Come and Join the Dance (10 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“W
ELL, WHERE DOES
everybody want to eat?” her father said. Susan sensed a strange exhilaration in him.

“I just want something very light,” said her mother. “And that's what you should have too.”

He was silent for a moment. He glanced at Susan as if he were claiming her as an ally, then he rallied: “Not one of those tearoom dinners! Let's go to a
French
restaurant.”

“French food?” her mother said dubiously.

Her parents had always argued about restaurants. Her mother would inevitably want something “light,” her father something that would probably make him ill—he always had the sadness of a man who knew he wasn't going to win. “You'll come to me for sympathy when you're sick,” her mother would say, and her father would give up so mildly, “I guess you're right,” and that would be the end of it.

But tonight her father said, “We're not going to eat any boiled chicken. We're going to go to a French restaurant and get a little taste of Paris.” His voice practically boomed and there was a surprised look on his face. “That's what you want to do, isn't it, Susie?” he asked her a little anxiously.

She didn't want to eat, she didn't care where they ate—but somehow she wanted her father to win this time. “That'd be fine,” she said.

He put one arm around her, the other around her mother. “Come on, Marian,” he said. “You'll enjoy it.” Her mother was smiling ever so faintly.

For a little while, her father had become someone else, someone she remembered now: a man who was once very tall, who lifted her up in the air when he came home from the store, who protected her from the fire engines that passed in the night and from the old-clothes man—a man who had a secret life of cigars and Saturday jaunts to a place called “the track.” How long had it taken him to disappear?

“What's that dish they make—
coq au vin
? That's what we'll have!” he cried. “Susie, you must know a good French restaurant.”

She could only think of one. “
La Lune d'Argent,
” she said, and wondered why the name made her a little uneasy. Then she remembered—Jerry. “Maybe we'd better not … ” But she hadn't thought about Jerry for days—she couldn't quite remember his face now when she tried to. It would be strange to go to his restaurant. She saw herself sitting with her parents in that subdued, elegant room—three small people. They would make her feel more hopelessly an outsider than Jerry had.

“Something wrong with it, Susie?”

“Oh … it's just that maybe it's a little expensive.”

Her father laughed. “If you say it's a good restaurant, that's where we'll eat.”

“Maybe it's a very dressy place,” her mother said.

“Don't worry about that, Marian. You look fine.”

They were both smiling at her, they were waiting for her to say that it was a good restaurant. “It's a very good restaurant,” she said.

So they went to
La Lune d'Argent
and were ushered to one of the ridiculous little tables—“For midgets,” her father commented, loudly enough for the waiter to hear, and her mother stared, fascinated, at all the bare backs and bare shoulders of the ladies—“They wear a lot of black in the city, don't they?” Her father, who was on what Kay would have called a “French kick,” seized the menu and studied it for a long time. “What's this dish?” he would ask Susan, and she would translate. “Well, then,” he would say with pride, “shall we have some—
haricots verts
?”

“Susan certainly seems to know French,” said her mother.

Susan very nearly answered, “Not bad for an English major,” but that would have reminded them of the graduation. They all had to pretend now that they had forgotten it, or that it had never happened. It was just as her father had said: “We won't talk about it.” But there was still that redness in her mother's eyes and probably in her own, and she didn't know how she was going to eat this dinner—her father wanted to order her duck
à l'orange
because he remembered she liked duck; “But have anything you want,” he added shyly.

“Such fancy dishes,” her mother said. “After a few months in Paris you'll appreciate some good home cooking.”

They both kept talking to her about Paris; they seemed to have decided that that was a safe topic. Of course, they didn't really want her to go, but they were somehow able to reassure themselves by imagining a humdrum existence for her even there. Her mother pictured her with stomach aches and a terrible laundry problem; her father advised her to “make the most of it,” not to spend too much time reading in her hotel room. Her stay in Paris was so much more real to them than it was to her.

She listened to them, smiling, nodding occasionally, trying to oblige them, to be the daughter they should have had, docile, innocent, respectful—the Paris lies had already begun, she thought. Truth was an impossibility. They were her mother and father, and they would never, never know who she was, how she lived. Her silence must have disturbed them—every now and then she caught a frightened look in their eyes, as if they were asking, Will she do that? Is that what it will be like?

Her father was signaling to the waiter now. “Gar-song! Gar-song!” he called.

The waiter glided to their table. “M'sieu?” he said discreetly.

“Listen,” her father said, “I think we'll have a little something to drink before dinner.”

“Cocktails, M'sieu?”

“Well, I'd like something sort of special. You see,” he said loudly, “it's a special festive occasion.” He gave Susan and her mother a rather defiant look. “My daughter just graduated from college.”

She wanted to run from the table, she wanted to weep. Why was her father doing this to her? Why was he humiliating her now? Was it because he knew he had won? He would make her hate him for winning. He would make her hate him.

“Perhaps some champagne?” the waiter suggested.

“Champagne—yes, that's what we'll have.” For the first time her father sounded a little nervous. The waiter glided away. “A little champagne won't hurt us.” Her mother's face had gone blank.

They sat in silence until the waiter returned bearing the bottle of champagne wedged into a bucket of ice, the three glasses. Then there was the ritual of pulling the cork—it popped just as if this were a real celebration; the champagne foamed into her glass before she could tell her father she didn't want it.

Her father lifted his glass. “To Susan's happiness,” he said huskily. After a moment, her mother lifted hers too, and didn't smile; there was a pleading softness in her face.

They were doing this because this was what they thought she wanted. They were celebrating her graduation. They were doing this because they loved her.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

S
HE WAS STILL
wearing her white dress. Her image confronted her, submerged in the blue chrome façade of the Riverside Café—a bluish girl in white. She was going to look quite misplaced sitting in the Riverside. A week ago she might have gone back to her room to change. But now it didn't matter what she wore. This was her last night, already slipping away from her.

At dinner, her father had said, “Come back to Cedarhurst with us, Susie. It'll be easier than taking the train tomorrow with a suitcase.” He had suggested it very casually, but she had known how much they both wanted her home that night. It would have been easier in so many ways to have gone with them, except that then everything would have been so incomplete. “But I have an appointment,” she had said, and she hadn't felt that she was lying. If you knew where people would be at a certain time and you knew that you had to see them, it was almost the same as having an appointment.

The Riverside Café was practically empty. A solitary boy was playing the bowling machine and the few anonymous drinkers at the bar were watching an ancient movie on television. As Susan walked in, three characters on the screen burst into a song: “
Lookie, lookie, lookie / Here comes Cookie …
”

“Susan … ” Her name was spoken very quietly by someone who had come up close behind her—a voice she knew. She stood quite still for a moment, feeling an odd little shiver run through her, and then turned.

“Peter!”

He was standing poised like a juggler, a glass of beer balanced in each hand. “
Lookie, lookie, lookie / Here comes Cookie
,” he sang half under his breath, studying her with amused gray eyes, her face briefly, then her dress, then her face again. “Should I congratulate you,” he said, “or not?”

“Maybe you'd better not,” she said, turning her face away.

“Kay told me what happened. Anyway, I like you in that dress.”

“I'll never wear it again,” she said gravely.

He was laughing. “Because I like it?”

“No. Other reasons.” Peter took a gulp of beer from one of the glasses. “Is Kay here?” she said, wishing she had asked it sooner.

“In the back booth,” he said. “I didn't think she was expecting you.”

“Tonight's my last night. I haven't said good-bye to her.”

“She's a bit under the weather. In fact, I was going to take her home and then go to a party. Maybe you'd like to go.”

“I don't know.” She had to stop herself from saying yes. “I'll see what Kay wants to do.”

“It would be better than killing the rest of the night here.”

She followed Peter now as he loped toward the back of the Riverside, his walk more ungainly than usual. He's a little drunk, she thought, feeling a disturbing tenderness for him, for his stooping shoulders, his massive head. Last week she had watched him walk down Broadway and hadn't recognized him at first. Even now she hardly knew him, yet he was someone she would remember; she had come here to say good-bye to him, too. She wondered if he would go off to the party if she couldn't go with him.

Suddenly Peter stopped and faced her. “You didn't come over this week.”

“I was busy.” This was her last night, she reminded herself, a night when nothing could happen. “Did you think I would?” she asked boldly.

“I thought about it now and then.” He wasn't smiling.

She felt ridiculously, dangerously happy. He had wanted to see her—she would remember that. They walked the rest of the way to Kay's booth in silence, not even glancing at each other.

Kay had burrowed herself into the darkest corner of the booth. “Kay!” Peter called sternly, “I've brought a friend of yours.” He set a glass of beer down in front of her.

Kay raised her head and moved slightly out of the darkness. She stared at Susan as if she weren't quite sure she knew her. “I told you I'd get drunk,” she said.

“Well, I guess you did.”

Kay looked so much like a child—not a drunken child but a sleepy one; her cheeks were flushed, her eyes innocent and vulnerable without glasses. “Do you mind?” she said in an elaborate British accent, drawing out the vowels. Susan shook her head. Kay giggled. “Do sit down, duckie.”

“Who are you playing now?” Peter inquired pleasantly. “Eliza Doolittle?”

“No. That's a part for someone very beautiful.”

Susan sat down next to Kay. Shyly, she touched Kay's shoulder. “Hey there, duckie,” she whispered.

Kay's head dropped. “I'm the old charwoman.”

Peter was frowning. “You ought to go home, you know, Kay.”

“I don't want to.”

“I'll walk you home and put you to bed.”

“I will
not
be put!” Kay's voice shook. “I will not be put anywhere.”

Peter shrugged. “Have it your own way.”

“That's right, I will. Besides,” Kay said, “Susan's here. Lovely Susan in her white dress. Peter, let's take Susan to the party.”

“I thought you didn't want to go,” he said.

“I do want to go. I'm drunk enough now. I won't embarrass you by being morbid.”

Peter's face was expressionless. “Drink your beer,” he said.

Obediently Kay picked up her glass. “Susan needs something to drink too, Peter.”

“Oh, that's all right,” Susan said hastily.

But Peter asked, “What would you like to drink, Susan?” as if that were a very important question.

“Beer … I suppose,” she said reluctantly and reached for her purse. She didn't want him to buy her a drink.

Peter's hand closed around her wrist. “This is on me,” he said. “What would you really like to have?”

“Just beer.” Why didn't he take his hand away? Was Kay watching?

“Don't worry,” Kay said, “Peter got his check today. He's bought me hundreds of drinks. When someone wants to buy you a drink, Susan, you must never, never refuse.”

“I'll get Susan a Pernod,” Peter said.

“De-finitely.”

“What's a Pernod?” Susan asked helplessly.

“It tastes like licorice,” Kay giggled.

Peter was smiling. “Your first Pernod!”

“Your first Pernod!” Kay sang. “You'll get very drunk just like me.”

Peter stood up. He had pulled his wallet out of his pocket. Now he took four dollars from it and put the money down on the table in front of Susan. “I owe you this,” he said. Before she could speak, he walked away. The money lay untouched in front of her. It seemed unthinkable to pick it up, put it in her purse.

“Well, did you make the graduation scene? Did your parents have you for dinner?” There was a harshness in Kay's voice. It was strange that drinking didn't mellow Kay—it seemed to make her more bitter, less afraid to hate.

“It wasn't so bad,” Susan said quietly. She didn't feel like talking about any of it—especially about her parents. Her father with his glass of champagne—if she talked about that, it might sound almost funny and she'd feel dirty if anyone laughed.

“You're keeping all your secrets,” Kay said, “and that's because I'm being disgusting—oh yes, I know I am. And you're coming on like such a young lady… . I don't even know why you're here or how you got here. I've been watching the street all day and no one came in.”

“I wanted to see you, so I came,” Susan said, hating the bright voice she used. Was that how sober people talked to drunken ones? Perhaps she should get drunk herself. She wondered how many drinks it would take. “Kay, I'm going back to Cedarhurst tomorrow. And then there'll be the ship—but everything will be formal and ridiculous.”

“I wasn't planning to come to the ship.” Susan felt a stab of pain. Kay was smiling. “But I'll send you a telegram if you like. Would you like a funny telegram?”

“Sure,” Susan said unsteadily.

“I'll have to start thinking of one … ” Kay's voice trailed off; she shut her eyes and then abruptly pitched forward, burying her head in her arms. “Dizzy … ” she murmured.

“Kay … ” Susan shook her gently, but there was no response. “Kay, do you want to sleep?” This time she heard her moan a little. What was the point of waking Kay up, extracting a last night from her—what right had she to do that? Susan leaned back against the booth's green plastic upholstery, the weariness that had been with her for hours washing over her now. Everything had a perfect, terrifying clarity: the cars rushing by on Broadway, Kay's head lying like an object on the table, Peter miles away at the bar—the beautifully preserved world almost lifelike under its layer of ice… .

Eleven o'clock now. Her night was vanishing. She was sitting in the Riverside Café, watching the same door she had watched so many other nights, the door Kay had watched, sitting and waiting for something to happen to her, someone to come in.

Susan found herself standing up. She walked down the long aisle between the booths, past the bowling machine, the cigarette machine, the jukebox. Peter was standing alone at the bar—he didn't see her coming. She knew there would be a stiffness between them at first; she also knew that it would pass.

When she called his name, he turned around so quickly that she wasn't ready for him. “I thought I'd like to sit at the bar.” The words she said sounded wrong, of course—anything would have sounded wrong.

“I was just going to bring you your drink,” she heard him say.

“Oh … that's all right.”

“Well, have a seat if you want to sit here.” Peter motioned at the bar stool next to him. “Bring me another beer, Al,” he called to the bartender. Susan perched herself on the bar stool. “Didn't you and Kay want to talk?” Peter said.

Kay fell asleep.”

“Not very interesting for you. Do you want to put up with me instead, or would you just like to sit at the bar?”

“Oh, I'll talk to you,” she said brightly.

Suddenly Peter smiled. “Don't you want your drink?” He shoved a glass of ice water at her, then a shot glass with something yellow in it. “You see, I did order it. I would have gotten it to you sooner or later.”

“Is this the Pernod?” Susan picked up the shot glass—somehow she couldn't quite bring herself to touch the glass of ice water.

“Wait! Don't drink it like that. You have to mix it.” Peter took the shot glass away from her and poured the yellow liquid into the ice water. The water clouded, became less alarming. She raised the glass to her lips.

“It's good,” she said dubiously. Peter was staring at her, not smiling any longer. “This is a nice drink. You know, I don't like the way most liquor tastes. Maybe I'll get drunk tonight.”

Peter leaned toward her. “Do you want to?”

“I don't know. I thought I might before.” How gray his eyes were, a very cold gray.

“Why would you get drunk?”

“Oh … to find out what it's like. To—make contact, really.” There was a frightening intensity about the way Peter was listening, drawing words from her as if he were pulling thread from a spool. “Is Pernod a very strong drink?” He didn't answer. She picked up her glass again; balancing it on the palm of one hand, she turned it around and around. “Such a cloudy yellow … ”

“You look like my wife, my ex-wife.” She sat motionless. “The way you hold that glass … and that dress… . Did you know I was married once?”

“Well … yes—I did know.” She didn't know what to do, whether to put the glass down or not.

“I suppose it's common knowledge.” Susan said nothing. “Funny that I ordered you Pernod—that's what Carol would always have.”

“Is that her name?”

“Yes. Carol. You don't know whether you like looking like my ex-wife,” he said.

“It's just strange.” It was like looking like someone who had died, she thought, and yet it was somehow exciting to know that you had a particular look; it was proof that you existed, had a face, a shape.

“Her hair was a little longer than yours.” She felt as if he had touched her, as if he had put his hand on her hair. And nothing had happened, nothing at all. Peter sat just as he had been sitting, holding his beer—not even his eyes moved.

“Were you married for a long time?” she asked shyly.

“Two years. I couldn't stand being married. Couldn't fall asleep at night. I'd get up, go out… . It wasn't her fault.”

“Where would you go?”

“Bars,” he said. “A lot of places I can't remember. Sometimes I'd walk for hours—I didn't have a car then. What difference does it make where I went?” he cried. “What a question!”

She could imagine Peter prowling through the city, could see him standing on a street at five o'clock in the morning utterly alone—maybe even happy at that moment in a strange sort of way. What would it be like to love someone like that? Probably awful. Suppose you wanted to go wandering with him and you knew that he would never take you along and night after night you watched him go—and you were never able to say, “Take me with you.” What was it like for Kay? she wondered. She really couldn't even imagine Kay and Peter alone, couldn't think of them as lovers—and yet they made love and Kay loved Peter and Peter loved … no one, except maybe his ex-wife, or the memory, the image of her. If you couldn't love people, you turned them into images.

“Stop thinking,” Peter demanded. “It's very unfriendly. I don't like to sit and watch myself being dissected.” He took the glass out of her hand. “You don't mind if I finish your drink, do you?”

“No.” It gave her an odd pleasure to watch him drink from her glass.

When it was empty he put it down on the bar. “You shouldn't let people take things away from you,” he said. “You shouldn't allow people like me to depress you.”