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Authors: Avery Corman
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the waiter came for a dessert order and they allowed the somber mood to dissipate.
He wanted her to hear some jazz in a club he liked and they walked for fifteen minutes through twisting, narrow streets to a part of the city where no one else was walking. Muffled sounds of television sets played in apartments, dogs barked, and notably, cats were squealing in a back alley, an unpleasant reminder. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable on this eerie walk.
“Wouldn’t a cab have worked a little better?”
“Walking off the meal. Good for the digestion.”
“Is that what this is? Richard, are we lost?”
“I’m leading the way. A few minutes more.”
The buildings were shabbier the farther they walked, it was not even 10:00 P.M. and they hadn’t seen anyone on the streets for several blocks, and as they turned the corner a half-dozen teenagers in baggy pants, their baseball caps turned around hip-hop style, came swaggering directly toward them, insolent, menacing. She squeezed Richard’s hand tightly. Nobody else was on the street, just the two of them and the teenagers drawing closer. He held her tightly by the hand and walked directly into the middle of the group, staring them down, meeting their insolence with his boldness. They parted and he led Ronnie through, around the corner, and the danger was over.
“Street stuff. A thousand stare downs when I was growing up.”
“That was dangerous, Richard. What are we doing here?”
“Going to hear some jazz.”
They walked another couple of blocks and a neon sign over a doorway announced, BERRY’S JAZZ. He registered no surprise, not a question in his mind that he would find it.
The group in the club was a piano, bass, guitar, and drums, a soft, elegant sound, different from the Dixieland that permeated most of the French Quarter. It took her a while to settle down and absorb the music, ill at ease from the walk there, wondering if he had placed her in danger with his nonchalance. On the other hand, he never gave off the least indication of any danger, and ultimately, there wasn’t a problem; they were listening to jazz, as promised.
With the flight down, the long day, the tension of the nightcap portion, she fell asleep shortly after getting into bed. He aroused her in the night and took her, and in the morning the sex seemed dreamlike.
When he informed her he wasn’t returning to New York with her, but going to Portland, Oregon, to interview a psychologist who specialized in deprogramming cult members, and then was going to conduct interviews with the people the psychologist treated, she was not surprised.
“Who is this for?” she asked.
“Same foundation as the Mexico work. After that there’s a seminar in San Diego. Wish I could be back in New York. Keep working and time will fly, you’ll see.”
The pattern had revealed itself. At this point he was not someone she would be able to count on for a consistent social life. She could count on him for the sex. Not for a Saturday night movie and hamburgers. Unless he happened to be in New York. Unless there wasn’t anyone else. Teasingly, or possibly more than a tease; insistently, she extracted his cell phone number, which she didn’t have, Richard warning her he used it for emergencies largely and didn’t always check his messages. E-mail was the best way to reach him. She had just slept with a man, again, who traveled, and who didn’t answer his phone.
Part of his deal was a car to the airport and they went to the airport together. The driver stopped at her departure area first. “Richard, a question. How many of me are there?”
“That’s too self-deprecating, Ronnie. There aren’t any more of you. I do move around a lot. It’s the nature of my work. I’ll be back in New York in about a week and a half. Call you first thing,” which he emphasized with a serious kiss on the lips.
Nancy was at Bob’s apartment. Ronnie unpacked from the weekend and went out to buy some ingredients to
He wanted her to hear some jazz in a club he liked and they walked for fifteen minutes through twisting, narrow streets to a part of the city where no one else was walking. Muffled sounds of television sets played in apartments, dogs barked, and notably, cats were squealing in a back alley, an unpleasant reminder. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable on this eerie walk.
“Wouldn’t a cab have worked a little better?”
“Walking off the meal. Good for the digestion.”
“Is that what this is? Richard, are we lost?”
“I’m leading the way. A few minutes more.”
The buildings were shabbier the farther they walked, it was not even 10:00 P.M. and they hadn’t seen anyone on the streets for several blocks, and as they turned the corner a half-dozen teenagers in baggy pants, their baseball caps turned around hip-hop style, came swaggering directly toward them, insolent, menacing. She squeezed Richard’s hand tightly. Nobody else was on the street, just the two of them and the teenagers drawing closer. He held her tightly by the hand and walked directly into the middle of the group, staring them down, meeting their insolence with his boldness. They parted and he led Ronnie through, around the corner, and the danger was over.
“Street stuff. A thousand stare downs when I was growing up.”
“That was dangerous, Richard. What are we doing here?”
“Going to hear some jazz.”
They walked another couple of blocks and a neon sign over a doorway announced, BERRY’S JAZZ. He registered no surprise, not a question in his mind that he would find it.
The group in the club was a piano, bass, guitar, and drums, a soft, elegant sound, different from the Dixieland that permeated most of the French Quarter. It took her a while to settle down and absorb the music, ill at ease from the walk there, wondering if he had placed her in danger with his nonchalance. On the other hand, he never gave off the least indication of any danger, and ultimately, there wasn’t a problem; they were listening to jazz, as promised.
With the flight down, the long day, the tension of the nightcap portion, she fell asleep shortly after getting into bed. He aroused her in the night and took her, and in the morning the sex seemed dreamlike.
When he informed her he wasn’t returning to New York with her, but going to Portland, Oregon, to interview a psychologist who specialized in deprogramming cult members, and then was going to conduct interviews with the people the psychologist treated, she was not surprised.
“Who is this for?” she asked.
“Same foundation as the Mexico work. After that there’s a seminar in San Diego. Wish I could be back in New York. Keep working and time will fly, you’ll see.”
The pattern had revealed itself. At this point he was not someone she would be able to count on for a consistent social life. She could count on him for the sex. Not for a Saturday night movie and hamburgers. Unless he happened to be in New York. Unless there wasn’t anyone else. Teasingly, or possibly more than a tease; insistently, she extracted his cell phone number, which she didn’t have, Richard warning her he used it for emergencies largely and didn’t always check his messages. E-mail was the best way to reach him. She had just slept with a man, again, who traveled, and who didn’t answer his phone.
Part of his deal was a car to the airport and they went to the airport together. The driver stopped at her departure area first. “Richard, a question. How many of me are there?”
“That’s too self-deprecating, Ronnie. There aren’t any more of you. I do move around a lot. It’s the nature of my work. I’ll be back in New York in about a week and a half. Call you first thing,” which he emphasized with a serious kiss on the lips.
Nancy was at Bob’s apartment. Ronnie unpacked from the weekend and went out to buy some ingredients to
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