Leap Year (2 page)

On the evening of Lillian’s party, she was babysitting for her granddaughter, Kate. Judith had picked Kate up at Loren’s apartment on Greene Street, and after an early supper at John’s Pizza, they took the A train uptown. Kate liked sleeping over at her grandmother’s because Grandma had a waterbed.

As they hurtled up the west side they read an old copy of the
New York Times
they found beside them on the seat. Kate couldn’t yet read, but she was adept at deciphering pictures.

“What’s going on here?” Judith asked, pointing to a photograph of some GIs relaxing in Honduras.

“They’re soldiers,” said Kate. “Girls can be soldiers if they want.” Kate was learning nonsexist role identification at daycare.

“That’s right,” said Judith. “Do you want to be a soldier?”

“I’m too small,” said Kate.

“But what about when you’re bigger?”

“I don’t know,” said Kate. “They look hot.”

“What do you think they’re doing?”

“They’re guarding something. Probably the president.”

“Who’s the president?”

“Ronald McDonald,” said Kate.

“Ronald Reagan,” corrected Judith.

“Oh,” said Kate. “That’s what I meant.”

“These soldiers are in Central America,” said Judith. “Do you know where that is?”

“In the center?” asked Kate.

“Well, yes,” said Judith. “It’s between North America and South America. It’s south of here.” She motioned her hand back toward Columbus Circle. “It’s downtown,” she said. “Way, way downtown.”

They arrived at Bennett Avenue just in time to watch “Jeopardy.” Judith and Kate reclined on the waterbed. Kate was occupied with a book of photographs by Diane Arbus, which belonged to the man from whom Judith was subletting. Kate looked at it every time she came over. Judith, who thought the pictures a little inappropriate for a four-year-old, kept forgetting to hide it.

Kate waited for a commercial before speaking. The only time Grandma got impatient with her was when she talked during “Jeopardy.” “Look,” she said, pointing to a picture of a topless showgirl, “she’s almost bare naked.”

Judith looked at the picture. “Well, I guess she is,” she said. “Doesn’t she have pretty breasts?”

Kate outlined the woman’s breasts with her small finger. “Do you have pretty breasts?” she asked Judith.

“All women have pretty breasts,” said Judith. “That woman’s are big and pretty; other women’s are small and pretty.”

“I don’t have breasts,” said Kate. “I have ninnies.”

“What are ninnies?” asked Judith.

Kate pulled up her shirt and pointed to her nipples. Judith kissed her bare stomach. “I can hear your pizza in there,” she said.

“What’s it saying?” asked Kate.

“It’s singing,” said Judith.

“What?” asked Kate.

“Shsh,” said Judith. It was time for Double Jeopardy. She lay with her ear pressed to Kate’s stomach. “Who was Emma Bovary,” she said to the TV.

Later that night, somewhere south of Judith’s and north of Honduras, David and Loren’s cab emerged from the park and headed west.

“What do you mean?” David asked.

“Are you in love?” repeated Loren. “That’s not a particularly cryptic question.”

“But it’s hard to answer,” said David. “At least for me it is. Are you in love with Gregory?”

“No,” said Loren. “But I’m happy with Gregory. It’s just the opposite of with you.”

“And which do you prefer?” asked David.

Loren smiled. She reached out for David’s hand but couldn’t find it. She stroked the stuff of his coat. “It depends what I’m in the mood for. Whether I want to be happy or loved.”

“I would think being loved would make you happy,” said David.

“It’s not that simple,” said Loren.

The cab stopped in front of David’s building. Loren found David’s sweaty hand in his pocket. She held it. “Kate’s at my mother’s,” she said. “No one will know.”

“Anyone getting out here?” the driver asked. “What about the second stop?”

“We’ve changed our minds,” said David. “There is no second stop.”

Ms. Mouse, the cat, greeted them at the door. She had belonged to Loren, but when they got divorced she remained in the apartment with David. Loren picked her up.

“I don’t think she remembers me,” she said. She looked Ms. Mouse in her small, serious face. “Do you remember me?”

Ms. Mouse yawned. Loren put her down and began walking around the living room, checking things out. The only time she ever saw the old apartment was when she came by to pick up or drop off Kate. David and Loren had joint custody. “You’ve got a message,” she said, indicating the green Cycloptic blinking eye on David’s answering machine. “Can I play it?”

“Okay,” said David. He was in the kitchen, peeling an orange.

Loren pushed the play button. A man’s voice said, “Hi. It’s me. I thought I’d call and see if you were home. It’s ten-thirty. I just got out of Lubovitch. I felt like coming over, but I guess not. Maybe we can do something tomorrow. Call me. Bye.”

“That was Heath,” said David.

“I figured,” said Loren. “He sounds sweet. And young.”

“He’s twenty-six,” said David.

“Are you going to call him back?”

“No,” said David. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

“If I weren’t here, would you call him?”

“Maybe.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” said David. He gave her a piece of orange.

“I promise I won’t listen if you call him. I’ll stay in the bathroom.”

“I’m not going to call him. It’s late.” David sat down at the kitchen table. Loren got a glass out of the dish drainer and filled it at the tap. “There’s seltzer in the refrigerator,” said David.

“Water’s fine,” said Loren.

“How are things at the girl’s bank?” David asked. Loren worked for the New York Bank for Women. She called it “the institution whose time has come and gone.”

“Oh, please,” she said. “It’s Friday night. I don’t want to talk about work.”

They sat there for a moment, then Loren stood up. “Let’s go to bed,” she said.

After they made love, they lay in bed, holding each other. Some of Loren’s long hair was in David’s mouth but he didn’t want to move his head. Finally he sat up and looked at Loren.

“Well?” he said.

Loren smiled at him. “Let’s not talk,” she said.

They were just about to fall asleep when the phone rang.

“Who could that be?” David said.

“Maybe it’s Heath,” said Loren. “You should have called him.”

“I’m not going to answer it,” said David. “It’s probably a wrong number.”

They sat up in bed and listened to the answering machine.

“Hi,” said Lillian. “It’s me. I guess you’re not home. I thought you were going home. Where are you? Maybe you’re at…oh, I don’t know. I just wanted to talk to you. Everyone’s finally left, and I just wanted to talk to somebody. I wanted to talk to you. I’m sad. I’m sorry, this is stupid. I was just lonely. I hate parties. Remind me never to give another party, okay? I hope you’re okay. I’ll talk to you later. Good night.”

“Poor Lillian,” said Loren. “You should call her.”

“I’ll call her tomorrow,” said David.

They lay back down, but something had changed. They lay in the darkness trying, but failing, to sleep.

F
OR HER TWO-HUNDRED-DOLLAR
sperm bank consultation fee, Lillian was sent six donor resumes. Instead of being identified by a name, each report had a number, plus a list of statistics: age, weight and height, hair and eye color, I.Q. There was also a self-evaluated temperament profile, where the donors rated themselves (numerically) on such characteristics as passive/aggressive, stable/unstable, artistic/analytical, humorous/sober, practical/romantic. Lillian spent an evening studying these forms. She worked out a system whereby donors scored points for respectable ages, tolerable heights, and high I.Q.s and lost points for excessive weight and personality defects. Number 72428 emerged at the top of the heap. He was twenty-six, six feet tall, brown hair and green eyes; both his I.Q. and his weight were an attractive 165, he was stable, slightly aggressive, artistic, fun, romantic, and, Lillian knew, too good to be true. Number 72428 was obviously lying.

She set aside the forms and went to bed. And as she lay there, alone, she thought, Is this all wrong? Do I really want to have a baby? And the answer was yes, more than anything, yes, and she fell asleep and had a dream. She was pregnant and floating in warm ocean water; instead of weighing her down, her blossoming stomach buoyed her. The water was clear and shallow, and she floated on a current toward a small deserted island. As the island got closer she could see it wasn’t deserted; there was someone on it, waving her in, and the closer she got the more familiar the person looked. The surf deposited her gently on the shore, and David leaned down to help her up.

The next day Lillian met Loren for lunch at Burger Heaven. Their waitress was an older woman whose hair looked as if it had just been done. All the waitresses in Burger Heaven looked like that. There was something tribal about them. Lillian wondered if they all lived together.

“So what happened the other night?” she asked once they had ordered.

“What night?” asked Loren.

“After my party. You and David left together.”

“Did we?” asked Loren.

“Yes,” said Lillian. “So nothing happened?”

“What are you talking about?” said Loren.

“I just wondered if anything happened between you and David.”

“No. What could have happened? We’re divorced. Everyone keeps forgetting that.”

“I just wondered because I called David after the party and he wasn’t home.”

“Maybe he was at his boyfriend’s,” said Loren.

“Maybe,” said Lillian. “I just wondered.”

The waitress delivered their beverages. “Enjoy,” she told them.

In Heath’s photographs everything is out of focus, but some things are more out of focus than others.

“These are interesting,” the woman viewing his portfolio said, “but they look kind of unfocused.”

“That’s the way they’re supposed to look,” said Heath. He had dropped into this gallery on his way to work. He worked as a bartender at a restaurant in Tribeca called Cafe Wisteria. He always referred to it as Cafe Hysteria. Every night on his way in he tried to stop in a different gallery and have his portfolio rejected. It was a good way to start an evening of insanity.

Heath lived in Brooklyn with his ex-boyfriend, Gerard. Gerard was a dancer with Alvin Ailey and an insufferable egomaniac, but Heath couldn’t afford to move out because he had invested about $3,000 building a darkroom in the loft. It wasn’t really that bad living with a horrible ex-lover: Gerard was on tour a lot.

“What are you trying to do with them?” this evening’s gallery owner asked.

“I don’t know,” said Heath, aware that that was a bad answer. “I want each photograph to be like a little world, with all this stuff happening in it.”

“Well, as I said, I find them interesting. Unfortunately, we don’t represent photographers, so we can’t be of much help to you.”

“Don’t you represent Holly Pierson?”

“Well, yes, but she’s more of a…well, I think her work transcends these categorizations.”

“Oh,” said Heath. “How nice for her.”

The woman zipped his portfolio shut. “Well, we thank you for the look. We’re always interested in new artists.”

“How nice for them,” Heath said.

The Cafe Wisteria was continually changing managements. Since Heath had been there, three different people had owned it. The cuisine and decor were in constant flux. At times it all got a little out of synch, and the effect was surreal—Cajun food in an Italian country-kitchen setting. Currently the food and decor were billed as American Bistro, whatever that was.

When Heath arrived about five o’clock, the restaurant was empty. He helped set tables with a waitress named Tammi. She was a performance artist and was always trying to get Heath to come to her performances, but because they were scheduled at inconvenient places and times, like the Staten Island ferry at five o’clock in the morning, he usually passed.

Heath was folding napkins. He was a great napkin folder. His mother had taught him six different ways. Tonight he was making them look like pine cones, only the napkins were too big—they looked more like corn cobs.

“What are you doing after work?” Tammi asked.

“I don’t know,” said Heath. “I might see David.”

“Is he the yuppie?”

“I guess so,” said Heath.

“He seems kind of old for you,” said Tammi. “I mean, he wears a suit and everything.”

“I like men in suits,” said Heath.

“Well, listen, do you guys want to come hear this band? My brother’s in it. They’re supposed to be really great. They’re called the Barbara Bushwhackers.”

Heath laughed.

“A lot of people think George Bush will never get elected because Barbara Bush looks like his mother. They think she should dye her hair. Personally, I’ve always voted for president on the basis of the wives. I think most women do. Do men? Maybe everybody does.”

“I wanted John Anderson to win in ’80. Then we could have had a first lady named Keke.”

“The Duke’s wife is named Kitty.”

“I like Keke better. I’d like to hear Dan Rather say ‘Keke.’ ”

“What about Tipper Gore? There’s a name.”

“She’s the one that wants to censor music lyrics. She doesn’t sound too groovy.”

“She probably wouldn’t like the Barbara Bushwhackers, then,” Tammi said.

Around ten o’clock Anita, the hostess, told Heath he had a phone call. He picked up the phone behind the bar and said hello.

“Is this Heath Jackson?”

“Yes,” said Heath.

“This is Amanda Paine. We spoke earlier this evening at the gallery. The Gallery Shawangunk.”

“Yes,” said Heath.

“Oh, good,” Amanda said. “You remember.”

“Of course,” said Heath. “We talked about Holly Pierson.”

“Exactly!” The woman laughed. “What a memory! Well, I’m sorry to bother you this late and at work, but I’ve just had the most interesting talk with my colleague, Anton Shawangunk, about your photographs. And I found the more I described them, the more my interest was piqued. I’m sorry if I was brusque before, but, well, it seems to me that your work is just complicated—I can’t think of a better word for it—and I’m so used to looking at work that is so easy, you know, so
evident
, that I think my critical eye has atrophied. I’ve gone blind, so to speak. But I do so hope it’s not a tragedy. What I mean to say is that I hope we haven’t missed our chance at Heath Jackson.”