Fire & Water (10 page)

She stomped into her room and slammed the door. Normally, Mary K’s temper kept me away. I’d wait until the storm subsided and approach once it was safe again. But this felt different. I followed her steps and opened the bedroom door. “I don’t want to fight with you,” I said, searching for enough calm to speak. “We have to take care of Ben.”

“Ben’s already been very well taken care of. I can see that.”

“Stop this,” I shouted. “Is this about Ben or Jake? Why did you take such an instant dislike to him?”

“If he’s so great you’ll ride away on a white horse. But I just want to go on record. He’s trouble, I’m telling you. I can smell it. You’re just too blind to see it. If he’s that great, what do you care if I like him or not? ”

“I care, all right. I care because I’m really in love with this guy and it would be nice if my best friend at least didn’t act like she hates his guts.”

“So you’re in
love
with him. That’s rich. You hardly even know him. He comes in here with all of his bribes to get into the good graces of your friend and her old, dying dog. Don’t you think that’s just a little much, Murphy? Don’t you think that some expensive first edition picture book is just a little
extravagant
? That shit doesn’t impress me. He even dressed you up like his little doll, for fuck’s sake.”

I looked down at the garments I wore, wrinkled and covered with Ben’s wiry hair. Just yesterday I’d felt so pretty in them. “Jake is big with the grand gestures. He’s an artist. He’s exaggerated. And if he comes from as much money as you say, the cost of the gift isn’t exactly relevant, now is it? You could at least give the man I’m in love with a chance. And just yesterday you liked the clothes.”

“For your information, just because somebody gives you a good tumble or two doesn’t mean you’re in love with him.”

I fumed, feeling the muscles in my jaw clench.

“Don’t you think you should know a little about this guy before you fall completely? He’s made the New York papers more often than the Mets and the Nicks combined. Did you know he was arrested for going ape-shit and vandalizing The Met? Of course, Daddy’s money got him out of that one, too. Oh, and let’s see, there were the affairs with international heiresses. And let’s not forget about him shooting his old man. Not that half of New York wouldn’t throw a parade if Aaron Bloom took an ass cheek full of lead, but that little antic landed your boyfriend in a
serene country setting
for quite a little while. You and me, we’d be in the clink.”

“He said you’d do this. That you’d rain a shit storm about what the press had said. He told me all about the incident with the gun. He’s hiding nothing.”

“Don’t be naïve. Even if ninety percent of what I’ve read is bullshit, the ten percent that’s true should be enough to make you run screaming in the other direction. This guy is a serious sack of nuts, even if he is a wonderful fuck.”

I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “You’re certainly the expert there. All I’ve heard about for years is your
wonderful fucks.
I’ve watched your endless parade of air-headed ingénues. Your coke addicts. Biker girls. I’ve taken their sobbing phone messages and signed for their flower deliveries. I’ve listened to their giggles and moans through your bedroom walls. I’ve said nothing. NOTHING!”

I swallowed hard. The force of my words was volcanic. “I’ve treated each one of your
tumbles
with kindness, probably more than you showed them. And now the first time I actually have somebody who makes me happy, you just shit all over it. Nigel was too boring. Now Jake’s too wild. Please, please, Dr. Kowalski. Can you write me the prescription for the perfect man? What’s the proper dosage of excitement factor for a lover for me?”

I stood and stared at Mary K, waiting for a response. My pulse pounded in my ears. Rain began to beat hard again against the roof and flow off the eaves of the house, falling past the window in sheets. I waited, breathing hard, for some surrender, some softness in my friend’s face. Her lips thinned into a hard, straight line.

Hot raged roiled in my gut. “Maybe it’s time I get my own place.”

“Maybe it is,” Mary K muttered, lighting a cigarette.

“Fine. I’ll start packing tomorrow.”

“Works for me.”

Silence hung between us like rotting meat.

“And don’t go blaming Jake because you missed Ben’s passing. If you hadn’t been such a bitch leaving the house, you might have been here.”

“Fuck you, Murphy.”

I turned and left the room, slamming the door behind me. I flung myself around my bedroom, gathering a suitcase and throwing items into it. On the way out of the house, I gave Ben one last good-bye stroke.

My car groaned with the first crank of the key. Rain made the windshield a blurry wall. I cranked the car once more, hearing the engine’s merciful rumble. With the windshield wipers chasing my pulse rate, I made my way to South of Market, threading my way through the gray, wet streets.

Standing in the pouring rain, I knocked on the corrugated metal door. Jake opened it, his face showing surprise in seeing me.

“Can I come in? I might need to stay a while.”

Different Worlds

I spent the next few days at Jake’s loft like a featherless bird huddled in the nest of his bed. At first, I slept, waking only briefly, then falling back into near catatonia. Jake sketched in an oversized drawing pad at the other end of the loft. It seemed I had not slept in years and I was making up for it. In twenty-eight years, I could hardly remember a single fight I’d had with a family member or a friend, and now, in a matter of days, I’d had two giant blowouts that had severed me from Mary K and my family. I was ill-equipped for conflict, it left me exhausted. I’d emerge from my murky haze to find Jake in the chair beside the bed, his gaze upon me like a shaft of sunlight that warmed my skin. He’d climb under the white down comforter. I felt drunk, reeling from his touch, his smell, the taste of him, drunk enough that I forgot everything outside of the bed.

Jake prepared beautiful, simple meals, intricately spiced and comforting: gingery lemongrass soup; butter lettuce salads with figs and almonds; jasmine rice and stir-fried vegetables. I’d awaken to the scent of a fresh gardenia on the ebony wood bedside table, white stones arranged in a spiral around it, or miniature landscapes of cinnamon and freshly ground nutmeg raked into serene patterns. Fresh coffee greeted me and I’d find clean sheets on the bed after my bath. Each time I emerged from sleep it was with a new sensation, an image, smell, or taste that reacquainted me with my body. And always, there was his touch.

On the third day, Jake coerced me into going on a walk with him, and then a drive. We watched kids flying kites at the marina. Ate falafel at the Embarcadero. Shared clam chowder at the Cliff House overlooking the beach where I’d first seen his ice sculptures. I sipped wine as we looked out of the picture window from our table. Sea lions waddled on rocks below.

“So,” Jake said, dragging crispy fried calamari through cocktail sauce. “Have I ruined things forever between you and Mary K?”

My whole body jerked. “No. Absolutely not. She’s stubborn and brash. She’s—”

“She’s your friend. I know what Burt means to me. It would kill me if something came between us. If she thinks I’m doing that, she’s right to hate me. I would.” Jake looked up at me through his dark brow. “And she did lose Ben, after all.”

“I lost him, too,” I said, my voice more petulant than I wanted it to be. I looked down at two squabbling sea lions, barking and biting at one another. “She’s just not used to me having someone else. That’s all. She’s been the one with all of the romance drama. I’ve never really been—” I looked at the crashing waves below, hoping they would carry the word I searched for. “I know I’m twenty-eight and a doctor and everything, but I’ve never been
serious
about someone.” I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t say I’d never felt in love before—until now.

Jake’s face lightened and a smile crossed his lips.

Instant regret climbed over me and I scowled at the waves for bringing me the wrong words. Heat crawled up my throat and I felt redness blossom on my face.

Jake reached across the table and grabbed my hands. “I’m in love with you too, Kat.”

I gazed back down at the foamy waves and this time they brought me words I’d never said before. “I guess I’m in love with you, too.” A huge, white wave broke over the rocks and the squabbling sea lions slid into the ocean, where their waddling and fighting became water ballet.

* * *

Once the first week passed at Jake’s house, I began to grow restless. I’d started working when I was eight, cleaning up the pub and doing a paper route. Eventually I’d picked up babysitting jobs, until I was old enough to have a W-2 job at sixteen. I had been laser-like in my focus on earning money for college; a dog with a bone, my dad always called me. I could not remember the last time I’d had more than an idle hour in years.

Jake taught me to play. His calm and patience made me comfortable with being quiet. He coaxed stories from me like a magician pulling scarves from his sleeve: one tied to the next and the next. Stories of childhood at the pub became stories about college became stories about my family—about my mother.

One morning as we sat on a cliff in the Marin Headlands, overlooking the Golden Gate, he told me how his dad wanted him to be a businessman, a tycoon like him. His father had never believed in or understood his talent. “He thought my art was some passing hobby. I wasn’t interested in the stock market, or sports, or erecting skyscrapers, so he assumed I was gay, which disgusted him. I let him think that for a long time. It took the pressure off.”

I looked at him sideways. “I can testify that’s not the case.”

“It wouldn’t matter. He couldn’t detest me more if I was a serial killer.”

“He doesn’t detest you. You’re his son.”

Jake gave me a look that told me how clueless I was. “He shuffled me from one caregiver to another. He’s no father to me.” His face was a weaving of anger and grief. “When Burt published the first photographs of my work, I started to get more public notoriety. We got prestigious grants. Obscene commissions from famous buyers. When the art started generating lots of money, my dad thought maybe I was legitimate. But then I started turning down commissions. I never have liked doing art just because someone wants to buy it. Kind of misses the point, really. And it drives Burt crazy, too, because he’s always wanting to take care of my future.”

“Sounds like Burt’s looking out for you.”

“Burt’s a good man, but the money just doesn’t matter that much to me. I already have enough.”

I grew itchy talking about money. Student loan payments were crippling. My Bug needed new tires, and the clutch was going bad. Guilt flashed as I thought that it was only rich people who have the luxury of not caring about money. I didn’t want to think of Jake as I had some of the trust-fund babies I’d met throughout school—spoiled and entitled, reckless with their privilege.

I shielded my eyes from the bright sun. “I want you to know. I’ve never loafed or mooched like this before. You’re probably used to people who try to take advantage, I mean, I’d like to chip in for the groceries or—”

A shadow crossed Jake’s face and creases formed between his brows. “Don’t do that.” His voice was pinched. “Don’t insult yourself or me. Or us. It cheapens what we have.” He stood and walked toward the bluff. The wind tossed his hair in every direction at once.

I had that helpless feeling that I had said exactly the wrong thing—again.

I walked up behind him and wrapped my arms around his middle, resting my cheek on his back. “I’m not used to someone spending money on me. The clothes. The restaurants. My family’s kind of big on the whole idea of noble poverty. Work ethic and all. I just don’t want you to think that I—”

“I’m not my father. Money is just a happy accident, nothing I ever aim for. It means nothing. Wouldn’t even happen without Burt. And just because I have money doesn’t mean I don’t have a work ethic.” He turned his gaze to the gray horizon while his icy words cut through me.

It wasn’t just that I was uncomfortable talking about money, though surely I was. Other than Nigel, I’d never been close to someone who’d come from wealth, and though I hated to admit it, I’d always felt more comfortable with those who shared my working-class roots. Only people who had a lot of money ever said that it meant nothing. Mary K and I had that in common, and had shared nine years of scraping while we’d watched wealthier classmates float through without our worries. The topic of money—as unfamiliar as it was to me—was near toxic to Jake. Money was intertwined with Aaron Bloom and the two formed a noxious compound, like ammonia and bleach, that choked the tenderness out of Jake.

I wrapped my arms around his waist. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I guess I’m just used to money being a struggle.”

“Me too, Kat,” Jake sighed. “Money’s always been a struggle, but I never want it to be like that between you and me.”

I knew in that moment that Jake and I had a different vocabulary—a whole different language—when it came to money. I was relieved when his body softened and he welcomed my embrace. I rested my head against his back, listening to his heartbeat as it slowed from its galloping rate.