Leap Year (20 page)

“K
EITH
J
ACKSON IS HERE
to see you,” Roger said.

“Okay,” said Lillian, “send him in.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you, your mother called. And somebody named Mister…well a Mister Something, and somebody named Clyde.”

“Why didn’t you put them through?”

“I don’t know how.”

“I showed you. You just push my extension. Number ten.”

“You’re number ten?”

“Yes,” said Lillian. “Next time I get a call just put it on hold and then push number ten. But not while I’m meeting with Mr. Jackson. Now go get him.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Jackson. The man who’s waiting to see me.”

Eventually Heath found his way to Lillian’s office. “I’m sorry I had to cancel lunch,” she said, “but as you’ve probably noticed I have a temp in this week who’s somewhat less than incompetent. I think it’s best that he’s not left alone. Are you hungry? I could send him out for some sandwiches. God knows what he’d return with, but we could try…”

“No,” said Heath, “I’m fine.”

“Then sit down,” said Lillian, sitting herself. She hadn’t seen Heath in months—not since her trip to the Wisteria. He looked older but no less attractive. “Well,” she continued, “I’m sorry to hear about all this trouble. I hope I can be of some help.”

“Thanks,” said Heath. “I appreciate your making time to see me.

People who don’t work in offices always think people who do work in offices are incredibly busy, thought Lillian. But then the thought occurred to her that some people who worked in offices really were incredibly busy. Periodically Lillian suffered an overwhelming desire to be one of those women who catapulted, perfectly coiffed and costumed, from bed to breakfast meeting, spent their twelve-hour days trotting in and out of conferences, pearls jangling down the front of their Chanel suits, juggling sheaves of messages with mugs of coffee, constantly jotting cryptic notations in Filofaxes, grabbing a quick bite to eat at the Grill Room before lashing themselves into Burberrys for night flights to the coast. But these urges quickly passed, leaving Lillian exhausted and a little nauseated.

“Have you had any luck finding a job?” she asked Heath.

“That’s one thing that’s finally worked out. The Hysteria just called me and asked me if I’d check coats. It’s a step down, but I don’t really care. It will be nice to be back there. So come check your coat sometime.”

“I will,” said Lillian. “Anyway, as I explained on the phone, Galton Enterprises specializes in helping foreign tourist agencies with PR. But I think whether it be countries or people, PR is PR. You said you’d been on ‘Orca’?”

“Yes,” said Heath. “I brought you the tape. It was really awful.” He fished a videocassette from a Tower Records bag and placed it on the desk.

“Well, why don’t we take a look at this,” said Lillian, “so I’ll have some idea of what you’ve been up against.”

“The wall,” said Heath.

Lillian swiveled in her seat and slipped the cassette into a VCR behind the desk. While she watched Heath and Orca and Leonora Trumpet skirmish, Heath stood by the window, watching the rain fall onto 57th Street. New York City had never seemed less glamorous to him. Everybody down on the sidewalk was walking around as if they were extras in a movie about the end of the world—a TV movie about the end of the world.

“Well, I don’t think you came off so terribly,” Lillian said, as the video rewound. “They just caught you a little unawares is all. Surprise witnesses can do that.”

“I looked like a jerk,” said Heath.

“No you didn’t. You looked fine. Just a little underdirected. Have you done any other interviews?”

“No. I was just on the news a few times, right after it happened, you know, the mike shoved in my face, and then when Solange died, these reporters came to my house, but I just said, ‘No Comment.’ That I can do.”

“Have you had any interest from other shows?”

“Yes. The ‘Today’ show and ‘Live at Five’ both want me on the week before the trial. And some photo editor at
US
magazine said they’re interested in me for their Lookout section. They’re doing a special Crimes of Passion issue.”

“Well, my motto is, ‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity,
if
you know what you’re doing.’ ”

“Which I don’t.”

“You know, if you’re going to do this stuff, you should consider hiring yourself a PR agent. Someone who can really help you. Do you have any money for something like that?”

“No,” said Heath. “Right now, I’m broke. My grandmother’s paying my legal fees, and I doubt she’d spring for a PR person.”

“Well, then, the important part, the only thing you should remember, is that when you make an appearance—any appearance—it’s an opportunity for you. It’s not an opportunity for them. What you want to do, at least in terms of PR, is to project the most sympathetic image of yourself possible. You want people to think you’re a nice person. I mean, obviously you are, so that shouldn’t be such a problem. But you have to be specific. Is there anything you’ve done, or do—you know, nice things for the benefit of mankind?”

Heath thought but apparently without result.

“Do you ever do charity work?”

“I worked for the Gay Men’s Health Crisis, visiting men with AIDS, and shopping for them and stuff. And I was in the AIDS walk.”

“That’s good,” said Lillian. “See, this is the sort of thing people who murder don’t generally do. What else? What about donations?”

“I give money to people on the street. But I don’t have a lot of, you know, excess cash. The only other thing I’ve donated…”

“What?”

“No, it’s nothing.” Heath laughed.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“I donated sperm once,” said Heath.

“What?”

“I donated sperm. That wouldn’t count, though, because they pay you for it.”

“Where did you donate sperm?”

“The Fertility Association of New York. I went with my roommate. He does it all the time, to help support his coke habit.”

“How long ago was this?” demanded Lillian, trying to disguise the hysterical edge she heard in her voice. She tried to speak more calmly. “Think. This could be a very useful angle. You know: He taketh life away, but he also giveth life.”

“But I didn’t taketh life away,” protested Heath. “It was a while ago. Anyway, I’m really embarrassed. I shouldn’t have told you. I just needed some, well, some darkroom equipment, and…Gerard was going and he talked me into it. I only went once. I’d never do it again.”

“How old did you say you were?”

“I’m twenty-seven. Why?”

He’s probably had a birthday, thought Lillian. She tried to see the color of his eyes—they looked brownish in the depressing rainy light—but then she realized how absurd she was being. There were millions—well, maybe not millions; thousands—of sperm donors. The chances of her choosing Heath’s sperm, well, the chances of that were probably as good as the chances of she and Heath getting it on together in real life.

Down the block, around the corner, and up the avenue, Hannelore Green, president of the New York Bank for Women, was presiding over the Tuesday Morning Management Meeting.

“I have the results back from Gloria Mitchell and Associates, whom we consulted at Loren’s suggestion about updating our slogan, ‘The Institution Whose Time Has Come.’ If you’ll remember, Loren convinced us that an institution whose time had come in 1972 can hardly pretend to be on the cutting edge today. Ms. Mitchell has come up with three suggestions for us. I’d like to discuss them now. The first is ‘The New York Bank for Women: Tomorrow’s Bank for Today’s Woman.’ ”

“I thought we want to avoid a gender bias,” said Charlotte Wallace.

“We do,” said Hannelore.

“But who wants tomorrow’s bank today?” asked Loren. “It doesn’t make much sense. Wouldn’t one want today’s bank today and tomorrow’s bank tomorrow?”

“But it connotes that we’re ahead of the times,” said Hannelore. “At least that’s the idea.”

“But we aren’t really,” said Charlotte.

“We were the first bank to distribute free condoms with all ATM transactions,” said Maureen.

“Maureen, we were the
only
bank to do that.”

Maureen shrugged. She had thought it a great idea.

“Well, here’s the next,” said Hannelore. “ ‘The New York Bank for Women: As You Change, We Change.’ I like this one. I like the way it suggests we’re constantly evolving.”

“It makes it sound like we’re going through menopause,” said Charlotte.

Loren laughed, but was silenced by a look from Hannelore, who said, “I don’t think the changes implied are biological ones.”

“Once again,” said Loren, “I think it’s a question of semantics. What if it weren’t ‘changes’—which I agree suggests the biological—what if it were ‘As You Evolve, We Evolve’?”

“ ‘Evolved’ makes it sound like it’s a bank for monkeys,” said Charlotte.

“Well, there’s one more: ‘The New York blah blah blah: The Bank with the Perfect Fit.’ ”

“All I can think of is diaphragms,” said Charlotte.

“Why this sudden predilection with the gynecological?” asked Hannelore.

“I don’t know,” said Charlotte. “It’s just what comes to mind.”

“It makes me think of bras,” said Maureen. “Or shoes.”

“Enough free-associating. This isn’t a joking matter,” said Hannelore. “We paid three thousand dollars for this consultation.”

“Consultants are always a waste of money,” said Charlotte. “When you can’t make it in your chosen field, you become a consultant. Everyone knows that.”

“Well, this was all your idea, Loren. What do you think?”

They all turned to Loren, who did not answer. She was looking at one of her pink telephone messages. It was from someone she had not talked to in more than two months.

GREGORY CALLED,
Stacey had written.
CALL HIM ASAP.

“A
ND THEN WHAT HAPPENED?”
asked Loren. She stood in the bathroom doorway, wrapped in a towel, fresh from the shower. Lillian sat on the bed, paging through a copy of
New York Woman.
They had a dinner date: just the two of them.

“It was all very weird,” Lillian continued. She was telling Loren the story of her weekend in the country chez Claude. “He came in with the dog, and everything seemed fine, and I was just about to tell him about Lillian, Jr., when he said, ‘I’ve made up the bed next door for you.’ ”

“Oh, God,” said Loren.

“Exactly. I didn’t know what was going on, so I just went along with it. We went next door, into this little tiny guest room where there was this little tiny bed that had been painstakingly made—you know how you can tell when someone’s labored over something like that? He went back to his room. And I got in the little bed.”

“He sounds like a louse.” Loren stood in front of the mirror, toweling dry her mane of hair.

“That’s just it: He isn’t a louse. I mean, he wasn’t. It was all so sweet: the pie, the ride home, the little bed. Even the dog was sweet, and you know how I am about dogs.”

“Well, maybe it’s just a matter of time. Why the rush to hop in the sack, anyway? It’s all downhill from there, believe me.”

“God,” said Lillian. “I’m ready for some downhill. Some slalom, so to speak. I’ve been traveling the uphill road of celibacy for two years.”

“Two years? I thought you broke up with Evan three years ago.”

“I did,” said Lillian.

Loren raised her eyebrows.

“It was nothing,” said Lillian.

“But you never told me,” said Loren.

Lillian stared down at the magazine. “Forget it,” she said. “It was just, you know, just a thing.”

“What was his name? I want to know his name at least.”

“Carlos,” said Lillian.

“Good for you,” said Loren. “Everyone should fuck a man named Carlos once in their life.”

“Anyway, getting back to the problem at hand. What should I do?”

“Did you make it obvious you wanted to sleep with him?”

“I thought I did.”

Loren came into the bedroom and began dressing. She was thinking. “Well,” she said, “it could be any number of things. Is he gay?”

“I don’t think so,” said Lillian. “I mean, he certainly doesn’t seem to be, and he’s been, well, let’s just say he’s pursued me in a very hetero way.”

“This gay thing is a tough one,” said Loren. “You can never be too sure, believe me. Anyway, let’s assume he’s not gay. Maybe it’s physical. Is he, you know, all right…down there?” As she hooked her bra she nodded toward the floor.

“Down where?” asked Lillian. “His feet?”

“Lillian! Does he suffer from le maladie de Jake Barnes?”

“Who? What?”

“Jesus, you’re so illiterate. Is his penis functioning?”

“Well, I didn’t give him a goddamm physical. I mean, doesn’t one assume a man’s penis works? Have things gotten that bad?”

“Assume nothing,” said Loren. “It just sounded, you know, if he came across as being interested and then backed off, maybe he has some sort of physical problem. Does this look all right together?”

“Yes,” said Lillian. “Where are we going?”

“I don’t care. Wherever you want.”

“What about Spring Street Natural? Since we’re down here?”

“Anywhere but there.”

“Why?”

“That’s where David had his little accident.”

“Oh, I forgot. I know: Have you ever been to the Cafe Wisteria?”

“No. Where is it?”

“It’s on Church Street. Let’s go there.”

“The Cafe Wisteria…isn’t that where David’s old boyfriend worked?”

“Actually, yes,” said Lillian. “I saw him this week.”

“Who? David?”

“No. The boyfriend. Heath.”

“Really? Where?”

“He came by the office. I’m helping him with some publicity. His trial’s coming up.”

“Do you think he did it?”

“No. He was framed. While we’re talking about men, can I ask you something else?”

“What? I think I’ll put my hair up. It will just take a second.”

“If a man is gay, I mean, if you know it, can he still be seduced?”

“Why do you ask me?”

“Well, because of David…”

“You want to sleep with David?”

“No,” said Lillian.