Peg and I both sat forward and looked at him. He smiled like the cat that drank the whiskey-laced cream.
“When will you know for sure?” Peg asked.
“They want to meet with me this week.”
“Ty, that is so great!” I said.
He squeezed me. “How’d you like the song? Is it your favorite?”
I de-suctioned his hand from my inner thigh and held it lightly in both of mine. “It is. How did you know?”
“I know you, babe.”
strawberry
Ty was in the bathroom a long time. I knocked on the door.
No answer. I opened the door and peeked in. He was lying on the floor on his back with my nightgown draped over his face.
“Ty! You can’t sleep here. Get up!”
He rolled over. Peg came in and we shook him till he slowly rose to his feet.
“Did he get sick?” Peg asked as we guided him to the couch.
“I don’t think so.”
“Maybe you’d better put a pan beside the couch. And a towel.”
“Yeah, and maybe we should make him lie down on his stomach, so he doesn’t aspirate his own vomit.”
“Ew,” Peg said.
“Think Jimi Hendrix,” I said.
“Well, hadn’t Jimi done heroin, or something like that?”
“Stop talking about me like I’m not here,” Ty said.
“You’re not all here,” I said.
“Some of me is.”
“Unfortunately, only the part that needs to go to Betty Ford.”
He thought that was funny. He put his arms around me and rubbed his scratchy face in my neck. “I love you, Gracie. Love you forever.”
I patted his shoulder. “Ohh-kay. I love you, too.” I looked at Peg and rolled my eyes.
“Lie down, now.” I gave him a push.
“You lie down with me.” He succumbed to gravity, and so did I; he pulled me down with him on the couch. I squirmed like an upended beetle till Peg pried me loose and hauled me up. He grabbed at my skirt but I scurried out of reach. I yanked his boots off. Peg tossed the blanket over him.
“Night!” We hastened to the bedroom and shut the door.
“I can hear you laughing,” he said loudly. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing!” Peg said. “Go to sleep.”
“Jeez, what a romantic drunk,” I said in a low voice.
“Oh, honey.” Peg was rummaging around in her overnight bag for her toothbrush but stopped to smile sadly at me. “You know he meant it.”
It was a searing one hundred and one degrees when I left work the next day. Naturally, the air-conditioning was out on my train. I sat in a puddle of my own moisture and crossed my fingers that a rolling blackout wouldn’t trap us in sweltering darkness.
I held my breath through the urine-scented Eighty-sixth Street station till I reached the street, where I gulped lungfuls of refreshing car exhaust. I popped into the specialty bakery across from my building and bought a strawberry icebox pie.
I felt oddly cautious going into my own apartment. I tapped on the door and stuck my head in. “Hello?”
It was quiet and hot. Ty must have been gone for hours. I wondered how late he’d slept. What had he done while he was here by himself all morning? Probably made a large dent in the fridge.
I wondered, queasily, if he’d peeked in my medicine cabinet. Eek. Or maybe in my underwear drawer? Wince. Definitely needed to weed things out, there. Oh, who cares! Let him see my diaphragm and my ratty old bras.
I put the pie in the fridge, cranked the living room window unit up to high, and let the icy blast freeze-dry my sticky skin. Went to the bedroom and turned on that AC. Fixed a big glass of sugary iced tea and took a cool shower. Put on shorts and a tee, and made a salad to go with the leftover turkey meat loaf. Sat in front of the TV and watched Jeopardy! and had a nice dinner and a gigantic wedge of creamy pink-and-white pie.
I went to the bedroom and arranged a workspace on my bed. We were developing an encyclopedia of the Renaissance at Spender-Davis, and I was tasked with writing most of the shorter articles about important inventions of the era. The first was wallpaper, and I needed to finish the article tonight, having been distracted and useless all day. I piled all the pillows up into a comfy nest, arranged my pile of source materials nearby, and opened my laptop. Then, because I have a big problem with procrastination, I turned on the bedroom television. There were still fifteen minutes left of the 7:30 King of Queens. My mom would have shuddered. Queens, ugh! Why is that funny?
I heard the key in the lock; then Ty appeared in the bedroom doorway. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I muted the TV.
His hair was curly from the humidity and he was wearing baggy shorts, flip-flops, and a beat-up blue chamois shirt with the sleeves cut off. Some kind of pewter rune strung on black leather around his neck. He was carrying a messenger bag and his guitar in its canvas case on his back.
“Damn, it’s hotter than a motherfucker out there.”
“I know, it’s awful.”
He took the bag and the guitar off and set them against the bedroom wall.
The TV was playing a commercial for New York Lotto. “What are you watching?”
“King of Queens. It’s almost over. Then I have to work.”
“Okay.” He stuck his hands in his pockets.
Could you loosen up a bit, Grace? Be hospitable! “It’s a great episode,” I said. “Hilarious!”
“Oh, yeah?” He brightened up. Came and sat on the end of the bed. He smelled nice, a mingling of warm man and some kind of citrusy cologne.
“Doug accidentally shoots himself in the scrotum with a staple gun.”
Tyler did not smile.
“No, really, it’s great! Here, it’s back on.”
He lounged across the end of the bed. It was fun to hear him cackling with me when Doug tries to tell the ER admissions lady about his predicament and ends up drawing her a diagram of the injured area.
At the next commercial Ty told me he had spent the day with Bogue moving his things to the new place. It was all piled in the guy’s living room until tomorrow, when he’d be able to actually move into his room.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
We went to the kitchen, where I poured him some tea and showed him the meat loaf. “There’s also salad and pie. Do you want me to fix it for you?”
“No, I’ll do it. Thanks, Grace.”
“Well,” I said. “I have to work, I hope you don’t mind. Feel free to watch TV or whatever.”
“I might work on a song. Will it bother you if I play my guitar?”
“No, I’ll close the door.”
“Okay, let me know if I’m too loud.”
I left the bedroom door ajar about a quarter-inch, so as not to be completely rude. Re-situated myself on the bed with the laptop and picked up a source printout to read.
Wallpaper. Okay. Not that much was being asked of me. A mere 250 words. So far, after “working” on it all day, I had twenty:
For the less affluent members of the gentry in Renaissance Europe, wallpaper was an affordable decorative alternative to woven tapestries.
I looked at the examples of early woodcut-printed wallpaper that I’d Googled. Nice enough colors. Maybe a little too much orange. How much would it suck to be upper-class but poor and see the Unicorn Tapestries warming your neighbor’s walls, while you just had some cheap paper saints and shrubs pasted on yours?
Ty was eating. I could hear the click of the fork on his plate. He was watching something on TV; it sounded like one of those celebrity ballroom-dancing shows. At the rate he was going, maybe he’d be doing that in about ten years. I had a good chuckle at the mental image.
Apparently Henry VIII messed up trade with Europe when he ditched the Catholic Church, and no one could get a decent arras tapestry anymore. Everyone resorted to wallpaper.
Kitchen sounds. Ty was loading the dishwasher. That was
nice.
Then Oliver Cromwell took over and put the kibosh on anything fun or frivolous. No more wallpaper for anyone until the reign of Charles II.
Tuning his guitar. Quietly strumming.
I leaned my head back on the pillows and closed my eyes. Maybe I should just start fresh tomorrow at work. I would get laser-focused and crank those wallpaper words out so I could stay on schedule and move on to the flush toilet.
Now he was quietly singing. I set the laptop aside and stretched out on the bed to listen. I knew he didn’t mind.
I see her come
and watch her go
Things she feels are things I’ll never know
Was she ever here with me?
Was it ever real?
Will it ever be?
Hope gets high, sun sinks low
I’ll sail away on a little angel breath she’ll blow
Then a million miles from here
in a land of love
oh let me disappear where
she’s just the world to me
just a girl who knows
I could be good I could be bad
I could be what she’s never had
And I can be wrong but you can be sure
I could be anything for her
For her
I dream of love
I pray for time
Close my eyes and get me
a little piece of mind
In another time and place
in a sun so warm
I see it in her face, and
she’s just the world to me
just a girl who knows
I could be good I could be bad
I could be what she’s never had
And I can be wrong but you can be sure
I could be anything for her
Was it ever meant to be?
Was she ever here?
Will I ever see?
In between now and then
moves so slow while she’s waiting to come in
Then the darkness comes my way
with a million little things I wanna say
cause she’s just the world to me
just a girl who knows
I could be good I could be bad
I could be what she’s never had
And I can be wrong but you can be sure
I could be anything for her
I wished desperately for earplugs.
I wished he would leave.
I needed to cry, badly.
I rolled over with my back to the door and pulled a pillow close and let scalding tears come and rack me.
I finally pulled myself together, got up, and opened the bedroom door a tiny bit. He was on the couch, his back to me, still playing. I slipped silently into the bathroom and locked the door. In the mirror my face was just awful. Mottled pink and white. Swollen lids. Red nose. A cool washcloth helped, a little.
I came out of the bathroom and crept quietly behind Ty to the kitchen, thankful he didn’t notice me. A spiral notebook sat on the coffee table in front of him, from which he was singing words.
I got a glass down from the cabinet and stood at the sink filling it. Took a long drink. Turned off the faucet and noticed it had gotten quiet. I turned around and was startled half out of my skin.
“Oh—”
He was standing too close. “Have you been crying?”
I nodded.
He put his hands on my face and then his mouth was on mine and his tongue was in my mouth, deep, and I was backed into the corner where the countertops met. He was all up against me, solid, warm, immovable.
Just for a moment, I let myself feel him. Taste him. Strawberry.
I pulled my face away but he didn’t step back. I lowered my head. I didn’t want to look at him, or him to look at me.
His hand cradled the back of my neck.
“You can’t do that,” I said into his shirt.
“Gracie,” he whispered. He kissed my hair.
“We can’t be friends if you do that.” My voice was shaking. “Please. Do you understand?”
“Okay,” he said, after a moment. “Okay.”
When I came out of the kitchen he was gone.
AUTUMN AGAIN
my bff, the Lizard King
For my birthday my dad took me to dinner at a popular Greek restaurant, where I indulged in a creamy risotto with lobster and sea urchin, blackberry-rose-champagne sorbet, and pastries. I would have to tell Julia about it. Of course, I’d leave out the Dan part.
I told him that my wedding was probably going to be in May, that Julia was helping me plan it, and that Steven and I would firm up the exact date soon.
“Would you ask your mother to call me?” Dan said.
I looked at him with raised brows.
“So I can help with the wedding.”
“Oh, yes. Of course. Well, what do you mean, help?” I was sure there was no way Julia was going to confer with him about the flowers.
“Write a check.”
“Oh. Well, you know, Steven and I plan to pay for the wedding.”
“Isn’t the bride’s family supposed to pay for it?”
“Yes, in olden times.”
“And I’m old-fashioned.”
I almost choked on my baklava.
“Last time I saw Julia was at your graduation,” Dan said. “What does she look like now?”
“She’s stunning.” I got out my wallet and handed him a picture.
He studied it for some time.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“Dan. Five words.”
He gave the photo back to me. His eyes were red. “She used to be soft.”
She used to be soft. Oh, man. Five words used in a sentence was worth double the money. Triple, if they could make you laugh or cry.
I tucked the picture away; I was not going to puddle up about my parents right now. “She’s very professional. And she is definitely tough.”
“When I first knew her, there were no edges.”
It was hard to imagine. “How did you and Mom meet?”
“Hasn’t she ever told you?”
“Only vaguely.”
“I taught a life-drawing class at the Art Students League. She was one of the models, fresh in town from Piscataway.”
“Really? You mean nude modeling?”
He nodded. “She was gorgeous. Not embarrassed at all about her body.”
“So you saw her naked before you even really knew her?”
“Yes, which was . . . awkward. I had to teach standing at the back of the class.”
“Dan!”
“I became obsessed with her. I found out she waited tables, so I ate at that diner almost every day. She was taking acting classes down in the Village. I’d wait for her outside the school and go home with her. Luckily for me, her roommate was hardly ever there.”
“That’s interesting, but now we are on the threshold of Too Much Information.”
My dad laughed and raised his hand for the check. “So come to my show, you and Steven.”
“I don’t know, Dan. I don’t have the right clothes for those kinds of events.”
“I don’t care what you wear. Buy something, I’ll give you my credit card.”
“No.”
“Well, why not? I’d like you to come.”
“Is it a big deal?”
“Very.”
I sighed. The last time I’d gone to one of my dad’s things I’d lost my balance and accidentally stamped on Yoko Ono’s tiny foot. Then I walked in on Liza Minnelli in a ladies’ room stall. She was nice about it but hey, would it have killed her to turn the latch? My point is, I was a New York culturati disaster. But Dan asked so little of me, and continually offered me everything. Showing up for him and his paintings seemed the least I could do.
“Oh, all right,” I said. Not all that graciously. “I’ll come.”
On a Saturday afternoon in late September, Steven and I
were in a record store in Times Square. He was in the Jazz section, headphones on, quietly bopping. I slipped over to Rock and flipped through CDs. Oh, look—Aerosmith. I had a simultaneous thought about their song “Janie’s Got a Gun” and Bill, at work.
We had tickets to a movie down the block and it was about time to head over. I started across the store to collect Steven and suddenly had to duck behind the near-life-size cardboard cutout of Hoobastank.
Tyler. In the Soul section. A girl with him. Tall, long blond hair, and tight jeans. Glued to his side. One hand cupping his ass.
I thought about the layout of the store. I had options, other ways I could go to get around them without being seen.
“Grace, we need to go!” Steven practically shouted at me from Jazz. “The movie starts in seven minutes.”
Ty looked up at Steven and then slowly around at me.
He was sporting the Johnny Cash look. Black jeans, black Western shirt, cowboy boots. Chewing gum. He lifted his dark glasses to the top of his head and smiled. I surmised several things:
1) He was stoned. In an elegant, Jim Morrison kind of way.
2) He was sexually satisfied. Recently.
3) The girl with him (also smiling at me) was Thong Girl.
“Oh, hey,” I said, coming out from behind Hoobastank.
“Hey, Grace,” he drawled. “Long time.”
“Yep. Long time.” I knew I was smiling the way my mom so often does. Which is to say, not really. Just stretching my lips. I tried to relax them, but it just wasn’t happening.
Grace Grows Page 10
