Page 29 of Jealous of the Clouds
Camille’s place was comfortable, homey, with a sagging blue velvet couch, mismatched tables in wood and marble, vintage lamps that looked as though imported from the 1960s, and walls filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Despite the shelves, more books were everywhere—stacked on tabletops, filling an uncomfortable-looking wingback chair near the hallway, and even stacked on the floor beneath her windows. The walls were decorated with an eclectic mix of prints—movie posters from the 1960s, David Hockney landscapes, framed magazine and album covers, and a few original drawings by the homeless Chicago art genius, Lee Godie, bought cheap before she became famous and lauded by critics and theNew York Times. They were now worth a small fortune, I’m sure, but Camille most likely saw them as something amusing to look at, with a story to tell (she’d bought them from the artist herself on the steps of the Art Institute many years ago).
A lingering smell of something savory in the air that made my mouth water.
“Before you sit, let’s get you out of those clothes.” Camille snapped her fingers and then held out her hand.
“Mrs. Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?”
“I know better.” She laughed. “I was married to one of your kind for a decade, so I’ve never gotten my hopes up with you.” She disappeared for a moment into the bedroom. She returned with a worn plaid flannel robe. Holding it out to me, she said, “It’s all I have left of my gay hubby.” She sniffed it. “Still smells of poppers and deceit.”
We both laughed. I was glad I’d come.
Camille turned away as I undressed and then, naked, slid into the robe. “Okay,” I said. “You can look now.”
She turned back to me and took the bundle of wet clothes from me. “Do I want to know?” she called over her shoulder as she hurried into the kitchen. In moments, I heard the washer starting up.
She came back. “I made meatloaf for dinner. Will you eat some?”
“Only if I can have one of those to wash it down with.” I pointed to her martini.
“Of course. I resent, though, the ‘wash it down’ part. My meatloaf is not dry. But my martinis are!”
While Camille busied herself in the kitchen—accompanied by an Oscar Peterson playlist and the clattering of plates and flatware—I sat in the big overstuffed chair near the windows. Peering outside, it was as though we were the only two people left in the world, a world that would soon be consumed by angry black waves. I thought of Josh and what he might be doing now. We saw each other every day and I knew he’d be fuming, wondering where I was. I had deliberately switched my iPhoneoff, so I wouldn’t get notifications for all the texts and calls he was undoubtedly sending my way.
I wanted to pretend I never met Joshua Kade.
Camille returned with a tray containing a plate with two steaming slices of meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, and a mound of buttered corn. It all looked so homey and good that I almost wept with gratitude. I dug into the food almost like an animal, wolfing it down as though I feared she’d change her mind and take it away. She watched for a while, got up, and returned with a glass of water and a martini.
“You’re an angel,” I said and belched. The plate was empty and I was embarrassed at my behaving like a starving man.
“Yeah, one with a halo held up by horns.”
We both chuckled.
Camille removed the tray from my lap and set it on the coffee table. She sat down across from me on the sofa, folded her hands, and leaned forward. “So now that I’ve got you dry, fed, and feeling relatively calmer than when you got here, are you going to tell me what’s up?”
I surveyed the room and glanced at the windows. It was hard to tell, but it seemed the storm outside had abated. I wished I could say the same for the storm within. I drew in a breath and, somewhat haltingly with stops and starts, I told her the story of Josh and me. It almost seemed like a dramatic flourish to end with theMeat Lockerpodcast and the news that “He more than likely stabbed his lover to death ten years ago.”
The quiet in the room unnerved me when I finished. Camille sat still on the couch opposite, staring, mouth slightly open. “You poor, poor thing. You’ve never had much luck in love, I know, but this is beyond the pale.” Camille took off her glasses and set them on the coffee table. “I don’t know what to say.” She shrugged and lit a cigarette. “I’ve encountered many, many oddsituations in my life, but I can’t say I’ve ever come across one like this.”
“You don’t have to say anything. I feel better just for having shared this with you. It’s like I released a vent and all the steam rushed out.” And I did. Although I felt guilty about not talking with her before and for ignoring her for the duration of my relationship with Josh. But that’s how it is when there’s a new love, right? You ignore friends as you work on building the magic, the fairy tale? Except in this fairy tale, the ogre was my Prince Charming, and it took me way too long to see what was right in front of me, almost from the start.
“Thanks for not shaming me or asking why I didn’t tell you before.”
Camille said, “You don’t need to thank me, Ted. I’m always here for you. And you know me, I don’t judge. I’ve done too many stupid things in my own life to ever cast aspersions on anyone else.” She patted the couch next to her. “Get over here.”
I complied and she rushed to enfold me in her arms. She said, “Now what can I do to help?”
It might have been an odd thought, and a non-animal lover wouldn’t get it, but I immediately thought of my cat, Mrs. Davis, whom I hadn’t seen since early this morning. She was, as most cats are, independent enough to be good on her own for a while, especially since she had an automatic feeder and waterer and a huge litter box. But thinking of her roaming around alone, wondering where I was, broke my heart.
“You know what you can do?” A panicked thought occurred. “Did you empty my pockets when you put my stuff in the wash?”
Camille grinned. “You forgot I have a son back in Ohio and I had a husband. I learned the lesson to check pockets early on.” She winked. “Not only was it practical for saving things like car key fobs and smart phones, but it often brought to light some surprising secrets.” She shook her head. “But enough about me.Your wallet, keys, loose change, receipt from CVS, and phone are on the shelf above the washer/dryer.”
“That’s a relief. Thank you.” I hurried through the kitchen and into the small closet that served as Camille’s laundry room and found my keys right where she said they’d be. I came back, holding them out to her. “You asked what you could do for me. Not tonight, but maybe in the morning, you could go over and get Mrs. Davis and her stuff? And bring her back here while I figure out what to do with myself? I don’t know if I can go back, not right now.”
“You know I’m happy to. I adore Mrs. Davis and I’m sure the feeling willnotbe mutual when I remove her from her home and return. But I understand. I can also pack a bag for you, gather up some toiletries. In case I haven’t explicitly stated it, you and Mrs. Davis are welcome to stay with me for as long as you need.”
“I love you,” I blurted out. But I was so grateful and so touched by my friend’s kindness.
