Aftermath of Dreaming(52)

“I think it will be helpful in a merging kind of way. The last time I went to mass was Momma’s funeral, and I stopped going regularly when I was fourteen.”

“That’s never going to work.”

“No, I think it’s perfect, really.” It’s sweet how passionate Michael is about this. “Dharma and divinity. Emptiness and redemption. What more could I want?”

“What?” Michael looks at me for the first time. “No, this show. I thought it was in better shape than this, but it’s still…no one’s listening, would you listen? Jesus Christ.”

As Michael’s car careens along, I think about the phone calls I used to have with Andrew. Hours of me talking and him listening, and him remembering practically everything. Andrew Madden with his huge career and insanely busy life always had time to listen to me, and this SOB sitting next to me can’t even hear three sentences without getting distracted by his f*cking radio. But Andrew’s not around and Michael is. And maybe Michael can give that to me when things at the station settle down. Just stop comparing Michael to Andrew—as long as I do that, no one can win.



The cross above my bedroom door is the first thing I see when Michael wakes me hours later in the middle of the night. I nailed it up there last week, hoping its protection would extend from vampires to nightmares, but even though it hasn’t worked, I can’t bring myself to take it down. Maybe its protective powers just need some time to kick in; its safeguarding ability will emerge once God finally gets word it was hung.

I pull the covers back so Michael and I can get under them and sleep properly in bed. Our clothes are long off, and the protected interior air of my bedroom is a few degrees cooler than pleasant on my skin. I remember Nekked Man and hope he found more clothes somewhere tonight and is asleep someplace safe.

“That was the best sleep,” Michael says as he stretches. He sounds oddly done. “I’ve only been getting like four or five hours a night since I took over the station, but, man, those three hours felt like nine. That was amazing.” He kisses my shoulder and neck and arm. “You are amazing.”

We kiss some more, and I am moving down his body with my mouth when Michael suddenly tells me he has to go.

“Go where? No. Stay here.”

“I can’t, Yvette, I need to be at the station really early tomorrow, and you know, traffic on the freeways is a bitch.”

“On a Sunday?”

He kisses my mouth and hands. “It’s important I’m there. Right now is a very—”

“Crucial time,” I finish for him.

He looks so appreciative of my understanding that I feel bad that I didn’t really mean it, so suddenly I do.



Listening to Michael’s rhythmic footsteps going down the stairs, I wonder if the noise will awaken Gloria and bring flashbacks of her “visitors,” but my screams don’t seem to register on her, so maybe footsteps won’t, either.

I wish Michael had stayed. Jesus, he’s so into his work, but maybe he just needs more time and then he’ll be like that about us. The outline of my body still feels nicely blurred from Michael’s skin, weight, and hands on me. The pillow is under my head, the blanket pulled up right; bed, sleep, and me start combining, becoming an undifferentiated dream. Everything with Michael is fine; we’re taking it slow, which is what I wanted to do. I hope going back to sleep at this hour will prevent the scream dream. Or thoughts about Andrew. Where did that come from? For God’s sake, I was thinking about Michael.

But not anymore, I guess. Andrew is in my mind as solidly as a body in my bed, the way his hands felt on me, his eyes on mine. Fuck. Michael, why aren’t you canceling out Andrew? Okay, I just need to see Michael more, that’s all, get really hooked in with him, then Andrew will be a thing of my past, never to be thought of or seen by me again. I hope.

But really kind of don’t.

Fuck.





16




The day after Andrew left New York for Malaysia to shoot Paradise Again with Lily Creed, a day that I wished his being on the other side of the world would magically end so he’d be in New York with me again, Peg called to tell me that I would be having dinner that Friday evening with Tory and seven men. She didn’t say it quite like that—seven men—but as she rattled off their names, a few I knew from reading ArtForum, I noticed they were all masculine. Dinner at an Italian restaurant in SoHo at eight-thirty, did I need directions or could I find it?

I had heard of the place and had passed it many times on my way to and from Sexton Space. It was garnering a lot of attention. The owner was from Milan and had a restaurant there that was famous and essential with the fashion and art crowd, and his New York location was just as instantly in demand.

I would have to juggle my schedule at work, though I didn’t bother Peg with that detail, would have to beg Lydia to cover for me, which she probably would once she heard where I was going and what it was for. Lydia lived for the restaurant scene, and if she wasn’t going, she was happy to live through it vicariously.



On the afternoon of my dinner with Tory and the seven dwarfs, as Carrie was calling them, she and I were sitting at the kitchen table deciding what I should wear. Carrie was suggesting outfits made up partly from her wardrobe and partly from mine while reading aloud personal ads in the Village Voice. We were almost settled on an outfit, though were still going back and forth about the shoes, when suddenly the cat jumped onto Carrie’s lap, startling her into moving the paper which caused the fine corner of the front page to scratch my eye. It didn’t require my going to an emergency room, but the result was a constantly crying left eye. No matter how long I kept a bag of frozen peas on it, a stream of tears kept pouring down, so my right profile looked fine, but from the left, I looked like a weeping Picasso come to life. The two sides of my face did not match.