I Loved You Wednesday (16 page)

Chris looks at me a bit startled. When she is finally able to speak, she says, “I get such a sexual rush whenever you yell at me.”

“Don’t try to apologize!” I snap back.

“All right. Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!”

“Do you want to hear what happened, or not?”

“NO, damn it! I want to give you another sexual rush.”

“No deal. It doesn’t work if you force it.”

Shot down, I relax, pausing briefly to catch my breath, while the waiter delivers our drinks. “All right, Chris. Let’s hear it.”

“Well, it’s like this . . . Bradley and I went back into the bedroom after you left and had a really nice time. One of our best sessions ever.”

“Congratulations.”

“Don’t interrupt. Afterward he held me for a long time and told me how much he was going to miss me.”

“But—”

“I said don’t interrupt. He said that the time we’d spent together was very precious to him and he would love to get together again as soon as he can get away or next time his wife leaves town.”

“I think I know what’s coming.”

“I asked him why he’d dropped all those hints about leaving his wife, and he said it was all in my head. That he’d meant nothing by them but passing compliments. You see, Steve, you were right. I was jumping the gun ... as always.”

“I’d rather’ve been wrong, believe me.”

“I know. Don’t apologize for my dunder moves. You want to hear the best part? Seems he lied to me about all his family money. He comes from some shitty section of Jersey, never had a nickel.
She’s
the one with the assets. Putting him through medical school, too. So he can’t leave her now even if he wanted.”

“What did you tell him?”

“The usual. That I expected more from a relationship than just being an afternoon ball and then asked him to leave.”

“And?”

“And he left.”

“And?”

“And that’s it.”

“Oh.” There is a long pause. Chris and I each take a few sips of our drinks. “Not exactly Happily Ever After, huh?” I suggest.

“Not exactly,” she quietly agrees, slipping right in front of me into some deep, troubled thought. She doesn’t say anything, but I can feel the wheels turning. Her hands meld slowly into clenched fists, and I can practically see the fury rising from within her. “God damn it!” she finally explodes, pounding the table with her fists. “It’s my father all over again. Nothing ever changes.”

“I don’t understand.”

Tears are mounting in Chris’ eyes as she dismisses me with a wave of her hand. “Forget it,” she tells me. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters. It matters a great deal. What the hell is bothering you?”

“It’s a long story.”

“As luck would have it, Chris, I just happen to be in the mood for a long story.”

“No. I’ve never told anyone.” “I don’t care. Wipe your eyes and tell me what you’re talking about. I’m not leaving here until you do!”

“It won’t interest you.”

“Chris!” I raise my voice. “NOW!”

“All right, damn it. Don’t yell.”

“What is it?”

“It’s . . . well, it happened a long time ago.”

“Go on.”

“I was I think seven at the time. My parents were always fighting, mostly about his supposed philandering about. So they decided we should all take a vacation together. Sort of one last attempt to postpone further the fact they’d each made a mistake. You with me so far?”

“So far.”

“Good. So we took a house at Cannon Beach down in Oregon for a week, which we couldn’t afford, but money was no object since they were trying to salvage their marriage, right?”

“All right.”

“I was crazy about my father. Just crazy about him. Though I rarely saw him. He was away so much of the time, on the road, and when he was home, most of what I remember involves he and my mother fighting. Pretty?”

“Go on.”

“Well, there we were in the vacationland of Cannon Beach, stuck in the house one bright and sunny afternoon, while my folks were really going at it. One of their bigger blowouts.

“Well, I was sitting around with my pail and shovel, impatiently waiting for us all to go out and play. But we didn’t go anywhere. They were so deeply entrenched in their fight, hollering back and forth at each other as they were, the petty needs of a sniveling kid took a fast backseat.”

“So you just sat there and watched all this?”

“It wasn’t unique. They always fought in front of me. For years I just assumed all married people were like that. But this day they were yelling and carrying on with a greater intensity and far more anger than usual. Which frightened and upset me, I guess.”

“Understandably.”

“So I finally told them, late in the afternoon, that I was going out to watch the sunset and would they please come and get me when they were finished arguing?”

“And they said?”

“And they said, fine, do whatever you want. So I left the house and happily skipped to the edge of the beach, where I sat and watched the waves coming in.”

“And?”

“And what I didn’t know was that this fight was their last biggie. The final backbreaker. As they fought, my father packed his bags and, in a peak of rage, walked out.”

“Walked out?”

“Walked out. Left. Good-bye, thanks for a shitty ten years, have a good life.”

“What’d your mother do?”

“Well, as you can imagine, she was a bit bereft. She ran into the bedroom, downed a couple of tranquilizers and then cried herself to sleep.”

“And what about you?”

“Right. Meanwhile, back at the beach, sits young naive Chris, waiting patiently, daydreaming as the sun sets, fantasizing how her parents are gonna show up any moment now, arm in arm in joyous reconciliation before hugging and kissing me, all of us jumping about in oodles of love squeezes and expressions of affection.

“But you know what, Steve? That dumb little girl sat on that beach and watched the day end all by herself. And as the sun went down, this scary dark fog rolled in from nowhere, chilling me terribly. But I didn’t budge. After all, my parents were coming to get me. Eventually I suppose I realized my daydream was not only not about to come true, but had suddenly turned into this incredible nightmare.

“Sitting there in that dark fog, I soon felt the most appalling sense of imminent terror. It frightened me like nothing before, and I began to shake like crazy. And this fear kept growing and building until it became the most outrageous desperation circling the pit of my stomach. It got me so upset and hysterical I actually grew nauseous and soon vomited.

“So there sits this dumb kid on the beach in the dark, teary-eyed, shivering, vomit-stained, too scared out of her mind to stay where she is but also too terrified to run through the foggy blackness, back to the safety of her father’s open arms and all that warmth and security.

“So she sits there and waits, growing sicker and more hysterical by the minute.

“Oh, my mother finally woke up several hours later and, worried out of her head, came looking for me with a flashlight. We had a traumatizing teary reunion, highlighted by her explaining to me what a bastard my father was and what he had done.”

“And what happened?”

“To my father? Who knows? We never really heard from him again. Except once. About six months after that I received a postcard from Los Angeles. It had a picture of the Farmer’s Market on the front and the message on the back said, ‘Dear Chris, Please understand. Love, Daddy.’ Please understand what, for Christ’s sake?! He had always been so kind to me, Steve. And he was so handsome. Such a big, strapping man. I hardly knew him, but I was mad for him. Always expected to see him again. To hear from him. To run into him. Something. But I don’t even know if he’s still alive.” Chris lowers her eyes sadly for a few moments while neither of us says anything. Then she lifts them again and, looking straight at me, says quite softly, “He didn’t even have the decency to come to me and say good-bye.”

I extend my hand to her arm and squeeze it affectionately. “I’m sorry, baby.”

Chris snaps out of it, twisting her arm free. “Sorry? Don’t be sorry. What’s there to be sorry about? He walked out. Big deal. It happened a long, long time ago. I’m way over it. It’s just . . . well. . . .”

“Yes?”

“It’s just that at times like these, when things start falling apart, that dreaded feeling I got on the beach returns tohaunt me. And no matter what I do, I just can’t shake it. I’m so goddamned confused. And you know what I’d really like to understand? I’d love to know why it is every time I see myself getting kicked in the teeth, each time I see it coming, I rush forward practically begging to be clobbered.”

“I don’t know, Chris. . . . But if it’ll make you feel any better, I’m glad I came out to meet you.”

Chris leans forward in the booth, putting her hand on top of mine. “You know,” she says softly, wiping a tear away with her free hand, trying to summon the slightest smile, “you’re the only one I can count on. You’re all I have.”

“That’s fair,” I answer, in absolute sincerity, caressing her cheek with my free hand. “You’re all I want.”

Chapter Nine
 

“I’ve got a plan!” announces Chris with glee, as I answer her call the following afternoon.

“A plan?” I cautiously question into the receiver.

“Guaranteed to improve matters considerably.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I know that maniacal tone in your voice. Lucille Ball conniving Vivian Vance. Count me out!”

“Nonsense. It’s a terrific idea. Tonight, after the show, I’ll pick you up and we’ll go to the Blue Owl and drink and laugh and be
exceedingly
attentive to each other.”

“To what end?”

“To what end do you think, dummy? To make Bradley jealous, of course.”

“It ain’t gonna work. He knows we’re just friends.”

“Of course it’ll work.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little obvious?”

“Why? It’s a bar in your neighborhood. We just happened to be passing and thought we’d stop in for one or two. What could be more natural?”

“Not going.”

“Come on, Steve. I miss him so. What’ve we got to show by not going?”

“Infinite good taste!”

“Are you kidding? We could have a glorious time sitting at the bar, getting sloshed.”

“When did you get so jaded? When we first met, you thought
The Sound of Music
was racy.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“I guess.”

“Come on, Steve. I know my men.”

“Wrong!”

“I’ll buy!”

“Chris, you promised to buy the drinks last night!”

“And what happened?”

“What do you think happened? While you were in the ladies’ room, washing your eyes, I paid the check.”

“I was wondering why they didn’t stop us when we left.”

“I take it back. You’re not jaded.”

“That’s more like it. I’ll pick you up at ten thirty.”

“I’ll be ready.”

Click.

One of these days, Chris . . . one of these days ... I swear—I’m going to finally say NO!

I hope.

The Blue Owl is very West Side, if you know what I mean. Homey, books on shelves, a fireplace in the back. The carved old wooden bar is overly long and overly crowded when we arrive.

No trouble for Chris, though, who elbows and karate-chops her way through the three-deep throng, finally angling a teeny spot for both of us lodged between two huge, hostile, heavily loaded drinkers.

Bradley, down at one end, seems to be working hard, filling one order after another.

When he passes us, his head turns in recognition, and his mouth almost falls to his chin. He checks himself quickly though, and smiles a greeting backed with the sincerity of a politician.

“By the by,” Chris quietly announces, jabbing an elbow into my ribs, “there is some good news.”

“That’s a novelty these days.”

“For sure. Marty told the cast last night he thinks we’ll be moving uptown pretty soon. Maybe next month.”

“Terrific!”

“Yeah. He’s meeting with the people at the Plaza. We may go in there as one of their
Plaza 9
presentations.” “That’d be great exposure.”

“Don’t I know! I just wish I were as fat romantically as I am professionally.”

“You will be. Just relax.”

“Relaxation is the one thing for which I have no time. Let’s get to work!” Chris smiles seductively, focusing her attentions toward the bartender.

Bradley finishes mixing some awful green-creamy drink, serves it and walks over to us. Chris places a cigarette in the middle of her mouth and rasp-throatedly asks, “Pardon me, bartender, have you got a match?”