Loonglow (15 page)

A feline woman sang on monitors up near the ceiling in the inner room, and Louey watched her, mesmerized. The bar was just as she remembered, light wood with tall stools, although the video jukebox was new. “What do you need, sugar?” asked a Nordic woman sitting at the bar. Louey told her, putting down a minor fortune for her drink.

“Amazing,” she said, half to herself. The seated woman, who was angular but pretty, glanced at her questioningly. “I remember when it used to take about a month to get a drink.”

“Depends on who you know.” The woman lightly stroked her arm. My,
that
was fast, thought Louey, moving to the inner room.

“Any chance that I can steal this stool?” she asked a pretty blond girl, who turned out to be a boy. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen a male in a women's bar; what, she thought, was the world coming to?

“You can borrow it until my boyfriend tears himself out of the bathroom.” She must have looked uncertain, because the boy added, “Co ahead, it usually takes hours.”

Louey sat and glanced around the noisy room. There seemed to be a wealth of boys, she noticed, absorbed in animated conversation with women who were far prettier than she remembered women in bars being. Designer lesbians: for once she was in the minority not wearing makeup. The blond man smiled at her. “Are they nice to boys here?” she said.

He shrugged. “Depends.” One of the people in his group, a black woman with a lilting accent, glanced at Louey.

“I've brought male friends here,” she said, “and they've been asked to leave as soon as they don't have a drink in their hands.” She shrugged; the woman to her left, a sweet-faced girl with shoulder-length fine hair, leaned to her, whispering something in her ear. The first girl nodded, patting her friend on the back, then turned to Louey. “Need another drink?”

“I'm fine, thanks.” Louey toasted with her half-full glass. The black woman left for the bar.

“I'm Belle,” the second girl said. “That was Leo.”

“As in—?”

“Leonie.” Even the names had taken on character since she'd last been here.

Leonie came back a moment later, muttering. “This town's filled with heartless women, break you into pieces much as look at you.”

“Leo likes to talk like dime-store novels when she's had too much to drink,” her friend explained.

“Since when is nine drinks too many?”

“Nine?” Louey stared.

“Lying through her teeth,” Belle mentioned.

When Louey had partaken of as much alcohol, smoke and conversation as she could manage, she rose, staggering.

“Need a ride?” Belle asked. “Wait till you see my car—it's gorgeous.”

“You have a car?”

Belle laughed at Louey's tone and put an arm around her. “I'll drive you home,” she said.

They walked out into the night air, Louey incredulous that she was in this sudden fix. At her building, an open parking space brazenly awaited them, gleaming malevolently. “Shame to let this go to waste,” Belle murmured.

“Come on up.” Louey's blood was pounding in her ears; how could she have said that? Her hands shook slightly as she fit the key into the lock; she laughed, embarrassed. “Have a seat”—she let them in and motioned to the couch. “Do you want a drink? Coffee?”

“Whatever.” Belle looked around the apartment, turned as Louey crossed the room to get their drinks and kissed her easily, as if she'd done it countless times before. Smiling, she let Louey go and sat down on the couch.

Louey's head was whirling. The kiss had been unhurried, skilled. (“Baby,” she heard Mia's voice asking, “was that something you made up yourself?”) She sat back on the couch, setting their drinks beside them. Belle ran a hand through Louey's hair, then bent to kiss her; Louey lay flat against the couch, swallowing. (“Run that by me one more time?” said Mia.)

Why was she even thinking about Mia? She closed her eyes, fighting back tears. (“Keep them open,” Mia whispered.) Louey's heart battered her chest. The walls of her apartment seemed to close in on her; she felt as if her mind were somewhere far above her, looking down. Who was this lying numbly on the couch, her body smarting?

Some hours later, the phrase “I have no job” came wafting through her head. She pictured Kevin standing in her office, looking as if he were about to cry. “But what about Clay, Louey?” she could hear his plaintive voice as they went over what to do with all her authors. What
about
Clay, she thought. (Mia didn't answer.)

She doesn't love you anymore, Louey thought why can't you face it? Soft, unfamiliar breathing filled the room, and tears stung Louey's eyes. What am I going to do? she wondered. A strange hand lay across her stomach: carefully she lifted it off and placed it on the mattress. She lay looking out the window until the sun crept over the horizon, greeting a new day.

The only reason Clay agreed over the telephone to meet Charlene was the distress he heard in her voice. Yet when he arrived at the appointed meeting place, there was no sign of her. Charlene
would
pick an overpriced pretentious joint like this, he thought, glancing around the restaurant. White plastic gleamed as far as he could see; electric-colored toys and bright-eyed waiters cluttered the horizon. His drink, when it arrived at last, was ninety percent water. Next time, he'd force her to a dive he favored, just to see the look on her face. If there ever was a next time.

After thirty minutes, he called for the waiter, thinking he would get himself another drink. Then he changed his mind—he could do better than these feeble cocktails—and asked the future Oscar-winning actor for his check. His pseudo-drink came to $5.70 plus tax; he left the money on the table, rising in disgust.

Just as he reached the door, Charlene breezed in. “Where are you going?” she demanded. He could barely bring himself to answer, waving her outside. She trailed behind him, exasperated. “Clayton Lee. If you don't stop this instant, I won't take another step.”

He paused, turning to her. “I can't stay here, Charlene. You should know too much good breeding makes me dizzy.”

“Where do you suggest we go?”

“I don't care.” He started walking; then a cool hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Must we walk for miles?” she asked.

He hailed a cab and gave it his address, to which Charlene responded with a satisfied, thin smile. Clay stared out the window as they neared his place, then paid the driver. Charlene waited for him to extend a hand, then climbed out of the cab herself, sorely put-upon.

“So what's this grave catastrophe of yours?” he said once they were inside and he'd shed his tie.

“May I have a drink, please?” He despised that pout; no doubt in thirty years he'd still be able to describe it perfectly. Surely the world was filled with people more like Louey than like Charlene; he'd just had bad luck finding them. Fixing Charlene a Scotch, he handed her the glass and lit her outstretched cigarette obligingly. She inhaled, shaking smooth hair off her neck, and settled back as if recovering from a journey. “Well, I've just been treated wretchedly, that's all. I've been—disposed of.” She eyed him as if daring him to come to her defense.

“You mean dumped?”

“Please.” She took a long drink and several melodramatic puffs on her cigarette.

“Well, everyone gets dumped, Charlene. You even dumped me, remember?”

“Clayton.” She shook her head. “I thought we'd put all that behind us. You should be over me by now.”

He laughed. “You're right, Charlene, I should be—and guess what? I am. Now what has this got to do with your big problem? You were nearly hysterical on the phone.”

“You don't think it means anything that someone I've been dating for two years should up and discard me like an old mink coat?”

Heightened emotion made her face quite vivid, prettier than usual. How could someone so lovely be so dull? “Well, it's a jungle out there, Char.” He downed his drink and made himself another. “So that's the reason for the call, to tell me this?”

“As if it weren't enough,” she sniffed. “You'd obviously prefer even worse things happen to me.”

“But what's it got to do with me, Charlene? What is it you want me to do about it?” He didn't know why he'd been so stupid as to bring her here; now he would have to come up with some excuse to make her leave.

“I just don't want to be alone tonight,” she said.

He stared at her. She looked at him in earnest; she couldn't see a thing wrong with what she was asking. “Charlene—”

“Now don't get all mean, not to me, tonight. I've had an awful day.”

“Charlene, you can't seriously expect that after you and I have hardly spoken three words to each other over the last five years, you should snap your fingers and expect me to—”

“Clay, I'm very unhappy.” A tear coursed down her cheek; she had no shame. This was too much. “Please, Clay, just let me stay with you tonight.”

“No.” He turned to make another drink, and she rose off the couch, draping herself around him from behind and licking his ear. “Jesus!” He moved away, angry to find himself responding even slightly. “Cut it out!”

“You're lonely, too,” she said. “I can tell. And you know we were always good together.” She swept her hand across the front of him, brushing his crotch; he flung himself across the room, eyes blazing.

“Cut it out
now
, Charlene.” He knew he looked insane; this was ridiculous. He didn't want her shallow, mindless self. “Co home and find yourself another nursemaid.”

“I know you want to.” She smiled, brushing a fine strand off her forehead. He tried to look menacing but couldn't hide or will away his arousal, looming like part of some completely unrelated body. He felt only contempt for her, but her caresses had been sure; she knew his body better than her own, and it had been too long since anyone had touched him.

“Give me a break, Charlene,” he said. “I'm not a robot, but I'm not about to sleep with you. It's very sad your boyfriend dumped you, but you can't stay here. I don't have a thing to offer you.” At the sight of her smirk, his desire subsided, happily, and he regained a grip on his emotions. “Be reasonable, honey, you'll find someone else,” he added more gently. He turned to put her glass in the sink. Before he knew it, she was kneeling at his feet, her arms around his legs. He was mortified. “Jesus, Charlene, pull yourself together.” He tried to raise her to her feet, but she went slack. Then, when he bent to help her, she unzipped his pants and reached inside. Before it had dawned on him what she was doing, she had taken him into her mouth. “Christ—!” he swore, and tried to extricate himself, but she soon followed, expert as she'd always been. To catch his breath, he leaned against the sink; then, looking at her, he felt his will evaporate. It was hopeless. He would pay for this, he knew. Louey's face came floating before his eyes and he knocked Charlene's head against him in self-loathing and excitement. Then he came, despairing, and covered his face. The last thing he wanted was to spend another minute with this woman. But as she rose, brushing her breasts against the front of him, he knew he would do everything she asked.

After not quite a month of Charlene, vermouth, and a hint of lime, Clay decided it was time to start looking for a woman he could enjoy while sober. The perfection of Charlene's body only emphasized the emptiness it encased; she'd been a fitting complement to his post-Louey phase, but once he snapped out of his minor coma, he had no excuse to keep seeing her.

To his surprise, meeting new people turned out to be far easier than he'd expected. Soon he was socializing with a vengeance. One immediate result of this was pure poetic justice: Charlene met somebody at a party they attended and left Clay for him. Now all he had to do was find someone to take his mind off Louey.

He often thought of calling her, but never got past picking up the phone. What would be the point? Even if she conceded that the situation had been stupid all around, she'd never care for or desire him. What had prompted him to choose such an unlikely object for his affection? He must be insane.

One day he got a letter from her office, followed by a pile of revised pages from his manuscript, which Kevin had discovered cleaning out her desk. He couldn't believe she'd left her job! Well, that took care of that, he thought; she'd quit and hadn't even tried to call him. There went the lingering possibility of getting his book finished, much less published:
Bright Lights, Dead Pussy
, he thought grimly. What if they'd had a formal contract, he wondered, instead of just the hope of one? He flipped through several sections, catching glimpses of her scrawl, and had to put the pages back inside the box, the force of his reaction startling him. He poured himself a Scotch, toasting the now-defunct manuscript, but put the glass down without touching it, his hands shaking slightly. In a sudden burst of inspiration, he emptied the trash can next to his typewriter and lit a sheet, igniting the pile of manuscript pages with a feeling of perverse satisfaction at the theatricality of his gesture.

The next week he went out and got himself a job playing piano at a quirky late-night restaurant. This was easy: he could be like every other trendy pseudo-artist in Manhattan, he thought. Playing gave him pleasure, but though strangers spoke to him easily and often, he could hardly bring himself to see them as potential lovers, friends, companions. Night after night he let music enfold him. It was a strange relief to feel so empty, unattached.

The depths to which he'd sunk became apparent when Clay found himself accepting dinner at his father's house. Although he sensed a setup in the making, he could hardly bring himself to care. Sure enough, his stepmother opened the door (his father had never seemed to feel the need to open a door in his life) and steered him toward a tall, dark, handsome woman, who took his hand in greeting. Her name was Brooke, it turned out, and she was an associate at his father's firm. She was intelligent, he had to give his father credit—as substantial as Charlene was frivolous. He almost enjoyed talking with her (despite the gleam in his father's eye), but though he felt himself responding to her charm, he couldn't imagine spending time alone with her. So many men and women his own age seemed wholly without whimsy, he'd discovered, so unswerving in the pursuit of goals that it was hard to picture their ever having been children. His father alluded to his future—giving up the vagabond's life, a brief foray at law school, and then instant partnership—but for once he didn't press, no doubt owing to the presence of his lovely guest.