Aftermath of Dreaming (17 page)

As Michael's car careens along, I think about the phone calls I used to have with Andrew. Hours of me talking and him listening, and him remembering practically everything. Andrew Madden with his huge career and insanely busy life always had time to listen to me, and this SOB sitting next to me can't even hear three sentences without getting distracted by his fucking radio. But Andrew's not around and Michael is. And maybe Michael can give that to me when things at the station settle down. Just stop comparing Michael to Andrew—as long as I do that, no one can win.

 

The cross above my bedroom door is the first thing I see when Michael wakes me hours later in the middle of the night. I nailed it up there last week, hoping its protection would extend from vampires to nightmares, but even though it hasn't worked, I can't bring myself to take it down. Maybe its protective powers just need some time to kick in; its safeguarding ability will emerge once God finally gets word it was hung.

I pull the covers back so Michael and I can get under them and sleep properly in bed. Our clothes are long off, and the protected interior air of my bedroom is a few degrees cooler than pleasant on my skin. I remember Nekked Man and hope he found more clothes somewhere tonight and is asleep someplace safe.

“That was the best sleep,” Michael says as he stretches. He sounds oddly done. “I've only been getting like four or five hours a night since I took over the station, but, man, those three hours felt like nine. That was amazing.” He kisses my shoulder and neck and arm. “You are amazing.”

We kiss some more, and I am moving down his body with my mouth when Michael suddenly tells me he has to go.

“Go where? No. Stay here.”

“I can't, Yvette, I need to be at the station really early tomorrow, and you know, traffic on the freeways is a bitch.”

“On a Sunday?”

He kisses my mouth and hands. “It's important I'm there. Right now is a very—”

“Crucial time,” I finish for him.

He looks so appreciative of my understanding that I feel bad that I didn't really mean it, so suddenly I do.

 

Listening to Michael's rhythmic footsteps going down the stairs, I wonder if the noise will awaken Gloria and bring flashbacks of her “visitors,” but my screams don't seem to register on her, so maybe footsteps won't, either.

I wish Michael had stayed. Jesus, he's so into his work, but maybe he just needs more time and then he'll be like that about us. The outline of my body still feels nicely blurred from Michael's skin, weight, and hands on me. The pillow is under my head, the blanket pulled up right; bed, sleep, and me start combining, becoming an undifferentiated dream. Everything with Michael is fine; we're taking it slow, which is what I wanted to do. I hope going back to sleep at this hour will prevent the scream dream. Or thoughts about Andrew. Where did that come from? For God's sake, I was thinking about Michael.

But not anymore, I guess. Andrew is in my mind as solidly as a body in my bed, the way his hands felt on me, his eyes on mine. Fuck. Michael, why aren't you canceling out Andrew? Okay, I just need to see Michael more, that's all, get really hooked in with him, then Andrew will be a thing of my past, never to be thought of or seen by me again. I hope.

But really kind of don't.

Fuck.

The day after Andrew left New York
for Malaysia to shoot
Paradise Again
with Lily Creed, a day that I wished his being on the other side of the world would magically end so he'd be in New York with me again, Peg called to tell me that I would be having dinner that Friday evening with Tory and seven men. She didn't say it quite like that—seven men—but as she rattled off their names, a few I knew from reading
ArtForum,
I noticed they were all masculine. Dinner at an Italian restaurant in SoHo at eight-thirty, did I need directions or could I find it?

I had heard of the place and had passed it many times on my way to and from Sexton Space. It was garnering a lot of attention. The owner was from Milan and had a restaurant there that was famous and essential with the fashion and art crowd, and his New York location was just as instantly in demand.

I would have to juggle my schedule at work, though I didn't bother Peg with that detail, would have to beg Lydia to cover for me, which she
probably would once she heard where I was going and what it was for. Lydia lived for the restaurant scene, and if she wasn't going, she was happy to live through it vicariously.

 

On the afternoon of my dinner with Tory and the seven dwarfs, as Carrie was calling them, she and I were sitting at the kitchen table deciding what I should wear. Carrie was suggesting outfits made up partly from her wardrobe and partly from mine while reading aloud personal ads in the
Village Voice
. We were almost settled on an outfit, though were still going back and forth about the shoes, when suddenly the cat jumped onto Carrie's lap, startling her into moving the paper which caused the fine corner of the front page to scratch my eye. It didn't require my going to an emergency room, but the result was a constantly crying left eye. No matter how long I kept a bag of frozen peas on it, a stream of tears kept pouring down, so my right profile looked fine, but from the left, I looked like a weeping Picasso come to life. The two sides of my face did not match.

It was horrendous and there was no way I was going to dinner like that. I was all ready to call Peg to cancel, but Carrie convinced me that would be a bad move—all those important men's schedules arranged for one night to meet me. Just go and explain what happened, they'll understand, she was sure. So off I went in an outfit that I felt great in, at least, because the left side of my face still had tears running down it, but hopefully it would be too dark in the restaurant for anyone to really see.

The loud, chic Italian restaurant was perfectly lit for the patrons to look great, but especially to be seen by everyone else since that, more than eating, was the point of the place. In the well-lit space, I had to zigzag through closely packed tables while everyone craned their heads to see who had come in, which added to the ersatz runway experience of walking in. Tory's table was in a private room in the back with two men in dark suits standing at each side of the door. They appeared to be on guard, and eventually I realized they were—one of the seven men was from a large prominent family in Milan that controlled all kinds of
things, is one way to say it, and they belonged to him. Tory spoke to him only in Italian, and seemed to covet his bodyguards the way a person does a private plane. The seven dwarfs were all different ages and heights, but all horrendously sophisticated about art: a critic, a few huge collectors, a prominent artist, and a couple of curators at museums. At various times in the evening, each man turned to me, bearing down with his elegant and educated brain, and gave me a question or two, which I answered while doing my best to hide my still-tearing eye. Though to the man on my left, it was impossible to camouflage, and he kept glancing at the tears as if they were contagious, so I tried to explain what happened, but he was the Italian and didn't understand. He kept confusing “eye” for “I,” thinking I was cut somewhere else, but only magically expressing it on one side. I gave up, and did my best to converse with him in the little English he knew, but it didn't go anywhere. Tory was ignoring my eye or didn't notice, so busy was she at the other end of the table talking in French, Italian, English, and sometimes in all three. Once she said, “From the South; Alabama, I think,” among other words I couldn't discern, though I definitely heard “Andrew” a few times.

At the end of the evening as we were dispersing on the street, Tory came up to me, grabbed both of my shoulders, and said, “For God's sake, get some rest.” I started to tell her what happened to my eye with the
Village Voice,
but she thought I was talking about getting publicity, then one of the men tapped her shoulder to say goodbye, causing her smile to be reborn when she turned to him.

My cab ride home was an exercise in reliving the whole thing and wishing it had gone a lot better—as in great. I told Carrie all about it when I got home. She thought it sounded fine, but I kept wishing I had been more “on.”

“How much could they expect? You're eighteen, for Christ's sake, in a show at Sexton Space. That's plenty cool enough, and you looked great tonight. Okay, the eye, I know, but other than that, you did. They probably all wanted to have sex with you and were just putting up that disinterested front the way boys do. Don't worry about it.” And she poured me another glass of wine.

Lying in bed that night, waiting for sleep to come, I wished to God that Andrew was at the Ritz-Carlton—or even just reachable by phone—so I could tell him about the dinner, get his reaction, hear his comforting voice, and his reassuring, “You big fucking art star.”

Then for the first time, I doubted it might come true. Andrew had always made it sound so much a fait accompli that I hadn't really questioned it. Just trusted him and what he knew. And he was so confident about it, why shouldn't I be? But suddenly in the dark of my tiny bedroom on my lonely twin bed, I realized that there were a lot more hoops to go through than I ever could have imagined before that could come true.

 

On the following Tuesday, I went into work for the eleven-to-eight shift and found the restaurant in a state of total doom, as if the entire city of New York had died, and as I soon found out, it pretty much had. It was October 20, the morning after Black Monday, the worst stock market crash since 1929. Lunch reservations were being canceled nonstop, including standing reservations for men whose names held court on the pages of the long leather ledger every day of the week, representing a booth along the wall in the barroom or a table by the pool in the main room held only for them until and if their secretary called to let it go. None were coming in. Though a few out-of-towners showed up and I watched Claitor do his best job ever of hiding his disdain for that sort; tourists were not his thing.

One horrendously hot and humid summer day toward the end of lunch, an obviously touristy couple—looking as if they came from Nebraska, but had walked all the way—straggled up the stairs. The dining rooms had already begun clearing out, some tables were empty, and there was enough time to seat them before the kitchen closed. Claitor smiled in his most charming way, and explained that he would love for them to have lunch, but unfortunately, he couldn't seat the gentleman without a jacket and tie, house rules. A host who was very new and
unused to interpreting Claitor's many tones immediately piped up, Wasn't that what all those navy jackets and striped ties in the closet were for? Claitor kept the same small smile fixed on his face as if no words had been spoken, and thanked the couple for coming in, then suggested they try La Chanteuse up the street. When the rejected tourists were well down the stairs, Claitor turned to the offending host, saying, “And did you
like
the way they looked?” Then walked into the kitchen to order his meal.

But Tuesday, October 20, made everyone in the restaurant suddenly extremely grateful for tourists. The city had come apart overnight. In the weeks following, tips for everyone fell to the ground, service-industry jobs disappeared, or if people were able to hang on to them, their income was cut. And the high that the art market had been on came crashing down.

“But none of this is going to stop your work from selling,” Carrie reassured me in late November as my gallery show was looming. “You're new, starting out. Your prices aren't exorbitant. You're exactly what they need to be investing in.”

Though I thought the whole problem with the crash was that so much money had been lost that people had nothing to put into anything, much less an unsure thing, I decided to believe she was right, and it wasn't like Tory was canceling the show. Which was a relief for tons of reasons, one being that I had missed the deadline to apply for the School of Visual Arts to begin in the spring. Suzanne's voice was in my head fussing at me about it as she had done on the phone the other day, but Carrie had said not to worry about it. “Your work in the show will sell,” she said. “You'll quit your job, find a studio somewhere, and just make art all day long. Probably even be asked to teach classes at SVA eventually as a visiting artist, that sort of thing.” I hoped she was right. And Andrew would be back soon from his film, maybe even move here from L.A., or I'd fly out there to see him, drop in for lunch on my way to meet with a collector I had sold to again. What was I worried about? It was all going to be fine.

 

Peg helped me find something to wear to the opening. I blew a whole week's paycheck on a black dress at Agnès b., a store I passed all the time to and from the gallery, loving everything in its windows. Peg said it was perfect, and I loved it more than anything I'd ever owned.

So I was on a high when I arrived at the gallery half an hour before the show started, wearing my new dress, about to see my art on display in a SoHo gallery in New York City just six months after I arrived, with Andrew Madden in my life. How much better could it get?

The other artists in the group show were standing around looking at one another's work when I walked in. I had met them before in the gallery. They were all men, all older than me, and had trained formally at Yale, Rhode Island School of Design, and an art school in Barcelona. We exchanged hellos, then I joined them in looking at their work—paintings that were exuberant, aggressive, and taut—before turning toward the middle of the gallery to see how my work had been displayed. The last time I had seen all my sculptures together was the spring before when they were exhibited at a small gallery in New Orleans. I had felt such pride then, but in a way that surprised me for that word. It felt quiet and having to do with me, yet not. It was a sensation that kept me happily comfortable and able to talk to anyone about my work, more like I had discovered the pieces than made them. Like they had always been around to be found, to be reached out and grabbed, like Keith Richards once said about songs—how they're in the air and all you have to do is grab them.

But in Sexton Space my sculptures were offered up on high white stands, not on the floor connected to the earth. And in spite of or because of the additional height, they looked diminished, as if they were floating in space. I found Peg, and tried to keep the panic from my voice as I told her that I hadn't known they'd be displayed that way, they were meant to be on the ground. I wanted people to feel above them, not the other way around, but she assured me that Tory had decided they would have been invisible without the added height—lost in the throng, knocked over even; it was better this way. But I wasn't so sure. Disassociated from the ground, up
close to my face, the whole sense of structure I had created was gone. They might as well have been on burgundy velvet and bathed in black light, they were so far from what I'd envisioned. Then seeing my dissatisfaction, Peg said that it was too late to do anything now, the guests were starting to arrive. I tried to reassure myself that Tory, if anyone, knew how to display art, but I was angry that she had changed our plans without telling me first. It was as though the sculptures and I had lost our footing.

A huge crowd began swarming in, and in a short time the gallery was packed with collectors and critics, artists and actors, models and musicians from all over the globe. A perfectly divvied up demographic of the fabulous and known commandeered the gallery, sidewalk, and street, extending the party into the cold, deep SoHo night.

I was standing in line for the bar to get a glass of wine; the opening was in full bloom. Everyone knew so many there—there were shrieks and huddles and embraces. I tried to remember what I had thought it'd be like. Not this. I'd thought…smaller. Dispersed. People talking quietly. I'd thought…museum, I realized suddenly, not prom night,
Vogue,
and the Concorde rolled into one.

A six-foot-plus drag queen was in line ahead of me. When he/she had arrived, I'd thought,
What an exceptionally tall woman, but so nicely dressed.
I recognized the Oscar de la Renta dress from the window at Bergdorf 's on my walks home from work, and there it was cinching a waist before cascading down in a profusion of flowered satin. “But look at the hands,” the Spanish artist had said in my ear, nodding a couple of times. “That's how you tell.” Then he walked away to meet him/her.

Suddenly I was bumped. Pushed, really, into him/her. And as I tried to right myself, the wine that was held up high in his/her hand poured straight down the front of my dress.

“My fault,” a man said, as a cocktail napkin–filled hand started dabbing at and rubbing my chest. I wondered if it was the drag queen who had spoken, all decked out in grand femme style, but stuck with a deep voice.

“That's okay. I'm fine, really, thanks,” I said, trying to end this invasive and ineffective toweling off, but it wouldn't stop, and the hands
continued roaming all over my breasts, more touching them than doing any drying. Finally, I couldn't take the pawing anymore. “Please, stop,” I said, but the “please” wasn't heard. My head was down when I said it, watching strange male hands have more interaction with my breasts than anyone had had since Andrew, which made me wish it was him, made me miss him, then my head had moved up for the word “stop,” but no one had heard the word “please,” so it came out a sharp command.