You Don't Love Me Yet (22 page)

“Ginger ale, Lucinda.” A tone of hurt entered Bedwin’s voice, as though this distinction was the world. Perhaps for him it was. It was just the sort of thing Denise would observe and attend to. Lucinda considered how a whole life, two lives, could be comprised of such gestures.

“Was there anything else between you?”

“Not technically, no.”

“What do you mean, technically?”

“I mean, I guess I just always felt there was an understanding that we were sort of heading in a certain direction. There was you and Matthew—I mean, not anymore, I guess. But you can see how it seemed. The two very attractive and sort of flighty people had gotten together and the two somewhat more, uh, quiet and serious ones—”

“No, no, Bedwin—”

“Well, of course not now that we’re, um—”

“No, Bedwin,” she wailed. “Two people can’t just drift toward each other so slowly, like glaciers, like continents, it’s not fair to their friends—”

“I don’t understand.”

“I have to go, Bedwin.”

“I love you, Lucinda.”

“No, you don’t,” she said, though it was only what she’d told herself an hour earlier, less. “You don’t, you don’t.”

For the second time that night she fled.

n
o complaints, no telephones, no band, no friends, no zoo, no kangaroo, no driving wildly to any other person’s apartment, not even her own, none except that one to which he might return. No clothes, either, her garments were a false skin. She shed them as she moved across the floor to the bed, scattered them one by one until she pushed through his green curtain nude. No conversation this time, no false confrontations. She never wanted to know who Susan Ming was, should never have asked in the first place. She would only exist here in the complainer’s bed until he returned.

He would. And find her. As he’d found her before, on the telephone, naked of anything but delight in him, expecting nothing. She’d return to that state. Had, in fact. And so waited, in the vast dark. Alone, consoled by the green curtain drawn around the smaller arena of the bed. The room was seamless to sound, a perfect rehearsal space, as it happened. Maybe all that had occurred to this point was only a kind of rehearsal. A demo tape. The band, her friends, her life. Now what mattered could begin. It was often this way, life consisted of a series of false beginnings, bluff declarations of arrival to destinations not even glimpsed. Seemingly permanent arrangements dissolved, stories piled up, exes amassed like old grievances. Always humorous in retrospect how important they’d seemed at the time. The little fiasco with Bedwin, for instance, already a legendary moment, rapidly receding into the past. Lucinda Hoekke was twenty-nine years old.

Spread on his comforter she made the attempt again to touch herself, inventorying what he’d had under his hands, what he’d nudged and lapped with his lips and tongue and blunt warm penis, all that she’d bared to him, now bared to the air and her own cool dry hands. What she’d given him was enough for anyone. She only had to have it ready here and not let the clutter of language rise up between the complainer and what she offered him—herself. She left herself unfiddled, unorgasmed, only triggered, tuned aware. In the perfect silence and the imperfect dark, night-lit clouds passing in pale drawn reflection on the white ceiling. She waited, closed her eyes, limbs buzzing with readiness. Parted lips. Imagined him returned. Soon enough snored.

The voices came to her, what seemed just instants later, in a dream of the loft flooded with orange sunlight, toasting her brain through shuttered eyelids. She basked in this light without opening her eyes, smiled and arched her back, kept from breaking the spell of her half slumber, not sure why the dream should please her so much as it did. It involved two people she adored, two members of Monster Eyes, her band.

“I appreciate your making the time to meet with me on such short notice.”

“Sure, buddy, why wouldn’t I?”

“This sort of thing is extremely difficult for me.”

“Do you want something to drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“Sorry, this place is a wreck. I’ve got to get someone in here to clean it up.”

“I don’t mind. It was very generous of you to let us rehearse here all those times.”

“Cripes, Bedwin. I was in the band then, remember? Quit thanking me for everything, you’re making me nervous. It’s like the buildup to some kind of accusation.”

“I don’t blame you for anything.”

“That’s a relief. I’m going to make some coffee. This is pretty early by my lights. Sure you don’t want any?”

“No, thanks. I’ve been up for hours. Anyway, I’m awfully sensitive to caffeine.”

“Me too, why else drink it? Pull up a chair, tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I need to talk to you about the songs.”

“What about them?”

“Now that we’re not working together, I figured we should address the, uh, situation of our sort of semi-voluntary collaboration, so we can find some way to resolve things and move forward.”

“This was your idea, or someone put you up to it?”

“Mine and Denise’s.”

“What about the rest of the band?”

“Actually, there is no more band.”

“That was sudden.”

“It happened last night.”

“What happened?”

“It’s not going to be possible for the band to go on from this point. I can’t explain any better than that.”

“Fair enough. I don’t need an explanation. What’s the scheme with the songs?”

In this uncannily exact and extensive dream Lucinda now heard the whirling racket of coffee beans in a miniature grinder, the tap-tap of the grind being emptied into the espresso machine’s strainer.

“Denise and I may continue with our musical project under another name. Several of the songs I’d like to go on playing. As I told you, I find this very awkward.”

“I get it. This is like a divorce settlement. What I can’t understand is why Denise didn’t come too.”

“She’s a little upset about this whole thing. Anyway, as I understand it the songs belong to you and me, no one else.”

“I guess that’s right.”

“I don’t want you to feel that Denise and I want nothing more to do with you from here on, but I think it’s important that I leave here today with this matter clarified one way or the other between us, so that no other, uh, parties will be able to, uh, exploit any ambiguities, if you know what I mean.”

“It’s a fascinating problem. Really, you could slice it a dozen different ways.”

“You should probably tell me what you have in mind.”

“For instance, we could just divvy them up, you get some, I get some. Or we could split them down the middle, lyrics and music. Take out what we came in with, right? Only, what good does that do anyone? Maybe we should split them the other way, you take the words, me the tunes. That way we’ve each got what we didn’t have before. You’re good at music, you can write new melodies. I can easily think up some more slogans for your songs. Let a thousand flowers bloom.”

“That’s an odd thought.”

“Or there’s the option of a nihilistic conflagration. We can declare the songs dead to either one of us.”

“However awkward, this collaboration represents a significant chapter in my creative life.”

“Well, that sinks it, then, I’d say. You sure you don’t want some of this coffee? It came out perfect.”

“If you had some orange juice, I’d have that.”

“Better yet, I’ve got a bag of oranges, we’ll squeeze some. Just let me wash off a chopping block. What a sty. You want some toast or something?”

“Sure. What do you mean ‘that sinks it’?”

“Well, despite collaborating on those songs, Bedwin, you’re looking at someone without a creative life, let alone one with significant chapters. The whole line of thinking is pretty exotic to me.”

“So you’re going to keep the songs just because you’ve never created anything of value to anyone before?”

“You don’t pull any punches, do you? Here, hand me that pitcher.”

“It’s full of crushed limes.”

“Maybe give it a quick rinse.”

“I didn’t mean to sound hostile.” Water ran, dishes clanked, the toaster’s coils clicked: the two were making breakfast together. “You have to excuse me, I’m no good at this kind of thing. I just can’t help wondering what value the songs have to you.”

“That’s the point I was trying to make.”

“Sorry?”

“You should help yourself. Take them outright, no charge.”

“Really?”

“Sure. If they mean that much to you. Truth is, I was never so into music in the first place. You know, I’ve got some bacon and eggs in here, it really wouldn’t be hard to put together a little fry-up.”

“That sounds good, actually.”

“Nobody doesn’t like a fry-up.”

Now the dream had become richly olfactory, and following on the scent of coffee and toast came fumes of sizzling bacon grease and butter.

“So if you were to, say, hear the song ‘Monster Eyes’ on the radio, even if it became, say, hugely popular and a sort of contemporary classic, you’d have no problem with that, we could expect nothing in the way of regrets or recriminations from you at any point in the future?”

“Nope.”

“There’s nothing you want in return?”

“Well, I was wondering if you and Denise already had a singer in mind.” There was an interval of silence before he spoke again. “Just kidding.”

“Oh.”

“But I’m curious—who’s handling the vocals?”

“Denise says I have a very expressive voice, I just have to trust it.”

“That’s great. Here, pass me that pepper. Actually, if you would, just keep this from sticking. That’s the way, move it gently from the edges of the pan.”

“I’m not much of a cook.”

“It’s coming along nicely. I like my eggs wet, in fact.”

Their talk was punctuated by the clank of silverware now, and by the sighs and smacks of hearty chewing. Lucinda idled, naked and unseen behind the green curtain, still in reverie. So long as she remained silent and selfless the two players were essentially as she preferred them: benign, enchanted, fond.

“I just realized I recognize those clothes on the floor.”

“I do apologize for the mess.”

“No, but I mean specifically those are Lucinda’s clothes.”

“She left a lot of stuff lying around here. She pretty much moved in for a while. But you knew that.”

“But what I’m trying to say is those are specifically exactly the clothes Lucinda wore last night, quite late last night in fact. I happen to be absolutely certain.”

“You could be right.”

“She’s awful.”

“She’s just a mixed-up person, Bedwin.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion, but I think Lucinda is a genuinely reprehensible person.”

“That’s why it’s no go with the band, huh?”

“I never want to see her again. I can’t even stand to look at those clothes.”

“We’ll just throw them in the garbage, then. Have to get this whole place swept out, but it’s a start.”

“There’s more, over there. Her underwear.”

“Holy smoke, it’s everywhere, you’re right.”

“Should we light it on fire?”

“That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“I suppose.”

“Just push it down in there with the eggshells.”

“Ugh, okay, there.”

No dream. Lucinda’s sick eyes opened to the blaze of day to which she lay bare, her lips and nipples and the microscopic hairs of her stomach and thighs alive to tiny breezes, her breath cinched in anxiety. She might pull the bedspread to cover herself or insert her body within the layers of sheet but feared rustling, giving herself away to what now seemed enemies. Bedwin and the complainer clanked plates in trickling water, noises that made proof she was alive and only a few feet from the kitchen where the two had been eating and talking.

“Just scrape the plate, I’ll do the dishes later.”

“Thanks for the meal and everything, I mean for being so understanding about the songs.”

“They’re your songs, Bedwin.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Never speak of it again.”

“Okay. See you later.”

“Sure, see you later, except honestly you probably won’t, if I get the drift of things.”

“Honestly, I expect that’s true.”

“Hold on a second and I’ll go down in the elevator with you. This place actually depresses me a little bit right now, I don’t want to be alone here.”

They were gone. Silence reigned, the impossible morning restored to her alone. She crept from behind the curtain. Her clothes had been collected and ruined in the tall chrome garbage pail, layered into a compost of char and bacon grease, eggshells, coffee grounds, rinds of squeezed oranges and bloated, soaking limes. If she retrieved the clothes she’d be wearing breakfast. She didn’t want them anyway, they’d been polluted by hate as much as by garbage. To fetch them would confess that she’d been concealed, that she’d heard what she’d heard. She wormed one hand in and found the pocket of her jeans, seized her keys and a few balled dollars. Her forearm emerged speckled with oil-dark grounds, which she swept back into the mass.

She wouldn’t wear his clothes for a thousand reasons. Too huge for her, she’d be garbed in the costume of a hobo clown. Better go naked to her car than that. She thought of stripping the green curtain from his bed, sweeping her way to the elevator and out draped royally in velvet. But no souvenirs, not today. There was just one thing in this place that no longer belonged to the complainer, besides herself. Falmouth’s drawings, the record of the band’s rehearsals. She undraped the enormous pad’s pages from where they lay across the pinball machine, rolled them into a neat tube which she pinned beneath her armpits. The cone of pages made a rigid dress planing from ribs to knees, a child’s drawing come to life. Falmouth would have been proud. Barefoot, clutching keys, elbows pinned to ribs, she managed an exit garbed in the cone, down the elevator alone, out into the vacant glare of morning. Nobody saw her wriggle into her Datsun, half nude. The drawings went into the backseat. Falmouth’s charcoal, never set with any fixative, had impressed a faint record of the in-most of the drawings on her moist hips and belly, a hieroglyphic procession of smudged figures. She rubbed these off easily, raising a slight pinkness on her flesh, then drove home, eyes set straight ahead on the freeway, oblivious to gawkers, bare of clothing, drawings, or any other thing she’d ever imagined could conceal her.