photo because she looked like the model on the magazine cover. I knew enough about little kids to realize that they have trouble separating fact from fantasy-me too, apparently-that kids can be suggestible, and that they sometimes do what they think grown-ups want them to do. Still, there was no explaining away the chapter. And though I’d done my level best to ignore the damned envelope, it, unlike Renee and Jim, hadn’t melted away with the snow.
Meg called several times to check in with me to see if I was still at loose ends or if I’d broken my promises to her. One of the ways I knew I’d killed off the Kipster was that it hurt me now to hear the expectation of disappointment in Meg’s voice. It had once been a point of pride with me, my ability to disappoint those closest to me beyond their wildest dreams. I’d disappointed so many people in my lifetime, but only a few of them mattered. I wondered if there were some debts so large they could never be paid off, if I would ever again be able to prove myself worthy of trust. It was easy to understand why some people in my position would just give up and slide back into their weaknesses.
One weakness of mine that had been rearing its head lately was my addictive nature. I think my running again, combined with my writing and re-establishing a sense of routine, is what caused it. I missed shooting. I did. I knew it was fucked up, that I’d shot a man dead only five weeks before, but since when did knowing count for anything? When I was putting enough white powder up my nose to keep a small town sleepless for a week, I knew it was bad for me, that I was probably killing myself. Junkies are God’s greatest rationalizers, but they know the truth of what it is they are doing to themselves. They see their sunken cheeks, sallow complexions, bloodshot eyes, the blood dripping from their noses. They know.
Of course, it was at that precise moment, the moment I let myself fully consider what I’d given up to come up here, that Amy called. I didn’t much believe in God and the things people labeled as miracles did little to convince me otherwise, but it was at times like these that made me consider which was the more cruel: a cold and random universe or a god with a perverse sense of humor? With all due respect to Blaise Pascal, I chose to believe that no god was better than a cruel one.
“Hey, Ames, what’s up?” I asked as if last week hadn’t happened, as if the last twenty years hadn’t happened.
There was silence at her end, but a noisy and weighty silence. Then she said, “I need to see you.”
“It didn’t work out so well the last time. I seem to remember you sneaking out of your own studio.”
“I know,” she said. “It’s more complicated than I thought it would be. I love you, Kip. Like my art, it’s like an affliction. I was so happy to see you and be with you again that I never realized how much it hurt, all the shit you pulled when we were together. When you were inside me … ” There was silence again. “It never felt that way before, even when I was furious with you. Last week it was as if I was orgasming in spite of myself.”
“I felt it too. Fucking was always easy for us, but it’s different now. We aren’t who we used to be. I don’t want to hurt you anymore, Ames. I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore.”
“Then come to dinner with me tonight.”
“Just dinner, right?”
“Just dinner. Just talking,” she said.
“Just dinner. Okay. Where?”
“I don’t know. What would you like?”
“Chinese food. I haven’t had good Chinese food in seven years.”
“I know the perfect place. It’s on Lafayette in the Village. I’ll get the exact address and text it to you. Be there at eight.”
She hung up before I could have second thoughts. Too late. Second thoughts were all I seemed to be having lately.
Forty-One
It had been so long since I had good Chinese food that I forgot how good
Amy was already seated when I arrived and our hellos were so awkward and uncomfortable we might just as well have been on a blind date. We managed a fairly neutered embrace and chaste kiss. On the one hand, that made me want to run and not stop until I got back to Brixton and crawled into bed with Renee. No awkwardness or pretense with Renee. No need for apologies or penance. Just sex. On the other, I wanted to pull Amy to the red- carpeted floor and fuck her right there in the restaurant to show her how silly it was for her to hold my past against me. For chrissakes, the Kipster was as dead as Stan Petrovic. Then it struck me: maybe that was the problem. She was stupid for the Kipster. For me, maybe not so much. I could not help but wonder if Amy saw my transformation into an adult as a betrayal, as turning my back not only on who I used to be, but on who she had been, as a damning of our shared history. The waitress’s arrival prevented me from wondering aloud.
“Drinks?”
“I’ll have a Chardonnay,” Amy said, anger as plain on her face as her nose.
“Ginger ale and oolong tea for me.”
“Ginger ale?” Amy raised her eyebrows in mock surprise.
“I drink a little bit, but drinking was never the big issue for me, was it?”
“No, Kip, it was more cunts and coke.”
I nearly spit out my water. I’d heard her use the word before, but I was taken aback by the bitter edge in her voice.
“Come on, Ames, that was a long time ago.”
“Not for me,” she said, patting her hand on her chest over her heart. “In here it was yesterday.”
“Then what was last week all about: standing in the snow, resting your head on my shoulder? You think I’m such an ass that I couldn’t read your code? First thing you brought up was your failing marriage. You did everything but announce your intention to finally get a divorce and then there were the portraits. And Jesus, Amy, you couldn’t fuck me fast enough once you got the preliminaries out of the way.”
“I didn’t notice you resisting.”
“Because I wasn’t. Because I’ve missed you for ten years. Because I didn’t want to lose you in the first place.”
“You got a funny way of showing me you didn’t want to lose me, because you fucked just about every-”
“Your Chardonnay,” the waitress said, interrupting Amy’s rant. “And your ginger ale and tea, sir. Would you like to hear our specials this evening?”
I raised my index finger and gave a slight nod at Amy. “Just give us a minute.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll be back shortly.”
Amy and I pretended to study our menus and when the waitress returned, we listened to her description of the specials as if she were reciting the lost teachings of Christ. We ordered without much enthusiasm. In fact, what had been billed as an evening of just talk, and began as an evening of Amy airing old grievances, had become an evening of anything but talk. Amy seemed to have lost her zeal for upbraiding me and I was at a loss for exactly what to say. We waited for our food in uncomfortable quiet, the both of us looking anywhere but at each other.
At least when dinner was served, we had something to keep us occupied. Amy made polite conversation about things I forgot as soon as she said them. I was equally polite in my responses.
