Love/Imperfect

Reprise

Reprise for Kate Esther wasn’t pretty, never had been. She was thin and freckled and, even if grownup longer than she cared to remember, still a little knockkneed . But, as she walked into the hotel lounge that evening, it was certain, too, that she wasn’t homely. She had a shy, troubled walk and a sober, intelligent face that lent her an odd girlishness, made her undeniably attractive for her very vulnerability, like some plain but treasured object from an era when life was simpler. She glanced around the badly lit bar but did not find who she was looking for. She felt vaguely embarrassed and stood a little too long in the doorway, which embarrassed her more, before sidling quickly through the tables to a booth in the corner. “And what can I get you tonight?” The waitress had that easy, almost unnatural beauty Esther always associated with California, the beauty that comes from being young and pretty in the first place, then from simply walking in that unreal 162 · christopher t. leland light of beaches where skin turns browner and hair turns blonder and limbs grow longer, more supple. All it had done this week for Esther was make her freckles darker. “Just coffee.” “Coffee?” “Yes.” It was too sharp. She tried to laugh. “I’m the designated driver.” The waitress went away. She took out a cigarette. She had not smoked in years. But at this exhibition, distinct from all the others, she had started again for some reason. She paused for an instant as she lit up and smiled. They had both smoked in France. He smoked much too much, and she perhaps took up the habit to make him feel less guilty. At night, after Samantha was finally asleep, they would sit on opposite ends of the windowsill, there in the two a.m. darkness, naked, smoking Gitanes. They had only one window. But the light was good, he always insisted. The light was the best you could ask for. The coffee came, steaming, in a cup like a parfait glass. She drank it in small, distracted sips. Ever since Paris, she had never liked American coffee. They were silly to go to Paris. It would have made more sense to go to New York, come here to Los Angeles, or—if it had to be Europe— Greece or Sardinia, southern Spain or someplace in Portugal. But they were set on Paris, because they had both read too many memoirs and novels, old manifestos and art history books, and, at twenty-two and twenty-four, could still determinedly fool themselves that the city could not have changed so much in fifty years. For the six months before they left, he had worked two jobs, skipped lunch, stopped painting , while she stayed at home with the baby: guilty not to be working, reprise · 163 guilty to be drawing, guilty for the child who wasn’t even his. To salve her conscience, she collected bottles in the neighborhood, hoarded newspapers, clipped coupons. She entered every contest, milked every special offer. Her only pleasures all day were Samantha sucking at her breast, cooing in the crib, bouncing in the backpack baby carrier. He got home at nine-thirty, by Friday almost walleyed. They would eat soup and talk about his day in the plant and evening at the bookstore, her latest coup at the grocer’s, and how Samantha was growing and growing. And how it would be in Paris, of course. She looked at her watch. The coffee dregs were cold in the bottom of the cup. He might have decided not to come at all. It was she who had dropped him a note when she saw his name on the list of exhibitors . He didn’t seem surprised to hear from her despite all the years. It was he who suggested they have a drink. He had always been a drinker, too much of one. He was a friend of Rafe’s, and she had first met him when he staggered by one evening to help Rafe kill a bottle of Old Crow. He had begun coming more and more often: the three of them on the living room floor, the whiskey or cheap wine making the rounds, weaving through the conversation till it was gone. Then she got pregnant, and Rafe went away. He went to Alaska to work on the...