“Listen to me, Bobby. The last thing you want to do is to run straight to the Polack with this,” he said. “Keep that professional. She’s your girlfriend at work, and that’s the way you want it to stay. It would be better if she didn’t even have to know you were moved out. When you’re moved out Wendy will have a closer eye on you.”
I wanted to say something but I felt too discouraged. I tried to concentrate on the pearls.
“What you need is a little clean honest fun. No connections, no worries. Remember Sylvia?” he said. “She’s playful. She’s got a healthy outlook.”
I did not call immediately. But then one night, alone in the store with the layouts and artwork for our new catalogue, I decided I might. I found the number Jim had written hidden in the back of my main desk drawer, with the other numbers on pink and blue Post-it notes I used for phone sex. Her name was on the back of it with a comment about ear studs like she was a lead. In code, in case the Polack was digging around in my desk drawer: “2–3 carats, eye-clean and white, platinum bezels.”
I had met with Sylvia once before, about a year ago, in May, at the motel behind our health club. That was my birthday present from Jim. But then on the drive back from a weekend getaway to Austin with Wendy — which was my birthday present from her — I noticed a crab on Claire’s head among her thin white hair. She was in her car seat. I etched it off with my thumbnail before Wendy could see it. The baby yelled once and then laughed. It left a red mark on her skin near where her skull grew together. I bought a box of lice ointment at Eckerd’s and did not plan on using Sylvia again.
Before I called her I called Wendy.
“How is the new apartment?” she asked me. “We came up to see you but you weren’t there.”
“I’m still at the office,” I said.
“No, yesterday,” she said. “Last night.”
I had been in Dallas with the Polack last night.
“I was probably still at the office.”
“We came by but the lights were off.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I was getting something to eat.”
“I’m not trying to start a fight. We just wanted to see you. We wanted to see your new apartment.”
“It’s depressing. You won’t like it.”
“So come home, then. We want you to come home.”
“You know I can’t come home.”
“But we want you to come home.”
“I want to come home. But I can’t.”
“When do you think you can come home? By Christmas?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Is the baby asleep?”
“No. We’re watching a movie. You want to come watch it with us?”
“I can’t.”
“I was just joking. I was just asking.”
It made me depressed to hear how much her voice had changed since I had moved out. Well, I was already depressed before I called, but more depressed. She was asking now, instead of telling.
After I hung up I sat and looked at my phone for a few minutes. The vacant store with its empty showcases and no sales-people at the desks was very quiet. The Muzak was playing. Jim was off with his new girlfriend, a crazy nineteen-year-old stripper. That would end badly. I stood and walked into the showroom. I turned off the halogens. Then it was dark on the showroom floor and my office looked more inviting. I had a Tiffany dragonfly lamp on my desk — not a knockoff, the real thing — but the bulb was burned out so I went in back and found a bulb. I replaced the bulb and turned it on. I looked at all the colored glass pieces glowing like gems. They are prettier than jewelry, I thought. People should just wear glass with electric lights inside. Then I called Sylvia.
She didn’t pick up until the seventh or eighth ring. I almost gave up.
“Can we get together for a drink? How about Birraporetti’s?”
“Hi, Bobby. It’s nice to hear from you. How’s Jim? I’m not taking meetings anymore. But I have a girlfriend who is. You’ll like her. She’s young. She’s pretty.”
“Is she a friend of yours?”
“She is taking over a few of my old clients. I am sure you will like her. Call her.”
The new hooker answered the phone on the first ring. She wanted to meet at my apartment. I did not recognize the voice because, of course, it was not what I was expecting.
“Shouldn’t we meet at a motel?” I said. I knew we should meet at a motel.
“No, thank you,” she said politely.
I was nervous like you are before a date. I started to straighten the apartment. Then I thought, No, you are not fixing up your apartment for a hooker. I brushed my teeth. I opened a beer. The doorbell rang. I looked through the peephole. A middle-aged man in a jean jacket stood there. I did not know if I should answer the door. He had blond bangs. He knocked and said loudly, “I’m the friend. Sylvia’s friend.”
“Where’s the girl?” I said through the door. “Who are you?”
“Open up,” he shouted. I thought about my neighbors. I had not met any of them but they would hear this. I opened the door but left the chain on.
“What?” I said. “Who are you?”
“I just need to check out the apartment,” he said. “Because you are a new client.”
He was about forty years old. He had a pack of cigarettes in the breast pocket of his jean jacket.
“Are you carrying a gun?” I asked him. “This is probably not worth it,” I said.
“Man, open up,” he said, and the way his eyes turned down I saw that he was kind, like you will see on poor people and black people, so I opened the door.
“I need to make sure you are not some weirdo,” he said.
“Look around,” I said.
I was still in an Armani suit and a Zegna tie. I was wearing Bulgari plique-à-jour cufflinks. I thought that ought to count for something. There was a half-empty bottle of Creed Taba-rome on the breakfast bar. But the mattress was on the floor and I had no furniture. There were candles, wine bottles, an alarm clock, the cutaways I had brought home with me from the new catalogue, and a few books. There was a blue and green Favrile-glass Art Deco ashtray, which Jim had given me as my moving-out-of-the-house present, with two cigar butts in it.
“I just moved in,” I said. “I just left my wife.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“No, it’s for the best,” I said. “She cries all the time.”
“You have any children?” he asked.
“Just one,” I said. “She’s only a baby.”
“That’s sad,” he said. “They say it’s tough on the kids but really it’s toughest on the parents. My folks are divorced. It was always nice at Christmas.”
“Mine, too,” I said. “Two Christmases. Two birthdays, too.”
“Don’t divorce if you can help it.”
I started to offer him a beer but then I remembered what we were doing.
“I guess you are a lonely guy,” he said.
“That’s fair,” I said. “Just a lonely guy. Just like the rest of us.”
“Speak for yourself,” he said. “Have fun. Have a party. But remember I’ll be down in the truck.”
He left the door half open when he left. I started to close it but then jumped when the girl, on the other side, pushed it open at the same time. I let go and stepped back. For no reason, I felt embarrassed. Then she walked in. It was Lisa. I saw her before she saw me. Nine years had passed since I had seen her and here she was, walking in the door as the prostitute I had ordered. Boldly, like she expected to make me comfortable. I had noticed the confidence in her stride in the second or so before I even understood it was her.
Then she saw me. There was a moment while we waited. We might each have been seeing what the other one would do first. Or maybe neither of us knew what to do.