What if he actually proposed? What if he asked her to move to Texas? She imagined his ranch: fields with grazing cattle, horses, a barn with a silo, wide-open land in every direction. She'd look out the window in the late afternoon and see the rising dust trail of a pickup approaching—Sam, back from a business trip, returning home to her. The scattered week nights and hasty hotel stays, the time they shared now would be time apart. She would no longer have to alter her schedule for their lives to overlap.
"You wouldn't like it," he said.
She thought she would.
"You'd get cow shit on them fancy heels. When I picture you, it's not with a pig, darling. It's with pearls."
A miss was as good as a mile. "Almost" meant never. Did he really believe she wouldn't be happy living with him, or was he content seeing her in New York only, keeping her caged to take out when he pleased?
Two years passed. She would study his face, the imperfections, and gradually his chin; the red of his cheeks began to remind her of the demands he made on her time.
Once, at a charity dinner, she noticed a man at a corner table, staring. At first she thought it rude. His hair was white with the faintest touch of blond. He was smoking a long cigarette and looked simply curious, as if he were trying to map out her story. A woman sat next to him, her hair pulled into a perfect French twist. Kim found herself looking more at the woman than the man, her black off-the-shoulder dress and diamond earrings. She had a way of tilting her head back when she laughed, as if on a hinge. Her shoulders came forward, exaggerating her cleavage. Her eyes were too close-set for the breadth of her lips and made her face seem bottom heavy. Yet Kim could see men staring at her. All around the room she could see them, glasses tipped to their lips, eyes cast sideways, laughing with the rest of their tables. Only the white-haired man she was with seemed uninterested—attentive but preoccupied. He was looking at Kim.
The band began to play. Sam asked Kim to dance. Everyone at the table smiled. He led her to the floor and fanned a hand across her bare back. He gripped her wrist and jerked her to the side, his thick interlocking fingers spreading hers wide. He looked down at his feet.
"You just follow ol' Sam."
He turned her, and for a moment she forgot about the white-haired man. She saw faces, ties, rings like flashes, a spark—then gone. She strained to see things longer. She'd snap her head the other way, hoping to recapture an image. Only Sam's face, red and shiny, remained constant. He hadn't been looking at other women. She was the sole source of his attention, and this suddenly repulsed her—this man with the gray bow tie and horseshoe studs. His hands were like paws. He never smiled. He leered.
Throughout dinner there were whispered asides of how good they looked together, assurances from the man sitting next to her that Sam's feelings were genuine, that she was the best thing to happen to him. As they went to leave, Sam had to use the "little boys' " room. She waited by the coat check, trying not to look at anyone. A hand touched her shoulder.
"I was afraid I wouldn't have an opportunity to meet you," said the white-haired man. His eyes were very blue. "Although if I were in his shoes, I wouldn't leave you alone much either."
"I'm glad you're not in his shoes," she said.
His brow raised. "They are boots, aren't they? Leave your purse behind."
He turned and she realized Sam was behind her. She set her purse down, her heart racing as Sam helped with her coat. He lifted her hair out from under the collar and draped an arm over her shoulder, pulling her toward the stairs.
"I can't wait to get out of here," he said.
"Miss," came a voice, "you forgot this."
The white-haired man was holding out her purse. The woman in the black dress was at his side, arm locked in his.
"Thank you," said Sam. He nodded to the man and tipped his hat to the woman and steered Kim away without further words.
"Child," he said in the car, "sometimes I don't know what you're thinking. Give ol' Sam a kiss."
She pecked him on the cheek. He leaned over and put his mouth over hers. The car reeked of cigars. She dug her nails into the seat.
Later, when Sam was asleep, she took her purse to the bathroom. She'd been afraid to open it sooner. She sat on the edge of the bathtub. Inside, she found a cream-colored business card. robert sanders, it read, with a black fountain-pen stroke through the last name. She stared at it, then looked at her reflection in the mirror: her cheeks narrower than they used to be, but still round like a teacup, curved, flat at the chin, her mother's resigned lips and nothing nose, small but too wide at the bridge—she'd always admired a thin nose—and her almond eyes, big, unlike her father's, whose slits had recorded so much but shared little. What was it Robert saw? She took her hair in both hands and twisted it up and stared at herself, holding it there.
The following afternoon she called Robert. At eight, the buzzer rang, and she descended to the street to find a car waiting. She didn't know where she was going but didn't ask questions. She wanted to preserve the surprise.
It was a restaurant she'd never been to before, set in from the street with a low hedgerow in front that formed a boxed landing. Brass lanterns lit a heavy oak door. There was no sign that Kim could see to indicate the name. A set of roman numerals marked the address. The driver opened her door and extended his hand for support.
"Enjoy your dinner," he said.
She hesitated and started to unsnap her evening bag, then changed her mind and smiled.
Inside, the walls were painted olive with dark chest-high wooden wainscoting. Candles flickered in inverted bell-shaped sconces on either side of the coat-check door. A woman rose from a stool. She was already holding a numbered card in her palm. Kim started to take off her coat. A man hurried to assist.
"You are dining with Mr. Sanders," he said, passing the coat to the woman in return for the card. "He described you well."
"He did?"
"Only you are more beautiful."
He stepped back, half bowing, to usher her through a narrow archway. He followed her into the main room and stepped around her as she paused. A massive urn stood against the far wall, blue and green hydrangeas spilling over its rim in waves. Banquettes lined the walls—faces turned inward, the backs of heads reflected in a procession of tipped mirrors. Robert was seated at the first of four round tables in the center, reading from a leather-bound wine list. He noticed her and his face came to life. He folded his napkin and stood, eyes bright and inviting.
"Forgive me if I am excited," he said, stepping forward.
His hand found the back of her arm just above the elbow—a soft touch. His lips came delicately close to her cheek, and as he sought to kiss her other cheek, his hand slipped down to her wrist and then to her fingertips. The maître d' was waiting behind her chair.
"Mr. Sanders, enjoy," he said.
"Thank you."
Robert sat when she did. He stared. He wouldn't look away, and she tried not to smile. The waiter brought menus. Robert glanced at his, then retrieved the wine list.
"What looks good to you?" he said.
"The lobster."
"It is very good here."
"Should I have something else?"
"Only if you want to."
Robert's watch was thin, refined compared to Sam's. His shirt was striped, with stiff starched cuffs, held by enamel links and the tiniest of chains. She found herself staring at the buttons of his jacket, the crest on each, and then at his face as he concentrated on the list. His hair was the softest white, ageless, as though it had been that color from birth, parted just above the left eye, with square razor-cut sideburns. He could have been a pilot, or possibly a professor. He had that penetrating look, a patient look, as though he saw things far ahead but felt no rush to show what in time would reveal itself. The skin above his lips was smooth and unworried.
When she excused herself to go to the powder room, he got up. He stood again when she returned.
"You don't have to do that," she sa
id.
"I do."
She watched him cut into his appetizer, one arm angled as if holding a dancer's hand.
"I'm happy," she said.
Robert raised his glass. "In unguarded eyes we remember how to love."
She offered her hand across the table. When he took it, she could feel the cool of a ring against her skin. She imagined living at the periphery of someone's life.
"You are very beautiful," he said.
"So is your wife."
For a moment he looked bewildered.
"That was not my wife," he said.
He sipped his wine thoughtfully, then added that she was simply the person he'd invited to that dinner. "She had a distinctive laugh," he said. He didn't mention Sam.
If Kim spoke, his eyes never strayed. When a busboy interrupted, Robert raised a hand and begged her to continue, refusing to acknowledge the man's presence until she finished her sentence. Then he thanked the man for waiting and nodded for more water.
Shortly after the main course arrived, the chef appeared. He put his hand on Robert's shoulder, and Robert stood to greet him. He introduced Kim. The chef kissed the back of her hand. She watched him return to the kitchen, not stopping at any of the other tables.
From where they sat, they could observe everyone entering the restaurant. More than once, couples came over to say hello: women with feathered necklines and freshly coiffed hair, men with striped ties and broad Windsor knots. Robert signaled a waiter. "A bottle of Cristal for the ambassador," he said. Minutes later, he lifted his wineglass. Across the room, a gray-haired man in a heavy gray suit nodded and raised his flute in return. He nodded to Kim as well.
When she turned back, Robert was staring again, smiling. There were more secluded tables that they could have sat at, tables that initially she might have thought were more romantic. Here they were the center of attention. Robert gazed at her as though they were alone.
After dinner he dropped her off. He walked her to her doorstep and kissed her. He waited until she found her keys.
Before bed, she boiled a pot of water. She put on a robe and sat at the kitchen counter, waiting for the pot to whistle. At last, she poured the steaming water. She wrapped the tea bag around a spoon, squeezing it against the side of the mug, strangling it with its own thread until the color swirled. The water darkened. Then she called Sam.
She told him it was over, that she'd met someone.
"Sunshine, I know we're far apart."
"The distance—"
"Is controllable. You're right, right to be sore."
"No, my schedule—"
"The time apart."
"Forget time."
"You're not making sense."
"I told you!" she said. "I met someone."
"What do you mean, someone? Darling, I'm someone! Aren't I?"
She hung up. He kept calling and she hung up repeatedly.
"Stop!" she finally shouted. "I'm serious."
"Whatever I did," he said, "I'll fix it!"
"You can't fix not being right for me."
"After all—" His voice trailed away, then came back amplified, and she could picture the phone jammed against his reddening jowl. "Do I know him?" he said. "I probably introduced you."
"Don't shout."
"What's his name?"
"Stop being angry."
"We're not right?"
"No, Sam."
"You mean I'm not right. Tell ol' Sam why you're hanging him out to dry. I know I'm no prize. You got an itch I can't scratch?"
"Sam, you just . . . I won't get into this."
"Goddammit, girl. Tell me about him, then."
"I'm not—"
"Do I deserve this? Do I?" Then, after a long silence: "You're a cold one, girl. I'll see you in the sky."
He hung up. Her tea was still warm.
She'd never broken with a man before. Her impulse was to call back and say she'd think it over. She imagined Sam throwing back a drink from a glass that looked miniature in his grasp, pounding his fist, raising it to strike her. "That's what you deserve," he'd say, biting down on his cigar. She deserved to hurt, but she didn't. She dug her fingernails into her arm, looked at the marks, rubbed them, watched them fade. Nothing. She thought of Robert and his quiet confidence, and as the minutes passed she felt a sense of confidence too: enough to believe that no matter how angry Sam was, no matter how tempting or flattering his seeming desire was, she was right to have left him. He needed her, and she knew enough not to confuse need with love. She would not be like her mother.
There was a movie-ticket stub on the counter, and she took a pencil, tapped her lips, and scribbled:
Sam's inconvenienced. Tomorrow he'll realize I'm nothing, just the woman who came with the room.
That's all she'd ever been to him. She thought again of Robert, of his hand touching her arm. He didn't need her, so there couldn't be the same confusion. And she didn't need him either—was beyond wanting to be married, she told herself. She'd taken a risk. She'd stepped out on thin ice and it hadn't cracked yet. She was excited. Was this what it felt like to start loving someone?
She took the ticket stub and tore it, throwing away the bigger piece. She stuck what was left to the refrigerator with a magnet: woman who came with the room, it read.
Robert always sent his car. Joseph, the driver, was on call around the clock. He'd massage his brow with the heels of his hands at stoplights, crack his knuckles and stretch his fingers, and wrap them back around the wheel. Eventually he would ask how she was, how work was going. She wondered what Robert had told him, if Joseph knew she was a stewardess or if he was just being polite. She told him herself finally. He didn't seem surprised.
His father had driven a bus in New York for forty years. He could rattle off all the different lines his father had worked, a series of letters and numbers, like a secret code. He said some were crosstown and some ran the avenues. Joseph grew up in Gravesend, Brooklyn, went to Sheepshead Bay High School. He got his girlfriend pregnant at Jones Beach and married her. He started out driving taxis. He met Robert driving limos. "At LaGuardia," he said, "I got to talking. Told him how it was my twelfth wedding anniversary. He called the next day and offered me a job." It gave him the security to have a second daughter.
"Once my wife was sick and had to go to the hospital," he told her one afternoon as he drove her home. "Mr. Sanders paid for the whole thing. Didn't take nothing out of my salary. You're very lucky, ma'am."
She watched his face in the rearview mirror and wondered if he meant it.
"Do you like ice cream, Joseph? Pull over."
She hopped out of the car before he could come around for the door.
"What flavor?" she called. He was shaking his head.
She disappeared into the store and returned a moment later with two cones, already dripping. She licked her finger and handed him napkins.
"So the steering wheel doesn't get sticky," she said.
She sat on the bumper. Joseph leaned against the door. He gripped the cone tentatively, as though he were holding it for someone, and stared off. Ice cream ran across his fingers. A drop fell to the cement. He made no effort to wipe himself.
"You don't like coffee?" she said.
He looked at her and then at the cone.
"I don't know anyone that doesn't like coffee ice cream," she said.
He seemed to be sizing up the mess. At last he brought the cone to his mouth and bit with his lips. A dab got on his chin and she laughed.
"Don't tell Robert," she said. "He can't know my vices."
The sun was out, and she decided to walk the rest of the way home. She stopped at a deli for a newspaper and some fruit. The man behind the register was watching her in a convex mirror. It reflected the aisles and made her look fat.
A woman rapped the counter with her knuckles, startling the clerk.
"Am I standing here for nothing?" she said.
"Okay, okay, what you want?"
Kim picked out p
eaches and took them to the register. The woman ahead of her was buying a lottery ticket. She was going over the tiny numbers with a pen, picking randomly—or perhaps plugging in digits from somewhere in her life that had taken on significance—praying that this was the dollar that multiplied a million times, that would deliver her a new life.
The man gathered Kim's peaches into a bag and rang her up. His lips twitched into a broad smile.
"I think I have change," Kim said, digging in her pockets. "How much again?"
"No biggy."
She could only find a nickel.
"Here's another dollar," she said.
The man shook his head and closed the register. "For pretty lady, forget it," he said.
She thanked him and turned. There were three people waiting in line behind her.
Robert wasn't controlling the way Sam was. He planned around her schedule. He gave the impression that she truly added value to his life, that the hardness of her past provided meaning. He asked about her former lovers as though he were inviting her to confide some grave heartbreak.
"I was careless with my virginity," she said.
"Perhaps it's the one thing we feel pure ownership of at that age."
"It was meaningless," she said.
His smile suggested it was mild jealousy that made him curious, perhaps vanity.
"What we lose," he said, "and what we give up are two separate things. Looking back, the sex was only sex. Why we ever choose to equate it with loss of youth . . . I wonder what you were like. I wish I could have known you growing up."
He took her shopping at Bergdorf's. She mentioned Bloomingdale's.
"I'm going to arrange an account for you," he said. "Promise me you will shop here."
Within a week, a charge card arrived in the mail. She never received a bill.
At first, he accompanied her. He would call ahead. A woman would meet them coming off the elevator. They would sit and drink coffee as models glided through the room wearing suits the woman had preselected for Kim.
Robert withheld his comments until after she'd expressed hers. He didn't wish to taint her judgment. Yet he was not afraid to contradict her choices. He seemed aware of the fact that she wanted to dress for him, but he also wanted her to choose for herself and have fun.
Because She Is Beautiful Page 6
