A COUPLE OF MONTHS after the Texas Exes party, I went to an opening at the Sun Dog gallery, still hoping to meet someone.
The orange-painted, river-fronting space was packed with pink flowers and a flux of assorted artists. There were painters, all bearded and eager as greyhounds on a leash, dancers with their wonderful thick calves, but mostly the room was filled to overflowing with poets. Dressed in long skirts or un-ironed pants, gauzy shirts, sandals, all of them had dark eyes (rimmed with kohl or lack of sleep), and all of them had been published: some had done chapbooks, others had been semifinalists for Yale Younger Poet.
I drank white wine and listened to the litany of small magazines that had held their lines: Milkweed, Loonfeather, Runestone, Blue Unicorn.
I wore a dark silk suit with a white crepe shirt and my blunt-cut dark hair shone. In my free hand, I carried a briefcase, and on the wrist of the same hand wore a large black watch, to indicate that I was a person who kept her appointments.
Hearing the poets’ speech fall into rhymed lines or find its natural meter, I was also searching the crowd for a painter. I was longing for a man, and had decided that a painter might like someone willing to pick up the tab.
I had narrowed my choice to two, having first ruled out the ones who’d been pressured to come—a friend’s brother, the owner’s nephew—those putting in an appearance, those clearly only passing through the klieg-lit, well-shadowed place. The pair who remained, both in faded blue work shirts, seemed to me equally attractive, likely to shed equal warmth in bed.
Putting Mom’s rule into effect, I decided to make my cut before the fact.
Both painters hovered. I kept my voice low, answering their questions about my work in a pleasant voice. “I’m your slow student, I’m afraid.” I looked at the floor. “Just about the time I began to get the hang of the market and figure that someone on her toes could make an unobtrusive dollar buying a little before the facts became common knowledge, the fat hit the fan and insider-trading became a dirty word. Right now I’m getting my information the same place everyone else does, the Wall Street Journal. If I don’t see it there, I don’t know it.”
The one a little older, in the more weathered work shirt, with an interesting face and deep-set eyes, bent down slightly to look at my reptile shoes. Wondering if he was counting cost or had a sudden longing to see my foot out of its pump, I made my choice.
Slipping a hand through his arm, I presented myself. “I’m Jolene Temple.”
“Henry Wozencrantz.” His voice was expectant. He seemed to think I’d recognize the name.
“My feet hurt,” I confessed. “Do you live nearby?”
The other painter, not selected, wandered off across the orange-tile floor to get himself another drink.
• • •
At that precise moment, I heard a familiar voice. Turning halfway, in order not to shift my instep, I saw L.W., in un-pressed pants and an Indian shirt. He wore blue-tinted glasses and no socks.
“All of us trying to sell our poems to one another,” he was saying, “reminds me of a story—”
“Excuse me for a moment,” I said to the painter. “I think I was in school with that boy.”
“Back home in Waxahachie,” L.W. told his semicircle of admirers, “my dad and I used to eat at this diner. It was run by a fat man named Pete who made the best biscuits west of Natchez, and cheese grits with sausage that made your mouth water like a puppy in the summertime. Pete had this sign in his window that said EAT HERE OR WE’LL BOTH STARVE.” He paused to let that sink in. Glancing up, his eyes tripped over my face. “If we don’t all read one another’s work—”
“Hello,” I said.
“Jolene. It’s you.” He pulled me off to one side.
“The same.”
“Not quite,” he observed.
“You either.”
“I guess you’re an actor, too.”
I nodded, although without a lot of conviction.
“You did a great poet at the Zona Rosa,” he said sincerely.
“Thanks. You were good, too, your broker.”
“I was nervous.”
“It didn’t show.”
“It was a new approach for me.” He looked admiring.
“The way you did, standing out from the crowd.”
“It’s a lot harder your way, blending in.” There were a dozen things I wanted to ask him. Had he been in real plays? Did he take class? What was he doing at the opening of the Sun Dog? Did he really think my poet was good?… I looked at his broad face, his good Buddy disposition, and wished we had met some other way.
“I thought I saw you,” he said, “over there. But I wasn’t sure.”
“Do you really live in Waxahachie?”
“No. I live right here in San Antonio with my folks, same house where I’ve lived all my life.”
“Did you know Waxahachie is an Indian word meaning”—I grinned at him—“cow chip?”
“You’re kidding.” He looked impressed at my knowledge. “Is there really a diner on San Pedro?”
“I never looked.”
“We could find out; I live near there.” He took my hand.
I hesitated, because I liked him a lot. “I can’t.”
“Are you going home with that painter?”
“I guess so.”
“Why?”
“Why that one?” I was about to explain Mom’s rule.
“You know—”
“I’m lonesome.”
“There’s me.”
“But you aren’t you. I mean, don’t you see, I’m not me, either. The painter is the painter all the time.”
“If you say so.” He looked doubtful.
“Oh, L.W., don’t you see? Actors meet only on the stage.”