A Long Line of Dead Men

We were never together outside her apartment. We never walked down the street side by side, or had a cup of coffee together. One night Elaine and I stopped at Armstrong's after a concert at Lincoln Center, and Elaine spotted Lisa in the crowd at the bar. It was Elaine who had introduced me to Lisa and her husband; the two women had met at a class at Hunter College. "Isn't that Lisa Holtzmann?" she'd said, nodding toward the bar. I looked and agreed that it was, but neither of us suggested going over and saying hello.

In her apartment, in her bed, I could shut out the world. It was as if those rooms on the twenty-eighth floor existed somehow outside of space and time. I would shuck off my life like a pair of boots and leave it at the door.

I suppose it wasn't much of a stretch to say she was like a drug or a drink to me. I'd thought fleetingly of calling the liquor store, reached for the phone, and called her instead. The connection wasn't usually that clearly wrought. I would find myself thinking of her, and wanting to be with her. Sometimes I resisted the impulse. Sometimes I didn't.

I rarely went to her more than once a month, and during the winter there'd been a stretch of almost three months when I'd never even reached for the phone. Shortly after the first of the year I thought of her and thought, Well, that's over, feeling a curious mixture of sadness and relief. Early in February I called and went over there, and we were right back where we'd started.

Afterward we watched the sunset. It must have been around nine. The sunsets were coming later every day now, with less than a week to go until Midsummer Eve.

She said, "I've been working a lot. I got a great assignment, six covers from a paperback western series."

"Good for you."

"The hardest part is reading the books. They're what they call adult westerns. Do you know what those are?"

"I could probably guess."

"You probably could. The hero doesn't say, 'Shucks, ma'am.' "

"What does he say?"

"In the one I just finished he said, 'Why don't you get shed of that petticoat so I can eat that sweet little pussy of yours.' "

"How the West was won."

"It's shocking," she said, "because you think you're reading Hopalong Cassidy, and the next thing you know somebody's getting fisted behind the corral. The hero's name is Cole Hardwick. That's pretty straightforward, don't you think?"

"One gets the point."

"I'm doing a different western scene for each cover. The two constants are guns and cleavage. Oh, and Cole Hardwick's weathered face in the foreground, so you'll know right away it's another book in the series." She extended a hand, ran her forefinger along my jaw. "I almost used this face," she said.

"Oh?"

"I started sketching, and what came out began to look curiously familiar. It was a great temptation to leave it. I wonder if you'd ever have seen one of the books, and if you'd have recognized yourself."

"I don't know."

"Anyway, I decided you're not right for it. You're too urban, too streetwise."

"Too old."

"No, Hardwick's pretty grizzled himself. Look, there goes the sun. Will I ever get tired of sunsets? I hope not."

The show was even richer once the sun was down. A whole rainbow of colors stained the Jersey skyline.

She said, "I've been seeing somebody."

"Somebody nice, I hope."

"He seems nice. He's an art director for an in-flight magazine. I showed him my book and he didn't have any work for me, but he called me the next day and took me to dinner. He's nice-looking and fun to be with and he likes me."

"That's great."

"We've had four dates. Tomorrow we're going to have an early dinner and see Eleven Months of Winter at Playwrights Horizon. And then I suppose I'll sleep with him."

"You haven't yet?"

"No. A couple of, you know, lingering kisses." She clasped her hands in her lap and looked down at them. "When you called, my first thought was to tell you not to come over today. And then I said I didn't want to do anything, and how long did that last? Half a minute?"

"Something like that."

"I wonder what it is with us."

"I've wondered myself."

"What happens if I start sleeping with Peter? What will I say when you call?"

"I don't know."

" 'Come on over,' I'll say. And afterward I'll feel like a whore."

I didn't say anything.

"I can't see myself sleeping with two men at once. I don't mean literally at the same time, I mean-"

"I know what you mean."

"Having a relationship with Peter, and still going to bed with you. I can't see myself doing that. But I can't imagine saying no to you, either."

"Daddy stuff?"

"Oh, I suppose so. When you kissed me there was a split second when I could taste liquor on your breath. Of course that was just memory. He never came to my room without liquor on his breath. Did I tell you he was in treatment?"

"No."