SHIVA'S TABLE

She turns her head as the sound of gentle rain becomes a pelting sleet against the window behind her. Weary and chilled, she pulls a wooly throw over her, only her two hands uncovered to hold a bag of chips and a Coke bottle. She settles on the sofa to watch a new show everyone at work had been talking about, Living and Loving in Brooklyn. She wonders what is meant by “living.”

The TV screen flashes psychedelic colors and patterns. The five-minutes of pre-show commercials blare out for Viagra, Volkswagen and Kraft macaroni and cheese.

“Good combination,” she blurts out.

The first scene opens on a lovely courtyard: a beautiful, slim young woman sitting at a table with her  morning coffee. Picture perfect. Something drops from above, past the branch of a tree, as her eyes follow it to the ground.

“A condom!” she shrieks.

Another perfect female opens a French door, peeks out, glancing with a slight grimace at its landing place, as if it were an everyday occurrence. The women begin jabbering about work: waiting on tables and hedge funds. The subject turns to men, their upcoming dates that night and newly-bought lingerie, with allusions to Fifty Shades of Grey.

“This is crap.”

Reaching for the remote, she surfs through the channels: pawn shop dealers, rattlesnake hunters, political analysis, and cooking competitions. She throws it across the room, disgusted at the taste of “some people,” but more so at her having finished off all the chips and half a liter of Coke. Licking the salt around her lips, she drops the chip bag to the floor and places the Coke bottle next to it. She passes her hand over the little roll of flesh above the waist of her pajama bottoms, “Oh, God!”

She stretches her hand to the side table, grabs her reading glasses and places them on the tip of her nose. She picks up Love on the Subway beside her, which she has been trying to get through since last spring. After reading the same page twice, she slams it shut and throws it to the floor.

“This is crap, too.” Leaping up from the sofa, she tips over the vase of holly she had placed there yesterday for a little “holiday spirit,” knocking over the Coke bottle. Picking up the book, the chip bag, the vase and bottle, she stomps to the kitchen and tosses them in the trash. Returning to clean up the spill, she pricks her finger on a holly leaf.

“What the hell?”

Though she had held it in all day, now it bursts through, her breath coming in short gasps. As if in a fog, through misty eyes, she picks up the phone.

“Hey, it’s me, Jessica,” her strained voice near hysteria, her mind wavering between thoughts of what she had hoped and wished for, and the grim reality she now has to bear. Between sobs and stammers, she speaks of dark revelations of the morning and her confession of self-loathing, guilt and shame.

“I'll be right over…hold on,” comes the familiar  voice with Italian accent.

Two winters ago, Jessica had escaped from a dreary town in Ohio to bustling Brooklyn. Her life is not as she had imagined when she first arrived.

“I’m here,” she had reassured her mother. “I’m good, Ma. It’s gonna be alright, so don't worry." She wanted to believe it herself, and it was—at first. "I met everyone at The Studio today. I've gotta do this,” not wanting to return a failure to that wretched town.

Acting was her dream, her reason for being, or so she believed. Accepted to study at The Studio, a well-known and respected theatre company, and having found work as a hostess at a popular corner bistro a few blocks away, her new life had almost begun.

The few things she had brought with her to New York she had carefully positioned around the small ground-floor apartment: a French nightstand under the window facing the alley; a white cushioned chair in the corner near an exposed brick wall; an ornate, black metal floor lamp with a bright yellow shade next to the faux fireplace. Near the sliding door to a small patio, she placed a wicker stand holding a dark-leafed plant dotted with tiny pink flowers, which bloomed through the winter, how she didn’t know. The small, red side-table awaited an affordable sofa to be placed against the wall facing the fireplace. She felt ecstatic whenever she could afford to add something new and needed.

Her favorite find was spotted among props being discarded at The Studio to make room for recent, more desirable donations. She rescued the round, glass-top table with bronze legs in the shape of tree branches. Months later, after searching everywhere, she still hadn’t sat at it, not having found the "just right" chairs to compliment it.

Then, walking from the bus stop one breezy spring evening, the fragrance of lilac in the air, she noticed two chairs placed one on top of the other under a blossoming cherry tree. As she picked them up, she noticed across the street, a striking, dark-haired man leaning against a porch post watching her intently. In the raking light cast by late afternoon sun, his white shirt was bright against his face and hair. When she saw him, she waved, feeling a little embarrassed to be seen awkwardly hauling the sidewalk finds. He did not wave back, but kept his gaze on her. His image remained with her as she made her way home—those piercing eyes seemingly looking through her. As she cleaned the chairs that evening, she wondered about the stranger, and had already decided to walk that way again soon.
Oh, how lovely, she marveled at her good fortune when she noticed the metal work on the backs of the chairs was in a vine and leaf design, like the table’s legs. One was brushed in places with silver leaf and the other with gold leaf. ”There, now,” she sighed, with an extraordinary sense of satisfaction. The chairs had found a home across from each other at the little table that had stood alone for so long. She felt that it meant something, maybe that she was settled at last, and that more good things were in store for her.

She had planned to make a cup of tea, sit at the table for the first time, and finish reading The Merchant of Venice, as she was determined to read all of Shakespeare’s plays in her new life, but a drowsiness came on suddenly. Feeling drained, she went straight to bed.

That night she dreamed she was sitting at the table. The windows above it open, the wind howling, and the driving rain coming in. The front door blew open, and the dark-haired man entered and came to sit across from her at the table. They looked into each others’ eyes in silence. His were deep, dark and penetrating, expressing a longing, like her own yearning for love and intimacy.

When she awoke, she did not remember having gone to bed the night before. She felt a little unsteady as she walked over to open the  bedroom door and peeked out, half expecting to find the dark man at the table waiting for her. Her sleepiness faded, but all through the day, the vivid dream did not.

Was there some hidden message or portent in the dream?

    On her way home from The Studio that evening, she felt compelled to walk past the house where she had seen the mystery man. She knew dreams could feel so real, their images lingering, but usually fade and are forgotten in time. The dream did not fade, but remained with her—day and night. She began walking home that way at least once a week, certain that the dream did mean something.

A whole scenario formed, as she fantasized that she would see him again, be with him, make love, marry him, have his child. Sometimes she had to stop herself, No, no, no, no…this is not why I came here. What is wrong with me? She had no answer, but could not shake off the day dreaming and her unbidden desires.

When the weather began to turn cold, she walked the shorter way home, avoiding that street, that house, and the mysterious man who wasn't there. Yet, wasn’t everything in her life now on the upswing? At the bistro, the manager, who had a nickname for everyone, called her aside.

“Hey, J Lo, you gotta way aboutcha, and customahs love ya.” He gave her a raise and a few more hours a week.

With the extra money, she was able to further adorn her living space with a sofa, a bright Tibetan carpet and framed photos of Cobble Hill, the Brooklyn Bridge and Coney Island. She also bought several figures of Hindu gods and goddesses and placed them where they would “watch over her,” or so she liked to believe. Shiva, dancing in a ring of fire, held pride of place on the half shelf above the front door.

She now had a circle of fellow actors who met weekly at a tavern in the Village. Her life was falling into place, but still with a sense that there was much more to come. She attributed every good fortune and coincidence to the dream, the dark-haired man and his “presence” in her life.
Less than a month after she had randomly decided to read The Merchant of Venice, there was an open audition call posted for it at The Studio—an upcoming off, off Broadway production. With the encouragement of one of her instructors and several friends, she prepared and went to the audition. Weeks later, after having given up on hearing, she got a call back and was offered the leading role of Portia. She felt it had nothing to do with her talent. It was destiny.

The good news spread, and a friend put her in touch with Gena, a more experienced actor, who also had landed a part in the play. They arranged to meet for coffee and immediately clicked, though they were nothing alike. Gena was laid back and laughed at everything.

”Isn’t it funny. I got the part of Jessica, and you're Jessica in real life?”

Jessica, more serious and cynical, thought, whatever real life is. “Yeah, ironic…hey, did you get the invitation to the director's pre-rehearsal party?”

Gena laughed the answer to Jessica’s question,”Yes, I did. I am so excited about it. Why don't we go together? Can’t wait to meet the director. Don’t know him; hope he’s not a tyrant.”

“Sure, let’s go together, why not? I don’t think he’ll be a tyrant…not sure why, but… ”

“Great, let’s do it. What are you going to wear?” Gena wanted to know, while Jessica fell into a dream.

From the moment Jessica got the part, she imagined  the play’s director, Leon Lorenzo was the dark-haired man who had arranged everything exactly as it was happening and would happen—world without end, amen. She asked around, and searched everywhere for an image of him, his address or any personal information, but found nothing to connect him with her imagined paramour.

She took to reaching up to touch the little golden figure of Shiva above the doorway whenever she left or entered her apartment, like a ritual blessing with holy water at a church door. She would remain on the threshold for a few seconds to remind herself she was on the brink of … something.

All of her free time was devoted to memorizing Portia's lines, reciting them in the shower; during lulls at the bistro; in elevators; on the subway and late into the night. Anticipating, yet apprehensive about going to the director’s party, she began to methodically plan what she would wear, how she would smile, what she would say—when at last she would meet him face to face—her mentor, her lover, her all. She lost five pounds, splurged on a short black dress with tiny silver sparkles in a small swirl around one shoulder, and black boots with grey patent leather dots around the top—perfect.

When the night of the director’s rehearsal party arrived, she spent hours at the mirror, applying make-up which she usually did not wear. She straightened and arranged her hair, which she usually left frizzled. All the while, the practical part of her knew she was out of control. The director was not, could not be, the dark-haired man. But the deepest part of her did not believe the other part.

Ready or not, here I go, wrapping herself in a magenta, mohair shawl, Jessica touches Shiva above the door, stands still for a moment with her eyes closed, then is out to meet Gena at the subway station. There she was, waving crazily as Jessica approached waving back and picking up her pace. Gena was a vision in white leggings, pale blue silk Indian tunic; blue and white veil over her head, embroidered with darker blue, silver and white filigree designs. The street light shone behind her like a halo, as snow flurries began falling around her.

Gena looks like the Virgin Mary.

“Mother of God, it’s cold!” Jessica shouted, as she hurried toward Gena. “You look heavenly.”

“Thanks, Jess. You too, bee-oo-tee-ful.”

“Neither one of us is dressed for this weather though,” Jessica said through chattering teeth. Joining arms, they stepped onto the escalator and down into the depths of the city.

After manic small talk, alternate expressions of anxiety and humor, they arrived at the Upper East Side apartment building. Dreading to be the earliest, overly eager guests, the women went around the block in the frigid air, laughing in giddy anticipation, then came back to squeeze into the small foyer and pressed the nose of a brass gargoyle bell.

In the elevator, Jessica felt a gurgling in her lower abdomen. When she caught sight of herself in the mirrored walls, she didn’t recognize her reflection. Whatever confidence she had earlier dwindled into self-consciousness.

I’m overdressed. I look ridiculous. Even Gena looks better; at least her appearance has conversational value. What am I doing here, anyway? How did I get this part? I want to go home. 

And she didn’t mean to Brooklyn.

When the elevator doors opened, the women turned left, but hearing voices and music spilling out into the hall in the other direction, they backtracked to the door opened to a candle-lit room. They stepped in, unnoticed at first, making their way amidst small groups of the guests, some looking as put together as Jessica had hoped to be. Others were in jeans and tee shirts, and plenty others outfitted for at least as much conversational mileage as Gena’s “get up” had.

Everyone stood mingling, smiling with drinks in hand. When she was spotted by a few of her Studio friends, who pointed and brought attention to her as Portia, others gathered around to introduce themselves, offer congratulations and ask questions.

A glass of wine was put into her hand by a short man with penetrating green eyes, flowing white hair and charming Italian accent. He called her Portia, identifying himself as Shylock. He put his arm through hers and led her across the room to meet the other cast members, but she was distracted, looking past shoulders and heads, scanning the room for that one face and those eyes.

All the while, he talked non-stop of the theory of Shakespeare not being the author of the plays, interpretations of The Merchant of Venice, and the upcoming rehearsals. She began to sense “Shylock” was scrutinizing her—reading her thoughts, intuiting her wild expectations—all crunching against one another into the fantasy of what she wished for, not what she knew to be true, yet she could not bring herself back from her habitual, frenzied imaginings.

“I will fetch you another glass of the excellent Pouilly Fuisse, no?”

“The what? Oh, yes, thank you,” though she was already feeling a bit tipsy.
She continued to search the room, anxious and disheartened. When Shylock returned, she blurted out, “Where’s Leon, the director? You'd think he’d have the courtesy to appear and introduce himself by now, don’t you?”

“My dear, Portia, the merciless, I am Leon; I thought you knew.”

Handing her the wine glass, he clinked his to hers, ”Chin-chin.” Then he took a small silver spoon out of the breast pocket of his black velvet vest and tapped it on his glass to call the room to whatever order was possible. He welcomed everyone, made announcements about the rehearsal schedules and handed out play books and folders, none of which Jessica paid any attention to.

For her, the rest of the evening blurred, her foolish hopes crushed. On the way home, she said nothing in response to Gena’s constant chatter, seething with resentment that Shylock, the director, unbeknownst to him  and unintended, had already exacted his pound of flesh.

That was six months ago. Now, on this evening, she tries to calm herself waiting for Leon to arrive to confess  her obsession with the dark man, her illusions about how she thought her life would be, and the dreadful revelations of that morning.
       Since her starring role in The Merchant of Venice, she had no callbacks, even though the play had a successful run, and she had received rave reviews. She had gone to very few auditions, despite encouragement and references from Leon. Her group of friends had fallen away one by one. 

Have I isolated myself from them…from everything?

“Hey, business ain’t what it useta be, J Lo,” her boss had called to tell her that her hours had to be cut back.

Maybe my turning up late and calling in sick too often is the real reason? Maybe acting was not the reason I came here. Now this!

She had long wanted to tell Leon, to whom she had grown close during the run of the play, of her secret and crazy imaginings, but never had. Now, she waits at the door to hear his footsteps. The sleet has turned to snow, dropping lightly to the earth below and falling against the window pane. She stares at the blank TV screen, waiting, waiting, always waiting.
There, oh, there he is. 

She pulls open the door before Leon can knock and reaches for him, inhaling the cold of the icy flakes on his jacket.

“Shhh, now…shhh,” he whispers to her as she rests her head on his shoulder. Leon strokes her hair, “Now, come, sit with me.” Jessica holds on to him as they walk to the forsaken table, where she sits for the first time across from him, he on the silver chair, she on the gold. She tells him of her obsession with the dark mystery man, her imaginary savior, and of the morning’s grim discovery.

She recounts how the night before she had walked on the street where she had first seen him—having become almost a sacred ritual. From across the way, she looked to the house where the dark-haired man had stood watching her that spring evening.

“There was yellow tape stretched around the sidewalk and porch. When I saw that, I thought someone must have hurt him…or killed him. I rushed home to see if there was any news on the TV or radio, but there was nothing. I left the radio on all night…almost a sleepless one, waiting to hear about…of a tragedy…anything about the house or person in it. Then, this morning I tried to make sense of what I was hearing on the breaking news. There was a victim—a boy, and a suspect—a man.”

She told Leon, now completely shaken and in tears,  how she rushed to see on the news her dream of the dark-haired man turn to nightmare. She watched as he was taken out of that house in handcuffs. He was not the victim as she had feared, but a perpetrator, not an inscrutable lover, but a predator who had kidnapped a young boy, kept him in a cage and abused him for over a year.

Leon takes Jessica’s hands in his, having heard of the tragedies of the shattered fantasy, and fate of an innocent child.

“Oh, Leon, I’m so ashamed, what a crazy, selfish…that boy…that poor child. Maybe I could have done something…anything. And I…I…”

“My dear, Jessica,” Leon sighs, “it is you who must now have mercy on yourself. You could not have known…or done anything. How…how?”

“But, I…”

“When illusions end, Cara mia, life can begin.”

He takes her hand. They sit in silence looking into each other’s eyes, at the once lonely table, she contemplating the destruction of a foolish dream, and imagining the creation of a new reality.

From time to time, she casts her gaze to Shiva  dancing in a ring of fire