Black Chalk

A week on from the end of round one, feelings of embarrassment and shame were only residual. The six of them joked about the dares and mocked each other and everyone was smiling again. They gathered for the second round in Jolyon’s room, all of them ready and willing. They had democratically agreed upon the next set of consequences and Tallest had passed the list with only a small number of mostly technical changes. Snow was falling outside and shelving the panes of the window. And then, several minutes late, Middle arrived on his own to observe.

XXV

XXV(i) For today’s walk I decide to wander south. I pass a girl who smells of peaches and realise how much I miss the company of women. Soon I find myself beside a schoolyard, the air shrill with the bright screams of children, young lungs challenging the world.

A boy hooks his fingers through the diamonds of the schoolyard fence and says, Hey, Mister Beard. I like your beard. Another boy hooks on alongside him and says, Hey, Mister Weird. What you got written on your sneakers? You look like a looo-zurr.

I turn around, they shout some more. I plug my ears and run back toward the park.

XXV(ii) Around the corner, I bend down and try to erase the words WALK NOON from my sneakers with spittle and a forefinger. But the words barely fade and quickly I check myself. No, the fighter doesn’t hide his scars. And the hermit doesn’t meddle with routines. But the encounter with the children prompts me to buy a small mirror. Yes, the beard is immense and unkempt, I can’t remember the last time I trimmed it. I head home, there must be some scissors and a razor somewhere in my apartment.

XXV(iii) Before I open the front door I can hear that the phone is ringing. If it is Chad calling I will not be so pliable this time around. I should have made some demands, I should at least have left my own mark on some of our arrangements.

I answer with a strong sense of resolve. Hello, I say. What do you want?

Jolly?

Oh, I swallow hard, I wasn’t expecting you, I say.

You called me last night, Jolly. You left a message.

I’m sorry, Blair, I say, heading toward the kitchen, trying to remember. What did I say?

You said you wanted to talk. Has something happened?

No, I say. When I reach the kitchen I see my whisky glass on the counter. The black line that tells me how much to pour indicates more than a nip, a quarter-glass. Perhaps I have been drinking a little more of late, or maybe this is just one of my everyday lapses. I’m sorry, Blair, I say, I really shouldn’t bother you like that.

It’s no bother, Jolly, I still care, you know. And I’m sorry I haven’t called in a while, I suppose –

Don’t apologise, Blair. Thank you for caring. Thank you for calling me back.

Are you working yet?

Yes, I say, I’m writing.

Oh, Jolly, I’m so happy. You know, I still haven’t forgiven Papa. Who are you working for now?

Myself, I say. I’m writing a story.

The line crackles as Blair breathes out hard.

It’s all right, Blair, I say. Don’t worry, I have to do this. This is something I just have to do, please understand.

OK, then, Jolly. I understand.

Thank you, Blair, I say. Blair, I miss you.

I have to go, she replies. Trip’s on his way back from the restroom.

How is Trip?

Trip is well, Jolly. Look, I have to go. We’re having lunch, I’m sorry.

Lunch? On a Wednesday? Special occasion?

It’s my birthday, Jolly. I thought maybe that was why you called last night. I have to go, sorry . . . Just one second, Trip, darling . . . Good luck with your writing, Jolyon. Oh, and it’s Friday, by the way.

She hangs up.

XXV(iv) I am still holding the mirror. I look at my guilty reflection, my long straggled hair and wild bristles of my beard. There must be some scissors, a razor. Somewhere, please.

Nothing in the kitchen drawers, not even a sharp knife.

The beard itches and I scratch, I want to tear it from its roots. I taunt myself with my reflection again and then slam the small mirror down on the counter.

I think I once had a kissable face. Blair liked to hold it in her hands, her lips brushing my cheekbones. And then she would slide slowly inward until her lips were nuzzling the foothills of my nose. There are so many things I miss about Blair.

We lived on the Upper East Side, not far from the best of the big money. We went often to the Met and dined at the Met and then wept at the Met after the deaths of Butterfly or Carmen or Violetta. We knew gallery owners and would-be heiresses and we summered with them in the Hamptons each year. We had started to receive invitations to the most important charity events, gala balls, auctions. Blair’s father was good to us and I was bad to her. Not outright bad or bad because I chose to be. But bad not far beneath the surface, apt to vanish into one of my black holes for weeks at a time.