New Jersey Noir by Joyce Carol Oates Page A

them,” and she stopped and looked at me, dark eyebrows arching up again, and I said really quickly, “I don’t mean to be forward, I just thought you might like art,” and she said, “I do, but—” and I said, “That’s great,” and added my warmest smile, the one I practice in the mirror, and she said, “Well … maybe,” and I said, “How about tonight?” and she gave me that look again, then started laughing and said, “You are forward,” and I laughed too so she’d think I was a good sport though I was no longer sure why we were laughing, but she said, “I can’t tonight,” and I said, “Of course, I understand,” which is what people on television say all the time, and that was that. I was disappointed but not defeated, because one thing I have is patience.
    I waited a couple of days so it wouldn’t feel forced, then timed it so I’d bump into her on the PATH again.
    “Hi,” I said. “Oh, hi,” she said. And right way I started telling her about my job, which she said sounded interesting, and I dropped some names of famous artists I built stretchers for, and she’d heard of a few. But I didn’t push it. I didn’t want to ruin it.
    Over the next week, I made sure we happened to meet but I never asked her to come see my paintings, though I’d drop a reference to them like, “I painted half the night” or “I think I finished the last painting for the Japan show,” and finally she asked me if she could come see my work, and I said, “How’s tomorrow night?” but real casual, the whole time my brain going, Lola Lola Lola Lola, and she said, “Where do you live?” and I told her and she said, “Really? I didn’t know anyone lived way back there,” and I said, “Oh, it’s nice, and my studio’s really big,” and she said, “I don’t know …” and I said, “It’s right next door to Pablo’s Towing Station and Pablo’s got guard dogs, so it’s perfectly safe, nothing to worry about,” and used my practiced smile again, and she said, “Oh, it’s not that …” and seemed to be thinking it through and finally said, “Okay, but you’ll have to come get me because I’m not walking all the way back there alone at night,” and I said, “Of course not, I wouldn’t want you to,” and she asked if we could do it on the later side because she liked to have dinner with her husband, and I tried to keep my smile in place when I said that was fine though I was afraid she’d say she wanted to bring him along, which would ruin everything, but all she said was, “How’s nine?” and I said, “Perfect,” and started walking away, my mind seeing Lola in all sorts of naked poses, but she called after me, “Hey, don’t you want my address?” And I turned and said, “What?” And she repeated the question. And I said, “Oh, right,” and laughed maybe a little too hard.
    I stayed up all night arranging and rearranging all the portraits till everything was perfect, then cleaned the studio and scrubbed the little storage area behind it, which has stone walls and is dank and dark and must have been used for some kind of cold storage at one time and served my purposes really well. I even sprayed it with Febreze because I wanted it to smell fresh for Lola, and put a clean sheet on the cot, and made sure the cuffs were not rusted from the dampness. Then I showered and washed my hair and shaved and used Old Spice and put on a new white shirt I bought at the Gap just for the occasion.
    The air was heavy with that fishy smell and I worried it might rain and I hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella and had forgotten my gloves, so I pulled my jacket over my finger when I pressed Lola’s doorbell.
    A minute later she appeared, smiling, but her eyes looked red as if she’d been crying.
    “You okay?” I asked.
    “Fine,” she said, but the minute she closed the door behind her she got upset because she’d left her keys inside.
    “Isn’t your husband home?” I asked.
    “No,”