A line for my lover Ch. 1

chapter one: an outstanding delay

Andrea Rudovik checked the clock for the fifty-seventh time. It told her—or at least, what she thought it told her--that midnight had come and gone, and then some. Her vision couldn’t be trusted, however; not with the intense drooping of her lids and the odd sensation of mirages eluding her way. Her hand couldn’t be trusted either; and she knew it would do no good to sit here, at this glass emporium of paper, and try to scratch out another word.

In perspective, Andrea knew she shouldn’t have been up past eleven. Not only were her words a mess and her thoughts vaguely obscure, but she would have trouble waking the next morning, when, (against her own will, mind you—she had made that clear enough to Lawrence, the host), she would be expected to attend a party. And in accordance to the law of social behavior—that smothering pile of “ego-stroking” as she liked to call it, since it was all to balance the nature of selfish pleasures—she would need to look pristine, awake, and alive.

The party, like the one before it and the one before that, was celebrating something (what?), and required her attendance (why?). At least, that was what her college-roommate and long-time companion and nutcase, Lawrence Harvey, had stated, with an expression Andrea knew all too well. No answers, just demand, demand, demand.

Andrea knew she wasn’t being fair. Lar had always been there when she needed him; when her first real love had left her one morning for her sister, when she had gotten her first rejection letter, and then the thousands of other rejection letters that followed it, in an ever-flowing, depressing stream. In return, Andrea was Lawrence’s showcase wife, in a sense, (and only in a sense, because Lar was gay) strutting half-heartedly in silk chemise and with an olive cocktail in one hand, greeting people by the dozens—faces she forgot two seconds after she saw them—and all the while making Lar elevated (was that the word? elevated?).

Andrea shook her head and tried to focus on the blank paper that lay, waiting, accompanied by an equally lonely pen. She gave up and switched off the oval, mauve lamp on her glass writing desk. She would go to bed, and hopefully the crème her mother had given her—she was a makeup artist—would cover the hideously visible swelling that brought her eyes into bug-like positions. She walked out of her library, a small, crowded room full of wall-to-wall bookshelves stuffed with everything from Austen to Woolf, and into the hallway. Trying not to stumble against the white stucco plaster or trip on the cracks of her Mexican tiled floor, Andrea felt her way to her bedroom.

She could have turned on the lights, it was as simple as that—flipping a switch and illuminating her way, but she didn’t want to wake her nephew, Michael. It was only his second night living in her two-bedroom flat, and she didn’t want him to get the impression that she stalked about the house in the dark hours of the night, which was more the truth than an impression, but all the same, she would have felt rather uncomfortable knowing he knew that she tailed the shadows of the rooms when she should have been sound asleep like every other good aunt.

So instead, lightly tip-toeing around the closed door of Michael’s room, almost espionage-ish, Andrea found her way into the den that she called her “quarters.” As she slipped into her bed wrapped in a soft sheet of African wool, something she had received as a present from her mother, she thought about life and death.

It was really hard to say which was more depressing (life or death, that was). In life people were destined to make choices, most of which would have detrimental effects; while in death...well. Andrea lay back on her pillows and examined her viciously bitten fingernails. She would never let anyone, not Lawrence—who would no doubt enlist the help of a nearby shrink, not her mother—who would wave it off and tell her she needed more sleep. No, it was best to keep these strange, theoretical thoughts to herself, and her paper.

Her paper. Andrea remembered the manuscript she had been previously engaged in, a novella surrounding the lonely life of Amy Tan. She was, in a way, just experimenting. After her debut novel, The Faded Rose, something about a Hitlerian society, which had done rather well in the world of literature, she was still searching for something else. It wasn’t enough, just to write anything and throw it out to be viewed by hawkish inspectors and critics galore. She had to make sure that she was writing at her best, whatever that was.

She reached over and turned off the lights. Sitting in the dark, she felt a wave of...something. Regret? That she hadn’t finished the chapter like she planned to? She knew this about herself, everyone did. Procrastination was Andrea’s biggest flaw and most unrewarding companion. She sunk back down in her bed and shut her eyes, ready for sleep to swallow her up in its comforting embrace. She would wake up, dress, and meet Lawrence for the party. Life was so inexplicably simple.

Andrea was in a library, a thickly stocked room smelling of chamomile and that new-car scent. It was a room she was all-too familiar with. She had lived around it, had grown loving the feeling of soft leather underneath her fingertips and the iridescent glow that came from the windows placed high above the dark-wood bookshelves. She knew every book in the library, knew them by heart even; Auden and Wells, Bronte and Dickens. It was a sanctuary for the tomes, a place of rest and quiet, and of scholarly interest. It was her father’s place of peace.

She was ten again, running to the balding man sitting at his magnolia desk by the non-fiction shelves, holding out a Hans Christian Anderson anthology with a gleeful expression. She could feel the light swish of her satin dress against her thin legs and the light feathery feeling of her soft, golden-brown hair on the nape of her neck. She was smiling, she was laughing, and now so was her father—his great belly jiggling with the loud, raucous laughter. He opened his eyes wide and smiled blissfully, his palms open to her and the Life of Henry Douglass lying, forgotten, by his elbows.

His voice was a stream of words, strong and jauntily stern. “Andy, my beauty, my Andy...”

And she was jumping into his arms, her curls flouncing about her shoulders, her eyes bright with excitement. “Read me the one about the lead soldier, papa, please?”

And all of the sudden, her papa had changed. It was, at first, an alteration of the expression, dullness about the eyes and a creasing of the forehead. Andrea stepped back, breathless. “Papa?”

But he was gone, trapped in whatever it was that was eating him, inside out. His face turned downward, towards the oriental carpeting, the autobiography knocked from its place and lay, sprawled, on the floor. His eyes closed, and he placed one giant, hairy hand over his drooping lids.

“Papa?”

And he was turning now, sinking into himself, reaching one, lone pinky out to Andrea as if to wave one last goodbye.

“Papa!”

Andrea woke, sweating slightly in her crimson nightgown, and stared at a spot in her ceiling; her father’s face still implanted, swinging gloomily overhead. She waited until the phantom disappeared before checking the clock on her bedside table. It was nearly nine o’clock. Her windows, draped with violet velvet, showed no sign of the morning’s presence. She stood up shakily, bringing a hand to her forehead to wade out the dizzying feeling that threatened to overcome her.

She walked to the window and threw open the drapery, letting a wave of warmth and light wash over her. There was a long mirror lined up against the window, but she ignored it. She wasn’t ready to see her disfigurement yet. Rubbing one fist against a sore eye, she tried to forget the dream, or rather the memory, which haunted her. She opened the den doors and slipped into the hallway, surprised to see Michael standing there, unsurprised at her appearance.

“It’s nine already.”

Andrea wrapped her robe around her body, more tightly, as if her nephew were invading her space instead of reminding her of her absent-minded laziness. He stood, in his slightly neatly tucked shirt and pants, and watched her with a mixed expression. What on earth could he be thinking of her, in her nightgown, her hair a mess, her face even worse?

“Yes.” She said, rather awkwardly.She was painfully aware of her bare feet on the cold tile, her chipped nails from hours of nibbling, and the strange lack of makeup that always accompanied her presence.

“Lawrence called; he’ll pick you up at eleven.”

Andrea nodded. “You know you’re invited, too,” she replied nervously. Why was she nervous? She was his aunt for god’s sake, even if she was only ten years older. She should be the one reminding him of events and giving motherly advice about sleep, not the other way around. She felt almost angry, and regretted that, too. He didn’t deserve her resentment; he wasn’t the one staying up to ungodly hours doing nothing, after all. She knew he was only staying at her place because he had nowhere else to go. It just wasn’t fair.

“I’m not one for parties,” he answered, modestly. He seemed so much older than his meager fifteen years, with his self-effacing retorts and almost altruistic mannerisms. Because he knew, and she knew he knew, that she didn’t want him to be at the party. It was embarrassing, being able to be read like that, like a book almost—and her thoughts went fleetingly to the dream, oh god—but she knew he was doing her a favor. She would have to repay him back, someday.

“There’s money on the counter if you feel like going out for lunch. I probably won’t be back for a good four hours, you know Lawrence.”

Michael didn’t know Lawrence, but nodded anyways. Andrea felt hopelessly maternal.

“Well, I better get changed...and....yeah.”

Michael nodded again, scooting himself into the living room and back to his bedroom, obviously understanding her need for privacy. Another grand feature, something inherited from her saintly mother, and definitely had no connection with her own genes.

Andrea went back into her room and locked the door. After a thoughtful glare in the mirror; she did, indeed, look like a bedraggled peacock; she found herself in her closet, flipping through black slinky cocktail dresses and fantastically chic hand-me-down red dresses from her mother. She picked a dark blue, cleavage-hugging mini-dress; made of Italian silk which wrapped around her body, tightly, and trailed off just below her knees. Lawrence would approve, of that there was no doubt.