We went back to her apartment for a cup of coffee. It was raining again; I watched it smash against the balcony windows. The living room was a bright fortress against it. The blue couch, thick carpet, soft white drops of light in each corner. The great contrast was the pictures on the walls. I would have expected Bernard Buffet clowns or Picasso doves to go with the softness and exuberant colors, but it wasn't so. Behind the dining table was a sludgy brown Francis Bacon print in a dull silver frame. I couldn't make out much of what was happening in the picture except that the subject was melting. Otto Dix, Edward Hopper, and Edvard Munch rounded out the happy lineup.
When she came in with the coffee, I was looking at a big print of Munch's The Shriek.
"What's with all the gloomy pictures, Karen?"
"Aren't they scaly? Music to have nightmares by." She perched on the couch and, with the most delicate movements possible, arranged two places on the coffee table, complete with miniature place mats. It reminded me of the care little girls take when they set up tea parties for their dolls and stuffed animals.
"Miles said I was a secret psychotic. Me and my penny loafers and lemon-meringue blouses . . . Miss Fair Isle Sweaters. Do you want sugar? Oh, Miles. Miles should have been a screenwriter for French movies. He needed one of those severe knee-length leather coats and a Gauloise cigarette hangin' from his lip in the middle of the rain. Here, Joseph, I hope you like your coffee strong. This is Italian and it's good."
I sat down next to her. "You still haven't explained why you like such melancholy pictures."
She even sipped gently. "You're hurtin' my feelin's, Joseph."
"What? How? What did I say?"
"You're sayin', dear man, that I've got to like this kind of picture because I dress or talk this way. I'm not supposed to like anythin' black or sad or alone because . . . Well, sir, how would you like it if I put you in that kind of little box?"
"I wouldn't. You're right."
"I know you wouldn't. You don't know me all that well yet, but you're pretendin' you do by sayin' things like that. How would you like it if I said, 'Oh, you're a writer! You must like pipes and Shakespeare and Irish setters. At your feet!' "
"Karen?"
"What?"
"You're right." I touched her elbow. She pulled it away.
"Don't do that! Stop tellin' me I'm right. Put up your dukes and fight." She made a bird-sized fist and stuck it up under my nose. The fun behind the gesture wrenched something loose inside me, and looking at her, I opened my mouth to say, "God, I like you," but she interrupted me.
"Joseph, I don't want you turnin' out to be a male chauvinist pig. I want you to be exactly what I think you are, which is very special. I'm not goin' to tell you about that yet, though, because it'll only give you a swelled head. First you saved me from that black dragon, and then you turned out to be nice and interestin'. I will be madder than hell if you end up disappointin' me. Understand?"
Her school was old and red brick; you felt wealth radiating out from it like heat. I stood on the other side of the street at three-thirty and waited for her to come out. She had no idea I'd be there. Surprise!
A bell clanged and girls' heads leapt up in every window. Voices and shouts and high laughter. Moments later they swelled out of the building in soft gray and white waves. Hefting books, looking at the sky, talking to each other; all of them wore gray blazers, matching gray skirts, and white blouses. I thought they looked wonderful.
I saw a blond woman who looked like Karen toting a big briefcase. I started blindly across the street, but saw halfway there that it wasn't her.
After half an hour she still hadn't shown, so I gave up and started home. I didn't understand it. At a corner phone booth I called; she answered on the first ring.
"Joseph, where are you? I'm bakin' a pecan pie."
I explained what had happened, and she giggled. "Today's the day I get out early. I went down to Soho to shop for our dinner. You are comin' to dinner, you know."
"Karen, I bought you a present." I looked at it clenched in my hand.
"It's about time you got me somethin'! No, I'm kiddin'. I'm very touched. Bring it along to dinner. I'll open it after."
I wanted to tell her what it was. It was heavy; the big Edward Hopper book with color plates she liked so much. I put it down on the small metal shelf beneath the telephone box.
"Joseph, tell me what it is. No, don't! I want to be surprised. Is it great?"
"Why don't you wait and see?"
"Stinker."
I wanted to put my hand through the receiver and stroke that smooth, velvet voice. I could see her face – the delight and the sauciness. I wished I was there. "Karen, can I come over now?"
"I wish you were here an hour ago."
I almost ran down the hall when I got out of the elevator. I arrived at her door with the book under my arm and my heart in my throat. There was a note taped up: Don't get mad. We'll have the pie when I get back. Something came up. Its name is Miles and says it needs help bad. I don't want to go. Repeat – I do not want to go. I owe him for a lot though, so I'll go. But I'll be home as soon as I can. Don't be mad or I'll kill you. There's a good movie on the Late Movie. I'll knock three times. Don't be mad.
I bought a pizza and brought it home so I could be there in case she got back early. She didn't. She didn't come back at all that night.
2
The next morning I got a letter from India. At first I looked at it as if it were a key or paper I'd lost long ago and, now that I'd found it, didn't know what to do with.
Dear Joe,
I know I've been rotten about writing, but please assume things have happened that kept me from it. There's been no real sign from Paul, although twice he's done little bad things to remind me he's still here. Since I know you'll worry if I don't tell you what I mean, the other morning I went to the kitchen and found a Little Boy glove on the table where he used to sit. As I said, small things, but I got scared enough and reacted like a maniac, so I guess he was satisfied.
I've made an appointment to see a famous medium here in town, and although I've never had much faith in those table thumpers, an awful lot of what I used to believe has been washed right down the drain in the last few months. I'll tell you if it turns up anything.
Now, don't take it the wrong way, but I'm enjoying living by myself. There are so many more things you're responsible for – the things your other half used to take care of without your even knowing it. But the compensation is, you're free as a bird and answerable to none. God knows, I liked living with Paul, and maybe someday I'll like living with you, but for now I like having the double bed to myself and all options open.
How are you, slugger? Don't you dare misinterpret anything I've said here, or else.
Little hugs, India
I swallowed my pride and called Karen's apartment. It rang seven times before she answered. Each ring made my heard beat faster and faster.
"Hello, Joseph?"
"Karen?"
"Joseph. Joseph, I'm so bad."
"Can I come down?"
"I spent the night with him."
"I sort of guessed that when you didn't show up for the Late Movie."
"Do you really want to see me?"
"Yes, Karen, very much."
She was in a pink flannel bathrobe and ugly pink bedroom slippers. She held the robe closed at the neck and wouldn't meet my eyes. We went into the room and sat down on the couch. She sat as far away from me as she could get. The dead couldn't have been more silent than we were for those first five minutes.
"Do you have someone over there in Vienna? Not any here's or there's. Someone special?"
"Yes. Or maybe yes. I don't know."