Leap Year (13 page)

Dear Loren,

I’m going to call you to talk about this but I decided to write this letter because all afternoon, as I’ve been packing, I’ve been thinking about—well, about us and what happened, and I know if I don’t write it down I’ll forget it. You know me.

I’ve decided to move out to L.A. early. There doesn’t seem much point in hanging around here. Anyway, when I get settled and everything, I’ll give you a call. I just thought it might be good if I’m gone when you get back. It will be one less thing you have to deal with, right?

One of the things I’ve been thinking about was why this happened—why it didn’t work out. Things seemed so great about a month ago, when we decided to move to L.A. together.

That seems so long ago now, and almost impossible. But I’m glad I had that moment with you—when I believed it would all happen for us. I wonder what you thought then. In retrospect I have this feeling that you were never very convinced by the idea. I think it was lousy timing on my part—I wanted everything to happen very quickly for us. It was because I was so happy with you that I fucked up. I see now that if I had just chilled out we’d probably still be together. Or at least I like to think that.

Loren, the other thing I want to say is about what you said in the hospital. About your being punished. If you meant it then (and I hope you didn’t), I hope by now you know it’s not true. I’m not sure what you meant by ‘behaving badly’ but please know that I don’t think you’ve behaved badly as far as I or anybody else is concerned. I think that under the awful circumstances of the last few weeks you’ve behaved very well. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m not bitter about any of this. I’m sad, but I’m not bitter. This had been the best year of my life.

Of course I’ll be thinking about you all the time. I hope you can forget this mess and be happy. I want you to be happy. You’re so great when you’re happy. I’ll call you like I said, okay? I know that after all this shit you probably never want to set foot in L.A. again, but if you do, know that you have a good friend nearby. Okay?

Love,

Gregory

SOHO SLAUGHTER: OUT OF CONTROL AT ART GALLERY

A Post Exclusive
—Brooklyn photographer Heath Jackson was charged with the attempted murder of Solange Shawangunk, the owner of the Gallery Shawangunk on Broome Street. The incident took place last night at an opening reception for the SoHo show “Out of Control: Photographs by Heath Jackson.”

Witnesses told police Jackson and Shawangunk were alone in an office at the gallery when the shooting occurred. Moments later, Shawangunk was discovered shot once through the stomach. She remains in a coma and is listed in critical condition at St. Vincent’s Hospital.

Jackson, 27, who has no police record, pleaded not guilty and has been released from custody on his own recognizance. No motive was given for the attempted murder, although it appears that Jackson and Shawangunk may have been romantically involved. Amanda Paine, the gallery’s director, told the
Post
that Jackson and Shawangunk disappeared into the office halfway through the reception. “There was obviously some sort of emotional tension between them,” she said.

Margot Geiger, a spokesperson for the gallery, informed the
Post
that Jackson’s photographs were selling “incredibly.” “We’ve sold out the show and are taking orders for new work,” she said.

Mr. Jackson could not be reached for comment.

(Dictated to Loren)

Dear Lyle,

Thank you for taking care of me while I was kidnapped and for catching me before I crashed. It was fun. I swum at the hotel without a mask. I closed my eyes. I like it better with a mask. We were in an earthquake and Mom threw up. Were you in an earthquake? It was fun but I was sleeping.

It’s hot in New York. At daycare I can drink soda, but not Coke. Only the kind with fruit in it. And I get Frozade on the way home. Do you like Frozade? Ms. Mouse lives with Mom now. So does Dad. No one lives at Dad’s. He said some night we can go sleep there if I want.

Love,

Kate

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660 Broadway

New York, NY 10012

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President and Founder

“D
ID YOU HAVE TO GO TO JAIL?”
David asked. Before Heath could answer the waiter appeared. They both ordered salade nicoise and iced tea. It was a hot day, and they had met for lunch in the garden of a restaurant.

“I spent one night in jail,” said Heath. “My hearing was the next day.”

“Is there anything I can do? Do you have a lawyer?”

“No,” said Heath. “I’m defending myself.”

“You are?”

“Jesus,” said Heath. “Of course not. This isn’t a joke, you know. I could go to jail for fifteen years.”

“I know it’s not a joke,” said David. “Is he a good lawyer?”

“It’s a she,” said Heath, “and I hope so.”

“You seem pretty glib about all of this.”

“Glib? I’m scared shitless. If Solange doesn’t come out of her coma, I’m dead meat. She’s the only one who can save me.”

“There wasn’t anyone else around?”

“Just Amanda and Anton, but they swear they weren’t. And Amanda’s assistant and this creepy Trumpet woman are giving them an alibi.”

“How is Solange? I mean, what are her chances?”

“About fifty-fifty. But that’s assuming Amanda doesn’t get to her again. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear she’s checked out at any minute.”

“When’s the trial?”

“Sometime in the fall.”

“And what are you going to do till then?”

“I don’t know. I can’t leave New York. I’ve got to find a job. The Hysteria fired me, for security reasons.”

“Jesus. Do you need money?”

“No. Listen, I don’t want to talk about this. It’s demoralizing. Let’s talk about something else, okay?”

“Sure,” said David.

“Let’s talk about us,” said Heath.

David didn’t say anything. Their teas were delivered. The glasses were sweating.

“Or is that equally demoralizing? I guess so. Why don’t we talk about you. That should cheer us up. I gather you’re back with Loren. That you’ve renounced your corrupt lifestyle and have returned to the straight and narrow path. With the emphasis on straight.”

“It’s not that simple,” said David.

“It seems pretty simple to me,” said Heath. “You are back with Loren, right?”

“Yes,” said David. “But there are…circumstances. I wish I could explain it.”

“You could try,” said Heath.

David sipped his tea.

“Start from the beginning,” Heath prompted.

“When I met you?”

“No,” said Heath. “When you met Loren. This is about her, isn’t it?”

“It’s about you, too,” said David.

“But mostly about her,” said Heath.

David leaned back and looked up at the sky. Bird sounds emerged from stereo speakers hidden in the trees.

“I met Loren on Cape Cod. I was there with my sister and Loren was there with Lillian. We met on the beach. It turned out we were both going to graduate school at U Penn. Loren was going to Wharton and I was getting a master’s in botany. We fell in love. We got married, moved to New York, and lived on Cornelia Street.

I got my job editing garden books at Wilson Watson, and Loren got her job at the girl’s bank. When Kate was born we moved uptown. That’s when things began to go wrong. Uptown. We started to have trouble sexually—I mean, I started to have trouble sexually—and Loren met Gregory. We got divorced. Loren moved to Greene Street. I lost my job at Wilson Watson and got my job at
Altitude.
Lydia went home to Costa Rica for Christmas. You came to be my secretary. I fell in love with you.”

Heath looked at him for a moment and then looked away.

“Everyone was happy then,” David continued. “Loren and Gregory, me and you. At least I think you were happy. For a little while?”

Heath nodded.

“One night, last spring, Loren and I met at a party. We slept together. It was the night you went to Lar Lubovitch. Remember? Then everything bad started to happen, very quickly: Loren decided to move to California with Gregory. I burned my fingers. Kate was kidnapped. Loren and I went to L.A. A glass wall crashed on Loren. We thought we were going to die in an earthquake, but we didn’t die.” David paused. He was aware of Heath looking at him, listening to him, poor, beautiful Heath. He didn’t look back at Heath because he couldn’t bear to. He knew if he looked at Heath for too long he would betray Loren. And betraying Loren seemed, somehow, to be betraying Kate.

“The man who kidnapped Kate taught her to swim. She wrote him a thank-you letter. She told me she that she misses him, that she loves him. And under the circumstances, why shouldn’t she? I guess that’s the point: We love the people perhaps we shouldn’t. We don’t love the people we should.”

“Meaning that you love Loren,” said Heath.

David nodded.

“Meaning you don’t love me,” said Heath.

“No,” said David. “It’s not that I don’t. It’s more like I can’t. I have this second chance to make things work with Loren, and I can’t turn it down.”

“You could, if you wanted to. It’s just a question of what you want.”

“It’s a question of what’s the right thing to do,” said David.

“And the right thing to do is to live with Loren, who you don’t really love?”

“I love Loren,” said David. “In a way.”

“Who would you rather sleep with, Loren or me?”

“It’s not a question of sex,” said David. “There are all these other factors, like—”

“I know, I know,” said Heath. “But who would you rather sleep with?”

“I don’t know,” said David.

“You don’t know? Of course you know. It’s not a hard question.”

“Okay, then,” said David, “you. But sleeping—I mean, you know, sex—it’s important, I know it is, but there’s a lot of other stuff that goes on. I mean, you have to consider the total picture.”

Their salads arrived. The tuna glistened with oil and sunlight. The string beans were steamed to a violent green. The all of it was crowned with a ring of hairy anchovies.

Heath felt sick. He looked at David. “Do you think you’ll be happy with Loren?”

“Not how you mean happy. You’re very young. You don’t realize there are other things, other feelings worth having.”

“Such as?”

“Security,” said David. He tried to sound convincing. “Contentment.”

“Well,” said Heath. “I guess that’s the difference between you and me.”

“I guess so,” said David.

Heath stood up. “I think you’re pathetic,” he said. “I pity you.” He went inside the restaurant. It was dark and cool. His eyes had to adjust. He could feel his irises expanding, or maybe it was the world shrinking. He could feel the horrible motion of living. He stood in the restaurant’s tiny bathroom, the light turned off, in perfectly sealed darkness. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t. He wanted to cry for everything.

Outside, the street was sunny. People were walking back to work from lunch. Everyone was tan and sated. Cars drove past with the windows rolled up tight. Air conditioners drooled onto the sidewalks. Trees moved their limbs, to no effect, overhead. Heath stood on the corner. I should go back inside, he thought. I shouldn’t have just walked out like that. Then he thought: Fuck it.

He had just started to walk toward the subway when David appeared at his side. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then Heath said, “I’m sorry I walked out like that.”

“It’s okay,” said David.

“I’m very messed up right now,” said Heath. “I mean, I don’t know what’s going on, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“Listen,” said David, “if you need anything, anything, if there’s anything I can do, I want to help you, but I understand if, well, if you don’t want to stay in touch. But call me if you need anything. And I’m sorry. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Heath.

“I’m sorry…I’m sorry I’m not different. Braver, or something. Because you’re right, I think. I know you think I’m bad a person, but I’m not. I don’t have bad intentions.” David touched Heath’s arm. “I just love badly,” he said. “I’m just bad at love.”

One hundred miles north, Lillian leaned out of an upstairs window in a strange house. Below her, hummingbirds hovered above a bed of mango-colored irises. She had taken the day off and driven upstate to see the Loessers’ house, which she was considering renting for the last two weeks in August. She had found the key, hidden beneath the moss-stained brick on the patio, and wandered through the cool, quiet house. The rooms were full of books and wooden chairs; fabrics had faded, doors creaked. The sun shone through the latticed-paned windows, casting warm, patterned carpets of light on the slanting wooden floors.

She drew her head inside the bedroom but left the window open. Except for the hum of the birds and ticking clock, everything was quiet. Well, of course, Lillian thought, these beautiful places do exist. People spend days here, eating and sleeping, cutting flowers, arranging them. Reading in the shade, drinking cocktails on the terrace. Cool nights in old beds. Stars and frogs. The slow procession of days.

She lay down on the bed, a narrow bed with a white metal frame, a bed she could imagine in a French children’s hospital. She lay still and tried to feel the life quickening inside of her. Maybe I will never leave here, she thought. I will gestate and give birth on this bed. I’ll raise my child in the house…