Scott Spencer - Endless Love

“Yes. Please.”

I met her at the elevator; she got off with two women wearing short leather skirts and cowgirl hats. Jade was dressed in gray and carried her black nylon travel bag. She smelled of cigarettes and alcohol, and riding on top of those scents like light on a wave was the aroma of lilac water: she must have put it on moments before arriving at the McAlpin.

We stood looking at each other for a very long while. I heard a high-pitched whoosh, such as aviators must have heard when they flew in uncovered cockpits. The impetuousness that allowed me to grab for her as I had yesterday afternoon was absent now. It was all I could do to look into her eyes, though, of course, I couldn’t have possibly turned my gaze anywhere else.

She looked exhausted. Her eyes were enormous, injured, and unfocused. Her lips were parched. She wore makeup and streaks of it showed up in the bleak, watery light of the hotel corridor. Her short hair was tucked behind her ears and the tops of her ears, with their hard, broad rims, were red. She had a gold stud in only one earlobe.

“You’re missing an earring,” I said.

She touched her right ear. “Oh,” she said. She touched the empty lobe a few times. “Damn.”

I shrugged. “We’ll get you another,” I said. I winced. It was such an idiotic remark. It was worse than idiotic: it was arrogant and desperate and I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d laughed in my face.

But Jade was looking at me as if she hadn’t heard. My heart pawed at my chest like a huge dog behind a door.

“Are you surprised?” Jade said. “That I’m here.”

I shook my head. “You had to come.”

She narrowed her eyes a little. “No. I chose to. I decided.”

“Well, I’m glad.”

She nodded. Her eyes moved as she looked me over. She was noting the ways I’d changed. As her attention flickered over me I felt it like a human touch: it was clear to me that no one had looked at me in years. All of the other attentions had been fleeting, partial, obstructed: now, at a moment’s notice, now and at last, I was seen as I was.

“Do you want to come into my room?” I asked.

Jade nodded. “For a minute. I’m on my way to the bus station. The last bus up to Vermont leaves in half an hour.”

I closed the door and turned on the overhead light. I’d been propped up on the bed, rereading the newspaper by the table lamplight: the bedspread tortuously imitated my form; papers were askew; the tableau was one of disorganization and a certain grubbiness.

“I wish I could have greeted you in one of those silk smoking jackets with a glass of champagne,” I said.

She looked as if she didn’t understand why I was saying that. But I knew she did. There was something deliberate in the glance she gave me, something that wanted to insist she was missing the context of my remark. But Jade always could fill in the silence that flanked whatever I said, could picture what I’d seen without my having to describe it. It had been her intuitiveness that first tempted us toward the belief that soon overran every other thought: that we lived together in a world separate and superior to ordinary life. And now, the act of feigning confusion only told me that she still knew exactly what I meant, knew it as she always had and probably always would, for Jade understood me at my source, could trace the genealogy of my words back to their origins: as shifting tides of blood, drives, preconscious terrors.

“Should I call and have something brought up?” I said, walking across the room and sweeping the newspaper off the bed. “Some coffee, or wine?”

“If they bring it fast.” She was casting her attention around the room, memorizing it, looking for a place to sit.

“Wine’s all right?” I said.

“Yes. Though something’s happened to my enamel and wine stains my teeth now.” She showed me her lower teeth.

I sat on the edge of the bed and asked for room service. “Would you bring up two glasses of red wine, please?” I said.

“We’re all getting old,” I said when I hung up.

“The lucky ones.”

She seated herself with a purposeful lack of grace, sighed, and zipped open her travel bag. She poked around in her bag and finally withdrew her hand.

“You have any aspirin?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“Damn,” said Jade.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. A mistake.

She sat slightly more erect, drawing herself away from me. “My father was killed. I was at his funeral. With my fucked-up family. I’m in my period. And I’m on a special all-protein diet to lose ten pounds.” She raised her eyebrows and nodded, as if to ask: Enough?

I waited to say something but no words came forth. I thought of offering to rub her temples and the base of her neck but that gesture was clearly not mine. And then I made the stupid, compulsive error of thinking of her in her period, of envisioning the inch of Tampax string curled in her pubic hair and that was followed by a memory of me plucking at the string with the nails of my thumb and forefinger and then wrapping the string once around my finger as if for a yo-yo loop and pulling the blood-streaked cotton tube out of her. It was not, for all of its deliberateness and detail, a welcome thought: it was enough to experience Jade in three dimensions; the pull of intimacy, even remembered intimacy, and its inevitable quick heat, practically made me squirm.

“I want to ask you about the funeral,” I said. “But I don’t know how.”

“It was terrible, terrible. You know, boring in a crazy way. I couldn’t get it through my head that that was Pappy in the jar. I think it’s crazy, cremation. Or if you’re going to do it, then let’s do it right. A bonfire. With all of us there. How am I supposed to believe the guy’s really dead? I get a goddamned phonecall, spend a few hours with a lot of hysterical drunks, and then sit on a folding chair with about fifty other people listening to organ music and staring at an urn. I don’t have any proof that anything really happened. I mean, everyone tells me he’s dead, but I’m not sure. They could have gotten those ashes anywhere.” She shrugged and hooked her finger around her gold chain.

“Fifty people,” I said.

“And a lot I didn’t know. Also unreal. Ingrid’s sloppy crowd. I like her, though. Probably for the same reason Pappy did. Her earnestness. Her sexiness. How much she cried. Mom was very cool. She seemed impatient with the whole business. Ingrid was crying so loud that it made a lot of other people cry, you know, people who might not have otherwise. But Mom leans over to me and says something like Why don’t we get a bucket of ice water and pour it over the woman’s head? She’s a strange lady, my poor mother. Lonely. Getting a little bitter, I think. Uncle Bob spoke, about Pap and growing up. It was actually quite beautiful, to tell the truth. I didn’t think Bob had it in him. But he was almost singing and I could see even from where I was sitting that he had tears in his eyes. It made me cry, but you always cry at funerals, no matter what’s said. I looked over at Mom when Uncle Bob was talking. She held on to my hand and I looked at her. I could see she fucking wanted to cry but goddamn if she was going to let herself. The tears were Ingrid’s, I suppose that’s what she was thinking, let Ingrid cry. Like Mom knew Pappy too well to cry for him. That’s how she swindles herself out of practically everything.”

“I was with Ann when she found out,” I said. I wondered if this would be the first that Jade had heard of it.

“I know. She told me.” She narrowed her eyes for a moment.

“She cried then,” I said. “A lot. I mean if that matters to you.”