Chapter Six

She was reading an article about Balanchine’s early work with the New York City Ballet when the telephone rang. It’s Mother, she thought without checking, and picked up the receiver, still glancing at the photos that went with the story.

It was Dante. “Where the hell were you?” He sounded very angry.

“I was there. You were great. I loved it. I’ve never seen you dance before, you know.” She tried to sound cheerful.

“You were there? Where the hell were you? I didn’t see you. Why the hell didn’t you come backstage afterward? What kind of friend are you?”

“I thought you would be busy. I didn’t want to intrude.” She tried hard to sound simply considerate.

“I could kill you sometimes. You act like a damn fool. You make me so furious. I want to walk away from you, but I want to see you at the same time. What about that dinner you promised to cook me? I’m finally hungry. Do you want me to come over, or don’t you?” His voice was still angry.

“Yes, I want you to come over.” She was very meek.

“I may strangle you when I come. I don’t think I can help myself.” His anger had dissipated.

“All right. Come anyway.” Her heart felt light. She was happy now.

“Twenty minutes.” He hung up without waiting for a reply.

Twenty minutes to cook him a dinner when she hadn’t been grocery shopping in at least two weeks. And cooking for a dancer wasn’t like cooking for a human being. Never mind. She had the solution. Pasta, olive oil, and onions, if the onion she had bought sometime in the dimly remembered past hadn’t gone bad.

Thirty-five minutes later, he still wasn’t there, but she had the onions chopped and the water was boiling. Ten minutes after that and the onions were waiting for the bow ties. The buzzer sounded and she let him in. The upstairs doorbell rang and she went to greet him. There he was, that hunk of baby-fine hair falling into his eye.

He came past Laura without acknowledging her and sat down. “Was I good, or wasn’t I?”

“Yes, you were very good.”

“What a letdown, now that it’s over. But we’re going to Bennington next weekend. And to Marymont, I think it is.” He looked at her for the first time since entering the room. “You’re actually cooking, I guess. I had a V-8. I don’t know if I’m still hungry.”

“It doesn’t matter. The meal wasn’t going to be very good anyway.”

“Why doesn’t a cook ever say, ‘I have the most fabulous meal prepared’? And even if you say it’s great, the cook says, ‘No, I put in way too much salt.’ Or, ‘I didn’t bake it long enough.’ Feed me anyway, if it’s ready. I’ll try it. Maybe I’m hungry, after all.” He looked at her without a shred of humor.

She brought him a bowl of soup first and served herself as well. He spooned the liquid down, watching her. “It’s all right,” he told her. He was still angry, she supposed.

He pushed the bowl aside. “Better tell me now why you didn’t come to the dressing rooms.”

“I felt I would be embarrassed since your girlfriend was there.” She wondered if he would walk out and leave her for saying that.

He shook his head. “Are you serving me anything else?” he asked her. She bought out the pasta dish. “Oh my stomach,” he groaned. “Is this what you eat?”

She wasn’t sure why he found her meal so undesirable.” “Sometimes,” she answered evenly. “Anyway, it’s all I had in the house.”

That made him smile, so that he almost couldn’t stop smiling. He put his fork in the bow ties and took a bite. “It’s all right,” he said. He pushed aside the plate. “I’m not very easy to get along with,” he admitted.

“I know that,” she agreed. “I think you’re a very nervous person. Very sensitive. I just wonder if you’re totally self-centered.”

“Oh yes.” He nodded. “I think so.” They both smiled. “I think I could make you very miserable,” he added. They both smiled again. “You see, but a girl like Melissa… I can’t make her miserable. She’s beyond misery, believe me. She’ll never know a moment’s misery in this lifetime. Because she’s self-centered, the same as I am. She’s too busy with herself to be miserable. Of course, I’m miserable even though I’m self-centered. I’ve perfected my own sort of suffering. I relish it, in fact.”

“I believe you,” she told him. She did.

“So, what are we going to do about it? Are we going to let me make you miserable?” He hardened his face to look at her.

“It’s a very difficult choice for me,” she answered.

“You don’t know whether to choose misery or happiness?”

“I want to choose happiness. But I’d like to choose happiness with you.” She ran her fork through her own serving of pasta in agitation, forming patterns.

“No, no,” he said. “Not happiness. Not with me. Anyway, let’s forget it. That’s the best thing. We’ll be friends. I’ll take you to the theatre every once in a while. And you can cook me a regular dinner sometime.”

“All right,” she agreed. They gazed at one another. She tried to force her passion for him to cool. The phone rang and she jumped up.

It was John from the health club, asking her to meet him for coffee this evening. Laura refused, saying she had a guest. John said he would call her again during the week and she told him she was easier to reach after ten. Probably he wouldn’t call again since she was so difficult.

The phone call rekindled Dante’s anger. “How many others are there?” he asked. He smiled at the absurdity of his own question.

She brought the dishes into the kitchen. The phone rang again and she came out into the living room and answered it. It was Richard. “Can you tell me what went on with you and Elise?” he asked.

“We had an ugly scene,” she said plainly. She watched Dante. He picked up the article she had been reading.

“Can you describe it to me?” he probed.

“Not at the moment, actually. I have a guest.” She didn’t look forward to repeating her own part in the incident.

“Can you call me when he leaves? I mean, that is, excuse me, if he will be leaving.” He said the last very politely.

“Yes, I’ll call you,” she said shortly and hung up.

Dante turned on the television, flipped the remote, turned it off. “Let’s go dancing,” he suggested. “Do you know any good clubs?” She shook her head. The phone rang. “If you answer it, I’m leaving,” he threatened. She didn’t move.

They watched The Birds on Channel 9, then Dante got up to go home. “Everything’s all right now, isn’t it?” he asked her. He put his hands on her shoulders in a fatherly fashion. “If I was either more rotten or less rotten than I am, we could have some nice moments together.”

“You aren’t rotten.” She believed that he wasn’t.

He withdrew from her. “I like you, but it’s better if I save you from myself. In the end I’d let you down. I’ve always let everyone down, you know. I wouldn’t want to do that to you. You’re too nice.”

He gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek as she opened the door. She wanted so much more from him.

His eyes were shiny as they went to her face one last time. In them she read his answering desire for her, his sadness that they would never connect in the way they were intended to. A second later he was gone and she was alone, so alone again.

She was grateful for Monday morning. Getting to work was good, to see familiar faces, to absorb herself in her job. Liz, the receptionist, asked if Laura had a nice weekend. “I don’t think the word ‘nice’ would describe it,” she answered. After her first cup of coffee, she had to go downstairs for a second one. She felt about the way she would if she’d spent the night in a gravel pit.

She hadn’t called Richard back the evening before and couldn’t handle calling him that morning, so she let it go. At lunch—it was the hundredth rainy day in a row—her rawhide jacket got drenched and so did the check she had tucked snugly in the pocket and had forgotten about. Richard’s check. She threw the remains in the trash basket, sneezed, and spent the rest of the afternoon blowing her nose and denying that she had a cold.

That was the good part. Work was so much fun and such a challenge (an incredible exaggeration) that she offered to stay late in penance for her usually shaky enthusiasm and because she couldn’t face going to class—maybe ever again. Cecil kept her until nine-thirty without a break—no chance to call Richard, or maybe she hadn’t wanted to. She put on her wet jacket, and having missed the club as well, spent an hour-and-a-quarter trying to get home in the flooded subway.

What the rest of the week lacked in drama, it made up for in boring length. She saw Maxwell on Wednesday as he was haranguing two students and he told her Dante had been out with a cold all week. That night Lillian called to chat and offered to fix Laura up with the brother of the photographer she was dating. Laura refused.

Thursday night, John called and asked Laura out for Saturday night. She accepted. Later, her mother called to find out how she was doing. She said she was doing fine, except her jacket was all funny. Her mother told her to take it to the cleaners.

Friday night, Richard called to see if Sunday was still on. “Yes,” she said. She didn’t apologize for not calling him back—she wanted to forget about the whole incident.

“Is your guest still there?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” she responded sourly.

The ghost of her guest was hanging around—inside her head and inside her heart. She took pains to sneak in and out of the Studio, but was still disappointed when she didn’t see Dante. On Friday night, she went to Morelli to find out about classes there, and Saturday she called Alvin Ailey. The cleaners’ clerk said he didn’t know what he could do with her jacket, but he would try.

Saturday morning, she felt sick to her stomach, skipped the early class, but went to the late one. Saturday night, she prepared to go on her date with John. She met him at Christie’s in the Village and had to apologize for not eating, since she was sick to her stomach again.

He took her down to Soho and kept her out dancing until five in the morning, although she protested that she had a lot to do the next day. Saturday night was fun night for him, and he was sure it must be for her, too. He was so sweet, really, that she didn’t tell him that being deafened, bumped into, submitted to various drug fumes, and forced to disturb her precious sleep cycle all in a fire hazard so crowded that she genuinely feared she might be trampled on was not her idea of a really good time.

At last he brought her home to let her sleep, but she needed two-and-a-half hours to relax enough to do so. She slept four hours and got up to shower for Richard’s arrival. She felt sick to her stomach again, but nothing was going to keep her from her date with Grandfather Turner. The comfort of family life—she longed for it.

She sat down on her bed to wait for Richard and fell asleep again. The doorbell awakened her with a start. Richard’s face was a welcome sight, but he said to Laura, “My God, you look awful.”

She glared. “You’re used to looking at high-priced faces. You’ve forgotten what ordinary people look like.”

“No, the face is beautiful, but the woman appears somewhat ill-treated.”

Beautiful! She never thought of herself in exactly those terms. She went to the mirror to check it out. Good grief, she looked awful. She made Richard wait while she took a tea bag, wet it, and placed it over her eyes.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” he protested.

“Do you want to see the autumn sketch I did?” She showed him, pleased at his judicious grunts. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back last Sunday or after. I’m sort of feeling under the weather.”

“Maybe you don’t want to go today?”

“No,” she wailed. “I want to.”

“Why such enthusiasm?” He was surprised.

“I’m in love with your grandfather.” He raised his eyebrows in a way that reminded her of his grandfather and she laughed.

They set forth again in his Volvo and Laura offered to tell Richard the story of her encounter with Elise, but he no longer wanted to hear of it. She made him pull off to the side of the road halfway through their drive because she felt car sick.

“Do you mind? Please don’t start again yet.” She wanted to sit there without motion for a brief while.

“It’s all right with me if it’s all right with the state police.” He relaxed, seemingly in no rush. “Can I do something to help you feel better?”

“No, thanks. I need a vacation, that’s all. I thought you were going to go away last weekend, by the way.” She opened the window a crack, relishing the fresh air.

“Elise had some unfinished business. Seeing the right person at the right place, at the right time. I shouldn’t sound resentful of her like that. Sometimes I sound as if I don’t like her.” He fiddled with the car keys.

“Don’t you?” She thought of reaching over and taking his hand to stop its nervous movements, but she didn’t.

“Sometimes I don’t like her very much. She can be difficult. She’s in a high-pressure business though, so I’m not being fair blaming her. She’s been remarkably successful despite the fact that she didn’t have a good start in life. I understand that, so a lot of the things she says or does don’t bother me.” He glanced at Laura, then looked out the window.

“I think it bothers you,” she disagreed.

“Maybe,” he acknowledged.

“My husband was something like that,” she added thoughtfully. “He imagined he had to push his way somewhere.” She hoped she didn’t sound too bitter. Richard turned and gazed at her again. Again, she wanted to reach over and take his hand in hers. “I guess we can get going now.” She sighed.

She slept the rest of the way and greeted Grandfather Turner rather groggily. She apologized, but Richard explained that Laura had been sick. They set her up on the couch, then gave her a pillow, an afghan, and a cup of tea. She told Mr. Turner about having been caught in the rain, but not about having been disappointed in love.

She fell asleep and awoke somewhat later to the sound of children’s voices. She said hello to Mark and Tricia, Milly and George. She was happy being treated as an invalid and took her second cup of tea with toast and jelly. Richard sat down on the couch next to her. Playing his part to perfection, she supposed.

Mr. Turner pooh-poohed the idea of a bridge game, although Laura insisted. “Next Sunday,” he said, and she agreed. Richard’s parents came with covered trays of cooked and semi-cooked items for dinner. Richard’s mother gave Laura a scarf she had knitted herself, and Laura almost cried.

Everyone went into the television room to watch the football game, leaving Laura to sleep. Instead, she entertained Mark and Tricia by drawing trick faces that they could look at right-side up and upside down. Then they played an add-a-line game. Milly, bored with football, came in and contributed her talents to the endeavor. After a while, Richard came in to check on them all. He drew cartoon faces of everyone in the family, and one of Laura, too, fast asleep. She was impressed.

Mr. Turner came in from the football game—he had no interest in it—and the four adults played bridge then, after all. The table was pulled up to Laura’s place on the couch.

Laura and Mr. Turner were unbeatable partners and won almost every single hand. Mr. Turner said they would have to find better opponents.

After that, Richard’s mother laid so much food out on the table that Laura felt quite queasy again. For the first time since coming into the house, she had to move. She walked outside for a breath of fresh air. She couldn’t eat very much of the dinner and apologized. Mrs. Decter assured her she would do better next time.

They said good-bye and thank you to Grandfather Turner and good night to Milly, George, and the kids, and followed the Decters to the house in which Richard had grown up. Laura nearly choked when she saw it. She had thought Grandfather Turner had all the money, but seeing the Decter estate disabused her of that idea. She was quite overwhelmed—and her own background was an affluent one.

Richard went with his dad into the workroom to see some new tools he’d put in, while Mrs. Decter showed Laura the house. She made a point of bringing Laura into Richard’s room. She showed her his drawings, the pictures of the boy turning into the man.

Laura liked the way she was being treated. She liked receiving the kindness the family was ready to show Richard’s girlfriend and only a couple of times did it occur to her that enjoying their attentiveness was a cheat. She felt that Richard’s family liked her. She belonged, and Elise didn’t.

Richard tracked his mother and Laura into the kitchen where they were having a good talk. He put his arm around his mother in a sweet way that Laura was glad to see. When he and Laura left, Richard hugged both his parents, then Laura and Mrs. Decter hugged.

“I think your mother would like my mother too,” Laura told Richard. Having said that, she wished she hadn’t. She sounded as if she were forming the wedding party or something.

“They like you a lot,” Richard told her as they got in the car. He didn’t seem to realize how silly the situation was. Everything was perfect, except Laura and Richard—and Elise.

Richard must have been reading her mind. “Are you going to Rene’s tonight?” he asked abruptly.

“God no,” she answered. “Are you?”

“I have a busy week ahead,” he said as a response. “In fact, I’ll be at an auction near your office on Tuesday, if you’d care to meet me then for lunch. The same restaurant, if you like.”

“There’s an Indian restaurant down that same block. If my stomach recovers. Could you stand it?”

Richard laughed. She thought it was at the restaurant, but he said: “Milly asked if you were pregnant since you kept being sick to your stomach tonight.”

“Hardly,” she answered in irritation.

He stopped being amused. “Sorry,” he apologized.

Laura was silent and sat staring out the window. She had only been annoyed because she had no husband to be pregnant for, no man to love her and to love. Being reminded of that fact made her angry.

He reopened the conversation with another sore point. “How’s Dante? Didn’t you say he was dancing last Sunday?”

“Yes,” she agreed. “He was very good.” She remembered the fantasy-vision she’d had when she’d seen him dance, and her body ached with longing to fulfill that dream of the two of them together.

On Monday she called in to work, sick. Cecil told her nicely to wrap up, stay in bed, and get well. She spent the morning sketching trees and the remembered faces of Richard’s family (but not Richard) then rushed to attend a dance class at one o’clock. She threw herself into it and by the end of class felt wholly recovered from the blues, or whatever had been ailing her.

She went home immediately after and began sketching again. She decided this was what she would do for Christmas presents for her newly adopted family. Maybe next Sunday she could make small sketches while no one was looking. She wanted to express her gratitude for their extreme kindness.

Richard called, somewhat concerned, since he had tried her cell, which she hadn’t answered, then tried her at work, and they said she was out sick. Laura explained that it was nothing she had to be hospitalized for, but only the human condition itself. Richard was calling to break their luncheon date on Tuesday since he had to bring a client to the auction with him. But he would like to take her to dinner Tuesday night if she was up to it.

A Tuesday dinner would throw Laura’s whole schedule off, but she agreed. A bit more of a social calendar might be good for her. She went back to the Studio for the early evening class—which she thoroughly enjoyed. She saw Dante standing with some members of the company. He waved to her. She nodded briskly.

He was fading from consciousness; she knew it would be all right after some more time. He had been generous with her, and with himself, to not pursue something that would have been painful to them both. He had at least that much love in him, though she still felt he had a whole lot more.