“Yes, Elizabeth.”
She shot me a startled glance.
“Elizabeth Barrett. And I’ll read your sonnets and smuggle you out of this house and onto the next Alitalia flight.”
She looked over the gleaming crystal and china on the table and shook her head. “No... you be D. H. Lawrence and I’ll be Mrs. Weekley, the wife of your history professor, kindly having you in for a glass of sherry.”
I smiled at her, but I wondered if that was supposed to remind me that she was married. “How about Napoleon and Josephine?” I asked.
“Oh, OK. Let me change my costume.” She pulled her belt up under her breasts into an Empire line, and twisted two strands of hair in front of her ears, to lie against her cheeks. How could she have known that such pretense would please me?
I love these games. “There’s a terrific letter from Napoleon, in Verona, to Josephine, in Milan,” I told her. “First he scolds her for not writing to him and for flirting. Then he asks, ‘What do you do all day, Madame? What robs you of the time to write? Who can this wonderful new lover be who rules your days and prevents you from attending to me? Beware, Josephine: one fine night the doors will be broken down and there I shall be.’ ”
I said the last words in a voice that was a surprise even to me. She looked at me, startled I remember stuff like that, I can’t help it.
The music from the other room reached us here, but it was just background sound. The room we were in was quiet. It was domestic, in a funny way, with her sitting at one end of the table and me at the other. “I can see that life outside the city can be quite comfortable.”
She opened her mouth to answer, but then she stopped. I couldn’t figure out why for a moment, because I was obviously attentive. Then I realized that “Happy Hour” was playing, one of Screwbosky’s sweetest songs, an old one. I swear to you, if you buy me a drink, I’ll give you a happy... happy hour.
Things like this must happen to her all the time. “I always liked that song,” I said, to remind her that I was still there, and to see whether the music was something we could talk about. She looked at me blankly.
“I was saying, suburban life looks quite comfortable from here.”
“Comfortable?” she asked, as if comfort had never had any place on her list of requirements.
“Why don’t you come into the city sometime,” I said, which she could read like an invitation if she wanted to. “There’s nothing like the city. It’ll turn you on.”
“Oh, I know,” she said. “I’m looking forward to Thursday.”
That wasn’t what I meant, but before I could say anything more someone blocked the small amount of light coming in at the door. I looked around. A suburban type. He was wearing his hair about half an inch too long for the cut, and his clothes were a size too large. “I want you to call home and check on that sitter,” he said. He didn’t say it unpleasantly. Just stating that that was what he wanted. She sighed.
“You know everything is all right. We’d be the first to hear if anything was wrong. But of course I’ll call and make sure.” She turned and looked into space somewhere between the man and me. “This is my husband, George Talbot. George, this is a friend of Karen’s.”
Did you catch it?
“I’m Nick,” I told her.
“Nicholas?” her husband asked, to make sure.
“No. Actually, Nicholai,” I said.
“Glad to meet you.” She had cooled his interest in me by labeling me with Karen’s name. I wondered why. He looked back at her. “Would you go and call the sitter? Easier from here than during dinner.”
“Excuse me.”
She left the room and he called after her, “One more drink and we’ll have to move on.” He turned to me. “We are expected for dinner a couple of houses down,” he explained. Her introduction left me still not knowing her name, as far as she was concerned. It left me with nothing to call her but Mrs. Talbot, which of all her names suited her least. The important thing was that I knew where she would be on Thursday. Ah, nothing is accidental, says Sigmund.
I couldn’t decide whether to remain neutral with her husband or ingratiate myself with him. I began to talk to him about the ideas I had for designing and building a kitchen for Doug. It would be stark — white Italian tile and natural wood, the wood sanded finer and finer and then rubbed with linseed oil. I found myself saying things to him like, “Carpentry is applied physics — a skill for dealing with the material world.” Pretty soon he was talking about all the projects he was going to get started on, as soon as he found the time. I was bored until Doug came along to fetch me, saying it was time to leave if I wanted to make my train back to the city. I was wearing faded jeans and my old Irish knit sweater, but when I put on the leather trench coat that Douglas had given me, I was better dressed than any of these suburban middle-level executives. Doug had given me the coat when he decided to abandon the city for the country, to show he wasn’t abandoning friends. It was the color of cinnamon and so fine you could wring it like a towel. Such gifts mean nothing to Douglas. He gets everything wholesale. Such gifts mean nothing to me, either.
I did not see her again as we made our way out of the house, but I thought about her going in on the train. Doug had kindly allowed me to take the sections of the Sunday New York Times he had finished with to keep me occupied on the ride in. But I mostly thought about Screw, and how long he’d been dead, and how he had died.
However it was he had died. No one ever believed the official statements. His family came and recovered the body and took it away for private ceremonies, or perhaps just to hide it, get him buried and forgotten as soon as possible. His father, the insurance salesman, had taken charge. The way Screw hated his father had helped me immensely in hating mine. His old man told reporters that it was natural causes and that they might as well leave him alone in the future, as he would never have anything more to say on his son’s death or life. And he never did.
It was late when I got home, but I put on the early albums, The Arm of the Needle and Hard Midnight, but not going any farther than the year Screw switched from acoustic to electric guitar. I couldn’t sleep, but I was peaceful. I had not had a project for a long time. I love it when I’m absorbed in a project — it’s the only time I do like. And I haven’t had a project since my father died. My last best project was his funeral.
I checked the answering device on the phone for messages. Nothing. I felt good. I still had three-quarters of a joint to smoke, something one of my passengers had passed me in lieu of a tip. The only thing that spoiled the serenity and hope of that evening was that the damn phone started ringing. I use the telephone a lot, but very few people have my number — only Douglas, my mother, a couple of others. So when it rang the first time I answered it without thinking, expecting it to be one of them. But I knew immediately that the voice belonged to no one I knew.
“Hey, man, can you do me a favor?”
“You’ve got the wrong number,” I told him.
“Chuck, this is Jim. You know, Jim.”
“You’ve got the wrong number. Dial again.”
“Can... you... hear... me?” the voice came.
“Fuck off,” I said, and hung up.
The record came to an end and in the silence before the next record dropped, the telephone rang again. It was the same voice.
“Hey, Chuck, we got trouble on this line. Can you hear me now? This is important. You’ve got to give Hal a message for me. Will you do that for me?”
“Man, for the last time, you have got the wrong number,” I said. “What number are you dialing?” Evidently he couldn’t hear me, or I was unable to interrupt him. He babbled on. I hung up again.