Modern Lovers (24 page)

A
ndrew was home so infrequently, it was almost like he had a nine-to-five job. Elizabeth took to staring out the window like a sailor's bride. A sailor's widow? Is that what they were called? A couple of the houses in the neighborhood had widow's walks, which didn't even make any sense—there was no view to speak of, except the roofs of other houses, and it seemed like offering burglars a runway, but there was no accounting for sense in Brooklyn real estate. Even when Andrew was at home, he treated her with a polite chilliness that usually lasted only a few hours. Now it had been several weeks, and Elizabeth was worried he might never warm back up. She missed the cat. She missed Andrew, the way he used to be, or the way she used to think he was. Sometimes at night when Elizabeth was trying to go to sleep, she would close her eyes and see Iggy, his tiny little pussycat face peeking out from under a car or behind a trash can, and then he would start to look like Andrew, and she would open her eyes and stare at the ceiling, her heart beating so fast. Iggy was lost, Andrew was lost, and so was she. Everyone except for Harry. Poor Harry! To be saddled with such parents and a missing cat, all at once. Maybe she should make an appointment for him to see someone.

Her phone rang—the house phone, the landline. No one ever used it except the office at Whitman, or sometimes some clients who were
especially anxious about something that couldn't wait until morning. Elizabeth picked it up and said hello. There was a telltale pause.

“Hi there, oops, you caught me! It's Naomi!”

Elizabeth looked at the telephone. “I didn't even realize that you had this number. Then again, you seem to have all the numbers, so I'm not really surprised. I'm much easier to reach on my cell phone, though.”

Naomi laughed. “I'm calling for Andrew. He left me a message, and I got a little excited, you know, like, he's Mr. Mistress!”

“Andrew called you?” Elizabeth pulled back the curtain again and peered out onto the street. “To say what?”

Naomi tsked. “You are so naughty! I guess I shouldn't be surprised.” Her voice hardened. This was Hollywood—the swift, humorless shift toward the mercenary. “He said that he never agreed, and that as a co-writer of the song, his consent was required to use it, and that his lawyers would be delighted to talk to our lawyers about it. He also said, and I quote, ‘There is no amount of money that will make me change my mind.' So that's interesting, don't you think?” The bubbles came back to her voice. “Tell me he was high, Elizabeth. Tell me that it was a prank phone call.”

Elizabeth swallowed. Andrew was the one who was acting crazy—why was she the only one who noticed? Why was everything her fault?

“He is not thrilled,” Elizabeth said.

“Not thrilled with what, exactly?” Naomi said. “Spell it out for me.”

“My husband may not have actually signed the form. Did I not mention that he was wavering?” Elizabeth knew she was being bad, couching her decision this way.

“That presents something of a problem, Elizabeth. There isn't really a huge gray area there. If he didn't sign it, he needs to. Which means we need to get him on board. You know what? I'm going to come on out. Darcey and the rest of the cast are going to be in New
York next week anyway to film some things, and rather than hold up everything I'm going to make time in the schedule for a little visit. It worked for you, and I think it'll work for him.” Naomi said something to someone else in the background. “No, it's fine,” she said, coming back to the phone. “This will be fine. And, Elizabeth?”

“Yes?” It was like being scolded in elementary school. She wanted to curl into a ball and roll under the bed and stay there forever.

“If for some reason this doesn't work, and Andrew really does call his lawyers, I hope you've got one, too.” Naomi hung up the phone, and Elizabeth burst into tears. She heard the door unlock and footsteps on the stairs. “Harry?” she called. “Is that you?”

“It's me,” Andrew said, swinging open the bedroom door. “Jesus, what happened to you?” The bridge of his nose was pink, a tiny sunburn. He hated wearing sunscreen—she practically had to hold his arms down to put it on, worse than when Harry was a toddler.

“Nothing,” Elizabeth said. She swiped at her cheeks and smiled as brightly as possible. “I was just on my way out.” She stood up and gave herself a little shake, like a wet dog. “Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn't I be?” Andrew said. He raised his eyebrows.

“I don't know! How would I know?” Elizabeth pushed by him and into the hall. When she got there, she realized she'd left her keys and her shoes in the bedroom, but she hated the idea of walking back in, so she went into Harry's room and started folding dirty clothes.

•   •   •

I
t was two years after they graduated from Oberlin that Lydia called about the song. She had never called Elizabeth directly in the days of Kitty's Mustache, and so when the phone rang and Lydia's voice was on the other end, Elizabeth was on high alert. The last she'd heard, Lydia had signed a record deal. There were often pictures of her in magazines and items in the gossip column in the newspaper. Everyone loved Lydia already, somehow—Elizabeth found the whole thing
slightly inscrutable, but then again that was Lydia—her white-blond hair hanging in front of her eyes, her round cheeks gone narrow. She looked so different that Elizabeth bet that most people at Oberlin wouldn't even recognize her face—her first face, that is. Maybe she'd even had something done, professionally. One never knew.

“Lydia, hi,” Elizabeth had said. Andrew was out—she was in the house alone. It was when she was working as an assistant for the gallerist, and it was her day off. They were still living in Zoe's house then, in what would someday be Ruby's room. Did Ruby know that, that Elizabeth had slept in that room hundreds of times, that Elizabeth had had sex in that room eons before she was born? She felt like she was constantly swimming through time and space, her old self and her current self simultaneously, with her flat stomach and her stretch marks and the lines around her eyes. When she thought about that phone call with Lydia, which would change both their lives forever, Elizabeth wasn't sure who was talking. It was impossible that only young Elizabeth—unmarried, rootless, beer-drinker Elizabeth who was thinking about going back to school for social work or maybe early-childhood education or maybe for a fiction M.F.A.—was on the telephone, that she had somehow been the one to speak the words to Lydia.

She was calling because she needed the song. Of course! As soon as Lydia said it, Elizabeth laughed. “I'm sorry,” she'd said. “Go on.”

“We have lots of great songs, obviously,” Lydia had said. “There are some fucking amazing songs. But the record company doesn't feel like they have
it
yet, you know, the single. And.”

“You want ‘Mistress of Myself.'”

“Yeah.” Elizabeth could hear how hard it was for Lydia to say it, though it must have been her idea, because no one else knew the song. She must have sung it for them, or played them a tape. Elizabeth could picture an office full of suits, with Lydia at the center, holding up a tiny boom box, Elizabeth's voice coming out of the speakers and Lydia
singing over it, drowning everything else out. People in the halls would have turned to look.

“Okay,” Elizabeth had said. “As long as we get the publishing all squared away. I mean.”

She heard Lydia breathing.

“There is no way that I'm going to let you pretend that you wrote that song.” Even all these lifetimes later, Elizabeth was proud of herself for having said it. She could imagine Lydia's sulky mouth getting all twisted up, and she didn't care. “You know that, right?”

“Of course,” Lydia had said. “I'll get you the paperwork for ASCAP.”

Elizabeth had never heard of it but agreed. “Fine.”

“Great.” Lydia had wanted to get off the phone so badly, Elizabeth could tell. Even before she knew, she knew. Lydia was a snake, slithering through the grass, and Elizabeth wanted to catch her by the tail and fling her against a tree.

“Well, good luck with the record. What's it going to be called yet, do you know?” Elizabeth knew the answer before the words were out of her mouth. Her words, Lydia's mouth. Her words, written across a photo of Lydia's face.

“We're still deciding,” Lydia said, unwilling to admit it.

“Okay, then,” Elizabeth said. “Talk to you soon. Be good.”

And then she was gone.

D
ust texted
HI
at midnight. Ruby was on the couch watching the Kardashians, even though it was an episode that she'd seen before. She loved them and hated them in equal measure, and if she ever applied to college again, her plan was to write an essay about them, and how she'd always had imaginary sisters as a child, even in her house full of women. Ruby thought she probably still wouldn't get in, but at least she'd be putting her real self on paper. The first time, she knew she wasn't going to get in anywhere, and so it didn't matter. If she actually tried to get in and it didn't work, then she'd be upset. A minute later, Dust texted
R U HOME? HAVE A PRESENT FOR YOU. OUTSIDE.

Ruby swiveled around and looked out the window. Sure enough, Dust was sitting on the porch. He wasn't even facing her, just sitting on the steps as if he hadn't written and invited her to join him. Ruby stuck out her tongue, paused the TV, and went out in her bare feet. Dust didn't turn around when Ruby sat down next to him, and when she looked at him, she realized why.

There was a cat cradled in Dust's arms. Not just any cat. “Iggy Pop!” Ruby said, too loud. She covered her mouth and said it again. “Iggy Pop!” She reached over and took the cat out of Dust's grip. Iggy was a good boy, almost boneless, with a never-ending lust for
attention, and so he didn't object when Ruby began to pet him and scratch under his chin. “Where was he? Oh, my God, Dust, they are going to be so fucking happy, you have no idea. Where did you find him?”

He shrugged. “Around.”

“Well, I'm so glad you brought him back. Harry's mom is going to be happy. She, like,
needs
this.” Ruby snuggled Iggy against her shoulder. “Whatta good boy.”

“He likes roast chicken,” Dust said. “And cottage cheese.”

“How do you know? How long have you had him?” Ruby asked, even though she really wanted to ask if Dust had parents who had provided these items, or if he'd roasted a chicken himself.

“It was from the grocery store,” Dust said. “My mom can't cook for shit.”

“Oh,” Ruby said, and immediately tried to clear her mind of all other thoughts he might be reading. How long had he had the cat? Had he found it and just taken it home, to rescue it from the streets of Brooklyn? Had he stolen it from Harry's front porch? Had he blown weed smoke in its poor little pussycat face? Ruby didn't want to know. “Anyway, thank you.”

“It sucks about the fire,” Dust said. His hair had grown out a little over the summer—it was maybe an inch long, sticking straight out. In a few more weeks, it might start to look like normal boy hair and not a shaved head. Ruby tried to picture Dust with hair he could tuck behind his ears, like Harry.

“Um, yeah, that's an understatement. Now I think my parents are happy I didn't get into college—no tuition to pay for. When the restaurant is closed, no one is buying a thirteen-dollar hamburger, you know?” Ruby was afraid to put the cat down, even though he'd probably just run straight home. She wanted the points for bringing him back.

“Sarah was tripping balls,” Dust said. “She thought the sparklers
were fairies sending her messages. She kept trying to kneel down and get close to them. I don't think she meant to put them so close.”

“Excuse me?” Ruby scooted a few inches away. “Did that bitch set my parents' restaurant on fire? Are you joking?”

“No,” Dust said. “She didn't set it on fire. Not, like, on purpose. She was just putting these sparklers all around the back of Nico's house, and . . . you know, the fence behind Hyacinth is right there, and she put them all in a little line with some candles and stuff, and then I guess she came inside and forgot about them. She didn't ‘set it on fire.' She's not psycho. She's just kind of dumb.”

Ruby had never heard Dust call anyone dumb before. That was her line—it was what she always said about him. His stupidity was the reason they weren't ever going to be serious, it was why she never gave their relationship that much thought. She'd always seen him as a cardboard cutout of a person, a type. But now she wasn't sure.

“So you think Sarah Dinnerstein accidentally set my parents' restaurant on fire?” Ruby wondered where Sarah was now, if she was at home in her family's apartment in Park Slope, in her bedroom that overlooked Prospect Park. She was probably staring into space and thinking about how she could make sure she got a private room in her dorm, just in case Dust came to visit. And who knew! Maybe Dust would go and visit her—maybe he'd take the subway to Penn Station and then a Greyhound bus, and when he got off in the bumblefuck Vermont town where her school was, Sarah would be standing there with tears in her eyes, so happy to see him, and then maybe Dust would decide to move in with her, and he'd let his hair grow, and they'd get married and have babies, and he'd teach them all how to skateboard. “I could call the police, you realize that, right?”

“You're not going to call the police. They probably already came. I already heard, the whole thing is covered by insurance. It's not even a big deal. It could have been way worse.” Dust pulled a pack of
cigarettes out of his front pocket. “Most people's houses burn down because of cigarettes, did you know that? Cigarettes and ovens.”

“Thanks, that's great,” Ruby said. He was right—she wasn't going to call the police. What would it accomplish, except getting her in more trouble? “Give me one of those, mine are upstairs.”

Dust plucked out another cigarette and lit it on the end of his own, the two papery embers flashing in the darkness. Ruby took it from him and plugged it into her mouth. She exhaled a string of perfect smoke rings.

“I bet your little boyfriend can't do that,” Dust said.

“Why would he need to do that?” Ruby picked a fleck of tobacco off her tongue—Dust smoked unfiltered. Sometimes he even rolled his own from a little baggie, which Ruby had always found very sexy, his fingers working so quickly.

“He's, like, a kid,” Dust said. “Like a good little kid who always does extra credit on his homework.”

“I do my homework. Or I did.” Ruby spit. “Your cigarettes are fucking gross. What are you, like, a cowboy?”

“Yeah,” Dust said. “But so are you. You're more like me than you are like him, Ruby. You gonna tell his parents I gave you that cat? Or are you gonna tell them that you found it in the bushes?” Dust dropped his cigarette butt onto the sidewalk, then pushed himself up and ground it down with his shoe.

“Did you walk here?” Ruby asked. She'd never seen him without his skateboard in hand. He raised a finger and then leaned down and reached under her mum's forsythia. He pulled out his board and slid it under his feet.

“It's hard to ride with a cat,” Dust said. “But not impossible. I'll see you, Rube.”

She watched him skate away, his willowy body shifting back and forth as he went down the middle of the street. It was dark, and there
were cars, but Dust didn't care—he was immortal, just like she was, immune to common sense and traffic laws. Ruby finished the cigarette even though she wasn't enjoying it, and then took the cat down to Harry's house and knocked on the door. By the time Elizabeth came to the door, Ruby's sheepish, hopeful smile was firmly in place.