Aftermath of Dreaming(117)

“Her name’s Betty.”

Like in The Glass Menagerie I almost say but don’t since I have a feeling Reggie won’t like the comparison, though it’s a not a bad one. The gentleman caller’s fiancée in that play was named Betty. The name stuck out at me in the production I saw with Momma and Suzanne at the Saenger in New Orleans, an emotionally redundant afternoon if there ever was one. Betty.

“I met her at the museum,” Reggie continues on the phone while I stand over my stove, stirring what must be my millionth pot of oatmeal. “I was wandering around the decorative arts wing, and she came in looking all cool with her clipboard and museum things, and we struck up a conversation and ended up talking for half an hour.” Like he and I did when we met, I think. “We’ve been together since.”

“That’s great, Reggie.”

Years ago, Reggie told me that when he first moved here he used to hang out at the museum hoping to meet a rich dowager (his word) to marry and endure until she died and he inherited all her money. I don’t know if I should be surprised at the twist of fate that he’s seeing someone he met there, albeit an associate curator, or laugh at the irony.

“And she has great design ideas for my script. Her area is early twentieth-century American, so there’s lots of crossover, aesthetically speaking. And we’ve been working on it with the director for the past few weeks.”

I feel simultaneously shut out and relieved. “I’m so glad you found someone.”

“Thanks, Yvette.” He sounds defensive, embarrassed, and proud. After we hang up the phone, I realize how much this needed to happen and for how long. I just wish it wasn’t making me feel so empty.

I take my coffee and oatmeal to the studio, walking through the living room and doing everything I can to not look outside the windows. I might have to get some goddamn draperies. My studio is practically the only habitable room in my apartment now. I put some discs on the CD player, and let my computer boot up while I start eating my breakfast. None of my customers responded to the brochure I sent them, but July is usually a slump for jewelry, though my bank accounts need money fast, thanks to the outlay I had when I bought the jet and materials for my new line. After a few bites, I push the oatmeal away. Losing myself in making this jewelry is the sustenance I want right now. I open the safe and pull out trays of tourmaline, citrine, topaz, peridot, gold chains, and most wonderfully, jet. The pieces of jet lie on the black felt-lined tray like a glistening glass of water floating on a wave, shining and sparkling bright against the same color, as if they alone own it. I stack the trays of semiprecious stones and gold on one side of my desk, Howlin’ Wolf is in full moan, and I put the jet in front of me, picking up the largest piece. It is warm to the touch, not cool like gold and stones are, but warmer even than my hand, like someone physically larger enveloping me in a hug.





34




The decision to call Andrew must have formed on its own during the few hours I slept because it was clear as soon as I woke up this morning. It is so completely what I must do that no part of my mind is even bothering with “Should I or shouldn’t I?” The only question is “What time?” As I pour water into the coffeemaker, I decide that later mid-morning is probably the best time to catch him on his cell phone away from his house.

I drink a few cups of coffee to kill some time. I try to concentrate on work, but all I can think about are the numbers of Andrew’s cell phone and when I can dial them, so I take a long bubble bath, letting the cool water be a contrast to the early August heat.

Finally, it is eleven—that should be late enough. I go into the living room—my studio’s too distracting—and sit on the couch with my back to the ruined tree. I rest my hand on the phone for a moment, as if Andrew will get the message and call me himself, then I dial his number.

“Hello.” Andrew’s voice enters my body, nestling among all the other words it has sown inside me.

“Hey, it’s Yvette,” I say softly, as if my lowered tone will lessen the possibilities of it being a bad time to call.

“Are you all right?” Andrew sounds frantically concerned.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Where have you been?”

“Here, what do you mean?”

“I’ve been calling and calling you and all I’d get is a message that your phone’s been disconnected.”

“Disconnected? No, it’s what I’m calling you on.”

“Your phone hasn’t been disconnected?” Then he confidently spiels off a number to me.

Andrew is shocked when I tell him that that’s the number for my old apartment in Beverly Hills, where I lived when we were seeing each other years ago. He doesn’t write numbers down, just memorizes them, so when he got back from New York last spring, he remembered my old apartment’s phone number and had been calling that one.

“And I thought you just didn’t want to speak to me anymore,” I say, which makes him laugh, letting me know how impossible that would be.

“And I thought you’d gotten married to some really jealous guy who made you give up your old friends.”

What is it with him about me getting married? And in six months? Then I remember how fast that happened for him.

“Are you okay?”