Paris, Adrift Page 5

  “Can’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  “Going on?” She thumbed through her dresses, studying them. “I’m getting ready for dinner.”

  “Why won’t you sleep with me?”

  “Please don’t push,” she said. “You’re beginning to sound like Richard. Do you like this dress on me?” She held the pale pink gown against her.

  “Of course. You look good in everything. Tell me what’s happened.”

  “Nothing’s happened. We’ve both been busy.”

  “I’ll zip you up.” As I walked over to her, my body shivered with anger, frustration, fear, desire. My hand shook as I put it through the opening on the side of her dress and felt the warmth of her bare skin. I let my hand slip further around to the front and stopped below her breasts where the bra began. She didn’t say anything. I slid my hand over her bra-covered breasts and onto the soft skin of her upper chest. She still didn’t say anything. My fingers slid into the bra, seeking her nipple. She grabbed my hand— “No!”—and thrust it out of the dress with force. “We have to get ready.”

  My body shook with a wordless fear-rage. I stomped out of the room into the sitting room, heading toward the door.

  “Al, get back here.”

  I threw the door open.

  “Al! Listen to me. It’s not you. It’s me.”

  I turned back toward her. “Then tell me what the hell it is.”

  Her mouth moved, but no words came out. I waited. Finally, she said, “I have to finish getting ready.”

  “Yeah, you do that.” I stomped out the door.

  Chapter Five

  In a blind panic of rage and terror, I dashed through the ship’s passageways, vaguely aware of passengers in formal dress heading calmly toward the dining room. I knocked into people and pushed them out of my way as I charged into the cocktail lounge and, without hesitation, went right up to the bar. I’m sure I must have been stared at, a lone woman at a bar. I was too enraged to see clearly. The bartender eyed me from a distance, probably not certain what to do with me. In New York, it was against the law for a bartender to serve liquor to an unescorted woman, but we weren’t in New York or even in the United States. We were in a kind of no-country.

  “Maybe I can help,” a man with white hair and a drink in his hand said. He wore a white dinner jacket. “I’ll buy you a drink, honey.” I heard a few women standing at his elbow giggle.

  That snapped me back to myself and I slowly stepped away from the bar. “Uh, no thank you.” But where would I go? I had to go somewhere. I had to do something. I was jumping out of my skin. Now, it felt like everyone was staring at me, laughing. I crept backward, confused by the glaring faces.

  “What are you doing?” Scott asked.

  “Oh. Scott, thank God.” I threw myself into his arms. “Hide me.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I think those people at the bar think I’m a bad woman. I want a drink.”

  “I’ll get you one.” He put his arm around me. “What’ll you have?”

  “A side—no, a Manhattan.”

  “That’s Max’s drink. Don’t you usually drink sidecars?”

  “No more. Never again.”

  Scott walked me up to the bar and ordered my drink and a Coca Cola for himself. We took our glasses and found a small table in the back corner.

  “Why would a nondrinker like yourself be in a bar?” I asked.

  “Sometimes I come here with the guys from the band. I’ve met some nice people here. I think people who drink are friendlier than people who don’t. But you don’t look relaxed. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” I took a sip of my drink.

  “Oh? That’s why you stormed in here demanding a drink like some sort of floozy?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “I looked that bad?”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Scott, you have enough of your own problems without me—”

  “Come on, please. I want to hear your problems. I want to be let back into the human race.”

  I took another sip of my drink. “You may not like hearing this.” I took another sip. “It’s Juliana.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, it’s not the sort of thing a Christian man like you likes hearing about. Max said you don’t like knowing about those things . . . and you play piano for her.”

  “Max doesn’t know everything about me. Tell me.”

  “Juliana won’t sleep with me. You want to go to dinner now?”

  “No.” He took a deep breath. “I can listen to this.”

  I laughed. “Your ears are red.”

  “So? Tell me. I want us to be close again.”

  “And you’re not going to tell me I shouldn’t be sleeping with her anyway?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Gee, that’s a nice tux you’re wearing.” I touched his sleeve and felt the material. “This one’s new.”

  “Max had it made for me. Now, quit changing the subject and tell me what happened with you and Juliana.”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know. We’re sharing a stateroom. We’ve never had this much time to be alone together. We even have a private place with no worry that Richard will suddenly pop in. I thought we’d do it every night, but nothing. She always has some excuse.”

  “What does she say?”

  “Nothing. She says there’ll be time in Paris and that it’s not me. It’s her.”

  “So, you see?”

  “What?”

  “It’s going to be okay. There’s something about being on a ship that’s making her nervous, but when you get to Paris she’ll be on solid ground and—”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I know. I wanted to help you, but . . . Could it be because there is so much time to be together?” Scott asked.

  “You mean she only likes to be with me if we don’t have time?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe.”

  “Oh, that would be terrific. Paris should be a real picnic.”

  “I’m no psychoanalyst. Maybe that’s not it. It’s just a thought that came to me.”

  I swallowed down the last of my drink. “I’m going to have another. But not a Manhattan. I want something else. Something I’ve never had before. I wonder what . . .?”

  “Me, too,” Scott said.

  “You? But you don’t drink.”

  “I think I’m going to tonight and you know what else?”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to smoke a cigarette.”

  “No.”

  “Yes,” he nodded, signaling for the waiter. “Bennie, could you bring me . . . What, Al? What brand should I get?”

  “I don’t know. How about Luckys? I like the way they square dance in the television commercial.”

  “Bring me a pack of Lucky Strikes,” Scott told the waiter. “The square-dancing kind. And . . .what do you think we should order to drink?”

  “What are those people having over there?” I asked our waiter, pointing to an older couple, the woman wrapped in furs and jewels.

  “They’re having martinis, ma’am,” Bennie, our balding, middle-aged waiter answered.

  Scott looked at me. “Well?”

  “Let’s.”

  “We’ll take two martinis like they have,” Scott told Bennie.

  “Are we going to be bad tonight?” I whispered to Scott.

  “Do you want to?”

  “Yes. To hell with Juliana.”

  “Yes, to hell with her and to hell with Max and his Swiss cheese newspapers.”

  “Did you say ‘hell’ and not mean the place below our feet?”

  “Yes, I did. This trip may corru
pt me and maybe I’ll let it. I’m sick of being good.”

  Bennie put our drinks in front of us and set the Lucky Strike pack next to Scott’s hand.

  We picked up our glasses and clinked them together. I was about to take a sip when Scott said, “Wait. Not yet. I want to make a toast.” He raised his glass. “To being bad.”

  “Yes. To being bad.”

  We clinked our glasses together and took a sip. We both made a face at the same time. “Ooh,” I said. “This may have been a mistake.”

  “I think it’s one of those acquired tastes.” Scott forced himself to take another sip. “Oh, this is rough, but I think we should press on. Try another sip.”

  I did. It took until the middle of the second glass before we’d acquired the taste. Or we were getting too woozy to notice it. We were also moving quickly toward a point of not caring what it tasted like. Scott sat back in his chair smoking his Lucky. “This thing is making my head spin,” he said.

  “That’s what it always does to me too, so I don’t do it.”

  “But the martini makes me not care that the room is spinning around.”

  “So, tell me,” I said, my words beginning to slur. “Why to hell with Max? Is it only because of cutting up the newspaper?”

  Scott leaned on the table. “No. There’s more. Since my great overly dramatic event, Mr. Maxwell Harlington the Third has not fucked me.”

  “Scott! You said fuck,” I whispered, then laughed.

  “I did, didn’t I? I don’t think I’ve ever said that before. I’ve thought it a lot. I may even like the word. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

  “Quiet. We’ll get kicked out.”

  “That would make us really bad, wouldn’t it?”

  “I think so. But please don’t.”

  “For you, my dear, I will restrain myself from yelling ‘fuck, fuck.’”

  “Thank you.”

  Scott raised his glass. “Another, my dear?”

  “Another.”

  The place had grown less crowded since many had taken their drinks to the dining room for the second dinner seating.

  “I think he sees other men,” Scott said, as he sipped on his third martini.

  “You really think that?”

  “Yes, I do.” Scott said. “He has needs, Al. Needs he will satisfy one way or another. You know I’ve heard he goes to Washington Square Park to meet strange men.”

  “How do you know they’re strange?”

  We exploded into hysterical laughter. Too loud, I think.

  “But, Scott, listen. A lot of the gay boys do that. It’s their meeting place. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “It does to me. But I can’t get mad at him cause the last time we did it—right before my dramatic event—I screamed. Not in ecstasy. In terror. I had visions of burning in hell. I’m surprised he didn’t kick me out of the house.”

  “Is that why you were with that cowboy?”

  “I ‘spose. Trying to learn to do it without screaming maybe. Stupid. I wanna do better by him, Al, but I think I may have ruined everything. Hey! What am I doing? We’re ‘sposed to be bad tonight, not sad. Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s get another drink and take it out on deck.”

  Once we had fresh drinks, Scott grabbed my hand and we swayed down the hall, bumping into the walls. We fell up the stairs heading for the Lido deck, laughing all the way. We leaned against the railing.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Scott said as we stood looking out over the choppy ocean that bounced us around. The sun was setting, spreading yellow, orange, and red across a sky that was bigger than I ever knew it could be. A holy vision that I should be seeing with Juliana. For a second, I did see us—Juliana and me—standing a few feet from Scott and me—holding hands as we watched the sun slowly fall toward the ocean.

  “Why can’t we talk about who we love, Scott? Right out in the open. Why do we have to hide and feel ashamed?”

  “I used to know. I used to think it was because we were sick, but now I’m not so certain.”

  “Well, I know I have never once had one communist thought.”

  Scott laughed, “Me either.”

  “And right now, I want to yell out that I’m in love with Juliana. I want the whole world to know.”

  “Go ahead. Do it. Tell the sun and the ocean and anybody else who happens to pass by.”

  “I will.” I filled up my lungs with salty air and was about to shout, “I’m in love with Juliana!” But I stopped. “You know what would be even better? Let’s go down to the ballroom and tell everyone there.”

  We ran, holding hands, slipping and sliding into the ballroom. Everyone was doing the boogie-woogie to the ‘Chattanooga Shoe Shine Boy.’ “He’s playing that like an old lady,” Scott said.

  “Huh?” My gaze focused on Juliana, wiggling her damn hips and throwing in a little bit of tap. A half circle of men had formed around her, clapping the beat, their wives standing behind them not looking happy. I told her to watch out for that. Oh, who cares if the wives gang up on her? She deserved it.

  “He’s dragging it out, no pep,” Scott said. “Come on. It’s an emergency.” He grabbed my arm. “Don’t mind Juliana. We’ve gotta save that song.”

  “But I gotta make my announcement,” I said.

  He pulled me to a set of back steps and both of us tripped our way up into the balcony where the orchestra played. “Scott, what are we doing?”

  “Saving that song before that guy kills it. Hey, pal.” He leaned on the grand piano, close to the piano player. “Remember yesterday you said I could tickle your ivories? Well, here I am.”

  “Not now. I’m working.”

  “Move over.” Scott sat on the bench and pushed the guy over with his butt. He played the song to a fast boogie-woogie beat. “Hey!” the guy complained, trying to keep up. Scott was playing so fast the guy gave up and watched him. “Man, this boy can wail,” he announced to his fellow musicians.

  The other musicians perked up to Scott’s playing and joined him. The people down on the floor noticed the difference and were looking up at the orchestra, some dancing to the new faster rhythm. I stood next to Scott snapping my fingers to the beat, and suddenly I was dancing up there, twirling around, not caring what anyone thought. The real piano player grabbed me into his arms and we boogie-woogied. I broke loose from him and wiggled around by myself, my hands in the air, thinking I really should tell everyone who I loved. Yell it, even.

  I turned to the orchestra. “Do you guys know ‘Sandman?’” Well, of course they knew ‘Sandman,’ I laughed to myself. What orchestra didn’t know ‘Sandman’? The girl singer came over to me. “Dear, maybe you don’t want to do this. You’ve had quite a lot . . .”

  People stared up at me from the dance floor. Scott played and the men in the orchestra sang the “bump, bumps.” I snapped my fingers and sang the words into the microphone. Well, the ones I could remember. When we got to the part where it said, “Mr. Sandman, make him the cutest . . . and let him have lots of wavy hair like Liberace.’’ I stopped, voicing aloud something I’d always wondered about. “Why would this girl want Liberace?” A blurry image of Juliana staring up at me from the dance floor, not happy, and I . . .

  Chapter Six

  I woke up in bed the next morning—no, I think it might have been afternoon. I heard Juliana’s voice in the other room, saying, “Thanks, Oscar, and here’s a little something for you.”

  The bed tilted downward under her weight as she sat next to me. I squinted up at her, but when the light hit my eyes I shut them again. My head throbbed, and my stomach wasn’t doing too well either. “Here, drink some of this,” she said.

  I opened one eye. “What is it?”

  “Tomato juice. It’s go
od for hangovers.”

  I pushed myself up on one elbow, every part of me stiff and aching. She held the glass to my lips. I sipped and fell back onto the pillow.

  “I’ll leave it over here for you,” she said, placing it on the end table.

  “Are you mad at me?” I asked.

  “A little.”

  She walked over to the closet, her burnt-orange chiffon robe floating around her body.

  “How’s Scott?”

  “I would guess about the same as you. I’m going over there in a little bit to bring him some tomato juice.”

  “That’s nice of you.”

  She gathered her clothes into her arms and headed toward the doorway.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to get dressed in the sitting room so I don’t disturb you.”

  “You won’t disturb me.”

  “Torture you, then.”

  I fell back onto the bed. Images of myself dancing and singing on the balcony came back to me and I cringed. I think I fell over the railing of the balcony and landed . . . somewhere. I dragged myself from under the covers and threw my legs over the side. I was in my nightgown. She must have changed me. That was a pleasant thought.

  I pressed my hands to my forehead, wishing the pain away. Juliana walked back into the room in slacks and a form-fitting, navy-blue, wool sweater, her nightclothes folded in her arms. She bent to slide open a drawer at the bottom of her trunk and placed the clothes inside.

  “Juliana, I have to talk to you about something. Not about you and me. It’s only about you. I have a meeting today.” I looked at my watch laying on the end table. “In an hour. Oh, God.” I pressed my hands into the sides of my head as if I were holding it on. “Mr. Schuyler. Dan Schuyler. I think you met him, maybe you danced with him.”

  “Yes.”

  “He gave me a . . . Don’t say no till you hear me out. He gave me a script. A musical that he’s producing on Broadway in the spring. It’s perfect for you.”