The First Warm Evening of the Year (9 page)

“Simon is the
last
thing I need right now,” Alex said.

“He might be fun. And you just might need to take your mind off your—”

“You are no judge of what I need. And certainly not of what's on my mind.” Alex stood up and grabbed his coat. “It's foolish to even consider—I don't want to talk about it.”

“Other things have been more foolish.”

Alex's lips were pressed close together, and his eyes were narrowed.

“I'm not saying you have to do anything about it,” I told him, “but isn't this what we've been talking about? Taking a chance—”

“Just mind your own damn business.”

Simon came back into living room, not quite closing the terrace door behind him.

“Did you make up your mind while I was away?” he asked.

“If you want to stay at Laura's, talk to Remsen about it.”

“You're a mean son of a bitch, Geoffrey.” Simon turned to Alex. “I'm going downtown, can I drop you somewhere?”

“Yes,” I said, “can he drop you somewhere?”

Alex said, “I have to talk to my brother.”

I said, “I doubt that Simon has the cab fare, but so what? We'll talk tomorrow.”

I started to laugh as soon as they were out the door.

I didn't hear from Alex the following day, but I did get a call late that same morning from Amy Brennan reminding me that I had a theater date with Nick and her that night. I didn't say anything about my breaking up with Rita until we'd seen the show and the three of us were having drinks at the Algonquin.

I told them, “What I find most remarkable is that it seems never to have happened.”

They thought I was talking about the breakup. I said I was talking about the entire relationship. That I'd realized just how insubstantial it was.

“Like speaking into an empty paper cup.”

They didn't understand how I could feel this way. After all, Rita and I had been such a good-looking couple. What more did I want? What more did I expect?

But wasn't that the point? That it wasn't a matter of what I expected. It was a matter of what I wanted.

I wanted to talk about Laura's love for Steve and Marian's for Buddy. And tell them about gardens and spiky flowers and tall grasses. And that I'd known Rita for three years and could walk away from her without regrets or sorrow, but I couldn't shake my heart loose from an afternoon with Marian, and I couldn't sleep nights, aching to see her again.

I wanted to talk about the willingness to be made mad with love and by the loss of love. But it wasn't about grief, it was about passion. That's what I wanted, the willingness to be made mad with love, if just for a little while.

But I didn't tell them, not when all they could think to say was that my breakup with Rita was crazy. After all, we got along, always had a good time, and looked so good together. And I was just being cuckoo.

Amy said this was all too depressing. I wasn't behaving like the Geoffrey she and Nick knew and liked so much, and could I please come to my senses, change the subject, and enjoy our evening together.

When I was alone in the taxi, riding back to my apartment, I was thinking not about this particular evening but the night at Keens when I'd just come back from my first trip to Shady Grove, and the way my friends spoke about Laura; how amusing they thought they were, how annoyed I was with them; and last week, the easy conversations with pocket-depth; and wasn't that just like the Geoffrey my friends knew and liked so well, wasn't that what they expected of me, to enjoy the nights, and the people who were part of those nights.

My friends were sure to call, and, oh yes, we really should . . . and just as soon as . . . Which made me feel as adrift as I'd felt after I'd walked away from Rita, unmoored from all the things that I'd found so comfortable and benign. And I didn't mind.

Leaning back in the cab, watching the city lights roll by on Madison Avenue, I thought about the heart's autonomy. That it didn't matter whether or not a person was willing to fall in love. Willingness had nothing to do with it. It was a matter of having no other choice.

While I was quite at ease with this insight, looking into the hearts of Laura and Marian, and into my own, I wasn't ready to share it with anyone else, just in case, as happens with most late night revelations, it would dissolve with the first rays of sunlight or the sound of a human voice. The only person I would have risked speaking to was Alex, had I been able to get him on the phone.

Alex didn't return my call that night, or the next day. I didn't hear from him the following day or the day after, either. Not that I was exactly lying fallow. There was my work to attend to, a stray ticket for a concert at Carnegie Hall, and several evenings alone, enjoying the pleasure of my own company and counsel.

I was adrift but no longer becalmed, staring at an endless horizon.

When Alex stopped by the apartment on Saturday morning, I was in my pajamas, sitting in the living room, drinking my coffee.

“You're a tough man to get ahold of these days,” I told him.

He sat down but only on the edge of the chair, and didn't bother taking off his coat. It made me think he had a cab downstairs with the meter running. Or maybe someone was waiting for him.

“As I recall, the last time I saw you, you were on your way out of here with Simon Welles.”

“I'm really sorry for running out on you like that.”

“There's nothing to be sorry about. You weren't running out on me, and you don't owe me an apology.”

“You're very kind.”

“A busy week?”

He unbuttoned his coat and leaned back in the chair.

“I want to hear all about it,” I said.

“What day is it?”

“You left here with Simon. I haven't heard from you . . .
Talk
.”

“It's not what you think.”

“Talk.”

“Aren't you getting a little personal?” he said.

“That must have been one hell of a taxi ride.”

“You've got a dirty mind.”

“You seemed amused by it the last time I saw you.”

“That was before.”

I had to laugh. “This really is great. Simon. Of all people.”

Alex was not laughing with me. “Get dressed,” he said. “I have to get back to my office.”

“All
week?” I asked.

“You can walk me there.”

“You walked all the way over here
from
your office just to ask me to walk you
back
there?”

“I have
no
idea
what
I'm doing. It's wreaking havoc with me, my schedule. My commitments . . .”

“Of course,” I said. “Your
commitments
.”

“Really.”

“I know . . . I know . . .”

“And besides—”

“You and Simon.” I clucked my tongue. “I should be surprised.”

“It's not
me
and
Si
mon.”

“Does Simon know that?”

“Stop or I'm leaving.” Alex was smiling now, and looked as though he enjoyed my teasing.

“Not without me in tow.”

“Then get dressed. Do you have any tea or ginger ale?”

Alex walked to the kitchen. I went to my bedroom and got dressed. When I came back, Alex was still in the kitchen, standing near the stove, watching the kettle boil. In the bright sunlight his face looked pink and smooth, the skin lying soft and settled on the bone, the way it does after a night's deep sleep.

I poured myself a second cup of coffee, and hoisted myself onto the countertop.

“He wanted to know about me,” Alex said. “I can't remember the last time anyone wanted to hear me talk about myself—except professionally, and you, but that's different.” He turned off the flame, opened a canister, took out a tea bag and put it into a cup. “We talked. After we left here. For hours.” Alex repeated the word
hours
.

“That's what we did after we left here,” he said. “That's what we've been doing most of the time. I'm too old to bother with other people's bullshit, which is just about all Simon's about, but not when he talked with me.” Alex took a sip of tea. “He fell asleep on my couch.” He raised the cup toward my face. “And don't say a word.”

“Have I said
any
thing?”

“I know what you're thinking.”

“Actually I'm still getting a kick out of the idea of you and Simon.”

“I came to talk seriously with you, not hear about what you do or don't get a kick out of.” He took another sip, put the cup on the counter, and said he wanted to get out and walk. “You have the wrong impression of him,” he told me.

Outside, walking up Fifth Avenue, Alex said, “I realized something, Geoffrey. It's the oddest thing. Well, not odd really. Something I've been aware of, as you know. I'm tired of being alone. I don't mean tired as in I don't like it or it's wearing me down. I mean tired as in it's become uninteresting.”

“Was it ever interesting?”

“And
time
consuming. I think I enjoy his company.”

“You
think
?”

We walked east to Madison Avenue and continued uptown. Alex stopped to look in the window of a clothing store.

“He's just so damned defended all the time. Like the portcullis comes down. Then he goes into his routine. It's so obvious what he's doing, no wonder you get impatient with him.
I
get impatient with him.” He turned away and we kept on walking.

At Seventy-second Street, we crossed the street and walked to Park Avenue.

Alex said, “He's the way he is for a reason.”

“Aren't we all.”

“Don't be such a smart-ass. I know you're thinking he's trying to con me. That's how he sounds even when he isn't trying. That's the way he's been living his whole adult life. It's the only way he knows how to get what he wants. Or what he wants at any particular moment.”

“And you think you can change him? Fix what's broken?”

“You know I have good judgment about people, and I don't just do things without giving them a lot of thought. And you have to trust that I haven't all of sudden changed in the past five days.”

“So you
do
know what day it is.”

It was another block before Alex said, “You really should help him.”

I shook my head. “I'm not getting involved in that.”

“I want you to listen to me, okay? You kept him away from Laura's wedding, you don't have to keep him away from her life. Your obligation is over.”

“Is that what this conversation's about?”

“He hasn't had time to properly mourn his sister's death. Going to Shady Grove will give him a chance to do that. Otherwise, all he's going to do is keep revisiting that experience.”

“I don't usually argue with you on your home turf, but this time I can't agree.”

“He's going to keep repeating it without ever having a real chance to get over it.”

“Are you his shrink now, too?”

“He's not bullshitting about wanting closure.” Alex pulled his head back, as though he needed to get a better look at me. He said, “Simon's right. You can be a very abrasive person.”

I told him I had no idea what he was talking about.

“You're no longer Laura's protector, only her executor, and your job does not require that you protect Marian, either.”

“You think I'm protecting Marian?”

“Your resistance is staggering.” Alex took a deep breath, and as he exhaled, said, “You treat him like he's some kid who once stole your bicycle.”

“Have you heard about the roommate he ran out on? And the vintage Mercedes he left on the street?”

“What he told us the other night about the trouble he got into—I think if that had been all there was to it, just some stupid adolescent mistake, but it was more involved than that, and more involved than what he told us. What he said, that he and Laura were like performing monkeys, wasn't completely off the mark. They were two
very
talented kids living in the shadow of every arts performance in the Berkshires.”

We were a block away from Alex's office now. He leaned his hand on my arm to slow me down.

“They were enrolled in music school and dance school when they were much too young, performed at recitals and things like that. It was a small town, so they got noticed and were considered pretty exceptional. Simon referred to Laura as a ‘virtuoso' more than a few times when he talked about her. For a time, and this was before they were even in their teens, there weren't a lot of people their age they could talk to, they really only had each other to keep them sane. It wasn't that their parents were putting undue pressure on them, or living vicariously through their children. It was in the mix, sure, but Simon doesn't think that was all there was to it.” Alex pulled me to a stop. “You weren't supposed to cheat yourself, squander your talent. That's the message they got from their parents. The theme, if you will, of their childhood.” He said, “If Simon had shown a talent for plumbing, or medicine, it would have been the same. It so happened he could dance well, and was being told how wonderful he was by his dance teachers, the other kids in his dance class, everyone, parents included.” He hadn't let go of me yet, gave my arm another squeeze, and we started walking. He didn't say anything more for another few minutes until we'd come to his building and were inside the vestibule.

The doorman handed Alex a stack of mail, and unlocked Alex's door for us. We walked through the waiting room and into the office. While Alex sat at his desk, I sat in one of the chairs on the other side of the room. Alex didn't say anything for a moment. I thought he'd lost track of what he was telling me until he said, “Simon was a thirteen-, fourteen-year-old kid living in his tight little world and feeling the drive and pressure, not to mention the competition to ‘make it.' Do you remember what it was like for you in the theater when you were that age? Well, Simon hated it. He thought that everyone was wrong about him, and he was a fraud. Laura, however, was taking everything in stride.” Alex began sorting his mail. “Laura was already breathing rarefied air before she was sixteen and liking it, and certainly not lacking for confidence in her achievement. She had her own group of admirers, teachers, other music students, a secure circle of friends.”