Leap Year (7 page)

Finally Loren spoke. “Okay,” she said. She opened the door and got out. The cab drove away. Loren stood and watched it disappear.

T
AMMI WAS RUMMAGING
through the goblet of goldfish crackers, searching for the pizza-flavored ones. It was early Friday evening, and the Cafe Wisteria was dead—just a platoon of Japanese businessmen who had wandered up from the Vista and a middle-aged lady nursing a cranberry juice spritzer at the bar. The men were drinking bottles of champagne and acting giggly.

“They’re kind of cute,” Tammi said to Heath.

“It should be a great tip,” said Heath.

“Let’s hope so. I need some bucks. I’m thinking about making a movie. I think performance art is dying. You know what I think is next?”

“What?” asked Heath.

“I think bad art films are going to be very hot. After all this Andy Warhol stuff there’s gonna be a resurgence of interest in that kind of shit. You don’t have a video camera, do you?”

“No,” said Heath.

“Too bad,” said Tammi. “What’s the story with your show? Is it still happening?”

“I think so,” said Heath. “I’m waiting to hear from Amanda Paine. We still have to hash out the details.”

“That’s so wild,” said Tammi. “It’s un-fucking-believable.”

“I know,” said Heath. “I just hope it all works out.”

“It’ll work,” said Tammi. “You’re golden.”

The cranberry spritzer lady signaled Heath. He walked down to the other end of the bar.

“Can I get you another?” he asked.

“Oh,” said the woman. “No thanks. I just…uh, are you Heath Jackson?”

“Yes,” said Heath.

“Hi,” said the woman. “I’m Lillian Galton. I’m a friend of David’s.”

“Oh, right,” said Heath. “David’s mentioned you. You had the party, right? The spring thing?”

“Yes,” said Lillian. “Listen, I’m sorry to come down here and bother you at work and all, but I just thought you’d like to…I don’t know. You see, David’s in the hospital, and I know he’s had a hard time getting in touch with you, but I thought you might like to know.”

“Jesus,” said Heath. “What’s wrong?”

“He had an accident with a candle and burned his fingers. And they got infected, and his whole arm blew up. So he’s on intravenous antibiotics.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“I think so,” said Lillian. “I went to see him today and he seems—well, he seems pretty depressed. And I know, I mean, I know about you and him, although I don’t know what’s going on, and I know it’s not my business, but I just thought you might want to know what happened. I had the feeling he wanted you to know.”

“Did he ask you to come down here?”

“No,” said Lillian. “But he talked about you.”

“Where is he? What hospital?”

“St. Luke’s,” said Lillian.

“Do you know how long he’ll be there?”

“I’m not sure. Just a couple of days, I think.” She stood up. “How much do I owe you?”

“Oh,” said Heath. “Nothing. Please, it’s on me. Are you sure I can’t get you another? Or something else?”

“No thanks,” said Lillian. “I’ve got to run.”

“It was nice to meet you,” said Heath, “and thanks for letting me know about David.” He watched Lillian leave. She stood outside for a moment, as if she were looking for a taxi, and then started walking uptown.

The truth was that Heath missed David, although he had been trying to convince himself otherwise. There was something a little frightening about falling in love with someone who didn’t completely share your sexual orientation. It wasn’t that they had bad or too little sex, it was just that there was always this specter of David’s heterosexual past looming. Heath sometimes felt as if he were participating unwillingly in a sort of psychic
ménage à trois.

“Who was that?” Tammi asked.

“A friend of David’s,” said Heath. “He’s in the hospital.”

“Why?” asked Tammi.

“He burned his fingers. I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in a while. I think you may be right about him.”

“What? That he’s too old for you?”

“Yeah. I think he’s too old and too straight.”

“Older straight men are weird,” said Tammi. “I used to go out with this guy. He was like forty or something. He used Grecian Formula on his chest hair, because it was turning gray. I liked it gray, you know, it was sexy, but he had this complex about it. Anyway, when we made love he’d sweat, and the dye would run off and stain my tits. It was a mess.”

Loren brought David his favorite things: a banana Frozfruit, a can of Diet Dr. Pepper, a copy of
People
with Burt Reynolds and Loni Anderson, finally married, on the cover, and the next week’s
New York Times Book Review.

“Where’s Kate?” David asked.

“She’s at the planetarium. Remember that birthday party I told you about?”

“Oh, right,” said David. “Did you tell her?”

“What?”

“That I’m in the hospital.”

“No. I just said you were sick. She sends you a kiss,” Loren said. “So you will be all better. Consider it delivered.”

“A theoretical kiss,” said David.

Loren smiled. “The Frozfruit is melting,” she said. “Do you want it?”

“No thanks,” said David. “You eat it. I’ll have the soda.”

They ate and drank very carefully, as if it required all their concentration. David burped. “Excuse me,” he said.

They finished their picnic in silence. Loren stood up and looked out the window. “What a pretty view,” she said. Then she sat back down.

“I don’t know if you want to talk about things or not,” she said, “but I just want to say I’m sorry. I feel as if I did a poor job explaining myself the other night.”

“I’m sorry, too,” said David. “I don’t know why I flipped out like that. But it’s okay. I mean, you are moving to Los Angeles. You don’t have to explain that to me. I think we should stop trying to explain ourselves to each other. It just fucks things up.”

“Will you explain one thing to me?” Loren asked.

David shrugged. “What?” he asked.

Loren motioned with her head at his bandaged hand, which sat like a claw in his lap. “Why did you do that?” she asked. “You did it deliberately, didn’t you?”

David looked down at his hand. Deliberately, he thought. It seemed a strange word. “No,” he said. “It was just an accident.”

“Can I ask you something else?” asked Loren.

“Ask me anything,” said David.

“Do you hate me?”

David looked at her, then back at his hand. It felt disembodied, like a white-wrapped gift. His feeling tapered off somewhere below his elbow. “Sometimes,” he said. “A little.”

“I hate you, too,” Loren said. “Sometimes, a little.”

“Why?” asked David.

Loren nodded again at David’s hand. “What you did…for whatever reasons…I think it was a weak thing to do. I think you’ve become weak, somehow, that you feel sorry for yourself, that you blame things on me. Things that aren’t my fault.”

“Oh,” said David. And then, after a pause, “I did this, I think, because my heart was breaking. I know that sounds stupid, but it’s true. Your moving away and taking Kate—mostly taking Kate— finishes something. The idea of our family. That was still intact, somehow, and now it isn’t. And I felt my heart breaking and so I burned my fingers to feel a different pain.”

“If that is true, it’s sick,” said Loren. “You shouldn’t hurt yourself for love.”

“What should you hurt yourself for?” asked David. “Commerce?”

“No,” said Loren. “You shouldn’t hurt yourself period.”

“You say that because it would never occur to your heart to break. That’s why I hate you sometimes…I hate your unbreakable heart.”

Loren stood up. She looked out the window again, at the pretty view. She felt clear-headed and a little euphoric. I’ve never understood things so well, she thought; this all finally makes sense to me. It was as if she were standing over a simmering pot and all the liquid had boiled away, revealing the clean-picked, scrutable bones of her marriage.

“If you think that,” Loren said, “if you think my heart is unbreakable, you know it less well than I always imagined you did.”

She sat back down. For a while they said nothing. They were thinking, We have said terrible, truthful things to each other and if we don’t apologize or take them back, there will always be this gulf between us, and they sat on either side of the gulf, feeling it widen between them, and neither of them made a move to speak and when they were as far apart as they could get, they turned to each other and smiled, for they both realized they felt suddenly free, all the knots that had been tying them together so quickly undone, like magic.

Loren stood up. “I’ve got to pick up Kate,” she said.

David nodded.

“Are you okay?” Loren asked. “Is there anything else you want?”

David shook his head. Loren reached down and touched his healthy hand, just for an instant, and then left. A young man was waiting outside the door, holding a sheaf of purple irises. He backed away, smiling at Loren. It was not until she was descending in the elevator that it occurred to her that the young man with the flowers must be Heath.

Loren found a police car double-parked outside of Charlotte Wallace’s brownstone on East 70th Street and much pandemonium inside.

Charlotte was standing in the living room surrounded by two policemen, a dozen shrieking girls in party dresses, several mothers, and two clowns disguised as farm animals. “Oh, my God,” she said when she saw Loren, “do you have Kate?”

“No,” said Loren. “Why?”

“Are you Mrs. Parish?” a cop asked her.

“Yes,” said Loren.

“Sit down,” said the cop.

“Why?” said Loren.

“Are you sure you don’t have Kate?” Charlotte Wallace screamed.

“Wait,” said the cop to Charlotte. “Follow me.” He led Loren into the kitchen. A maid was pouring half-full cups of obscenely colored punch down the sink.

“Would you excuse us?” the cop asked.

When they were alone, Loren said, “What’s going on? Where’s Kate?”

“We have reason to believe your daughter’s been kidnapped,” the cop said. “But please don’t panic. We know who did it and we should have her back any minute.”

“T
HE NURSE WILL GET A VASE,”
said David, who had no vessel for the flowers Heath had brought him. David smelled them and then lay them beside him on the bed.

“I’m sorry,” said Heath. “I should have known to bring a vase, or a plant, or something. I’m not very good at these things.”

They both looked for a moment at the irises as if they might speak.

“Was that Loren who was just in here?” Heath asked.

“Yes,” said David.

“She’s very beautiful,” said Heath. David didn’t answer. “Are you okay? I mean, I know you’re not okay, I mean, is this a bad time? Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” said David. “It’s nice to see you. I had just about given up on you. How did you know I was here?”

“Your friend Lillian told me. She came by the Hysteria last night. She’s nice.”

“I know,” said David.

“I’m sorry I didn’t…you know, return your calls and stuff. I know I’ve been a jerk. I was just trying to figure things out.”

“Did you?” asked David.

“Not really,” said Heath. “I’ve been kind of o.o.c. lately.”

“What’s that?” asked David.

“Out of control,” said Heath.

“Welcome to the club.”

“So what happened?” said Heath, nodding at David’s infamous fingers.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said David. “It’s pretty embarrassing. I’m okay. I’ll never play the piano again, but I’m okay.”

Heath laughed, which was nice to hear. David hadn’t seen him in two weeks, and he looked different somehow. Heath looked older. His forehead was troubled. David resisted the urge to touch it. He withdrew his healthy hand from beneath the sheet and lay it beside the irises, palm up, fingers splayed, near Heath’s knee.

“I’m tired,” David said. “They’re giving me some awful drugs here.”

“Do you want me to leave?” asked Heath.

“No,” said David. “I just don’t feel like talking. Read me something from
People.
Something funny. Read me about Burt and Loni getting married.”

Heath picked up the copy of
People
that lay on David’s bed. He looked through the pages of pictures, trying to find Burt and Loni. When he was little he had had a crush on Burt Reynolds. It was almost okay to have a crush on Burt Reynolds because everyone knew Burt Reynolds was sexy. Even men. Now Heath wasn’t little anymore. Was Burt Reynolds still sexy? Burt Reynolds had changed. There he was, coming out of the church, beside Loni. Here I am, thought Heath. He started to read the story of Burt and Loni getting married, but when he looked up, David was sleeping. Or maybe he had just closed his eyes. Heath stared at David’s hand, empty, on the bed. That’s how it looked to Heath: empty. Like a bowl. You could pour water into it. You could put your cigarette out in it. You could put your hand in it.

Charlotte Wallace stormed into the kitchen. “It was Lyle,” she said. “The bastard.”

“What?” said Loren.

“Lyle,” repeated Charlotte. “He kidnapped Kate.”

“Who’s Lyle?” asked Loren.

“Her husband,” said the cop. “He called and left a message.”

“My ex-husband,” said Charlotte. “Give me a break. We’re having a little disagreement about child custody.”

“So why did he kidnap my daughter?” asked Loren.

“He was trying to kidnap
my
Kate,” Charlotte explained. “The moron couldn’t even kidnap the right child.”

“I’m sure when he realizes he’s got the wrong kid, he’ll return your child,” the cop told Loren. “Listen, you don’t look so good. Is there a quiet place where Mrs. Parish could sit down?” he asked Charlotte.

“My bedroom’s at the top of the stairs,” said Charlotte.

“Mike, why don’t you take Mrs. Parish upstairs? I’ll talk to Mrs. Wallace and join you in a minute. Would you like a drink, Mrs. Parish?”

“I don’t want a drink,” said Loren, trying to control her voice. “I want to know what’s going on! I want my daughter!”

“That’s what we want, too,” the first cop said.

The cop named Mike took her by the arm and led her out of the kitchen.