Frog (74 page)

New York Times
for the next few years, but she's never mentioned, nor have any artists he knows heard of her work. During this time a friend who's a writer gives him a literary magazine with two of his stories in it. One's about a woman named Gwen Wakesman. In it the fictional character has a blind date with her when he's eighteen, French-kisses her on the first date, feels her breasts through her bra on the second, gets his hand in her underpants on the third, makes love with her in her apartment—her parents are in the Caribbean and her sister and the housekeeper went to the circus—on the next date. On the fifth date he teaches her how to go down on him without hurting him—she says it's her first time—and how to position her body so he can stick it into her behind—and they see each other for a year, having sex almost every time they meet, before he dumps her for her best friend. She becomes very upset over this, gets a room in a cheap hotel and calls him and says she's going to slit her wrists in the grubby bathtub, and she brought the razor blade to do it with, unless he spends the night with her there. He comes, undresses her, carries her to bed kissing her, then drops her on the floor and beats her up. “Now do you believe we're finished?” “Finished,” she says. “And you're not going to do anything stupid again? Because if you are I'm going to really mess up your face” “Nothing. I was wrong to threaten you.” “Good. Now get dressed, clean yourself up and I'll take you home.” Two days later she commits suicide. He goes to the funeral, gets on his knees in front of the open coffin and screams he's sorry for his heartlessness and prays for her to be alive again. He has a vision there that she steps out of the coffin and pats his head and says “Don't fret, my darling; it was more my fault than yours. I depended too much on our love affair going well. I was young and impulsive and ignorant and I forgive you with all my heart.” That night he sleeps with her best friend, who was also at the funeral—they had dinner and saw a movie after—and he says “Don't ask me why but the sex just now was the best in my life. I thought I saw God. Maybe I did if he looks a lot like what the ancient painters depict him as in so much of their art.” “I almost reached that state also,” she says, “or maybe I did. I know there was a lot of clearing and light.” “No, you're supposed to know a mystical experience when it happens to you, there is no probably or maybe. But it was good, right? You explain it, because I can't. And now I'm not only still feeling the buzz from my come but I also feel no remorse over Gwendolyn anymore whatsoever. I truly believe she forgave me today,” and she says she still feels remorse just a little but she thinks she'll get over it in time, and they go at each other again. Howard calls his friend and says “You knew Gwen Wakesman?” and he says “Yeah, you too? I went out with her when I was around twenty. I changed my age a little for the story.” “You know she's not dead, of course. She's living near Santa Fe, or was, up till about three years go.” “She's still there but on a reservation now, learning how to make indianlike jewelry, silver and rugs. I'm in touch with someone who met her.” “So how much of the rest of the story's true?” “You ask that of an author? You should be ashamed of yourself. Besides, you haven't said what you thought of it.” “Some of it though, right?” and his friend says “What do you think? I went out with her for months and my libido hasn't changed since I was a sex-starved five.” “But you're such a putz. What the fuck did she ever see in you and why in hell didn't you at least change her name? You can't use someone's real name like that. It's demoralizing; it's degrading. You're a total schmuck as a writer and the biggest shit as a person—no, the reverse. No, both, and I never want to see your scummy face again,” and his friend hangs up. Couple of years later he's at a dinner party and the woman he sits beside at the table talks about herself, grew up in Lake Forest, boarding school in New Hampshire, summers in coastal Canada or Spain, graduated Sarah Lawrence—“Oh, what year?” “Sixty-two.” “A year after Gwen Wakesman. Did you know her there?” “No I didn't. There were always two groups, academic-aesthetic and the finishing school types. She must have been in the other.” “Which one were you in?” and she says “Are you belittling me? The academic-aesthetic.” “That would have been the one she was in too.” “If she was I would've known her, even if she was a year before me. We all interweaved.” “She's been in the alumni magazine. I've read it. As an artist living outside Santa Fe.” “I don't read that silly magazine. It's only published to raise money from the finishing school types in exchange for them telling us the names of their newest horse, boat or island and for the few a-a egotists in every class to talk endlessly about themselves and to promote their book tours and art exhibits and plays they're in.” “I'm sure she would have been in the artistic group at school.” He next sees her name in the obituary notice for her father. Surviving are his wife Gladys, daughter Gwendolyn Leigh-Balicoff, and two grandchildren, Olympia and Augustine. So she might have got married again and the kids could be hers or her sister's. She might even have adopted a couple of Indian children. But no mention of her sister. She die? Then it would have said “deceased.” They disown her? Weeks later he looks up her father's name in the phone book; they've moved to Park Avenue, if it's the same Philip. Calls to find out where she's living. An older woman answers. If Gwen had he thinks he would have immediately hung up. “Hello, I'm trying to reach Gwendolyn Wakesman, now Leigh-hyphen-Balicoff. I have the right number?” “She's living in Munich,” the woman says, “and I'm not allowed to furnish her address or phone number.” “Munich. Well, nice city. And she has a phone now? Good. Could you possibly be the woman who worked for them then, Rose or Ruth?” “Ruth, yes.” “You probably don't remember me, Ruth. My name's Harold Zeif. I used to date Gwen—just two dates, really—years ago, when we were in our teens.” “I don't remember you, sir.” “How could you, and there wouldn't be any need to. And God, you're still working there, unless you're only visiting for the day.” “I'm still employed by the Wakesmans, though my chores have been reduced and I no longer live in.” “Also, I was probably one of many young men Gwen knew. She was so pretty and intelligent and mature and charming, she must have had many suitors.” “That she was and did, sir. I remember that.” “How's Mrs. Wakesman taking the death of her husband? I mean, I didn't know her well either. I came in, her parents said hello, they were very nice—but it was a matter of seconds, maybe a minute I saw them and just one time. In the living room of the old Riverside Drive apartment, with all the paintings.” “Same paintings are here now. Different furniture though.” “I remember the furniture. Big elegant flowery couch, right?” “Vertical stripes.” “I remember flowers. I'm of course wrong. But the chairs—soft easy ones—were flowered then.” “Plain. A deep rich green one and a deep rich red one, if you're talking about the armed padded chairs. Both are gone now. They had a decorator in and out everything went. I got the red chair, cigarette burn-holes and all.” “Then I'm thinking of someone else's apartment. But how's Mrs. Wakesman doing?” “Not well, as should be expected. They were tightly knit, at work and as parents.” “I remember they were. From Gwen talking, and just for the minute I saw them they seemed like very fine people. Polite, generous, cosmopolitan. And Toby? It is Toby, right—Gwen's sister?” “Toby then but she changed it back to the original Dorothea when she turned twenty. She died many years ago.” “Ohh, that's what I was afraid of. When the obiturary didn't list her name as surviving. But no ‘deceased,' it said, which puzzled me.” “That was an error of the newspaper. It was asked to say she died and didn't survive.” “I should have thought of that. I worked on newspapers and so know how they leave things out. But what a nice cute kid she was. Did she get sick?” “It's a story I don't want to go into, sir.” “She didn't kill herself, I hope.” “I shouldn't be saying anything, sir, and it doesn't seem you were close to the family.” “Not with her wrists.” “No, something much worse. Complete mutilation. They never got over it ever, neither Gwendolyn either. After all, there was only the two of them for the parents, and as sisters they were always little buddies.” “I'm sure. I didn't know Dorothea well, but the times I did see her—I think she was there both times I went out with Gwen and then I used to see her walking on Broadway sometimes—she was a wonderful girl. Peppy, lively. Well, they're the same thing, but that's what she was. Double lively, chipper, energetic, I think—a real spark with a beautiful face and smile.” “That's so. All of that. I loved her. Of the two, and I loved them both, she was my special little doll,” and she starts crying. “I'm sorry,” he says. “I didn't mean to bring it up.” “That's all right. I like to cry for her.” “I'm really sorry. Gwen, I suppose, was in for her father's funeral?” “I'd like to stop now, sir; I've things to do. May I ask why you called, so I can jot it down here? Is it to pay your condolences?” “In a way, yes. But especially to Gwen. And now for both her sister and father.” “I'll try to convey it to her. Your name was how spelled?” “Harold. And then Z-e-i-f. It's been so long, she might not remember who I was.” “I'll let her know, if she happens to call and I get on or if her mother writes to her.” “Just one more thing, Ruth. Is Gwen now married?” “No.” “So she married only two times?” “Three, but the third was annulled.” “Then the last name Leigh-hyphen-so-on is her third husband's?” “It's a combination of her sister's middle name and her mother's maiden name which she decided to use when she moved to Europe. I think she said she wanted a new life in every possible way.” “What's she doing there, working, painting?” “Nobody knows.” “Surely you know but maybe you don't feel like saying or were instructed not to, which'd be OK.” “No I don't know, sir, and neither does her mother.” “And the children mentioned in the obituary—are they hers or Dorothea's or one of each?” “Dorothea's. They went with the husband after the accident, you can call it.” “It wasn't over a man she killed herself, pardon me for asking. I shouldn't have; I'm sorry.” “I don't like answering that one way or the other, but it wasn't, and it's none of your business as you said. If you don't mind I won't give Gwendolyn your message. She once told me to screen all the messages too.” “You mean letters, packages, requests from alumni magazines—things like that?” She doesn't answer. “I suppose you're right. My condolences all around. That includes you too, of course. I can imagine how you felt then, and now with Mr. Wakesman after so many years, and I'm sorry if I sounded snoopy.” “Thank you,” and she hangs up. He gets to Munich the next year with his wife-to-be and looks up Gwen's name and then her maiden name in the Munich phone books. She's unlisted or maybe not living there anymore. His writer friend and he never speak after that last phone call but he expects he'll bump into him one day and they'll shake hands and eventually meet for coffee or a beer as they used to about twice a year and he'll get around to asking him about his relationship with Gwen and if he's heard anything new about where she is and what she's doing.

Janine. Meets her at a New Year's Eve party. His brother invited him to it but said not to get there too early: “That way they won't think I invited everybody I know.” Gone to a movie with friends, drink and a hamburger after with them, they left for home to get there before the real street reveling began and he walked uptown for half an hour, stopped at a bar for a beer and then took a cab to the party and was in it when twelve came. “Happy New Year,” the driver said when lots of horns and shouting went off around them. “You too. May it be a great one for you.” Seated on a couch, legs crossed showing short muscular calves, seams running down the stockings. Who wears seams? Doesn't like them, make her legs look cheap. Holding a mug of something, coffee or tea, because it's smoking. Blond hair put up in what she later says is a chignon, animated pretty face laughing at something a woman in the chair nearest her says, catches him looking at her, he smiles and bows his head, she smiles back and turns to the woman. He walked into this reading or sitting or television room, since in addition to walls of books and lots of sitting furniture there's also a TV, looking for something to do or someone to talk to, foremost an attractive free woman, when he saw her, no men around, in a seated circle of several woman. He'll look at her till she looks at him again. If she seems interested, by her look, he'll smile and leave the room and make his move later. She doesn't seem interested—no smile back, a look of “So what seems so interesting?”—he'll still make his move later but less confidently. Other women are discussing a movie, she looks at him, raises her eyebrows as if saying “Something you want to say?” he smiles, she smiles back and then looks at her mug as if contemplating something inside it. Maybe the way the smoke twirls, milk in the coffee curls. He looks at his glass—what could she be thinking? that he make his move now?—it's half full but he holds it up and nods as if it needs refilling and leaves the room without looking at her again. Finds his brother; he can't even place the woman by Howard's description. “Actually, beautiful, little pug nose, sort of dirty blond kind of wiry hair up in a twisted pile in back, tweed skirt, I forget what color blouse or there might be a sweater over the blouse, seamed stockings, very lively face and plenty of hand motions, with not noticeably large breasts and seems a tiny waist. She could be a dancer.” Looks around for her. While admiring the paintings in the living room of larger-than-life-sized nudes, the host says behind him “Something, huh? And they were done by my mother. It's an amazing story. She's only at the League for a year, took up painting for recreation after my dad died, never held a brush other than a scrub or tooth one, and look at what she can now produce: paintings that are both art and can give you a hard-on. The change in her, like her art, came almost overnight. Now she only wears dungarees and smocks, paints all day, dreams of painting and paintings all night, haunts the art museums weekends when she never went to any but Natural History and Historical Society before and only because they were around the block, and thinks of herself as a serious artist with a so-far unclear mission and her teacher's even thinking of solo-exhibiting her.” Still can't find her so he goes back to the sitting room, she's on the couch, now in a corner of it because two other women have sat down, legs crossed same way, seams don't seem as bad, big knees, hairy thighs, bulging calves, sees them squeezing him and his breath puffing out, shuts his eyes and shakes the thought off, she doesn't look at him, at least when his eyes are open, and he leaves. If she had looked he would have gestured with his head to the door and then left. If she didn't come out in a minute or so he would have made another move, though he doesn't know what, some time later. Fifteen minutes later, after looking though the apartment for her, he heads for the sitting room to talk with her if she's there and not occupied or gesture with his head if she's busy, and sees her standing outside the sitting room talking to a man. Now or you'll never, and he says hello to her, hi to him, gives his name, “How are you, Happy New Year,” and puts out his hand and shakes theirs. “I don't mean to be forward but I suddenly felt like talking to someone, and it's not out of mania or drink, so I thought I'd barge in on you two. Kind of awkward and awful, but do you mind?” She smiles as if what he's doing is funny, man's about to say something serious when he says “Don't worry, I'll be quiet, I'll just listen, won't contribute till my not contributing makes you nervous or I'm asked or obliged to speak.” “No no, the man says, “please talk. Our conversation isn't really anything we can't continue next time we meet, since we're in the same class once a week.” He asks and their names are Willie and Janine. Asks and it's an acting class. Asks and it's run by a well-known director in a couple of rooms in a dingy Broadway office building, but strictly for professionals. Asks and several prominent actors are in it. The most famous one sits in back in the dark in sunglasses and a fifty-thousand-dollar schmink, but is as sweet as can be. Want to hear a funny story? Janine's heard it from the source so don't cut in with the punchline. “One of the actors gets a call from her last week. She says hi, gives her first name and wants to do a scene with him. He doesn't know who she is, some older woman he recently met while bartending and who's making a play for him?—no pun intended and the actor said it with a straight face, showing how dumb he is. She wouldn't give her last name, didn't want to unnerve him I guess, just kept saying ‘This is Marilyn, Marilyn,' and finally ‘You know, from class,' and that they were all asked to pick a partner and do a scene for the class, weren't they? They're rehearsing it now. She serves him hot cocoa, it's all very nice and he says she's got talents up her ass.” Asks and he's been in stock, on daytime TV, off-Broadway and some movie bits, while Janine here was on Broadway in a major role up to a month ago. Two months, she says. Asks and she says and he says he never liked that playwright's work, though he hasn't seen this play. Too traditional, homespun, unadventurous, with half the scenes around the kitchen or dining room table and half of those when the characters are in bathrobes getting ready for or having just got out of bed. There was a bathrobe scene in her play, she says, and her best scene too, but midway upstairs. “Oh boy you just blew it,” Willie says, slaps his back, laughs, goes. Was there a signal between them? Looks to see and she seems annoyed, no doubt by his comments, apologizes, she says it's OK and he's probably a writer or wants to be one, and he says he's been doing little fictions and short plays but how'd she know? Because they're usually trying to negate a skillful older writer's work or just shoveling it into the grave. Asks and her father writes plays and television scripts and he even gets hate mail from young playwrights starting out or about to, damning the little success he's had, belittling what he's still very hard doing, praising only the not-written new. Apologizes and she says let's forget it but still looks angry. He did blow it. What could he do to make up for it? Mind, face, body, glamorous life, artistic father, probably her own apartment, says what she thinks, would love being close with her when that anger's for someone else. Says half his literary judgments are dumb and uninformed and he'll never shoot from the hip like that again. She says why's he making such promises to her? She's still angry. Afraid she'll say it's been nice talking to you but she's got to go. Asks and the mug only held tea because she has a cold and sore throat and what she really needed was honey in it which the host has but couldn't find. Wait and comes back with no tea because he couldn't find the honey when he thought he could but does have two aspirins and water if she needs. So kind and he says misguided overconfidence and he liked the way she was protective of her pa, not many people are. Suggests and they go out for sandwiches and tea with honey for her, she puts her arm around his on the way back, she's cold, didn't dress warmly enough tonight, but it still means something. Asks, if she doesn't mind, is surprised to find she's nine months younger than he, thought she was twenty-five. Looks that old? and says it's because of her maturity and range of experiences so he thought she was a very young looking twenty-five. Tries kissing her at the door, not that she wouldn't like to but someone might come out of the elevator or party, leads her around to where he thinks the service entrance is where they kiss, sit on the service steps and hold hands, stare into each other's eyes dreamily, hug, help each other off with their coats, stare, kiss, hug, kisses her hands, starts crying, says he loves her, isn't that crazy-stupid? and something never to be said so soon, she touches his tears, guesses she feels the same about him too, bizarre the way it started out or right after that went down and then so quickly changed. When? and she says when he told her to wait for she didn't know what and brought back aspirins and water. Wants to go home with her, she says someone brought her, anyway it wouldn't be a good idea, just a good friend who knows the host and lives a block from her and who'll be disappointed if he has to subway home alone. She giving him a line? Not something to ask. Could say it's because he loves her he's asking if she sleeps with this guy, she still might get offended and give up on him as fast as she got close. Here, take my sweater, when she's going, but she says she'll survive. Then his scarf, it's warmer than hers and that way he'll know she'll have to see him again to give it back, says she can always mail it but of course she'll see him, not tomorrow because she has scene run-throughs for class all day and things like that but the next night. Dinner at her apartment. Opens the door wearing an apron and lobster oven mitt she pretends to bite his nose with, framed impish photo of Churchill on her kitchen wall, Picasso boy with horse repro he doesn't tell her he dislikes above the couch, lots of poetry books, cookbooks, Nancy Drews and how to raise dogs, carnation soap smell from the bathroom though has to ask what it is, family photos all around, parents and siblings very handsome and animated then and now, louvered doors to the kitchen—louver, new word he learns—brought wine and napoleans—napoleans, she's always heard but never saw or had them—slips her hands into his back pockets when they kiss, holds his palm up when they're standing and rests her thigh on it, his look what're you doing? and says that's what Harpo always does, hasn't he seen their films? lets him sleep with her if he promises not to try to have sex, sleeps in what were then called baby dolls, he in pajamas too large her brother left when he slept over, later finds the same line in a recent play he reads from her bookshelf where the pajamas were the character's ex-lover's, sees her breasts through the baby dolls, says if he continues to peek she'll sleep with a bra underneath, her behind and a little trickle of pubic hair when she turns her back to him next day to dress, lets him hold but not rub her breasts in bed the third night, week to the day they first went to bed she says she's putting in her diaphragm, is it OK? he says he knows what that means, she doesn't want to have his baby, she says what in the world does he mean? holds her through the night, she says almost every man she's known has turned his back on her right after and slept by himself on his side of the bed and usually even after the first time they made love, remembers to fall asleep holding her every night even when he wants to curl up alone, she says they've had sex at least once a day for two weeks so tonight could he give her poor poopie a rest? After they say goodbye outside they keep looking back to wave and blow kisses, sometimes from more than a block apart, two abortions with a young playwright she wanted to marry or not marry but have kids with but he dropped her, that's why she left the play and was taken aback by his remark that first time, came pretty close to killing herself with poison over a much older actor two years ago, which was when she first thought of giving up the stage for something less frenetic and more cerebral, slit her wrists very slightly over a play director three years back, such a dumb profession where they're all only amateur therapists for the characters they play, wants to sculpt, pot, perhaps write poetry, learn Russian, German and French so she can read all their nineteenth-century literature, holds her tight when she spills all this, says he'll never drop or hurt her for what could ever stop him from wanting to be with her and making her happy forever, says same with her but they're probably a couple of naifs and they cry, kiss, hug and make so much love that night that next day they both ache. Two months after they meet he can't reach her. Said good-bye to her at her door, tried calling her that night, phone doesn't answer for days. Calls her folks and they haven't heard from her in a week but say don't worry as they're sure she's OK. Her friends have no idea. Tries letting himself into her place with the key she gave him but the cylinder's been changed. Something's up but doesn't know what. A guy probably but who could it be and when that she could have hidden it from him, so it's not possible. Waits in front of her acting class day she has it and she doesn't show. Calls the school next week saying he's from a flower store with a delivery for her and what day will she be in since she wasn't there last week to receive it and the receptionist says last week she was away but she notified them she'll be there today. Sees her leaving the building laughing and then putting her arm around the waist of the actor she said
she used to date between the two men she nearly killed herself over but found him too rigid and Christian-religious so it could never have gotten serious and broke it off. Everything in him goes cold and drops. Wants to run away without them seeing him, get drunk in a bar and write her the bitterest letter he can and send it care of the acting school's address. But talk to her. Maybe it's just friendship with this guy, like actors are always behaving, so affectionate and full of bullshit, and the lock and not being in touch with him and all that is something she can completely explain. Lincoln sees him crossing Broadway to them and pushes her behind him and grabs her hand. “So I was right,” Howard says. “To myself I mean. I mean between you two, I can't believe it. I hate saying the obvious, Janine, but I should have known—at least that you were screwing me good by keeping me on the hook and making me miserable while fucking some other guy.” “Listen, Howard,” Lincoln says, “you want to get it out, you probably have every right to, but it's not what you think at all. I don't know if she told you, but Janine and I used to see one another—” “You saying you now don't?” “No, we're together again, that's obvious as you said, but much closer than before, I'm afraid, and we wanted to tell you—” “What about her telling me?—How come you didn't? Come on, get out from behind him and speak to me, don't I deserve it?” “Of course you do,” coming out from behind Lincoln and letting go of his hand. He tries grabbing it back but she cups her hands. “I'm sorry, very sorry, there's no excuse for the way I handled it with you.” “She was wrong, Lincoln says. “She knows it, she admits it, I asked her to talk to you and she didn't know quite how to and I didn't want to do it for her, but I swear she was getting around to it and has felt rotten over it from the start.” “Who cares what you have to say? I want her to speak—Tell me, was the whole fucking thing with me an act? Were you acting for two months or only the last month or two weeks or what?” “That's not really a question, and I wasn't,” she says. “Acting at the party I met you at with your stupid headache or whatever it was? Acting when you told me what a madwoman you once were but how with me everything changed?” “No, really no. I was serious. You were wonderful. But something just happened.” “With what? Him you mean? When? How could it have? I was seeing you almost every day, fucking you just about every night.” She shuts her eyes, seems to grit her teeth. “Don't get coarse,” Lincoln says. “We understand how you feel, and your anger, but if you want to talk reasonably we can all go to a coffee shop and do it there.” “I don't want to go to one,” she says. “OK, we won't, but I don't know how good an idea it is to have it out here. It isn't a good idea, Howard.” “So it wasn't an act with me, you're saying?” “No, never, but let's stop this on the street as Lincoln said. Now that we started talking, I'll phone you and we'll meet for a chat or talk on the phone about it some other time.” “But it's all over, right?” “You're saying—wait, us two?” “Us, yes, That that's it, we're finished, done, ‘Good-bye, Howard, you big fool, you stupid chump, you haven't a chance now and I won't say it but I don't give a shit what happens to you after this'?” “That's not it, and I'm sorry, deeply, but I don't know what else I can say.” “Honestly, Howard, we should stop this,” Lincoln says. “You want me to start putting on the act like you, Janine? To say it's all OK, easy come, go, good luck and all that crap and just walk away whistling so you'll feel better?” “No. And I truly do wish there was something I could do about it but I can't.” “You can marry me. I want you to marry me and for you to have my babies. I always did. Do that, please.” “I can't. I'm in fact actually marrying Lincoln, if you have to know.” “What are you, kidding? You know him two weeks and a short while before a few years ago or whenever and you're getting married? Or maybe I did get it all wrong. That you were banging him for the two months I knew you. Saying ‘I love you deeply, Howard,' and then turning around and saying ‘But I love you even more' to him.” “No. No—Lincoln, really,” as if they have to go and he should lead the way, she can't, she's about to get sick or faint or start screaming at Howard or just start screaming and he takes her hand, puts his arm around her shoulder and they head downtown. “Where you going? You running away? Can't take the fucking thing? It'll last a week with him, a day. A year, let's say. One great year, you rotten slut. Then who you going to act that you love next? What new putz?” Lincoln stops—that's what he wanted, them to stop—and starts back. “Lincoln, no,” she says. “Now take it easy, Howard. I'm telling you, you're going too far and you're also being ridiculously unfair.” “You're a witch,” he says over Lincoln's shoulder. “I hate your guts, his guts, the fucking sidewalk you're on and phony fake school you go to—I hate you all.” She's crying. “Go on, cry,” moving around Lincoln to talk, who moves with him so he doesn't get right up to her probably. “Cry your baloney-living life out. And forget chatting. Oh chats, oh chats! No chats, calls, nothing. I never want to hear your ugly voice again.” “You really don't have to act like this,” Lincoln says. “Believe me, you're going to regret it later, but seriously.” “You didn't have to see her. You knew she was seeing me and how I felt about her. Don't talk about natural forces either. You could have stayed away or waited till she dropped me if she did and then moved your big prick in.” “That's not how it happened. Anyway, I'm sorry too as to the affect on you and I've said so and you simply have to believe me,” and puts his hand on Howard's shoulders and for a few seconds rubs it. The director leaves the building with the famous actress and a few students, says “That the guy you told me to watch out for, Lincoln? What's he, drunk? coked up? Emily said she saw it from the window and is up there looking at us now, so if you want me I'll signal her to call the cops.” “No, he'll be OK. He's just a nice guy in a tough spot.” “Oh Jesus,” Howard shouts. “Everybody,” looking at Janine, “isn't Lincoln beautiful? Isn't he just wunderbar great? What a heart he's got, what a soul. I think we should all applaud him—come on, everybody, applaud,” and claps. “I'd step away, Lincoln,” the director says, with a hand wave getting one of the students to put the actress in a cab. “One swing from him and hell spoil your gorgeous nose.” “No, I'm fine,” and puts his hands back on Howard's shoulders and digs his fingers in and starts massaging them and Janine comes up and holds Howard's hand and looks at him and smiles. “Fuck it, I give up on you,” and pulls away and runs downtown, could make a right at the side street and disappear but runs across Broadway so they'll see him and down into a subway station. Gets drunk at a bar soon after and calls Lincoln's apartment from it. She answers and he says “It's me, don't hang up, I can't live without you, piesie, I can't,” and starts crying. “I'm sorry, Howard, I'm really very sorry. I told you why. So please don't call again. Then, if you still want, we can meet in about two weeks. Send a letter to my old address. I'm still collecting mail there or I have someone pick it up almost every day and I'll phone you and we'll meet and talk some more. Now I'm putting the receiver down, sweetie, and please, for both of us, do what I say,” and he slams the receiver down before she hangs up. Tells himself not to but calls several times later and line's always busy. Gives up his modeling job at the League because he can't pose for twenty-minute stretches without going crazy thinking of her. Can't read or write or paint or draw or do any of the things he once liked to. Goes to movies, leaves after about fifteen minutes; museums, hoping he'll bump into her and she'll see how sad he is and one thing will lead to another and they'll start up again. Every time the phone rings at home he thinks it might be her saying she wants to see him, at least speak to him to see how he's doing, even that she loves him and didn't know how much till now, or just that she wants to explain some things she didn't so they can part as good friends. Calls in a week, Lincoln answers and says he doesn't think it's the right time just yet for him to speak to Janine and to understand he's upsetting her every time he calls and try not to again for a while. “But she told me to call her,” and Lincoln says “If she said that then she's changed her mind.” “Let her tell me that,” and Lincoln says “She asked me to speak for her,” and he says “How do I know you're not talking for her without her permission and that she might want to speak to me but doesn't have the chance to decide yes or no on it because you're not telling her I'm here?” and Lincoln says “You'll have to take my word, there's no other way.” “Well, let's say it's so, how long's a while when you said not to call again before that?” and Lincoln says “Few months, possibly more. I won't spin out the reasons why it should be that long. And I also hate doing what I'm about to, Howard, since I actually like you and can appreciate your passion and I know this hostility is only anomalous behavior on your part, but I've got to go so I'll have to cut off,” and hangs up. Anomalous. Would look it up but can't even stand these days opening a dictionary. Calls a few hours later hoping she'll answer. Lincoln does and Howard says “Listen, I'm sure she'll speak to me if you tell her I'm here and absolutely calm and peaceful and it'll only be for a few seconds and nothing nasty,” and Lincoln says “Believe what you want on that, Howard—believe anything, if it makes you feel better, because all that can be helpful in a way—but I swear to you, it's not true,” and he says “What isn't?” and Lincoln says “What you said, what you asked,” and he says “I forget what that was,” and thinks He's probably right, it's probably so, I can understand why she wouldn't, and says “you still there?” and Lincoln says “Still here,” and says “Anything more you have to say?” and Lincoln says “Nope, you?” and he wants to curse him out and say the whole situation stinks and he still feels Lincoln's a pig but thinks maybe the moderate approach will help, for once he won't act on his first impulse, and Lincoln will go back to her and say “He seemed so polite, reasonable, pleasant, well adjusted the last time we spoke,” and she might then think she can talk to him again and might even think better than that in his favor, that he was distraught before but for good reason, and also passionate, as Lincoln said, which she might like if Lincoln isn't, but now he's mature and congenial, gracious and calm, and says “So, nice talking to you, Lincoln, and thanks so much for your attitude through all this, and I mean it,” and Lincoln says “Good,” as if he doesn't believe it, and he says “You know that I'm being serious now. I don't know anyone who would have had the character, if you don't object to my saying this, to handle the whole thing the way you did. And best to Janine and much happiness to you both,” and Lincoln says “I'll convey it,” and hangs up. Few days later he waits across Broadway, sees them leaving the school, they don't see him and don't seem to be looking around for him, nobody at the second-floor window, ducks behind a parked car, looks through its windows at them, both with serious faces on, angry or peeved at something, maybe at each other or how they performed in a scene today or expressions that might seem like anger but are apprehension or alarm he might be around—he is seeing them from a distance and through two windows—holding hands, cross the avenue at the corner, he moves around the car as they get nearer the sidewalk till he's in front of the hood looking around it, follows them though he thinks he knows where they're going, they go where he thought, down the uptown IRT station, no doubt for Lincoln's place. Drinks a lot in a bar for a couple of hours, same subway station uptown, pictures where they stood, sat, stands in front of Lincoln's building, six stories, rundown, mangled garbage cans in front with no lids, first-floor apartment windows with gates across and towels on top of the lower windows' upper sashes to keep out the cold, vestibule has that dead roach or insecticide smell, never been able to identify it but most of the old tenements have it, maybe just mildew or wall rot, one of the mailbox doors ripped off and another almost twisted in half, first-floor hallway, through the frontdoor window, dirty, needing painting bad. So cheap rent probably, romantic little rooms he bets and which she'll give her special touch, roaches around and maybe mice but so what? Just bang them with paper or your hands or feet and the mice with a broom and make love under lots of covers, because probably insufficient heat. Get a cheap heater, sit by it while you work and stick it by the bed on her side or in the bathroom when you go to sleep. Lincoln's name on the bell roster and in the mailbox, 4C. Doesn't know if it's the front or rear. Her name taped above the regular name space in the mailbox but not on the roster. Goes outside and looks up at the fourth-floor windows.