The Last Good Night by Emily Listfield Page B

turn out, isn’t it?”
    I pushed my plate away. “How long are you staying?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œWell, as long as you’re here, you might as well see some of the city.”
    I began to list sights that Jack should visit, the Metropolitan Museum, the Staten Island Ferry, the World Trade Center, theForty-second Street Library with its majestic lions, whatever came most immediately to mind, grabbing at them quickly, hopefully, cruise ship chatter among strangers.
    He was hardly listening. “I didn’t come here to see the goddamned Staten Island Ferry,” he interrupted.
    â€œWhy did you come?”
    â€œTo see you,” he answered simply.
    â€œJack?”
    â€œWhat?” His eyes were watery with sadness and defiance.
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    I looked away. I wanted to tell him that people didn’t say that here, I wanted to tell him to play by the rules, rules that I had studied, assimilated, clung to. But I didn’t.
    I glanced at my watch. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
    â€œBusy lady. Aren’t you going to invite me to dinner, meet your husband, talk about old times?”
    I stopped and looked at him. “Jack, I meant what I said. I’m sorry, more sorry than I could ever say for what happened. But it was all so long ago.”
    â€œNot to me.”
    When the waiter brought our check, I reached for it, but Jack quickly put his hand on mine, his fingers dry and warm. I withdrew first.
    â€œI’ll pay,” he said. “Don’t worry. I may not be as rich as you, but I can afford it.”
    I nodded and followed him out.
    The sky had darkened while we were having lunch, and a coming storm had turned the only remaining light to mercury. We stood just outside the restaurant’s doors, our hands thrust deep into our pockets. “Goodbye, Jack.”
    â€œJust like that?”
    â€œI don’t know what else there can be.”
    â€œI’m staying at the Hotel Angelica, on Twenty-seventh Street,” he said.
    I nodded and, at the last moment, I leaned over quickly to kiss him on his hollow cheek.
    He pulled me closer and I felt his moist breath as he whispered in my ear, “Don’t forget, I know you better than anyone. I always will.”
    The lover’s lure, the lover’s threat.

T HREE
    I LAY IN bed trying to shut out the early morning sounds, to shut out the day itself, postpone its arrival as long as possible. I closed my eyes, trying to go back to sleep, but Jack’s face, his words, his hurt, swam before me. I jumped when the telephone rang. It was just seven o’clock. David, already showered, picked up the cordless phone on the other side of the bedroom, mumbled a few words, and then handed it to me. “It’s for you. It’s Jerry.”
    â€œWhy would he be calling so early?”
    â€œJoan Lunden called in sick and they want you to sub?” David suggested, and left to finish dressing.
    â€œWhat’s up?” I asked as I took the receiver.
    â€œI might ask you the same.”
    â€œJerry, it’s too early for riddles. Shouldn’t you be out jogging, or having a ten-dollar bagel in a midtown hotel?”
    â€œHave you seen the Post ?”
    â€œNot yet. Why?”
    â€œThere’s an item in it about you having lunch yesterday with a mystery man at some hole in the wall.”
    â€œWhat?” I sat up.
    â€œIt doesn’t actually come out and say anything, just goes into the wife-and-new-mother thing. Implications, you know.”
    â€œThat’s ridiculous.”
    â€œI hope so.”
    â€œI can’t believe you’re taking this so seriously, Jerry.”
    â€œYeah, well let me tell you something, a lot of people who would never admit it take it seriously, too. If the supermarket tabloids pick up on this, they’ll have a field day.”
    â€œJesus Christ, can’t I even