Balls (19 page)

In fact, one evening he did come face to face with her.

Walbaum had been after Henry to write for the alumnus of one of last decade's network talent-shows, and he sent him down to a venue on West 26th to see the artist perform. Henry was so grateful to have Mallory with him. These scouting trips were pure torture. All the waiting around on one's feet. The drunk crowds. But Henry didn't know if she should be with him tonight, she'd been fighting a cold. The venue was hot, stuffy, unpleasant for a person who wasn't at her full-strength. She said she would make it, nevertheless. Besides, Henry had begged her to come with him and she wouldn't abandon him now.

Henry put his arm around her waist. Mallory—she wasn't as pretty as Penelope Andrews or anywhere near as talented as Paula. Colette Jacques was sexier. And yet Mallory had a larger chest, which went some ways in making other men jealous. Her eyes were free of bitterness. He looked into them now, feeling the moisture on his own face, and smiled at her. The singer performed a number of cover songs, all Motown. Certainly he had a great voice. Henry had been told by Walbaum to go shake his hand after the show. Mallory couldn't make it to the end. She was tired. He put her in a taxi, saying he wouldn't be far behind. The sidewalk outside the venue was crowded with men and women smoking. Henry did love the smell of tobacco. He wasn't in a hurry to go back in and watch the performance. He asked a teenager for a cigarette, and a light, then stood next door to the venue in front of a restaurant, smoking.

Here, the door to the restaurant swung open by force of a hand whose body could yet be seen by Henry. Though the person was shouting into her phone, it was the hand, not the voice, which made Henry look on, with fear. He knew it. The long, bulbous nails, the protruding blue veins, the white polish. She hadn't emerged through the door, not yet.

Tomorrow…tomorrow, the voice was saying. As early as 4:30 in the morning. I'll be awake.

Rain started coming down in a light mist, though not enough to force people back inside. Henry, perfectly still, continued looking at the hand. He didn't know if he should step around and see for sure that it was her. He'd been wrong many times in the past, thinking someone might be Paula on the street or getting out of a car. His heart would begin to race and he would become sweaty, nauseous. Luckily, that hadn't happened for a long time.

Now Paula brought her head through the doorway. Staring inquisitively at the brown sky, her small nose wrinkled, she seemed to be thinking through some piece of business. Her head turned, then, and she looked at Henry.

Is that you? she said. Her expression was all excitement, thrill.

Henry wasn't sure he could speak. His stomach felt wired tight to his throat. He let out a firm, Yes, it is
me.

What are you doing here?

Where should I be?

Her smile widened. Exquisite in a black dress, she wore little makeup, only mascara, and no jewelry. Her short dark hair was slicked back. She hadn't lost any of her self-assurance. And her astonishment didn't quit.

I can't believe it's you…Henry Schiller, she said.

Using his last name in addition to the first made him seem unfamiliar. Yet Henry felt like the same person he had always been. And she knew him, and he knew her. So why pretend?

How are you? he asked.

I'm well. Very well.

Paula told him she'd been living in London, playing concerts throughout Europe. The wife of a shipping magnate had bought her a pied-a-terre near Lincoln Center to stay in when she was in New York. She was very happy there.

That's good, Paula.

And you, Henry, she said, how's everything going?

He explained that someone was performing next door tonight for whom Walbaum wanted him to write. It satisfied Paula to hear Walbaum's name, to have that special knowledge of Henry's life. Her blue eyes sharpened. Stuffing her cell phone back into her purse, she said:

I'm happy to hear you two are working together.

Henry, letting his cigarette fall to the street, wouldn't allow her to take this comfortable tone with him. He changed subjects, asking her about her father and stepmother. But Paula didn't want to talk about them. She politely explained then that she was making someone wait for her alone at a table. She began saying goodbye. Before she got away, Henry spoke the words:

You received my emails, didn't you?

What's that?

The emails I sent you, you got them?

The door to the restaurant swung open, choppy white noise washing over the street. Paula's head fell to one side. Something in her face, still not a woman's but a girl's, lit up at him. Henry couldn't believe his nervousness. A year and nine months had passed since he'd last seen her, he thought his feelings for her had been eviscerated by time. It was worse than ever, though.

Turning out one hand beside her slight body, her eyelids fluttering, she said, My focus has always been my career, Henry.

I
know
, Paula. I mean, I knew that.

And I was sure you were already seeing someone new by the time I was back in New York.

I was, he said, his spite apparent.

You see, I knew
that.

She touched his shoulder, her fingers on his collarbone pressing gently for a moment. Henry's whole body awoke with terror. In his black shoes he leaned away from her, skittishly. He waited for the feeling of her touch to fade. When it did, he said:

I just don't understand why you didn't call from Europe. I had written, asking you to call.

Henry, she calmly stated his name, I picked up the phone a few times. I couldn't dial it.

Why not?

She didn't answer his question. What she said was, I didn't mean to hurt you.

The knuckles of her right hand were suddenly pressing on his chest. What a deranging power she kept in that hand, Henry could feel the life slipping in and out of him, his belly warm. He stared up at fast-moving clouds made visible at night by the bright city lights. The rain was falling harder. A taxi stopped at the curb and two couples ducked quickly inside the restaurant. Henry could see Paula's eyes follow after them. Any second now, she'd leave and go back to her table. He drew her by the elbow under a doorway, out of the rain.

What is it, Henry?

His hand left her elbow and went into his pocket. He said to her, Why did you disappear on me?

Frowning above crossed arms, she said, I was off working. I couldn't think about anyone else.

What about after?

There hasn't been an
after.

For a few seconds he experienced intense jealousy. It was precisely her kind of attitude which was needed if you were going to do anything worthwhile in this life. She was the real thing, Paula, unapologetically focused, brutal, and talented. He would never rise so high, he knew. Neither would he let her think any part of him accepted these qualities in a person.

He said, I had plans for us. I wanted to marry you, Paula.

Henry—

I did.

I'm only twenty-three.

So.

Henry, I wasn't ready to settle down.

Will you ever be? ‘Cause I don't think so, he said, not giving her the chance to answer him. You either have it in you always or never at all. That's the truth.

I don't agree.

Oh no?

At this time Paula told him she had to rejoin her friend in the restaurant. She said, We should get together when there's more time.

When will that be? he asked her. His forehead was tilted towards her, expectantly.

I'm busy all this week. Maybe next week.

Next week?

Yes.

Okay, Paula.

Call me.

I'll call you next week.

She kissed him on the cheek, then went quickly away.

Henry returned next door to the venue. However, backstage, and introducing himself to the singer, he was filled with regret. He should have asked Paula to meet him later for a drink. Next week something would come up in her schedule. She'd be invited to play some recital in Santa Barbara at the last minute. She wouldn't be able to see him. They would never have the chance to resolve their past. He should have acted immediately, when he knew where she was.

He hurried back to the restaurant, but Paula was gone. At once, Henry, with a searing pang in his chest, decided it was for the best that she wasn't there. He should never speak to her again. Never see her. If she called him next week, he would tell her that. Then it was decided.

That's it, he said, to himself.

He went home to Mallory. He found her asleep, in bed, and tiptoed into the kitchen, pouring himself a tall glass of red wine. He didn't know what to do next. For a while he stood at the window. A double-length bus came hard up the avenue. When it passed he could see nothing more moving below.

If she calls, he thought, you don't even answer. You do not answer.

He turned the television on, shutting it off right away. It wouldn't hold his attention, he felt sure. He opened a book on ancient Rome, then closed it. There was his piano. Mallory had bought him a narrow green vase, wide enough for only a few flowers. She had been replacing them before they died. Three yellow tulips, their petals open, leaned inside the vase at present. Henry sat down at the instrument. At first, with his hands on his lap and eyes closed, he did nothing. He was using the piano bench as a place to be. He had no intention of playing. Anyway, the hour was late, and Mallory was sleeping. But then at the next moment, his hands did lift, and they were suddenly on the keys. He struck one, quietly. It was a high up note. He followed with the key beside it, and now another, and one more.

It was a problem he'd had since as far back as he could remember, whenever he was at the piano, if he wasn't working in a club, say, or with an artist, he would try to write something new. That is, his mind would demand that he try and create a piece of music. What he wanted, though, was to be able to sit down at the piano, and just play, for the sake of amusement. There were worse problems to have. And still, he took his very seriously. One day he would like to be the kind of person who just let go. As it were, he now began to write a song (one which didn't take long to find and lose itself). The music was there, at his fingertips, ready to be played, (and then spilled off into nonsense). Same with the words, (here, gone). He sang:

From the moment,
They descended,
His fate,
Was,
Decided.
And what happened after,
Was a twinned,
Command.
Up, down,
Walk, run,
Stop, strike,
March.
And when would,
He sleep?
He was in love,
And you made it,
Happen.
Before there were,
Cities,
There were,
Those two,
Committees.
Before there was…
Shh…
Shut up…
You must,
Call Walbaum tomorrow,
And let him know you loved,
The artist you saw tonight,
That you want to work with him.
You're broke,
In debt.
Edgar Diaz,
Tell him you want,
More nights,
At the Beekman.
It's almost time to pay
Your rent.
Impotent, I blame the powers,
That have without conscience,
Watered-down the streetscape,
(I.e. he who has erected a,
Residential tower fast and cheap,
So as to fill it up with new,
Paying residents.
But Walbaum's right,
You fool.
You can't start a song,
With the word,
Impotent.

Acknowledgements

The author would like to thank: Lisa Weinert, Tyson Cornell, Will Akers, Alison Klapthor, Alison Moran, Spoon, Vikash Shankar, Jacob Bauman, Norman Buckley, Stephen Daldry, Dominic DeJoseph, Josh Brown, Harvey Goldberg, and Jenna Gribbon.