The One and Only

Within a week of Jane beginning to officially “see” Arnold, she found herself thinking more and more about Tyrone. It didn’t happen, fortunately, when she was with Arnold, but when she was alone, even right after spending time with Arnold, thoughts of Tyrone would come unbidden to her mind: his voice, his hands, the way he walked into a room. Jane knew better than to say anything to Arnold but at last she did confide one night to Connie, which she recognized was probably unwise because Connie clearly had some feelings for Arnold. After hearing her out at the ice cream parlor, Connie gave her a long look and told her that she would either have to make up her mind to forget Tyrone (who, she couldn’t help reminding her, had never been so good to her as Reginald or Michael) or come clean to Arnold about how she felt. Jane could not finish her ice cream. Connie was right.

And yet. She hadn’t made “promises” to Arnold, not “real” ones, had she? If what was between her and Arnold was to grow and blossom, it would have to survive challenges. And in any case surely Tyrone would fade from her thoughts, given time. This is what Jane told herself in the days that followed and after ducking Connie’s questions she eventually started spending more time with Penny instead. Penny didn’t look deeply into things.

Then came the day that Arnold took Jane to a high-end Italian restaurant. She was nervous enough because of the risks of spilling sauce on her new dress or making a fool of herself with the menu but there was also the prospect of Arnold popping a certain question. So Jane was already fighting back being flustered when she saw the waiter approach: he was tall like Tyrone and had Tyrone’s penetrating eyes. He offered a sympathetic smile when she stumbled with her order and gently offered suggestions that she gratefully accepted. Arnold had been so annoyed by the trouble they’d had in finding a parking space that he didn’t notice what was happening. He was needlessly sharp with the waiter, whose name was Giancarlo and who was unbothered. His eyes stayed with Jane.

Sure enough, the lasagna that Giancarlo recommended was the best she had ever had, but she merely said it was “pretty good” to Arnold, who said of his meal more than once that he had “had better.” When she said on the drive home that she wasn’t feeling well, he blamed the lasagna and dropped her off at her place without a fuss.

When she checked her messages, she was surprised to find one from Michael. She had only seen him for a summer and in her memory she sometimes mixed him up with Geoff because they were both sports fans and they both worked in advertising. Michael’s brief message said that Connie had been in touch to say that Estaban was in trouble, serious trouble apparently, and that some sort of “crisis” or “intervention” was happening at Vera’s place: could Jane come at once?

Naturally Jane called a taxi and tried to find Vera’s address. It had been years since she had been there: the last time must have been for Isaac’s birthday, back when she was more or less seeing Bryce, though their argument after that party pretty much put the kibosh on that. She didn’t like to think about that. Estaban. Why was she having a hard time recalling exactly who Estaban was? Maybe he was Vera’s latest? But Vera had gone “off” men years ago and had been dating women, including Daniella, that wild woman who had tried making out with Jane that time behind Vera’s back, an incident that Hugo couldn’t ask Jane enough about when they were in bed. But that was Hugo.

She should have been paying more attention: the taxi driver was lost. She repeated the address and spelled out directions. The driver seemed like a nice enough guy but befuddled wasn’t the word. She couldn’t help thinking of what hard words Arnold would use in this situation and she felt a chill: he had no patience with anyone he thought had a “simple job” to do but couldn’t do it “properly.”

As they pulled up to Vera’s apartment building, Jane suddenly felt misgivings swirling inside her. Vera was always drama, drama, drama. And did she really want to see Connie just now? She could pretend not to have received Geoff’s message until the next morning – no, Michael’s message. But there, smoking outside, was Petra, who looked right at her.

Jane always said that Petra knew everybody and everybody knew Petra, so she couldn’t really be surprised to find her here, and jittery Petra gave one of her long, head-back trills of laughter, though it was clear she had been crying not too long before. Jane must not tell Mencia that she was smoking again. Obviously Petra still hadn’t gotten over Ulrich, but right now Estaban was all her concern. The tears started again. She gripped Jane’s wrist: it wasn’t that she felt “responsible” for what had happened, exactly, but still.

They went in together. Luckily Petra entered the elevator first and pressed the floor number because Jane realized that she either didn’t know it or had forgotten it. Petra was still talking: Mencia is such a puritan, how can she not see that “sleazebucket” Cliff for what he was, a guy like that makes Ulrich seem an “angel,” anyway she only smoked when she was nervous. There was no opening for Jane to fish for some information about Estaban. Could he have been that brother of Vera’s that disappeared for a decade? No, his name had been Evan or Edward or something like that.

Their knock at the apartment door was quickly answered by Michael, who looked very tired. Inside there were plenty of people, but the atmosphere was that of a party that had taken some “disastrous” turn, as Kenny would have put it – not that it would be a good idea to mention Kenny anywhere within Vera’s hearing. Everybody was murmuring and many held drinks. Jane spotted Amy and Roberta and Yvette and Wesley and Sheila. But Vera was nowhere in evidence. Michael said quietly that she was not up to speaking with anyone just at this moment and Jane found herself nodding in unison with Petra. It was the “shock,” said Michael, and Petra repeated the word “shock.”

Standing alone while Petra and Michael went separate ways, Jane said the word “shock” to herself, a rude syllable, “shock,” and all at once her imagination took over: Giancarlo the waiter, his eyes full with her, now above her and then beneath her, shock, the two of them, shock. Roberta was expecting an answer to something she’d asked and Jane touched her temple and lowered herself into a chair that someone pushed up for her. Everyone was shocked, Roberta said. No one was expecting it, added Amy, who as a rule liked to agree with and amplify Roberta’s statements.

Daniella whisked into the apartment, elbows flashing. Where was Vera? How was Estaban? Has Eleanor been contacted? What about Svend? A phone rang in an unseen room. Even when she was not drunk, Jane reflected, Daniella was drunk. Even mentioning Svend was tactless. Jane navigated her way to the bathroom but nearly collided with Tabitha, who nearly gave of her “shrieks.” They had not seen each other since the holiday in Costa Rica that Kyle did his best to ruin: what a waste of time he had been. Jane saw her opportunity and whispered: it had been a long day, a terrible dinner out with Arnold, things were definitely not going well there, and embarrassing to say, for some reason she couldn’t fix the name Estaban to a person.

Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time Tabitha was the sweetest, most considerate person ever, the best listener with the best advice, but every now and then she could unexpectedly show a wintry side to her. She now gave Jane a cold look, as though Jane had uttered something beyond the pale, and brushed past her. Jane blinked, went into the bathroom and locked the door. What had she heard about panic attacks? Were they like dreams, where you could say to yourself that this is all a dream, and still keep dreaming? Was it that you wake up from a dream if you die in a dream but if you die during a panic attack, no, that didn’t make sense. There was something about breathing. She “perched” on the edge of the bath.

Lists, she thought, a sense of order. People she knew: Penny, Connie, Tabitha, Vera, Michael, Arnold, Alan, Roberta, Amy, Petra, Tyrone, oh, she wasn’t supposed to think about him, Gideon, Maureen, Hugo, Geraldine, hmm, Tito, Lakshmi, Connie, already said her, didn’t she?

A watery sound startled her. There was a naked man lying in the bathtub behind her. The tap by his feet dripped again.

Jane looked at him without moving, without recognizing him, without knowing what she was or wasn’t doing. There was a naked man lying in the bathtub behind her. Drip. He looked dead or he looked like he might be dead.

This was just like something she had never experienced before. And she couldn’t think what Arnold or Penny or even Connie would say. It was “new,” it was very “new.” Drip. It was fair to say that Jane liked new experiences, so on some level she ought to be keen on this one.

The naked man had still not moved. If his nakedness, his deadness did not disturb her, his namelessness did, and she tried giving names to him but none of them stuck. He was not handsome like a Tyrone or a Giancarlo; his features did not suggest any special sensitivity. He was not a Leonard. The eyes were closed. He was not a Conrad. The unbreathing chest was patchy with hair. He was not an Alberto. The mouth looked to be on the verge of saying something (not Nikolai), the ears were only partly visible in the thick, dark hair (not Jorge, not Joachim), and the penis bobbed like an unheeded warning buoy (not Max, not Marcel, not Moshe).

Drip.

And all at once she knew what to do, knew what she had to do. She arose and, out of habit, flushed the toilet and washed her hands in the sink. She quickly checked the eyeliner situation and left the bathroom which, it occurred to her based on the colour palette, had probably been designed by Xavier, Vera’s brother, a totally floral guy. She moved with swift purpose, giving a kind of “busy wave” to anyone who looked her way: have to go, lovely to see you, have to leave.

By the time she was outside it must have been at least two but fortunately (some might say miraculously) hailing a taxi turned out not to be difficult. She uttered the address without faltering. The driver talked the whole way about an impending garbage strike but she was too preoccupied to find it distasteful and even gave a larger tip than usual. She still had her key. What would he say? Would he be surprised to see her, after all that had “passed” between them. Would he be welcoming? Or cold? Or cruel?

What if there were someone with him, now? No, she told herself as she climbed the stairs, no, that won’t be. That must not be.

Jane paused at the threshold and just before she could insert the key, the door opened.