Send Me Away

She was looking into her coffee, twirling it with her spoon.

“Send me away,” she said. “I am a devil.”

* * * *

They had met in the Museum of Art. She was admiring a Monet, leaning forward to see it more closely when her heel slipped on the polished floor and she staggered forward, face first, her face just touching the painting.

“You are not supposed to touch the paintings, especially with your nose,” he laughed. She was embarrassed, and then he was too, for her and for himself.

“Are you ok?” he asked, but she ignored him and moved down the gallery to the next painting, Holbein’s “Peasants at Work.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh.”

“How could you not laugh?” she said. “I would have laughed myself if I didn’t feel like such an idiot!” She tried to look serious, but he had a nice smile, and it made her smile too.

Later they went for coffee in the café. They had two each, and by the time they finished the second, now cool and sweet (they had each put in three sugars, absentmindedly and one at a time, following each other like mimes, all the while looking at each other and talking) two hours had passed and the sun was lowering over the park. It was cold for the first day of spring, the trees had not yet bloomed, and one could still see deep into the barren woods that lined the park meadow.

“That was fun, wasn’t it?”

“No,” she said. “My nose still hurts.” She chuckled and cuffed him on the shoulder lightly with her fist like a boxer punching a bag. He faked a wince and held the spot with his other hand as if rubbing the pain away.

“Can I see you again?” he asked. His face softened and a little smile passed across it.

“Why? You like laughing at me?”

“No. With you.”

She lowered her eyes so that she was looking, chest high, at the tan shearling leather of his coat and the lamb’s wool lining peeled back at the lapels. The chilled air carried the scent of the leather to her, and it smelled good.

“I come here most Thursdays,” she began, “I make a point of taking the afternoon off and doing something for myself. I never understood how people can come to this museum and walk through it in an afternoon and think they have seen everything and then not come back for years! I have been here nine times since December, and I have only seen a quarter of the Masters. One day I sat on a bench in front of three Van Gogh’s and didn’t move for four hours! So, I come here many Thursdays in the afternoon.”

He looked as if he was going to speak but she put her finger to his lips.

“No, I won’t give you my number, or my address for that matter. You are nice, and I liked today, but I am sure you make friends easily and so that’s natural. When you go home, you’ll laugh at me for falling over. But I am here most Thursdays.” She had been running on, talking without let up and not letting him get in a word. Then she turned away and darted across Fifth and down 86th Street toward the Lex. She looked back as she descended the subway stairway, and he was still looking at her.

He came the following Thursday, and the next, but she wasn’t there. The next week he couldn’t come, and he was sure that she did. She was there, he thought, wandering through the galleries, looking straight at the paintings and, from time to time, and from the corners of her eyes, first left and then right, for him. Why this was happening? He didn’t know. She was right. He had many friends, many girl friends. He had even met many of them at the same museum, Columbia grad students mostly, working on their course requirements. Three or four girls would get together and share an apartment. The Upper East Side was still affordable in the 1990s. He got to know the apartments and the girls. But this was different; or at least he felt differently about her. He didn’t think she shared an apartment with three or four other girls.

* * * *

She put her key in the security gate, opened it, and entered the vestibule of the brownstone. Her apartment was one flight up and she could hear the television playing as she approached the door. When she opened it, she could see Sarah sitting in front of it but not watching, reading The Times instead. Sarah looked up.

“Did you enjoy your day?” asked Sarah.

“Yes, very nice. I went to the Metropolitan again, although I originally thought I would take in the Frick. But the Met just has the best things, and I didn’t want to waste any time. Have you eaten?”

“I thought I’d wait for you. There’s gravy,” said Sarah, pointing toward the small, galley kitchen in the apartment. Sarah was German, but she had spent time in Sicily and later lived with a family in Brooklyn and learned to cook there. They were Italian and called tomato sauce “gravy’, and so did Sarah.

They ate in silence. Sarah read the Times entertainment section and mentioned a movie or play review every once in a while. Chelsea went through the mail and catalogues. Later, they picked up their plates, rinsed them in the sink, and went to their books. At 10, Sarah kissed her on the top of the head and went to bed. Chelsea put her book down at 11, went to the bath, undressed, and put on her night clothes. She looked in, and Sarah was asleep. She went back to the bath, undressed again, and looked at herself in the mirror. She was still pretty. Her figure was nice, and her skin clear and taut. The boy at the museum was probably about 30, a few years younger than she was. He was a nice-looking man. She actually liked him. And he liked her. She could tell.

* * * *

“We meet again!” he exclaimed.

She was almost about to leave the museum and was in the gift shop—a person cannot leave a museum without passing through the gift shop—opening a Godiva chocolate bar she had just bought at the checkout. With all the books, she was embarrassed to leave the store without buying something, so chocolate it was.

She feigned ignorance.

“Do I know you, sir?” she said, with a quizzical look. For only an instant he was taken aback; then he recovered.

“Don’t you dare play with me,” he scolded, laughingly. “I’ve been getting eye strain looking for you here. I thought you came every Thursday?”

“Actually, I come on Wednesdays. I told you Thursday because I didn’t want you to find me.”

He looked at her seriously, to see if she was telling him the truth. She was looking down, her head covered in a beret. Then she looked up, under the beret, and there was a sly smile in her eyes, and a little smile on her lips.

“You vixen!” he yelped. Then he put his arms around her and pulled her to him. She in a car coat, he in his jacket, he could only feel her shoulders under his arms, and almost nothing else. Her breasts, wherever they were, were just pressure on his chest. Her hips were just barely touching his. He was excited by her, but there was no way to show it.

She felt his hands along her back. He was a stranger, and she knew nothing about him; but she was surprised to feel she wanted to press herself closer to him. But she didn’t.

He brought his hands down, and she grabbed both of his arms, put her thumbs in the turn of his elbows, and pushed him gently away.

“I don’t usually give my dates a hug until after they have bought dinner,” she said.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Famished,” she lied.

“Say where,” he said. “Anywhere.”

“Le Perigord” she said.

“I don’t know it,” he said. “Is it nice?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I’m sure you will love it.”

* * * *

The restaurant was 30 blocks away, near the East River on 52nd Street. They walked slowly, he with a work folder under his arm, she with her hands clasped behind her back. Their strides didn’t match. He was tall and had a long, straight step. She walked with her toes turned in, sliding one foot after the other. He tried to slow down. She tried to speed up. They kept pace with each other.

“I really did come to the museum three weeks in a row,” he said. “I believed you.”

“I didn’t lie,” she said. “I just exaggerated. Who goes to a museum every week? I mean, its April, and the Yankees are in town. I go there. And I go to the theater. Its New York! Bloomingdale’s is open every day. If I just went to the museum every Thursday, I’d be a certified weirdo.”

It was dark by the time they reached the modest awning that sheltered the restaurant’s entrance. The simple doorway opened into a paneled dining room with plush carpets and chairs, and a gaggle of attentive waiters who escorted the couple to their table.

He looked around the elegant room, at the expensive draperies and fresh flowers.

“Do you come here often?” he said and laughed. “No, that’s not a pick-up line. Seriously, do you eat here a lot?”

“Not more than once a month,” she lied.

Le Perigord was a celebrity destination, a Michelin standout. She had only heard about it. She tried to look disinterested. “It’s a very nice place,” she said, with a knowing tone, “but New York has so many of them.”

“May I get you a cocktail,” asked their waiter. His name, he told them, was Maurice, a middle-aged gentleman in a bow tie and cutaway jacket.

Marc had not yet looked at the menu, and ordered his usual vodka, straight up.

“And you, Madam?”

“Pomerol,” said Chelsea.

“I’m sorry, Madam, but we do not have Pomerol by the glass,” said the waiter.

She quickly opened the wine list and scanned the reds.

“Number 233,” she said

“Chateau Le Bon Pasteur,” intoned the waiter. “An excellent choice!”

Marc looked at Chelsea and smiled. “So, you are going to order wine for me? How modern are we!”

“It’s a good wine,” said Chelsea. “You drink red, don’t you? I didn’t mean to presume, but French food really should have red wine. The whites are fun, but good food requires red wine, I think.”

“Suppose I order fish?” asked Marc.

“The fish won’t know the difference,” said Chelsea, with a smile.

Marc pulled the wine list across the table, flipped it open, and ran his index finger along the list of French reds. No. 233 was $200.00, among the most expensive bottles on the list. He closed the leather-bound booklet and pushed it to the center of the table.

“Do you also intend to order dinner for me?” he asked.

“Can your ego stand it?” she replied, arrogantly.

“Be my guest—or, rather, I’m yours,” said Marc.

“Monsieur” is my guest,” Chelsea informed Maurice.

The menus arrived and were all in French. There were no prices on Marc’s copy. Marc mentioned it to Chelsea and joked “The food must be free.”

Chelsea had had a smattering of French in high school, and some words on the menu struck a chord. “Bouef” meant beef, she knew, and veal was “veau.” She confidently ordered Bouef Provencale for Marc and Ris de Veau for herself, as she was partial to veal.

The sommelier brought out the wine and made a fanfare of its presentation. He carefully stripped the seal over the cork, inserted the corkscrew, and gently pulled the cork from the bottle. He placed the cork in front of Chelsea, but she deferred to Marc, who picked it up, held it to his nose, and nodded knowingly to the sommelier. The sommelier poured a small measure into a cup hanging from a chain around his neck, sipped it, and announced, “I like it, and I hope you will, too.”

The sommelier poured a measure into Marc’s glass and stepped back. Marc swirled the wine in his glass, brought it to his nose, and inhaled. The intoxicating aroma reached to the back of his nostrils. Marc took a sip, held it in his mouth, and swallowed.

“Magnifique!” he announced.

“You speak French?” quizzed Chelsea.

“Only a little,” said Marc,” I only lived there for a year.”

Chelsea was taken back.

“Where?” she asked.

“Paris, where else?” said Marc. “You have been there, of course.”

Chelsea knew better than to lie this time. “No, not yet. But I love the food.”

The waiters brought out their entrees. Marc’s beef reeked of wine and onions, and fingerling potatoes completed the plate. Chelsea’s dish was pink with paprika, with French beans on the side. It did not look like veal, as she knew veal to look.

“You surprise me,” said Marc. “Sweetbreads are an acquired taste, and not usually a lady’s dish.”

Chelsea looked at her plate. The flesh on it had a jellied texture, like scallops, a seafood not to her liking. She carved a small morsel with her fork and brought it to her mouth. Apart from the paprika, and the sauce around it, it had no taste.

“How is it?” asked Marc.

“Delicious,” she lied.

Marc dove into his entrée, peeling the stewed flesh from the bone and moving his head side to side approvingly as he swallowed one mouthful after another. Chelsea picked at the sweetbreads, nibbled at a half forkful, and added a buttered roll from the breadbasket to help her down her meal. Marc sat back and discarded his utensils across his plate.

“Marvelous!” he exclaimed. “I would gain 20 pounds a week if I ate here as often as you do.” He looked at Chelsea and his expression changed.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

She had paled, and eating more sweetbreads was not going to happen.

“I think you must excuse me,” she said.

“Of course,” he said, “Can I help?”

“No, no. Just some distress. I’ll be right back.”

She rushed down the corridor where the comfort stations were lined up and entered the “Mesdames.” To her surprise, she calmed when alone, and the urge to heave passed. She sipped water from the faucet, brushed down her dress and hair, and freshened her face. Confident again, she left the bathroom and returned to the dining room.

Maurice had re-folded her napkin and Marc’s so that they were as pristine as when she first sat down.

“Monsieur” said to tell you he was called away,” said Maurice. “He said you would understand.”

Chelsea looked at the table and at the empty plate of beef and the plate of sweetbreads. On the bread plate Marc had left his business card.

“Yes, I do. May I have some coffee?”

Maurice bowed slightly and turned away

“…and the check.”

Maurice nodded again and turned on his heel. He was back in an instant.

“It was my pleasure,” he groveled. Pleasure cost $351.00, before the tip.

* * * *

“What’s a seven-letter word for Chinese citrus fruit—ends in “t?” asked Sarah.

“Kumquat,” Chelsea replied, without looking up.

“Of course,” said Sarah. “I should have known.”

Chelsea shuffled the house bills in her hand, her checkbook by her side. Fortunately, there was money in the bank. Sarah made over $50,000 as a city schoolteacher and Chelsea’s freelance editing, criticism and essays brought in another $50,000. It was a comfortable life. The apartment was subsidized—Sarah had friends who knew how well-off professionals could get nice rent stabilized apartments reserved for the less well-off—and Chelsea’s literary friends offered a social life that New York City schoolteachers might not otherwise come to know.

They had met at Marist. Sarah, an adjunct in the drama department, and Chelsea, a single face in a class of 26 others. In the fall and winter, it was only in class. But when spring arrived, and the snow melted, and foliage turned green and the budding trees started to obscure the view of the mighty Hudson River, they found themselves walking together on field trips, at picnic tables during coffee breaks and lunch, and after cultural events on campus at the stadium and field house venues. It took a long time, but eventually, after many walks and talks, they were in Sarah’s small apartment, after dinner and drinks with friends, in the bedroom Sarah invited her in to see the sun take its rest behind the western hills. It was in that streaming light, and the pink wispy western clouds in the window, that Sarah placed her arm on Chelsea’s shoulder, and leaned her head there. The sunlight through the window was warm and Chelsea was drowsy with its warmth and the wine. She inclined her head toward Sarah, and they fell together.

* * * *

It was raining. She had no coat, and her clothes were soaked and clinging to her. The taxis kept passing her by until one--bright orange in color, not yellow—pulled to the curb. She quickly opened the back door and ducked inside. The rain had straightened her hair, and her wet clothes puddled the vinyl upholstery and made her feel cold. It took a moment before she realized she was not alone, and that Marc was sitting next to her, behind the driver’s side of the partition.

“Let me dry you off,” he said.

He reached over, a soft towel in his hand. He gently wiped the rain from her face and hair, then moved to the top of her shoulders. He spread the towel, and held it against her chest, first along the side of her ribs, then across the front. The motion and feel of the towel made her gasp. She moved slowly in the seat, her hips slipping from side to side. Marc moved closer. She could feel the heat of his breath….

She woke with a start and sat bolt upright in the bed. “Ahhhg!” A guttural sound sprang from her mouth.

Sarah was over her, her arms around Chelsea’s shoulders.

“Are you alright?” said Sarah, worry in her face.

“Yes, yes. Just a dream.” Chelsea rubbed her eyes and looked at the clock on the dresser alongside the bed she shared with Sarah. Sarah squeezed her closer and stroked her hair.

“You silly goose,” said Sarah. “You’ve got to slow down that brain of yours.”

Chelsea exhaled and stretched out on her back on the bed. The dream left her flushed, her heart racing. But it was only a dream.

* * * *

“There’s a call for you on line 4,” said the receptionist. “A ‘Ms. Fitzgerald.’”

Marc shut down the intercom button and spoke into the receiver.

“Fitzgerald? Did she say what it’s about?”

“Something about dinner. I’m sorry, Mr. Edwards,” the receptionist said apologetically, “I have other calls. She’s on 4.”

Marc picked up the phone, and Chelsea was on the other side.

She was contrite.

“I’m sorry,” said Chelsea, “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“I wasn’t embarrassed,” said Marc. “But you needed a lesson. Why did you think you had to put on a face for me? I like you, and I thought you could tell.”

Marc couldn’t see, but Chelsea blushed.

“I just want to say I’m sorry. It was not nice of me to play with you. We had had a nice time, and I thought you could take a ribbing. I didn’t know Ris de veau was going to turn my stomach! My God! How do the French eat that stuff?

“One forkful at a time,” said Marc. “Did you really taste it?”

“Well,” said Chelsea, “maybe not. The minute I saw it I knew I couldn’t eat it.”

“You have to get over that,” said Marc. “The best things in life are not always pretty to the eye, or taste.”

Chelsea sensed the condescension in Marc’s tone.

“Have you actually eaten those little pink cubes of goo?” Chelsea exclaimed.

Marc paused, and there was a silence on the line.

“No,” Marc finally said, “but friends I know say they are good.”

“But have you eaten them?”

“Well, no, not yet.”

The hairs on Chelsea’s neck rose up.

“But you’re planning to, right?”

“It’s not on my agenda, tell the truth,” said Marc sheepishly.

“Then how do you know ‘the best things in life are not always pretty to the eye or to the taste?’”

“Look,” said Marc, his voice short and curt. “I don’t want to have an argument over a cow’s thymus gland. The French eat that shit and love it. I’m not French. I’d rather have a hamburger, but it was you who took me to that place and ordered that dinner. Mine was actually quite delicious. Do I need to like Ris de Veau in order to get to second base with you?

Chelsea loved his anger. She imagined his cobalt blue eyes flashing, and his tanned complexion darkening. It made her want to reach across the telephone line and pull him towards her, and the feeling was uncomfortable.

“If it’s second base you want, you’ll have to pay for it this time,” said Chelsea. “You can’t steal second base on me.”

“Well, if it’s on me,” said Marc, “I get to choose the cuisine, right?”

“But no sweetbreads, ok?” said Chelsea.

Marc was silent.

“If you say ‘sweetbreads,’ I’ll eat them and puke all over you!”

“No sweetbreads,” said Marc.

* * * *

Langan’s was an Irish pub on 47th Street, a few blocks south and west of Rockefeller Center. It was to Shepherd’s Pie what foie gras was to Le Perigord; in short, it was good of its kind.

The tables were all taken. Marc saw two seats at the bar and told the hostess, “We’ll take those.”

They settled into their seats and Chelsea had just stashed her bag on the rail under the bar when the bartender, a bright-faced lad with pomade-slicked hair, wiped the place in front of them with a bar rag and chirped, “What’ll it be?”

“Champagne,” said Chelsea.

The bartender turned away.

“No, Mickey,” said Marc to the bartender, “she’s just kidding. I’ll have a perfect martini—no fruit, no olives, no vermouth—straight up and chilled. The young lady will have—let me see,” he looked at Chelsea like he was admiring a Tuscan vase, “she’ll have Sauvignon Blanc.”

Chelsea smiled at Marc, then looked at Mickey the bartender, and her smile cooled.

“Right,” she said. “Sauvignon Blanc with bubbles. I’ll have champagne.”

Marc looked at Chelsea and exhaled a sigh. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” he asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Chelsea. “You’re a man, I’m a woman, we’re on a first date. You’re supposed to impress me. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend. Champagne takes second place. You should be happy I didn’t go for number 1.”

Chelsea looked around the bar and noticed a paunchy businessman three stools away looking at her admiringly. She shifted his way slightly in the stool, always looking away to Marc on the other side, and crossed her legs so that more of her thigh bared the businessman’s way. Marc, looking across, saw the man’s eyes follow the motion down to Chelsea’s legs, then up to her profile, where he then saw Marc looking at him. The man turned his eyes down to his drink.

“What do you say?” asked Chelsea of Marc. “Do you think there’s a diamond for me at this bar?”

A table opened up in the bar area and they had their drinks brought over as they moved to it. It was a small table and they sat face-to-face, both with their elbows on the table, Chelsea’s fists against her cheeks, Marc’s hands folded under his chin, their knees almost touching.

“Do you come here often?” she said.

“That could be a great pick-up line,” he replied.

The food was classic Irish-American fare, heavy on the meat and light on the sauces. Marc switched to beer, Chelsea did the same, and they had two each in tall pilsner glasses, in quick succession. The alcohol loosened up both of them and their laughs and giggles were added to those of the ever more raucous crowd in the bar. Marc took off his sports jacket and hung it on the back of the chair, and Chelsea did the same with her cardigan. She thought he filled out his blue dress shirt nicely and wondered what he looked like under it. He looked at her and thought the same.

They adjusted their chairs so that they moved closer to the table and each other, their hands touching and then not touching as they talked, laughed and gestured, each with a knee now straddled from time to time by the knees of the other. Chelsea was in mid-sentence when Marc suddenly pinned down both her hands with his, leaned across, and moved slowly toward her. She did not back away, and they kissed, first gently, then less so as the touch of their lips and the mixing of their breath aroused them both.

“Why don’t you get a room,” someone shouted from the bar, and the crowd around them laughed. Marc slid back to his chair and smiled. A curl from his wavy black hair fell across his forehead and, to Chelsea’s eyes, made him look charmingly disheveled. She herself was flushed and dizzy from the kiss, the beer and the noise.

“Tell me,” said Marc, “was that better than kissing Monet?”

Chelsea didn’t answer. She was thinking of Sarah…and of Marc.

By the time they left the bar it had started to rain. Marc whistled down a cab and opened the door for Chelsea. He was about to enter, too, when she put her hand against his chest, rose up from the cab seat, and kissed him.

. “What does that mean?” he asked. “Aren’t I taking you home?”

“You can’t” she said.

“Why not? What kind of a guy leaves his date to make her own way home?

“Look,” said Marc, “I know we only just met, and I know it’s silly, but I think there’s something here, and I think you feel it, too. But I’m not in a rush. I don’t need to bed you tonight. I want there to be many nights to come, and the right time will be there.”

Chelsea couldn’t look into Marc’s eyes. She sat back into the cab and stared straight ahead.

“It’s not that,” she said. “There’s someone else.” She closed the door and the cab sped away.

* * *

Sarah was reading at the kitchen table later that night when Chelsea arrived home from her date with Marc. They sat down together, and Sarah poured a cup of coffee for Chelsea.

“I just made the pot,” she said. “Did you have a good time?”

“Yes,” said Chelsea. “I didn’t think I would, but I did.”

“Where was it that you met this man?” said Sarah. “It was the museum, right?”

“Yes,” answered Chelsea, “in the hall with the Masters. We like the same things, and it seemed natural to have a night out, but I thought it would just be ‘one and done.’”

There was a pause.

“Are you saying it’s not? asked Sarah, her voice now hesitant and slow. “Should I be jealous?”

Chelsea got up, crossed over to Sarah, and put her hand on Sarah’s shoulder.

“Do you remember the morning after that summer night at Marist, when we were having coffee, and you asked me if I was okay with what happened the night before, and I told you I didn’t know I could feel that way with a woman. You knew I was straight, and I thought I always would be, but I wasn’t. I had boyfriends before, but they didn’t do it for me. You were different, and it was wonderful and liberating. I felt so free and giddy, and I told you I was a devil and you should send me away….”

Sarah looked deeply into Chelsea’s eyes and could see a mixture of fear, joy and longing in them.

“Are you saying I should have taken your advice?” said Sarah.

Chelsea stirred her coffee and looked away. Sarah had been everything to her since Marist. They had a life ahead, and Chelsea always saw that path clearly. But laughs, a kiss, and a curl on a man’s forehead had clouded the picture.

Chelsea wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, and saw one in Sarah’s eye, too.

“I’m so sorry, Sarah,” she said. “So very sorry…but Thursday, I just have to go back to the museum.”