“You ready? Good.” He climbed in the car and started the engine without waiting for a reply. “Look, sorry, Marjorie, but something came up. I have to rain-check dinner.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“But you don’t care, right? You’ll have more fun without your boss.”
Marjorie forced a smile. On the way home, they barely spoke. Her mind was still half in REM cycle, half on Gus’s retracted invitation. His was somewhere far off, perhaps down his ex-coworker Susan’s low-cut shirt. Back at the hotel, Marjorie climbed out of the Prius and dropped Gus’s hoodie onto his lap. He looked at the sweatshirt without recognition, picked it up between his thumb and index finger like something corroded, and tossed it into the backseat.
In a last effort to resuscitate what Marjorie had thought was an improved rapport, she said, “Thanks, by the way, for covering me while I slept. That was nice of you.”
“No big deal. I would have done it for anyone. Anyone at all.”
“Well, good, then. I’ll make sure to not feel special.”
“Wait!” he called, as she slammed the door.
Reluctantly, Marjorie popped her head back inside the window frame. “Yeah?”
“I didn’t mean anything before.”
“About what?”
“About going to bed.”
“I’m not going to sue you for sexual harassment—okay, Clarence Thomas? You can stop being so uptight.”
Gus opened his mouth to respond. Instead, he frowned. “Fine. Good. Pick you up tomorrow morning.”
“Great. Fan-fucking-tastic.”
“Just don’t be late,” he barked.
“I’m never late!” Marjorie protested. But he’d already peeled away—a feat in a Prius.
Up in her room, Marjorie pulled on her pink sweatpants and shirt and collapsed into bed. But she was too antsy to enjoy the hotel room.
She opened her laptop, resting it on her crossed legs, and checked her e-mail, then left a message for Mac. They’d had trouble connecting with the time difference. His nightly calls—carrying unsubtle suggestions of phone sex—came too early.
She scanned the New York Times online for Gail Collins’s latest column mentioning Mitt Romney’s dog. Marjorie was raised to be politically aware. Her mother was a card-carrying member of the ACLU, NAACP, NPR, NOW, MADD, and several other acronymic organizations. The son of a local politician, her father had government in his blood. But lately she’d tried to stay extra informed. The upcoming election was growing tenser daily, but also—though she hated to admit it—she was impacted by a sobering new influence in her life.
Unable to control herself, Marjorie navigated to Gus’s Facebook page again, searching his list of “Friends” for that woman, Susan. She clapped a hand over her eyes, feeling embarrassed in front of herself. What am I doing?
She was about to slam the computer shut, when an instant message window popped open:
Madge?
The user’s name, Dinah Levinson, was unfamiliar.
Yes?
Marjorie typed.
It’s Belly!
Of course! Marjorie grinned. She missed the kid. A chat with Belinda was just what she needed.
Hi Bell! You’re allowed on Facebook?
I’m only on for a second. This is Mom D.’s account.
Does she know you’re using it?
Truth? No.
A few seconds passed.
Are you gonna tell on me or talk?
I’m not going to TELL, Belly. But why don’t I just call you?
No. They’ll hear and this is private! They think I’m in here working on my story.
You should be!
I will, but right now I need your help! It’s Mitch and Snarls.
Uh-oh. Are they fighting over you?
Not exactly. It’s just … You’re going to think I’m crazy.
I doubt it, Bell.
Okay, Mitch totally likes me. He sits with me on the bus every morning and Snarls sits behind us and like pokes me the whole time.
How annoying!
Sort of. Anyway, Mitch asked me to sneak out during free period after lunch and go up to the goat farm.
Look at you, wild child.
It’s no big deal. Our counselor never pays attention anyway ’cause she’s too busy hitting on the swim instructor, Jose, who’s all buff and stuff. It’s just that I know what it means.
What what means?
The goat farm.
It means something other than a smelly place where goats live?
It’s where older kids go to make out and like smoke pot and drink and stuff.
Ah. I see. And you’re nervous? About kissing him?
Yes and no.
Marjorie furrowed her brow:
???
She wasn’t going to let Belinda get pressured by some boy.
If I confess something, do you promise not to laugh?
Belly, if I laughed, you wouldn’t know. I’m 3,000 miles away. But yes. I promise. No LOL.
Okay. The thing is … I don’t like Mitch.
Belly, then forget it. You shouldn’t kiss a boy you don’t like!
No, I know. Aargh. You’re going to laugh at me.
I’m not. Scout’s honor.
Almost a minute passed while Marjorie waited.
I like Snarls.
Marjorie didn’t laugh. Far from it. For some reason, she felt slightly betrayed.
But you said he looks like a bulldog.
I know.
He calls you “Four Eyes.” He broke your macaroni sculpture.
The heart wants what it wants.
Are you sure, Belly? Mitch is going to be the new cute guy next year and you can have him! Starting off 7th grade on the right foot can be important for survival. This isn’t what we planned for you!
I know. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m sorry.
Marjorie took a deep breath and got a handle on herself. Why was she exalting the same values that undid her and making this amazing girl feel bad? Belinda didn’t need some boy to give her confidence; she was unique and independent.
No, Belly. I’m sorry! I am just surprised.
He’s not as cool or good-looking, but he’s smart, you know? And he’s funny. Mitch is nice, but he’s kind of boring. We don’t have much in common. He likes Lady Gaga and I’m over her.
So, have you told Snarls?
Kind of. He wants to take me on a date.
Marjorie could feel Belinda’s happy gamma waves through the computer.
A date! Belly, that’s so cute!
But what do I wear? And what do I tell my moms?
You’re allowed to hang out with friends, right? Tell them that you’re going to the movies, or whatever you’re doing, with a friend. It’s the truth.
Ok. And, since Mom H. has been busier, Mom D. has been letting me go more places by myself. I’m no longer trapped in my personal organic prison.
Marjorie laughed.
How are things between them?
Not good. They’ve lapsed into silence. Three women silent at a dinner table every night is just wrong.
I’m sorry, Bell.
What can you do?
She sounded twice her age.
You can work on your story, for one thing! How’s it coming?
Good! I’m excited to show you when you get home. But what about you?? Are you having fun in LA? Have you seen famous people? Is that jerky boss guy being okay?
Yeah, he’s ok. I think he’s just—
Not that into you? HA!
Marjorie’s heart sank.
Yeah, I guess that’s probably right.
Tell him to call me! I’ll give him a piece of my mind!
As long as your moms aren’t around.
Right. And not after 9:30 ’cause I go to bed.
They said good-bye and Marjorie shut down her computer. How strange that she’d been a sworn kid hater weeks before. Homesick, she dialed Fred.
“Well, if it isn’t Miss
Morningstar, calling from the coast! Hi, Roomie. How’s LA?”
Marjorie glanced around, as if an answer lay in the room’s neutral carpet. “Good, good, good. What’s up with you?” Examining her nails, she noticed a chip and went in search of a vanity kit in the bathroom.
“Nada. The Mad Hatters and I—”
“Nope. Bad name.”
“Damn! That’s what Elmo said too. Anyway, we’re playing a show tonight. Same old. But I do have news. Ready?”
“Born ready.”
“I’m going for drinks with James.”
Marjorie exchanged an incredulous look with herself in the mirror. “Fred, how is that news? You see him all the time. Poor guy probably has pictures of you plastered to his ceiling.”
“No! I’m letting him take me on a date. I’m giving him a real shot.”
“Oooh. That’s great! He’s such a sweet guy.”
“I figure, why not let myself be happy?”
“Totally. Plus, you can never have enough pairs of khakis.”
“You’re bad, friend. Bad to the bone!” Fred laughed, her incongruous boom. “So, how’s our guy treating you out there?”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” Fred groaned. “Out with it: What did the grouch do?”
“Nothing. Literally he’s done nothing. He’s at his place or maybe out to dinner with some trashy studio chick and I’m here at the hotel. It’s fine.”
The phone line crackled like damp Pop Rocks. When Fred finally spoke, her tone was carefully neutral. “Are you saying you want him to do something?”
“Are we speaking in code?”
“I don’t know. Do you want me to say it out loud?”
“No, don’t!” Marjorie looked away from her own reflection. “I just got lonely for a sec. He’s been a gentleman.”
“A gentleman, huh? That sounds lame.”
“No. It’s exactly as it should be. In fact, I should probably call Mac.”
“Have you figured out what to do about that?”
“About…?”
“Moving in with your boyfriend.”
“Oh. That.”
“Yes, that.”
“I dunno. I don’t want to leave you high and dry with no roommate.”
“I was roommate free before. I’ll be fine.”
“Oh. Okay. Then I just need to wrap my mind around moving again so soon.”
“If that’s what you want.”
“I think so.”
“Up to you, girl. It’s your life.” Fred gasped. “OMG! I buried the lead: Elmo and Lou got engaged!”
“What?!”
“They decided, ‘When you know, you know!’ And apparently they know. Of course, Elmo wants to seal the deal before Lou realizes she’s totally out of his league.”
Love was in the air: Lou and Elmo, Belly and Snarls, Fred and James, her and Mac. So why did Marjorie feel like she swallowed an inflated balloon? People talk about love at first sight, about knowing. Marjorie didn’t even know where her left sneaker had gone.
She was suddenly exhausted. There’s nothing so tiring as a case of the shoulds.
35
Just before 10:00 the next morning, Marjorie and Gus found a winner. They were in what had become their respective screening room spots; he, with his arms and legs outstretched, as if the rolling desk chair was a beach lounge; she, curled into a ball against the corner of the couch.
Throughout the last few days, they had discovered some decent filmmakers to keep on their radar, but no truly memorable films. At least not in a good way.
The morning drive had been quiet; Marjorie stole glances at Gus as he drove. The edges of his mouth were downturned, dark circles had emerged under his eyes, and his stubble had graduated from five o’clock shadow to near beard. She wondered if he was hungover. Where had he gone last night after they parted ways?
“How was your evening?”
“Good. It was good.”
“You look exhausted.”
He flashed her a wry smile. Tired or not, he still looked good. “My dinner ran late and turned into drinks.”
“With Susan?”
Gus looked confused. Then, as recognition set in, he tried to cover a laugh with a cough. “That’s sort of none of your business, right?”
Marjorie stared ahead, missing the humor in Gus’s eyes. “Just making conversation. Like a normal person. Do they not make emotional IQ flashcards for that?”
The rest of the drive was silent.
Their first film of the morning was Writing on the Wall, a documentary about a Hasidic graffiti artist in Williamsburg called Talmud (his tag). Gus and Marjorie were hooked by the notion of an Orthodox hipster—his Ray-Ban Wayfarers obscured on the sides by curling payos, his beard in keeping with his secularist peers but with meaning beyond style. He was a symbol of the neighborhood’s spirit: Williamsburg might be the epicenter of cool, but the Hasidim were there first in long black coats and hats.
This ultra-Orthodox Jewish community had no relationship to Marjorie’s Reformed one. But, during her childhood on the Upper West Side, the cultures coexisted and collided—all part of the “melting pot.” Often she’d wondered what the Hasidic kids thought of passing bus ads for TV shows like The Real World and Sex and the City, nonkosher pizza joints hocking pepperoni slices, boutiques displaying short, tight, exposing clothing. Sometimes she saw the older men engaged in behavior that seemed antithetical to religious life: in strip clubs, for instance. (Marjorie had gone to “gentlemen’s clubs” with male friends in her early twenties and pretended to feel blasé when confronted with the gyrating girls’ open legs.)
Talmud’s family did not understand his passion for graffiti. He was an artist, he explained. He had to create artwork. He followed their religious rules, never tagging on the Sabbath. Wary of depicting graven images, his pieces contained only words. But under the cover of night, he slipped outside and “threw up” masterpieces on city walls, an increasingly difficult act in recent, more policed years. Decades before, subway cars were like communal artworks, telling stories of dueling gangs and lost loves in bubbly text. But the trains had been rebuilt in graffiti-proof materials with conveniences like air-conditioning and digital signs.
Talmud’s father, who was offended most profoundly by his son’s tag name, reminded his son regularly of the book of Daniel, chapter 5, in which King Belshazzar disrespected sacred vessels from the Jerusalem Temple at his feast and, thus, writing appeared on the wall, spelling out the leader’s death and the fall of Babylonian rule. Writing on walls was sacrilegious, he insisted. And the viewer empathized with both the artist’s need for acceptance and a creative outlet and his father’s panic amid a changing world. Writing on the Wall was about generation gaps, about art, identity, family, and the existence of God. As the credits rolled, so did Marjorie’s tears; she missed her parents horribly. She resolved to make more time for them when she got home.
As always, Gus watched the credits until the end, a meditative ritual. He pressed Stop and looked at Marjorie.
“Are you crying?”
“It was so good!” she wept.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with you, Tin Man?” She leaned across the couch’s arm and flipped on the lights, catching Gus as he wiped his own eye.
“Allergies.” He shrugged.
“Right.” Marjorie fell back onto the love seat, its loose springs reverberating. “We have to get this movie.”
“We’ll try. A lot of people are going to want it.”
“Yes, but you need it. You guys will do right by it.”
“Yeah. We could really use this. Between you and me, it’s been awhile since we got a great film. I’ve been stressed about it. We just have to convince the filmmaker.” He studied the clear plastic DVD case. “Danny Hellerman.”
“Let’s call him right now! Before other people see it!”
“I’ll see if he can meet tonight.”
“That’s too late!�
��
“Okay, Train Wreck. I think you’re being a little dramatic. The official festival screenings start tomorrow. No one is going to see it before then.”
“You don’t understand!” Marjorie reached over and picked up Gus’s iPad from a wooden side table, her shirt riding up. She yanked it back down, but not before catching Gus watching her. She pulled up the festival’s site and clicked through to the film’s profile page. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Gus, the filmmaker isn’t Hasidic, but he’s Orthodox. Look, he’s wearing a yarmulke in the photo.”
“So?”
“So it’s Friday, and if we don’t speak to him before sundown, we’re not going to be able to get to him until tomorrow night, and by then everyone will have seen it.”
Gus considered that. “You’re right.”
“Would you mind repeating that?”
“There’s a luncheon today for the out-of-towners. I’ll call Benny and tell him we’re coming.” Gus stood and opened the door to the suite. “Ladies first.”
Marjorie grabbed her bag and slid past, within an inch of him; his chest rose and fell. In the doorway, she paused and looked up, as he looked down at her, their eyes meeting. A weightless sensation worked its way from the tips of her fingers to her toes, stealing her breath. A long second passed, as they stood, frozen.
He cleared his throat, his voice thick, “I guess we should go.”
She nodded and walked out. She felt strange, unbalanced. In the car, sitting beside Gus, she texted Mac:
Hey. Just thinking about you.
He responded right away:
Wish you were here, wearing a pair of my socks and nothing else.
You’re a strange one, O’Shea.
When are you gonna move in with me already, Madgesty?
Just like that, a tidal wave of anxiety crashed over Marjorie. Her mind tumbled over her choices—which felt epic though they should have been simple—and the brackish tsunami grew fiercer, flooding her bloodstream with debris and threatening her feeble rationality. What was wrong with her? She was getting what she wanted! Her throat constricted, her knee thumped against the glove compartment door. She pulled at her fringed scarf. She was trapped in this car, in this strange city, in her body.
At a red light, she felt Gus glance over, as if he could sense her unease. He noted her pallor, the way she white-knuckled her phone but typed nothing.
Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel Page 23
