Tell Me When It Hurts

by Christine Whitehead

  “McCall, that’s way too easy!” she hooted. “Don’t patronize me! Dave, in the White House, just before Dave, a.k.a. Kevin Kline, and Ellen, a.k.a. Sigourney Weaver, are going to appear on the balcony.”

  “Well done. Gold star,” said Connor, taking her elbow and guiding her down the hall to the elevator.

  Arriving at the restaurant entrance, Connor stepped up to the maitre d’hotel.

  “McCall, two for eight, please.”

  “Very good, sir,” said the host, leading them to a table for two in a corner. There was a fresh pink carnation in a cut-glass vase, and a candle with a beaded shade.

  The whole room was golden, with a sky blue ceiling and patches of red light thrown by the red-beaded lampshades on the tables. The chandeliers had a soft peach glow.

  Arriving at the table, the host seated them, and Archer laid her black beaded purse on a corner of the table, smiled, and looked around. The host handed each of them a menu, thanked them, and backed away.

  “So, have you ever been here before?” Archer asked as she opened her menu. “I mean, being brought up in Boston and all.”

  “Not exactly. Where I grew up in South Boston, we were lucky to afford a dinner at the local pub once in a while. Forget this part of town—it may as well have been on the moon. And then at Harvard, I was on pretty much a full scholarship. My part-time job was as a waiter at the Crimson Joe’s, a little Irish pub, behind Harvard Square—that was for spending money. No Four Seasons for me. . . . Ever been to South Boston?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head, “I don’t think so.”

  “You’d remember if you had. I laugh like crazy when I read about it now. It’s become gentrified and desirable. When I was growing up, it was mostly welfare cases, with real divisions between black and white, and serious crime and drug problems. My parents held their own and were proud that they owned their home, but they were the exception.”

  “Lots of changes in twenty years.”

  The waiter came, and Connor ordered a nice bottle of pinot grigio.

  “You know,” he continued, “most of their friends had at least six children; some had eight or nine. They would always say to my mother, ‘Colleen, why just one?’ But Mom was this pretty, fragile daydreamer who got pregnant only once—at least that I know of. And that was that.

  “When she was growing up there, the least desirable area was the waterfront—overrun with rats and trash and the homeless. She would never believe the million-dollar condos there now. She’d just say, ‘Now, Connor, don’t toy with me,’ and shake her head, smiling coyly. She was something, that woman.”

  “Really?” said Archer. “You don’t talk too much about your parents. What were they like?”

  “Well, I spent a lot of years resenting them. My father really didn’t seem to like me much, and my mother seemed like she had no life, so she stayed too interested in mine. At least that’s how I felt while I was growing up. Now I feel like they just didn’t know how to be any different, and they gave all they had to give. My mother died of cancer about ten years ago now, and my dad died at a Red Sox game about eight years ago. Heart attack. Life just throws a lot of stuff at us that we don’t expect,” he added, sighing. “You know, when I left Harvard Business School, I thought I knew exactly how my life would go. It was mapped out, blueprinted. And for a while it went according to my plan. And then it didn’t.”

  “Yeah, I know. I wish so hard sometimes for a redo. You know, like in Back to the Future. You can go back and change the things that went wrong, put the pieces in the right order, then go on from there.

  “We all want a redo, Archer. We just don’t get it. We have to take what we get and work with that.” He fell silent for a moment, then said, “So tell me, how’d you happen to be named Archer?”

  “Oh, that. My father’s mother’s maiden name. I think he always regretted giving me that name, because I was teased pretty relentlessly about it in school. Litchfield was full of Debbies, Lisas, and Amys. I was Bow-and-Arrow girl, Orca the Whale, Archer Smarcher, et cetera, et cetera. You get the picture. I think Daddy would have just called me Mary, had he known. But I never gave it a second thought. I liked my name. I guess I was a weird kid—I always wondered what was wrong with them, not what was wrong with me.” She laughed at the memory. “How about you? Connor wasn’t all that common a name when you were born, was it?”

  “No, not really. My mother, with her romantic notions, thought Connor McCall—you know, all those ‘C’ sounds—sounded like some hero in a romance novel. For years I wished my name were Joe or Tom. But then, we each have our cross to bear. She could have gone with Rhett McCall, and then I would have had to move to Europe.”

  Archer laughed.

  The waiter came and poured the wine, then took their order. Archer ordered the Dover sole, and Conner the trout almondine.

  Just then a flash of light made them both look up. A photographer had just taken a picture of the couple at the next table. They appeared to be in their eighties and sat at a table for eight with two younger couples—probably their children—and a ten-year-old boy, and a girl of perhaps twelve. All were elegantly dressed and glowing.

  The photographer lowered the camera, looked around, and saw Connor and Archer eyeing him curiously. He smiled broadly and took a step toward them.

  “Sorry to interrupt your dinner, folks. Sixtieth wedding anniversary dinner. Wanted a few photos with the family.” He stopped, cocked his head, and said, “How about one of you two? All dressed up and looking good. Show it to the kids at home?”

  And before either of them had a chance to respond, he stepped away from them, twisted the lens once, focused, and shot three photos in rapid succession. He then picked up a second camera and shot two more.

  “Write your name and address down for me, and I’ll send you a few copies,” he said, shoving a little white memo pad at Connor.

  Connor, startled but game, wrote down his P.O. box in Lenox and handed the pad back. Smiling, the man packed his equipment away, said his good-byes to the anniversary couple and their family, and left.

  “Happy anniversary,” Archer called gaily to the elderly couple.

  In response, they held up their two champagne glasses to Connor and Archer and clinked them together.

  “Thank you, dear. Hope you two make it to sixty years, too,” the wife said, beaming with pride and contentment, surrounded by her loved ones.

  Archer returned the warm smile. “Thank you very much.” Then, turning back to Connor and smiling, she said, “You’ll never see any pictures. You do know that, don’t you, McCall?”

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” he scolded. “But, yeah, I do know I’ll never see any photos. No one ever does what they say they will these days. It’s epidemic. It’d be cool if they showed up someday, though, wouldn’t it? It would help restore my faith in mankind.”

  “I know. . . . So what do you have planned for us tomorrow?”

  “Well, I thought I’d take you to the old neighborhood in the morning and take a walk by the river. Not much open on Thanksgiving Day, but I found a restaurant in the North End—Italian—that’s supposed to put out a hell of a Thanksgiving spread. So we have a reservation there. Then maybe a movie. For Friday I got tickets to this show called Mama Mia—music from your youth: ABBA. Anything in particular you’d like to do?”

  “Well, I thought we could have dinner with Gavin on Saturday night. Other than that, nothing in particular. And I do like ABBA, by the way. It’s happy music; don’t knock it!”

  He smiled.

  Dinner was sublime. Afterward, over cognacs and then coffee, the talk ranged from international terrorism to the wool market, to what book they would read now that they had finished The Good Earth. They agreed on Seabiscuit.

  Archer spoke animatedly, gesturing to emphasize her points, and Connor tried his best to listen, though it wasn’t easy. She looked as if she were twenty-one and in the city for a big weekend—so full of life and beginnings. As she s
poke, she sometimes twisted her pearl ring absentmindedly, and her hair would fall over her right eye.

  Archer talked rapidly, noting that Connor’s eyes were a deep, almost royal blue with flecks of yellow and green, and that the corners turned up when he smiled. She had never noticed the flecks before.

  Archer was playing one of their games: a quick series of associations, often trivial, the objective being to answer with the first word that sprang to mind.

  “Flower?” Archer asked.

  “Rose.”

  “Dog?”

  “Bouvier.”

  “Elton John song?”

  “‘All the Young Girls Love Alice.’”

  “Whoa, now! Where did that come from?” interjected Archer.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know? Just kidding. I wanted to see if you were really listening. Okay, uh, ‘Tiny Dancer.’”

  “Book?”

  “Youngblood Hawke.”

  “Movie?”

  “Oh, no fair. Too many possibilities. Depends on the day, the genre.”

  “Okay, okay. Blue.”

  “Sky.”

  “Forever.”

  “Archer.” He looked down, embarrassed.

  Archer stopped smiling and examined her snifter of cognac. She lifted it to her mouth, her hand shaking.

  “Archer, I’m sorry. I guess the candles, the wine . . . you . . . I got carried away. I thought I was over my grand pronouncements after the last one.”

  Archer lifted her eyes to his, and he saw that they were misty. Her left hand, the one with the pearl ring, was still resting on the table, his right hand almost touching it. She moved her fingers forward to cover his. He looked up. She smiled, and he raised her hand and clasped it in his.

  It was nine thirty, and the six-piece orchestra and female vocalist had just begun to play. The music was eclectic. She started out with a rendition of the Sinatra classic “That’s Why the Lady Is a Tramp,” then Faith Hill’s “Breathe,” followed by Martina McBride’s “Valentine.” Connor and Archer sipped their coffees with a second cognac, and the piano began a single strand of the theme.

  “Shall we?” asked Connor.

  Archer smiled and rose gracefully, taking her offered arm. Connor put his arm gently around her, but as the song went on, he pulled her closer. She was light and responsive, moving easily. Even in heels, she barely came to his shoulder. They turned and turned, slowly, lost in the moment and each other. When the song ended, they stayed on the dance floor a few moments, as if unwilling to separate, then went back to the table. Connor motioned for the bill and paid with cash.

  They walked to the elevator holding hands shyly, laughing, leaning into each other. They got on and pushed “7,” and as the doors closed, Connor immediately turned to Archer and pressed her against the mirrored wall of the elevator. They fell together, kissing passionately until the car finally stopped at their floor. Archer thrilled at the feel of Connor’s hard body against hers, and pressed back breathlessly into him. When the elevator doors opened, they stepped out, disheveled and excited.

  “I’ve dreamed of this for so long,” he said, turning to her. “But I thought I was a fool to think it was possible.”

  “Me, too,” said Archer. “And you wasted good money on two rooms, McCall. I choose you.” And opening the door to her room, she pulled him in.

  CHAPTER 20

  They woke up to the sun pouring in the window. Archer stretched and then collapsed over onto Connor, snuggling close. He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him.

  “Hey, I would have seduced you sooner had I known,” laughed Archer.

  “Yeah, right.” He kissed the top of her head.

  “Good you practice safe sex, McCall, because I sure as hell wasn’t planning a tryst. How long has that condom been in your wallet?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know? Probably so long it’s worthless.” He stroked her hair.

  “And hidden behind Lauren’s baby picture, no less. Tsk, tsk,” she quipped. “Poetic irony, McCall, although a bit sacrilegious, you must admit.”

  Connor laughed. “It’s actually quite appropriate, if you think about it.”

  Now Archer laughed and snuggled tighter. She felt him growing hard, and it excited her, reminding her of last night.

  “You’re unbelievably beautiful,” he said, reaching to push her hair back from her face. “You make that picket fence look awfully good to me.”

  She leaned forward to kiss him. “And you make me want to be standing at the gate.”

  * * *

  Eventually, they got into the shower together, reluctant to be apart. They soaped each other up, rinsed, and hopped out, aglow and steaming.

  The day was lovely, sunny and crisp—perfect Thanksgiving football weather. They took a cab to South Boston, and Connor showed her his old house. Like many other homes in the newly gentrified neighborhood, it had been transformed by an addition as large as the original house. He showed her where he had gone to school and church, and where he had caught the bus to go to Rose’s farm in the summers.

  “I never had to work going through college,” Archer reflected. “Guess I was lucky. Daddy said my job was to study, and if I held up my end there, that was all he could ask for. I had Clique at school, too, so between classes and riding, I loved my life. I thought life would always be that exhilarating, and that everything I did would be topped by the next thing in some endlessly growing crescendo. Naive, huh?”

  “No, just youth—and that’s how it should be. I love seeing kids fighting for some stupid cause, working to save the seals, or backpacking through Europe and feeling like they’re the first kid who ever took to the hills and highways. There’s plenty of time to feel jaded and cynical later, after life beats you up a bit—no need to rain on their parade too soon.”

  Archer and Connor had dinner at Antonio’s—turkey surrounded by stuffing, with a side of polenta.

  “Good we’re not on Atkins,” Archer whispered.

  They laughed with Antonio when he came out to greet his patrons, to offer another bottle of valpolicella, and hear them rave about his latest creation. The spectacle was complete when his staff dimmed the lights and paraded out in formation, bearing aloft flaming baked Alaskas. The diners applauded and cheered.

  On Friday, they went to Faneuil Hall to browse, then to a place called the Dog House for lunch, where they sat on tall red leather-padded stools and ate hamburgers with mushrooms and grilled onions.

  “Boy, they must think everyone’s over six two,” grumbled Archer, trying to get comfortable, shifting right and then left on the slippery stool. She tried both feet on the highest rung but felt like a jockey, knees almost under her chin. But the next rung was too far down, and hanging naturally, her feet cleared the floor by four inches. Connor sat comfortably with one foot on a middle rung and the other on the floor.

  He watched with an amused gleam in his eye. “Well, the midget people are dying out—inferior genes, you see—and this place is on the cutting edge of evolution. Yeah, the Dog House is known for that. They say when the little people get angry, they begin to push and shove and make a terrible ruckus, sometimes biting the ankles of the big people.”

  Archer pushed him almost off his stool.

  He grabbed the edge of the counter. “Oh, see? See? Here’s one of the little people now, in one of those frenzies they talk about. I better cover my ankles.”

  Archer waved off his comments as if they were unworthy of response, but she giggled. “Hey, McCall,” she began, gesturing with her burger at the throng milling around them. “See all these people walking around, living their lives, doing Christmas shopping, seeming like ordinary people? But each one of them—every single one of them, including that bag lady out there on the corner—has one unique fabulous moment tucked inside them that they can pull out on a rainy day. I sometimes try to guess what it is for each one. Do you ever do that?”

  Connor turned and looked at her.

  “What are you
talking about, Archer? Maybe the little people also have some weird world vision, too?”

  “Well, don’t you have one moment that you . . . you know, savor, that you replay again and again in your head, and that when you’re down, it absolutely, one hundred percent, works every time without exception to pull you up?”

  Connor thought about it for a few seconds, then shook his head.

  “Nope, I don’t.”

  Now it was Archer who stared. “None?”

  “Maybe I don’t get it, but there just is no one occasion I can think of that ever did that for me. If it’s important to you, though, I’ll get one.” He leaned over and kissed Archer’s neck. “So, what’s yours?”

  She tilted her head and looked up at him. “McCall, my moment is so spectacular, I’ll need a whole dinner to describe it to you. So spectacular, in fact, I may need a dinner and dessert. It’s saved my life on more than a few occasions, and someday, when I have enough serenity and time to do it justice, I’ll tell you.”

  Connor looked into her bright, spirited eyes. He reached over, pushed her hair back, and tucked a loose strand behind her ear. “Well, if that’s the case,” he said softly, “I’ve got a lot to be grateful to your moment for. I can’t wait to hear about it.”

  They finished their burgers, poked around in some of the boutiques, and walked around Beacon Hill, admiring the cobblestone streets, ornate wrought-iron gates, and elegant brick townhouses. They went to Mama Mia on Friday night and laughed uproariously when the cool Australian fell for the pudgy but aggressive friend of the main star, and they danced along with the rest of the audience in the encore.

  * * *

  On Saturday night, Gavin was to have dinner with Archer at the Impudent Oyster. He had mixed feelings about it. Archer had called him a week ago to say she would be in Boston with a friend—a man. He knew from the way she talked about him—Connor, his name was—that she was in love with him. Hearing her talk about him wounded Gavin in a way he had thought he was beyond. Even hearing her say his name, as though it was special, made him wince inside. He had always felt that someday he and Archer would end up together. She understood him—his pain, his heritage, his legacy. He had never wanted to rush her. But now she was bringing someone, a man, here. What could he say?