Michael Rizza - Cartilage and Skin

“This place is cold,” she said.

“It’s business.”

She looked at him doubtfully.

“This is my boss’s house, remember.” He kissed her cheek. “Be patient, okay. Why don’t you get yourself another drink?”

“That’s a good idea. Would you like one?”

He shook his head, and as he looked at her, his hazel eyes had a quality that was soft and tender, glazed with something like compassion or possibly love, which began to fade the moment she turned and moved away from him. He watched after her. She visibly drew a deep breath, as if gathering strength, and exited the foyer without glancing back. The man turned his attention to the group of men again, who had continued their conversation as if the man had never left it or had never been a participant in the first place. He appeared to possess a singular charm, even though he wasn’t handsome. His face was all bone, his skin as thin as paper, revealing his veins at his temple. The other men laughed when he spoke. They undoubtedly had no idea that not long ago their colleague had taken the toes off of a young boy’s foot. When the conversation drifted toward money, the man watched the others with an amused grin.

“Ralph’s awfully quiet,” one of them said.

“He guards his portfolio like it’s the keys to heaven.”

“I just don’t say anything,” he said.

“We know.”

“Give me your money then,” Ralph said. “I’ll invest it for you.”

The men chuckled.

“Sure, then you can give up your moonlighting and start investing in a new car or a boat for yourself.”

“I’ll skip the boat,” Ralph said. “I’m not a fan of the water.”

“Hey,” one of the men said softly, leaning into the center of the circle. “What’s this about moonlighting?”

“Ralph’s into sales,” another man whispered, as if Ralph weren’t present and they were gossiping about him.

“Really?” A man nodded knowingly.

“Religious propaganda.”

“What religion?”

“Christian.”

The men continued to throw glances at Ralph, as if he were on the other side of the room.

“As long as he doesn’t try to peddle that voodoo crap around the office.”

“No problem,” Ralph said at last, still grinning, still composed. “But I’ll remember that the next time you try to peddle your daughter’s Girl Scout cookies at work.”

The group chuckled again.

“It’s a little book route I do once or twice a month,” Ralph explained. “I had it for years. I just never let it go because it’s a peaceful drive. It’s nice. It keeps me sane. Other men golf on the weekend.”

“And other men fish.”

“Other men fish,” Ralph agreed.

“But you’re afraid of the water, right?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘afraid,’” Ralph said. Then he slowly passed his eyes over each man in turn. “And some men take Prozac.”

He could have been bluffing, yet he seemed to know something about one or all of the men. Even so, nobody stepped forward, to contradict him or to confess. Someone laughed, and the group disbanded with smiles.

Above the general bustle and the murmur of voices, the sound of music from a piano flowed out of the great room. With his hands in his pockets, Ralph walked casually and let his gaze roam with a bit of detached interest, going beyond familiarity and ease — disclosing an attitude, not of a guest, but more like the owner of the large house, someone who had emerged out of a secluded, quiet room, just to make a brief appearance and then depart again, wordless, unobtrusive, and seemingly indifferent, as if the house merely belonged to him by accident and the whole thing could vanish as easily as the final, dying note of a song. In addition to the squat, black piano and the thin, tuxedo-clad man who played it, the great room was decorated in leather, mahogany, and brass. There was a pair of rich, maroon rugs, and at every few paces along the walls hung a painting illuminated from above by a brass lamp. People drifted back and forth, from listening to the music to inspecting the paintings, possessed of the same milling gait and mute reverence found in an art gallery. The paintings seemed to take on value, or reach a higher level of art because of their elegant surroundings. They were mostly still-lifes of trivial objects: a basket of knitting supplies, a place setting, a postcard leaning against a coffee mug, all painted in a childlike imitation of Matisse. There was, however, a single portrait of a middle-aged woman attempting to be refined in her dazzling jewelry and by her lofty expression, but who was nonetheless vandalized by the artist’s hand, possibly the clumsy, twisted paw of a crippled child. Even so, Ralph’s gaze seemed to give as much attention to any one of the paintings as to the wall from which it hung.

“I think this one is the best,” a woman said.

“Yes,” he answered, looking at her face, bright and smooth and young, before he even bothered to look at the painting. “It’s interesting how,” he began to say — his eyes now focusing beyond her, but only lighting for an instant upon the painting before returning to her again, as if a cursory glance sufficed — and so he continued without pause, saying, “such a delicate subject can have such harsh and brutal contours.”

The woman turned toward the artwork and appeared to be reassessing it according to Ralph’s comment. Composed only in three stark colors — navy blue, dirty yellow, and brown — a part of a doorway, or maybe an open window, revealed the edge of a chair in the background.

“A delicate subject?” the woman asked. “I guess it can make you feel small and lonely, or just common.”

“That might explain the crude style,” he said, still looking at the woman. She was dressed in a black gown, scooped low in the front, her naked throat more delicate and enticing for its lack of jewelry.

“You can overanalyze anything,” she said; then with a trace of amusement on her face, she leaned closer, as if to confide in him. “I was just thinking that it’s the only piece that doesn’t make me want to leave the room.”

“It’s all repulsive.” He sounded definitive, as though this were the best way to appraise the artwork.

“His father-in-law painted them all, so he’s probably forced to hang this stuff under the threat of death or at least divorce.”

“Probably,” Ralph said. “So, you know his wife?”

“I heard of her, that she’s shrewd. She runs the business behind the scene.”

The piano ceased, and the people began to move away, no longer held by the spell of the music or by some tacit, respectful obligation to listen. Voices grew louder, and a few people began to exit the room.

“You must be one of the new consultants,” Ralph said.

“You’re the first person not to assume that I’m somebody’s girlfriend.”

People shuffled past them now, like a departing audience, and Ralph stepped back from the woman, as if he were at risk of getting caught in the flow of people.

“Stick your head into my office sometime,” he said. “I’m on the third floor.”

She smiled again. Her hand rose slightly and then returned to her side; perhaps she stopped herself from giving him a small, silly wave goodbye.

“There’s no reason you should feel like an outsider in the company,” he said.

“You’re Ralph Banks, right?” she asked, and before he could respond, she told him that her name was Amanda.

“Of course,” he said.

Bemused, she looked at him for an instant; then a faint smile crept on her face as he too smiled. “Of course,” she echoed.

Later — proud, amused, and detached — he stood before the fireplace and inspected everyone, as if he were a director of a play and the men and women, dressed up in their business attire and ruled by decorum, were his actors, a group of children on a school stage, the players at a community theatre. The fat woman was sitting in a high-back chair before a bay window. Although she appeared a bit listless and sleepy, the man glanced at her from time to time, apparently more intrigued by her performance than by anyone else’s. She kept looking at the doorway, probably waiting for Ralph to come rescue her; she never turned around in the chair to see him standing just a few feet behind her. She dipped her finger in her drink and then placed the tip of her finger on her tongue. Then again, she poked the floating ice cube to the bottom of the glass and licked her finger as the cube bobbed back to the surface. Crossing and re-crossing her thick legs, she continually looked at the door. When she finished her drink, Ralph came up behind her.