XXV
XXV(i) For today’s walk I decide to wander south. I pass a girl who smells of peaches and realise how much I miss the company of women. Soon I find myself beside a schoolyard, the air shrill with the bright screams of children, young lungs challenging the world.
A boy hooks his fingers through the diamonds of the schoolyard fence and says, Hey, Mister Beard. I like your beard. Another boy hooks on alongside him and says, Hey, Mister Weird. What you got written on your sneakers? You look like a looo-zurr.
I turn around, they shout some more. I plug my ears and run back toward the park.
XXV(ii) Around the corner, I bend down and try to erase the words WALK NOON from my sneakers with spittle and a forefinger. But the words barely fade and quickly I check myself. No, the fighter doesn’t hide his scars. And the hermit doesn’t meddle with routines. But the encounter with the children prompts me to buy a small mirror. Yes, the beard is immense and unkempt, I can’t remember the last time I trimmed it. I head home, there must be some scissors and a razor somewhere in my apartment.
XXV(iii) Before I open the front door I can hear that the phone is ringing. If it is Chad calling I will not be so pliable this time around. I should have made some demands, I should at least have left my own mark on some of our arrangements.
I answer with a strong sense of resolve. Hello, I say. What do you want?
Jolly?
Oh, I swallow hard, I wasn’t expecting you, I say.
You called me last night, Jolly. You left a message.
I’m sorry, Blair, I say, heading toward the kitchen, trying to remember. What did I say?
You said you wanted to talk. Has something happened?
No, I say. When I reach the kitchen I see my whisky glass on the counter. The black line that tells me how much to pour indicates more than a nip, a quarter-glass. Perhaps I have been drinking a little more of late, or maybe this is just one of my everyday lapses. I’m sorry, Blair, I say, I really shouldn’t bother you like that.
It’s no bother, Jolly, I still care, you know. And I’m sorry I haven’t called in a while, I suppose –
Don’t apologise, Blair. Thank you for caring. Thank you for calling me back.
Are you working yet?
Yes, I say, I’m writing.
Oh, Jolly, I’m so happy. You know, I still haven’t forgiven Papa. Who are you working for now?
Myself, I say. I’m writing a story.
The line crackles as Blair breathes out hard.
It’s all right, Blair, I say. Don’t worry, I have to do this. This is something I just have to do, please understand.
OK, then, Jolly. I understand.
Thank you, Blair, I say. Blair, I miss you.
I have to go, she replies. Trip’s on his way back from the restroom.
How is Trip?
Trip is well, Jolly. Look, I have to go. We’re having lunch, I’m sorry.
Lunch? On a Wednesday? Special occasion?
It’s my birthday, Jolly. I thought maybe that was why you called last night. I have to go, sorry . . . Just one second, Trip, darling . . . Good luck with your writing, Jolyon. Oh, and it’s Friday, by the way.
She hangs up.
XXV(iv) I am still holding the mirror. I look at my guilty reflection, my long straggled hair and wild bristles of my beard. There must be some scissors, a razor. Somewhere, please.
Nothing in the kitchen drawers, not even a sharp knife.
The beard itches and I scratch, I want to tear it from its roots. I taunt myself with my reflection again and then slam the small mirror down on the counter.
I think I once had a kissable face. Blair liked to hold it in her hands, her lips brushing my cheekbones. And then she would slide slowly inward until her lips were nuzzling the foothills of my nose. There are so many things I miss about Blair.
We lived on the Upper East Side, not far from the best of the big money. We went often to the Met and dined at the Met and then wept at the Met after the deaths of Butterfly or Carmen or Violetta. We knew gallery owners and would-be heiresses and we summered with them in the Hamptons each year. We had started to receive invitations to the most important charity events, gala balls, auctions. Blair’s father was good to us and I was bad to her. Not outright bad or bad because I chose to be. But bad not far beneath the surface, apt to vanish into one of my black holes for weeks at a time.
Eventually Blair was unable to summon up her epic bedside patience any longer. So when she said divorce I said sure and that I understood completely. I tried to hide from her how much it would hurt me to lose her, to walk out into the wilderness alone. Blair did not deserve to feel any guilt for what my life would become without her. I was good to her throughout the break-up. I was the best I had been to her for years.
I emerged from our divorce with a small lump sum and a suitcase full of board games. And then, four years ago, I moved down here to the East Village where space is cheaper, where I hoped no one would find me. And within a year of losing Blair I was driven down into a hole by my loneliness and fear of what now awaits me, the end of the Game. Soon my apartment had become my prison. But that was fine, imprisonment is tolerable. Because punishment is all I deserve.
XXV(v) No scissors, no razors, no kitchen knives. Nothing.
What exactly did I think I would do if I had anything sharp in my home?
XVI
XXVI(i) Chad discovered something not far from enjoyment in the performance of his early-Game consequences. There was, for example, the time he had to wear a single glove like Michael Jackson for a week. The task became easier day by day and not everyone, Chad noticed, looked at him with outright disdain. He even thought he could sense approval from certain quarters, not approval of his exact choice of fashion statement but approval that at least some statement was being made. Another time he had to refer to himself in the third person for three days running. Can Chad get the chicken salad, please? Chad’s here on a year-long study abroad programme. Chad’s so sorry to hear about your mother, Dorian. And yes, Chad found some of these moments enormously humiliating. But he survived every one. And with each survival Chad learned more and more how to live with the clench of social discomfort. Gradually he was growing stronger.
Jack meanwhile performed each of his consequences with great elan. The highlight came when he had to practise break-dancing on the lawn of back quad. And although he had to appear very serious as he whirled and popped and rippled, although he had to wear large protective pads on his elbows and knees, the audience that gathered soon began to applaud his earnest but dismal performance. Jack left without a nod or bow to the crowd, he was not allowed to indicate his performance had been anything but the sincere pursuit of a hobby, and hands slapped his back heartily as he slipped away. That night in the bar, a female admirer bought him a pint.
Jolyon also continued to land dares that didn’t seem troubling to him. One time he had to give an impromptu speech in the street while standing on an upturned milk crate. The others kept the topic hidden from him until the last minute so that Jolyon would have no time to prepare. But his speech on ‘A History of the City of Oxford’ proved a great success. Tourists flocked around him. And although Jolyon had to make up nine-tenths of the facts he delivered to the growing crowd, he stated them with such conviction that no one doubted a single word. Some of the American tourists even pressed money into Jolyon’s hand at the end. He made forty or fifty pounds.
Another time, he had to crash the funeral of a stranger. And he made so great an impression on the mourners they invited him to the buffet and drinks following the burial, even though he admitted to not knowing the deceased. He stayed for several hours, returning with numerous tales and a bellyful of Scotch.