I look around the room. Franklin is gone. The things around me depress me, seem to define my pitiful existence, everything is so boring: my typewriter—no cartridges; my easel—no canvas; my bookshelf—no books; a check from Dad; an airline ticket to St. Tropez someone crammed in my box; a note about Parents’ Weekend being cancelled; the new poems I’m writing, crumpled by the bed; the new story Franklin has left me called “Saturn Has Eyes”; the half-empty bottle of red wine (Franklin bought it; Jordan, too sweet) we drank last night; the ashtrays; the cigarettes in the ashtrays; the Bob Marley tape unwound—it all depresses me immensely. I attempt to return to the nightmare. I can’t. Look over at the wine bottles standing on the floor, the empty pack of Gauloises (Franklin smokes them; how pretentious). I can’t decide whether to reach for the wine or the cigarettes or turn on the radio. Thoroughly confused I stumble into the hallway, Reggae music coming thump thump from the living room downstairs. It’s supposed to be light out, but then I realize it’s four-thirty in the afternoon.
I’m leaving Franklin. I told him last night, before we went to bed.
“Are you kidding?” he asked.
“I’m not,” I said.
“Are you high?” he asked.
“Beside the point,” I said. Then we had sex.
PAUL I was thinking about taking another shower, styling my hair or calling Sean or jerking off or doing any number of things, when I heard someone trying to get into the room. I stood next to the door and heard my mother and Mrs. Jared babbling about something.
“Oh Mimi, help me with this damn lock.” It was my mother bitching.
“Jesus, Eve,” I heard Mrs. Jared’s whiny voice answer back. “Where’s the bellboy?”
I ran over to the bed and flung myself upon it and placed a pillow over my head, trying to look casual. I looked ridiculous and stood up, tentatively.
“Damnit, Mimi, this is the wrong key. Try the other room,” I heard, muffled, a complaint.
My mother knocked on the door, asking “Paul? Paul, are you in there?”
I didn’t know if I should say anything, then realized that I had to and said, “Yes? Who is it, please?”
“It’s your mother, for God’s sake,” she said, sounding exasperated. “Who do you think it is?”
“Oh,” I said. “Hi.”
“Could you please help me open this door?” she pleaded.
I walked over to the door and turned the knob, trying to pull it open, but my mother had screwed it up somehow and had locked it from the outside.
“Mother?” Be patient, patient.
“Yes, Paul?”
“You locked it.”
Pause.
“I did?”
“You did.”
“Oh my.”
“Why don’t you unlock it?” I suggested.
“Oh.” There was a silence. “Mimi, get over here. My son tells me that I should unlock the door.”
“Hello, Paul dear,” Mrs. Jared said through the door.
“Hi, Mrs. Jared,” I called back.
“It appears that this door is locked,” she commented.
I pulled on it again but the door wouldn’t open.
“Mother?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Is the key in the lock?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Why don’t you turn it to the, let’s say … left? Okay?”
“To the left?”
“Oh, why not.”
“Try it Eve,” Mrs. Jared urged.
I stopped pulling the door. There was a click. The door opened.
“Darling,” my mother screamed, looking wigged out of her mind, coming toward me, her arms outstretched. She looked quite pretty, actually. Perhaps too much make-up, but thinner, and she’s dressed to the hilt, her jewelry’s clanking all over the place, but it was all in an elegant way, not tacky. Her hair, brunette, darker than I remembered, had been stylishly cut and it gave her the appearance of looking much younger. Or maybe it was that eye job, or the eye tuck, she had last summer, before we went to Europe, that gave me this impression.
“Mother,” I said, standing still.
She hugged me and said, “Oh, it’s been so long.”
“Five weeks?”
“Oh that’s a long time, dear,” she said.
“Not really.”
“Say hello to Mrs. Jared,” she said.
“Oh Paul, you look so cute.” Mrs. Jared said and hugged me also.
“Mrs. Jared,” I said.