The elevator arrived and Jessie lead her posse up the single flight of stairs to Caleb’s open door. Here I am, she thought proudly, but she was also having second thoughts. Because she brought not just Henry, and Toby too, but Kenneth Prager. It was mischief rather than malice, and not deliberate but accidental—well, accidentally on purpose. She hadn’t realized until they were halfway downtown that she’d be infecting the party with the very man who had killed her brother’s play.
Caleb’s apartment was totally unrecognizable with a celebration inside. The sofa was pushed against the wall, a bar set in front of the TV, and there were people everywhere. Jessie spotted Michael Feingold—or was it Feinstein?—sitting in an armchair, holding forth on German expressionist drama. The party was still at full boil. It should be easy enough to slip in and disperse without Caleb knowing who had arrived with whom.
“Oh my,” said Henry, surveying the people in the room. “I see that the sixties are back. And the fifties. And the seventies.”
Jessie did not catch sight of her brother anywhere.
“Look, there’s a terrace,” Henry told Prager. “We can go outside to finish our interview. Let me get us something to drink. What will you have?”
“Nothing for me,” said Prager, then whispered, “I need to find a lavatory. I’ll join you outside.” He hurried away.
Jessie saw her chance. “Henry, wait. Don’t go yet. I want to introduce you to my brother.”
“No, me,” Toby insisted. “I was going to introduce them.”
“You?” said Jessie. “But why? You’re his ex.”
“We’re still friends. And I can prove it by introducing Henry.”
Which was too weird, but Jessie recognized that she was just as weird. They each needed to prove something, didn’t they?
“May I introduce myself?” said Henry. “Is that acceptable?”
Jessie noticed Frank standing by. She had brought him, but why? Did she need him here as her conscience?
Then she saw Caleb across the room, framed in the double doors to the terrace. He stood beside a fat neo-punk waiter, looking a bit like a waiter himself in his white dress shirt and Elvis Costello glasses. She could not get used to those glasses or his little soul beard. They still looked like a disguise.
He saw her. He saw them. He stepped inside. He stepped down into the slightly sunken living room, looking at her, looking at the two men with her. No, three. She kept forgetting about Frank, but Caleb wouldn’t care about Frank.
“Happy birthday!” she sang when Caleb stood in front of her. She gave him a kiss on the cheek. It came out sloppier, wetter than intended. “Sorry we’re late. But better late than never, huh?”