I Loved You Wednesday (25 page)

“I hope you’re covered for this, Steve. The lawsuit’s going to be a dilly!”

“Let me kiss the boo-boo.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s covered in blood.”

“Perfect. I have it on very good authority Blood is the next Flavor of the Month.”

“My knee hurts.”

“I know. I’m sorry. What can I do?”

“Carry me.”

“Carry you?”

“Yes.”

“Home?”

“No. Not home.”

“Where then?”

“Back to the ice-cream store.”

“Anything you say.” I lift Chris, carrying her down Columbus Avenue, back toward Baskin-Robbins, the way Clark Gable carried Vivien Leigh up the stairs.

“Steve?” asks Chris, twirling my hair and wiping the ice cream off my face.

“Yes?”

“Would you do me a favor now that I’m a patient?”

“Anything!”

“This time out would you choose Bubble Gum?”

“Gladly!” I say, kissing her on the lips with my toffee-stained mouth.

We return to the apartment around eight and after I play Dr. Kildare, tending to the small cut on Chris’ knee,she kisses me and then hurries to change, since this is the night she’s accompanying Astin to that party he’s asked her to.

Astin comes calling for her about half an hour later, decked out in a snappy, though bizarre, all-off-white suit-shirt-tie-shoes combo. He’s even dyed his mustache off-white for the occasion. And, if memory serves, his whole ensemble appears to be of the same off-white as the paintings he displayed in his apartment.

The two of us awkwardly sit there while his date continues getting ready in the other room. And while drumming up light chatter, I feel very much like a father whose daughter’s having her first prom, saddling me with the inestimable pleasure of entertaining her gentleman caller while she hurries about with last-minute preparations.

At last the bedroom door swings open, and a very radiant Chris, in a blue-and-white polka-dotted pleated dress and a matching blue-and-white polka-dotted Band-Aid on her knee, dances into the room, very Loretta Young, announcing gaily, “I’m ready for the ball!”

And so, off go Cinderella and Prince Charming, skipping out the door, on their merry way, leaving me and the mice and the bulldogs alone to fend for ourselves.

I spend the evening with a couple of old movies on the tube and go to sleep somewhere around one. Chris arrives home around six in the morning and, after undressing, nudges into bed next to me.

“Have a good time?” I ask, more asleep than awake.

“It was okay.” Chris sighs just before falling asleep herself.

Late the following afternoon, after a very lazy Sunday hanging around the house, while Chris is downstairs visiting Marie, the telephone rings.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Steve?”

“Yes?”

“Hi!” says a very chummy voice on the other end. “It’s Bradley!”

Did he say Bradley? “Who?” I ask.

“Brad. Bradley Forrester! How are you?”

“Fine thanks. How are you?” I offer, like I almost cared, busy trying to think what could possibly have prompted his calling.

“Can’t complain.”

That’s a relief. “Good.”

“Chris home?”

This is a very confusing conversation. “Chris?”

“Yeah. Chris.”

“Oh. No. Sorry.” Why am I apologizing? “She’s downstairs visiting a neighbor.”

“Okay. Will you tell her she left her wallet at my place last night?”

Wait a minute! Will I tell her what?

“You there, Steve?”

“Huh?”

“Are-you-there?”

“Yes. Yes. Right here. Yes. I’ll . . . I’ll tell her that.”

“Thanks a lot. Tell her I’ll bring it to the bar tonight. She can pick it up there if she likes. Will you give her the message?”

“Oh, I’ll give her the message!”

“Thanks a lot, old buddy. See you soon, huh?”

“Sure, sure, Bradley. Whatever you say.”

As I hang up the phone, Chris walks into the apartment. I’m still in such a state of confusion I haven’t even had time to consider what any of all this might mean so, ever the faithful courier, I deliver the message.

“Bradley just called,” I say, calm and matter-of-fact.

“WHAT?” asks Chris, more taken by my dim tone I’m sure than anything else.

“You left your wallet.”

Chris looks at me.

I look back at her.

She says nothing.

I say nothing.

At last she screws up her face and, in a slightly sharp and insistent tone, sighs, “I suppose you want an explanation!”

“No. I’m not sure that I do.”

“Or an apology?”

“It’s not necessary.”

“You’re not interested in what happened?”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested, Chris. I said you owe me no explanation.”

“It doesn’t bother you that I was with someone else last night!”

“Doesn’t it?”

“How would I know? Look how you’re acting.”

“How am I acting?”

“You don’t seem affected by it at all.”

“How do you know that?”

“You’re so calm.”

“So?”

“So nothing. I suppose if it bothered you, you might show some reaction.”

“Is that what you want—some reaction?”

“Is that what I want?”

“Yeah, Chris. Is that what you want? You’ve got to tell me these things, kiddo. I can’t get through to that warped brain if I don’t know what you’re expecting. Tell you what! Why don’t you just lay out the scene as you’d like it and I promise to play the teeth off it. You want me blowing up in a fit of jealous rage? I will! You want me comforting and understanding? You got it! You want me pained and wounded? Fine, I’ll be pained and wounded! Just tell me what part I should take, and I promise we’ll play the scene however you wish. What’s your pleasure?”

“I don’t like your attitude!”

“What makes you think I’m so fond of yours?”

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what? I told you. I don’t understand either the motivation or the subtext of the scene. I’m waiting for you to explain it. Then I’ll know how to react. But it’s your show.

You gotta call the shots. ‘Cause honest to shit, Chris, especially after that great day we had together yesterday, I’ve no idea what the fuck’s going on.”

“There’s not really much to it.”

“No.”

“No. Actually, it was all kind of innocent.”

“I’d be most interested to hear how.”

“Well, the party ended around two, and neither Astin nor I was tired yet. We figured you were asleep and didn’t want to wake you, so we decided to go for a nightcap.”

“To the Blue Owl?”

“Right. Which we did, and as it turns out, Bradley was working last night and was very glad to see us, being most attentive, and as chance would have it, his wife was out of town on business and so he asked me back to his place after he got off work, you know, just for old times’ sake. Honest, Steve. It was no big deal!”

“I’m sure it was no big deal, Chris.”

“I mean I didn’t even enjoy it. Thought of
you
the whole time.”

“I’m honored!”

“It’s true, damn it! He means nothing to me!”

“I’m sure.”

“I don’t like you when you’re smug. Christ, it was just a lark.”

“To hurt me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“How should I know?”

“You’ve got to, Chris. You’re the one writing the goddamn script!”

“What can I tell you?”

“You can tell me one small thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Why?”

“Why’d I do it?”

“No. Not why you did it. Though we’ll try to get back to that. More immediate, I want to know why you felt it so essential I find out about it.”

“That’s not true.”

“NO? How come he called here so casually?”

“I told him I’d moved in with you, of course.”

“But not that we’d become lovers?”

“No.”

“So he still thinks we’re just friends! Why didn’t you tell him the truth?”

“Too complicated. We were only together a few hours.”

“That’s my point.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Chris, you raving troublemaker. You’re as subtle as a cyclone. Don’t you see? First you let him think it’s perfectly all right to call here should he have the need to. Then you create the need, fucking your way to the bottom, leaving your wallet at his place, so of course he calls. Which all means, dummy, you thought it more important that I
find out
what you did behind my back than what you were actually doing behind my back! And if that’s too obscure for you, it all comes down to your wanting to hurt me. AND I DON’T LIKE TO BE HURT, UNDERSTAND? PARTICULARLY BY MAD WOMEN WHOM, FOR REASONS I OFTEN HAVE GREAT DIFFICULTY UNDERSTANDING, I HAPPEN TO HAVE THE MISFORTUNE OF BEING IN LOVE WITH! AND I DON’T CARE HOW FUCKING NEUROTIC YOU GET, SHIT-HEAD, I THINK HURTING SOMEONE YOU LOVE IS AS DUMB AND SELFISH AND DOWNRIGHT DESTRUCTIVE AS ANYONE CAN GET AND YOU CAN JUST GO TO HELL IF YOU PLAN TO SPEND MUCH MORE OF YOUR TIME DOING THINGS LIKE THIS AGAIN. I DON’T MIND YOUR BEING CRAZY CHRIS, BUT DON’T DRIVE ME OVER THE CLIFF WITH YOU BECAUSE ONE OF US SHOULD STAY AWAKE AND SINCE YOU’RE ALWAYS OFF IN DISNEYLAND, I GUESS IT HAS TO BE ME!”

Hurrying over to her constant companion, the box of tissues on the windowsill, Chris sobs. “Oh, Steve! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! It was such a stupid thing to do. So dumb. But

... I don’t know ... I love you so much and you upset me so terribly sometimes, I think I’m losing you. I guess I was just lashing out the only way I know how.”

“But what’d I do that was so awful?”

“What?”

“What’d I do to get you so upset?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, what’d I do to make you want to hurt me so?”

“I really don’t know.”

“Don’t you?”

“Well ... I guess I just wanted to prove there are men around who still find me sexually attractive.”

Taking a very deep breath, I slump down onto the couch. “You, my dear Chris, are the most tiring person I’ve ever tried to keep up with. If I could only find a handle on you.”

Chris hurries over to me, taking hold of my hands. “Oh, Steve, my darling. Will you forgive me? Will you ever forgive me?”

I look at her very, very serious, saying, “Only if that’s what you want.”

“How should I know what I want, Steve?”

“Sad but true.”

“How nice you understand me so well,” she says, blowing her nose.

“Sad but true.”

“And I love you for it.”

“And I love you, Chris. They’re going to have to give us a double room at Happydale for our mutual breakdowns, but I’m at least gonna go down fighting.”

“Sad but true.” Chris sighs in agreement, coming still closer, tentatively sliding her arms around my neck before squeezing me tightly in what turns out to be, all things considered, a surprisingly affectionate embrace.

The following morning, after breakfast, Chris runs out of the apartment for several audition appointments, naturally already late.

Returning several hours later, we rush to each other,embracing like prisoners of war reuniting with their loved ones.

“Well, I did it!” exclaims Chris, in perhaps the happiest tone I’ve heard all month.

“What’s that?” I ask, excitedly returning her enthusiasm.

“Called Mr. Taylor, my landlord, and gave him thirty-day notice on my apartment!”

Stung and disbelieving, I stare at Chris and dumb-foundedly say, “I don’t understand.”

“I’m giving up my apartment!” she repeats.

“Why, Chris? Why did you do that?” I ask, suddenly burning up inside.

My cover must be fairly well masquerading my dismay. Chris still bubbles. “I don’t know. Sort of a spur-of-the-moment inspiration, I guess. It suddenly dawned upon me how foolish we are to be paying two rents. That’s all. Isn’t it super?”

“Why wasn’t I consulted?” I ask, sober as possible, though still seething within.

“I thought you’d be thrilled!”

“That has nothing to do with it! Of course, I think it’s a fabulous idea to live together. But not yet. In time. We’re having too many problems now for that. Don’t you see how your going off and doing something like this, without talking to me first, is just looking for more trouble?”

“I thought you’d jump for joy, you bastard.”

Something, somewhere smack between my lungs, is starting to burn. Like a slow-mounting explosion, I feel the hostility building up, on its way out. I try pushing it down, practically gritting my teeth to keep it there.