I know a nice place . . . peaceful . . . where we can go and talk.”
He seemed vulnerable. She had just heard him sniveling to his girlfriend over the phone. Maybe if she acted nice to him, showed a little empathy, she could deliver him for Doug. It was worth it for a chance to anchor the election night coverage. She stood up straight and softened her gaze. It wasn’t exactly a yes, but Mallory took it to be a clear signal.
“You won’t regret it,” he assured her, grabbing his cashmere Chesterfield overcoat and Burberry scarf and extending his arm in the direction of the garage elevator.
She stared at him reluctantly for some time, rather like ice melting, but after a long deep breath acquiesced and followed him into the elevator.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art cafeteria. Egyptian History Day at the Met—the place was crawling with Middle Eastern types—camel jockeys in three-piece suits, and women in traditional garb. There was the usual cadre of foreign art students feasting on cheesecake and two busloads of sixth graders on a class trip. The regular piano player had been replaced by a classical guitarist who looked strangely familiar. He was wearing sunglasses and sat on a bar stool next to the piano strumming Fundanquillo. Mallory and Melissa sat in the waited tables section. They ordered two raspberry cappuccinos. Mallory took his without sugar. Melissa stirred in half an Equal. The mint green room was commanding, dominated by a collage of broadly curved sinusoids; the atmosphere formal, reserved, calm, almost austere.
Mallory stared downward at the table. Melissa had her gaze fixed directly at him. He raised his eyes briefly then quickly gazed back down submissively.
“You’re such a pretty boy, Mallory. This morning you crash my office dressed like the janitor, and six hours later we’re sitting in the cafeteria of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and you’re wearing a two thousand dollar pure silk Canale suit, with a two hundred dollar haircut.”
“The haircut only cost a hundred,” he said with a boyish smile, correcting her. He looked over his right shoulder, then his left, an old detective’s habit. It was patently inappropriate in this setting.
“Do you want to be a talking head for the rest of your life?” she asked him irreverently.
“If I’m catching you correctly, you’re implying that I’m inherently superficial. I believe that’s the second time today you hinted at the vacuum between my ears.”
“Not quite. I’m just saying that you’re playing the part. A talking head just doesn’t bother to think.”
“Pick any conversation topic,” he challenged her. The false humility act was out the window. No more looking around over his shoulder or staring down at the table. Mallory focused intently on every detail of her appearance: her yellow Versace suit, her white antique silver cross and pin, her perfect nose and daunting blue eyes that were cut into her skull like diamonds.
She shook her head disapprovingly, as if being mocked.
“Abortion,” he said, “how do you stand on abortion?”
She took a sip of her cappuccino placing her left hand around the cup for warmth but refused to respond.
“I’m pro-choice,” Mallory proclaimed. He furled his forehead and raised his eyebrows in a there, take that, gesture.
“You’re pro-choice?” Melissa repeated, contemptuously. “Tell me Mallory, do you believe in God?”
“Yes, of course,” he replied, sensing that he had hit a nerve.
“Do you believe that man has an immortal soul?”
“Why yes . . .”
“Then what gives you the right to kill another human being?”
“What does one thing have to do with the other?”
“An egomaniac, such as yourself, goes through life believing that God is looking over your shoulder, surveying your actions. Every move you make is predicated on how it will be received by him. So why would you deny the right to be born to someone who has no ability to defend himself from the selfish interests of others.”
“The selfish interests of others?” Mallory’s turn to play the town crier. “Look, Miss Compton, you’re a smart girl. I’m sure you’re heart is in the right place. But you’re missing the point. It’s hard enough to exist in this world even with the love of a mother and a father. A woman who is not in a position to accept the burden of parenthood should not be forced to carry to term simply to satisfy the value system of others.”
“But you said yourself, Mallory, that you believe in God. And if you believe in god then ipso facto you believe in an absolute system of values. You cannot have it both ways, either you believe in God and an absolute system of values from which man derives his morality or everyone toddles to the beat of his own drummer. If that’s the case, then who’s to decide which value system is the right one?”
“Look maybe we’ve gone too far,” Mallory said waving the white flag. “I’ve had a bad day. I didn’t intend to upset you. It’s the last thing I wanted to do. And to be perfectly honest, I tend to steer clear of controversy, especially on the first date.”
Melissa took another sip of her cappuccino, then stood up and reached for her coat. “Please don’t go,” he begged her. He held his hand over her coat. It was his first real gesture of humility. In truth, his very presence seemed to annoy her, to insult her. He was snide, mocking and an anarchist. But she was intrigued by his desperation. Somehow, this cover boy, who apparently had it all, seemed at loose ends, incongruent with his surroundings, and grasping for something . . . anything . . . to hold on to. She had overheard the episode with Esther over the phone. Despite all the negative vibes, she was frozen in her place.
“Please,” he pleaded.
She sat back down in the Shaker high-back chair and gazed at her silver Chariol watch. The guitar player began a rendition of Bruce Springsteen’s Brilliant Disguise. It sounded eerily like the original recording. They both looked over to check out the guitarist.
“That’s . . .”
“Don’t say anything,” she cautioned him. “I don’t want him coming over here.”
“You know him?”
“You heard me,” she repeated.
Mallory shook his head. “You started out this conversation telling me I was a pretty boy. You’re very beautiful . . .”
“More beautiful than your girlfriend, Esther?”
Now she was asking for it. “You’ll forgive me Miss Compton, but I was going to say that you’re beautiful, but that I find you distant, cold and frankly unreachable.“
“Perhaps that’s what defines beauty, Mallory.”
Mallory smirked. “You’re a far cry the girl on the screen, back in my office. The New York scene has changed you.”
“And just who am I then?”
“Your passion is buried in your past. You’ve cut off your past and . . .”
“ . . . lost my passion. It’s so refreshing to meet someone
