Part 80 (1/2)
”Okay, so Pace came by to give me my quarterly review. And then he offered me the plum spot of vice president.”
”Which you readily accepted. Congratulations.”
”Declined. Know why?” he asked.
”I'm sure this is going to be good,” I said, but was not at all surprised when Sean proceeded to tell me he'd be joining a venture capital firm specializing in telecommunications companies. I used to wonder why research didn't bore him more since he was such a risk-taker.
”You're going to love playing with fire every day,” I told him.
”That's one way of looking at venture capital. I prefer to think of it as bringing a young company to life. Helping it through its infancy.”
”Infancy? G.o.d, you sound like a proud parent. Why didn't you think of this before?”
”Oh, but I did. I had it all planned.”
”And I thought you hated to plan.”
”That was before.” He seemed unsure of what to say next.
”You mean before your recent maturation,” I said before he could continue. ”The whole, 'But Dana, I'm truly ready to be an adult, now' thing.” There was a long pause during which I realized I should get off the phone before the conversation descended into the usual recriminatory bulls.h.i.+t. ”Look, I should go. Linda's been on me lately.”
”I know you must be getting a kick out of this, but I'm really quite serious, about everything,” Sean said before I could hang up.
”Just tell me why I should believe you?” I asked.
”There's no good reason,” he sighed. ”You have no good reason to trust me. You've already expressed that.”
I could hear the frustration in his voice, but I didn't care. ”What did you expect?” I asked. ”For me to drop everything and get back together with you just because you say you're ready to be an adult? Because you think you're ready to commit to me?”
”Just admit it. You still love me,” he said. ”You know we belong together.”
I wished I could tell him, 'No. No, I don't,' and mean it enough so that he'd believe me and leave me alone. But I couldn't. Instead, I asked, ”Whatever happened to Maureen?”
”I told you, already. That was just a temporary, meaningless thing.”
”And you think I'm permanent?”
”Yes.”
I gave a short laugh, more of a nervous snort, ”I just wonder what would happen if I called your bluff.”
”Then we'd go ring shopping this weekend.”
I caught my breath, immediately hoping he didn't hear. When Sean and I were together I'd fantasized about him on bended knee, ring box in hand.
”I can't talk about this now,” I whispered. ”I've got a bunch of work to do before I meet Will for dinner.”
”I won't keep you, then,” he said quickly. ”Have fun with Will.”
”Hey, congratulations on the new job.”
”Thanks,” Sean said and hung up.
He'd sounded so annoyed I almost regretted letting him go on that note. His calls had been regular enough over the past few months that I'd come to expect them-maybe even depend on them-even though by the end of almost every conversation I'd been p.i.s.sed off, more angry than I'd felt since we'd broken up. After the shock of Sean's betrayal had worn off, I'd found myself reluctantly missing him. I would have even taken him back if he'd groveled just a little bit; I wouldn't have wanted to, but I'd have been helpless in the face of whatever meager remorse he offered. When it became obvious that he wasn't going to come back on his knees, I'd been furious; nothing had ever made me feel so strongly, not even my mother's death. Then, after a long while, I'd felt nothing; that's when I'd thought I was over him, totally safe. Will and I had met just as my anger was fading into numbness and I'd credited him with that final transition. Now that Sean was affecting me so deeply again, I didn't know what to think.
As usual, Will and I met on the street in front of the bank. I loved to see him through the throng of wrinkled suits, sneakered women, and tired faces. Will was always dressed in black. It was his trademark, the monochromatic uniform of downtown chic. Once I'd bought him some bright s.h.i.+rts to wear under a black sweater or jacket-lime, indigo, orange-and he hated them, although he never told me. To be truthful, he was right. Any departure from black-except the occasional brown or charcoal gray-made him look oddly childish; in those loud s.h.i.+rts he'd seemed vulnerable and needy, but in dark colors will looked vaguely gangsterish, someone to be taken seriously-an appearance I liked because it allowed me to pretend there was real toughness in his personality. The bright s.h.i.+rts gradually slunk and slouched to the back of his closet.
I'd met Will a year and a half before in a wine tasting cla.s.s which he, the lunch chef at a well-known Midtown restaurant, was taking so he'd be able to contribute ideas to the wine list. I had enrolled in the cla.s.s looking for a new adventure, something I hadn't yet tried, and against the crowd of white faces and white b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rts, Will seemed to be just what I'd come for. He was wearing jeans, heavy boots and a T-s.h.i.+rt-all black, of course, and in the cla.s.s of thirty, we were the only black people. My mother taught me that if I was somewhere where there were only a few other black folks and you happen to run across one, always be friendly. So, I'd smiled at him-not too hard to do since he was really attractive. Seeing that he wasn't going to make the first move, I introduced myself.
Naturally, Will remembered everything we were taught in that cla.s.s. I, meanwhile, could no longer recall the difference between Pouilly-Fume and Pouilly-Fuisse, any of the wine-making regions of Germany, even the major red and white grape varieties.
During the first few months we hung out he bought me elaborate meals in places where his restaurant colleagues would have the waiters would bring us free appetizers and desserts; he knew romantic spots I'd never been to like the Cloisters and the roof garden at the Met; he lit my cigarettes before his own and tagged along to all my favorite clubs and bars, ordering martinis and looking elegant in his black turtleneck and slacks. And I fell in love, fast. Only later did I discover that he wore black not because of some rebellious desire to look dangerous, but because it was the easiest way to appear ”cool,” and that what I had mistaken for fearlessness and strength was actually steadfastness and competence.
Will never could reconcile the contradictions in his life: his Daddy's-a-doctor-Mommy's-a-lawyer strict upbringing with his spectator's fascination with downtown culture; his Ivy League education with his desire to work with his hands, to knead bread and ma.s.sage spices onto chicken and de-bone salmon for a living; his black heritage with his mostly white neighborhood, schools, and profession. His hands shook slightly when he met new people and he followed me around when we were in a crowd; he was afraid to challenge himself and refused to pursue opening his own restaurant; he would try his best to avoid any kind of confrontation; and he hated to be alone, would do anything to avoid the emotional demands of silence. I knew I shouldn't judge him so harshly for having become diffident and quiet. It was just hard to comprehend why he seemed to shrink smaller and smaller the larger his world became, why his experiences didn't make him more insightful and diplomatic, confident in most situations instead of unsure.
One hand in his pocket, the other dangling a cigarette, shoulders sloping forward, Will waited-on time, as usual. I stood in the lobby and looked at him-his back facing me, his delicate features and smooth redbrown skin only visible when he glanced sidelong at the doors. I watched him flick the cigarette into the street, straighten the silver buckle on his belt, affect boredom. He projected confidence to the casual onlooker, and seeing this from a distance made him attractive to me. I walked out into Will's arms and breathed in his familiar smell of smoke and cinnamon gum.
The Vietnamese restaurant was nearly empty and the noise we made bursting through the door-laughing, the paper bag that held the wine crinkling, my heels clacking on the cheap linoleum floor-filled the spare room. We ordered a huge dinner of steamed rice crepes with chicken and shrimp, hot and sour seafood broth, green papaya salad with grilled beef, and red curried prawns in coconut milk; Will wanted to sample different dishes because he was looking for one more spice to enliven a coulis he meant to serve over striped ba.s.s.
”I checked out some restaurants on Atlantic Avenue because I thought I'd go North African. You know, use some harissa. But that whole thing's been played out,” he said, dipping a spoon into the Banh Hoi sauce. ”I was also thinking maybe thyme-so cla.s.sic it's unexpected. Right? But then lemongra.s.s or basil and lime could be interesting. Nice and light.”
I watched him, saying nothing, having nothing to say. I'd never been that particular about food. I'd inherited my mother's long limbs, but not her curves; instead, I got my father's fast metabolism along with his terrible eating habits: scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast and a hamburger and fries for dinner one day, no breakfast and cereal for dinner the next. Mom would try to get me to eat better, but I always fell back on my old habits. It wouldn't matter how much I ate, I always looked the same-limber from dance cla.s.s, but way too gangling with no b.u.t.t or b.r.e.a.s.t.s at all, earning me the nickname ”firepole” from the none-too-sympathetic boys in my school. Since Mom died I cared even less about food, eating only when I had to, and then efficiently, with little pa.s.sion.
”Good idea,” I said.
”Or something totally different,” He kept on, oblivious to my disinterest. ”Blacken it or maybe pan-fried with garlic mashed potatoes?”
”I don't understand this whole comfort food trend.” I took up my knife and fork, cut a piece of broccoli in half. ”I mean, why go out for mashed potatoes?”
”People want to feel at home everywhere. Part of the whole coc.o.o.ning thing.”
”Well, that's exactly how I do not want to feel.”
”Maybe if you ate more.” Will gestured at my plate; he'd served me and the beef and prawn were piled dangerously high atop a mountain of rice. ”You're so skinny.”
”You never complained about my body before.”
”And I never would. I just want to feed you.”
”Because you're a chef.”
”Maybe.” He paused, wiped his hands then touched my knee under the table. ”Spend this weekend at home with me?”
I'd forgotten to tell him about St. Louis, or maybe was avoiding talking about it. ”My stepfather called yesterday at the crack of dawn to say he was selling the house and could I please come and get my things,” I told him. ”I'm leaving Friday.”
”Why didn't you tell me before?”