Me? I just kept screaming, twenty years too late.
. . . . .
Somewhere in the dark of the Lincoln Tunnel, Kelly’s voice:
“Just remember, Donnie, Amy is the victim, not you. The trauma is hers. I understand that you’re hurt, and you’re entitled to those feelings, but when a woman is raped, it’s not about her boyfriend, okay? Don’t make that mistake.”
I nodded as she stared out the window. How could she know me so well?
. . . . .
About The Lion King I remembered nothing. Just as well—I hated musicals. At least Kelly enjoyed it, if “enjoyment” was possible with me sitting beside her in a black funk. After the show we walked to the Museum of Modern Art, one of the “must-see’ locations on Kelly’s Manhattan hit list. We grabbed our tickets, dodging a gaggle of noisy private school kids waiting for their docent, and hopped the elevator to the third-floor exhibits. Kelly was eager to check out the Jackson Pollack room, and while museums gave me a headache and left my eyes burning, I tried to be, if not enthusiastic, then at least less blatant in my morose self-loathing. The goal was to be all Buddhist and in the moment. Why not? My body felt strong and awake, a loving woman walking beside me in the so-called greatest city in the world. It was all good, and all now. Those drawings and what had happened to Amy were twenty years gone. They were ghosts, I told myself—step away from the haunted house and appreciate each moment for its sacred and singular essence.
I took Kelly’s hand, inhaled, and again thought about Amy being raped by Mr. Ronan. I was a crappy Buddhist.
We found the Pollack exhibit and roamed the open spaces, all those white walls and corner angles, everything so quiet, like a maze inside a cloud. I wasn’t much for modern art, but I appreciated the chaos of Pollack’s work, the colorful drips and splatters swirling within the frame.
“These paintings remind me of music,” Kelly whispered. “Each drip is like a note, and if you catch it the right way, you can almost hear the song.”
She stood, nodding her head in some rhythm only she could hear, and I followed her toward a bright open corner by the window, where on the far wall hung a painting even I recognized, one of Pollack’s masterpieces: One, Number 31, 1950. The canvas was enormous, dominating the wall, and we sat on one of those low benches about twelve feet away so we could take it all in. We were lucky; except for a Japanese guy listening to a guided tour through his ear buds, we were alone with the canvas. The muted black and grey streaks reminded me of the inside of a brain, the looping lines like traffic between the synapses. Being so close to such a massive work, I felt tiny, insignificant, and wondered if I stepped too close, would the colors reach out and snatch me? It wouldn’t take much, perhaps a hammer or a brick, for my smashed-up brain matter to splatter over the canvas and fit right in. Future scholars would praise the artist for his skillful placement, never guessing that it was only me, banging my head into oblivion.
We sat on the bench, admiring the genius of it all.
“It puts things in perspective,” Kelly whispered. “Imagine having all that chaos inside you.”
A security guard entered the room, his eyes bored and grim as he looked at the Pollack, looked at us, and kept walking.
Kelly’s hand settled on my knee.
“I’m going home,” she said. “I rescheduled my return flight for later this afternoon. I’ll catch a cab to JFK. You’ll have to ship my luggage back. I hope you don’t mind…”
“Wait a minute. You’re leaving now?”
“Melissa can pick me up at the airport. I already texted her. By tonight I’ll be back in my own bed with the cats.”
So this was it—I’d told her everything, every ugly little detail, and sure enough, she was leaving. I couldn’t blame her, but I felt my pulse quickening, my fingernails ready to dig in.
“It’s only a few more days. We can fly back together…”
“Donnie, don’t you get it? You’re not going back. You’re staying. This is your home.”
“No …”
“Why would you go back? Everything you love is right here. I know this is sudden, but during the intermission …”
Fucking musicals!
“…I realized that whatever it is that you need to do … to work through all of this …I can’t help you. I wish I could, but…I don’t belong here. Not now.”
We listened to the security guard’s footsteps as he made his scheduled rounds. The Japanese guy, a middle-aged tourist in a beige windbreaker and dark khakis, looked out the window, admiring the skyline. I studied the Pollack, hoping my subconscious might find something useful hidden within the dense, interlacing threads, something that might convince Kelly to stay, but all I could see were miniature faces, maybe my own, screaming to escape.
“I shouldn’t have told you about those drawings.”
“That has nothing to do with my decision,” Kelly said. “Or maybe it does, but not in the way that you think. I want us to stay together. That’s why I’m leaving. Go back to Holman Beach and make things right. Then maybe we have a chance. Or maybe you’re meant to be with Amy, or maybe someone else. I don’t know, but either way, you need to find out.”
“Stay two more days and I’ll buy you a first-class ticket home. We won’t even go back to Holman Beach. Screw our luggage. We’ll buy new clothes and stay at the Ritz-Carlton.”
Her hand left my knee as she stood and walked behind me. I tried to follow, but she touched my shoulder and guided me back down, her eyes dark and wet.
“I think your agent will
