afternoon." I'm untrained to deal with this; I say nothing. After a long pause she says:
"We're sorry. We can't make it to lunch. We hope you haven't been waiting." "I've been waiting ninety minutes."
The line goes muffled and the sotto voce whispering starts. In the background I can hear the vague strains of a string instrument warming up.
"I'm really sorry. It's just, with the concert – "
More hushed coaching. I look around, as though to ground myself outside her voice. Candles have been cleverly hidden in secret niches and the room glows and twinkles the colors of wine: ruby, amethyst, burgundy, bronze . ..
"We thought maybe it's best to leave this to another time."
"You don't want me to come?"
"Henry."
She can't hang up. I can't let her. I look around. How did I end up in this flinking dungeon?
"I don't mind paying. If it's money – "
"The show's sold out," she says quickly.
"Just a drink, then. I'm close by."
"Henry, I'm not sure I'm ready." I recognize the tone instantly. It belongs to the witch. I know I should stop but I can't.
"Tomorrow. There's a place in the East Village . No, the West Village . We'll have breakfast."
I hear activity on the far end of the phone line, then a muted thud, then an English-accented voice:
"Elise doesn't want to talk to you right now."
"Fuck you," I say playfully.
"Well, that's that," he says.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm a bit emotional."
"There's no need for that language."
He's right, I think. The Leech is right. I try to remember what Apelman told me.
"Family is family."
This shuts him up. So I say it again. It doesn't come out quite right the second time.
"You're drunk," he says.
"Hey, genius. Genius – can you put my daughter back on?"
"You're in no state to talk with her." There's a scuffing sound, which I recognize as the universal prelude to hanging up.
"Hey!" Clear air. I frantically search for something to say. "I've got cancer. Tell her that. Press release for you, Mr. Manager: C-A-N-C-E-R. Of the ass. Got that?" "I've had about enough – "
"Hey! Wait!" I'm screwing this up but I know there's something I can say, something perfect, something that will smooth over the past, pucker open the future. What would Apelman say? It's always been like this. It's always been me who's had to ask forgiveness.
"I'm hanging up."
"And a lot of money," I blurt out. "You know that, right, Leechy? Half a million bucks for a cello, right? There's plenty more where that came from. I bet you'd like to manage that, wouldn't you, once I'm gone? Leechy boy? Hey?"
He hangs up.
***
I WISH I HAD MORE RESTRAINT. I wish they'd taught it at school, or even before that, when I was still learning things. I shouldn't have quaffed those two 1989 Bordeaux . Let myself attempt full sentences on the phone afterward. At the least, I should've restrained myself from waiting so patiently, so long, for the two of them. Mostly, I wish I had the restraint to stop myself from doing what I'm about to do.
I throw a wad of cash on the table – Gel-head's lucky day – then go back and count it, peel back a few notes. No sense in losing one's head. Hobble through the twisty, curiously grungy hallway, through the mauve-colored, chandeliered restaurant, dodging cheese carts and briefcases, then outside. The sky's overcast. I opt for walking, give myself time to sober up. Cool down. I limp through the southern chunk of Central Park , a tuxedoed booze-breathed cripple among the mass of tourists, families and couples. Children look at me strangely. Everyone else looks away. It's crowded as hell. Then I remember – Columbus Day weekend.
I'm not sure I'm ready . What did she mean? Ready for what? To see me? Or for the concert? I shouldn't have pestered her hours before her big performance. But did that mean she'd be ready after the concert, though? Maybe she meant she wasn't ready for marriage to the Leech. A coded message. I shamble under the elms, past the hackberries and maples, lindens
"We're sorry. We can't make it to lunch. We hope you haven't been waiting." "I've been waiting ninety minutes."
The line goes muffled and the sotto voce whispering starts. In the background I can hear the vague strains of a string instrument warming up.
"I'm really sorry. It's just, with the concert – "
More hushed coaching. I look around, as though to ground myself outside her voice. Candles have been cleverly hidden in secret niches and the room glows and twinkles the colors of wine: ruby, amethyst, burgundy, bronze . ..
"We thought maybe it's best to leave this to another time."
"You don't want me to come?"
"Henry."
She can't hang up. I can't let her. I look around. How did I end up in this flinking dungeon?
"I don't mind paying. If it's money – "
"The show's sold out," she says quickly.
"Just a drink, then. I'm close by."
"Henry, I'm not sure I'm ready." I recognize the tone instantly. It belongs to the witch. I know I should stop but I can't.
"Tomorrow. There's a place in the East Village . No, the West Village . We'll have breakfast."
I hear activity on the far end of the phone line, then a muted thud, then an English-accented voice:
"Elise doesn't want to talk to you right now."
"Fuck you," I say playfully.
"Well, that's that," he says.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm a bit emotional."
"There's no need for that language."
He's right, I think. The Leech is right. I try to remember what Apelman told me.
"Family is family."
This shuts him up. So I say it again. It doesn't come out quite right the second time.
"You're drunk," he says.
"Hey, genius. Genius – can you put my daughter back on?"
"You're in no state to talk with her." There's a scuffing sound, which I recognize as the universal prelude to hanging up.
"Hey!" Clear air. I frantically search for something to say. "I've got cancer. Tell her that. Press release for you, Mr. Manager: C-A-N-C-E-R. Of the ass. Got that?" "I've had about enough – "
"Hey! Wait!" I'm screwing this up but I know there's something I can say, something perfect, something that will smooth over the past, pucker open the future. What would Apelman say? It's always been like this. It's always been me who's had to ask forgiveness.
"I'm hanging up."
"And a lot of money," I blurt out. "You know that, right, Leechy? Half a million bucks for a cello, right? There's plenty more where that came from. I bet you'd like to manage that, wouldn't you, once I'm gone? Leechy boy? Hey?"
He hangs up.
***
I WISH I HAD MORE RESTRAINT. I wish they'd taught it at school, or even before that, when I was still learning things. I shouldn't have quaffed those two 1989 Bordeaux . Let myself attempt full sentences on the phone afterward. At the least, I should've restrained myself from waiting so patiently, so long, for the two of them. Mostly, I wish I had the restraint to stop myself from doing what I'm about to do.
I throw a wad of cash on the table – Gel-head's lucky day – then go back and count it, peel back a few notes. No sense in losing one's head. Hobble through the twisty, curiously grungy hallway, through the mauve-colored, chandeliered restaurant, dodging cheese carts and briefcases, then outside. The sky's overcast. I opt for walking, give myself time to sober up. Cool down. I limp through the southern chunk of Central Park , a tuxedoed booze-breathed cripple among the mass of tourists, families and couples. Children look at me strangely. Everyone else looks away. It's crowded as hell. Then I remember – Columbus Day weekend.
I'm not sure I'm ready . What did she mean? Ready for what? To see me? Or for the concert? I shouldn't have pestered her hours before her big performance. But did that mean she'd be ready after the concert, though? Maybe she meant she wasn't ready for marriage to the Leech. A coded message. I shamble under the elms, past the hackberries and maples, lindens
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