r he can and send it care of the acting school’s address. But talk to her. Maybe it’s just friendship with this guy, like actors are always behaving, so affectionate and full of bullshit, and the lock and not being in touch with him and all that is something she can completely explain. Lincoln sees him crossing Broadway to them and pushes her behind him and grabs her hand. “So I was right,” Howard says. “To myself I mean. I mean between you two, I can’t believe it. I hate saying the obvious, Janine, but I should have known — at least that you were screwing me good by keeping me on the hook and making me miserable while fucking some other guy.” “Listen, Howard,” Lincoln says, “you want to get it out, you probably have every right to, but it’s not what you think at all. I don’t know if she told you, but Janine and I used to see one another—” “You saying you now don’t?” “No, we’re together again, that’s obvious as you said, but much closer than before, I’m afraid, and we wanted to tell you—” “What about her telling me? — How come you didn’t? Come on, get out from behind him and speak to me, don’t I deserve it?” “Of course you do,” coming out from behind Lincoln and letting go of his hand. He tries grabbing it back but she cups her hands. “I’m sorry, very sorry, there’s no excuse for the way I handled it with you.” “She was wrong, Lincoln says. “She knows it, she admits it, I asked her to talk to you and she didn’t know quite how to and I didn’t want to do it for her, but I swear she was getting around to it and has felt rotten over it from the start.” “Who cares what you have to say? I want her to speak — Tell me, was the whole fucking thing with me an act? Were you acting for two months or only the last month or two weeks or what?” “That’s not really a question, and I wasn’t,” she says. “Acting at the party I met you at with your stupid headache or whatever it was? Acting when you told me what a madwoman you once were but how with me everything changed?” “No, really no. I was serious. You were wonderful. But something just happened.” “With what? Him you mean? When? How could it have? I was seeing you almost every day, fucking you just about every night.” She shuts her eyes, seems to grit her teeth. “Don’t get coarse,” Lincoln says. “We understand how you feel, and your anger, but if you want to talk reasonably we can all go to a coffee shop and do it there.” “I don’t want to go to one,” she says. “OK, we won’t, but I don’t know how good an idea it is to have it out here. It isn’t a good idea, Howard.” “So it wasn’t an act with me, you’re saying?” “No, never, but let’s stop this on the street as Lincoln said. Now that we started talking, I’ll phone you and we’ll meet for a chat or talk on the phone about it some other time.” “But it’s all over, right?” “You’re saying — wait, us two?” “Us, yes, That that’s it, we’re finished, done, ‘Good-bye, Howard, you big fool, you stupid chump, you haven’t a chance now and I won’t say it but I don’t give a shit what happens to you after this’?” “That’s not it, and I’m sorry, deeply, but I don’t know what else I can say.” “Honestly, Howard, we should stop this,” Lincoln says. “You want me to start putting on the act like you, Janine? To say it’s all OK, easy come, go, good luck and all that crap and just walk away whistling so you’ll feel better?” “No. And I truly do wish there was something I could do about it but I can’t.” “You can marry me. I want you to marry me and for you to have my babies. I always did. Do that, please.” “I can’t. I’m in fact actually marrying Lincoln, if you have to know.” “What are you, kidding? You know him two weeks and a short while before a few years ago or whenever and you’re getting married? Or maybe I did get it all wrong. That you were banging him for the two months I knew you. Saying ‘I love you deeply, Howard,’ and then turning around and saying ‘But I love you even more’ to him.” “No. No — Lincoln, really,” as if they have to go and he should lead the way, she can’t, she’s about to get sick or faint or start screaming at Howard or just start screaming and he takes her hand, puts his arm around her shoulder and they head downtown. “Where you going? You running away? Can’t take the fucking thing? It’ll last a week with him, a day. A year, let’s say. One great year, you rotten slut. Then who you going to act that you love next? What new putz?” Lincoln stops — that’s what he wanted, them to stop — and starts back. “Lincoln, no,” she says. “Now take it easy, Howard. I’m telling you, you’re going too far and you’re also being ridiculously unfair.” “You’re a witch,” he says over Lincoln’s shoulder. “I hate your guts, his guts, the fucking sidewalk you’re on and phony fake school you go to — I hate you all.” She’s crying. “Go on, cry,” moving around Lincoln to talk, who moves with him so he doesn’t get right up to her probably. “Cry your baloney-living life out. And forget chatting. Oh chats, oh chats! No chats, calls, nothing. I never want to hear your ugly voice again.” “You really don’t have to act like this,” Lincoln says. “Believe me, you’re going to regret it later, but seriously.” “You didn’t have to see her. You knew she was seeing me and how I felt about her. Don’t talk about natural forces either. You could have stayed away or waited till she dropped me if she did and then moved your big prick in.” “That’s not how it happened. Anyway, I’m sorry too as to the affect on you and I’ve said so and you simply have to believe me,” and puts his hand on Howard’s shoulders and for a few seconds rubs it. The director leaves the building with the famous actress and a few students, says “That the guy you told me to watch out for, Lincoln? What’s he, drunk? coked up? Emily said she saw it from the window and is up there looking at us now, so if you want me I’ll signal her to call the cops.” “No, he’ll be OK. He’s just a nice guy in a tough spot.” “Oh Jesus,” Howard shouts. “Everybody,” looking at Janine, “isn’t Lincoln beautiful? Isn’t he just wunderbar great? What a heart he’s got, what a soul. I think we should all applaud him — come on, everybody, applaud,” and claps. “I’d step away, Lincoln,” the director says, with a hand wave getting one of the students to put the actress in a cab. “One swing from him and hell spoil your gorgeous nose.” “No, I’m fine,” and puts his hands back on Howard’s shoulders and digs his fingers in and starts massaging them and Janine comes up and holds Howard’s hand and looks at him and smiles. “Fuck it, I give up on you,” and pulls away and runs downtown, could make a right at the side street and disappear but runs across Broadway so they’ll see him and down into a subway station. Gets drunk at a bar soon after and calls Lincoln’s apartment from it. She answers and he says “It’s me, don’t hang up, I can’t live without you, piesie, I can’t,” and starts crying. “I’m sorry, Howard, I’m really very sorry. I told you why. So please don’t call again. Then, if you still want, we can meet in about two weeks. Send a letter to my old address. I’m still collecting mail there or I have someone pick it up almost every day and I’ll phone you and we’ll meet and talk some more. Now I’m putting the receiver down, sweetie, and please, for both of us, do what I say,” and he slams the receiver down before she hangs up. Tells himself not to but calls several times later and line’s always busy. Gives up his modeling job at the League because he can’t pose for twenty-minute stretches without going crazy thinking of her. Can’t read or write or paint or draw or do any of the things he once liked to. Goes to movies, leaves after about fifteen minutes; museums, hoping he’ll bump into her and she’ll see how sad he is and one thing will lead to another and they’ll start up again. Every time the phone rings at home he thinks it might be her saying she wants to see him, at least speak to him to see how he’s doing, even that she loves him and didn’t know how much till now, or just that she wants to explain some things she didn’t so they can part as good friends. Calls in a week, Lincoln answers and says he doesn’t think it’s the right time just yet for him to speak to Janine and to understand he’s upsetting her every time he calls and try not to again for a while. “But she told me to call her,” and Lincoln says “If she said that then she’s changed her mind.” “Let her tell me that,” and Lincoln says “She asked me to speak for her,” and he says “How do I know you’re not talking for her without her permission and that she might want to speak to me but doesn’t have the chance to decide yes or no on it because you’re not telling her I’m here?” and Lincoln says “You’ll have to take my word, there’s no other way.” “Well, let’s say it’s so, how long’s a while when you said not to call again before that?” and Lincoln says “Few months, possibly more. I won’t spin out the reasons why it should be that long. And I also hate doing what I’m about to, Howard, since I actually like you and can appreciate your passion and I know this hostility is only anomalous behavior on your part, but I’ve got to go so I’ll have to cut off,” and hangs up. Anomalous. Would look it up but can’t even stand these days opening a dictionary. Calls a few hours later hoping she’ll answer. Lincoln does and Howard says “Listen, I’m sure she’ll speak to me if you tell her I’m here and absolutely calm and peaceful and it’ll only be for a few seconds and nothing nasty,” and Lincoln says “Believe what you want on that, Howard — believe anything, if it makes you feel better, because all that can be helpful in a way — but I swear to you, it’s not true,” and he says “What isn’t?” and Lincoln says “What you said, what you asked,” and he says “I forget what that was,” and thinks He’s probably right, it’s probably so, I can understand why she wouldn’t, and says “you still there?” and Lincoln says “Still here,” and says “Anything more you have to say?” and Lincoln says “Nope, you?” and he wants to curse him out and say the whole situation stinks and he still feels Lincoln’s a pig but thinks maybe the moderate approach will help, for once he won’t act on his first impulse, and Lincoln will go back to her and say “He seemed so polite, reasonable, pleasant, well adjusted the last time we spoke,” and she might then think she can talk to him again and might even think better than that in his favor, that he was distraught before but for good reason, and also passionate, as Lincoln said, which she might like if Lincoln isn’t, but now he’s mature and congenial, gracious and calm, and says “So, nice talking to you, Lincoln, and thanks so much for your attitude through all this, and I mean it,” and Lincoln says “Good,” as if he doesn’t believe it, and he says “You know that I’m being serious now. I don’t know anyone who would have had the character, if you don’t object to my saying this, to handle the whole thing the way you did. And best to Janine and much happiness to you both,” and Lincoln says “I’ll convey it,” and hangs up. Few days later he waits across Broadway, sees them leaving the school, they don’t see him and don’t seem to be looking around for him, nobody at the second-floor window, ducks behind a parked car, looks through its windows at them, both with serious faces on, angry or peeved at something, maybe at each other or how they performed in a scene today or expressions that might seem like anger but are apprehension or alarm he might be around — he is seeing them from a distance and through two windows — holding hands, cross the avenue at the corner, he moves around the car as they get nearer the sidewalk till he’s in front of the hood looking around it, follows them though he thinks he knows where they’re going, they go where he thought, down the uptown IRT station, no doubt for Lincoln’s place. Drinks a lot in a bar for a couple of hours, same subway station uptown, pictures where they stood, sat, stands in front of Lincoln’s building, six stories, rundown, mangled garbage cans in front with no lids, first-floor apartment windows with gates across and towels on top of the lower windows’ upper sashes to keep out the cold, vestibule has that dead roach or insecticide smell, never been able to identify it but most of the old tenements have it, maybe just mildew or wall rot, one of the mailbox doors ripped off and another almost twisted in half, first-floor hallway, through the frontdoor window, dirty, needing painting bad. So cheap rent probably, romantic little rooms he bets and which she’ll give her special touch, roaches around and maybe mice but so what? Just bang them with paper or your hands or feet and the mice with a broom and make love under lots of covers, because probably insufficient heat. Get a cheap heater, sit by it while you work and stick it by the bed on her side or in the bathroom when you go to sleep. Lincoln’s name on the bell roster and in the mailbox, 4C. Doesn’t know if it’s the front or rear. Her name taped above the regular name space in the mailbox but not on the roster. Goes outside and looks up at the fourth-floor windows. Shades up in two, down in the three others, lights on in all but never sees anyone. Gives up in an hour. Cold out, some people passing on the sidestreet look at him as if he’s about to commit a crime. Calls up friends of hers who seemed to like him. Several say what can he do? She’s in love, getting married soon, best thing is to accept it or forget her. One invites him for coffee. Lincoln’s been a Christian Scientist since he was a kid, he’s told. Janine used to be one when she was a girl, and her mother still practices it sometimes. Lincoln brought her back into the church. She’s given up alcohol, little she drank, does the Mary Baker Eddy and Bible exercises every day, is already distributing old