Aftermath of Dreaming(31)

In the dizziness of being with him, I had almost forgotten that I’d brought them, as he had asked me to during Sunday afternoon’s phone call. Sitting on the bed and facing the windows, Andrew held each square up to the light. There were ten of the last pieces I had done in Mississippi before I left. They were a series of sculptures comprised of driftwood, copper wire, and found glass in expressionistic houselike crosses suggesting our reliance on fallible structures. The sculptures ranged in height from three to four and a half feet and were being stored in the attic of Momma’s house, covered by old flowered sheets from the bed of my youth. There were also some slides of wood pieces and a few abstract oil paintings I had done years before.

Andrew was quiet as he scrutinized them again and again, sometimes flipping one over as if to view it from the other side. I tried to distract myself while I waited for his response by counting the number of taxis I could spot driving through Central Park, tiny yellow objects appearing and hiding among the trees. Then he picked up the slides’ small plastic cases and inserted each slide into it precisely without marring them.

“You…”

It was an eternity before the next word. The number of cabs I had left off on was even, a sign—I hoped—that he liked my work.

“Are going to be…”

Nothing? Forgotten? What?

“A Big Fucking Star.”

Oh. Jesus God.

“A big f*cking art star.” And he nodded his head.

I had no idea what to say. It was like being spoken to in a foreign language, in words you’ve vaguely heard before, but never thought would be addressed to you and with the expectation of a reply.

“Can you leave these with me?”

“I can leave them.” I can leave everything with you, I thought, even me.

“I want to let someone take a look at them.” He kissed my forehead and nose. “You big f*cking art star.”

The phone in the living room rang, and Andrew reached for the extension next to the bed. “Hello?” He listened for a bit, and made small “uh-huh” sounds as the person spoke. “Hold everything a bit longer—give me fifteen. Oh, and when he comes in this afternoon, I want the other guys’ pictures on the wall behind my desk facing him. Yes, even though he already has the—uh-huh. Okay, fifteen.” He replaced the receiver, picked my pullover up off the floor, and handed it to me.

“Okay, sweet-y-vette, you are going to call me this afternoon.”

I didn’t want to leave. Ever. I felt giddy and renewed, but like I was being sent off to school. I wanted to stay with him and be next to him for the rest of my life.

“Okay, but…” I had no end to the sentence; it was all I could muster. My clothes had become traitors—their coverage of my body allowing me to leave. “But when will I see you again?” I sounded like a child who doesn’t believe everyone will reappear in the morning after the night’s sleep. “Will I see you again?”

He smiled at me, kindly, and put his finger on my nose. “Oh, you’ll see me again. You’ll see me a lot again.”

Andrew put on his jeans and a navy blue T-shirt, but with an air of being temporarily dressed, then kissed the top of my head as I put my shoes on. I resisted the urge to try to leave something of mine in his room; that was too obvious and schoolgirlish. When I stood up, I saw him holding out a hundred-dollar bill toward me.

“Oh, no.” I was shocked. Did he think I was there for that? Then I saw his eyes on mine. I obviously needed the money, that he could see, there was nothing more to his offer than that. I shook my head, and he put it away. I didn’t want to need him for that or for him to think that I did.

In a whirlwind of motion, Andrew escorted me down in the elevator, had the doorman hail me a cab, and, settling me in, kissed my cheek while pressing the hundred-dollar bill into my hand.

“For the fare, so you’ll have enough. Call me this afternoon, honey.”

And when he shut the door, the cab moved into action, entered traffic, and left Andrew’s quickly departing figure behind.





11




Driving home on the 10, getting farther and farther from the theater, I start coming down from the shock of seeing Andrew again after so many years. I think I just thought he was supposed to be dead. Or at least in Bel Air, where he lives. No, dead really, somehow. For me, at least. I mean, I knew he wasn’t. He very clearly wasn’t. I’ve seen indications of his continued existence in the media, but in terms of my own experience, I just really had decided he was dead. The Andrew I knew. Gone from my life while a carbon copy carried on in the world. But tonight at the theater, as we sat a few rows apart, it was horribly clear: Andrew is very much alive and so is everything I ever felt for him—full form, like a person who has been waiting for me and finally walks into the room.

As I lie in bed trying to fall asleep (and worrying that tonight might be a scream dream night—please, God, not that to deal with, too), I suddenly remember a conversation I had with Sydney last fall when she called to get referrals of musicians for her show. She was in a bad mood, perturbed (her word), because of a phone conversation she had just had with Andrew Madden—she had no idea I knew him—about getting money from him. Sydney had been in one of his films a year or so before and had felt comfortable enough to ask him if he’d invest in her show.