I look around the room. Franklin is gone. The things around me depress me, seem to define my pitiful existence, everything is so boring: my typewriter — no cartridges; my easel — no canvas; my bookshelf — no books; a check from Dad; an airline ticket to St. Tropez someone crammed in my box; a note about Parents’ Weekend being cancelled; the new poems I’m writing, crumpled by the bed; the new story Franklin has left me called “Saturn Has Eyes”; the half-empty bottle of red wine (Franklin bought it; Jordan, too sweet) we drank last night; the ashtrays; the cigarettes in the ashtrays; the Bob Marley tape unwound — it all depresses me immensely. I attempt to return to the nightmare. I can’t. Look over at the wine bottles standing on the floor, the empty pack of Gauloises (Franklin smokes them; how pretentious). I can’t decide whether to reach for the wine or the cigarettes or turn on the radio. Thoroughly confused I stumble into the hallway, Reggae music coming thump thump from the living room downstairs. It’s supposed to be light out, but then I realize it’s four-thirty in the afternoon.
I’m leaving Franklin. I told him last night, before we went to bed.
“Are you kidding?” he asked.
“I’m not,” I said.
“Are you high?” he asked.
“Beside the point,” I said. Then we had sex.
PAUL I was thinking about taking another shower, styling my hair or calling Sean or jerking off or doing any number of things, when I heard someone trying to get into the room. I stood next to the door and heard my mother and Mrs. Jared babbling about something.
“Oh Mimi, help me with this damn lock.” It was my mother bitching.
“Jesus, Eve,” I heard Mrs. Jared’s whiny voice answer back. “Where’s the bellboy?”
I ran over to the bed and flung myself upon it and placed a pillow over my head, trying to look casual. I looked ridiculous and stood up, tentatively.
“Damnit, Mimi, this is the wrong key. Try the other room,” I heard, muffled, a complaint.
My mother knocked on the door, asking “Paul? Paul, are you in there?”
I didn’t know if I should say anything, then realized that I had to and said, “Yes? Who is it, please?”
“It’s your mother, for God’s sake,” she said, sounding exasperated. “Who do you think it is?”
“Oh,” I said. “Hi.”
“Could you please help me open this door?” she pleaded.
I walked over to the door and turned the knob, trying to pull it open, but my mother had screwed it up somehow and had locked it from the outside.
“Mother?” Be patient, patient.
“Yes, Paul?”
“You locked it.”
Pause.
“I did?”
“You did.”
“Oh my.”
“Why don’t you unlock it?” I suggested.
“Oh.” There was a silence. “Mimi, get over here. My son tells me that I should unlock the door.”
“Hello, Paul dear,” Mrs. Jared said through the door.
“Hi, Mrs. Jared,” I called back.
“It appears that this door is locked,” she commented.
I pulled on it again but the door wouldn’t open.
“Mother?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Is the key in the lock?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Why don’t you turn it to the, let’s say … left? Okay?”
“To the left?”
“Oh, why not.”
“Try it Eve,” Mrs. Jared urged.
I stopped pulling the door. There was a click. The door opened.
“Darling,” my mother screamed, looking wigged out of her mind, coming toward me, her arms outstretched. She looked quite pretty, actually. Perhaps too much make-up, but thinner, and she’s dressed to the hilt, her jewelry’s clanking all over the place, but it was all in an elegant way, not tacky. Her hair, brunette, darker than I remembered, had been stylishly cut and it gave her the appearance of looking much younger. Or maybe it was that eye job, or the eye tuck, she had last summer, before we went to Europe, that gave me this impression.
“Mother,” I said, standing still.
She hugged me and said, “Oh, it’s been so long.”
“Five weeks?”
“Oh that’s a long time, dear,” she said.
“Not really.”
“Say hello to Mrs. Jared,” she said.
“Oh Paul, you look so cute.” Mrs. Jared said and hugged me also.
“Mrs. Jared,” I said.
“So big and away at college. We’re so proud of you.”
“He’s so handsome,” my mother said, walking over to the window and opening it, waving the smell of cigarette smoke out.
“And tall,” Mrs. Jared said. Yeah and I’ve fucked your son, I was thinking.
I sat down on the bed, refrained from lighting a cigarette and crossed my legs.
My mother rushed to the bathroom and immediately started to brush her hair.
Mrs. Jared took her shoes off and sat down opposite from me and asked, “Tell me Paul, why are you wearing so much black?”
STUART After dinner and a shower, I had some friends over for wine and we all had a hair-dyeing party. While they were monopolizing the bathroom and washing their hair in the sinks, I walked across the hall to Paul Denton’s room. I stood there for a long time, too nervous to knock. I read the notes that people had left on his door, then I ran my hand over it. I was going to invite him over and I was stoned enough to get up the nerve to do so. I knocked softly at first, and when there was no answer I knocked with more force. When no one opened the door I walked away, confused and relieved. I told myself I would talk to him at the party tonight; that was when I would make my move. I came back to my room and Dennis was sitting on my bed. His hair was wet and freshly dyed red and he was looking through the new Voice and playing my Bryan Ferry tape. I spent last night with him. I don’t say anything. He tells me, “Paul Denton will never ever sleep with you.” I don’t say anything. Just get more drunk, turn the music up and dress to get screwed.
PAUL “How was the flight?” I asked them.
“Oh lurid, lurid,” Mrs. Jared said. “Your mother met this absolutely gorgeous doctor from the North Shore in first class who was going to Parents’ Weekend at Brown and you know what your mother did?” Mrs. Jared was smiling now, like a naughty little girl.
“No.” Oh, I couldn’t wait.
“Oh Mimi,” my mother moaned, coming out of the bathroom.
“She told him that she was single,” Mrs. Jared exclaimed and got up and took my mother’s place in the bathroom and closed the door.
There mustn’t be any silence so my mother asked me, “Did I tell you about the car?”
“Yes.” I could hear Mrs. Jared urinating. Embarrassed, I spoke louder, “Yes. Yes, you did. I think you did tell me about the car.”
“Typical. It’s all so typical. I was seeing Dr. Vanderpool and the two of us were going to lunch at The 95th and—”
“Wait. Dr. Vanderpool? Your shrink?” I asked.
She started brushing her hair again and asked, “Shrink?”
“Sorry,” I said. “Doctor.”
“Yes. My doctor.” My mother gave me a strange look.
“Going out to lunch?” I reminded her.
“Yes,” she said. I had thrown her off balance. She stood there, stumped.
“I thought this happened at Neiman’s,” I said, amused, but, oh shit, who cares?
“No. Why?” she asked, still brushing her hair.
“Forget it.” I’ve forgotten I shouldn’t be amused by things like that anymore. I mean, I’ve only been away, what, three years, right? The toilet flushed and I flinched, looking back at the TV, pretending that Mrs. Jared didn’t even take a piss.