Leaving New York

Chapter 22

After a week, Clement and I fell into a routine, but I had to rebuff his advances consistently. One night, I worried about my depression kicking in if he left—I had to be careful. Loneliness could be murder for me. I thought of big, strong Henry and where he might be. I hoped he was working on engines and medicated. Thank God I didn't try to rescue him because of my infatuation.

Clement walked into my room wearing only underwear.

"I want to go to Giverny—it is seventy-five kilometers."

"Monet's house?"

"Yes."

"This weekend?"

"Yes."

He was so direct; I couldn't refuse.

The next day, on the way to the Impressionist's house, we passed areas indistinguishable from New York suburbs—shopping centers, warehouses, high-rise apartments. Finally, the country started opening up. Clem said, "There, the Bois de La Gareene, a huge forest."

"Wow—there's a lot of it. I loved Central Park."

"Did you go there a lot?"

"Yeah, I'd go every weekend in summer—there were concerts. Great people-watching."

"You go with friends?"

I was ashamed to say I usually went alone. Dave was at home with his kids on weekends. Jimmy didn't give a flip about concerts or rowing on the Boat Lake.

We passed a sign, 'Giverny 20."

"We getting close, yes?"

"Yeah."

He slid his hand under my leg just to be close, but I brushed him away.

"So, what do you know about Monet?"

"Giverny is a village on the "right bank" of the Seine. I do not know much; I just want to see the pretty flowers."

I pulled out my knapsack, retrieving a banana. "You want one?"

"No. You are always snacking."

"I know. It's a habit left over from when I was lifting a ton."

We drove through Giverny—there was an ancient church with a lovely spire, old stone footbridges crossed a stream. Every building was bursting with flowers from hundreds of window boxes. We parked smothered by wildflowers.

"Pretty, no?"

"Truly."

Masses of flowers surrounded the path to the house through a tunnel of trees. We toured the house then were ejected onto a long terrace.

"I'm ready to eat lunch."

"Oui."

We decided to forego the famous artists café in town and ate at the house restaurant. Clement made no effort to pay.

"Let's go look at the gardens, Jack."

After hours of touring, he plopped down in the grass. I followed suit five feet away, looking at the cloudless sky.

"Why do you lie so far from me?"

"Clem, I'm not interested. Let me repeat that, "I am not interested in kissing you, sucking your pecker, holding hands, sleeping together, or hugging you."

He said nothing the entire way home.

When we got back, Clem packed his bags and left. I was alone. A week passed; I could feel my depression bubbling up. I thought about calling Ernie, but my Catholic guilt about sex kicked in so much, I just poured myself a scotch, the first drink I'd had in ages. I developed an intense bourbon habit after Dave died, but why not have a few to take the edge off? I was tipsy one night then decided to call Edie, his widow.

"Hello?"

"Edie?"

"Jack?"

"Yes. How are you?"

"Good. It's wonderful to hear your voice, honey. How's retirement?"

"Pretty good. I'm in Paris."

"Paris? France?"

"Yeah—I took a freighter like I said I would."

"I miss you. The kids always ask about you."

"I'm sorry I haven't . . ."

"It's alright. I wish I could talk more right now, but my friend Frank is here. We're going to the Nederlander Theatre."

"Oh, sorry to bother you."

"It's no bother. Call me tomorrow so we can talk—the kids would love to hear your voice."

"Okay."

"I love you, Jack."