I'm different now-or at least I was for Thomas and with Thomas. For about the millionth time I wonder, what the fuck am I without him and wouldn't this cigarette go nice with a white wine?
"It's coffee,” he prods.
"Yea…” I take it. “Thank you."
It's heavy on the cream and sugar. Another thing they have in common. Thomas is such a bundle of contradictions that way, so careful in his diet, but totally given to childish impulses. Ice cream for dinner or popcorn. Sushi at midnight with root beer floats.
He has that metabolism, to stay so thin. I guess I do, too, although up until last year I drank my calories.
"I'm Brian,” he introduces himself to the man in the dress.
"Felicia.” They shake hands. “Thanks for the smoke,” he tells me, tossing it into the sand filled receptacle.
"No problem. I'll keep your buddy in my thoughts."
"Yours, too.” He heads back inside.
"Cigarette?” I hand Brian one, the universal language. Outside an Alcoholic's Meeting you'll find mountains of ashes, the air gritty and gray; all those sharp teethed people, bleary eyed, trying to find new ways to be alone together, sober.
I doubt if Brian is an alcoholic, but I find it's easier for me personally if I think of everyone as one.
"He looks bad.” Brian says it first.
"I know.” I can make the more immediate comparison, seeing him every day, in all states of dress, than can his son who has seen him just a handful of times in fifteen years. Thomas never took off on him, he's not that kind of man, but there was a time the bottle ruled Thomas’ life as it did mine. It was kinder to him at first, bought him into heavy hitting circles, made him a lot of money, but then the payments fell due and you never have enough
It's a long way down as they say and by the time he hit something close to bottom he'd lost Brian and Brian's mother Vicky. She didn't want anything to do with him for a long time-not all Thomas’ fault. Eventually Brian got old enough to want his own answers. That was six months ago.
Weird timing, right?
Thomas has done his best and they've e-mailed a lot and had some interesting meetings. Of all the things in Thomas’ life right now, I think I know the least about this. I know he'd have told me more, but it felt like intrusion.
It's freaking me out, seeing a version of Thomas younger than me.
Like a parallel universe, like me traveling back in time or something.
I think he's twenty-six, which gives me a full decade of experience over him. Ha.
He's watching me smoke.
"What?” I say it too sharply.
"Nothing."
"You've never seen a woman smoke?"
"Not like you."
"I better get back in there,” I tell him.
"Not yet. Come for coffee with me?"
"We have coffee."
"This is stand up coffee, I mean sit down coffee."
Stand up … sit down … my ears play tricks on me, hearing them as commands. Daddy wouldn't say it like that. He'd be softer; he'd get me to do it with his eyes. “I can't. I am sorry…"
"You didn't do anything."
"I'm apologizing for the coffee. Not for anything I did."
"But you are going for coffee."
"Why is that?"
"Because I'm asking nicely."
"Oh."
Back in present, I go with Brian.
"I'm from upstate New York,” I tell him in the hospital cafeteria. More people in scrubs and visitors looking lost as us. “A town you've never heard of."
"Try me."
I name it; loathe to give it more reality than it already has.
"Been through it,” he smiles.
"No shit. I guess you're dad wasn't kidding when he said you got around with your guitar."
"It leads, I follow.” The hands fret the fresh Styrofoam cup. Music making fingers.
"Did you play in Saratoga?” I name an artsy college town nearby. “I used to go to some places there."
"I've been to Lena's."
"The mother of them all. Is Lena still there?” The Cafe is named for her, it is her, everyone got there start there or passed through. Arlo Guthrie. Dylan. Don Mclean.
"She died when I was ten,” he delivers a chilling reminder I am no longer a Spring chicken.
"Jesus, you're young."
"I was born that way."
"Do you write your own songs?"
"Some."
"Your dad's a poet; did he ever tell you that?"
"No."
"Didn't think so. He hides it from…” I catch myself.
"From people he's not intimate with?"
"From his family,” I try and re-direct.
"It's all right, Caroline, I know."
"Know what?"
"It's obvious from looking at you. Anyone could see; you two are lovers."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You don't need to panic-maybe everyone can't see. I had a leg up, I guess."
"This conversation is over.” I get four or five feet from the table and double back. “What do you mean, you had a leg up?"
"You said the conversation was over."
"Don't piss me off. Answer the question."
He sips coffee. “He never said anything, if that's what you're thinking."
"You don't know what I'm thinking. Of course I know he didn't say anything, Thomas isn't that kind of man. What kind of man are you, that's what I want to know."
"Apparently the kind that pisses off attractive women."
"Oh, fuck you, I'm not that attractive. I'm old enough to be your mother."
"Not quite."
"Don't sit there all smug,” I blast. “You shouldn't even be wearing that jacket. It's his isn't it? From the Air Force."
"Yes.” To my astonishment he takes it off. “Here."
Now what do I do? It's not like I can afford to be seen with the thing.
"Just stay away from me,” I walk away for real.
It's been a long time since I felt this kind of exposed. Brian hasn't the right, he's a puppy, but somehow he's inherited his father's ability to render me transparent. I might as well have stood there naked with all our sins written across my body, words and sentences curled over my breasts, my hips, my ass and twitching pussy.
It's obvious from looking at you that you two are lovers…
How much more does he know? Does he know the secret games we play, the roles we put on and off as easy as a Sunday morning robe and slippers? Does he know the code we speak, what it means, the thousand different looks we can give each other and know instantly the meaning? Could he in a million years grasp the nuances when I walk up to his desk and give him that look which only he understands, knowing exactly what I need. To be taken, to be entered, to be wildly savaged, to be enraptured in a fuck so profound, so down and dirty it curls my toes and my hair and leaves me stupid. “Me, too, baby girl,” he will say, reading me start to finish. “Go and lock the doors for daddy.” And could Brian guess how that normally free spirited and stubborn girl runs to do his bidding at that moment, how she lives to say “Yes, Daddy,” to him alone, how she treasures that naked time with him, warm-up time for business, he calls it. Just enough time for a cigarette afterwards, and okay, maybe a coffee next door with a shot of espresso before paying the bills and floating the deals?
And even then it's more play than work.
"Come on C, let's go for a ride,” he'll say when it's time to go and take a drive to look at property to be developed … my heart going pitty pat in anticipation as I stand, rising from my chair, my work forgotten, my eyes only for him, my body only for him … now that is how to make a woman, a baby girl stand. We're going to play in the dirt; he warms up on the way down to the car, we take the back stairs, the outside stairs that lead directly from the small suite we occupy in the building he owns. He watches my ass in the skirt. I always wear skirts. Daddy likes to see me that way, likes to see his property displayed. I sashay, I move sexy and nice and fluid and I feel redeemed in warm sunshine, going to play in the dirt. He opens the door on the passenger side of his Cadillac, not for pretense, just practicality, because they last twice as long. He always opens the door for me and closes it, too, he's a gentleman, not that he's above watching how I sit, how I smooth my skirt and settle into the creamy leather. He's looking at me with undisguised lust and I feel so deliciously feminine, not cheap, not exploited. He'll use and worship me at the same time.