Whenever You Call (16 page)

“Not yet. Hang in.”

A long shuddering sigh exploded over the phone. I tipped the earpiece away for a moment. “Was that a relief sigh or a tortured sigh?”

“Relief.”

After we hung up, I rolled myself into a ball, with the blanket tucked around me like skin. I still felt sleepy, despite the deep nap, and I had a long moment of regret that I had to get up soon for my job. When you’re a novelist, you can indulge in pure laziness anytime you want, though, paradoxically, you also have to develop complete self-discipline. I had to admit, though, that during the last two months, it had been a relief
not
to experience the stress of crafting a story. No matter how many times I’d been successfully published, I was always nervous. That was part of the bargain. Fear.

Two hours later, I click-clacked into The Harvest on my high heels. My feet had gone through a successful period of breaking in, during which they’d literally
been
broken. They would still ache at the end of the evening, but nothing like they used to. I set about tidying the bar and rearranging some of the setup favored by the afternoon bartender. Twenty minutes later, when I went for a quick whiz before business started to pick up, I checked my cell phone and saw that Al had called and left a message.

Hi, Marley, you’re probably busy behind the bar. Just calling to confirm our date tonight. I’ll come pick you up. Leave me a message, if you get a chance.

Love ya.

I had the few minutes available to call him back, but I didn’t. This wasn’t out of some artificial attempt to play hard to get. No, sir. I was genuinely hard to get. Al was too willing and able to please me, and, thus far, I’d been unable to figure out
why.
The guy could have almost any woman he wanted, so why did he want me? He appeared to like me and enjoy going to bed with me, but I couldn’t shake the sense that he had an ulterior motive.

Back behind the bar, I appreciated the respite before the restaurant got revved with action. Lights were dimmed and the atmosphere reminded me of my own imagination. All mystery and promise. In fact, I sometimes thought that my entire mind, not just the creative part of it, was some kind of symbolic reflection of a bar, and that was why I’d been called to become a bartender. Indirect light glinting off the bottles, the careful organization of bar tending utensils and measuring devices, the upside down hanging glassware, the small deep sinks and high arching faucets, the hoses curled and uncurled, the long smooth expanse of mottled green marble. It reminded me of myself.

I looked up from my reverie and saw a man and woman seated at the bar, staring at me. With a start of guilt, I rushed toward them and asked for their order. In the few seconds during which the man said, “two Old-Fashioned’s,” I thought how old-fashioned it had become to ask for an Old-Fashioned and I noticed, simultaneously, that they were a stunningly beautiful couple. She had long blond hair swinging on either side of a thin face and extraordinary blue eyes, while he was completely bald, which only served to heighten his carved walnut-colored face. I turned away with a smile, and then glanced back as a kind of reflex, checking. The man’s eyes were on me, and he had a strange expression. Not as if he was interested in me. More as if we’d been talking and been left with the discussion hanging.

I couldn’t help stealing glances at them as I mixed the old-fashioned’s. Their heads tilted toward each other, but didn’t quite touch. Were they lovers, married, friends? When I delivered their drinks, the man again shot me a look, which I barely registered before it disappeared.

The dining room started to fill up quickly, although the bar remained empty except for the gorgeous couple. I got into my usual groove by pouring six glasses of wine, and mixing four gin & tonics—probably to celebrate the start of summer—when the dreaded Poet arrived. He grinned mischievously, under the deluded impression that he was cute.

He took a seat near to the couple, giving them a sideways appraisal. Loudly, he spoke to me, “You’re looking foxy tonight.”

Without thinking, out of embarrassment, I watched the blonde woman. Her lips turned down briefly and her eyes showed sympathy.

I smiled at Mr. Poet, but the smile only involved my lips, which didn’t really count as a smile at all. “What can I get you?”

“Something different,” he said gaily, twinkling his skinny eyes at me.

“That certainly allows for a lot of possibilities.”

The couple had fallen silent, and the bald man’s shoulders had shifted toward Mr. Poet. “Would you allow me to make a suggestion?” he said.

Mr. Poet turned with excessive delight. I had the feeling he was lonely and, basically, hated by the entire world. He reminded me of my mother, for some reason.

“Please!” Mr. Poet said.

The bald man’s eyes did their own twinkle, but his was a real twinkle, not fake. “Can it be a secret?”

Now Mr. Poet got a little nervous, clearly wondering if he was going to be the recipient of a practical joke.

I stared at the bald man, intrigued. I’d already figured out, in a flash, that if the drink order was secret, he’d have to whisper it to me. And, to whisper, his mouth would have to be close to my ear. Exactly where I wanted it.

So I did my own, semi-real, twinkle at Mr. Poet, to encourage him.

It worked.

“Perhaps we could make a wager?” Mr. Poet said.

The bald man’s bushy brown eyebrows shot up into his forehead. “By all means.”

Mr. Poet held out his hand. “If I guess the drink’s name correctly, it’s on your tab.”

This reminded me of something, somewhere, somehow. I watched them shake hands, but I drifted, my mind going through that dance of connections, the one without any choreography, much less music. Unconscious and, apparently, all the more effective for its unconsciousness.

The memory I dredged up wasn’t a memory at all. Or, not one that I remembered. And it had no obvious relationship to this moment at The Harvest Restaurant. Yet a full scene unfolded, so real that I could smell the salt in the air. My bare feet sank into cold, clammy sand, and my dress whipped around my legs from the chilly sea wind. Dark clouds rushed across the sky. Danger smelled like salt here, and I was afraid. I turned away from the bar, willing myself to leave the scene. I heard the last word of the bald man’s sentence.

“—whisper,” he said.

I turned back and looked at him.

His eyes were warm and amused. He didn’t seem to understand how scared I was. He crooked an index finger and beckoned me to him. I glanced at the woman, instinctively checking whether my feelings of attraction and flirtation for her date bothered her, but her expression was bland, indifferent, even disengaged. I thought I saw a resemblance between them. Perhaps brother and sister?

I leaned across the bar’s expanse, aware of how my blouse fell forward and probably showed more cleavage. As I got closer and closer to him, my fear dissolved, though I still had a faint sense of salt and tang in the air. He shifted towards me, but not as far as he could, forcing me to go more than halfway.

I twisted my head and offered him my left ear, so that my face turned away from Mr. Poet.

“Give the jerk a Tie Me to the Bedpost.” His voice, rough and sandy, just like where my bare feet had been planted.

This time I didn’t fall down, but only because my hands clenched around the lip of the bar and held me up.

W
AS IT MR. RABBITFISH, but with no hair? I hadn’t a clue. I’d barely seen the man, ever, and even then it had mostly been his hair that stood out for me. As I glanced into his eyes, before turning to make the drink, I experienced a rush of fury for the unknown Mr. Rabbitfish, whether it was this guy or not. My hands shook as I reached for the coconut rum, lemon vodka, and melon liquor.

Mr. Poet said, “Strange bunch of ingredients. Not auspicious.”

I was in no mood to defend the drink, but I also got really annoyed with the word
auspicious
. How like a fancy pants Poet.

So I shrugged and said, “Whatever.” I probably sounded like a sullen teenager, and my tips would reflect as much, but I didn’t care.

The man without any hair said, “How come you’re pissed?”

I couldn’t believe it. I mean, give me a break. I grabbed a glass and looked at the blond woman. She smiled at me. What did
that
mean? I was getting more and more confused, but oddly, the confusion basically made me throw up my hands in a figurative
I give up.

Very slowly and deliberately, an enormous grin exploded across my face. True, I forced the damn thing to appear, but once it started to blossom, I got swept up into the feeling. I gave the Poet his drink and stood there, staring at him, still wearing that shit-eating grin. If he hadn’t been a Poet, I might have been a little sorry for him. He looked out of his element, completely at a loss to understand the vibes swirling around all of us.

I ignored the bald guy.

The Poet took a small sip and pursed his lips. Swallowed ostentatiously.

“I like it,” he said finally.

“But do you know what it is?” asked Mr. Baldy.

“Nope, I don’t.”

I said, “It’s a
Tie Me to the Bedpost.
”

“Never heard of it,” the Poet said. “Good concept, though.”

“It’s an obscure drink.” Still ignoring the beautiful couple, I moved to the end of the bar and began filling orders for the waitresses in the dining room. Business quickly escalated until I was flying up and down the bar. Which isn’t to say that I was unaware of both the Poet and the beautiful couple. It
is
to say that I was silently urging them to finish their drinks and leave.

Ravi made a rare appearance at the end of the bar nearest to the restaurant’s entrance. She waved her hands at me, not exactly discreet, so I trotted down to her.

“Hey,” I said.

“You had a phone call from your daughter—she said you weren’t answering your cell and you should call her right away.”

For a second, like any mother would, I imagined the worse. One of the boys had been killed in a car accident, or Alex was admitted to the hospital and calling for me to come take care of her.

My expression must have reflected those dire thoughts because Ravi said, “I’ll cover for you.” She headed down to the opposite end, where we met and collided as we ducked simultaneously under the bar. Normally, the kind of thing that would make me laugh, but I was too damn scared to find it amusing. Instead, I clawed at her and she backed her way out, letting me through first. I barely registered her apologies.

I dashed outside, already finding Alex’s telephone number in my cell, and pushing the Send button.

“Hi, Mom!” she sang into the phone.

“Is everything all right?” I tried not to yell.

“More than All Right!”

“You called me at work, so I was worried something terrible happened.”

“I wanted to let you know right away. Your daughter is getting married!”

“Oh my God—,”

“I asked Jane to marry me about twenty minutes ago, and she said yes. We’re so friggin’ excited.”

I was possibly excited, too, although I wasn’t completely sure. It had nothing to do with gay marriage, or I didn’t think it did. I was more concerned that they’d only known each other about four months, tops.

“Congratulations!” Mothers learned that honesty wasn’t always a good idea. “When is this going to happen?”

“August. We haven’t figured out where the ceremony will be.”

“I’d be happy to brainstorm with you. Have you called your Dad?”

“He’s next.” She gasped into the phone and I heard her yell at Jane,
Stop that!

“Sweetie, this is great news, but I’ve really got to get back. My boss, Ravi, covered for me so that I could call you.”

When I walked back down the length of the bar, the Poet and the beautiful couple all swiveled their heads to look at me. I had the distinct impression that they were annoyed with me for having left them in the lurch.

I bobbed under the counter and went up to Ravi. “It was actually good news—sorry to have brought personal business to work—my daughter just got engaged.”

“Do you like him?”

“Her.”

Ravi’s eyes opened slightly.

“My daughter’s gay.” I couldn’t help laughing at her. “What’s up? You think only heterosexuals get married?”

“Since I’m a lesbian, no, that’s not what I think.”

I leaned over and nudged her with my shoulder. “Catch me up with the orders here.”

I finished a few drinks, then methodically traveled the length of the bar, checking for any refills.

“Everything okay?” the Poet said.

“Sure.” I deliberately looked irritated. My personal life was none of his beeswax. “Can I get you a another?”

“Not a Bedpost-thingy,” he whined, “something else.”

My tone was sharp. “Why don’t you just tell me what you’d like and I’ll make it?”

“Yeah,” said the bald man, “can’t you see she had an emergency phone call of some kind?”

I withered him with a look, except he didn’t wither. He smiled graciously at me, and I noticed the dimples in both cheeks. He was impossibly attractive. That was when I realized that the blond woman had disappeared. I wondered whether she was in the ladies room.

“Does your friend want another drink?” I said.

“She’s my mother, not my friend, and she doesn’t need another drink because she’s gone home.”

The Poet leaned forward and glared at the space where the blond woman had been sitting. “That was
not
your mother.”

“It wasn’t?” said the bald man.

I couldn’t help smiling.

Which naturally proved to be my undoing.

I seem to undo more than I do. I knew this about myself. So, as often as I might have said “I do,” in a marriage ceremony, I have just as often ended the marriage with divorce, one of the more resounding ways to undo. I was always resolving to be tough, and then giving in, with the result that I became the classic pushover.

Like sleeping with Al that first time, and every time thereafter.

Although I was fairly certain Al and I were a classic mismatch, every time I went to bed with him, I found myself wondering. Something transpired in the act, and though I knew it couldn’t be really significant, I also knew that it
was
. But in what way?

As we’d become more used to each other sexually, his method had slowed down. He’d flip me on my stomach and enter me slowly, then move only the tip of his penis in-and-out, in-and-out. It made me imagine myself as an inkwell and his tool was the pen, dipping into me before writing on the empty page. He went on like that, rhythmically, so that it became music and writing, both. When he was about to come, he’d announce its imminent arrival, in an intense voice, as if we were about to receive the Second Coming. That makes it sound overrated, or absurd, but I don’t mean to give that impression. In fact, it was wildly exciting. After his orgasm, he’d roll off me and then watch as I came. Rolling, undulating waves of longing, yearning, journeying that whipped through my body and left me breathless. And exuberant.

We’d stare into each other’s eyes. There was nowhere else to look, nothing else to see. The spell would last for about thirty minutes. Again, I didn’t know what it meant, during those minutes when life seemed not like life at all. It wasn’t that time stopped, as some people have been known to describe it. Because, in fact, as the moments ticked along, there was this grief I experienced. I knew it would be over soon. We would wake from the spell, the trance, the dream. We would wake and everything would return to normal.

I never really
wanted
to wake up, and I didn’t think Al wanted to, either. I’m not sure about him, though. I tried to discuss it a few times. He was willing, it wasn’t that. But we got nowhere in figuring it out, or even articulating what we felt.

It became for me the utterly unutterable.

For a writer, this was a strange turn of events. Oh, but I had to remind myself, I
wasn’t
a writer anymore. Was that why I was having an experience that defied the act of writing? Perhaps, in some messy way, I was doing exactly what I’d set out to do when I quit. Living a real life. Though, paradoxically, its most intense moments didn’t feel like life at all.

I’d wondered about talking to Isaac about all this when he’d called after my nap, but I hadn’t. I thought he’d say it was
divine
, in that syrupy way, where he pronounced the word with slow care. But who was I to talk? I’d described it as the Second Coming. Anyway, given Isaac’s celibacy at a Buddhist monastery, I wasn’t sure he’d have appreciated further discussion on the subject of magnificent sex.

Still, whatever the utterly unutterable was or was not, it wasn’t love. I knew this because of the smile I gave the bald guy. I smiled because he was so good-looking, but also at his deadpan delivery and the clever gleam in his huge eyes. When I was in love, I didn’t allow another man’s charms to undo me.

I fixed him with my best evil eye. “
Not
your mother.”

“Actually, she
is
my mother.”

His expression was gentle. It truly didn’t seem as though he was teasing us.

The Poet said, “Suppose she could be your father’s trophy wife, but in that case I don’t know what she’s doing out with you at a bar on Saturday night.”

“Dad’s traveling and I promised to keep her company.”

“Trophy wives travel
with
their husbands.” I glanced at the Poet, ever mindful of my bar tending duties. “What would you like?”

He flipped his fat little hand. “Surprise me.”

I leaned forward and fixed him in my gaze. “No.”

He tried a little smile. “Please?”

“No.”

I could feel the bald guy looking at me, and I was aware that his gaze made me feel strangely interesting, and interested.

“Okay, a Dewar’s on the rocks,” said the Poet.

I glanced at the bald guy. “Anything for the prodigal son?”

He threw back his head with a silent guffaw. I watched his throat swallow air and the way his adam’s apple jumped. Suddenly I wanted to get as far away from him as I could.

I made the Poet’s drink, delivered it, and walked briskly to the far end of the bar where I deliberately chitchatted with one of the waitresses.

Somehow, it didn’t surprise me that the next time I turned to look down the bar, I saw the bald guy had left. I ambled along to his empty spot and picked up the three twenties. I grabbed his cocktail napkin, turned my back on the Poet, and examined the napkin before crumpling and tossing it in the trash can. Not a single sign that he might have been Mr. Rabbitfish.

The Poet said, “He asked me to tell you something.”

I kept my face still. “Umm?”

“It was kind of weird—I don’t know if I should pass it along.”

This was why I didn’t like poets.

“How’s that Dewar’s?” I said.

He took a sip. “Excellent.”

“Don’t you mean auspicious?”

“Yes, of course, it is an auspicious Dewar’s.”

He thought I was flirting with him, but if I was going to hear the bald guy’s message, that was the price I would have to pay.

“I see you don’t wear a wedding band,” said the Poet.

“True enough.” I nodded. “The institution doesn’t agree with me.”

“Know what you mean.” He smiled and I could see his crooked yellow teeth. “Would you like to have dinner sometime?”

“I have a boyfriend.”

“Then I guess you won’t be interested in what that guy had to say.”

“Aren’t you under some moral obligation?”

He sipped more Dewar’s and pursed his lips. I looked to my left and saw a waitress at the far end.

“Excuse me,” I said.

After I’d poured three white wines and made a vodka martini for her, I grabbed a damp dishtowel and began swiping my way nonchalantly down the long expanse of the bar. I knew it was vital that I appear disinterested in the message, even though I was far from disinterested. It was possible that the bald guy had asked me out for a date or something, though I didn’t know how I could accept or decline when I didn’t know his name.

When I got to the Poet, I tilted my head back, nose in the air, as if bored by the whole question of what the guy had said.

“It was quite an enigmatic message,” said the Poet.

“He probably knew a poet would appreciate an enigma.”

I actually felt an adrenaline rush of anticipation.

“I didn’t tell him I was a poet,” said the Poet.

“You’re pretty recognizable.”

Bingo. Success was close.

“He asked you to e-mail him if you were interested.” The Poet shrugged. “I didn’t think you knew him, to be honest, and he wasn’t exactly clear about
what
you might be interested in. The whole thing seemed flimsy to me.”

“I
don’t
know him.”

“I certainly can’t help you—I don’t know him and I don’t want to know him.”

I grinned and rubbed vigorously at a sticky spot. “That’s rather harsh.”

“As a poet, I’m naturally intuitive,” he explained in a whispery voice, as if his words were so valuable that they had to be hoarded. “There’s something wrong with that fellow—I’ve no doubt about it.”

Without answering, I bustled my way down the bar, slowly moving further away from him. I thought there was probably many things wrong with the bald guy, too, but he also excited me. Naughty of me. After all, I did have a boyfriend, who happened to be a really gorgeous man, and a topnotch lover as well. I shouldn’t be interested in any other man.

But I guess I was.