Chapter Thirty-nine: The Road to Hell . . .

I woke up Saturday morning and, except for the cameo hanging heavily around my throat, was naked and alone. I stretched for a moment and listened. Finally, I heard the clicking of the television remote in the sitting room. I pulled on his discarded shirt from the night before and walked up behind Blue Eyes.

He looked up at me. "Room service," he said, waving his arm across the platters of food and the pot of coffee. "Coffee? You must be hungry since you missed supper."

I sat on the floor beside his chair. "I need to thank you for . . ." My hand went to the necklace.

"I think we sorted that out last night," he interrupted as he handed me a cup of coffee. "Madame Tussaud's this morning? Pretty please?"

I sighed. I kept my voice muted. "We'll have to go there tomorrow. This play is, well, really three plays. Stoppard's trilogy. And, rarely, they perform a marathon of all three plays . . ."

"Wait," he interrupted again. "We're seeing three plays? That was definitely not in my contract."

I began my first plan of persuasion. "Blue Eyes, the actors are some of the best and most famous actors . . ."

"Who?"

I answered, "For one, Ethan Hawke."

"Who is he?"

I sighed. "He was married to Uma Thurman."

"And who is he?"

I dropped my chin onto my chest. "She . . ."

"Oh, yeah, yeah," he said. "She was that skinny chick in those 'Kill Bill' movies. So, she's in this play?"

"No," I said, draining my cup and extending my hand so he could refill my cup. "Her ex-husband, Ethan Hawke . . ."

"Wasn't he in that chick movie, 'Dead Poet's Society'? He played that gay actor kid who shot himself. Wait, no, that actor had a bunch of names and is in that lame medical show. It's on some second-rate network. BET, the CW, USA – something like that. What is the name of that show?"

I sighed and began the second, plan of my persuasion. "It's a play based on historical events – the Russian revolutions of the 1800's. At the center is Alexander Herzen, who . . ."

"Ewwww," he squealed in an imitation girly squeal. "Not history. Tell me it's not history? Not political. Tell me it's at least a musical. With singing Russians who dance and harmonize their way through the terrors of Tsar Nicholas I? Come on, Tiger, give me something to cling to."

"If you will just try, I promise that when we get to The Knitting Factory I'll do whatever you want me to do. Anything." My third plan of persuasion: offer anything, including any kind of sexual intercourse.

His face perked up. "You'll act like you have morning sickness?"

I nodded. "Want me to puke?"

He actually laughed. "No, but I appreciate the offer. Just make them feel sorry for you so we can still get a good seat. Deal?"

So, Blue Eyes got to see me in my orange, slinky dress, elegantly accented with the cameo choker, and I got to see him in a proper suit and tie. He chaffed at the early opening hour of eleven, but I told him we had lunch and dinner reservations at area restaurants that catered specifically to these marathon performances, and the promise of food appeased him somewhat. We were milling in the foyer of the Lincoln Center when I felt his hand on the small of my back clench into a fist. I turned and saw what he had already seen.

Not ten feet away from us was David Mebane. His date, who turned to look in our direction just as I turned to look at her, was Stacy.

"I. . .," Blue Eyes stuttered.

I knew, immediately, David had invited Stacy solely because I had backed out on him, and David knew she and Blue Eyes had been dating when we first met at the university thanksgiving party. I knew this was just David getting back at me. But I didn't know what Blue Eyes would think. I also felt a sense of protectiveness towards Stacy. She needed to know David's interest in her was not motivated by whatever normally motivated men to ask women out; lord knew I wasn't going to try to second guess men as a gender. However, I felt certain David was trying to usurp my writing program materials, and I also felt certain he tried to use his attractiveness to gain access to my teaching modules, and I feared he would use his attractiveness to manipulate Stacy in some way. I wanted to warn her.

She saw him. "Greg. Imagine seeing you here. A play?" She smiled, her perfect, black cocktail dress highlighting her flawless complexion.

Blue Eyes dipped his head shyly. "Three plays, actually." He indicated me, "You remember Audra . . ."

I reached out, closing my hand around her tiny but perfect wrist, and tugged on her arm. "Yeah, yeah, Stacy Warner, David Mebane, nice to see you, yeah, yeah. Stacy, honey, you have mascara running all down your cheek. No, don't touch it. Guys, we'll just go find a restroom. We'll be right back." I pulled her behind me.

We faced each other in front of the lavatory mirror. I finally released her arm.

"I'm sorry, Stacy . . ."

"What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?" she demanded, her perfect eyes flashing angrily.

"I wanted to tell you, to warn you, well, to let you know – listen, I was supposed to come to this play with David. I backed out. He invited you because he knew I would be coming with Blue Eyes . . .

"Oh, wait just a minute," she snapped. "Are you suggesting David only asked me out to get back at you?" She kind of spat the last word, and a thin strand of spittle stuck to her lower lip.

"I know it sounds ridiculously narcissistic, but if you'd let me explain . . ."

She shook her head with perfectly irritated vigor. "No. No, I do not want to hear any explanations of yours." She stopped and gave me a drop-dead-and-die look. "You're with Greg. Isn't he enough? How dare you drag me in here and say that my date has only invited me as some sort of eat shit gesture to you. Are you for fucking real?" She flapped her arms and started to leave.

"He, he gave me this necklace," I whispered, rather pitifully.

She paused, stared at the cameo, then rolled her eyes and left. I wanted, more than anything, to disappear from the face of the earth.

When I finally exited the restroom, Blue Eyes was waiting on me. He immediately grabbed me around the bicep.

"What did you say to her? To Stacy?" he hissed.

"Shut up," I whispered. I was walking as quickly as I could to find our seats.

"Hey," he insisted. "You drug her off, leaving me there with that, that poser . . ."

I stopped and stared at him.

"What?" he asked. "You know he's a liar."

"It's not that," I answered, shaking my head and resuming the search for our seats. "I just never expected you to use a word like 'poser.'"

"She was upset when she came out. What did you say to her?" he persisted.

"Shut up."

We made it to our seats before the play began. He was quiet, although my cracked tailbone complained at the sitting. After the first play, Voyage, we went to O'Neals Restaurant for lunch. After we ordered, B.E. started again.

"Why was Ph.d. guy with Stacy?"

I sighed. "Why don't you ask him?"

"Because he hasn't chosen to spend his lunch break here. You know he's up to something."

I pushed my plate aside and stared sternly into his frigid eyes. "I tried to tell your friend he had probably asked her to the play because I had broken the date with him, and he knew I was going to be with you. However, Stacy refused to listen to anything I said and, understandably, accused me of trying to keep both of you for myself. At least, it sounded that way. To her." I had lost my appetite.

"Then you didn't do a very good job of explaining it to her. Not at all."

"No shit."

He endured the second play, Shipwreck, with only mild complaint, and no more than his usual medicine intake. We had supper at Josephina, although some of the joy of the evening had left us. The curtain for Salvage wasn't until eight; it was after eleven when we finally made our way to The Knitting Factory.

"Act pregnant," B.E. counseled. "You're not pregnant, are you?"

"What ever would make you think that?" I looked askance at him. "When Dr. Castillo started me on anti-depressants, she also started me on the pill. Just because I had one, unplanned baby doesn't mean I would have another."

"Okay. We hadn't discussed it. I just thought I should ask." He shrugged as we entered the dark club.

One of the waiters recognized Blue Eyes and came over to greet him.

"Hey, Raul," B.E. began enthusiastically. "Any chance we can get our seat this evening? Audra, here, is feeling a little less sick."

I smiled at the gentleman and began prattling in my thickest accent, "I'm so sorry about last night. I wasn't feeling very ladylike – when you're expecting you just can't always manage a busy evening – but I'm a bit better tonight. I hate, hate, hate that we missed our reservations last night. I know you're busy, and it would probably be far too inconvenient, but if there's anyway you could see fit to give us a good seat, well, Greg would just be so grateful. My pregnancy has been so difficult for him, and this was the one treat I had promised him. I would hate to be the cause of his missing George . . ."

The waiter led us to the best table in the house. B.E. said he did it only to get me to quit talking, which did nothing to hurt my feelings.

Although he had been attentive and good-natured about the trilogy of plays, as soon as we entered the dark club, it was obvious he was in his element. The piano, drums, and bass were all making their presence felt; however, the sometimes subtly seductive but more often insistent and almost discordant strains of the saxophone overwhelmed the room and captivated Blue Eyes. I occupied myself by appearing pregnantly queasy, which was no act as I felt quite ill about my confrontation with Stacy. I also spent time digesting the phenomenal trio of plays we had scene. I was pleased to see B.E. so seduced and absorbed in the music.

Blue Eyes, normally so reclusive, struck up a conversation with George Cartwright. When the set ended, George invited B.E. to take over the keyboards. I was startled and impressed to hear them jamming on "Zero Street" and other numbers I didn't recognize. We were still in the club long after even the most dedicated patrons had departed, and I watched as the staff swept up. B.E. and George were doing shots, so I settled back and waited. We didn't find our way to the hotel until the early hours of the morning.

Even though Blue Eyes had enjoyed his interlude at The Knitting Factory, there was still a sense of uncomfortable enmity tainting the atmosphere. I had planned on modeling the tiger-striped nightie for B.E., but, upon watching him soundlessly shower and slip between the sheets, any notions of playfulness disintegrated. In the dark, I removed my slinky dress and the precious choker and joined B.E. in bed. He had his back to me and feigned the even breathing of sleep, but I had slept with him often enough to know otherwise. I turned my back to him, bumping my ass against him, and stayed still for a few minutes. Then, I snaked my foot downward, insinuating it between his feet. The movement was slight, but I felt him gently rub my foot. I moved my back to lean snugly against his while placing my hand, tenuously, on his thigh. I felt him sigh and roll over to embrace me. We didn't talk, and the intercourse was neither as free nor as passionate as we had usually enjoyed, but we found a way to connect, to reconnect, and broach the chasm the day had created. The first lights of morning were just cresting the horizon as we finally fell asleep, curled around each other in a peaceful tableau.