The Walgreens on Astor Place filled Mishti’s prescriptions and I wandered with the paper bag up toward Union Square. Barry and Carlo had sent Mishti a joint Speedy Recovery card on the new Juniperus stationery. They had only been told that she’d had her stomach pumped. The contact line at the top of their letterhead listed a post-midtown post-modern Irving Place address that promised a progressive fund, more aesthetically intelligent and demure than its macho predecessors. I wanted to enter their gentle office. I wanted to defile it with my own machismo.
Mishti had wanted to damage her two bodies, together, in one go. She’d wanted her share of the punishment. Carlo, Mishti eventually conceded, had been obsessed with protection. She left the other end of the information open. It wasn’t medically or personally expedient to press her and she’d said enough.
I walked slowly through the daylight. 4th Avenue, sloth of the East Village, made its sloping westward curve toward the park. I turned right onto 14th Street, left onto Irving Place. The population of Estonia exited Trader Joe’s carrying rectangular prisms. A splendid dog reminded me in passing of Amanda, and I realized I’d never see Amanda the dog again as I stopped at the Juniperus address.
A Chinese restaurant called The Cottage occupied the ground floor of 33 Irving Place. I walked up to the window and read the menu. I took a picture of it for Tom. The cold sesame noodles cost only $4.95. A lunch special for $6.50. Bean Curd with Garlic Sauce! I looked up and saw a WeWork decal on the second-floor window. Juniperus rented only a room from an office share.
I didn’t dare to go upstairs anymore, so I walked straight into The Cottage. I ordered the Bean Curd with Garlic Sauce. I sat at the window table. The food came quickly and I ate my brown cubes in gratitude. Mishti would need her refills by mid-afternoon. I waited. I paid. My fortune said, “Don’t go there.” My second fortune said, “A stone sleeping is a great force.” My third fortune said, “You are a man of many abilities.” At about one o’clock, perhaps the lunch bell had rung, Barry hustled out of the WeWork entrance and waited to cross the road. I knocked loudly at the inside of my window. He buttoned his coat. I leapt from my table, disturbing the tranquil waitstaff. Barry crossed.
He’d gotten a good head start on me by the time I cleared the restaurant’s inner and winter doors and I ran after Barry on the sidewalk screaming, “I’M A VERY GOOD WITCH”—at first he didn’t hear me so I used his name—“A GOOD WITCH BARRY”—now he turned, saw me, I yelled, “AND HERE IS MY PROPHECY”—he conspicuously speed-walked—“YOU WILL BUILD A SHIP OF ROTTEN WOOD AND BLOAT IT AND IT WILL GET VERY BIG”—Barry started earnestly sprinting away from me at this point—“AND YOU WILL SOAK IT IN ROTTEN WATERS AND IT WILL FAIL BARRY”—poor Barry—“IT WILL FAIL.” We cannot remove the gross from the world but we can deny it our forgiveness. We can remove ourselves from the gross and let it wither until it’s small.
After Barry crossed 17th Street, the light changed, the traffic resumed between us, he turned a corner, I couldn’t see him anymore, I sat down in the middle of the sidewalk with my knees bunched up to my chest, and the New Yorkers in their solipsism and courtesy marched around me, not wanting anything to do with my distress and leaving me to my peace.
Oh Bartholomew, Oh Bart, Oh Barry the Bad, may we each get what we reach for, and may we reach for only what is ours.
I went back to The Cottage and got my coat. Nobody had stolen it. I thanked the waitstaff so much for that. A man stood outside the window now. He couldn’t see me behind the glare. I put my arms in my sleeves and took a sip of water. The man outside put his hands in his pockets. Carlo exited the building and kissed him. It was a perfect, overcast day for kissing. The man put an arm around Carlo’s shoulder and they walked, presumably, to lunch.
I didn’t chase them; I sat back down at my table and ordered a plate of string beans. I asked Tom to join me. We’d return to the hospital together. I felt so happy for Carlo I could throw myself into a refrigerator. The death of conventional Carlo seemed to be the death of convention itself. It hadn’t been love from others that fed him, it had been love from men, which until now he’d never received. Carlo’s new fullness blasted 16th Street with its incandescent rays. He’d been useless to Mishti because she’d been useless to him—they’d approached each other out of common laziness. I didn’t begrudge him the loan of Mishti, her unattractive perfection had revealed him to himself, and I didn’t begrudge Mishti the permanent loan of Tom. It was permanent, anyone could see that.
Tom came. The waitstaff seemed relieved that I’d ended my loneliness. I smiled and let them hope. He and I sat in silence for a little while, and then there was a great deal to say.
I told him about Carlo.
“He lied to Mishti,” was Tom’s only response.
“He did?”
“He made Mishti think she could rely on him and she couldn’t rely on him.”
I wondered who we were talking about. I wondered if Tom wanted to talk about the fact that nobody except his mother Veronica had ever relied upon him for anything, and that now Veronica relied upon Harvey; that he’d never supported a single thing; that he’d even demurred from carrying heavy books home from the library, and that was why we met. What I heard Tom saying was, I want somebody to rely on me. What he said was, “Carlo sucked.”
Mishti has never been the relying type, she’s been the providing type, and even now in her weakened state, I still couldn’t see what Tom had that she’d need anyway.
“You don’t have much to offer,” I told Tom, which was about all there was to tell him. It was also what he most needed to hear.
“Yeah. Don’t tell anyone,” he said. He smiled because he was about to start trying, to start offering somebody at least his whole self.
“People have become bar stools to me,” I said, “I no longer speak.”