Say My Name Page 3

  Eve has thought about it in a desultory way, but the idea of going to a sex shop is repellent. She’s afraid that if she searches online, ads for sex toys and hookup sites will haunt her screen forever. At times, she has wondered if she has any libido left. Menopause hasn’t really started to show yet, but maybe loss of interest in sex was the first sign.

  The text is from a number she doesn’t recognize, with an area code she doesn’t recognize.

  Hi, Eve. Send me a photo maybe I can help. M

  Micajah.

  For a crazy moment, her imagination spirals into naked selfies, compromised celebrities and politicians. She laughs out loud at herself. The tumultuous return of her libido, yesterday, is disturbing and intoxicating. She’s tired of feeling guilty over Larry. For now, she will put her guilt aside.

  Micajah is simply offering to help. Or rather, it would be simple, if not for that “M”.

  She knows she doesn’t actually need help. The instrument was an impulse buy, and she can easily absorb the sixty dollars it cost. She can stash it away and forget it. Allan can throw it in the garbage when she’s dead.

  She goes to the dining room and opens the case. The choice is plain: save it or send it to its grave. Strange, how this inanimate object has the quality of a living creature. She picks it up with both hands and turns it over, where the splintered wood is pale and raw against the golden varnish that, in this clear light, has the mottled depth of centuries. She cannot trash this; it’s impossible. She wants the wound mended.

  She sets it on the table where the light shows it best and snaps four photos: a wide shot, close-ups of the carved vines and the leaf-blinded Cupid, and the horrible gash in the back. As she waits for the whoosh that tells her the last text has gone, she fits the instrument back into its case. The vines seem to be reaching toward her, to pull her in, to twine her together with Micajah.

  He phones twenty minutes later. She feels her heart pound as the number lights up her phone. She lets it ring, willing herself to calm down, but any longer and it will go to voicemail, so she swipes her finger quickly across the screen.

  “I think I can help,” he says.

  “You know someone who could fix it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you give me his number?”

  “I don’t know if it’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s . . . tricky.”

  “Oh,” she says.

  She feels like a stammering teenager, and hopes he can’t tell. She used to love to picture the physical connection between herself and Larry as they talked: the receiver held against her ear, the spiraling cord linking it to the phone, then the wires and cables threading through the miles to where Larry was, another spiraling cord, and the receiver touching his ear. But the electrons whizzing between her and Micajah leave no trace. She imagines an airy chain of particles and waves, with millions and billions of other chains whizzing through it, as insubstantial as magic.

  “Meet me,” he says.

  She’s on the verge of saying, Can’t you just give me his number? Instead, she says, “When?”

  They settle on the following Thursday. He gives her an address.

  Micajah’s persistence makes Eve feel special in a way she never has before. Larry’s judgment didn’t carry the authority of Micajah’s, even though Micajah is essentially a stranger. She was special to Larry when they were young, but she knew that didn’t make her objectively special. There was nothing extraordinary about her; it was just that she was a good fit for him. He was not extraordinary either, which appealed to her then. She suspected she had a streak of Bill’s wildness in her—she was drawn to stories of adventure, rebellious thoughts that she let loose into the air like helium balloons. When it killed him, she determined to kill it in herself.

  For five days, she is walking on eggshells. She is certain that Micajah does not feel the same.

  3

  The club has no sign. It’s on the Upper East Side, a quiet part of Manhattan. The streets feature well-groomed older women walking very well-groomed small dogs, and occasional uniformed nannies pushing strollers built like mountain bikes. It is the middle of the day, so there are no visible men.

  Two chic, beautiful girls sit behind an ornate desk.

  “I’m meeting Micajah Burnett.”

  “Ms. Armanton?”

  “Yes.” It feels transgressive, admitting to her maiden name.

  “He’s waiting for you in the library.”

  The second girl presses a button. Eve hears a discreet buzz. A doorman opens an inner door. Eve has never been in a place like this: oozing comfort, patinated with money, every surface polished or faux-painted or plushly cushioned.

  She spots Micajah in a corner, beneath the oak paneling, the glow of a lamp reflecting off his dark hair. He’s sitting in an armchair. A backgammon board lies open on a low table. He rises when he sees her.

  “You came.”

  “You thought I wouldn’t?”

  “I figured maybe you said yes just to get me off the phone. You’re too polite to hang up on me.”

  “And too polite not to turn up when I said I would, I guess.”

  Her smile moves quickly beyond politeness, as if Micajah has lassoed it and pulled it close to him.

  “What is this place? It’s quite something.”

  “A club. Favored by older British rock stars, South American drug lords with surgically altered faces, and Russian oligarchs.”

  “And you?”

  “On special occasions.”

  His clothes are scruffy in the way of movie stars caught by paparazzi in the park: jeans, T-shirt, creased cotton jacket. Flip-flops, as on the day they first met. Smooth, square toenails.

  “Two sisters,” he says, following her eyeline. “You get used to getting pedicures.”

  She can’t tell if he’s joking or not. To cover, she focuses on the backgammon board, the pieces set up ready to play on their eight sharp points. It is made of chocolate-colored leather, with points of alternating cream and ocher outlined in gold tooling. The pieces are discs of agate and white marble. It is a board for emperors and plutocrats. She runs her finger along a seam where two colors of leather meet, inset-sewn rather than appliquéd so that there is no obstruction to the pieces sliding across them.

  “Dad told me you’re pretty good.”

  “I was,” she says. “I haven’t played since my brother died.”

  “That must have been tough for you. My dad . . .” He shrugs. We’re different from him, the silence says. No need to say more.

  “I ordered tea,” he says, sitting down.

  “Tea’s perfect.” People who have assignations do not drink tea. It is possible, and acceptable, to drink tea with the offspring of one’s friends.

  He gives her a piece of paper with a name and phone number on it. “This is the luthier I know,” he says. “The man who’d be able to fix your instrument. His name is Yann Logue. He’s eccentric. Don’t be put off by his manner, he’s not trying to be rude. It’s not personal.”

  “I thought you didn’t want me to call him,” Eve says.

  “The best way would be if we just took it to him,” says Micajah. “But you’ve got his number, in case you never want to see me again.”

  She stashes it in her handbag, after a glance to make sure she can read his writing. It’s almost calligraphic, each letter formed with care. She wonders if he always writes like that.

  “Sorry if I offended you the other day,” he says as he pours from a teapot perched on a side table. “Maybe you love roses.”

  “I like climbing roses. But lots of people want formal rose gardens.”

  “Status symbol?”

  “I suppose. Or just lack of imagination.” She takes a sip of tea. “Did you know there’s a rose called Richard M. Nixon?”

  “With the M?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s actually revolting.”

  He reaches behind his chair and brings out a bunch of spectacular, full-blown peonies, a wet paper towel wrapped around their stems.

  “I don’t know if they’ll last long enough for you to get them home.”

  “They’re far more beautiful than roses.”

  A young man— Waiter? Bellboy? Concierge-in-training?—materializes with a vase half full of water. He places it on the side table and departs.

  “Did you arrange that?” she asks Micajah.

  “They’re good here. They think of everything.”

  “You did.” He escapes the accusation rather than denying it, by picking up his dice cup and raising it toward her as if he’s making a toast.

  “Shall we play?”

  “Sure.” She picks up her own cup. He tips one die into his palm and rolls the other. A six. She does the same. A six also. She feels a twinge of embarrassment, as if she’s done it intentionally to flirt with him.

  “Game on,” he says, turning the doubling cube to two.

  The game comes back to her. She finds herself able to move her pieces without counting, to know instinctively when to risk getting hit and when to close ranks and protect. It’s a relief not to have to talk. She lets the rhythm of the game take her, the ebb and flow of the energy across the board, his hand reaching toward her when he moves his pieces and withdrawing as he collects his dice, her hand reaching toward him when it’s her turn. She finds herself staring at his long fingers as they slide the marble discs into place.

  “Double you.”

  He pushes the cube toward her. She looks into his eyes, green flecked with gold. She does not need to look at the board to know that she will say yes. After all, there’s nothing at stake.

  She takes the cube with her left hand, and notices the glint of her wedding ring.

  They play for nearly two hours. The board belongs to the hotel, he tells her; it’s why he invited her here. She asks about his band, and he tells her that their name is Blisskrieg, though they may change it to Metropolis because the label thinks Blisskrieg looks weird in print. They’ve been together for nine years, he says. It’s been a long road to what’s shaping up to be their overnight success. She’s pleased she can see, even in this softly lit room, the beginnings of lines around his eyes.

  “What instrument do you play?” she asks.

  “Lots of them. Fiddle mostly, and cello. Whatever gives the track an edge. Accordion sometimes. I just started learning theremin.”

  “What’s a theremin? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “A man named Léon Theremin invented it. It sounds like a zombie opera singer and it looks like something out of Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory. You play it without touching it. It picks up the electrical energy from your hands.”

  “So it’s like you’re playing the air?”

  “Exactly!” He’s excited that she’s understood so quickly. She is too.

  “I’d love to see that,” she says.

  “I’ll show you,” he says. “Next time.”

  So there will be a next time. It’s agreed.

  She wins an eight-point game and he gives her a high-five. It feels like a stopping place. By tacit agreement, they don’t reset the pieces. He checks the time on his phone.

  “Teatime’s over,” he says. “It’s cocktail hour.”

  “I should be getting home,” she says. Though Larry is not due back from his business trip until tomorrow, and the cat can look after itself.

  “Just one?”

  He stands, and holds out his hand to her.

  “Not here?”

  “Kind of,” he says. “And kind of not.”

  Again, that feeling of the horse under her—not bucking, but picking up speed. Yes, she should be going home, back to the safety of her home and the sanctity of her marriage vows. But there are reins this time; she can control it.

  “All right,” she says. “One.”

  He grabs a backpack from the floor and, after checking that nobody is watching, leads her to an unobtrusive door for staff only, ushering her through into a tiny space with another door blocking the way. He digs in a pocket, fishes out an ID card on a lanyard, and slides it through the reader.

  “You work here?” Eve asks, happy that this extravagant venue now makes some kind of sense.

  “Art deliveries,” he explains in a low voice, almost a whisper. “People actually live here. The kind of people who don’t want visitors to come inside their apartment, and don’t want to go outside. Too famous. Too wanted, in every sense of the word. They buy art, of course. Very expensive, large art, which somebody has to deliver. Which would be me.”

  “So we’re sneaking in?”

  Eve is the kind of person whose heart races when she sees a cop car, even if she isn’t speeding.

  “Does it bother you?”

  The thought of getting caught does, but she left caution behind when she left her house hours ago, and adrenaline is fueling her now. She feels like a kid sneaking into her parents’ bedroom when they’re out for the evening. She will discover something forbidden. She will learn secrets.

  Micajah conducts her quickly through the service passageways to an elevator, and presses the button for the highest floor. Once the doors close, he speaks in a normal voice. “This”— he gestures with the ID card, —“is because I got a temp pass one time. Complicated installation piece, lots of in and out. The night shift was on duty when I left and they forgot to ask for it back. So later, I took it to this guy I know.”

  “What kind of guy?”

  “The kind of guy who can turn a day card into an all-access platinum wonderpass.” He grins at her. “The advantages of the frontier lifestyle. Brooklyn. Not the fancy part.”

  When they emerge, he leads her down a scruffy corridor to a door marked Fire Exit. He pushes a horizontal bar to open it. Concrete stairs lead up to another door at the top.

  “Close your eyes.”

  Eve hears the click of the bar being pressed, and the squeak of hinges. She feels a faint breeze on her face. Micajah takes her hand lightly.

  “Watch the step.”

  Eve feels with her foot: it’s just a high lintel. She steps across it.

  “Keep them closed, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Micajah lets go of her hand. Behind her the door creaks closed. She hears the long rasp of a zipper, things being pulled from the backpack.

  “You can open them now.”

  They are on a wide expanse of roof, punctuated by little towers that enclose the various vents and chimneys of the building. The rooftop itself is paved with terracotta tiles. It’s the tallest building in the vicinity; all around them, the sky is a haze of pink.

  Micajah squats next to a spread-out blanket. On it are a couple of miniature alcohol bottles, two conical glasses, and a rather battered cocktail shaker.

  “I hope you like martinis.”

  “I haven’t had a martini in years.” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, Eve regrets them. The decade since she’s drunk a martini makes her feel old. Even worse is the thought that martinis are what older people drink, and that must be why he is making her one.

  “Retro chic,” he says. “Actually, it’s just because I’m showing off. I won an award for my martini when I was bartending in Berlin a while back. I brought a bottle of white wine too, if you’d like that better.”

  “I’ll stick with the martini,” she says. “It goes with the sunset.”

  “Lemon or olive?” he asks, holding up two Ziplock bags.

  “Both.”

  “Live wild,” he says, bending over the drinks. His shirt has come untucked and Eve longs to tuck it back in, to feel the knobs of his spine, the vertical ridges of muscle flanking it.

  He hands her a glass. She takes a small sip. Alcohol will only dull her senses, which are on fire.

  He leads her to the crenellated parapet that rings the roof. She knows the architectural style: Strawberry Hill Gothic, which was used in New York only occasionally, about a century after it was popular in England. She’s been studying classic English gardens for a project at the Trenton Country Club. Her mind races to those houses: Strawberry Hill, Cholmondeley Castle. Small square windowpanes. Banks of lavender. Ranunculus. Agapanthus. She distracts herself with the complicated words, steady things to hold on to.

  “Blows your mind, if you let it.”

  His voice brings her back. She’s never considered wonder to be her choice before. Okay, she thinks: I’ll let it. Right here, right now, I am on a rooftop with a crazily handsome young man who is holding my hand and showing me the view of Central Park as if he is Arthur and this is his kingdom.

  Eve stares out at the expanse, a thousand colors of saturated green after a rainy spring. The sprawl of the Metropolitan Museum. The vast amounts of time and effort and imagination and ingenuity that created this city. The largesse that placed an enormous public park at its heart.

  “Thank you for bringing me here,” she says.

  He sets his glass down on the parapet. It is a sign which, despite the decades since a man has flirted with her, she can read perfectly.

  This is the time to run away, she thinks, to call it a mistake, to race back to home and safety. If I don’t, home will never feel safe again.

  Then that’s the way it will be, she decides. Recklessness is giving her a rush more thrilling than anything she’s ever felt. And there’s a certainty about it, a total lack of fear. The horse is galloping, and she cannot fall off.

  She sets her own glass down on the next crenellation over. Those glasses had better not fall, she thinks. They could kill someone.

  Micajah’s mouth meets hers. His lips are soft and strong, pressing hers open then pulling away, an invitation to her mouth to push back against his. Instead, she draws back.

  “You’re young enough to be my son,” she says.

  “So?”

  He covers her mouth again, his tongue reaching just the tip of hers, caressing her and then withdrawing, seeming to pull her tongue back along with his. She thinks: I am inside him. She has never thought that before, kissing a man. It feels delicious to follow him so closely. Her instincts flow with an ease she never knew was in her. The lead and the follow of their kissing is seamless. She feels their breath merge, the air flowing between them warmed by their bodies. He is breathing me in, she thinks. I am breathing him in. His DNA is in my veins.