Joe came out of his office and handed me the bill. I sat down at one of the tables near the dance floor, pushed away some wine glasses, and signed off on everything. All around, waiters and busboys were cleaning up, soundlessly placing the chairs back on top of the tables for the morning vacuuming.
I handed the bill back to Joe and felt my hands tremble as they neared his. I told him everything had been great. Really great. I must have said ‘great’ at least five times.
He thanked me, too, and said that if half the people came back who said they would then it was well worth the effort.
I thought that probably most of those people wouldn’t set foot in Detroit again, wouldn’t go out on their own. But maybe somebody’s mind was changed.
Then Joe asked if I’d like to have a glass of champagne. To toast ourselves. He said we were a good team. And it was weird, but I felt as if my answer was really important. It was one of those moments when it seemed the response to one thing would really be a response to something else. I said I was tired. But who was I kidding? Of course I was going to stay for a drink with this man.
Joe brought out the bottle in a black wooden ice bucket. I was hoping he had planned this ahead of time, that he had thought maybe we could start over after our business dealings had concluded. It turned out he always had a bottle of champagne ready at the end of the evening. It was part of the kitchen staff’s responsibility to have it in his office. That way he was free to have a glass after the day was through. Sometimes he would, he said, sometimes not. But he liked to know it was there.
We sat in the empty room together. A jazz radio station played quietly from the kitchen. The champagne, the deserted nightclub; things were starting to feel dreamy again.
Are you sure you didn’t plan all this? I asked him emboldened by the additional alcohol. Perhaps now Joe would make his move, respond to me the way men usually did. I wanted to dance with him. I wanted him to ask me so that we would have a reason to touch. I wanted to know how he smelled that night, what his skin would feel like on my cheek. Actually, I yearned to know what his skin would feel like. Maybe I thought it would feel different: softer, smoother, warmer.
Joe was explaining that sometimes he would invite a friend to drink with him and other times he just enjoyed the solitude of the empty club. He talked about how he could hear the ghosts of the guests’ voices when he was alone. Remnants of the night’s music would play in his ears. He took pleasure in the responsibility of giving people a good time. He said he was a lucky man and didn’t want to forget it. And then he suddenly stopped talking. As if he was about to say something but then decided against it.
I felt like crying. I’d never known a man to be so reflective. I wasn’t sure I’d ever been that reflective. I was taught to be busy; that action was the best remedy for any problem. Thoughts were something that got in the way of success and sitting still was for lazy people. I was starting to think that perhaps those were not the best lessons learned. And I thought about how I was always urging Josh to, “Do something.” Just like my father. How could I not have remembered how that felt?
Joe smiled at me and lifted his glass. To happiness and humility, he said. Thanks again, Maria. Oh, the way he said my name. I could see my name when he said it; the sound was color falling from his lips.
We sipped in silence. It was relaxing to just be - to hear, maybe, the silence of life. For what must have been the first time in a long time, I thought of what gave me pleasure; what I wanted out of life. My marriage was supposed to have been the answer. I refilled our glasses.
To you, Joe, I said.
He smiled and raised his glass. More of his famous silence. I sat there waiting for him to do something. Would he finally ask me to dance? Maybe he was waiting for just the right time. But there had been so many opportunities. But what if he did? What would I say? I was in a sexy dress, at a sexy club, with a very sexy man, drinking champagne. Joe leaned forward slightly and I caught my breath.
He said he had to go check on the kitchen staff and he’d be right back. He set his glass down on the table and walked away.
I couldn’t help admiring Joe even as I was hurt by his inaction. He had created the life he wanted, like a sculptor, and he was proud of his creation. Maybe I could do that – be more proud of the few things I had done. Like Josh. I was not very good at telling him I loved him or that I was proud of him or how happy I was he was with me. My life would have been so gloomy without him.
Shall I walk you to your car? Joe was back, standing next to me.
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