“Then what about Katie Gibbs?”
Five seconds.
“I’ll pass on the Katie Gibbs. Actually I’m thinking of getting my master’s in music. I think I can get a teaching fellowship, and they’ll pay my way.”
“Really? Is a master’s really necessary?”
“Well, it’ll give me some time to figure stuff out. You know…just some breathing room…now that…you know, I’m on my own.”
“Well…whatever you think is best. Your father and I just always felt that a solid typing skill would be a good fallback for you.”
“You’re probably right…”
I took a deep breath.
“You know, Mom, I never told you what happened with Bruce.”
“Happened? What do you mean?”
The waitress refilled our water glasses. My mother lifted her eyes over my head again: staring out the window, distracted by the presumably more interesting lives that passed us by on Greenwich Avenue.
“Well…you know…he, um…he used to hit me sometimes. Not a lot…but I had a black eye once. And it was kind of scary. You know. I just had to get out of there. And um…well…that’s what happened.…”
The seconds pounded on, screaming in my head. I took a bite of my eggs and saw that her eyes never wavered from some object over my head, far off in her necessarily distant land. A blinding white disk appeared in front of my eyes, a sign that I might faint. I leaned into the front edge of the table.
“Well. I really can’t talk about this now.”
With those words, she pushed her half-eaten omelet forward on the table, stood up, shoving her chair back with the back of her smooth knees as she rose, and walked out of the restaurant. The composite motion was swift, deft, and complete. It looked rehearsed, as if she had done this before, perhaps many times. And of course she had. Whether on the phone or in person, I was still unable to pry apart the tight slats of fencing she used to protect herself from me.
The lump of eggs sat in my mouth. Minutes went by. The white disk faded. My heart slowed and my hearing returned. The goat cheese popped through, putrid and rancid. I swallowed. The waitress approached.
“Is everything all right?”
“Oh…yeah…ah…my mother just needed to leave. Can you wrap these omelets up for me to take home? I guess I’m finished.”
I’d let the bomb drop: I had married a man just like her husband. We had both chosen muscular devil-men who hit women and girls, who had peculiar sexual predilections. She could not hear or acknowledge an iota of my pain, my story, or my life. She was done. Clearly tired and spent. I had held up a cracked mirror to her face, and I finally recognized what had been in front of my nose since I was four years old: I didn’t know my mother at all. My luck had just run out.
Those omelets stayed in my refrigerator for weeks, lying like embryonic puppies wrapped in tinfoil. They stared at me daily as I mulled over what I would do with them, my lucky oboe, and my tired mother. Eventually they started to smell, and into the garbage they went. I cleaned the sublet and started looking for a new place.
Body Parts
He’s already on top of you. He knows each nook and cranny of your being. He’s whispering every scintillating bit of information you need to make your move. You take a breath and project your air. This maestro is God’s gift to musicians. He uses his body parts to guide you and the world through this music.
Mahler’s Sixth Symphony, the Tragic, requires an enormous orchestra. You’re sitting close to the brass section: eight French horns, six trumpets, four trombones, one tuba. The sound is overwhelming, and you have to wear earplugs for much of the big tutti sections.
Just then, he really makes you crazy: he calls out to the sixth horn player during the loudest section imaginable: “Sixth horn, that’s an E-flat on the second beat in that bar.” Those ears. From God. Only a once-in-a-lifetime set of ears could hear that small discrepancy when the volume is so massive. You just adore those ears.
You get to a really delicate section where the music is quiet and tender; you feel like you’re skating on a thin sheet of ice and could fall through a hole at any moment. The entrances are exposed and must be precise, and it’s scary as hell. You’re nervous. But you look up and realize that he’s got you covered. He sniffs. And with that tiny, minuscule sound that only the orchestra can hear, he gives you the exact placement of your scary entrance. That sniff. You could kiss that nose.
And don’t get me started on his arms. His fingers tell you one thing, and later his elbows tell you something else. And when he uses the whole arm, it shows you something completely different. And he can change it up at will. Somehow, you just know what he wants. Nothing is in doubt, and nothing scares you. You love all his body parts.
The best part is that he never closes his eyes to you. You know that when a conductor closes his eyes while conducting, he is subconsciously afraid. Afraid that he will look at the whole orchestra staring back at him, and they will know that he is fearful. To face music, to understand it, to know it; this takes courage. There is no place for fear.
Tony
“FLAWLESS! PICK! UP!”
My curry dinner with mango chutney on the side sat on the warming table. Rushing in hungry, I was about to start my shift. The expediter, a guy named Jorge, loved to scream my nickname: Flawless.
After a day of classes at the Aaron Copland School of Music, where I was getting my master’s in music, I had arrived at my new restaurant job on 57th Street and Sixth Avenue for the evening shift. One of around fifty servers, I was surrounded by actors, dancers, writers, and artists. Patrick O’Neal, the owner of the place and an actor himself, designed the work schedule to be flexible for employees who needed to attend auditions or classes. Patrick called me Flawless, and so, eventually, did all the staff and regular customers. I was a stern and, at times, downright mean waitress—but always with a smile on my face—demanding that my customers order in good time, not complain, and get out quickly. Turning tables and making money was my priority; efficiency my mantle. I wore my nickname like a badge of honor, because that was how I actually saw my life: clean and scraped down, pristine, free of fluff, with everything reduced to its essence.
Working at O’Neal’s among creative people of all disciplines was a heady change from the small, insular Village restaurant. The New York Coliseum was around the corner, at Columbus Circle, and all the trade-show guys spilled into O’Neal’s for drinks and dinner: the Thom McAn shoe guys, the Ralph Lauren guys, the Jordache jeans guys. Busy salesmen and busy waiters; the time flew, and we made money.
The Aaron Copland School of Music at Queens College fancied itself to be on a music conservatory level, but it was not quite there. Its academic emphasis was suited to music theorists, and I was required to take a few difficult theory classes I was ill prepared for. I limped along. My only obligation to the school, along with taking oboe lessons and a light load of class work, was to play in the school orchestra twice a week. In exchange, they offered me free tuition. Ronnie Roseman, my oboe teacher, gave me all the flexibility I needed. I knew exactly how I wanted to sound; Kirsten’s voice still rang true in my ears. She continued to be my muse.
During the week, I arrived at Queens College at 7:00 a.m. after an hour-and-a-half commute by subway and bus. I’d find an empty classroom to practice in for two hours before classes or orchestra began. Then, at the end of the day, I began my reverse commute back into Manhattan and went on to my shift at the restaurant. I knew how to do this: I was an expert at discipline. Like a rubber band, my life was stretched as taut as it could go.
But I wanted a love life. Why not just tug a little more and snap back to a place I knew inside and out? My new love was a repeat: Don G.
Despite his prison record, drinking, gun toting, and glass chewing, I carefully reconsidered his endearing qualities. My grizzled barhopping boyfriend of yore was a respected glassblower, a maker of both art glass and commercial objects, working out of his father’s industrial glass factory in Quee
ns. Well known in his field, he’d exhibited at the Corning Museum of Glass and the Toledo Museum of Art.
Pushing aside the potential for land mines, and inspired by the pristine memory of his art, I dove in for another chance. Our familiar love was just easier than a new, unknown devil.
“Hi, Tony.”
“Marcia. Jaysus. What are you doing here? It’s been, what, three years?”
The Village restaurant looked the same, save for a few new waitresses and a slightly different bar crowd. On a night off from O’Neal’s, and after a full day of school, I was secretly hoping to see Steve.
Tony appeared miffed.
“Well, that’s a nice welcome. Nice to see you, too, Tony.…”
“I’m sorry. What can I get you?”
“Just a club soda. How’s everything here, Tony? Where’s Rupert? Is he still around?”
“Things are really kind of the same. But Rupert—he moved back to Vienna about a year ago. He really missed you when you disappeared. He was always talking about that singer you two were crazy about. Personally, it bored me to tears.…That old lady Mary died. In her sleep, I think, thank the Lord. You remember her, right?”
I nodded, remembering that this elderly woman had had a huge crush on Tony and that he was terribly kind to her. Tony was a good bartender that way; he always dealt with his customers purely, without guile.
“That’s about it for the news.…You know how the bar business is. Booze levels everything out.…But Marcia, what happened? You just never showed up for work one day. We were worried. Or at least I was.”
Ah. That was it: I never said good-bye to the man who cared about me. The Irish never forget. I’d never considered his feelings, and I was about to abuse him again.
“Well, it’s a long story. But I got married and divorced.”
“Whoa. Please don’t tell me Steve.”
“God, no. Somebody else.”
Tony stared at me, awaiting further explanation as to who the lucky bridegroom had been. When it didn’t come, he busied himself cleaning glasses. Looking out the window for a few seconds, I dragged my eyes back to his. Get on with it.
“Tony. Have you seen Steve at all? I know he moved somewhere. Has he been in? I’m kind of curious what happened to him.”
Tony stopped polishing. Our momentum of nostalgia halted dead on the tracks. He faced me.
“Marcia, no. C’mon! I warned you then, and I’m gonna to say it to you now. He’s dangerous—and what the fook’re you doing even asking about him? I was hoping you got all that shite out of your system. So no. I’ve not seen him. Okay?”
Not surprised by his vehement protest, I started in on the weakest defense of a lifetime.
“It’s not like that.…”
“No? Well, then, how exactly is it?”
“Please, Tony. I just want to talk to him. Do you have any idea where he might be?“
“Oh, fer fook’s sake.”
He took the Manhattan phone book out from behind the bar and with a grand gesture slammed it down in front of me. The other bar patrons did their level best to ignore our escalating spat about this Steve fellow.
“He lives downtown, on Worth Street. In Tribeca. You know his name—just look it up. It’s easy. Fook’s sake.”
Turning to go to the other end of the bar, Tony rejected me with his broad back. I quickly zeroed in on the Ms. There it was: his name and address and phone number. Ma Bell came through.
“Okay, great. Thanks.”
As I scribbled the info on a bar napkin, Tony returned and leaned over the bar to close in on my face, eye to eye. We replayed a scene from years before, with my face in his hands.
“Damn it, Marcia.…You don’t think I know, but I do. I warned you before, and I’m warning you now. I know what he is. I know what he’s done. I know about the other woman and what he did to her. You don’t know how I…we all…prayed that you would be okay…week after week. The guy is a goddamn monster.”
Stunned, I looked up at Tony. What other woman? Steve was faithful, in his own peculiar way.
“Wait a minute.…What are you talking about? He was my boyfriend. There was no other woman.…”
“I’m not talking about dating another woman. I’m not talking about a girlfriend. I’m talking about raping a woman. He raped her at fookin’ gunpoint. That’s why he went to jail. You didn’t know that?”
Rape. How could I have not known what the entire bar knew? I’d kept my bargain with his mother; I’d stayed silent and said nothing. And I’d never even asked.
“No.”
“Jaysus.”
The tears came quietly. Tony sighed the deepest of defeated sighs and walked back to the other end of the bar. I stared at my club soda and began my private negotiations. It’s true he had done things, now I saw, terrible things, but never to me. It’s true that he went to jail, but those were the good times. It’s true that I should walk out and drop the whole idea, but…I wanted someone or something to stop what was rising up in me again. Erupting like sunspots around the black edges of my mind was a sadness that could kick an ibex off the Alps. I needed someone familiar to stabilize me just a little. Something I couldn’t do for myself.
Thoughts of my father flew across my mind for a few seconds. He never hit me. And after all, it wasn’t so bad, what he had done to me all those years ago. I just sat on his lap; simple. It really didn’t hurt at all. The classically abused child, now an adult, sat up straight and negotiated it all away.
Steve never did it to me.
Yes. Sitting at the bar, I blew my nose with a bar napkin and concluded that on balance, Steve was the best option. I would go back to him.
Crumpling up the napkin, I shoved it into my coat pocket, threw a ten on the bar, and turned to walk out.
“Jaysus, Marcia!”
I heard his call as I pushed the restaurant door open to leave. The cackles from the bar patrons hit my ears; people who, I imagined, were “in the know,” laughing, guffawing, even. Maybe they would rant on and on about what a sad sack of shite I was. The oboe player was brilliant, but she was a subnorm when it came to men. When the door slammed shut, I stayed next to it and listened with my ear leaned into the crack of the door.
“She’s hopeless, Tony. Why even try?”
“I tell you, she’s damaged. I can feel it in my guts. That girl’s not fit to be with a man, any man. Especially that man.”
“Okay, maybe that’s true. That’s all fine. But she’s not your responsibility. Jesus, Tony, just let it go.”
“You’re right. I should, but I can’t. I don’t know why.…She’s just so sad. She’s got the biggest set of blinders on I’ve ever seen. She’s always been odd and different, and she needs protecting.”
“Yeah, good luck with that. You love her; that’s your problem.”
Tony paused, and I leaned in even closer.
“I do. Yeah, you’re right: I do love her.…But not in that way. It’s just that she can’t love herself. And then she goes off with this goddamn mongrel of a man. And then a few years later she comes back for more? My God, I could commit murder when I think of him. With her.”
“Okay, okay. Calm down. You’ll probably never see her again. Tony, hit me again. Dewar’s, on the rocks.”
Softly I turned and walked away. My steps synced with the blood-red screaming shame that pulsed inside my every vessel. I was odd and different, Tony said. All my secrets were blasting out from my own megaphone for the entire world to muse about and discuss. I was like a small child who covers her eyes with her hands and assumes that because she can’t see anything, the entire world can’t see her. I didn’t want to be weird. I wanted to be private and invisible. And blind.
Beginning my slow cadence, I headed downtown toward Tribeca. It was spring, and crowds of tourists were out and about, enjoying a perfect May evening in the Village. The street energy infused me with some momentum, and I began to feel rhythmically compact, my feet making a regular beat as I wound my way s
outh toward Worth Street.
And as I walked with my inevitable and evenly paced gait, I resurrected the first fifteen bars of the “Liebestod” in my head. Longing, then desire. That half-diminished seventh chord. Unresolved, never ending. Tristan and Isolde, loving each other until death. But wasn’t love supposed to be hopeful? Wasn’t that what Isolde sang about, even as she was about to die?
I tromped down Sixth Avenue, then headed west over to Seventh, then south again. Crossing Houston Street, on to the other side of Canal, into Tribeca. Like a subservient Nazi in a goose step, I marched on and thought about the clever ways I’d lure Steve back and all the crafty tricks I’d use to force him to quit drinking, because I assumed that he was still drinking. My high steps, the perfect tempo for Isolde to sing her love song to Tristan, remained steady and comforted me. People walking toward me, against my path, fanned out and made room for my musical wake. They knew to get out of my way; the beautifully droning music in my head buffered me from all collisions, both physical and psychic.
Eleven Worth Street in Tribeca was the address, one of the first artists’ cooperatives purchased by owner-tenants. You had to be working actively in your artistic profession in order to qualify to buy into the building. Based on his considerable glassblowing reputation, Steve had apparently made the cut. I stood in front of the building for a while, looking up, considering my next move. Dusk was approaching, and lights began to go on inside the apartments.
A phone booth stood on the corner of the street. I headed for it, dime prepared in my palm, fingers secured around it. Safely inside, with the doors pulled closed, I dug the crumpled napkin out of my pocket, slipped the dime in the slot, and made the call. My legs, having had a workout from their march southward, started to cramp as the ringing continued, and my scalp was running with sweat; the drips tickled around my damp collar. I badly needed to pee.
“Steve here.”
Slamming the phone down, I laid my head against the filthy glass inside the phone booth, feeling like Mia Farrow, nine months pregnant in Rosemary’s Baby, when she phones Charles Grodin, the “good” doctor. A recalibration of my nerves was in order, and I felt the need to review my mental checklist of why I was standing in a filthy phone booth on Worth Street making a call to someone Tony had called a mongrel, a monster, an animal. A rapist.
The Skin Above My Knee Page 12
