20

AFTER THE RECEPTION
PART 1: HOWARD

As the occasion had been, Howard felt like skipping home from the Wyatts’.

Amanda, Amanda, Amanda, he sang in his mind.

He would go home, take a shower, change his clothes, have dinner with Amanda, and afterward make love to her. Grand Hotel was on television at eight o’clock. They would bring the TV into the bedroom (Howard didn’t think he knew anyone who still had a black and white TV, much less one kept in a closet) and prop themselves up on pillows on the floor in front of it. They would eat popcorn and watch the movie and Howard would gradually forget the movie and lose himself in Amanda and...

He would spend one entire, glorious night with her.

Melissa was at the house on Fishers Island with her father. (Hooray for Daddy!) She had made one last attempt that morning to force Howard into going, but he was firm about his intention to attend the memorial service.

“Oh, Howard,” Melissa had said, “even you have to admit it’s stretching a point to stay home on the Fourth of July for the cleaning woman.”

But Howard countered with the argument that it was the least they could do, seeing as they were the ones who had falsely accused the man of robbing them

“If he didn’t rob us, he robbed someone else,” Melissa had said.

Howard had lost his temper then and had really given it to Melissa, telling her that if she wanted to be heartless that was fine with him, but she shouldn’t expect him to be. And then, scaring the hell out of him, Melissa had expressed reconsideration, saying that perhaps Howard was right, maybe she should go to the service too, and that they could drive out to the house afterward. So, maneuvering around, Howard had started agreeing with her, telling her how much it would mean to Rosanne for Melissa to apologize and Melissa, getting more and more indignant, had finally exploded—He will not apologize for what was perfectly rational behavior!” And then he yelled she had to, and Melissa said to hell with that, she was leaving for the house right this minute.

After she left, Howard had gleefully danced around the apartment.

Amanda, Amanda, Amanda.

She was, quite simply, the most completely wonderful woman in the world.

Oh yes she was.

It was too good to be true, he often thought. It seemed impossible that, after all these years, a woman like Amanda could suddenly appear in his life, offering to fulfill the dreams that until now had caused him such despair. There was their sex life, certainly; if it had been unreal that first night, then it had become positively fantastical. Why didn’t their passion ebb? Why was their desire so constant, yet so different, every time? How could it be possible that someone so well mannered, so obviously “well bred” (he winced, thinking that he was using a Melissa term), could be so endlessly, wildly passionate? And her books, her writing... Amanda was as much in love with the world of print as Howard was—if not more so. She was terribly excited to hear anything about Howard’s work; and vice versa, Howard was terribly excited to hear about hers. Her library, her writing room, the whole place—it was as if Amanda’s apartment had been created from the knowledge of his fantasies. Amanda herself seemed like a creation of his romantic imagination.

But... There were traces of a dark cloud in their world. There were things Amanda had said that nagged at him, made him feel jealous. She said something about Howard’s Jockey shorts making her feel as though she were molesting a minor. When Howard asked why, she laughed and said men didn’t usually wear them to the office. (How the heck did she know?)

And then, after he asked her, Amanda had told him she had an IUD. When he expressed concern about it—hadn’t Amanda read about how dangerous they were? no, Amanda had not—she said she had only had it for two years, after someone else had worried about her being on the pill.

Who was the someone who had worried about her being on the pill?

Someone who did not wear Jockey shorts to the office, obviously.

But who? She would never say anything. In fact, she talked as though there had not been anyone in her life since Christopher. But, obviously, there must have been—why else would she have been on the pill, got an IUD?

Could that someone still be around?

No. He couldn’t be.

But could he?

She had made herself accessible to Howard any time of the day or night for the past month, except—except...

On Mondays. She absolutely forbade him to come on Monday and made no excuse why. It was very strange, the look that came into her eyes, when he pressed the issue. Almost... frightened. But then, as always, she would quickly, easily distract him.

It was impossible not to be distracted by Amanda. It could very well be that he was involved with the most utterly beguiling creature to walk the face of the earth. And it was not merely sexual—though, again, God knew, Amanda’s body seemed to have been created for pleasure that way, for herself as well as for him. No, there was something about the way her mind worked that fascinated Howard. There were slides in it; she could slip through time, through eras, real and imagined, and reappear in the now with the blink of the eye, and with a joy that was contagious.

“I didn’t say she was mad,” Patricia MacMannis had said to him. Howard had passed on the pages of Catherine to her, explaining that he wasn’t exactly unbiased about this submission. Patricia had read the material and raved about it, and had, quite eagerly, met Amanda with the intent of signing her up as her own. “I said, if I hadn’t gotten the chance to talk with her, to see what a lovely person she is, how clearly gifted she is,” Patricia said, “I might have thought she was. For heaven’s sake, Howard, she appeared at the door dressed like Isadora Duncan.”

Yes, it was true. After their first night together, Amanda had started wearing, well, costumes. Not all the time, just some of the time. And when she did, she seemed so completely happy and free. Howard had seen Isadora several times by now, and he had also seen Emily Dickinson, Scarlett O’Hara, Anna Karenina, Emma Bovary and—he was pretty sure—Colette (using Missy the cat as a prop). Amanda herself was always there, however, during these escapades, uttering small asides to Howard about who it was she was portraying, and, if it was not “playing” right, she would simply take whatever it was she was wearing off.

Yes, off. To reveal the body he had become obsessed with. But was it her body? Partly. It felt as though it were the means of reaching her, finding her, way, way back inside. To that beautiful, beautiful, vulnerable woman; to that vulnerable woman who looked into his eyes and into his heart, reading it, and then drawing it out and into her own, surrounding it, sealing it with hers in the warm glow of trust.

Of love.

Spirits back on high, mind envisioning Amanda in his arms, Howard asked after the elevator man’s family, asked about his state of health, and when they reached his floor, Howard made a point of telling him how very well he did his job and how much he appreciated it. (He gave him a ten dollar bill as he got off.)

He let himself into the apartment and quickly opened the panel of the alarm system. (If within thirty seconds Howard failed to punch in the proper security code, a silent alarm would go off, the security people would call the police and, Howard presumed, Daddy Collins would have him arrested for breaking in.)

The light of the alarm was not on. He hit the side of the box, wondering if the light had burned out already. No... Howard shrugged and closed the panel, tossed his keys onto the table and walked on, humming.

He turned into the living room, thinking about underwear.

“Surely the service couldn’t have been this long.”

Howard nearly jumped out of his skin.

Melissa came in from the kitchen, carrying a large vase of freshly cut flowers. “Hi,” she said, walking over to put them down on top of the television set. She was still in the green blouse, pink skirt and green sandals of the morning. It was amazing how tan she was; Howard, in comparison, was rather anemic-looking.

“Hi,” Howard managed to say. “There was a reception at the Wyatts.”

Satisfied with the way the flowers looked, Melissa turned and smiled. “You look so handsome in a suit,” she said, coming over to him. “I wish you’d wear them more often.” She picked a piece of lint off one lapel, rested her hands on his chest, and looked at him. “I came back,” she said.

“Yes, so I see.” He hesitated, kissed her on the cheek, and backed away to the kitchen. “Why did you change your mind?”

She followed him. “Oh, I started thinking about our argument this morning, and that we’ve never been apart on the Fourth of July.”

“Do you want something to drink? I’m having a beer.”

“No, thanks. Anyway, I was thinking that the Lynleys wouldn’t be much fun without you—” Howard reached into the refrigerator.

“Without me? Melissa, I hate dances, you know that—”

“I would miss you, Howard...”

He opened the bottle of beer and took a deep drink.

“I changed my mind,” she said, “I’d like a glass of wine.”

Howard nodded and went about complying with her request.

“And Daddy loves the Lynleys,” she continued, sitting down at the table and crossing her legs. “Make it a spritzer, Howard.”

“Spritzer,” Howard repeated.

“So I knew he would have a good time. I told him we’d drive out in the morning.” Pause. “You haven’t been out since Memorial Day.” She was watching Howard, intently. “Howard.” He glanced over. “I thought about watching the fireworks with you in the bedroom tonight. That’s why I turned the car around and came back.”

Eight years and tonight’s the night Melissa decides she wants sex.

“So how was the service?” she asked, crossing her legs and bending to run a hand down one.

“Oh, nice. Very nice, actually. The chapel up there’s really something. There were a lot of flowers, they played a lot of Bach, and the minister gave a good eulogy. And then people got up to say a few words.” He finished stirring the spritzer—with a Collins swizzle stick-handed it to Melissa, and retreated back to the counter and his beer.

“Thank you,” she said.

“He was a sergeant in the army, in Nam, apparently,” Howard continued. “This guy got up and told a story about how Frank had saved his life. It was very moving.”

“I’m sure,” Melissa said coolly, sipping.

“Cassy Cochran got up and read some notes from people.”

“Not from her husband, I bet,” she said, snickering.

Howard pushed at his glasses. Something was up. Melissa’s eyes rarely twinkled for nothing. “She did read a note from him.”

“Sure,” Melissa said, “just like you read a note from me.”

“What are you talking about?”

She crinkled her nose. “Did you put any wine in this?”

“Yes, I put wine in it.” Pause. “Do you want me to pour some more in?”

“No, don’t bother,” she said. “Anyway, I can assure you, Michael Cochran did not write any note. He’s long gone.”

“What?”

“He ran out on her. A week after the block party.” Pause. “Gone, Howard. Scram. Vamoose. Bye-bye. Whatever you want to call it, he’s gone.” Under her breath, “Not that I blame him.”

Howard shifted his weight and stuck a hand into his pants pocket.

“I ran into Didi Rogers at the Korean market,” Melissa said, “and she told me the whole story. And it’s quite a story.” She threw her head back and laughed. It was her Daddy Collins laugh, a guttural affair that was reserved for the privacy of their home. Otherwise, Melissa expressed amusement in the same dry, passive tee-hee-hee manner of her friends.

“Howard—he threw a TV at her. And missed! It went crashing out the window and down into the street. Malcolm Rogers was nearly killed.”

“What?”

“It’s true, Howard! Malcolm was getting out of a cab and he heard this crash and looked up and saw this TV flying down out of the sky. It landed not even six feet away from him. And everyone started screaming and looking out their windows.” Melissa was getting very excited. “So then, when everybody’s outside wondering what the hell happened, Cassy came out and said the TV had accidentally fallen off a shelf or something. Well, no one believed that, but then—get this—”

“Well, it could have—” Howard began.

“No, wait, Howard, listen! So they’re standing there listening to her and who should come out but Michael, drunk as a skunk, screaming at the top of his lungs that he’s going to kill her.”

“Oh, God—”

“Wait! You haven’t even heard yet—” Melissa slapped her hand down on the table. “So Michael tries to get her, and Malcolm and the taxi driver—a taxi driver—gets in between them and Michael’s screaming and yelling and so finally Malcolm said if Michael didn’t calm down he was going to call the police. So Michael finally calmed down and apologized, and they let go of him. So then Michael walks over to Cassy, as calm as could be, and WHAM!”

Howard cringed.

“He slugged her! Decked her! Right there in front of all those people!” Melissa could barely get her breath, she was laughing so hard.

“Oh, God,” Howard said.

“And then he ran off. And no one’s seen him since,” she added, near choking, holding her hand against her chest.

Howard shook his head and loosened his tie. He sighed.

“Didi says—”

“Screw Didi,” Howard muttered. “I feel badly for Cassy.”

“Oh, Howard,” Melissa said, taking a gulp of her drink. “Anyone who’d marry a creep like that deserves it. God, he’s so ill bred.” Howard yanked his tie off and started to walk out of the kitchen. “And she’s always on her high horse. Well, it only goes to show—”

Howard whipped around. “Will you shut up?”

Melissa’s eyes widened. “Don’t speak to me like that.”

Howard looked at her, raised his arm to lean against the doorway and said, “Why the hell not? You deserve to be spoken to like that.” He straightened up, took a step forward, gesturing with the hand holding his tie. “You sit there and make a joke out of someone else’s misfortune.” Pause. “That’s sick, Melissa. Sick.”

Melissa was staring at him as though he were crazy.

“Other people’s troubles are not for your entertainment, Melissa. Things happen to people. Cassy Cochran’s a nice person and her son is a nice kid and the man those two nice people love is sick. There’s nothing funny about it—there’s nothing amusing about it—there is nothing to laugh at.” He threw his tie down on the table and walked out.

Melissa leaped out of her chair to follow him. Howard went to his study, slammed the door, and locked it. “That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it, Howard?” she screamed from the other side of the door. “Just run away and hide!”

He unlocked the door, flung it open, and sent it crashing against the wall. Melissa stumbled back and Howard grabbed her arm. “You better hope to God that I hide, because if I don’t I’m very likely going to deck you.”

“How dare you talk to me like that!” she screamed, pulling away from him.

Howard lunged for her arm and yanked her around to face him. “I have had it with you, Melissa. I won’t put up with this anymore.”

“With what?”

“With what?” He pushed her back against the wall and held her there. “With bullying Rosanne, with telling the police to arrest her husband, with you not even having the decency to apologize to her, with you laughing at the Cochrans—what do you mean, with what?”

Melissa slapped his face.

“And me,” Howard said, glaring at her, the side of his face turning scarlet. “Me, Melissa. I am not going to take your shit anymore.” He released her.

“That’s not the issue,” Melissa hissed, grabbing his arm. “The real issue is how long can I put up with a little boy who can’t earn a decent living, who can’t handle any responsibility whatsoever—and whose long list of friends is comprised of the cleaning woman and some old bitch who’s in heat—”

Howard shoved Melissa out of his way and went into the bedroom. “Now what are you going to do, lock yourself in the bathroom?” Melissa demanded, following him.

“I’m getting the hell out of here, that’s for sure!” He banged open his closet and flung a duffel bag out onto the bed.

“Oh, don’t tell me,” Melissa said, sarcasm supreme, “now the little boy’s threatening to run away from home.”

“You got it.” Howard yanked out a bureau drawer and started throwing pairs of underwear on the bed. “I have had it with you, Melissa. Had it!” He slammed the drawer shut and moved on to the next—socks.

“She’s too old for you, Howard.”

Howard stopped what he was doing. He turned around.

“Christ, she’s probably in menopause,” Melissa said, plunking herself down on the other side of the bed, folding her arms. Howard pushed the drawer closed behind him.

“You really are sick,” he said, moving back to his closet.

“Oh, I’m the one who’s sick. And you’re perfect, Howard.” She made a humming noise. “Well, she’ll find out soon enough.”

Howard starting pulling shirts out of the closet.

“But she is too old for you, Howard, no matter how attractive you think she is. She’s going to have skin like a rattlesnake.”

He stared at her. “You’re really nuts, Melissa. Absolutely nuts.”

“I saw you two at the block party. The only thing you didn’t do is hump her there in the street.” She kicked off her shoes and brought her legs up onto the bed. “I saw you, Howard, the way you two were mooning over each other that morning.”

“Christ, Melissa!” Howard hurled a hanger across the room.

“Thirty-three years old and you still can’t pack,” she said, adjusting the pillows behind her. Silence. Then, looking at her nails, “So that’s why her husband’s a drunk. She sleeps around. I always thought so.”

Howard slapped his head with his hands. “You are unbelievable! Look, Melissa, get this through your head. I don’t know Cassy Cochran from Moses. I don’t even know her. Do you understand me? I don’t have anything to do with her. As far as I know, Cassy Cochran is exactly what she says she is—married, a mother, and on TV. Period. So cut it out,” he finished, slicing his hand through the air.

She watched him shove his clothes into the bag. “Well, there’s got to be somebody,” Melissa mused. “You couldn’t go to the corner without someone holding your hand.”

Howard continued packing. “But if it’s the cleaning woman, don’t tell me,” Melissa added. “I don’t think I could take that.” Howard got his toilet kit down from the top of his closet and headed for the bathroom.

“But who could it be?” Melissa asked herself.

Silence.

“Didi,” Howard said from the bathroom.

Melissa laughed.

Silence.

“Howard?”

After a moment, “What?”

“A skyrocket just went off across the river.”

Silence.

“Don’t forget your dental floss.”

There was the sound of the medicine cabinet being closed.

“And you should take your blue striped shirt. The gray one too. They’re in your bureau. The shirts you packed don’t match your pants.” Howard appeared at the bathroom door. Melissa was smiling. “Come here,” she said quietly. “Come on, Howard, take pity on your poor wife.” She patted the bed. “Just for a minute and then you can run away from home. Promise.”

Sighing, Howard went over by the bed. Melissa reached for his hand and pulled him down to sit. She slipped her hands around his waist and leaned forward to rest her head against his chest. “I don’t want to fight with you. I love you,” she said.

They sat like that for a minute.

“Can’t you run away tomorrow?” Melissa whispered, her hand sliding down to massage him between his legs. Howard closed his eyes. “We could have such a nice time tonight,” she said.

“I’m sorry, Melissa,” Howard said, slowly detaching himself from her. He got up from the bed and walked back around to his bag. “I’m too upset. I need time to cool off. To think. Just for tonight. I’ll check into a hotel or something.”

“A hotel?” Melissa’s eyes went wide. “That’s crazy, Howard, you can go into the study.”

Howard sighed, picking up a pair of Jockey shorts and stuffing them into his jacket pocket. “I’ll be back in the morning.” He unzipped the toilet kit and took out his toothbrush.

Melissa was on her feet. “You’re checking into a hotel because Cassy Cochran’s husband left her. This is insane, Howard.”

“I’ll be back in the morning,” he repeated, throwing the duffel bag onto the floor of his closet.

“We’ve had much worse fights than this—”

Howard walked around the bed and past Melissa to the hallway. “I need to think, Melissa.”

“But shouldn’t you call to see if they even have a room? It’s the holiday,” she said, following him. “Where will you be? Where can I call you?”

Howard was through the living room and breaking down the home stretch. “I’ll call you.”

“Howard!” Melissa cried, voice ringing down the hall. “I don’t understand this! After eight years, suddenly you have to go to a hotel to think?”

Opening the front door, “I’m upset.”

“You’re always upset!”

Howard rang for the elevator. Melissa stamped her foot in the doorway. “I demand you tell me what’s going on!”

He sighed, looked over at her and said, “I’ll be back in the morning, when I’m calmer. And then we can talk. But not now. I can’t take this.”

“Can’t take what?”

“Melissa—don’t scream. Just calm down and I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll call you—” The elevator arrived.

“When?”

The doors closed and, on the strength of Howard’s earlier interest, the elevator man started talking about his family.

“When?” echoed in Howard’s ears. Outside of bed, he didn’t think he had ever heard Melissa so close to tears.

“Howard!” he heard for real, coming from the floors above.

His hands were shaking; all of him was a-jitter. He wasn’t sure of what he had said. He wasn’t sure how he had actually got himself out of the apartment. But he had. He had. Because here he was, leaving.