Claire’s purse was on the table, begging the question. Jody scanned the room. All the people who’d just been looking at her had gone back to their cappuccinos, their éclairs, their own pathetic conversations. She reached for Claire’s purse and pulled the zipper back, expecting to find the photos tucked neatly between her wallet and cosmetic case. There was nothing except mail — so much, in fact, that various envelopes stuck out, and Jody had trouble closing the purse. Worried that Claire would come out of the bathroom and catch her rummaging, she was trying to push them back in when on the left corner of one she noticed, familiar handwriting — the return address of someone she knew in L. A. She pulled the envelope all the way out of the purse and checked; it was addressed to Jody Goodman, 63 Perry Street 4-B, NY NY 10014. She pulled out another — her phone bill. A bank statement … a postcard from Carol Heberton … a schedule of screenings at the Museum of Modern Art. Claire had stolen her mail. She had reached into the mailbox and walked off with everything. A federal crime. In all the months that the lock had been broken, none of the multitude of strangers that came in and out of the building had ever taken anything. Then Jody heard the click of the bathroom door unlocking and jammed everything except the postcard back into the purse and zipped it closed. The purse was back in position on the table before the bathroom door opened. Jody tucked Heberton’s card into her back pocket, picked up her video camera, and looked out the window, pretending to be shooting something in the distance.
“I didn’t realize what time it was,” Claire said, standing over the table. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.” She squeezed Jody’s arm. Jody glanced up. Her eyes were red. “It’s all right,” Claire added. “Everything will be all right. Don’t worry.” Then she took some money from her purse, put it on the table, and went out the door. Jody ordered a second espresso, poured in the sugar, and spooned the thick brown syrup into her mouth as though it were a prescription product. Trying to figure, trying to figure. She was trapped. Whatever it was that existed between her and Claire, she couldn’t stand it; all the same, she’d been living on it and couldn’t go without. Even now she didn’t hate Claire — she hated herself for buying in, craving it, getting hooked. She finished the espresso and paid the bill, thinking that crawling out of a well was harder than falling in.
A losing streak. Coked up on espresso, paranoia, and guilt, she raced home and found Peter Sears waiting in the vestibule. “Hi,” he said. “I thought I’d stop by and see how you’re doing.”
Jody’s mailbox was empty, and the metal door was hanging open. Three other boxes also had broken locks, but the mail was there, waiting.
“How long have you been here?” Jody asked.
“Only a minute,” Peter said. “But I was about to give up.”
“My lucky day.”
“How’re you feeling — better?”
Jody shrugged. According to Esterhaus’s estimate, she would get better eventually, though maybe not for two years. According to what Jody’s mother read, it was a systemic yeast infection from eating too much sugar, and according to her father it was environmental poisoning. Jody herself had read reports calling it a B-cell virus, chronic immune dysfunction syndrome, a new herpes — a rare combination, a grenade-type virus with an unidentified trigger pin. If it didn’t kill you, it could last forever, waxing and waning.
“Frankly,” she said, “I feel like shit.”
“Can I come in?” he asked.
“Sure, why not.” Jody figured she had nothing to lose.
“I’ve really missed you,” Peter said in the elevator on the way up.
Jody looked at her apartment door before unlocking it. There were no signs of tampering. On the floor, just inside, was a delivery menu from a Mexican restaurant. No note on pretty stationery, no magical explanation.
“Do you want to get naked now,” she said to Peter, “or can I listen to my messages first?”
“It’s not like that,” he said.
Jody rewound her machine, thinking she’d find a clue. There was only one message — from Ilene, the East Villager from UCLA. “I wanted you to be the first to know — well, almost the first to know. Remember that idea we worked up for story class? I went ahead and wrote it. The script got sold for a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Can you believe it? God! Well, I hope you’re feeling better. Sorry, I—”
Jody turned off the machine. She didn’t need to hear it.
“Sounds great,” Peter said.
“Shut up,” Jody said, disappearing into the bathroom. She came back seconds later with her hands full of small packages. “Look,” she said, spilling them onto the sofa. “I have condoms. All kinds.”
“It’s different,” Peter said. “Or I’m different.”
“Bummer,” Jody said.
Peter shrugged. “I didn’t say I’d sworn off, just that things were different. You seem tense, upset. I took a course in massage. Would you like me to give you one?”
In what was left of the late afternoon light, with all the shades up, Jody stripped naked. She was so thin now that she didn’t care who saw her. There was nothing to hide. Her bad thighs and big butt had vanished. She lay on the bed and let Peter work his hands over her, applying pressure to spots where knots had formed.
“Tell me where you feel it and we can work it out,” he said. He found places left over from the skating expedition, knots that suddenly felt like scars. He pressed his fingers into places so sore that Jody had to bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from screaming. He was good, his hands strong and smooth. He dug deep into her, drawing the tension out, as if it were possible to pick up the muscles one by one and wring them like wet washcloths. She rolled onto her back, and when his palms traveled up the insides of her thighs, she met them and guided them further. She unbuttoned his shirt and slid her tongue over his chest. He sighed. He worked the muscles in her neck and shoulders, going all the way down her arms. She bit his nipples. In his chinos he rubbed against her, teasing. No hurry, no rush. She unzipped his pants and pressed her face to the front of his underwear, licking him through the heavy cotton. She pulled him on top of her. He reached for a condom. Three times her phone rang; each time the machine picked up and the caller — Claire — hung up. Peter and Jody spent the rest of the evening and most of the night sexing and resting, sexing and resting.
“So what happened?” Jody finally asked, after the delivery boy from the Chinese restaurant had come and gone, after they’d showered and feasted and fucked again.
Peter shrugged. He pulled on his underwear, fished his chinos out of the tangle of sheets, and buttoned his shirt.
“Come on,” Jody said. “People don’t just change.”
“I’ve been seeing someone who’s helped me a lot,” he said, sliding his foot into a loafer.
“A therapist?”
“No, a woman. She’s out of town this week on location. She’s a TV producer.”
Jody pushed him out the door. She practically picked him up and carried him. She stood there for a moment, watched him flounder, then slammed and locked the door.
“My shoe,” he called. “My other loafer.” He banged on the door. “Hey, come on! That’s a Banfi. They cost four hundred and fifty dollars.”
C laire couldn’t sleep. Listening to Sam’s even breathing, she lay awake and worried about losing everything. Ever since the afternoon at the cafe Jody had been acting withdrawn, paranoid — though at least she hadn’t brought the video camera with her. And then, a few days before, they’d fought over a shirt in Bloomingdale’s.
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