The First Warm Evening of the Year (3 page)

Four

I
f I kept a list of people who make me feel bad about myself, Simon Welles would be at the top.

It was the morning after I'd returned from Shady Grove. I was tired from the drive, from carting my inheritance from the parking garage, and when the doorman phoned to tell me that Simon was in the lobby I could have sent him away, but we did share some history, and he was Laura's brother, so I let him come up.

He looked about twenty-five. Of course he was much older than that. He had wild, curly blond hair, a subtle suntan, and a quick smile that was not, as I recalled, necessarily a sign of amusement or pleasure. But what was most noticeable were his clothes, his thin cotton shirt, his light khakis. The wrong clothes for the wrong climate.

I asked him what he wanted and why he came to see me.

“Why shouldn't I? Maybe I want to reminisce.”

He walked into the living room, and I followed him. He started toward one of the chairs, changed his mind, walked over to the window, and stood looking outside. I could see Central Park over his shoulder. Even with the sun shining, the trees and everything around them looked dreary and gray.

“You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette?” Simon kept his back to me.

“I don't smoke.”

“Of course you don't.” He stayed at the window. “The last time we met, you let me sleep on your couch.”

“Pass out,” I said. “As I recall.”

“Do you also
recall
the occasion?”

“It was the day your sister got married.”

“The day
after
. You were very understanding. You gave me twenty-five dollars. I was broke and you felt sorry for me, coming all the way to New York for Laura's wedding just to be a day late.”

“Not so understanding. You asked for fifty.”

He leaned his hip against the wall, hands in his pockets. I sat on the arm of the chair.

“My only sister is dead.” He kept his face turned toward the window. “She made
you
her executor. The last time I spoke with her she said if I had any questions about her will to ask you.” He turned to me now and showed that smile.

“When was that?”

“When I saw her. Last year sometime.”

“You came a long way just to ask me about your sister's will. You could have phoned.”

“What makes you think I hadn't planned on coming to New York anyway?” Then he looked himself over, shrugged, and said, “You wouldn't have any coffee around, would you?”

“Not made.”

“Never mind. By the time you made it, I wouldn't be in the mood. Has anyone called, asking for me?” His eyes never stopped moving while he spoke, looking at the wall, the floor, at his watch, at me, then out the window again.

“Why would anyone call
me
looking for
you
?”

“Oh, I gave your number to a few friends,” he said, and still looking out the window he told me, “I want to stay in my sister's house.”

“I have nothing to do with that. Talk to her lawyer.”

“I went to high school with him. He's a moron.”

He stared outside a little longer, said, “She was my
sister
,” walked past me, into the foyer. “If someone named Howie Greenberg calls, if
anyone
calls, I was never here.”

He opened the front door. “This apartment is too big for one person. You must get very lonely here,” and Simon let himself out.

For the past twenty years, I hadn't given Simon Welles any thought. I used to tell myself that all the blame was his because of what he'd done to Laura during our college days, the way he'd treated her. But I felt no more generous toward him now than I had then, which was why I tried not to give him any more thought after he left my apartment.

I did think about my girlfriend, Rita, about calling her, but I didn't want to see her just yet. Most of that day, I thought about Laura and, when I could no longer hold myself back, Marian. It occurred to me that I was having the fantasy life of a teenager.

T
hree days later, I still hadn't called Rita. She'd left me a voice mail the day after I'd come back home, but I was in no mood to see her.

I was still thinking about Marian. Sometimes, I'd imagine meeting her by chance in a restaurant here in town, she with her friends, me with mine, in one of the places I like to go for cocktails. She'd be seated at a small table. I wouldn't notice her at first, not until I heard her laugh, and when I looked over, she'd be there. Then I changed the scenario: She was meeting
me
for drinks. It was our first date. I'd be early and already seated. I'd turn toward the front of the restaurant and Marian would be walking in, and even though she'd never been there before, she looked like she'd been coming there forever, because Marian impressed me as someone who never looked awkward or out of her element; and even though I was as familiar with this place as I was with my own apartment, being with Marian changed all that. It was like I'd never been there before. Not until Marian walked in.

This was a hell of a thing to imagine, romantic fantasies about a woman whom I hardly knew, who was another man's girlfriend.

Not that all I did was moon about Marian. I had a lot to keep me busy those three days: Twelve hours at the recording studio. An evening at the theater with friends. Lunch with a new account. Drinks with some Hollywood people, who were considering me for the voice of a cat. Drinks, this time with friends, and dinner. And an evening with my brother, Alex, who had returned from a spa looking uncharacteristically relaxed, and in formidable good humor.

I would not say that my brother had an inordinate amount of secrets, and while I was never loath to speak my mind with him, I was also aware that there were limits to just how much he was willing to tell me of his personal life and his relationships. Even a vacation at a desert spa was off-limits, but this night Alex appeared ready to step up to the microphone and take questions. To ask him to cede center stage just to hear about my
affaires de coeur
would have been not only inconsiderate and insulting, but annihilating in a way that my brother, a psychiatrist, would have understood and resented. Plus, there were few things more enjoyable than listening to Alex when he was in the mood to puncture inflated egos.

He gave a thorough and piquant rundown of “the small coven of middlebrow narcissists and their idyll among the cacti. Self-absorbed, self-entitled . . . Fortunately, they preferred their own company. Sort of like volunteers for a chain gang.” He put his hand on my shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. “But really, it was
very
pleasant, even if I did feel that any minute Virgil was about to appear and point out the more
attractive
accommodations of this southwest ring of hell.” He looked quite satisfied with himself after he said this.

We were in a taxi, on our way to supper with our aunt Sukie, our father's younger sister and our only blood relative still living in the city. We were both quite fond of her, and Alex liked to make sure that we saw her at least every month.

Traffic was slow that night, but I didn't feel impatient. I was glad to spend the extra time with my brother.

“Did you meet anyone?” I wanted to know.

“The man of my dreams? Afraid not, my friend. Although I did manage to shake five pounds off my ass, and have a pretty good time.” He leaned forward and checked on the lack of progress on the street. “And, by next week, I'll be my miserable old self again, and it will be as if I'd never gone away.” He turned toward me. “You know what I'd really like? I'd like to come home at the end of the day and someone's waiting for me. Someone whose company I like, and who likes mine.” He smiled. “Otherwise it's all just distraction.”

That wasn't the first time he'd told me this. I don't know if I was going to say anything, or what it would have been, but Alex raised a finger to stop me. “
You
are in no position to talk to
any
one about relationships.”

I knew that tone of voice. It always made me think of tweed rubbing against bare skin, and whatever I'd have said, whatever I might have offered, Alex would have turned to me with a look of antipathy, as though I'd not only exacerbated what he was feeling, but confirmed his lowest opinion of himself, and would I please just disappear. But that passed. Alex was smiling again, saying, “Tell me what happened in Shady Grove.”

I told him about some of it, and asked him to tell me what he remembered about Laura.

“I met her your senior year, right?”

“Was it?”

“She was really quite stunning. And she spoke impeccable French.”

“You
remember
that?”

“She eloped with a jazz musician, didn't she?”

Traffic started moving a little faster, and when we were a few blocks farther along, I told Alex about Marian, and he told me he wasn't in the least surprised.

“She falls into your three basic food groups, doesn't she.”

“Only two.”

“Three.” He counted on his fingers: “You're attracted to a woman who's got a boyfriend, which, along with your own, shall we say,
situation
with Rita, poses no threat of your actually having a relationship with her. Two: Since you can't act on your infatuation—”

“It goes
deeper
than infatuation.”

“It still makes her and your feelings about her ultimately disposable.”

I couldn't argue with him, so all I said was, “I guess I'd just better forget about her.”

“And forgetting about her is the
third.
”

I
t was after one in the morning when Alex dropped me off. The phone started ringing as soon as I was in my apartment. It was Simon's Howie Greenberg, wanting to know if Simon was there—but not before apologizing for calling so late. He was in L.A., and the time difference had confused him.

When I said that Simon wasn't here, Howie told me, “Well, if you're smart, you won't believe a word he says”—his voice wasn't loud but it was firm—“or you'll never get rid of him.”

I was about to hang up.

“And whatever you do”—his voice was louder now—“don't
sign
anything.”

I told him I'd be sure not to, and again was about to hang up, when I heard him yell for me to wait. “And tell the little fuck I want the two months' rent he owes me and the seventy dollars he
stole
from my wallet. Oh yes.” And the line went dead.

Early the following morning Simon called. He said it was urgent that he see me. I told him I was still in bed.

“By the way, one of your
friends
called. Howie Greenberg.”

“What did he say?”

“Why the hell do you do these things to yourself? You're better than that.” I hung up and went back to sleep.

I'd told Alex that I might as well forget about Marian, but I could not forget about her. Not that I did anything about it, except go on imagining meeting her places, spending the night at my apartment, or a weekend at one of the little boutique hotels in town. Maybe an entire week, showing her the city, hearing her laughter, seeing the same expression on her face that I'd seen the first time; and feeling the agitation of attraction, when her hand might touch my wrist as it did that night; all the nerve-wracking uncertainties of a new romance.

But I was really no better than Alex's narcissists. Marian's closest friend had died, and the best I could do was flirt with her and indulge an infatuation. Worse, the
fantasy
of an infatuation. I never really stopped being aware of that. Yet, I still kept thinking about her. Even when I was with my girlfriend, Rita D'Angellis, the
situation
to which Alex referred.

A
few nights after I saw Alex, Rita and I had dinner at a small Vietnamese restaurant on the Upper East Side, sharing a plate of salt and pepper squid and a couple of beers, a ritual of ours.

Rita and I had been seeing each other for about three years in what we both considered as exclusive a relationship as either of us was interested in having. Rita edited cookbooks for a large publishing house, and whatever restaurant we went to, the staff knew her and made a fuss. It was always a good time.

After dinner she asked me where I'd been. I started to answer that she knew I was going up to Shady Grove.

She said, “No. I mean tonight.
All
night. You've been somewhere else.” I said I wasn't aware of my mind being on anything other than her and she told me, “Just know that it's showing.” She took a short swallow of beer, leaned forward, and grinned at me.

“Do you remember the first time you heard the word
dysfunctional
?”

I didn't.

“The first time I heard it was back in the eighties, when I was a summer intern over at Doubleday. I was reading a submission, one of those memoirs that people were writing back then. The writer referred to her mother, who was
horrid
, by the way, as ‘dysfunctional,' and that word's always had a very negative connotation for me ever since. But sometimes it's not so bad.” She refilled her glass. “I'd say
we
have a dysfunctional relationship, and it's worked out well for both of us.”

“Dysfunctional.”

“You sit here with your mind somewhere else, maybe you're thinking about your work, maybe you're thinking about how bored you are and would rather be somewhere else. Who knows? Most women would be offended, hurt even, but I'm not. I don't take it personally. If you wanted to tell me what you're thinking, you'd tell me. And if it were reversed, you'd just let me have my moment, and we'd go on from there.”

“That's how we like it,” I said.