Chapter 11F

Saturday.

By six A.M. I was awake. My first thought was that a date was only a few hours away. I gave sleeping Martha a kiss, got out of bed, and took my vitamins. I needed to move. To run. I dressed in my gym clothes and went downstairs and jogged toward Central Park. The early sun was already hot and beaming. Halfway to Central Park I stopped, waiting at Park Avenue for the traffic light. Cars swished by and I found myself watching everything, taking it in, wondering what it would be like to do this every morning in Manhattan. I wanted to memorize it; there was nothing in Memphis to remind me of this street, this town, this feeling, these sights. I wanted New York burned into my mind, wanted to hold onto it and take back as much as I could.

The traffic light changed. I broke into a run to the park. I was burned out by the time I got there. I limped into a sloping field and rested on a park bench. As far as I could see, only one or two distant people were there. I rubbed my aching ankles and burning shins. I was short of breath. Fiore was right, I thought: work within your limits.

All right, I conceded, within my limits. I accepted it, but ached knowing it was not good enough. My limit at that point was my body. My limit was two months. My limit was time. My limit was Martha. I could do nothing about any of it. My body told me what would happen if I pushed too far, too hard. Something in my heart and head told me what might happen if I pushed too hard with Martha. I walked around and stretched my legs, trying to coax more work from them. But they, too, had reached their limit. Around me lay the serene park, disturbed only by skittering squirrels and robins, chirping sparrows, cooing pigeons. Not even a breeze came through to wake the trees. Inside, I simmered.

Tired, I walked back to Martha's. I looked at everything twice, memorizing.

She was showering. I undressed and joined her in the stall.

"Well," she asked, "Were you out conquering the world?"

"Sure," I said.

"Who won?"

"The world."

"I said it once, honey, and I'll say it again. Welcome to New York."

She me a hug, kissing my neck. She said, "Uh-oh, I'll have to soap up again, but you feel good. You're sweaty. Is that from running or from me?"

I held her. Wet and slim, she felt like a fawn in my hands. I answered, "Both."

She chuckled, tightening her hug, and both of us finished our shower. As we dried and dressed, she went over the schedule. Fiore at ten. Marilyn at one. Then Marilyn and the Museum of Modern Art or whatever Marilyn wanted, then meet Martha at a deli we'd seen before, and then to Little Italy. She invited Ronnie to dinner with us, but Ronnie said she had a date that night.

At my workout, Fiore watched me for a while and seemed satisfied that I wasn't going to try to accomplish in one hour what had taken his students months or years to do. Inside, I was fighting the limits; I just didn't know how to do it, so I went through the movements and stretches Fiore prescribed. I still felt it wasn't enough.

I changed into a sport coat and tie at Martha's and she and I walked to a spacious, busy restaurant on Madison Avenue near the American Museum. We ordered tea to occupy us while we awaited Marilyn.

I tugged at my tie and tried to keep it from eating into my neck. "I feel like I'm a fifteen year old being taken by his parents to the prom."

Martha said, "Steven, you are fifteen."

"I know, I just... don't enjoy feeling like it."

"Enjoy it while you can, it only happens once."

"Thank god. Why am I doing this?"

"Because Marilyn wants to meet you. Let's not go through all that again. It's too late to back out. Anyway, here she comes."

Marilyn was slightly taller than I. She wore black, thick-framed glasses and had long brown hair past her shoulders and she was, as Martha said, cute. She looked younger than sixteen. She was highwaisted, a little thick in the legs, and was freckled and had a sweet, wide smile at all times. Her voice was rather husky, but soft, and she talked easily and slowly. Above all, she was almost irritatingly polite. At first it seemed like a pose, but as the lunch wore on I saw that she was so steadily proper and soft-spoken that it had to be genuine.

We had no problem making conversation. Marilyn wanted to know all about the South. When she heard that Christian Brothers High School had just built a new, multi-million-dollar theater and assembly hall, the talk swerved into theater and the arts and stayed there for most of the day. Pleased that we weren't at each other's throats, Martha left after an hour and walked with us to the museum, where she would leave me with Marilyn for the afternoon.

Martha told me, "Meet me at the restaurant at seven," and then she gave Marilyn a little kiss and told her, "Don't let Steven get lost, now."

It was an eerie exercise in relating to someone who was pretty, friendly, bright, incurably sweet, and someone for whom I had no strong feelings at all. The interval between two-thirty and sixfifteen was the longest I'd spent in the company of a young woman whose presence left me vaguely lonely and horny for something else. But I learned; I learned to keep talking, and I learned how uneasy I felt with someone who endlessly asked about me. I found it difficult to get her to talk more about Marilyn. I wondered if it were my fault or hers.

Marilyn had no qualms about touching me, placing her hand on my arm to point something out to me, or grabbing my hand and leading me down a corridor to another exhibit, and at one point simply holding my hand casually and unselfconsciously for a few minutes as we sat together during a brief rest. And then, when we decided to take a walk in nearby Central Park and sat on a bench talking, she touched my knee, apparently without noticing. If she was turned on by any of this, she revealed nothing. I tried touching her myself, on the hand or on the arm, with no reaction from her. I kept wanting something else, someone else. Being with her did little to make me stop thinking that one week had already burnt itself out in New York.

She said she would take the subway home, and when I made remarks about it she said, "No, no, that's the way it's done here, unless you're going steady or something. But, oh, I do like that Southern politeness. It's refreshing, really. Listen, would you like to keep in touch? I think you're very interesting, and we have theater conventions up here, so if you ever attend one I could help show you around."

We exchanged addresses as I walked her to the subway at 86th and Lexington. She gave my hand a squeeze, blew me a little goodbye kiss and left with a sweet, polite little smile.

I decided to walk downtown to meet Martha at 57th Street. I thought: Not bad, really. Not bad at all. I knew of no one my age in Memphis who would have been as pleasant. And then I thought: I knew of no one in Memphis, period.

It was a few minutes after seven when I entered the restaurant on 57th Street. As my gaze swept the room I caught sight of two pairs of arms waving at me over the heads of the customers. Now, I wondered, I knew who one pair of hands belonged to, but who owned the other pair of hands? As I neared the corner, Martha and Ronnie stood at their table and grinned and yelled "Yaaay!" and applauded and waved.

Martha said, "Good show!"

Ronnie cheered, "Bravo! Bravo, Senior Stephano! Bravissimo!"

Amazingly, few people turned to look. I strode to the table calmly, holding up a cautioning hand and nodding casual thank-you's, and when they continued cheering I gave them the palms-down, indexfinger-up football signal for time-out, saying, "Okay, okay, have a seat. I survived."

Ronnie joked, "Didja get laid?".

"Yeah, twice."

"Bravo, Senior Stephano."

"So," Martha asked, "How was it?"

I told her it was pleasant, very pleasant, and that we exchanged addresses and that Marilyn had me very confused with her touching.

"Yes," Martha said, "she does that. She's always touching your hand or arm. And she's sweet. Isn't she just nice to know, hon?"

"You're right. As usual."

Ronnie said, "Isn't it sickening? She's always right. Even when she's wrong."

Martha announced, "Ronnie was stood up."

I said, "What? Ronnie! I don't believe it! Who would stand you up?"

"Eh!" Ronnie said. "Ain't the first time."

"I don't believe it! Why would anyone stand *you* up? I mean, they just left you standing in the street or something?"

"No, I was waiting in my building." She fiddled with the straw in her iced tea and shrugged. "I pick 'em, don't I? Just as well, I wasn't so hot to go out tonight, anyway. I probably tried to fake enthusiasm and I tried too hard and they caught on, and... what the heck."

Martha said placatingly, "Ronnie, I told you, it's just a New York thing. It happens all the time, it just seems to happen more in this town."

I asked, appalled, "But why would they do something like that?"

Ronnie said flippantly, "They change their minds."

"They don't call you or anything?"

Ronnie shrugged. "Hey, if they change their minds and don't show up, they figure you know."

For a long moment I sat looking at Ronnie while she and Martha talked and made jokes about the situation. Finally I cleared my throat and asked as casually as I could, "Come out with me and Martha, then."

Ronnie waved me away. "Ah, c'mon, you two have plans."

"No," I said. "Come on. I'm buying anyway. Let me take you to dinner."

Martha's eyes widened in surprise, and she looked at Ronnie and then at me. "Steven!" she breathed in mock dismay. "Are you asking Ronnie for a date? Oh, Ronnie, sit up and take notice. This is a major milestone for him."

Ronnie batted her eyelashes at me. "Li'l ole me, y'all?" She blinked at me. "Did I do that right?"

I said, "Nah, but you can come along anyway."

Martha watched, smirking while I talked Ronnie into it. As we rose to leave for Little Italy, Martha whispered to me, "Good going, cowboy. The afternoon with Marilyn must have taught you something, after all.

"At last she's pleased," I mumbled, raising my eyes to heaven, and Martha elbowed my ribs.

We visited three restaurants in Little Italy. Again, it was another amazing New York adventure for me. In my excitement I ordered everything in sight, until Martha and Ronnie warned me that the prices were moderate, but not cheap, and the servings were large. Laughing and joking, we sampled each other's plates and sang an Italian song when a violinist came to our table in the Grotto Azura.

"Honey," Ronnie said on the street later, "I love you for this. My date wouldn't have been this nice. C'mon, Martha, I'll take him to Ferrara's and really fatten him up."

Martha said, "Careful, Ron, Steven's a sucker for the goodies in Ferrara's."

I told Ronnie, "Lead the way."

In Ferrara's Bakery, Ronnie bought me cannoli and a baba-a-rum that had my mouth watering and my tummy bloated. The only thing preventing me from ordering second rounds was the utter impossibility of shoving more food into my stomach.

"Take you a week to work this off," Ronnie said, grinning at me with her cigarette held in the air.

"Oh, Ronnie," I breathed, wiping my mouth and downing the last of the cannoli, "this is just... I never tasted anything like this. Thank you for corrupting me and bringing me to this place."

"I don't get it," Ronnie said, "don't Italians in Memphis eat this stuff?"

Martha said, "There's a lot you can't get in Memphis. You can't even buy a bagel. Strictly barbecue and grits down there, Ronnie."

Ronnie said, "No bagels? Sounds like Michigan." Ronnie winked at me. "It's good stuff, huh?"

"Decadent," I groaned, sighing with an overfull stomach.

Ronnie smiled as she crushed out her cigarette. "Yeah. It's a good feeling, isn't it? It's the only thing keeping me in New York. It's my dark side. My yin. My yang, too. Now I'm gonna order one for myself."

Martha warned, "The waistline, Ronnie. Remember?"

"To hell with it," Ronnie said, waving for a waiter. "I want."

Afterwards, we walked uptown through Greenwich Village, up Fifth Avenue to Union Square, where the city grew darker with the setting sun; then up Broadway to Times Square, then up Sixth Avenue into Rockefeller Center, then up 6th Avenue farther into Central Park. By that time we were worn out. We sat on a bench near the lake at 59th Street, resting and calculating how many blocks there were between the park and their building.

Martha asked, "Should we take a taxi?"

I growled, "Nah, let's walk."

Martha said, "You walk, hon. It's about twenty more blocks." She looked at Ronnie, who sat gazing into the moonlit pond before us and seemed sad and lost in thought. "What's on your twisted little mind, Ron?"

She sighed and looked into the lake. "Oh, just... I don't know."

"Are you still worried about what happened tonight?" Martha asked. "C'mon, Ronnie, it's happened to all of us. Steven, too, once in Memphis. And he took it pretty hard."

"No," Ronnie said, still gazing. "No, it's not that. It's just... I had a nice time, really. But you always keep thinking, y'know, why people do that. And how many of them there are out there. And how they manage to find me."

"Ronnie," Martha commanded gently, "Forget about it. Come on."