Chapter 16 ~ A Darkening Sky
March 30, 2010
We sat in Central Park watching the sun descend into smog and calamitous traffic, dipping behind the trees that rim Sheep Meadow; Ivvy and I high as kites, fluttering in the breeze, flitting from idea to idea, laughing at each other, with each other.
It was our anniversary. A year previously, I had been walking through Washington Square when this blonde woman asked if I was carrying. Every day of that year had been interminable, every hour had witnessed a gut-wrenching wrestling match between the twin poles of my pinball life: the needle, my parents. Matter and anti-matter; addiction and anti-addiction, magnetism and repulsion.
We go together ‘cos opposites attract…
“What was that?” Ivvy asked, looking at me.
“Huh?”
She snorted laughter.
“What?”
“You sang something. Just then.”
“Did I?”
“Yeah, sounded like Janet Jackson or something like that.”
“Oh,” I nodded as if I understood what she was on about but didn’t say anything else. I stared at space, stared at trees, stared at the sun disappearing behind the buildings of the Upper West Side.
Ivvy’s hand snaked into mine and she leant her head on my shoulder.
I stared at the New York sunset. Taxis blared over on Fifth; smell of horseshit from carriages that circle the park all day.
Up to that moment, Ivvy had never shown much in the way of affection toward me; none other than junkie solidarity.
“Mmmmm…” She snuggled against my shoulder.
And I was close to crumbling, biting back the words.
I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know what to do.
* * *
“One day, Kenny, you won’t be saying that,” Sanderson winked at him.
“I will,” the boy implored.
“Trust me,” the old man winked, “you won’t. What do you think, Jamie?”
Sitting over the other side of the set, flicking through a magazine, Jamie looked up at the little boy and old fruit, conspiring in the make-believe dining room.
“What do I think about what?” she asked.
“Kenny here says that he won’t ever have a girlfriend.”
“Ever,” Kenny added, just to make sure.
Jamie smiled at him, her face pure indulgence. All of them loved that little boy, more so every day. In the same glance, she couldn’t help but notice how Sanderson leered back at her; subconscious response. She turned away, ignoring him as best she could. She’d had three years of his lasciviousness, his barely concealed lust, all the time coming ever closer to speaking with Joel about it, making a scene, getting the director to deal with it, calling in some of the favours she was owed for making this the huge series it had become.
For now, though, she sought escape in turning her attention back to Kenny, his blue eyes, his cherubic nose, angelic smile.
“Sorry,” she said, smiling, “ it ain’t gonna happen like that, love.”
He frowned in response, flushing slightly.
“Seriously,” Jamie added, nodding down at herself, “one day, you’re gonna love these things.”
“Eurgh,” Ken replied.
“She’s right, lad,” Sanderson chimed in, “you will love them.”
“Unless you’re queer like that old poof,” Jamie sniggered to see Sanderson’s face at this; his carefully protected, projected masculinity.
“What’s queer?” Kenny asked of his screen-family, even giving a little shrug, palms-up, raising his eyebrows with the question.
“That,” Joel said as he walked on set, appearing from the direction of the edit suite, “is enough of that. Time enough to learn the birds and the bees when you go to big school. Right now, we’ve got a fucking show to put together, all right?”
Jamie and Sanderson looked at each other, suddenly in collusive world-weary solidarity at the director’s habitual bad mood.
Joel had only got worse over the years.
Jamie stood, dropping the magazine back where it had been left by the set designer; all belongings seemed to be props these days. As she did so, she broke eye contact with Sanderson.
The old man chose to watch her stand, staring at the way her various curves pressed at her clothing, watching the way her nipples made slight peaks against the material of her t-shirt, staring until he feared that to walk would be to admit his lust all too obviously.
“Come on then Kenny, my beautiful boy,” Jamie said, walking over to him and putting her arm around his shoulders, giving his head a little rub. As they walked off set, she called back over her shoulder.
“Are you coming, Martin?”
“Not… Er… Not just yet,” he replied, voice on the verge of breaking, throat too dry.
He sat.
Sat in his chair until his untimely erection had faded.
* * *
I pulled my shoulder out from under her head and she fell against me slightly.
“Ow! What did you do that for?” Ivvy asked.
“Well, you…”
“I what?”
“You…”
“You asshole! What did you have to go and do that for? It was nice, you know, lying here with you and watching the sun go down and then you have to go and do something like that. You asshole! You fucking asshole!”
Her mouth running a mile a minute.
And she was right, it had been nice. But it had also been… What? Threatening? Was that it? No, not exactly. But I’d been shaking. I tried to explain.
“Ivvy, I…”
But she’d turned to face me and now lunged forward, pushing me backwards onto the grass, her face huge as her mouth clamped over mine, her jaw working, tongue darting into my mouth, breath tasting of coffee and she was heavy against me and hot and the day was ending and the stench of horseshit pervaded everything and her tongue was licking the back of my teeth and I wanted to breathe, I really wanted to breathe, all I wanted to do was breathe, I really wanted to…
I pushed against her, so that she rolled back and away from me, disappearing from sight momentarily. I stared at the darkening sky overhead and took in a huge, whooping breath
She didn’t move.
I didn’t move.
Neither of us said anything for an age.
Finally, I heard her voice, almost a whisper.
“Sorry,” she said, “I shouldn’t have. Shouldn’t…”
“Don’t worry, you couldn’t help yourself.”
She sat up.
“What?”
I shook my head, unsure of what I’d even said.
“I couldn’t help myself? Did you really just say that?”
She stood up, towering over me.
I shook my head again.
She picked up her bag, rummaging around in it until she found a hairbrush to drag through her dirty blonde raffia hair while she searched for the right words.
“I’m going home,” she said, “are you coming?”
I thought for a moment and then nodded, lifting my hand up so that she could help me to my feet.
“Yeah, right!” she derided and started walking south, leaving me on my backside surrounded by grass and horseshit.
“Ivvy!” I shouted, getting to my feet. “Wait for me!”
She didn’t.
I ran to catch up.
