Not Even the Rain
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
-ee cummings
i.
Ted was seduced out of his apartment by the muffled soundtrack of his neighbor's cocktail party – music, the din of female laughter and drunken conversation, the frequent opening and closing of the elevator doors. He changed clothes and trimmed his mustache. He wandered across the hall and rang the buzzer. The door opened a moment later, unleashing the noise and vibrant color of the kind of celebration that promised adventure and a wealth of stories to tell the guys at the office.
Gail, his neighbor and the host, walked in Ted's direction. She teetered on the heels of her platform shoes, reaching for his arm to steady her long legs. "Teddy! You changed your mind," she purred. She waved a trio of interchangeable blondes over and said, "Girls, this is my neighbor, Ted. He just moved back here from Los Angeles."
"Well, not just," he reminded her. It had been long enough to finalize a divorce and arrange a custody agreement that had his sons flying east every two months and for longer during the summer.
Women seemed to be impressed by the brief time he was a Californian. The petite waitress with dimples who left her phone number on his lunch counter receipt wanted to know if he ever saw any movie stars. A model auditioning for a new Topaz spot wanted to hear tales of sun and sand. One of Gail's friends sidled up to Ted and asked, "What did you miss about New York while you were out there?"
"Central Park when the leaves change color," he said. "Good bagels. The rain." He paused, his lips parted, and left something unsaid.
Peggy.
"You must be happy now," she remarked, gesturing toward the sliding doors that opened onto Gail's balcony and to the pattern of raindrops on the glass.
Ted smiled reflexively. He should have been happy living in Manhattan in a bachelor pad that put him in close quarters with women like Gail and her friends. He should have been happy to experience all four seasons and frequent rain showers and thunderstorms. But he was still putting on an act. The setting had changed, and his character was different, but he was still pretending. There was still something missing.
x
Daylight was a gray haze pouring through the open window. Ted lifted his head from the pillow and squinted at the clock beside his bed. He rolled onto his back, to the middle of the mattress, and spread his arms wide across the empty space. He had been at Gail's party into the wee hours of the morning, but there was no lipstick smeared around his mouth or warm, naked body curled against his.
Ted stared at the ceiling and recalled the way Gail had introduced him to another divorced man. "Look at you two," she had said, her arms around them both, "living the bachelor life." For Ted that meant having a hangover without the debauchery. It was feeling the guilt and shame of leaving a one-night stand without having experienced the pleasure of the casual sex that preceded.
There had been two women in Ted's bed since he moved back to New York. Sharon was a blind date he took to dinner twice more after their initial meeting and not again after an ultimately unsatisfying coupling. Lila was a secretary from Booth Brady and McGraw who stripped down to her slip and promptly passed out; he spent that night sleeping fitfully on the sofa.
He tried to be the kind of single man who bedded women without bothering to learn their names, but Ted fared as well as he did at trying to be the kind of married man who didn't cheat on his wife.
x
"Aren't you having fun?" Pete asked as he claimed the empty stool beside Ted.
P.J. Clarke's was loud and threads of smoke swirled in the air. A mug of beer sweated on the bar. Ted curled his fingers around its handle and took a drink. He wiped his thumb across his mustache, clearing away the foam that clung to the wiry hairs. "I am," he answered.
"I don't believe you. What's wrong with you, Ted? You were miserable in Los Angeles. All you ever did was talk about New York. Now you're here and you don't talk about Los Angeles but you certainly don't-"
"I'm having fun," Ted said weakly.
Pete shook his head and signaled the bartender to refill his glass. "Buying a place in the city didn't make you happy. I didn't see you crack a smile when that blonde in the short skirt sat next to you. Not even this godforsaken rain makes you happy."
Their eyes were drawn to the entrance, to the feminine curves and bright colors of a small group of women. Peggy was at the forefront, shaking rain from her umbrella. She removed the jacket that matched her dress and transformed her office attire into a beguiling halter dress.
"Is that what it would take?" Pete asked.
Ted stared straight ahead. His throat closed in, trapping the air in his lungs until his chest burned. He watched Peggy turn her back to him, baring the expanse of her back that was revealed by the large cut-out in her dress, between where it tied around her neck and rested in the middle of her spine. He was familiar with the texture of the skin between her shoulder blades and clenched his hand into a fist. "It doesn't matter," Ted answered quietly. "I broke her heart. I don't deserve her."
Pete nodded and held his gaze on Peggy as she settled into a booth. "That may be true, but you do deserve another drink."
x
There were enough people in P.J. Clarke's that Ted could pretend Peggy wasn't there. He could ignore her until the crowd that separated them parted from time to time, and he would spy her laughing or taking a sip from a highball or exiting the ladies' room with a fresh layer of pink on her lips.
Ted gave up on avoiding her after he lost count of how many drinks he had consumed. He openly watched her come and go from the booth she was sharing with Stan and Mathis and his wife. He was on the verge of stumbling to her when he felt a warm palm settle on his shoulder and a soft voice asked, "Are you married?"
He looked at the young woman beside him. He hesitated and answered, "No."
"Good. Because I'm tired of meeting married men. I'm Sheila."
Ted waved the bartender over and paid for Sheila's martini. He listened to her talk about her apartment and her boss but all he could think was that she shouldn't have asked if he was married, but rather Are you in love? His eyes were drawn again to Peggy – his true North – and he understood it wasn't a legality that tethered one person to another, but the powerful, insane, glorious endearment of love. And Ted understood nothing would make him happy until he severed that tie to Peggy or she allowed him to repair it.
"Do you want to get out of here, Sheila?" he asked.
She smiled, drained her glass, and reached across his lap to set it on the bar. "Lead the way."
Ted stood and the stool wobbled in his wake. He put his arm around Sheila and guided her toward the door, slowing as they passed the booth Peggy occupied. He only had a matter of seconds to decipher her expression – disgust or pity or regret – and to convey with his own melancholy eyes that he was miserable and sorry and she was right to hate him.