by Rob Kaufman
June waved at Angela’s back and wished her good luck, though she doubted Angela heard a word. The iPod’s earphones were already in her ears as she pressed the elevator button again and again as though to make it arrive quicker. June waited for the elevators to show, hoping Angela would wave or acknowledge her before entering. But she bolted through the opening, leaving June alone in the middle of the corridor, alone, embarrassed and wondering if she’d be able to handle the requirements of godmotherhood.
And now Angela couldn’t even find the common courtesy to tell her what had happened during the Connecticut excursion.
She took two Vicodin from the vial and placed them on her tongue. The bitterness caused her face to scrunch as she pressed them against the roof of her mouth. She quickly realized they were too big and sour to dissolve without liquid, so she grabbed the open bottle of Chardonnay from the refrigerator and took a swig. The fruitiness of the wine felt good against the bitterness of the medicine and she took another few gulps until both pills disappeared.
Within a few seconds it was obvious that the fighting within her head - whether or not to bring the bottle back to the living room - was futile. So she shut the lights, slouched back down into the couch, brought the bottle to her lips and closed her eyes. With another swallow, her mind began to wander: back to Mom and the solitude of a country patio, to the hum of the ceiling fan, to the brilliant white, puffy clouds that hung in the summer Georgian sky with promises of a future so different from the one she was living.
9
The window’s glass was cold against Jonathan’s cheek, a sure sign autumn had reached the Northeast and the bitterness of winter was approaching. Sometimes he wished he could stop winter from arriving; raise his hand like a crossing guard and halt its attack; block the arctic air from moving in and baring the trees, graying the skies, and darkening his mood.
Jonathan rubbed the back of his hand against Philip’s leg as the train passed through Greenwich station. “It’s getting cold. I’m not sure I can deal with another winter.”
“You say that every year.” Philip laughed and turned a page of his New York magazine. “You talk about how you love the turning of the leaves and the fresh, chill of the fall air, and then you complain about winter at the same time.” He closed the magazine, rolled it up, and slipped it into his coat pocket. “Why not just enjoy where you are instead of worrying about what’s coming? You know, take advantage of the moment. Otherwise, you’re just living in the future.”
The train hit a bump and Jonathan held onto the seat in front of him as the car swerved to the left. He turned to Philip. “Where did you hear that? Oh, wait, don’t tell me. You just read an article about ‘living in the now. Another Deepak Chopra, special edition.” He gazed out the window again.
“Maybe. What’s the diff? It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“What’s the ‘diff’? What the hell is a ‘diff’?” Jonathan felt an anger creeping inside and wasn’t sure where it was coming from. He let his head fall against the window again, hoping to block the advancing wrath.
Philip slapped Jonathan’s thigh. “Jonny, look at me,” he commanded in a loud whisper.
Jonathan obeyed, gazing into Philip’s limpid brown eyes.
“What’s wrong with you? You’ve been like this since you got up this morning. You’re a freakin’ grouch. What’s going on?”
Jonathan watched the houses fly by, backyards filled with broken leaves waiting to be raked, piled high and jumped on by some spoiled Greenwich kid. Within seconds the landscape turned into the expanse of Long Island Sound, its contents still as glass, except for three or four boaters trying to extend their summer. The sudden glare of the sunlight on the water forced him to turn away and again look at Philip, who was still awaiting an answer.
“Sorry,” he said, “I really don’t know what it is. It’s like hormonal or something. Maybe I have a chemical imbalance and it’s coming out today. It should be in full force by the time we get to Angela’s, and she’ll then know I’m a nut.”
Philip combed his hair away from his eyes with his fingers and laughed. “You’ve got an imbalance alright. I’m just not sure it’s chemical.”
“Ha.” Jonathan wasn’t biting.
“Is it Angela? Did you not want to see her today? We’ve been having a great time with her the last few months, haven’t we?”
Jonathan picked a piece of lint off Philip’s pea coat. He twirled it in his fingers. “No, it’s not her at all. And we have had a great time. I don’t know. Maybe it’s the cold weather or something. Maybe it’s just that it’s so dreary outside and it’s ruining our Saturday. Hopefully this will pass when we get to Grand Central and out of this shithole they call a train.”
Philip smiled, sliding on his sunglasses and leaning his head back. “It’s not ruining my Saturday. It’s the same Saturday it was this morning, just a little rainier.”
Jonathan snorted. “Okay, Deepak.”
“Relax, Jonny. You’re probably just a little nervous. You know, going to Angela’s place for the first time, seeing where she lives and stuff. Realizing it could be where your son grows up.”
Jonathan flinched and felt a flutter in his chest. He fell hard against the train wall.
“Holy shit, Philip. When you say it like that, it scares the shit out of me.”
Philip looked around to make sure no one was watching, then leaned forward and gave Jonathan a quick peck on the cheek. He gazed around again: all clear.
“Jonny, you’re not obligated in any way. I hope you know that. If you don’t want to do this, then we don’t do it. Period. You don’t owe it to me and you definitely don’t owe it to Angela. You have to do what feels right.”
Jonathan sat up in his seat. He felt perspiration on the back of his neck when only moments before he was cursing the cold.
“Most of the time it feels right, especially when I think about it at night or when we’re in the kitchen and I imagine a little kid asking us stupid questions about your cooking utensils or why a stove gets hot. It feels right when we’re watching television and I see a small ‘me’ sitting between the two of us, or you throwing a football to him outside in the yard, like he’s your own son. I’d love that for you… and for me.” He gazed out the window. “But at times like this daylight knocks out fantasy and reality hits like a ton of bricks. I know it’s something I have to get over. Otherwise, like you said, I’m living in the future.”
Philip leaned back again, his eyes covered by his sunglasses, his pursed lips signaling an “I told you so” without saying a word.
“You’re a shit,” Jonathan said.
“Quiet,” he replied, “Deepak would like to take a little nap now.”
*
Walking up 5th Avenue, Jonathan felt his energy start to refresh; the chilly New York City air breathing life into him he hadn’t felt all day. The walk felt good too, the first exercise both he and Philip had had all week, thanks to JSB’s major accounting software glitch and three additional articles thrown on Jonathan by his largest client. He could have turned them down, and almost did, until he thought about their upcoming visit with Angela and the realization that if they did have a child, additional income would definitely help.
“We make a right here, on sixteenth,” Philip said, gesturing with his hand.
After turning right, they slowed their pace, attempting to take in the entire area. They’d been in Chelsea many times, but this was different. Today they’d try to see it in a new light — deciding if it was a decent place for a child to grow up healthy and well-balanced. Jonathan observed the street with enthusiasm, like a judge gathering all the evidence before handing down his ruling. Everything looked different today: the people, buildings, the sidewalks marred with cracks branching in countless directions. Plastic garbage bags lined the sidewalks. Jonathan bit his bottom lip — so different from the garbage containers he and Philip placed neatly by their curb every Thursday. Half way up the block, they passed St. Francis X
avier High School where a group of teenage boys stood under the red canopy, huddled together telling secrets, the book bags strapped across their backs helping to create a fortress from the passersby.
Philip crouched by a lamppost and slowly turned his head side to side, like the Terminator scanning for Sarah Connor.
Jonathan grabbed Philip’s shoulder. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Philip said, still gazing around. “I’m just trying to see what this place looks like from a five-year old’s perspective.”
Jonathan rolled his eyes and put his hand back into his coat pocket. “You don’t need to squat down to do that.” He laughed.
“Oh, whattaya know, someone got their sense of humor back,” Philip said, using Jonathan’s arm to help him up.
“Yeah, and before it leaves again, can we just get to Angela’s already?” He pointed up the street. “I think it’s that brownstone on the left.”
*
After pressing the button next to Angela’s name, they waited for the buzzer that would allow them entrance to her building. Silence. Philip buzzed again while Jonathan peered through the door’s window. Still silence, until they saw Angela running down the stairs toward them. She pulled open the door and threw her arms around Jonathan’s neck.
“You didn’t think I’d just buzz you in on your first visit here, did you?” She kissed his cheek and moved aside so he could step into the hallway. Philip followed and she lifted herself onto her toes to hug him. “I am so excited you guys are here. This is gonna be great.”
Her bare feet didn’t make a sound as she jumped onto the first stone step. “I’m at the top,” she said. “Third floor.” She smiled at Jonathan, who’d been searching for the elevator. “No elevator, Jonny. Just stairs.” She moved her open palms up and down her body. “How do you think I came to look so svelte?” She laughed. “Now get your butts up here.”
Jonathan looked at Philip. “You first.”
“No prob. It’s the best exercise we’ve had all week,” Philip followed Angela, taking two steps at a time.
Jonathan moved slower in order to get a better flavor of the building. His first impression was one of comfort: the seasoned blend of early 1900’s charm with flashes of contemporary art and architecture. This was definitely Chelsea at its finest.
Quiet and solid, the building oozed a sense of warmth, both in temperature and sensitivity. As he climbed the steps, he thought of how different this was from where he and Philip lived; the openness of their property opposed to the density of New York City, an intense concentration of so many people living in such a small part of the world. There were so many things about the city that he didn’t like, but mostly it was the stimulation that overwhelmed him: the crowds, the hustle and bustle, piercing fire engine sirens that vibrated his spine. There was too much of it for him, too much of everything for him and it’s what made Jonathan suddenly realize New York City was not the place for his child to grow up.
Halfway up the stairs to the third floor, he heard what sounded like a door open behind him. When he turned around, the door to 2F was ajar, movement barely visible through the opening. Knowing someone was watching him, he paused and tried to adjust his eyes to the dim lighting. . At that moment the door slammed shut and he heard the sound of a locking bolt.
“Weird,” he whispered, restarting his climb.
*
Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 22 in E flat drifted down the hall, leading Jonathan into Angela’s apartment like the scent of fine wine. Next to Vivaldi, Mozart was his favorite composer. He didn’t know if he’d previously discussed his love of Mozart with Angela, or if their similar taste in music was just coincidence. If it was happenstance, then so was their uncanny similarity in décor selection — unmistakable once he entered the apartment and saw style and elegance almost identical to his own.
While decorating the Westport house, he’d tried to combine what he called Casual Chic with “Contemporary Classical. Philip teased him, saying the decorating styles opposed each other and he’d be going around in circles trying to get the house like he wanted. But from the moment they stepped inside their vacant house, Jonathan had a plan in mind, instinctively knowing which classic tones would catch the light and shadow in certain rooms, while other rooms needed softer, more mercurial hues. He chose functional furnishings with clean, horizontal shapes that blended metals, wood, and leather into a harmonious, non-obtrusive flow from one room to the next. In the end, it worked out exactly as he’d imagined and other than a few plants and paintings, they hadn’t changed a thing for over five years.
And here he was, standing in Angela’s apartment, taken aback by the amazing similarities in décor. The livingroom walls were painted the color of the café latte he’d drank that morning, blending perfectly with the honey-colored accent wall leading into the bedroom. The furniture was almost undistinguishable from his own: tan chenille loveseats with rolled arms and saber legs placed on either side of a zebrawood coffee table. In the center of the table was a single white orchid flowing from a silver tube vase surrounded by platters of crudités, crackers and what appeared to be specialty cheeses from Grand Central Market. It looked like he’d set the table himself.
A sepia floor runner extended from the edge of the livingroom into the kitchen area. It was obvious the galley kitchen had been renovated since its pre war days, with new appliances, an Italian stone floor and backsplash and a granite countertop that served as a pass-through to the small, oval dining room table placed in front of the window. Silk curtains hung from a copper rod, their hem stopping less than half an inch from the polished wood floor, adding an intriguing element of depth to the entire room.
Jonathan strolled to the arched wall and peeked into the bedroom. He didn’t want to appear excessively curious so he turned himself around, stood beneath the archway and shrugged his shoulders.
“Wow, this is great,” he said, slipping off his coat. “It’s beautiful.”
Philip nodded. “I knew you’d say that, because the place looks like you decorated it!”
“Stop, boys!” Angela said. “This looks nothing like your house. I couldn’t come close to that.”
“No, really,” Jonathan looked scanned the room again. “It does resemble our house. When did you have it done?”
“Have it done?” Angela pulled her hair into a pony tail, twisted it into a bun and clipped it in place. “Sadly, I can’t afford to ‘have it done’. I did it myself.” She walked back into the room and ironed the front of her shirt with her hands. “I redecorated about a year or so ago. So do you honestly like it?”
“He loves it,” Philip said. “Can’t you tell? It’s exactly his taste. And anyone with his taste is a-ok. Right Jonny?”
Jonathan smiled and shook his head. “Not everyone. Your friend Jason from work has my taste and you know how I feel about him. He’s one of the last…”
“Okay, let’s not go there.” Philip gave Angela a shrug. “Wanna give us a look around, Angie?”
*
Although the tour lasted less than four minutes, Jonathan was impressed with how Angela had made such small surroundings appear so unconstructed and hospitable. She had a great sense of working with space and the rooms appeared functional and accommodating enough for a child. But his mind wandered back to the city streets: the noise, throngs of people, the silky layer of soot that covered everything. His concern about nurturing a child in the city resurfaced like an itchy rash. He pasted a smile on his face, trying to disguise his thoughts.
He and Philip sat on the brown, suede sofa, crudités and prosciutto-wrapped mozzarella beautifully presented on a black, tiled serving tray sitting in the middle of the oblong, cherry coffee table. She brought a large pitcher of homemade iced tea from the kitchen, set it on a coaster next to the tray, and perched on the ottoman across from them.
“Now, what I figured we’d do today is walk around Chelsea a bit. You know, I’ll just show you the area, some of the hidden gem
s, stuff like that. Then we can hang around, go out for dinner, or do whatever you want to do.” She looked at Jonathan and pushed the tray of crudités closer to him. “There’s a great art exhibit a few blocks away in SoHo. It’s by this new artist who uses miniature doll parts on large canvases. Makes it look like people being sucked into outer space or something. I read about it in New York Magazine. It looked kinda cool.”
Jonathan tightened his lips and raised his eyebrows in a “maybe” “maybe not” sort of way. His mind wasn’t on artists or hidden gems. Nor was it on SoHo or outer space. He was consumed with how to tell Angela and Philip he couldn’t go through with the sperm donation — not if his child would be raised in New York City. He imagined himself lying in bed at night, wondering what toxic fumes his son had breathed that day and the side effects might be. Images of tiny, sandaled feet, soiled with the city’s soot and grime shot through his head; a piteous street-child buried in the filth of the most merciless city in the world. He closed his eyes, attempting to rid the thoughts from his mind, but his mind wasn’t hearing any of that.
Angela crossed her legs and shot Philip a bewildered look. She unfastened the top two buttons of her pink, cashmere sweater and clasped her hands on her knee.
“Okay, what’s up with you?” she asked, darting glances at the two of them. “Something’s not right here.”
Jonathan looked at the appetizers. Philip peeked at Jonathan, then back to Angela.
“He’s been a weirdo all day. Not sure what it is. He thinks he has a chemical imbalance.” He grabbed Jonathan’s neck, leaning him into his own shoulder. Kissing the top of Jonathan’s head, he made a grumbling sound. “But he doesn’t have a chemical imbalance. He’s just moody today.”
Angela smiled and laid her hand on Jonathan’s knee. “We’re all moody sometimes. It’s part of the way things are. Don’t even think about it. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. We can just sit around and watch television. I don’t care.”
Jonathan pulled himself away from Philip, sitting himself up straight. The piercing heat of tension was beginning to rumble in his gut and he knew if he didn’t speak his mind or run out the door, he’d sink into a much darker frame of mind. He played with his fingers, exhaling loudly to break the awkward silence.
