They, Frank and
Julia, had arranged to meet by the dark, lonely walk that ran alongside the
northern bank of the Chicago River and just under the Michigan Avenue bridge,
earlier that day. It was Christmas Eve. They’d been playing phone tag all day
which, for Frank, was a good sign, seeing he’d been the only one of late who’d
been doing any of the telephoning (just the fact that she’d return one of his
phone calls suggested interest, didn’t it?) When he finally got through to her
(she was between meetings, and Frank was at a Greek diner with gyros juice
dripping down his wrist) he didn’t waste words. He said, “Julia, hello, it’s
Christmas Eve (Christmas Eve, for chrissake, he thought to himself, I can’t
believe I’m inviting this kind of trouble into my life, and on Christmas Eve of
all days!) He collected himself. “I would like to meet you “
His
request was greeted with the sort of stony silence that had greeted all of his
requests since that first (blissful) date, three weeks ago. But Frank wasn’t
going to give up hope, yet. No—not he, the giver of dozens of long stem roses,
not he, the silver tongued flatterer, who had once, nonchalantly compared the
glimmer in her eyes to moonbeams striking darkened waters (Frank you’ve got to
be kidding, you fool! she’d told him). No he would never give up. If he had to
he would persist until time itself had forced her to see that he was the man
for her. For wasn’t this—his sort of plodding persistence—the quintessence of
charm? Frank nearly lost his courage waiting for Julia’s response (he’d nearly
lost his courage dozens of times, but bravery he thought, was of the essence).
Suddenly he heard her voice say what he’d been hoping to hear for nearly three
anxious ridden and painfully introspective weeks.
“OK.
Where?” These words (were they words, or a heaven-sent elixir) caused his heart
to beat like an old tribal drum high up in his chest—was that a pain in his
arm?—and for a moment he worried that it might beat itself to death. Juice from
his gyros worked its way beneath his shirt sleeve, and followed the bend of his
elbow.
“Outside
by the river,” Frank suggested, then added “Just below Michigan Avenue bridge.
There’s some benches down there. If you want I can be waiting down there for
you.”
“All
right,” Julia said rather dryly even though it was the last place in the world
she wanted to meet a guy like Frank—especially tonight—Christmas Eve. She hated
meeting men in cold isolated places. It gave her a chill just to think about
it. In fact, this hatred of hers, to meet men in cold isolated places, was
probably an irrational phobia that most likely had its source in some early
obscure childhood event that she had somehow managed to forget (or so she
reasoned). Nevertheless she associated men in cold lonely places with death. It
gave her a chill just to think on it.
Frank thought he
heard giggling in the background. It was that damn cubicle mate of hers, Lana,
he thought. Although he’d never met Lana, she always seemed to be giggling
whenever he got Julia on the horn. Lana’s giggles were anything but innocent.
They were high pitched, cynical, malicious. What’s worse they had influence
over Julia. This combined with the fact that they seemed to perpetually
insinuate the insubstantiality of Frank’s penis, a premise that Frank himself
was willing to counter-argue, if only he had a chance, was enough to lead Frank
to conclude that Lana had, from the very first, been out to sabotage the sort
of wild and inchoate happiness that Frank and Julia seemed destined to create.
“All
right,” he asked, with a sort of paranoia. “What’s that? I mean,” he said,
apologetically. “Who’s that giggling?”
“Don’t
Frank,” Julia said with a certain asperity. All of a sudden she burst out
laughing too. “Anyway, I’ll see you down there, after work. But right now I
gotta go, my office is having a Christmas party!”
“But Julia. . .”
“Goodbye Frank!”
Julia slammed down
the phone but Frank held onto his end a moment longer wondering if what he just
experienced was real or if it was, through some strange combination of mixed
telephone signals and an overworked brain, just a hallucination. Thinking that
it was the former, he hurled the remainder of his gyros into the garbage can,
slammed the phone down on the hook, and said “Feliz Navidad” to the white
hatted chef who had cooked his gyros. He then stepped out doors to experience
life (at least for a moment) with a joyful heart.
“Who
was that?” Lana asked
“Oh
it was that Frank guy again.”
“Again!
Doesn’t he know quits is quits?”
“He’s
illiterate. He can’t read the hand-writing on the wall.”
“What
are you going to do?”
“I’m
going to go down there. I’m going to meet him by his lonely bench near the
river, and, well, I’m going to put him out of his misery. What other option is
there?”
Outside,
it was a cold December evening. A massive front of gray clouds was collecting
on the southern rim blocking whatever winter light remained in the sky. But
Frank wasn’t thinking about the exterior light, he was too preoccupied with the
light in his heart, which on the brink of his meeting with Julia, seemed to be
dimming rapidly. When Frank came to the crossroads of Franklin and Erie
streets, just beneath the El tracks, he decided to hail a cab. Sure, it was
only fifteen blocks to the Chicago River, but still, it was Christmas time, and
seeing that Frank didn’t expect to receive any presents, he thought there
wouldn’t be any harm in enjoying the luxury of a warm taxi ride. “’Tis the
season,” he murmured under his breath. He fished his wallet out of his back
pocket, opened it to check just how much cash he had (11 dollars) he then did a
little mental math and figured that 11 dollars would probably be enough to get
him through the evening. If Julia shows, he thought, she’ll have cash; if she
doesn’t show, then what the hell do I need money for? I may as well just kill
myself.
The
idea of killing himself wasn’t an idea he took seriously. It was an expression
he picked up from god knows where. “Kill myself,” he said under his breath.
Three young women clad in leather overcoats and loaded down with Christmas
gifts passed by. They looked at him like he was crazy, snickered, and said,
aloud: “Whatever, you nut.”
“Feliz
Navidad,” Frank said, tilting his head in a gentlemanly manner.
“Screw
you, pervert,” one young women yelled, flipping him the bird.
A
Checker Cab zoomed from around the corner. Frank lifted his hand to flag the
driver, but no sooner did his hand go up, when one of those three pretty women
turned, saw the same cab, and flagged him to a stop.
“Hey,
wait a minute,” Frank yelled after the cab, as it passed him by. “I saw you
first.” The cab driver stuck his arm out the window, made a gesture to Frank,
and drove off. It was a bad omen, Frank thought. He wasn’t particularly
superstitious; nevertheless, it had occurred to him that more things than just
a taxi cab were just now passing him by. “The world,” he said under his breath.
“The world is passing me by.” He turned, cut up Franklin Street, and ran at
maximum speed toward the meeting place.
At
five foot three and 102 pounds, Julia Rhodes was a rather petite woman. A faint
crease ran down the middle of her forehead giving her face somewhat of a
sharp-edged definition. This effect was enhanced by her gestures and facial
expressions which were typically rapid, and infused with a sort of world-weary,
cynical intelligence. It was Christmas or X-mas as she liked to say. The
holiday season. Tra la la, and all that. What concerned Julia at this time of
year was her work schedule and her love life. Both seemed to grow more hectic
with each passing year. That day, everybody in the office, including her
cubicle mate Lana was excited at the thought of having tomorrow—Christmas
day—off. Eggnog was being served from a silver serving bowl next to the coffee
machine. Christmas decorations were hung from ceiling panels overhead, and a
radio was playing Christmas music in the break room.
It’d been an
exceptional year for Marshall, Young, and Jones and later that evening, an
office party to celebrate the company’s recent good fortune was being thrown on
the 40th floor. Mike Wolcott, a colleague with whom Julia had recently become
involved, would be there. He was a tall, dark-haired fellow who wore crisp blue
suits, and spoke with a slight, but charming, lisp. Julia had recently
discovered she liked tilting her head up to his. It made the flesh on the back
of her thighs tingle with excitement.
It
had been Julia’s hope that after the office party she and Mike might go back to
his condo on the Gold Coast (Astor and Goethe) and finish up Christmas Eve.
Mike had suggested as much earlier that week when he pointed out (they’d been
alone on the elevator and rising to their separate offices) that his family was
in Charleston and he was too busy to get away for the holidays. Julia’s family
was in Boston (she lied)—and since she was equally marooned, he’d said
something or another to the effect that—well wouldn’t a quiet get-together
after the office party be the perfect antidote to the holiday blues? The
elevator doors opened, Julia stepped off, turned and shook her head.
“Yes,” she said.
“It would be perfect.”
Mike clasped his
rather large hands and said, “Great, so be it.” And thus it was arranged.
Julia went out
promptly the next day and purchased a gift for him: an analogue watch that kept
track of the moon phases; for herself she purchased a sexy green and red
negligee just in case they ended up in bed together. Both gifts were wrapped in
blue metallic paper and sitting on Julia’s desk. Julia thought about Frank. She
wished that Frank would just go away and leave her alone so she could go on
pursuing Mike without embarrassment. She’d stood Frank up before. She hated to
do it to him again, especially tonight, Christmas Eve, but Frank just didn’t
take no for an answer. He didn’t take
a hint very well either. She pictured Frank standing all alone in the snow
waiting for her. She shook her head. It was just like Frank, (who was this guy
anyway) to pick a spot out in the middle of nowhere and wait. It made her
think: he must be very sad.
Frank,
who was never very athletic (that’s one of my life long problems, he thought)
winded easily. Barrel-chested, he was out of breath long before he arrived at
the Chicago River. In worn canvas shoes he had run, shuffled, dragged his feet,
then walked the last six blocks fighting his way through huge crowds of people
that had poured out of downtown office buildings. The people (denizens of
office workers clad in green and red, and in the customary black wool trench
coat) were flooding out of the downtown area and heading by train, bus, cab,
and car out of the city as fast as possible to those endless rows of clapboard
houses in the suburbs from which were hung baubles of flashing Christmas lights
and endless armies of plastic santas. Frank had made the observation that
nothing so increases human aggression as the ‘holiday spirit’. That’s another
of my problems, Frank observed. I lack human aggression. He then blamed his
mother for this, because she, too, lacked aggression.
At
Kinzie street and Wells street, Frank saw an elderly woman swaddled in soiled
red scarves, and hunched over beneath a large plastic cross. Frank felt sorry
for the old woman. “Oh, I would never want to carry her cross,” he thought,
whereupon, she spit on him.
It was ten to five
and Julia sat at her desk waiting for Mike Wolcott to call. She was a bit
bewildered—had he forgotten their plans? First of all, he hadn’t come down to
her office (he worked on the 38th floor, she worked on the 22nd floor) to
escort her, as they had arranged—and second of all, what about tonight—at his
house? Was that still on?
Lana was preparing
to go up to the party. “Are you coming Julia?”
“No not yet, Lana.
I have a few things to clear off my desk. I’ll see you up there.”
“Good luck,” Lana
had said winking.
After Lana left,
Julia had waited twenty minutes for Mike to show—or call. While she waited she
fingered the ribbon on his present and wondered if she had made a
miscalculation. When she finally called his office—his secretary answered and
informed her that Mike had left for the party nearly an hour ago. This put
Julia, who hated to walk into crowded rooms by herself, in an uncomfortable
position. She debated: should I go or not go? But since Mike was her only plan
for the holiday she decided against her better judgement to ascend the elevator
to the fortieth floor, and enter the party—alone. It was, to say the least, a
terribly humiliating experience. This is absurd, she thought, slamming her desk
shut. I’ve made a huge miscalculation—I should have made alternate plans. It
occurred to her, that she should probably try to be in a party mood, but she
decidedly wasn’t. She freshened her makeup, counted to ten, but well, that
didn’t seem to work. What’s worse, as she rose in the elevator she noticed a
run in her stocking. It was obviously too late to turn back, nevertheless she
hated to be going into a situation like this, feeling handicapped. She checked
her watch and realized that only twenty minutes remained for her to go to the
party, then catch a cab and meet Frank by six. When she got off the elevator
she couldn’t believe her eyes, because there before her was a somewhat drunken
Mike Wolcott, his tie loosened around his neck, staring—no not staring—but
downright lecherously gazing down Lana’s low-cut blouse and Lana placing her
long pale index finger just underneath his collar. Julia had no idea what to do
or think, but the elevator doors closed and Julia’s decision was made for her.
She stood in the elevator, felt for a brief moment, like she was going to cry.
She wondered whether it wouldn’t be better to make a go of it after all, step
bravely into the party, push Lana aside, and take over—on the other hand if
they (Mike and Lana) hadn’t seen me, then maybe we could pretend like it never
happened, like I never saw them. Before she knew what she was doing, she pushed
L for lobby, and felt the floor drop from beneath her as the elevator made its
quick descent forty four floors down.
“Do
you believe in masks?” Julia had once asked Lana
“No,
and I don’t believe in Halloween either.”
“Seriously,
Lan. You know what I’m talking about. The face beneath the face, that is yet
the face.”
“Are
you crazy? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well
I have this theory when it comes to men.”
“So
do I. My theory is, when it comes to men—not to have any—theories that is.”
“Oh,
I thought you were going to say, men.”
“Now
that’s one I hadn’t thought of. A good one too.”
“But
I have this theory that I only apply to men with whom I’m particularly fond of.
It’s a theory based on the notion of opposites. That is: if a man you’re
involved with is too quick to tell you he loves you—then the opposite is
probably true. Or if a man smiles when he tells you he loves you—well then
what’s really happening is that the face beneath the mask is essentially
frowning and telling you he doesn’t love you, that it’s lust not love, and that
you’re temporary not permanent. Does this register with you?”
“It
sounds like psychology to me. Or drama.”
“It
might be. I don’t know. It’s just my theory when it comes to men. And I’ve been
wondering about Mike Wolcott, when it comes to this, because really—he’s so. .
. inscrutable. What do you think?”
“I
think you’re crazy.”
Julia shoved her
way through a crowd of departing office workers that had collected in the
gilded art-deco lobby of her office building (like water gathering in an elbow
drain, she thought). Slightly drunk from office Christmas parties they were
wishing each other happy holiday. Long colorful scarves streamed from the necks
of women, bulky jackets were pushed and pulled amidst hugs. Shopping bags were
mixed up with brief-cases on the parquet marble floor, and Christmas carols—emanating
from hidden speakers high up in the gold-leafed dome-ceiling—caused the
doorman, who wore a red uniform, to tap his wingtipped shoes. “This is it,”
Julia said, “it’s now or never.” She had been in a Christmas mood, she’d almost
been festive, but now, after she’d received Frank’s call, and after Mike
Wolcott had rebuffed her at the party—and what’s more: Lana, the traitor! She
was decidedly out of good humor. She wasn’t feeling very giving either. She
shoved her way through the crowd. Old colleagues called after her wishing her a
Happy X-Mas. She kept walking, out through the revolving doors, onto LaSalle
Street and pushed passed a Salvation Army worker to whom, in years past, she
would typically make a Christmas donation, slipping a fifty dollar bill into
the red metal can. This year, she strolled past him in big strides without even
turning her head.
“Merry Christmas,”
he yelled after her.
“Merry Christmas
back,” she yelled over her shoulder.
She stopped,
turned, checked her purse, found some twenties and stuffed them into the red
Salvation Army can. A cab pulled up to the curb. Julia leaped for the cab. She
wanted to end Frank with as much dispatch and little pain as possible. I’ll
give this whole thing five minutes. I don’t care what harm I cause. Then I’ll
head over to Mike’s condo (god I hope I’m not emotionally distorted when I get
there) and see if I can set things straight. As she opened the cab door she
heard the Salvation Army worker ring his bell and yell after her “God Bless you
Miss. Stay warm, it’s cold out there!” Instinctively Julia wrapped her collar
around her neck and told the cab driver to “Drive,” then added, “head toward
the river.” Without even thinking about it, she noticed—it was snowing.
As Frank arrived,
exhausted, at the meeting place (Michigan Avenue & the Chicago River) it
began to snow. Frank looked down at the chalk-green river from the vantage
point of the bridge, and saw a barge moving slowly up-river as if it were
picking its way between large ice flows. She’s not here, yet. I’m early. Frank
ran down the two flights of steps leading from the bridge to the walkway
alongside the river, and was careful not to slip and fall. He thought of the
age old admonishment to actors: Break a leg, and wondered, what on earth such an
expression could possibly mean. He was filled with foreboding and realized that
this meeting with Julia was his only plan for the entire holiday season. He
didn’t have any family to speak of. His mother was in a nursing home, and his
father had, after the divorce so long ago, discreetly moved away to some
distant backwater near the Florida Everglades. Furthermore, what friends Frank
did have—and they were indeed, few in number—weren’t the type of friends that
could be imposed upon. Certainly not, at least, during a cheerful occasion like
Christmas. It doesn’t matter, Frank thought. “Christmas is for children
anyway.” Frank then considered his own childhood, which had been mostly happy.
He wondered—was there just one Christmas—just one in that brief childhood—that
was so—Frank didn’t know what word to use, but he was looking for a Christmas
holiday that he might remember, or rather recover—for a smile—lest Julia, his
only plan, didn’t show.
He
lifted his right foot and pounded it on the pavement. He took his left foot and
did the same. He looked as if he were testing to see if there were any feeling
left in his cold toes, but he knew with the sort of gut instinct that mingled
with the aftertaste of the gyros, that he was jut buying time. Julia would
probably never show. Her consent that afternoon, punctuated as it was with
shrill (mocking laughter) was too euphemistic. He could read between the lines.
She had moved on to other lovers. This little meeting between him and her was
nothing more than a formality. In that way it was no different from a funeral.
Nevertheless, formality though it was, Frank was determined to go through with
it.
He decided then
and there, he didn’t want speculation to end this relationship. If it was over;
he wanted to hear it from her own lips: “It’s over.” That’s the least she could
do; tell him that. He’d already spent too many nights in bed wondering whether
his relationship with Julia was a go or bust. (He’d come close to asking Julia
this precise question, several times, but thought better of it. It’s enough, he
reflected, to think the outrageous question and let it percolate silently
through your gestures, than to actually ask it.) He mouthed the words “it’s
over” while he walked in figure-eights around the dark iron benches that lined
the bank of the river. He wondered if he could accept those words. The sounds
of the city, of traffic, of shouts and bleating horns rose up all around him
like the sounds of an audience in a huge theater. Frank felt lonely—as if he’d
gotten lost on one of its back stages.
“I
want more sex,” Frank said. He looked over his shoulder to make sure there was
no one listening to him. “Actually what I want is. . .” But he couldn’t say
what he wanted. At least not entirely. He spotted a snow flake in the distance
and kept his eye on it, watching it fall through a crowd of snow flakes. He
lost sight of the flake when it fell into the dark shadows of the parapet and
into the Chicago River. Frank felt a chill. The words “it’s over” came back
into his mind, and all of a sudden he thought of Julia’s hand. He thought of it
reaching for his own hand. Oddly enough, as he stood there all alone in the
shadows of the icy city, he pulled his gloved hand out of his pocket. He
reached forward, and grasping nothing, reached a little higher—as if he were
asking someone for a lift up. He smiled to himself, and remembered that
someone, somewhere, might be watching him. Not wanting to seem like a complete
imbecile, he quickly withdrew his gloved hand and put it back in his pocket.
You
know the thing about Frank, Julia had said to Lana just after they had gone on
their one and only date (but not before Frank had sent a dozen long stemmed
roses to her office) is that he doesn’t think I see him coming. I mean here I
am, day after day. I’m 27 years old. I’ve been hit on by one guy or another for
the last fifteen years of my life. How many does that add up to? And yet—and
yet every guy who ever hits on me thinks that he’s the first guy in the world
to get the idea in his head to cross my path. What’s worse, the more remote
they are from any female contact the more outrageous their expectations. They
think they want a wife, but all they really want is a sex partner. When you try
to have sex with them, they’re uncomfortable. They balk at you, because what
they start to realize is that in the end they don’t even want sex. All they
want is somebody they can call up on the phone and talk to. Frank’s a
particularly bad case. I try to hold him off. I honestly try to send him
messages. Christ what do I need? A blow horn? But he doesn’t get it. Instead,
I’ll probably have to hit him over the head and tell him—it’s over! He should
be ashamed of himself. What’s truly depressing is he doesn’t even have enough
sense to be ashamed—to see what he’s like. That’s why I’m done with these guys.
Call me crazy for running after a guy like Mike Wolcott, but at least Mike has
been married and he’s not delusional about relationships. Like me, he knows
that not everything was meant to last forever.
“Where
you going lady?” The cab driver was a dark skinned man with big hands. The
dispatcher was saying something over the radio and the warm interior of the car
smelled strongly of body odor and tanned leather. He was wearing a white scull
cap.
“I’m
going to put an end to a relationship that was never even a relationship to
begin with.”
“Putting
out a relationship, on a night like tonight? That’s some Christmas present. I
hope your man is ready for you. Otherwise he’s going to be in for a big
surprise.”
“If
you want to know the truth,” Julia said, “It’s just some guy who thinks we have
a relationship. We never did though. All we ever had was a date, and it was a
blind date at that.”
“And
why does this man think you love him so much?”
“I
suppose he thinks I love him because one day out of the blue I agreed to meet
him for a date. And when that afternoon was over I told him I had a nice time.
Stupidly, I gave him a kiss.”
“So
you led him on then. You said you had a good time with him when you didn’t.
After you say this you give him a kiss. Well, tell me, what is a man supposed
to think?”
“He’s
supposed to think that a blind date is a blind date, and like every other
reasonable person in the world, he’s supposed to let it be.”
“In
my country,” the cab driver said. “Things are different. It’s not so easy to be
so cavalier about relationships.”
Julia
fingered the built in ashtray on the car door handle and went over in her mind
all the times she had been in this situation before, rushing toward an
estranged boyfriend to say for the last time: “It’s over, nothing personal, but
I just want to move on.” And, after a brief hug, doing just that: moving on, in
the opposite direction from which she had come to begin anew somewhere else.
She remembers some of the faces of those old boyfriends, she remembers the
breaking smile of one caught in the crossfire of rapidly changing emotions as
she explained to him that it was over; she remembers the final embrace of
another man whom she’d broken up with after three months of dating; she
remembers how his arms had somehow freed her as they wrapped around her for the
last time. She swore she’d never forget that. She remembers the smell of some
men, the teeth of others, and of some, she remembers the stories of their
lives. But she wants to remember Frank—remember him not as she first saw him on
that day when he showed up at the Chicago Water Tower where they had agreed to
meet, but as she last encountered him moments ago on the telephone: his voice
desperate to get together, his mind lurid with conspiracies that her friends
were out to spoil his chances with her. Most of all she focuses on the fact
that he’s a needy, lonely man, and that because he’s needy and lonely she can’t
possibly be whatever it is he thinks she is. She focuses on this, because this
is the point that she somehow has to drill into his mind: “I’m not the woman
you think I am, not the woman of your dreams, not the woman who’s going to save
you. That woman you’re searching for doesn’t exist. I am a different woman, one
you’ll never know, not because I don’t want you to know me, but because even if
I gave you a chance to know me it still wouldn’t work, because in your present
state you’re incapable of seeing things as they really are.” Julia realized
that she’d been stuck in a traffic jam. She checked her watch. It was near six
o clock and she still had several blocks to go. “Please, you can pull over here
and let me off at the curb. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
“But
you still have five more blocks,” the cab driver said.
“I
don’t care. Let me out now. I’ll run the rest of the way if I have to.”
“Whatever
you wish, ma’am.” The cab driver pulled up to the side of the road, and as she
paid him, he smiled and said: “Feliz Navidad.”
“Whatever,”
she hollered. She slammed the car door shut and took off running down the
street toward the Michigan Avenue bridge that crossed the river.
Standing
alone by the river, Frank pulled his collar close to his neck and with
diminishing expectations settled into contemplating his life. He thought about
that afternoon when they had their first (and last) date. It had been a blind
date, and they had agreed that the place to meet—the place that offered the
greatest convenience—was the Chicago Water Tower. He turned where he was now
standing and looked north toward the Water Tower. He couldn’t see it, but he
could feel it. He nodded toward the Water Tower, and thought, under his breath,
thanks. Though it had been a blind date (his mother’s friend—a widow—shared the
same corridor with Julia in the same high-rise apartment building on Irving
Park and Lake Shore Drive) he remembered ever detail of it. He thought of blind
people. The memory in their finger tips. He pulled his glove off his hand, and
kissed the tips of his fingers. They remembered.
Julia
couldn’t stand the cold, but not wanting to seem prematurely negative, she told
him that the bench near the carriage stables would be just fine. “You’ll see
me,” she said. “I’ll be wearing a long red wool jacket, with gray ear muffs.”
Frank
almost said: I’m sure you’ll be beautiful, but restrained himself. “I don’t
know what I’ll be wearing,” he said. “But I’ll see you down there.”
Julia,
who was typically late wherever she went, was always careful to show up early
in situations like this—blind dates. It was important to get a jump on things
while she had a chance. Julia wasn’t a particularly suspicious person, nor a
cautious person, she did, however, in situations like this—like to be prepared.
It made her feel as if she had a jump on the unknown. She stood there now (clad
in red wool coat and gray ear muffs) in the little park near the Chicago Water
Tower waiting for this guy named Frank to show up.
While
she waited she chatted with a rather attractive carriage driver and petted the
wet nose of a beautiful sable mare named Jodi. While the two women talked, they
got onto the subject of men and Julia listened in amusement as the carriage
driver told her how she was currently sleeping with three men, each of whom
were married. “I actually met them while they were in the company of their
wives, believe it or not,” the carriage driver had said. “You meet all types in
this business.” The carriage driver laughed lightly and rubbed her gloved hand
against the lower jaw of her mare. She looked up at Julia who stared off in the
distance. As the carriage driver talked, Julia wondered about Frank. What kind
of man would he be? She hoped he wouldn’t be a loser. As she stood there
waiting, she allowed herself to be moved by the way the raw winter light struck
the delicate yellow face of the Water Tower, which seemed to her as if it’d
been carved out of a single piece of limestone by an artisan who had a rather
shaky hand.
Frank
had showed up exactly fifteen minutes late. He was walking in large strides.
His jacket was unbuttoned. His shirt was unbuttoned at the neck. He wasn’t
wearing gloves or a hat. He seemed to be out of breath and perspiration
collected just above his eyebrows. When there wasn’t anyone near the Water
Tower he looked around the park and saw two women standing by a horse carriage.
They were both wearing red jackets. He figured one of them must be Julia. With
a rather severe smile plastered to his face he approached the women and
speaking to the taller one, said: “Hello Julia, I’m Frank.” He reached out his
hand to the carriage driver.
“Um,”
Julia said smiling. Her cheeks were blushed with cold. “That would be me.
Hello. Excuse me,” she said to the carriage driver, who broke into a laugh.
Turning to Frank, Julia said: “Would you like to talk over here.”
“Oh
pardon me,” Frank said, laughing rather loudly at his mistake. He reached his
hand out to Julia and smiled. “Hello, Julia I’m Frank. Nice to meet you.”
Julia turned to the carriage driver and
said: “It’s been a pleasure talking to you. Good luck with all your
adventures!”
“Good
luck with yours!” The carriage driver said with beaming eyes. Frank didn’t look
so bad, the carriage driver thought, considering he’s a blind date..
“Come,”
Julia said to Frank. “Please, let’s talk over here.”
They
walked over to the bench where they’d originally planned to meet. Without
sitting down, turned to look at each other. There was an awkward moment of
silence in which they sized each other up. Frank saw a woman who was fragile
and lonely, but who tried to cover up both her fragility and loneliness with a
sort of efficient, I’m-all-business smile. Julia saw a man who was lonelier
than hell, and nervous, and shy, and he didn’t try to cover anything up. She’d
been with guys like this before, and it always turned out rotten. But today she
didn’t want to second guess herself. (That’s my primary problem, she had once
told Lana, I’m always second guessing myself.) Julia liked Frank’s cockeyed and
cheeky smile, she thought his heavy lidded eyes conveyed a sense of slow mental
ability, but in the spirit of being nonjudgmental and open minded, she
overlooked that impression. Frank, on the other hand, couldn’t be more pleased.
He liked Julia’s long straight black hair, her pointy nose, her sharp cheeks,
and her voice which seemed to ring more clearly than ice. As Frank stood there
trying to assess the situation it occurred to him, that if survived the next
few minutes in her company, it was quite possible, he and she, in only a matter
of time, would be naked somewhere and making love. As Frank made this
observation he felt a quick pressure on his heart. He thought to himself, only
get through these next few minutes.
“Well,”
he said smiling as charmingly as possible. He brought his hands together.
“Julia!”
Like
Frank, Julia also realized that if they could make it through these first few
awkward moments unscathed by negative thoughts, then it would only be a matter
of time before they slept with each other. She thought about the utility
elevator at Marshall Fields. She had, in the past, made love with men on this
elevator. It was one of her methods of seduction. It always gave her a thrill
to get away with love making in a semi-public place. The utility elevator was
one of her favorite public places. If all goes well, she thought, I’ll take him
there. She, too, felt something like excitement grip her heart. “Um, I have an
appointment with somebody at five.” She said rather abruptly. It was important
for her not only to have an out—in case this thing turned into a disaster—but
to make the appearance of trying to keep everything above table. “So, Frank,”
she said, pronouncing his name for the first time. “This obviously can’t last
all day.”
“That’s
ok, Julia,” Frank said, in a sort of calming and assured tone which immediately
appealed to Julia, putting her at ease. “I don’t have an appointment with
anybody today. Only you. I mean this is the only thing that I’ve planned for
the weekend, I mean for the day. Otherwise, as far as I’m concerned everything
else in my life, I mean in my weekend is up for grabs. We can do whatever you
want.”
“So,”
Julia said. She smiled at his hesitant way of speaking, and all of a sudden she
pulled a date book from her purse, and drew a line through an appointment. “I
estimate we have three hours. What would you like to do?”
Frank
stood for a moment admiring Julia. “Whatever,” he said. He couldn’t get the
idea of sex out of his mind. He especially liked the way she smiled back at
him. I still haven’t passed inspection, he thought.
“Do
you like Christmas shopping?” she asked. She was surprised at herself.
Frank
shook his head, quite distinctly no, but in a rather vigorous voice he said,
yes. He said it again as to remove any doubt from his mind that he liked
Christmas shopping. “Yes.”
“Good,”
she said, feeling as if her whole body were giving her away. “I love Christmas
shopping too!” She returned his gaze and said rather recklessly: “Would you
mind terribly, Frank, if we went Christmas shopping today?”
Again,
Frank shook his head no and said “Yes, I would love to.”
“Are
you sure?” she asked. “I mean are you sure you wouldn’t rather do something
else for the next few hours? Like get a coffee or something?”
“Coffee
would be fine,” he said trying hard to locate the hidden messages in her gaze.
“But I’m open for anything, like I said, I don’t have any real plans to speak
of, only you.”
“Good,”
Julia said, flashing one of her I’m-all-business smiles. “Now where to go? My
obvious first choice is Marshall Fields on State Street. I’ve been going there
for years. Every since I was a little girl. It’s a tradition. We can walk too,”
she suggested trying to convey the side of her that was willing to do the
unconventional, namely resist hailing a cab. Besides she’d done this type of
thing before, blind dates, and the one thing she hated, was trying to get to
know a stranger in cramped circumstances. “It would be such a nice walk, and
besides the Christmas lights on the trees will make it festive.”
“We
can take a cab,” Frank suggested, looking at her shoes, which seemed
inappropriate for walking. “If you don’t want to walk. I’ve got plenty of
money.
We could—”
“No.
Walking would be wonderful.”
“Are
you sure,” he said pulling his billfold out of his pocket. “I’ve got more than
enough money.”
“I
believe you Frank,” she said, smiling at him. “You can put your billfold away.
Let’s walk.” All of a sudden Frank made a romantic connection and suggested,
that perhaps it might be a better day to take a carriage ride through the city.
“Too
cold,” Julia said, “for that.”
“OK,”
Frank said, and smiled. In fact he couldn’t take the smile, that was rapidly
growing on his face, off it. He was impressed with this stroke of good
luck—with Julia. She looked very pretty that day in her long red wool jacket.
She gave off a feeling of vitality and warmth. Shoppers loaded down with
unwrapped Christmas gifts crowded Michigan Avenue. He felt very happy all of a
sudden to be out here, in the cold, with this attractive person, with Julia. It
was remarkable, he later thought to himself, that she even considered him
worthwhile to spend a couple of hours with. Unbeknownst to her, Frank hadn’t
had a date in years. “Shall we walk,” she asked reaching quite naturally for
his hand. He felt her hand grab his and grasp it tight. He nearly choked on his
words. Instead of proceeding further, he merely obliged her, and together they
walked south down Michigan Avenue, hand and hand. Anybody passing by might have
seen one woman with a rather practical look on her otherwise pleasant face, and
a man, with droopy eyelids, who looked inconceivably happy.
Prior
to Julia, Frank had gone so long without a girlfriend that he’d often find
himself lying in bed alone at night, marveling at the fact that it had no
longer caused him pain to lie there all alone. He’d lay in his bed and he would
stare ahead of him at the ceiling for hours at a time, musing over the various
shifting conditions of his life. One thing, however, that never changed was
lying here, alone in bed. Despite all the changes that had taken place over the
course of his life, the single fact of his bachelor-hood had remained
unchanged. Sometimes, to his own surprise, he found himself quite inexplicably
giving up any hope on the simple chance of finding a woman with whom he might
spend at least a few memorable months, or even weeks—he wasn’t asking for a
lifetime. He was only asking for a handful of memories. Sometimes, while he lay
in bed thinking about this sort of thing, he’d wonder if in fact there wasn’t
something wrong with him. “Shouldn’t the tragedy of my life, register against
my own heart with greater force?” He often thought in terms like these, but was
able to quickly forget them. He remembered walking with Julia down Michigan
Avenue. They walked hand in hand. He located another snow flake and watched its
quiet descent into the dark river
“What
I want is that,” he thought. “That feeling she gave me.” It was partly the fact
that she had been the first person to enter his life in such a long time,
partly the fact that she was so different from him that contributed to this
feeling. That day, walking south down Michigan Avenue to Marshall Fields was a
good example. She liked to shop, he wasn’t much of a shopper, but apparently
she was. He hated the crowds, the noise, the crass commercialism, the reckless
spending, the overheated department stores, the seemingly endless numbers of
incompetent store clerks, but these very things formed the basis of Julia’s
nostalgia for Christmas. She had explained to him while they were walking hand and
hand to Marshall Fields: “That this is what Christmas is all about for me, the
shove and pull of it, the glamorous old ladies in their minks with their
shopping bags full of boxes, the escalators at Fields that rise from the
heavily scented first floor where perfume is sold to the upper floor where
green and red Christmas negligees hang alluringly from the busts of wooden
mannequins, this, for me, is what Christmas is all about!” She turned and
smiled at him, and her smile was gaping wide in a grin of perfectly set teeth,
her eyes were ablaze with the heat of her passion, and her cheeks were flushed.
When Julia had told him this, he was surprised that he was with a woman who had
thoughts so different than his own. In all the nights leading up to this date,
he would find himself lying awake in bed wondering who she would be. He never
imagined anyone like this. The fact that she was so different, that she’d been
impossible to imagine, made her all that much more real and desirable to him.
What thrilled him was the feeling of trying to see things from the perspective
of this utterly different type of person. To do so, was to love. Frank was
ready for love. If that’s how she thought Christmas to be, then he’d try to see
Christmas in the same light.
They
walked, and talked, and as they made one discovery after another of what they
had in common, their pace seemed to quicken (that’s at least how Frank
remembers it). They’d both gone to Francis Parker High School. He’d gotten
kicked out of Parker when he was a junior for setting a fire cracker off in a
locker just outside the library. She’d gotten kicked out of Parker when she was
just a sophomore for smoking dope in an empty hallway, and she’d been caught
red handed by none less than Mr. Robertson, the Principal. “I was sitting there
with my locker door open, lighting up a bong. No one was around. Just me and
the empty hall. Then boom! Out of the middle of no-where I see him wheeling
around the corner. I didn’t hear him coming because he was in his bare feet.”
“I
hated that guy!” Frank roared. “Always so concerned about his own ass, he felt
compelled to crack down on the students!”
“My
father practically killed me after that little stunt. I spent the rest of my
time at Whitney Young on the west side.”
“I
spent my last years at St. Ignatius.”
“How
were you accepted at Ignatius after they kicked you out of Parker?”
“My
uncle is a Jesuit. He got me in.”
It
was her turn to laugh. “What was Ignatius like? Did you have to go to Mass
every morning? Jesus, I would hate that.”
“It
was all right. I actually liked it. I had an English teacher there who actually
taught me something. We read 17th Century English poets. The puritan, Herrick,
“In the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress,” and Donne “No Man is
an Island Entire of Himself.”
“Were
there any women poets back then?”
“There
are always women poets. Only they were called Anonymous back then.”
“That
woman, your mother’s friend. She was always anonymous to me. Until, she
approached me and told me about you.”
“Actually, she’s my mother’s bridge
partner.”
“Do
you play bridge?”
“I
never learned.”
“Pity.
I never did either. But one day—maybe when I’m old. It seems like such a
perfect game.”
“That’s
because it requires a sense of strategy and partnership.”
They
walked in syncopated strides past a forlorn cab driver stuck in traffic, who,
with a spider tattooed to his burley forearm, yelled after them: “You two love
birds need a ride some place?” They strided past a homeless man who sat legless
on the pavement jingling a brass bell for donations, and still they walked
quickly, hand and hand, arm and arm, ignoring everybody. They turned west up
Washington Street, and ran under the banging El tracks with their hands over
their ears. They walked quickly along the north side of Marshall Fields. They
dodged around the crowds that collected in front of the windows to watch the
Christmas displays of wooden elves and Santa’s. “We’ll see them later,” she
said, rather breathlessly. They turned south and entered Fields from State
Street (For, as Julia would later maintain, Marshall Fields should always be
entered from the State Street entrance).
As Frank pushed
through the revolving doors, she pushed and jumped into the same compartment
with him. They emerged stumbling into the foyer of the store where men’s wear
was being sold. Apropos to nothing, Julia grabbed hold of Frank and kissed him.
It took his breath away. They stood there groping each other and didn’t stop
until some Christmas shopper had made a point to say, in a loud bitter voice:
“Look at that couple kissing over there. And it’s beneath the mistletoe!” When
they looked up they couldn’t believe it, but indeed they had been kissing
beneath the mistletoe. It was a moment, that happen what might in his life, Frank
swore he would never forget. And of course, he remembered it now, out there all
alone, on the dark walk that ran alongside the Chicago River. He remembered it,
and felt his heart quickening as he recalled what happened next.
Standing
there beneath the mistletoe, Julia said, rather breathlessly: “I have this
place.” But Frank was out of breath himself, and he was working hard trying to
keep up with everything that was going on, so a moment or two after she said: I
have this place, he turned to her, and said: “What do you want to do. Do you
have a place?”
“Uh
hunh,” Julia said. “I have a place. But you have to come with me first.” So
there it was. Before Frank knew it, before he could think it, it had happened.
She had thought it for him, she had imagined it and now she was executing it.
All that was left for Frank to do was follow her.
The Great Corridor
that split the vast perfume section on one side from the fabulous arcade of
jewlery cases on the other side spread out before them. Doric columns rose on
either side of the aisle. They were decorated with candy canes, snow men, santa
clauses. Between them (Frank and Julia) and their destination were hundreds,
perhaps thousands of shoppers, each of whom was weighted down with shopping
bags, and loaded with presents and more presents.
“Come,” she said,
and before he could resist he was being pulled by a force greater than gravity,
greater even than the force that was now pulling on his arm. He was being
pulled or rather falling toward that strange vertigo that precedes love; the
great consummate act arriving Doppler like, shrilly to achieve some sort of
harmonious pitch for only a moment, and then to drone forever on, in an ebbing
pitch.
“The
thing I like so much about this store,” Julia said. “Is that I used to work
here. Consequently I know it like the back of my hand. There’s all sorts of
nooks and crannies and hidden places.”
Frank
screamed after her. “You’ve got to be kidding?”
“Do
I look like I’m kidding?” Julia said, throwing her voice over her shoulder.
“You
don’t look like you’re serious,” Frank yelled after her.
In a distant,
uncrowded corner of the store was a light, beneath the light was a group of
unused mannequins. They were all in various states of disarray. Some were nude.
Others were partially clad. Some were missing arms. One or two were bald, a
third was missing a head, but around its shoulders was draped a strand of
silver garland.
She
pushed the mannequins aside and took Frank to a seldom used freight elevator in
the corner. “Where are we?” Frank asked, slightly out of breath.
“Where
do you think we are? We’re here!” Julia rang the elevator, turned and smiled at
Frank. Almost on cue, the bell to the elevator rang, the doors opened and
miraculously it was available and empty. “After you,” she said holding her hand
out for him.
“Are
you sure we can do this?” he asked.
“Are
you sure we can’t?” She shoved him into the elevator, jumped on board with him.
The doors closed behind them. “I hope you don’t have to be anywhere in the next
half hour.” Julia pulled the red stop switch and smiled at Frank.
There
was a wooden stool in the corner of the elevator that an office worker had
placed there. Julia sat down on the stool, removed her jacket—it was still cold
from being outside—she removed her blouse and with little ceremony removed her
black lacy bra. “I only wish it were a bit warmer in here,” she said. “Well are
you going to take off your jacket? Or are you going to stand there gaping?”
Frank noticed a faint halo of freckles around each of Julia’s nipples.
“You’ve
got beautiful breasts.”
“I’m
glad you like them. Now get undressed.”
Frank
undid his jacket. Julia undid her skirt. Frank tried to pull his shirt off
without unbuttoning it, and got his head stuck in the neck. He struggled with
his shirt, and felt as if he must look like the most absurd man on earth. Julia
laughed, then told him to stop struggling. She placed both of her hands on the
small of his back, and pressed her breasts against his bare chest. She kissed
him through the linen of his shirt, pressing him into her. “I like you this
way,” she said. “Trapped.” She grabbed his belt buckle and undid it. She undid
the snap and zipper of his pants. She slid her hand into his pants and slowly
pulled them off his hips. They fell to his ankles. Frank began struggling with
the shirt, then ripped it off his head and hurled it in the corner of the
elevator. Christmas carols were being piped in from a tiny speaker just above
the control panel. Outside the elevator, Frank could hear an irate female
customer arguing with a store clerk over an error that had appeared on her gift
registry. He kicked his pants free of his ankles so that he was clad only in
his wrist watch and socks. Julia sat down on the stool, removed her nylons.
Frank was overwhelmed.
“Well,”
she said. “I bet you’ve never done this before.”
Frank
shook his head no, and this time he meant no. He may have imagined doing this
before, but even that was at the extremity of his imagination. He had, however,
never actually done this.
With
her mouth open, Julia brought Frank to her. Frank felt her warm lips move
lightly across his belly, her hands stroking the back of his legs. The customer
who had been arguing with the store clerk outside, fell silent, and the music
that had been piped into the elevator, played Frank’s favorite Christmas tune: The First Noël, sung by Bing Crosby.
Frank hadn’t heard that tune in years, but hearing it now, with Julia kissing
him, reminded him of his early childhood on the near north-west side of Chicago
which, for the most part, had been happy and care free—at least up until the
point his parents divorced. After that, happiness had always seemed to Frank as
if it were more and more an intangible thing that you couldn’t force or make
happen, but that would appear from time to time, without warning. He’d come to
think that happiness was perhaps, in the final analysis, too delicate for his
receptors. He had learned to live, by and large, in the absence of it. However,
that late November afternoon, while he and Julia were naked in the freight
elevator, and making love, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was
happy. Happier perhaps, than he’d ever been in his life.
“Come
here, Frank,” Julia said. “No bring your ear here, to my lips. I want to tell you
something.”
Frank
tilted his ear.
“Do
you love me?”
He
tilted it again to make sure he’d heard correctly.
“Well,
do you?”
Frank
wasn’t sure who or what he loved, but suddenly he didn’t care. He just shook
his head yes, and said it: “Yes.”
Frank
stood there now, waiting for Julia to show. He tried to think positively.
“There’ll be other times like that. Like tonight. I mean, really, if she and I
get together tonight, it may be—happiness—only a few hours away.” He stamped
his feet once or twice, “I wish I had bought her a present. What’s she going to
think? And on Christmas Eve!” Frank gazed up at the Michigan Avenue bridge.
Julia would be arriving from that direction, he thought. Her office was south
of the river, on La Salle street in the Financial District. If she showed up,
like she said she would, then chances are she’d be reasonably timely—she was
that kind of person. But if she didn’t show up (she’d stood him up ten of the
past ten times they’d arranged to get together) then he’d be left standing in
the cold, waiting at least an hour beyond the scheduled time of their meeting,
just to make sure he hadn’t missed her. “If she doesn’t show, well then, I’ll
just go home. Call it a night.” He cleared some snow that had collected on one
of the iron benches and sat down looking toward the bridge, which she must
surely cross, in order to meet him. He felt a jolt of pain. He closed his eyes,
and lowered his head.
When Julia Rhodes
came running along the Michigan Avenue bridge and down the icy steps to the
walk near the parapet and saw the dark figure of Frank hunched over on bench,
she couldn’t believe her eyes. He was buried beneath two inches of snow, and
looked as if he had frozen.
“Oh
my god! How awful. I’ve killed him.” Julia didn’t know quite what to do. But
she was most certain she had been responsible. “If he’s dead, should I pitch
him into the river? But he’s probably too heavy—especially if he’s frozen.
Should I call an ambulance? But if he’s dead, they’ll blame me. There will be
the awful questions at the police station, and everything that I’d planned with
Mike this evening will be botched, and it’s all because of him!” Julia was
angry and upset all at once. She turned and started running, back up the steps.
A salt truck on Michigan avenue went sloshing by overhead and Julia was hit
with dirty slush and salt pellets. “Oh god how awful!” she screamed. She tried
to wipe herself clean, and when she got to the top of the steps, it had
occurred to her, that several people would know that she’d been here—including
Lana, and the cab driver who’d brought her here—and what would they think when
they read in their Christmas newspaper that the very man she had intended to
meet was discovered dead. “It’s ignominious. Why is this happening to me?”
Julia took two steps down Michigan avenue—in the direction of Mike Wolcott’s
condo—then she stopped, turned around and ran back down the steps to where
Frank (dark and immobile) was sitting, frozen on the bench. She walked up to
him and touched him on the shoulder. He was cold as ice and didn’t move. She
brushed some snow off of him, then touched him again.
“Oh my god he is
dead. Jesus, this is awful.”
As Julia stood
next to Frank she remembered back to her childhood, when, as a fourth grader, a
boy who had fallen in love with her, had wandered over to her house on the
coldest night of the year, and was found dead, frozen to death in the evergreen
bushes beneath her bedroom window. She wished she didn’t have to remember that
just now. Especially out here, in the cold, with another dead man on her hands.
“What am I going to do?” Julia worried. “I can’t believe my life,” she said
out-loud. “I can’t believe how miserable it’s become. All these men dying. And
I’m always involved.” Julia knelt down near Frank and put her head in his lap.
She tried to suppress a sob, but failed, and for a long time she sobbed and
sobbed, and when she thought she could sob no more, she continued to sob.
Frank
didn’t believe in miracles, but he did believe in dreams. In this particular
dream—his last one—he was sitting on a bench near the Chicago River. It was
Christmas Eve and the snow was falling. It was an incredibly beautiful winter
night. In his dream the woman whom he loved, had come to visit him. He didn’t
know why she had come to visit him. He only knew that, while he was sitting on
this bench, she had come and sat down next to him, and told him the saddest
story that he had ever heard. She told him how, when she was a little girl, a
boy by the name of Nicholas Todaeka had come to visit her on the coldest night
of the year and died of cold in a pile of snow near her house. She was only
nine or ten years old at the time. The boy had called her earlier that evening,
just to say he loved her.
“If
you love me so much what will you do for me?”
“I
will do anything for you.”
“Will
you come to my house right now and stand beneath my window.”
“Yes,”
the boy said.
“If
you come to my house and throw a piece of snow at my window I’ll open my drapes
and let you see me.”
“I’ll
come.”
“But
wait a minute. Do you know it’s the coldest night of the year?”
“I’ll
come.”
The
story goes: that night, as she fell asleep she heard pieces of snow being
chucked against her window. “It can’t be him,” she thought to herself. “That
boy cannot possibly love me so much that he’d come this far to see me on the
coldest night of the year.” She thought that maybe she was dreaming. It was so
warm in her bed, it was so cold outside, she dare not move.
