Love Maps Page 19

  “One of my business partners was in Berlin the day it fell. There are going to be incredible opportunities, Sarah.”

  Sarah focuses on the concrete, overcome by a wave of repulsion. Maya motions to the bartender. “Shall we have champagne?”

  “I’ll get ginger ale. I’m into ginger ale these days.”

  “One champagne and one ginger ale,” says Maya.

  “To new beginnings,” says Sarah when the drinks arrive. They clink glasses.

  Maya’s face lights up. “You are pregnant!”

  There’s no point in denying it. Sarah grins, embarrassed, happy. Maya clasps her in an old-fashioned, full-throttled hug, then holds her at arm’s length, beaming and shaking her head.

  “It’s just a baby,” Sarah protests, as if the two of them are continuously popping out babies, when in fact, strangely, neither have ever before gotten pregnant.

  Maya signals for the bill and ushers Sarah out of the bar, practically pushing her to the front door, eyeing the smokers sternly, although she had snuffed out a Camel only minutes before. On the sidewalk, their breath rises in thin white plumes. It’s the first really cold night of November.

  “Where should we go?” Maya asks. “What do people do? Look at you, you’re shivering. Let me take you home. I’ll give you a bath. I’ll make you tea.”

  “Wait!” says Sarah. She’d left her piece of the Berlin Wall on the bar.

  “I’ll get it for you. You’re not going back in there. Why did you ever suggest it? You’re not still using turpentine, are you?” Maya doesn’t wait for an answer and heads back inside to collect the concrete.

  “Thanks,” says Sarah when she returns, eager to show it to Gus.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Thank goodness. Have you seen a doctor?” Maya steps into the street to hail a cab. “I’ll draw you a bath at your own place if you won’t come to mine.”

  “What is it with baths? Do I smell?”

  “No, darling, I just want you to be comfortable.”

  “I’m not uncomfortable.”

  “Good. How do you feel?” Maya catches herself starting babble and laughs. She helps Sarah into the cab, then scoots in beside her, their knees touching, Maya’s hands fluttering with excitement. “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl? Do you have a feeling? Ma said she knew, both times, with us. I know an obstetrician who is apparently very good. I can get you an appointment if you’d like.”

  “I already have an obstetrician.”

  “Is he qualified?”

  “She. She’s fine.”

  “Oh, your poor ears, they’re red. Here’s my scarf. Well, if it turns out you want another one, I recommend Jerome. Jerome Rosenfeld. I don’t think he takes insurance but I’d be happy to pay. Oh, darling, can you even believe it?”

  *

  At the apartment, Maya kneels in front of Philip and Sarah’s claw-foot bathtub, tending to the faucet, an unreliable old spout whose waters gush out in wildly varying temperatures. Sarah sits on the closed lid of the toilet, blowing on her fingers, remembering the tub on 155th. You had to turn the faucets with a wrench, which you could never find.

  “Have you been able to eat? Do you want pickles or something?”

  “Tea would be nice,” Sarah says, hoping to redirect Maya to the kitchen. She wants to get undressed alone.

  Maya runs her fingers though the water, her forehead wrinkled in thought, still fiddling with the temperature. The bathroom bulb glares down on her, a merciless light that Sarah has meant for years to replace. It shines on Maya’s skin, rendering it thin and translucent, revealing the bones underneath, giving Sarah a glimpse of that age that Maya has been complaining about recently. Maya looks at her expectantly.

  “Some tea would be nice,” Sarah repeats.

  “What kind would you like?” Maya asks, now standing upright, brushing the dust off her knees.

  “Anything herbal is fine.” Sarah slips into the bath. It does feel good. Wonderfully good. She dips her face under the water and blows bubbles, the warmth enveloping her, her face thawing along with her toes and fingers.

  Maya returns; Sarah adjusts the curtain so that only her face is visible.

  “Chamomile,” says Maya. “You can’t go wrong with that.”

  “I’ve never seen you like this. I swear, you’re fussing around like Ma.”

  “Am I?” Maya sounds pleased. “Well, I’ve never seen you like this either.”

  “You’re not seeing me. I’m not showing you my belly. It’s a squishy mess.”

  “You know, you could come over and visit me in London. If you have the baby there, it would have dual citizenship.”

  *

  She wakes the next morning with a churning stomach, and runs to the bathroom. Vomits all over the place. She mops it up, weeping, then calls Philip.

  “Hello.” He sounds stiff and formal.

  “I’m buying a ticket to Georgia. I wanted to check with you when would be a good time.”

  A crackly silence. The kind of silence that makes her want to scream.

  “Sarah,” he says gently, “I’m not sure how much longer I’m going to be here. I met an interesting woman from Oxfam—”

  “An interesting woman from Oxfam?”

  “Oh, come on. It’s not like that … There may be a way for me to get involved in some of their development projects. I’m flying to London next week.”

  “I’m surprised you dare. Maya lives almost full-time in London.” The name reverberates long after she speaks it. She leans her forehead against the cold glass of the window.

  “Well, I guess I’ll have to buck up now, won’t I?” There’s a nastiness in his voice that makes her shudder.

  *

  She mixes a palette of reds and jabs at a new painting, a depiction of Quetzalcoatl’s fiery breath, only his breath. She considers having an abortion.

  Gus dribbles his ball over. “Jeez, Sarah.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not as, ah, playful as most of your work. It’s a little scary.”

  “Good. I want to be scary.” She can’t have an abortion. The thought makes her sick. Gus keeps bouncing his ball. “Can’t you bounce that thing somewhere else? Or throw it out the window?”

  Gus continues to slap his ball up and down, up and down. “Do you want me to tell him?”

  She considers it, but what would be the point? “Just stop bouncing that thing. That’s all I want.”

  “It’s a free country,” Gus replies. He dribbles it back to his side of the studio and, as if to punish her further, practices his jump shot.

  *

  Simon selects six paintings for the show, all large and violent. The Plumed Serpent in Manhattan (oil, sand, and ash on paper), his favorite, hangs near the entrance. Maya knows about it, although she has not seen it in person, and she doesn’t know how similar her profile is to that of the priestess piloting the helicopter. She and Sarah arrive at the opening together, late, having had trouble with Sarah’s dress. There are so many people there, the paintings are barely visible. They enter the throng, the heat of bodies, the plastic glasses of wine sloshing, the smoke curling in lonely towers that mass together in a cloud at the ceiling. Sarah doesn’t know very many of these people. Some of them are terribly young, girls tottering in black spiky heels, boys slouching moodily. She imagines that Falk might be here, though she heard he started some skateboard project in Detroit. She scans the room and sees a boyfriend from even further back, his ponytail now quite straggly, gesticulating to a circle of onlookers.

  Maya and Simon embrace. A stranger grabs Sarah and tells her she’s a genius. Simon tugs at her, eager to introduce her to a skinny kid with glasses who is somebody’s nephew. Through the crowd and the chatter Sarah glimpses Maya’s white shoulders, her voluptuous back. She is once again ageless, whether from the lighting or the makeup or the pleasure of the deal. She is set on selling every one of Sarah’s paintings—“For the baby, we
’ll open it a new bank account, we just need a name.” She is mad about baby names, frequently calling Sarah up with new inspirations. Hudson? June?

  A man with a Dalí-esque mustache insinuates himself between Sarah and the nephew, shaking his head in disappointment. “Sand,” his voice a thin protest. “It’s abrasive. I’m trying to get away from abrasion.”

  Sarah nods, her mouth forming words she is barely aware of, her focus suddenly centered on Maya who is wandering toward The Plumed Serpent in Manhattan. She stands before it, alone. The mustached man speaks, but Sarah doesn’t hear a word, studying Maya’s bun, her slender neck, the cock of her hips, wishing she would turn so she could see her face. They have only had one conversation about what happened—a brief exchange, months ago.

  “You shouldn’t have asked me to be friends with Philip.”

  “I never asked. You volunteered.”

  “It was expected of me.” As if what happened were Sarah’s fault.

  A friend of theirs from Paris, finely scented, swoops her into a hug. “You look wonderful, darling—et ta jupe! Where did you find it?”

  “My dress? Oh, yes, it’s from Maya. She had her dressmaker design it especially for tonight.”

  Maya comes up from behind, kissing them both on the cheek. “What a fabulous show!” If she is angry at the Plumed Serpent, there is no sign of it. She is glowing and proud. “These are the best she’s ever done, don’t you think, Mimi?”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” says Mimi. “I love that circus over my mantle.”

  Maya squeezes Sarah’s arm. “There’s Claude. He’s going to buy one.”

  “You think so?”

  “Bet you fifty bucks.”

  Maya swoops over to a white-haired banker in plaid pants as Bambi and her date, a professor of philosophy who Sarah has met many times but whose name forever escapes her, appear before her.

  “Sarah!” cries Bambi, raising her arms to hug her, forgetting her glass. “Oh shit, I’m sorry.” Wine spills everywhere. “At least it’s white. You can barely see it.”

  “Can I get you some water?” asks the professor.

  “No, please, I must repair to the powder room. I’ll be back, my loves.”

  “Poor Bambi. She’s had a hell of a year,” says the professor, watching her stumble to the bathroom. Sarah, wanting to help her, nods miserably. She asks the professor some question that leads him into Diderot and determinism in the radical enlightenment.

  “Determinism?” murmurs Sarah. Over the professor’s shoulder, Maya beams at the banker, her fingers light and playful on his sleeve. He whispers in her ear and Maya throws back her head, her neck still gorgeous, gleaming white. She has won. Philip was right. She has gotten rid of him and she will, through love or money, get his child.

  “Sarah?” The professor gently taps her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  “Sorry, I lost my footing there. I think I need to get some air.” She fetches her coat and slips from the building.

  Men and women, flushed and laughing, have spilled out onto the iron steps and nearby sidewalk. Their gazes fall on her, slight sparks of curiosity that easily pass to other things as she walks away. By the next block, she is no longer the artist, just a woman alone on the sidewalk in the dark.

  *

  The next day she takes the subway to Central Park. Space. Staunch forms of life. Ice forming on the puddles, melting and reforming, crumpled leaves clinging to the branches. She walks and walks and walks. Past Cleopatra’s Needle, around the reservoir, to the northern end, the weed-choked pond. The weeds are desolate and gray and no one is there besides her. She climbs a gray-trunked, brown-leafed hill. She isn’t following a path, just scrambling by boulders and bushes through slippery mud. She gets to a cave with a charcoal pit and a grimy sleeping bag. She squats, examining the soot-blackened ceiling, wondering who lives there. It seems to be somebody sympathetic. A wrinkled, unflappable, all-forgiving hermit. If the sleeping bag were cleaner, she’d crawl in and take a nap. The hermit would understand; he’d welcome her. She wants to stay there. It is quiet and peaceful. She does not want to go back to her apartment, the telephone ringing, the answering machine beeping, voices asking if she’s all right, Maya chiding her ferociously. She sold three paintings! How could she run off like that? Outside, sleet skitters against the rocks. It’s getting dark. She walks back to the southern end of the park, empty except for a couple of bundled-up nannies pushing babies in plastic-wrapped strollers. She holds her stomach with cold-fingered hands, wishing she hadn’t left the cave. She’ll never be able to find it again. Through the windows of bars, TVs broadcast the American bombing campaign and people cheer as missiles drop through the night air and unseen, untelevised houses explode and blood leaks out of the skulls of goats and grandmothers and anyone unfortunate enough to be in their path.

  A man stumbles onto the sidewalk. “Whoa, miss,” he says, blearily groping at her. “Pretty miss.”

  “Behave yourself,” she says.

  “Why?” he calls after her, laughing.

  Chapter 21

  Connecticut, October 1997

  “How long till we get there?” Max asked.

  “A long time. Maine is far away.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Well, we’ll stop when we find a good diner.”

  “I’m hungry now.”

  “Don’t be difficult. I want to get out of Connecticut first, make some progress.”

  “I’m not being difficult. I’m hungry.”

  “Here’s a box of Cheerios. Munch on these.”

  “I don’t want Cheerios. I want donuts.”

  “You are being difficult.”

  “Why are we going to Maine?”

  “So we can live by the ocean and Mom can paint and you can collect fossils and horseshoe crabs.”

  “Live? We’re going to live there?”

  “Well, no, not necessarily. We’ll see. For now, we’re taking a vacation.”

  “Everyone else takes a vacation in the summer. Why do we have to do it in the fall?”

  “Look at the sun. The rosy fingers of dawn! Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  A car honked. Sarah scowled at the rearview mirror and saw, a couple of cars back, a police car. She braked a tad abruptly, jerking them forward.

  “You okay, Max?”

  “Yeah.”

  What were all these cars doing? Why was everyone going to Maine? The North Star had disappeared, all the stars had disappeared. The sky turned from pink to yellow and the cars multiplied. She swerved through the traffic, undaunted. She’d get there first. The road seemed to expand, all sorts of cars slowing and speeding in concert, caught up in an invisible current; an asphalt river, pulling them along—she barely had to steer, the Buick moved by its own volition, the river’s volition. Max had fallen silent. She glanced at the rearview mirror. He’d zipped up one of the sleeping bags and crawled into it. A giant orange caterpillar with a tousled blond head.

  “Why don’t you be a caterpillar for Halloween? You’d be the cutest caterpillar.”

  “I don’t want to be cute.”

  “I’ll make you the costume. Do caterpillars have antennae? We’ll have to stay until Halloween. Everyone will have cool costumes. It’s an artists’ colony, they don’t do prefab plastic superheroes. I could make beautiful antennae with copper wire.”

  “You can’t see caterpillar antennae. They’re too small.”

  “Fine,” she said, “no antennae. Cool makeup though.”

  “Yech.”

  The Buick strayed, edging into the other lane. Whoa! Where the hell are you going? She returned her attention to the yellow lines, the motion, the zooming bumpers and car antennae. That good swooping feeling came back. She was at one with the traffic, curving around interstate esses, whizzing past tarry-roofed row houses and the ruins of paintings on brick warehouse walls, faded advertisements for fried chicken and chewing tobacco—she thought again of her absent cigarettes. No. Max. It
was just as well. She didn’t need a cigarette; she needed nothing except the vinyl-wrapped wheel quivering under her palms, the light getting brighter, the traffic never quite bogging down, just becoming more intricate. She sneezed and sniffled, but all this nose business was clarifying, energizing, making her see the lovely geometry of the overhead ramps, the railroad bridges, the skyscrapers.

  “You know what caterpillars got?” Max said.

  “What?”

  “Anal claspers!” Max guffawed. “You can make me anal claspers.”

  “Very funny,” she said, passing a sign for the George Washington Bridge. “Why not be George Washington? I’ll make you a wig and wooden teeth.” Wait. How had that sign gotten there? That couldn’t be the George Washington Bridge. Another sign came up: Last Exit before the G.W. Bridge. Holy shit. What had she done? Of course she was in New York, she’d been admiring the skyline a second ago. That’s why the traffic was so heavy, she was in fucking New York, about to be George Washington’d into New Jersey.

  “Hold on, Max!” She shot across the lanes. A chorus of horns and screeching brakes rose up behind them. Sweat chilled her pores. She was drunk, undeniably drunk, and Max was in the backseat. What the fuck was she doing? The sweat poured out, freezing cold. Her palms dripped on the wheel. “Please,” she whispered through clenched teeth. “Oh god, I’m sorry.” They made it to the exit ramp, a twisty tunnel that delivered the Buick from the echo of still-angry horns and turned it out onto the relative calm of the Henry Hudson Parkway.

  “I could be Henry Hudson,” said Max softly, thoughtfully, as if trying to make up for the mess they’d left behind them. “He discovered New York Harbor.”

  She nodded, too terrified to speak. How much had she had to drink? She clutched the wheel. She had to get off the parkway, onto some safer, slower, quieter road. The Cloisters were coming up. Yes, that was perfect. She could sober up and Max could wander around the old castle, yes, perfect—sarcophagi, swords, suits of armor. On a proper road trip, you did this sort of thing. And there’d be a phone. She could call Gus, warn him that they were coming. He had to be there. Who’d give up a gig like that? Sculptor-in-residence. You simply did your work, and the bills would get paid. All right, you might have to smile for a pamphlet, go to a fundraiser, sleep with a donor, but that’s nothing compared to the PTA. She sighed, feeling better. They hadn’t crashed. There hadn’t been an accident, just a fury of horns.