of style around here. Maybe lunch? Or more?
Last Friday night on the downtown F-train. Me: The brunette with the low-cut black dress whose chest you kept staring at (yes, I noticed). You: Light brown hair with goatee, blue shirt, and more of a chance than you gave yourself credit for. Wanna see ’em in person? So holler back, cutie!
He didn’t have a goatee, but maybe he could still respond to that one—nah, he surely hadn’t sunk to that. He pushed the laptop away and had begun running his finger down a row of figures on a spreadsheet when the phone rang. He reached for it immediately, pleased for another distraction from issues of money and also tantalized by the possibility that the caller might be bearing good business news. Maybe a client wanted to buy a piece from a recent show—one of the big paintings, please God, because would that ever take a weight off. Or maybe it was a new artist, some undiscovered talent looking for a place to hang his work. Even if it were only one of his regular artists checking onsales, that was fine; Jake would strike up a conversation that might lead somewhere productive—at least more productive than reviewing financials, or even reviewing Craig’s List.
He glanced at the phone number casually and then held the receiver away from his ear. 212-566-1382. His number. Or rather, his old number. Or rather, Carol’s number, now that Jonas didn’t live there anymore. And Carol didn’t call him, not ever.
He put down the receiver without answering, and, waiting to see if she’d leave a message, he let his eyes rest on the painting in his office. It was a cityscape, showing Manhattan’s skyscrapers as though they were on fire and beneath them a red curve that was the Hudson. It was not one of his favorites; he preferred more abstract, but he always rotated paintings in and out of his office so that none of his artists would feel slighted.
Either she wasn’t leaving a message, or it was a very long one. He waited another minute, and the phone began to ring again. Damn her. She knew he was here, somehow. She had this extra sense when it came to family members, even ex–family members, apparently, and she wasn’t going to let up. He answered the phone.
“Hello, Carol,” he said.
“Jake.” Her voice sounded deep and husky, and God save him if it didn’t bring back a rush of memories; God save him if he couldn’t suddenly imagine her, twenty-one years old, on her back by the lake that one afternoon, her traffic-stopping legs askew; God save him if he didn’t recall the precise and precious taste of her and that tiny, pristine hotel room in the French Quarter the time they barely saw the city, and the intoxicating night they slipped away from a fancy summer party and made love behind the cabana and again in the shallow end of the swimmingpool, and even that time right near the end when they passed in the hallway after another fight and abruptly found themselves doing it jammed into the bathroom while Jonas slept.
“It’s Jonas,” she said.
“Jonas?” Jake felt sluggish, like he was being awakened from a dream. “Jonas? What’s happened? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing; he’s fine, I mean, I think so; at least, it’s nothing specific,” she said. “It’s just that he’s, oh, God, Jake. Something’s going on, even though I’m having trouble articulating it here. He’s in trouble, or troubled—I don’t know what because he’s been, well, he’s been not-Jonas.” Carol paused, and it sounded like she took a sip of a drink. “I think he’s cutting classes,” she said. “He hasn’t called me. I call; there’s no answer. I went to his apartment today, and he wasn’t there. I haven’t heard from him in more than a week.”
“How much more than a week?”
“It’s been nine days.”
“Carol.” Jake leaned back in his chair. “Nine days?”
“So I guess you haven’t spoken with him any more recently than that?”
“I hadn’t really thought
Last Friday night on the downtown F-train. Me: The brunette with the low-cut black dress whose chest you kept staring at (yes, I noticed). You: Light brown hair with goatee, blue shirt, and more of a chance than you gave yourself credit for. Wanna see ’em in person? So holler back, cutie!
He didn’t have a goatee, but maybe he could still respond to that one—nah, he surely hadn’t sunk to that. He pushed the laptop away and had begun running his finger down a row of figures on a spreadsheet when the phone rang. He reached for it immediately, pleased for another distraction from issues of money and also tantalized by the possibility that the caller might be bearing good business news. Maybe a client wanted to buy a piece from a recent show—one of the big paintings, please God, because would that ever take a weight off. Or maybe it was a new artist, some undiscovered talent looking for a place to hang his work. Even if it were only one of his regular artists checking onsales, that was fine; Jake would strike up a conversation that might lead somewhere productive—at least more productive than reviewing financials, or even reviewing Craig’s List.
He glanced at the phone number casually and then held the receiver away from his ear. 212-566-1382. His number. Or rather, his old number. Or rather, Carol’s number, now that Jonas didn’t live there anymore. And Carol didn’t call him, not ever.
He put down the receiver without answering, and, waiting to see if she’d leave a message, he let his eyes rest on the painting in his office. It was a cityscape, showing Manhattan’s skyscrapers as though they were on fire and beneath them a red curve that was the Hudson. It was not one of his favorites; he preferred more abstract, but he always rotated paintings in and out of his office so that none of his artists would feel slighted.
Either she wasn’t leaving a message, or it was a very long one. He waited another minute, and the phone began to ring again. Damn her. She knew he was here, somehow. She had this extra sense when it came to family members, even ex–family members, apparently, and she wasn’t going to let up. He answered the phone.
“Hello, Carol,” he said.
“Jake.” Her voice sounded deep and husky, and God save him if it didn’t bring back a rush of memories; God save him if he couldn’t suddenly imagine her, twenty-one years old, on her back by the lake that one afternoon, her traffic-stopping legs askew; God save him if he didn’t recall the precise and precious taste of her and that tiny, pristine hotel room in the French Quarter the time they barely saw the city, and the intoxicating night they slipped away from a fancy summer party and made love behind the cabana and again in the shallow end of the swimmingpool, and even that time right near the end when they passed in the hallway after another fight and abruptly found themselves doing it jammed into the bathroom while Jonas slept.
“It’s Jonas,” she said.
“Jonas?” Jake felt sluggish, like he was being awakened from a dream. “Jonas? What’s happened? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing; he’s fine, I mean, I think so; at least, it’s nothing specific,” she said. “It’s just that he’s, oh, God, Jake. Something’s going on, even though I’m having trouble articulating it here. He’s in trouble, or troubled—I don’t know what because he’s been, well, he’s been not-Jonas.” Carol paused, and it sounded like she took a sip of a drink. “I think he’s cutting classes,” she said. “He hasn’t called me. I call; there’s no answer. I went to his apartment today, and he wasn’t there. I haven’t heard from him in more than a week.”
“How much more than a week?”
“It’s been nine days.”
“Carol.” Jake leaned back in his chair. “Nine days?”
“So I guess you haven’t spoken with him any more recently than that?”
“I hadn’t really thought
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