Nice Page 4

  When the lights came on at the end, he still seemed to be angling for an in on our conversation. I sat and watched every last credit, my head straight forward, staring at the screen, seemingly oblivious to everything else. But peripherally, I could see exactly what he was doing. He was slow to rise from his seat and slow to put on his jacket. Then he stood patiently for a few moments in the aisle before finally appearing to leave. I sat stony beyond that point. Naturally, my friends sat waiting with me. I thought they thought I was really into the credits until Connor said, chuckling, "Gee, weren't you going to introduce us to your friend?"

  "Yes, he seemed quite fond of you," Clare piped up. I was stunned. They had all noticed.

  "You guys saw it, too?"

  "Hard to miss, sweetie," said Clare.

  "I just wasn't sure—" I stumbled. "God, he was just driving me crazy." In a way, I was relieved that I hadn't been imagining it. And in a way, not.

  Connor looked at me. "I would have switched seats with you if you wanted."

  I shook my head blankly. Maybe that would have made it all real. And he had been sitting quite happily with his wife. I would have inconvenienced them.

  12

  Sam

  I noticed him right away. Five foot ten, shaggy white-gray hair, navy windbreaker, khaki pants. From the moment he sat down beside her, it was obvious he was interested. I expected she and the rest of her party would immediately change their seats, although there were not many left in good locations. Still, one would think… But she did not even appear to be aware of this man's attention.

  I procured a seat two rows behind them, on the aisle. This involved explaining to a relatively weak-minded theatergoer some hypothetical problem with my eyes and the exchange of a small amount of cash, accomplished fairly quietly. I sat, and while she and her friends watched the movie, apparently unaware, I thought about the man. I did not like him. At best, he was pathetic. At worst, a threat. I was not at all sure, despite her murderous activities, that she would be in any way equal to dealing with him should he become obviously dangerous. Her head was steadily turned up toward the screen. People are so oblivious at the movies, so blind to who and what are around them. An excellent place to kill, as a matter of fact. I do not go to films very often, but when I do, I nearly always sit in the last possible row. My view may suffer a bit, but I have never felt comfortable with people behind me like that. It seems to me, with my particular perspective, to be asking for trouble.

  How could she be so oblivious? This man was practically breathing in her ear. Sometimes I think I will never understand normal people. I spent the duration of the film tensed and lethally prepared, in case the man became active. I also cast many subtle looks behind and around me.

  What a dedicated movie fan she must be. She stayed to watch every last credit, as did her friends. By the time the end titles were through rolling, the white-haired man was gone—out of the room at least; there was no knowing as yet whether he would be waiting for them outside. I knelt, doubled over in my seat, pretending to tie ray shoe, as she and her friends slowly got up and put their coats on. I heard her say, "He was driving me crazy."

  As I followed them out slowly, glancing around but finding no sign of the man, I realized from her swift looks around her that she was looking for him, too. I had to admit, I felt I understood her even less now. She apparently had been aware of the man the whole time (or else perhaps it was me of whom they were talking). Yet she sat in place through the entire movie, as if the man did not exist. Was she truly crazy? Had I been denying the evidence to myself?—although in my defense, I could point out that she had several apparently sane friends.

  Why had she not switched seats?

  13

  Grace

  Once upon a time, there was a lovely young woman from England. One day at some gathering, she met a shaggy, young, way-too-intense death-metal guitarist. She didn't think much of him. But he thought about her. He sent her music. He called her daily. Sometimes he would just show up at her doorstep. She pretended to be sick when they met. When he called, she had people say she wasn't there. With either touching or frightening fidelity, he wrote to her constantly. Finally, she consented to go out with him. Not much later, he proposed. When he asked, enraptured, "Will you marry me?" she responded, one eyebrow raised, "Are you serious?" The death-metal guitarist said, "Yes." To which she responded, quite calmly and Britishly, "All right, then." And so they were married.

  They are very happy. It's the one-in-a-thousand stalking that works out well in the end.

  But then, she never once said, "Go away." I suspect that deep down, there was always a part of her that rather liked him from the start. But even if she hadn't, I'm not sure she would ever have said that. It's so hard to do. Another girl I know once had a friend whose ex-paramour never stopped trying to see her. Even after she was engaged, he drove up to her house to see her, and she actually went out to the car to talk to him. This, I thought when I heard the story, is how women die. From being too nice.

  We walk down the street and, even though we hear the footsteps behind us, we don't look back.

  The half-drunk guy at the bar keeps pestering us. He wants to talk. What are our names? Where are we from? We politely answer, not giving him our last names, but throwing him some conversational bone. We look around desperately to see if our friends have shown up. If we think fast, we make up names. One in a hundred has the nerve to tell him to fuck off. In the movies, maybe, not in real life.

  The cabdriver asks me if I'm originally from here. What do I do? he wants to know. I give the most general answers possible, and turn the dialogue to monologue. He works ungodly hours; he is saving money. He used to do double shifts, but he would fall asleep at the wheel. He was last in his country three years ago. It is so hard to meet people here. You are a nice lady. Would you like to go out some night?… Why not? What is wrong with you? You think you're too good for me. You wouldn't go out with a cabdriver? That has nothing to do with it, I say. I know what you're thinking, he says angrily. I don't generally get involved with people I've just met, I try to explain.

  I get out of the cab, shaking slightly, feeling awful. Now he feels rejected, insulted, outraged even. I feel misunderstood. Why do they say these things to me? Why do I try to answer?

  I have an acquaintance who can actually say, "This conversation is over. Just drive." But then, she can also say, in all honesty,, that she is married. In fact, she's even said, with some truth, "Sorry, I've just given birth."

  I can't lie about that. I wish I could. I wish I didn't have to.

  14

  Sam

  This woman is a most puzzling combination. When she walks down the street, there is something almost childlike about her, something innocent. That is, the majority of the time. In sneakers, she carries herself like a ten-year-old. In boots, she moves forcefully. On the rare occasions when she dons heels, she manages to give the impression that she is sexier than any other woman. She does not swing her hips; she glides. Her legs look longer than other women's legs. I wonder if I am being somewhat less than objective.

  She never meets anyone's eyes, yet she seems to be looking around her without fear, without special interest. She will not see the men who look at her. She neither hunches nor sidles uncomfortably. When some oblivious moron bumps into her, she says, "Excuse me," smiles. When someone needs directions, if he does not have the appearance of a serial killer, she gives them to him, maintaining her distance, her lips halfway between a lukewarm smile and a straight line (although they curve too much ever to be without expression).

  It must be difficult for her, trying to take in everything on all sides, while making eye contact with no one. It cannot be easy keeping her posture in an almost untenable balance—not belligerent, but not weak; not worried, but not unaware.

  I can see it because I am concentrating and because I am a predator. I know what to look for, and she tries not to give an inch. Is it a conscious effort every minute, or is it a
n unthinking habit? Despite the occasional real threat, much overstated in American women's minds, she is not really under siege. In Santo Domingo, the women walk and roll; they ignore the men they pass but expect not to be ignored by them. In Paris, the women revel without thought in male attention. The game goes on all the time; there is no defining line between the streets and the bars.

  But in New York, eligible men pay little mind to the beauty they pass on the avenues. There are specific places for that sort of thing.

  The men who do appreciate it are not the men these women are seeking. Detached, for the most part, from a culture that supports the back-and-forth of sexual badinage, these men must seem dangerous. Women like her do not know how to respond; acknowledgment is encouragement, talking back, looking for trouble. There is no joy here.

  Does she dance, hips swaying, bare feet feeling the floor as if it were island dirt, alone in her apartment when no one can see?

  Someday I would like to ask her what thoughts she has as she walks alone through the city. Would she let her body relax and breathe, catlike and free, if I were next to her? Or do I flatter myself too much to think that she would let me do the worrying for both of us? Is it too deep within her? Is she just too dangerous?

  Is she right about what some of us are thinking as we gaze?

  15

  Grace

  I don't know what David sees when he looks at me. I see a big overgrown boy whom I sleep with every now and then. There's nothing romantic about it. He's a friend I used to work with. Maybe once a month, we get together to watch a movie and fool around. It's been going on now for over a year. God, longer, now that I think about it. This is, of course, distinct from the time when we slept together in the possibility of something romantic. Sort of. Datingish. But that didn't work—for him. After about three weeks of skittishly "going out," I began to think maybe I might want him around. That's when he started avoiding me. I chose well, huh? But that is not the point. Although it kind of borders on the point.

  Which is that I don't want to do it anymore. Not that I don't enjoy it when we do. I do—some. But with nothing more going on, it's just sex. And if it's just sex, then I need novelty. Strange. Not the same, meaningless thing. No pun intended. Which is not to say that I don't want to have sex anymore at all. I want to make love: to have sex with someone I love or am in love with, with someone who loves or is in love with me. I remember. I remember how exciting that could be. Skin touching skin sets up that electric charge. Just standing near someone and you feel aroused—and maybe a little guilty. Anyway, I don't know how to tell him.

  Yes. So what else is new? Well, he's a very good friend of mine, but this has gotten to be a habit. His feelings will be hurt. Not hurt so much if I say I'm dating someone and I want to give that a full chance. But it's a lie. I hate lying. Not because of the other person, but because I'm not myself. Because I'm shifting myself around for someone else.

  Wait a minute. He said that to me once. I can't recall exactly what his words were. We hadn't been doing this very long. He decided he wasn't being fair to his putative girlfriend at the time. Don't ask. And he said—what?

  "We can't sleep together anymore." Or "We can't keep doing this." Or "I can't sleep with you anymore." Or "I'm not going to sleep with you anymore." It's right on the tip of my mind—what exactly he said. But I know it's what he meant. I remember, even though I wasn't that into it, that I felt rejected. I did feel rejected. I think I cried a little, although not in front of anyone.

  Yet he didn't seem to have any difficulty saying it, whatever it was that he actually said. We? I? Can't.

  I survived. Not that he even kept with that program.

  So I'll just tell him. On the phone. That's how he did it. And I won't lie.

  "David Cane," he says in his business voice. He works at home.

  "Hi, Mr. Cane."

  "What's up?" His voice is back to normal now.

  "Nothing much. Oh yeah. We can't have sex anymore." Hard to believe this slick line is the result of about half an hour of practicing beforehand.

  "Huh?"

  "I'm not having sex ever again."

  "No way."

  "Big way. I don't want to." I'm not picturing his face. "I only want to make love."

  "Uh."

  Not really getting a good sense of his feelings at this point, I say, "We don't do that."

  "You know I love you."

  "Not that way." I brush it off because I'm right. He means it, but he doesn't really distinguish between loving a woman and loving his friends, which is kind of a problem for his girlfriends, but that's not any of my concern except when I talk about him behind his back to my friends. "It's bad for me. Not the sex. The feeling. It's a bad idea."

  "Geez, so… out of the blue?"

  Don't say you've been trying for a while to say it. "I know. I'd still love to hang out with you and stuff. If you want to still. Not having sex. I mean we used to do that."

  "We can try."

  "You've got to get a girlfriend."

  "You've gotta get a boyfriend."

  "I'm working on it." Sort of. "I understand if you don't want to hang with me. But it will hurt." The tenor of this conversation is reminding me of what it was like way back when we were dating. Tentative, a little nervous, no ease. Not the way I talk to him, verbally abuse him now—in every other conversation. When I don't care.

  "Hey, what are you gonna do? If that's how you feel."

  "No seducing me."

  "That could happen." He snickers.

  "Don't make me hurt you."

  "I gotta go. Bye."

  "Bye." But he is already gone. Sounds worse than it is. He always does that. This time, I let him get away with it. It's a habit of his, ending the conversation suddenly. We've argued about it, in fact. 'Cause it's rude. But this time, I give it to him. I don't know what he's thinking. Maybe what I was. Maybe how to seduce me back on my word. Maybe about something else entirely.

  But the most important thing is: He lives. Maybe this is a milestone. I really like to keep my friends.

  I'm so happy.

  16

  Sam

  I have never heard anything quite like it before.

  I had only placed one listening device in her apartment, aside from the one in her telephone. But it was advantageously located. And so I must confess that I did overhear the last time she and her friend David Had sex. It was only a couple of weeks after the disappearance of the reporter, Peter, from her circle of acquaintances, shortly after I put the bug in her bedroom, as a matter of fact. After what I had witnessed, I was a bit puzzled by this man's place in her life. But it seemed he represented something like a comfort food for her. Though not, it seemed at first hearing, this night.

  I believe that they began in the living room area (a generous description—the bed was just a few steps away), watching a television program. It was a politically oriented talk show, but the guests were celebrities. This did not please her friend, who seemed to have strong opinions, I would guess, on every topic. They both apparently took their TV watching seriously.

  "I don't want to hear this."

  "You don't want to hear what?" said Grace.

  "I don't give a shit what some actress thinks about politics." A pause. Then, more irritated, "These people know nothing, so why am I supposed to listen?"

  "What do you mean, 'these people'? These people on the show? Or these people in general in the world?"

  "All of them."

  "You didn't see Alec Baldwin go head-to-head with Laura Ingraham, that mean young Republican woman. Or Billy Baldwin take on G. Gordon Liddy. Ron Silver's in law school."

  "So I have to listen to Barbra Streisand on the budget?"

  "No," she said, beginning to sound angry. "You can pick and choose. You're saying that these people as a class, actors, cannot, by definition, have anything worthwhile to say on politics. What other class of people can you say that of?"

  "I just don't need to hear it."


  "A, they could have something interesting to say. B, it could be amusing just to hear them say something stupid, which is no less stupid if a professional politician says it. C, sometimes they actually say funny things."

  "Can we turn this off?"

  "What is your problem?" she said, exasperated. "I would like to judge just on an individual basis who has something worthwhile to say. I just think it's ridiculous to dismiss them as a group."

  "I don't want to talk about this anymore," he said firmly.

  "Fine. I don't want to talk to you anymore, period."

  "Let's go to bed."

  "You go to yours, and I'll go to mine," said Grace, not sounding as if she were joking.

  "C'mon. Let it drop."

  "I'm irritated. You can be so unbelievably pigheaded and just plain wrong."

  "In another minute, I won't want to stay here, either."

  "Fine."

  "C'mon."

  "What are you, nuts? I am absolutely not in the mood."

  The next I heard, it appeared that they had moved to the bed.

  "Good luck, champ. I am totally not interested," said Grace.

  "That won't last forever."

  "I wouldn't make any large bets on it."

  A rustling of sheets. The sound of flesh touching flesh, a man's (I guessed) mouth on a woman's skin, as he grunted and kissed. So far only the sounds of one person making love, not two. Grace was laughing softly.

  "Stop that… You really don't deserve this."

  "I know," she said, chuckling.

  "Oh, ha-ha. You don't get treated this well by just anyone. I go to town. I'm going out of my way to give you a good time, to get you to enjoy it."