Macy began telling me about her marriages. Her first husband had been a bum and a loser; and the second, a younger man from Grenada, was even worse, she said. She was getting a little loud, and people at the bar were starting to notice us.
“So here I am, thirty-seven years old. I had to go back to work even though I didn’t want to. I’m teaching freshmen, Alex. English composition, world lit. God knows, seniors are bad enough.”
; I was sure she had said that she liked teaching, but maybe I heard her wrong, or she was being sarcastic. I wasn’t doing much talking anymore, just listening to her stories, and eventually Macy noticed. She put her hand over mine. She had the smoothest brown skin. “I’m sorry; I got carried away, Alex. I talk too much, don’t I? So I’ve been told. I’m really sorry.”
“We haven’t seen each other in a long time. Lots to talk about.”
She looked at me and she had such beautiful brown eyes. I was sorry that she’d been hurt in her marriages, hurt by love. It happens to the best of people sometimes. Macy was obviously still hurting.
“You do look great,” she said. “And you listen pretty good for a man. That’s important.”
“You too, Macy. I like your stories.”
Her hand was back on top of mine, her nails lightly grazing my skin. It felt nice, actually. There was nothing too subtle going on here. She let her tongue wet her upper lip, then she lightly bit down on the lower. I was finally starting to forget that I was hungry for the crab cakes and black bean soup at 1789. Macy was quietly staring into my eyes. We were both adults, unattached, and I was definitely attracted to a lot of things about her.
“My place isn’t far, Alex,” she said. “I don’t usually do this. Come home with me. Jus’ walk me home.”
Her place was only ten blocks away, so I walked Macy there. She had a little trouble walking, and her speech was slurred. I put my arm around her, held her steady.
Macy’s apartment was on the ground floor of a town house near the university. It was minimally furnished. The walls were painted pale green. Against one wall was a black lacquered upright piano. A framed magazine article about Rudy Crew caught my eye. The educator’s words were set in large type: “Education is about the distribution of knowledge . . . and to whom we actually distribute this particular commodity is a major question in this country.”
Macy and I held each other and cuddled for a moment on the living room couch. I liked her touch, the way she kissed. This wasn’t right, though. I knew that I didn’t want to be here. Not tonight, anyway. Macy wasn’t at her best right now.
“Good man’s hard to find,” Macy said, drawing me close. She was still slurring her words a bit. “You have no idea, no idea. So hard out here. It’s hell.”
I did have some idea about how hard it was to find someone to be with, but I didn’t pursue the point. Maybe some other time.
“Macy, I’m going to head home,” I finally said. “I liked seeing you again. I liked it a lot.”
“I expected as much! I knew it!” she exploded on me. “Just go, Alex. Go. I don’t want to fucking see you again!”
Before the anger had welled in her eyes, I had seen something beautiful and nearly irresistible. Now it was gone again. Maybe she could get back in touch with it, maybe not. Then Macy started to cry, and I knew enough not to try and comfort her. I didn’t want to be condescending.
I just left the apartment, with its beautiful piano and the wonderful quote from Rudy Crew. This woman wasn’t right for me to be with. Not now, anyway.
Sad night.
A good woman is hard to find too, I wanted to tell Macy.
God, I hated dating.
Chapter 40
THE NIGHT with Macy Francis kept bothering me for the next few days. It was like a sad song that played in my head. I hadn’t expected it to turn out that way. I didn’t like what I had seen, or felt. The look in Macy’s eyes stayed with me: a terrible mixture of hurt, vulnerability, and anger that would be hard to soothe.
I grabbed Sampson on Wednesday night after work. We agreed to meet at the Mark for drinks. The bar was a couple of streets down from Fifth. Local hangout. Tin ceiling, wide-board pine floors, long, worn mahogany bar, ceiling fan turning lazily.
“Sugar, damn,” Sampson said, when he arrived and found me sitting by myself, nursing a Foggy Bottom lager while studying the old Pabst clock on the wall. “You don’t mind me saying, you look like shit, man. You sleeping all right? You still sleeping alone, aren’t you?”
“Good to see you too,” I said to him. “Sit down and have a beer.”
Then Sampson wrapped one of his mammoth arms around me. He hugged me as if I were his little kid. “What the hell is going on with you?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Don’t know exactly. The manhunt on the West Coast went real bad. I mean, it dried the hell up. There’s no word on Betsey Cavalierre’s murder either. Had a date the other night. Just about has me swearing off dating for the rest of my life.”
Sampson nodded. “I know the words to that sad song.” He ordered a Bud from the bartender, an ex-cop we both knew, Tommy DeFeo.