What’s Happening? (30 page)

Rita stood and rushed to him, embracing him.

“That's all right, darling,” she assured him. “I want you to be able to believe in me. I love you—I love you so much.”

Marc looked into her eyes, then kissed her needfully. His lips caressed her cheeks, her nose, her tears, tasting their warm saltiness. He smiled, his apprehension flying … as he clung to her desperately. They remained embracing silently for many minutes.

“Now come on; we're going to a party tonight,” Marc exclaimed.

“Really? … Whose?” she asked excitedly, happy that his mood had changed and that Marc believed in her.

“I don't know. It's downtown. A couple of cats I met today are having a fling and asked me to come and like that. They said to drop down. So, we're going to drop down.”

“Oh, good. You're not mad anymore? …”

“No.”

“… and you believe I love you?”

“Sure.” He forced himself to smile.

She hugged him tightly, pressing her head against his chest.

“Now, come on,” he said, patting her rear end playfully.

“Hey! … Aww, don't do that. You know I can't stand it.”

“Okay,” he smiled. “Come on. I'll take my shower and then you can have the entire washroom for the next two hours.”

“Thank you,” said Rita curtsying graciously low. Marc bowed and smiled.

22

The party was held in a photographer's studio which had been fashioned out of an entire floor in a loft building. Its stone walls had been whitewashed and partitioned off into living quarters at the front, studio in the center, and darkroom at the rear. Two huge mobiles made up of the host's photographs twirled from the ceiling in the living quarters. Other photographs—deep textured, grainy photographs of the city, and beaches, and girls—hung on the walls. Props and backdrops and spotlights filled the studio portion. The dark room portion was shielded from the party by heavy drapery. The furniture strewn about was mostly odd pieces picked up inexpensively in second-hand furniture stores, re-finished and reupholstered by the photographer—coffee tables with legs cut down to give them a low effect, and brightly covered cherry-wood couches and mahogany-legged chairs.

The party was the usual Village party. All varieties of people kept wandering in and out. One fellow had long, unkempt hair and a straggly beard, and wore jeans and old, beat-up shoes. With him was a girl with long, blonde, unkempt hair that hung below her shoulders. She wore a full skirt, flat comfortable shoes, and a sweater which allowed her unhaltered breasts to sag and sway. She had huge buttocks which rose up, quivered, and dropped convulsively as she walked. They were quite the couple—a poet and his appreciative mistress. They were intensely Bohemian and practical to the point of being impractical for the sake of Bohemianism. They typified the people who are too creative to do any prosaic work and who sit in Washington Square Park reading poems to each other in some unintelligible poetic language and think the rest of the world is a dull place which doesn't appreciate the artistic ability of this bearded genius. She would probably carry their children strapped to her back in a gunny sack, or tied in a net sling around her side, so that she could shop and walk and not be impeded by the baby—nor be burdened with the obligation of purchasing a stroller carriage. They were the hiking type who'd walk from the Village to Central Park to save the carfare—besides, “walking is good for the body.”

Calypso music floated through the apartment. The guests filled the rooms with an accompaniment of lilting, clipped accents of native singing. The chanting and drumbeat mingled amongst the drinking girls, the sketching artists, the laughing Negroes showing their rows of white teeth, the dancing couples, the small groups of people clustered in conversation. Some guests sat on the floor. Others stood about, drinking and talking. One couple was executing a slow dance. The two held their arms extended rigidly at angles from their bodies, their legs lifting one after the other. They kept their eyes on each other and circled without touching each other.

A few outsiders entered the apartment with one of the Villagers. Some outsiders were already at the party by themselves, but nobody bothered them as long as they didn't start any trouble.

The party had been going for some time and even the beer-and-coke combination was running low. Empty bottles were hoisted into the air several times every minute—eyes pierced their glass body—only to be dropped on the table or floor to deceive the next thirsty partier. The drink was scarce, but its effect was very much present.

Though Marc and Rita had pretty much satisfied their need for nocturnal wandering and searching in the maze of coffee shops and cafes of the Village, they continued to associate with the Village and its people for the sake of having something more to do than sitting in an Uptown movie house or sipping a soda in a neighborhood luncheonette. At least something did happen in the Village; there was life in the Village; there were conversations to be had on subjects more compelling than the weather or baseball.

Rita sat on a huge, stuffed hassock, a bottle of beer in her hand. She had just ended a conversation with two girls who now began dancing with a couple of fellows from Uptown. She turned to scan the party for any new people and conversations. Through the crowd, she spied Jeannie and Laura. This was the first time in two weeks that Rita had seen them. Laura was with Johnny. Jeannie was just setting out on an expedition with a tall Uptowner into the inner reaches of the dark room.

Rita was delighted to see Laura vibrant and changed from the little shy Laura with whom she had lived. Laura was dressed in a skirt and sweater and wore black, knee-high socks and flat shoes. He hair was even fixed with a little sprig of a flower and she wore a bit of lip rouge. She was smiling and seemed very happy and sure of herself. Johnny too was certainly happy to be with Laura. They were two different people, the released spirits of two captives that had liberated each other.

Laura smiled as she noticed Rita watching her. Johnny and she walked over to Rita.

“I haven't seen you in weeks. Where've you been keeping yourself?” Laura inquired.

“You know, Marc, school, the house, all make Rita a busy girl”

“I guess so. Rita, you remember Johnny. He's such a great guy.” She turned and grasped his arm, smiling warmly. “Johnny … this is Rita.”

“Hi. I think we met once before, a little fleetingly—at the party at your place, Laura's place—remember?”

“Yes, you were there with a tall, skinny fellow with red hair—Paul—and you left rather suddenly, didn't you?”

“Yeah, that's it. You've got the picture.” He looked down and laughed.

“You two seem to be having a good time. What makes you so happy?”

“Oh, Rita … you probably know how it feels … but it's like I've been released from solitary confinement inside my soul. Since Johnny and I have been going out, I feel like I'm alive.” She became a bit embarrassed by her own enthusiasm.

“That's wonderful, honey. I know what you mean,” Rita assured her, glancing around the room for Marc. He was standing at the other end of the apartment with one of his buddies who was playing the guitar. They were singing a folk tune.

“I guess Marc'll be off to school again soon, hanh?” Laura asked.

“He's already started. But we've had the summer off together. I took off from school and work for a while so that we could be together for the entire summer without interference.”

“That sounds great. I wish we could've done that,” Johnny remarked.

“That's all right, we'll be together plenty,” Laura said smiling warmly. Johnny smiled too.

“What's up with you two?”

Laura smiled at Johnny again and turned to Rita. “We're going to get married.”

Rita was dumbstruck. “Really? … Oh, man, that's great … that's wonderful. I'm almost knocked out. When did all this happen?”

“It's been happening right along,” said Johnny. “We get along good … and like that.” He smiled at Laura.

“That's great! It really is—just wonderful.” Rita stood and kissed Laura and hugged her happily. Laura began to explain the coming event. She was more pleased and happy about this than about anything else that had ever happened in her entire life. At one point in the conversation, Rita glanced up and saw Tom the Cat enter the party.
Tom from so long ago
, she thought to herself,
so many years, so many ages ago
. It had seemed wonderful to be with Tom that night so long ago—yet now, it seemed so dull, so meaningless—as if it hadn't happened.

Tom saw Rita with Johnny and Laura. He walked over, swaying from drink that he had consumed before he arrived at this party. He was smiling broadly, with abandon, pulling a girl along by the hand.

“Hi, baby, how've you been?”

“Okay, Tom, how're you?” replied Rita smiling, amused at Tom's tipsiness. “You look like you've been doing all right tonight.”

“Oh, … this is Joan.” He turned to point at the girl.

“I didn't mean her. I meant you looked like you're already a little high.”

“Oh … Well, anyway, this is Joan.” He chuckled.

“Hi,” said Joan to Rita, Laura, and Johnny. Joan was a brunette, short, a little heavy, but cute. She looked like a girl who liked to laugh. She had a happy, big smile.

“You remember Laura, don't you, Tom? And this is Johnny, her boyfriend.”

“Hi, John, this is Joan. I don't remember meeting Laura. Hi. This is Joan.”

Joan began chuckling.

Tom's face retained a constant, happy smile. “Whose pad is this?” he asked, looking around the apartment.

“Jimmy's,” Laura offered.

“Jimmy? Who's Jimmy?” Tom frowned, trying to recall a face to fit that name.

“That fellow over there.” Rita indicated the other side of the room. .

Tom turned around and looked across the room, his eyes not focusing well.

“That one, with the little black beard on his chin,” Rita explained, pointing across the room.

“Jimmy? His name is Tony. I know him, … but his name is Tony. I know him a long time.”

“Well, you don't know him too well,” said Laura smiling, “'cause his name is Jimmy.”

“Jimmy … mmm … that's sure not what I call him … but anyway, … this is sure Joan.” He pointed limply at his date and burst into a laugh.

Everybody laughed. Tom doubled over with mirth. Joan had a high-pitched, cackling sort of laugh that burst out of her mouth right at the start and just kept coming out. Joan's eyes were tearing as the laughter began to fade. Sporadically, she burst with a reminiscent chuckle, leading the rest of the group back into laughter.

“Tom, I'm going to the little girl's room. I'll be right back,” said Joan.

“Okay, take your time. I'll be right here with the cat.” Tom looked at Rita and smiled. “Hi'ya, cat.…”

“Hi, Tom. That was sure a long time ago.”

“Sure was. How'd'ya like this chick?” He nodded in the direction in which Joan had departed.

“She's a nice girl. Where did you get her?”

“I met her in … the street,” said Tom, laughing slowly and softly. He was happy to be a little out of this world.

“You're really gone, you know that?” remarked Rita.

“What's the cat stuff?” Johnny asked interestedly.

“Private joke,” replied Rita.

“That's right.” Tom walked toward Rita and put his arm around her shoulder. “We've got a private secret. Bet you didn't know we were so friendly, did you?”

“Congratulations,” exclaimed Laura.

“Thank you. May I kiss the bride now?” Tom bowed, then kissed Rita's cheek.

“My goodness, Tom,” Rita reproved him playfully. “You're too much tonight.”

“No, I'm not, I'm just enough—as usual.” He kissed her cheek again. Everybody began to laugh again. Tom smiled, his head rolling on his shoulder from side to side as he watched the rest of the room, his arm still around Rita's shoulders.

“Rita, …” Marc called sternly and curtly. He was standing just behind the group.

“What, Marc?” Rita asked turning around, still laughing.

Marc was standing with his arms folded across his chest, a hard, steady glare on his face.

“I want to talk to you. Do you mind?” he said, looking at Tom.

Rita took Tom's arm from around her shoulder and walked slowly toward Marc. He had that look—the jealous, angry, hurt look. Rita's stomach felt empty suddenly, and as large as a cavern.

“Not here. Come on.” Marc turned and walked out of the apartment.

Rita followed him as the others in the small group watched, their faces blank.

“What are we being so secretive about?” asked Rita playfully as they reached the hallway outside the apartment. She pretended not to comprehend. A cool draught of air drifted up the stairwell, but failed to soothe the perspired brows of the two.

“What the hell is all that action with this guy that just came in?”

“You mean Tom—just now? You met him once before.” Rita played dumb, trying to delay the onslaught.

“Oh … so that's Tom? No, I never met him before. I never even saw him. I've heard of him though. You two are turning on again—I saw that.”

“Oh, Tom … I mean, Marc, what the …”

“You don't even know my name now,” Marc screamed. “I'm Marc … Marc, baby. Tom's in there. I'm not the cat—he's the cat.” Marc became more incensed and furious as he recalled the story of the cat, which Rita had related to him.

“Baby … I stuttered … does that mean something is going on?”

“No, not that alone. But you're standing in there and he's kissing you, and you were having a ball—laughing and talking, just like I wasn't even here. What the hell am I, … a dummy?” The color of his face deepened to purple. His anger was beginning to control him. “You're turning on with some guy while I'm in the same pad.” He clenched his fists, his eyes almost bulging out of his head. “Am I some kind of idiot clown that you can pull that on?” His teeth bared.