s drugs, should I get some? Is it some chemical they have that I’m missing? Is it something that’s possible for me to obtain?
Garlicky fumes shoot out of the glass door of a gourmet grocery store and curl under my nose. This one isn’t Balducci’s, but they’re all pretty much the same—tantalizing mixtures for twenty dollars a pound, lots of ritzy women filling the aisles. One of the best things about New York is the rich old ladies who still think they’re glamorous. They wear the same caked-on makeup that they did when they were twenty-five; they get their hair done once a week; they hold their dainty pocketbooks in their hands rather than over their shoulders; they wear coats with furry sleeves and carry themselves like they’re floats in the Macy’s parade. Their hair is gray and thin; their wrinkle
s cause the makeup to crumble, and their sunglasses can’t hide their crinkly dark eyes, but there’s something beautiful about them. They are New York.
“Is this thirteen dollars a pound?” one woman is asking another in front of a glass display, and I notice some sort of red pâté that you can sample. It’s in a small metal cup next to a leaning tower of teabags. “In Gristede’s,” the woman tells her friend, “they have the same thing, but it’s darker.” Her friend’s nose twitches. “If it’s darker, it can’t be the same, Lucille.”
I am tempted to leave without buying anything. I am sorry to leave the two old ladies. I love old people. I love listening to the warble in their raspy voices. I think this has to do with the fact that I hardly ever got to see my grandparents. My father and I moved out of London when I was two and a half, and we rarely went back to visit, although we did once in a while. We moved to the States that year, not long after my mother died. I guess I love my mother, but I don’t know if you can honestly love someone you never knew. Sometimes we feel the need to say we love people just because we’re supposed to, but we don’t feel love deep inside. When I see a picture of her, of course I feel love—I have a picture of her at my parents’ wedding reception next to Dr. Petrov and his wife, and both of the women look beautiful. I also love hearing stories about her. I respect her and care about her, and I guess she’s part of me. But can I say I honestly love her? I used to send Christmas cards to my grandparents once a year, and I signed them “love,” but I barely knew them. I guess love is a word you’re entitled to use any way you want.
I’ve finally managed to get that sad story out of the way quickly. Cry for a few seconds and get over it.
The rest of my day is fine. The journal expedition leaves me fitted with a handsome beige leather-bound notebook with a white map of the world embedded on its cover. I also purchase four pairs of socks and three pairs of underwear. I don’t bump into any baseball-capped boys when I’m poking at the panties.
When I get near my block, I’m surprised to bump into Dr. Petrov!
“Hey!” I say.
“Hey!” he says, looking startled. I don’t blame him. You’re not supposed to bump into your doctors outside of their offices. It’s in the Talmud.
“What brings you to my neighborhood?” I ask. “Spying on me?”
Petrov laughs. “Is this where you live?”
“Right on this block.”
“Ah,” he says. “Well, no. I have a friend in this area who I haven’t seen in a while. And you? You’ve got a lot of packages.”
“It’s…Christmas presents,” I say, trying to hide the bags behind my back. No way am I going to tell him it’s underwear and socks.
“Good!” Petrov says. “I’ll see you next week.”
“Yup,” I say. I run up to my apartment and lay my office supplies and clothes out on the rug.
The next morning, when I wake up, I must give Petrov credit. I am quite excited to pull on my toasty navy blue socks and milky-white underwear. Otherwise, I do dress sternly, as church is no laughing matter.
By ten, a bunch of us are packed into an auditorium and I can hear seats clacking as people get up and sit back down. There is some murmuring. I guess every weekend they get new recruits. I am in the next-to-last row beside a man in his forties who looks skinny and has big eyes. A short man in a faded suit walks on stage.
“Good morning,” the man says. “I’d like to welcome you to the First Prophets’ Church. We are, as you know, an unconventional church. We believe in one God, we believe in Jesus Christ, but we also believe that in each lifetime, there is someone who must interpret the word. We know that some people interpret God’s word to fit their liking. The president uses it. Southern preachers use it. This lobby uses it, that lobby uses it. Joe Natto, whom I’ll introduce next, had a vision one day, which you can read about in the pamphlets on the back table or in his forthcoming book. Why should you trust Joe Natto? After listening to him today, you’ll see he gains nothing from the interpretations he gives or the wisdom he shares. People have come up to me after his sermons time and time again and said to me, ‘Eppie, he’s real. Joe Natto is real. You can feel it.’”
Eppie clenches his hands and continues.
“When he talks, he’s talking to you. When he prays, he’s praying for you. And with you. We are a church that believes every member is integral to spreading the word of God. And the work of God. Joseph Natto was a teacher. He taught in the inner city. He reached hundreds of children. He left to lead a church, where he will now affect hundreds of children and their parents and their neighbors and all of us with fund-raising that will someday build community centers and spur community programs. Joe believes not just in talking, but in doing. Now, here he is, Joseph Natto.”
With that kind of buildup, you’d expect music. But it’s very quiet as Joe takes his first steps onto the stage. Then, there’s clapping. It builds. He bows. He’s of average height. He has dark hair, swept to one side. He’s in his early forties. Most people in the room seem older. More than half are women, and they look fat and saggy. I feel bad, like this is a church for people who have nothing else. Maybe that’s the way it is with all churches. I’ll stay just long enough to make sure these people aren’t being taken advantage of.
“Welcome back, to those who are back,” Natto says.
“Welcome,” say the people in the audience, a few nodding.
“Welcome to newcomers.”
“Welcome.”
“So it’s warmer outside than usual,” he says. “So we don’t have to care about the homeless, right?”
No one speaks.
“It’s winter. We’re inside, in a warm place. They’re not. We’re among friends. They’re not. When we walk past them as we leave here today, let’s give them our spare change so they can feel the warmth we feel right now.”
There’s clapping. I notice that there is a man a few rows ahead of me who probably is homeless. A thin bumpy scar extends from his forehead down his eyelid, and he has a ripped plastic bag at his side.
“We have to stop making excuses,” Natto says. He begins strutting across the stage, then reverses direction and heads back to the microphone. “That person looks okay. This guy’s fat, so he’s not starving. That person’s a drunk. I’ll just keep these dollar bills to myself, let them burn a hole in my wallet. Maybe I’ll go buy a pound of gizzard loaf at Gristede’s.”
Now I feel guilty. That guy who did the warm-up was right. It does feel as if Natto is talking to me.
Suddenly he stops. Freezes. Then just as suddenly, he grabs the microphone.
“You are not like that!” he says.
Everyone sits in rapt attention.
“How do I know?”
He stands there.
“How do I know? In the front row, how do I know?”
The woman, who has some sort of box on her lap, moves her head slowly from side to side. She’s transfixed.
“Because you’re here,” he says. “A lot of people make excuses not to come to church. ‘It’s Sunday. I work all week. I’m tired.’”
Natto’s mouth droops.
“‘I don’t want to miss the McLaughlin Group. I have eczema, so I need people to pray for me. I’m wearing a saggy diaper that leaks. My feet hurt. My son has a birthday party to go to.’ Do you remember when we were kids, nothing was open on Sunday?”
A few people in the audience nod.
“I do. There were no excuses then. Now you can build an entire house with a swimming pool and a cabana on Sunday. Your kids have soccer. Your book group meets at three. You can’t go to church!”
He looks around the room. I think he eyes me for a second, but just as quickly, he moves on. I definitely feel like a minority. Not just racially, although in this room I am a racial minority. But I feel like a minority because I’m nearly the youngest person in the room. I do see a skinny Latino kid who looks sixteen or seventeen; he’s sitting beside a fat woman.
“But you cam
e here. So you don’t make excuses. You care. You’re giving an hour or two of your time. God respects you.”
Natto pauses.
“God! Respects! YOU!”
Someone sneezes.
“God bless you. He respects you and you and you.” Natto points to a few people. “And when you go out there and give out my flyers, you’ll get more people in here, more talking about the word of God, and more doing instead of just talking. And when they’re asked to donate to the church, to keep it going, so it can spread God’s word and help other people right here in our communities, once we get some momentum up—they won’t make excuses to avoid church. They’ll be proud to come. They’ll be proud to give. They’ll be proud to do whatever part they can. And the Lord will respect them.”
One person starts clapping, and a few others join in, and then the applause is thunderous. I catch Eppie, the warm-up act, smacking his hands together on some steps to the left of the auditorium, and I know quicker than rain that he was the one who started the applause.
“I love all of you,” Natto said. “You gave up something to be here. Just as God gives his love. You gave your time and your heart to come here. As you leave today, there will be opportunities to donate to the church, and also to take flyers to bring in other worshipers like yourselves. We work through faith, but also toward concrete results. This isn’t one of those churches where you sit in your seat for an hour and pray to God to help the poor and then run home and eat cake. This is a church about learning and doing things in accordance with God’s way. And so for being here, I respect you!”
Eppie starts the applause again—I have my eye on him now—and it gets louder and louder. Natto gets onto a more specific topic. Today’s is poverty. But after all that, he leaves with an appeal for a donation. It’s so sad that someone can’t start a church for altruistic reasons. There are forms on the tables behind us for Natto’s forthcoming book. It’s $12.95. Eppie and some other guys are collecting forms and money.
Carrie Pilby Page 15
