Time to Go (4 page)

The waterfall stops for a few seconds, starts. Aline and the woman have finished their food and are drinking from their containers. I stand up to go over to her, sit. I'm nervous. My stomach aches a little. It's been a long time. I think I'm afraid of a brushoff. No, I'm sure she'll be polite and probably interested to speak to me. I feel my hair. It's standing up in places and I comb it back flat as I can get it. I'm almost sure she'll be glad to see me. After three years she'll have forgotten or just won't care what went wrong between us. I have. We'll be like two old friends meeting by surprise after a long time, so with none of our defenses prepared, or something like that. It's happened before with others. Only a few people keep that wall up for all occasions, but she's not like that or wasn't. That doesn't change. I look at my nails. Clean enough though the cuticles could use clipping. She used to say I didn't take care of my nails, but I started to soon after we started seeing one another. Continued to also, but I probably haven't paid attention to them the last few days. Try nibbling the worst of the ragged cuticles off and they'd start bleeding. If I don't go over I'll regret it. I'll do something stupid later on, like calling her tonight, if she's still at her old address or in the phonebook. I'll say something on the phone like “I saw you today, I'm sure you didn't me, but I didn't have the courage to go over to you. I was nervous, what can I tell you?” If she then said she also saw me but didn't have the courage to speak to me or whatever, I don't know what I'd say. It'd be a departure point for more conversation though. No. I wouldn't call, though I'd certainly think about doing it. I have to go over. I get up. I carry my sweater and jacket and the paper bag, look for a trash can to throw it in, don't see one, and approach the table. Her friend sees me approaching, pulls herself closer to the table to make more room for me to pass. “No no,” I say, “I just wanted to say hello to Aline.”

Aline starts to turn to me. “Oh no,” she says, covering her eyes with her hands and turning back to her friend, “I don't believe it—I won't. Ty. Oh God, Ty.”

“Yes,” I say. “How are you?”

“I still don't believe it,” Her eyes are still covered. “Oh God, I knew this would happen one day. What did I tell myself to do if it did? I forget. Well, it's a nice place for it to happen, but I don't want it to happen. Deborah, this is going to seem nuts to you, even embarrassing, but this is Ty whom you know about and I don't want to see him, so put up with me for a few minutes? Ty,” her hands still over her eyes, “I don't want to see you. I have my reasons. Believe me I do. I told myself the day I last saw you, whenever that was—”

“Three years ago. Three and a half, even.”

“Whenever, that if I bumped into you—now I remember. Told myself several times and never changed what I said I'd do, that I would do my damndest not to speak to you and to do everything I could to get away quick as I could from you. You know why. No, you probably forgot. No—with your mind?—you know why, though watch, watch, you're now probably going to ask why I'm acting this way.”

“That's right. I'm standing here wondering—”

“You probably think after so long a time that we could just meet and talk and joke and shake hands and ask after each other—well you know, right? Don't answer,” when I'm about to say yes. Deborah's not believing this. She says “If you want me to leave, Aline?”

“You crazy? Don't you dare. Don't you dare. You stay. We're both leaving here together,” Hands still over her eyes, back towards me. People at other tables are looking at us. Almost everyone at the surrounding tables. My stomach hurts worse than before. I don't understand why she's doing this. “Think I'm crazy,” Aline says to me, hands, back, the same way. “Think anything, but what you did will take six more years to make me bump in to you normally and say hello and how is the family and your mother who I hope is still living and healthy—”

“She is.”

“And your sister and nephew and what you've been doing and so on and so on. Six more years. But not now. And don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about.”

“I—”

“If you don't it's because you don't want to. Because, if you're not lying, you've pushed the whole thing out of your head because you're so goddamned ashamed of it. But this,” she says, “this,” turning to me and tapping her nose, “just remember this. Deborah, please help me out of here. If my feet make it I'll be very surprised.” she stands. Deborah stands, holding their drink containers. “Leave them. I'll buy us two new ones somewhere. Or a drink. A real drink. I'll need one. I don't care if I come back to work high.”

“What do you mean ‘This, this, remember this'?” I say. “Deb, please, lead me out.” She holds out her hand. “What about our garbage?” Deborah says.

“Leave everything. Sometimes you just have to go. Please.” She shakes her hand in the air. Deborah takes it and starts leading her out.

“You've really embarrassed me,” I say. “You're embarrassing me and you're embarrassing yourself and your friend. Why couldn't you have just said, hello and goodbye and be done with it?” Deborah leads her around several tables and chairs, lets go of her hand when they're in the clear, and they leave the park. I don't understand why she acted like that. And that “This, this, remember this.” People around me are looking at me or doing their best not to. I don't know what to do. To leave the park or sit someplace in it away from this spot. Right next to the waterfall to think. I leave the park, go the opposite way they went, the longer way for me but I don't want to bump into her again today. I go back to work trying to figure out why she acted that way. She asked me to leave then and I did. I phoned the next day or a few days later I now remember and asked if I could pick up my things. She said they were already packed and she'd send a friend over with them. Okay. That friend came. A man. Man and woman, actually—they said someone else was waiting in their car downstairs. Their child, that's right, and Aline had said the man was an old school friend from out of town. I asked them, I think—yes, I did, if Aline was very depressed, because she sounded so over the phone, and they said yes or one of them did, but both looked at me as if I was the worst person they ever met. So what did I do then to make them look at me that way and Aline to act as she did today? I hit her the day I left. That's right. I didn't want to leave, she wanted me to, we got into an argument, and I hit her in the face. Probably in the nose. Then she screamed, at me or because of the pain, and I turned around, opened the door, slammed it shut and called maybe a week later it was, maybe two, and asked for my things. Her friends came. I never apologized to her. Never asked if I'd hurt her. All right. I forgot the whole thing.

At night I think of calling her. To say I forgot, that I'm sorry for what happened three years ago, that I didn't want to bring it up again now but I had to, that she was right about me today, that I now understand why she got so upset. But she'll probably hang up before I can say a few words. I look for her name in the phone book. I've looked it up before—last year. And the year before that. Her name was at the same address those two times. I looked it up then and maybe more times than that to see if she was still living there. Her name's still at that address. The heck with it, I'll call. If she screams on the phone, hangs up, then that will be the end of ever calling her. Maybe then I could write her an apology for hitting her three years ago and an explanation for today. I dial her. She answers with a hello. I hang up. I didn't have the nerve. She'll know it's me unless someone else has been doing that to her lately. Then she'll only think that perhaps it's me, or maybe not. I get out the book I've been reading, make myself a brandy and soda. I have four brandy and sodas while I read and then feel tired and go to bed. Tomorrow's work.

I wake up around three to go to the bathroom. I go back to sleep and dream about her. She's clothed. I'm sitting on our old bed in her apartment now without any clothes. She sits beside me, says “Open your mouth, I want to kiss you.” She kisses me as I've never been kissed in a dream. It's the longest kiss I've ever had in a dream or out of one. I almost faint in the dream during that kiss. The dream ends when she takes her lips off mine and says “That was a good kiss, wasn't it? I know it was for you. You lovely man. We know how to kiss.” I don't go back to sleep. I try but can't. I think about the dream and that it was a very exciting one but what does it mean? As far as I know, I don't long for her. I no longer love her. Obviously the kiss dream is tied in with seeing her and dreaming about her yesterday, or is it? Because what about my lovemaking dream with her yesterday? What's that tied to? It doesn't matter. Dreams are dreams. They mean one thing, they mean another, they mean many things. I'm not much for interpreting my dreams. I like them when they're good. I wouldn't mind dreaming of her every night if I could always have such exciting dreams. Now, if I saw her today on the street or somewhere, that would be different. Then I'd think that maybe my dreams mean something important. That suddenly they've begun to predict when I'm going to bump into someone, or at least her. I can't get back to sleep. I turn on the light and read till about the time I usually get out of bed on a workday.

I wash, shave, do my morning things, go to work. I spend my lunch hour sitting by the fountain in front of the Plaza Hotel. I sort of look for her while I'm there and on the street, but don't see her. I go back to work, finish for the day, go home. I think of calling up a friend if she wants to have dinner here tonight, but I don't feel I'll be good company. I make a salad, finish the book I've been reading and start another. I have several brandy and sodas. I get very tired and go to bed. I wouldn't mind having another exciting dream with her tonight. I go to sleep and wake up around eight without being aware of having had any dreams at all.

His father came home from the army a year after V-J day to the day. Don waited for him at the Columbus Avenue corner of their block but his father came up from the Amsterdam Avenue corner and was home an hour before Don gave up his wait.

“We've a little baby,” Don said on the phone. “Well, of course, little. Well, not of course ‘little.' It could've been a big baby—big for a newborn baby. In other words—ah, I'm too excited to talk. Just that you're a grandmother again and of a girl. Now I have to phone Lucy's folks.”

It rained heavily the night his wife left. He said when she was at the door and the taxi was honking downstairs “This is a lot like a lot of the novels I used to read in my twenties and some of those movies too and which now turn up on TV. When the wife or husband leaves or the lover or newborn baby dies, it often poured and the hero would walk out of the hospital that night into the driving rain.” His wife said “Sometimes life is like that, sometimes it isn't. I suppose in those books and movies the rain was supposed to add drama, but here it's just anticlimactic.” “What do you mean?” he said but she said “Just don't walk in it after I leave—you'll catch a bad cold,” and grabbed her valise and opened the door. His two daughters and father-in-law were waiting in the cab.

“I love you,” a girlfriend said to him. “I can't believe this. You're such a screwy mixed-up angry guy and not at all goodlooking, though you got a perfect physique, or with much of a future ahead of you from what I can see—and in dancing no less; what will people think? But I love you. What does that make me: screwy, mixed-up and angry too? Who cares right now. Prove you're no pansy. Do me.”

“God be with you,” the beggar said on the street today when Don gave him a dollar. “And if he doesn't get with you, get mean with him. That's what I do. Yell at him, scream, say ‘God, what's with you today, man, huh, huh?' It works.”

When he was a boy and there was lightning out as there is tonight and he was asleep, he'd wake up in a panic and crawl under the bed with his covers and clamp the pillow over his head and in the morning wake up and wonder for a minute how he got there.

He remembers when his sister came home from the hospital when she was born. The buzzer from the building's vestibule rang. His babysitter rang back whoever it was and Don opened the door. His parents and brothers were walking up the stairs, his father holding his sister. “Here she is,” his father said, “a present for you. Now you're no longer the youngest,” and he put Rita into Dan's arms.

After they were called out for the last time, he didn't know what to think. Either I did well, very well, or I'm fooling myself and I just did adequately and maybe even poorly, because the audience goes wild on premiere night and especially for a young dancer who replaces the not-so-popular soloist at only a few hours' notice.

The cats whined and rubbed up against his ankles and he fed them for what he thought would be the last time. About ten minutes later, while they were licking each other's faces, his wife called from the corner phone booth and he put the cats into their traveling case and carried them and their kitty litter box and what was left in the kitty litter bag downstairs.

He met a woman in a theater lobby. They talked during the two intermissions and after the, ballet she suggested he come home with her for lots of “wine, wooing and womance.” They took a cab to her apartment and after they had some wine he tried to kiss her and she held him at arm's length and said “Not now, not tomorrow, not ever if you mind it with a guy who's better at part of it than any woman can be and who's going in for an operation next month to complete the job.” “Goodnight,” Don said, and the man started to cry.

He goes over to the dinner table, looks at the elaborate salad he prepared and main and side dishes he cooked for three hours tonight, and goes into the bedroom with a bottle of wine and a juice glass and shuts the door and turns on the TV.