“Ugh, I sound just like them. Listen to me. Falling for the same bait. My parents like art but have weak stomachs. They’re easily outraged. Mapplethorpe at the National Gallery, I tell them it’s supposed to provoke, but they don’t want to hear it.”
Penelope stubbed out her cigarette. “Ah, Christ. Art.”
“Whatever it is you don’t like about it,” I said, “remember, it’s just a story, words on a page. You said it yourself.”
“That’s just it, though. So much of it’s real. Our names, the locations, the situations. But I know. Even as I say it, I can hear how naïve it sounds. Of course it’s possible to have a book that uses the people in the author’s life as characters — and the author himself — and for every word of it to be made up. Right?”
Our order came, and Penelope went at her tuna melt hungrily with her hands, pizzalike, baring her teeth at it before each bite. My soda was flat, but I drank it in small nips through the straw.
“Art can’t know we’ve had this little chat.”
“Why not?”
“He needs to know that I support what he does a hundred percent. If he doubted it, that would be the end of his writing career.”
“You realize you’re describing a paradox.”
“I don’t want things to go back to the way they used to be. Before he was writing, he was miserable. When he thought he had to be the man of the house, he was such a sad sack. And my family was relentless. Holidays were an ordeal. ‘Still at the library?’ my mother would ask — half question, half accusation — knowing full well he was still at the library. The humiliation of having my brother offering Art career advice — a man who’s never worked an honest day in his life, who actually describes himself as an entrepreneur. My sister’s husband eventually joining in, Dad, too, and by the end of the evening, they’d all be at him with their advice. It was cruel. Oh, but they were being helpful. Their comments and suggestions were not veiled criticisms designed to point out Art’s ineptness, his lack of any practical skills. And what could Art do but thank them for their concern?
“Now he’s a star in their eyes. Oh, yes, my mother says, he’s a published novelist. She’s so funny. And I can’t say it wasn’t nice coming across Art’s writing for the first time. We’d been married some years, Will was six, maybe?”
To see all of Arthur’s hallmark qualities — fixating over odd moments, taking nothing for granted, coming at everyday objects like a tourist in his own life, his capacity to deconstruct even the simplest instructions into a paralyzing metaphysical dilemma — these qualities that made him a drag at cocktail parties and all but unemployable here on the page served him well, made for exquisitely rendered scenes, well-observed prose, good writing. It pleased her to be reminded of Arthur’s talents, to be surprised by him. Wasn’t it refreshing, after years of seeing everything Arthur wasn’t, of having pointed out to her everything Arthur could never be — and the kind of family she could never have — to be shown what her husband actually was?
“So, no. I don’t want to go back to an Art who doesn’t make art. I’d rather he offend my parents, offend me.” She wiped her mouth with a paper napkin and tossed it onto her empty plate. In a flash the waiter swiped it and my empty cup and everything else on the table. The check had been waiting, stuck facedown on the damp counter, since the food had arrived. Penelope put down a twenty and got up.
The staff followed us out in their street clothes, and as soon as we were over the threshold, the shutter rattled down at our backs. I lit a cigarette, and Penelope had one more. We smoked, watching the big brass revolving door across the street trade one person for another, taking them in and letting them out in equal measure.
She said, “I feel a lot calmer now, thanks.”
I assured her that I’d done nothing.
“Well, you should continue to do nothing again. It will keep me sane through this. And bring your cigarettes.”
6. THANKSGIVING
PENELOPE AND I MET SEVERAL times over the next couple of weeks. She used the time to reminisce, determined to recover some more flattering image of herself and Arthur, of their life together. “I had a boyfriend when I met Art, but he was mostly a way of saying no to boys I wasn’t interested in — long distance, rarely saw each other, got a weekly call. When I told the guy that I was seeing someone else, he said, ‘What’s his name?’ ‘Art,’ I said. ‘Do you love him?’ ‘Yes,’ I said — and just admitting it felt like vertigo. Art was my secret. People thought he was an asshole, but that’s just because he doesn’t know what to say most of the time, especially when he gets nervous. People didn’t know him like I knew him, didn’t know his touch, never saw him at his tenderest or most vulnerable.”
Basement auditorium of the Queens College Film Club, circa 1988. First date. Showing is an Australian release about neo-Nazis that has caused some controversy. It features the debut performance of an actor who will become Hollywood’s baddest bad boy. In it, everyone’s head is shaved. Not a single woman actor. Penelope notices this and holds on to the observation for something to talk about afterward. Staying focused is hard, like watching opera — the main thrust of the plot has to be gotten through body language. With those accents, it’s anyone’s guess what people are actually saying. This is made more difficult by the two men sitting directly in front of them, talking full volume. The small auditorium is full, and its attention, she can feel, is tangled around this disturbance. There is shifting, mumbling from all corners.
After some time, Arthur leans in between their heads. Hey, he says. Be quiet. Both men are bald; one is wearing an earring that glitters in the dark from the light of the projector.
Penelope’s stomach tightens. She knows where this will go. These guys are older, not like grad students. Like people with jobs, who go to bars and beat people up.
The men pause, and Arthur leans back. Penelope tries to relax, to focus on what is happening on-screen. But after a few moments the men start up again.
Arthur leans forward again and says, Did you hear what I just asked?
The two pause again. Maybe we should go, Penelope whispers, although she doesn’t want to go. She is out on a date; she is watching a movie. Why should they be the ones to leave? Who do these assholes think they are! Suddenly she is trembling with rage.
Yeah, one of the men says, maybe you should listen to your lady.
Maybe you should just shut up and let us enjoy this movie, Arthur says.
This seems to be the cue the men are looking for.
Okay, he says, now we’re talking. The one who says this swivels in his seat. What do you propose, huh? Interestingly enough, the man is whispering now.
But Arthur laughs. Oh! What do I propose! You mean, “What do you propose to do about it, punk?” Isn’t that your line? You cannot be serious.
Serious as they come, the man says, and stands. Get up, he says.
Arthur stands. Some brave soul from a far corner shouts, Shut up already! All of you! The images on-screen flash. There is a chase, the shuffle of feet, camera wobbly, disorienting. But Arthur seems entirely undisturbed. He is nose to nose with the man. It is like they are on the verge of kissing.
Come on, the man says. Let’s go.
Arthur says, That’s right, you and me. I’ll meet you outside. But first I’m going to finish watching this movie.
How about I break your nose right now and get it over with?
Arthur snorts. If it will shut you up.