One Fifth Avenue

by Candace Bushnell

  “Oh my dear,” he said. “A painting like this is priceless. It’s absolutely unique. The work and vision of one man, and yet in it, one sees the universal creative hand of God.”

  “But the money could be spent to really help people,” Annalisa said.

  Her argument made Billy feel weary. He’d heard it so many times before. “That’s true, on the surface of things,” he said. “But without art, man is an animal, and a not very attractive animal at that. Greedy, striving, selfish, and murderous. Here is joy and awe and regard.” He indicated the painting. “It’s nourishment for the soul.”

  “How are you, Billy?” Annalisa asked. “Really?”

  “Just peachy,” Billy replied.

  “If there’s anything I can do to help your mother—” She hesitated, knowing how Billy hated talking about his financial situation. But charity got the better of her. “If you need money…and Paul is making so much…He says he’s on the verge of making billions”—she smiled as if it were an uncomfortable joke—“and I would never spend ten million dollars on a painting. But if a person needs help…”

  Billy kept his eyes on the Wyeth. “You don’t have to worry about me, my dear. I’ve survived in New York this long, and I reckon I’ll survive a little longer.”

  When he got back to his apartment, the phone was ringing. It was his mother. “I asked the girl to bring me cod from the supermarket, and it had turned. You’d think a person would know if fish were bad or not.”

  “Oh, Ma,” he said, feeling defeated and frustrated.

  “What am I supposed to do?” she asked.

  “Can’t you call Laura?” he said, referring to his sister.

  “We’re not speaking again. We were only speaking because you were here.”

  “I wish you would sell the house and move to a condo in Palm Beach. Your life would be so much easier.”

  “I can’t afford it, Billy,” she said. “And I won’t live with strangers.”

  “But you’d have your own apartment.”

  “I can’t live in an apartment. I’d go crazy.”

  Billy hung up the phone and sighed. His mother had become impossible, as, he supposed, all elderly people were when they refused to accept that their lives had to change. He had hired a private nurse to visit his mother twice a week, as well as a girl who would clean her house and run errands. But it was only a temporary solution. And his mother was right—she couldn’t afford to sell her house and buy a condo in Florida. During his month in the Berkshires, he’d consulted a real estate agent who’d informed him that the housing market had plummeted and his mother’s house was worth maybe three hundred thousand dollars. If she’d wanted to sell two years ago, it would have been a different story—the house might have sold for four-fifty.

  But he hadn’t been concerned about his mother’s situation two years ago. She was okay for the moment, but eventually, she’d have to go into some kind of assisted living facility, the cost of which, he’d been informed by his sister, was upward of five thousand dollars a month. If she sold the house, the money from the sale would last about four years. And then what?

  He looked around his little apartment. Was he about to lose his own home as well? Would he, too, become a charity case? The fact that Annalisa Rice had asked him if he needed money was a bad sign. Was it apparent to all how desperate he was? Once people sensed his weakness, he’d be cut off. “Did you hear what happened to Billy Litchfield?” they’d ask. “He lost his apartment and had to leave New York.” They’d talk about it for a little while, but then they’d forget about him. No one cared to think about the people who didn’t make it.

  He went into his bedroom and opened the wooden box Mrs. Houghton had left him. The Cross of Bloody Mary was still in its suede pouch in the hidden compartment. He’d considered renting a safe deposit box in which to store the cross, but he worried that this action alone might arouse suspicion. So he had kept it, as Mrs. Houghton had, on top of his bureau. Unwrapping the cross, he recalled something Mrs. Houghton had once said: “The problem with art is that it doesn’t solve people’s problems, Billy. Money, on the other hand, does.”

  Billy put on his reading glasses and examined the cross. The diamonds were crudely cut by today’s standards and were far from perfect in color or clarity, with cloudy occlusions. But the stones were old and enormous. The diamond in the middle was at least twenty carats. On the open market, the cross might be worth ten to twenty million dollars.

  This particular circumstance dictated that he mustn’t be greedy, however—the more money he demanded, the more likely the sale would attract attention. He would ask for only three million dollars—just enough, he reasoned, to take care of his mother and ensure his relatively modest lifestyle in New York.

  Then the reality of what he was about to do caused his body to react in fear. He felt a damp sweat beginning to form in his armpits, and leaving the cross on the bed, he went into the bathroom, took two Xanaxes, and stepped into the shower.

  Afterward, patting himself dry with a heavy white towel, he sternly told himself that he must be resolute in his decision. He would have preferred to sell the cross to Annalisa Rice, whom he trusted completely, but Annalisa was a lawyer and would know the transaction was illegal. That left one other choice—Connie Brewer. Connie’s blithe lack of intelligence might prove to be his downfall someday, but on the other hand, she was good at following instructions. As long as he constantly reminded her to keep quiet, he would probably be safe. Wrapping himself in his paisley silk robe, he reminded himself if the thing be done, it best be done quickly. Picking up the phone next to his bed, he called Connie.

  She was collecting her children from school but would meet him at four o’clock. At four-thirty, his bell rang, and Connie came fluttering into his cramped apartment. “You’re being so mysterious, Billy,” she said.

  He held up the cross.

  “What is it?” she squealed, thrusting her head forward to get a better look. “Is it real? Can I hold it?” She put out her hand, and he placed it in her palm. She gasped. “Are those diamonds?”

  “I hope so,” he said. “It belonged to a queen.”

  “Oh, Billy, I want it. I want it,” she repeated. “I have to have it. It’s mine.” She held the cross to her chest and stood to look at herself in the mirror above the mantelpiece. “It’s speaking to me. Jewelry speaks to me, you know—and it’s saying it belongs to me.”

  “I’m so glad you like it,” Billy said casually. Having begun the transaction, he felt calm. “It’s special. It needs the right home.”

  Connie became businesslike, as if fearful that the cross might get away from her if she didn’t buy it right away. “How much do you want for it?” she asked, sitting on the couch and taking her iPhone out of her handbag. “I can call Sandy right now and have him write you a check.”

  “That would be lovely, my dear. But I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

  “I want it now,” she insisted. Billy let her take it with her, and was almost relieved to have it out of his apartment. Now all he needed was the money.

  He had a cocktail party that evening but stayed home to wait for Sandy.

  At eight o’clock, Sandy rapped impatiently on the door. He’d never been in Billy’s apartment, and he looked around, surprised and possibly shocked, Billy thought, by how small it was. “When you get the money, I guess you’ll be buying a bigger place,” Sandy said, opening his briefcase.

  “No,” Billy said. “I like it here.”

  “Suit yourself,” Sandy said, pulling out a yellow legal pad. He began outlining the particulars, and within twenty minutes, he and Billy had come to an agreement.

  Afterward, Billy got into bed, exhausted. Sandy, no doubt, found the need for secrecy strange, but he’d assumed the cross was merely a bibelot, and Billy eccentric. But the arrangements were easy enough, and the money couldn’t be traced to the sale of the cross. Sandy would open an investment account for him at a bank in Genev
a, Switzerland, and would transfer the three million dollars into the account in increments of just under ten thousand dollars a day over the next ten months, which would avoid alerting the authorities, who tracked only transactions of over ten thousand dollars. Wrapping up their business, Sandy jokingly suggested Billy make a will.

  “Why?” Billy said, taken aback.

  “If something happens to you, the government will try to claim the money,” Sandy said, snapping his briefcase shut.

  Billy closed his eyes. It was done now, and there was no going back. He promptly fell asleep and didn’t wake until morning. It was the first night in weeks he’d been able to fall asleep without taking a pill.

  Two nights later, however, he had a terrible fright. It was the opening night of Balanchine’s Jewels at the New York City Ballet, and Billy decided to go alone, wanting an evening off from the obligation of having to maintain his persona in front of other people. He should have known better—as soon as one left one’s apartment, there was no privacy in New York—and strolling through the promenade in the State Theater during the first intermission, Billy ran into Enid Merle, accompanied, incongruously, by a cookie-cutter young beauty with enormous teeth. Enid didn’t introduce the girl and was, in fact, distinctly unfriendly. “Ah, Billy” was all she said before she turned away.

  Billy didn’t put too much emphasis on it, reminding himself that Enid could be that way. Besides, he thought, rationalizing her behavior, like everyone else he’d known in New York for years, Enid Merle was finally old.

  In the next second, he was distracted by a pat on the shoulder. Billy turned and found himself face-to-face with David Porshie, the director of the Metropolitan Museum. David Porshie was a bald man with olive skin and deep bags under his eyes; at fifty-five, he was relatively young to hold such a position, the hope of the board being that he might remain the head of the Met for another thirty years. “Billy Litchfield,” David said, folding his arms and looking at Billy scoldingly, as if he’d done something wrong.

  Billy was terrified. As the director of the Met, David would know all about the mystery of the Cross of Bloody Mary, and it crossed Billy’s mind—irrationally—that somehow David had found out that Mrs. Houghton had had the cross and given it to him. But he was only being paranoid, because David said, “I haven’t seen you in ages. Where have you been keeping yourself?”

  “I’ve been around,” Billy said cautiously.

  “I never see you at our events anymore. Ever since Mrs. Houghton passed—God rest her generous soul—I suppose you don’t think we’re important enough.”

  Was he somehow digging for information? Billy wondered. Struggling to maintain his composure, he said, “Not at all. I’ve got my calendar marked for the gala next month. I’m arranging to bring Annalisa Rice. She and her husband bought Mrs. Houghton’s apartment.”

  He didn’t need to say more. David Porshie immediately understood the ramifications of bringing a potential donor into the fold. “Well done,” he said, pleased. “We can always count on you to have the inside track.”

  Billy smiled, but as soon as David walked away, he rapidly made his way to the men’s room. Was it going to be like this from now on? Was he always going to be looking over his shoulder, wondering if people like David Porshie suspected him? Everyone in the art world knew him. He would never be able to avoid them, not as long as he lived in Manhattan.

  He felt around in his pocket for an orange pill and slipped one in his mouth, swallowing it dry. It would only take a few minutes for the pill to take effect, but he decided it was too late. The evening was spoiled. There was nothing to do but go home. And passing through the promenade on his way out, he again spotted Enid Merle. She looked up at him briefly. He waved, but she didn’t wave back.

  “Who was that?” Lola asked.

  “Who, dear?” Enid said, ordering two glasses of champagne.

  “That man who waved to you.”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about, dear,” Enid replied. She knew exactly to whom Lola was referring, but she still felt a residual annoyance at Billy Litchfield over Mrs. Houghton’s apartment. She’d always considered Billy a good friend—so he should have come to her first and at least have had the courtesy to inform her of what he was planning to do with the Rices.

  But she didn’t want to think about Billy Litchfield or the Rices and their apartment. She was at the ballet now. Attending the ballet was one of the great pleasures in Enid’s life, and she had her rituals. She always sat in the first row in the first ring in seat 113, which she considered the best seat in the house, and she always treated herself to a glass of the most expensive champagne during the intermissions. The elegant first act, “Emeralds,” was over, and after paying for the champagne, she turned to Lola. “What did you think of it, dear?” she asked.

  Lola stared at the piece of strawberry in her glass. The ballet, she knew, was supposed to be the height of culture. But the first movement had more than bored her, it had literally made her want to scream and tear her hair out. The slow classical music grated on her nerves; it was so excruciating that for a moment, she actually questioned her wisdom in being with Philip. But she reminded herself that this wasn’t Philip’s fault—he wasn’t even here. He wisely—she realized—was at home.

  “I liked it,” Lola said cautiously.

  They moved away from the stalls and sat at a small table on the side, sipping their champagne. “Did you?” Enid said. “There’s a great debate over which ballet is better, ‘Emeralds,’ ‘Rubies,’ or ‘Diamonds.’ I personally prefer ‘Diamonds,’ but many people love the fire in ‘Rubies.’ You’ll have to make your own decision.”

  “There’s more?” Lola said.

  “Hours and hours,” Enid declared happily. “I’ve done quite a bit of thinking on the matter, and I’ve decided ballet is the very opposite of the Internet. Or those things you watch on your phone. What are they—podcasts? Ballet is the antidote to surfing the Web. It forces you to go deep. To think.”

  “Or fall asleep,” Lola said, attempting a joke.

  Enid ignored this. “Ideally, the ballet should put you into a transportive state. I’ve often said it’s a version of meditation. You’ll feel wonderful afterward.”

  Lola took another sip of champagne. It was slightly sour, and the tiny bubbles caught in her throat, but she was determined to keep her displeasure to herself. The evening was an opportunity to make Enid like her—or at the very least, to make Enid understand that she meant to marry Philip, and there was no use in Enid standing in the way. But still, Enid’s invitation to the ballet had taken Lola by surprise. When she and Philip had returned from Mustique, she’d expected Enid would be furious about her moving in. Instead, Enid pretended to be overjoyed and immediately asked her to the ballet. “A girls’ night,” she’d called it, although Enid couldn’t possibly believe she was still a girl, Lola thought. And then a more disturbing idea had crossed her mind: Perhaps Enid didn’t object to her moving in with Philip at all, and planned to spend lots of time with them. Lola lowered her head over her glass and glanced up at Enid. If that were so, she thought, Enid would be in for a shock. Philip was hers now, and Enid would have to learn that when it came to relationships, three was a crowd.

  “Did Philip tell you he danced ballet as a boy?” Enid asked. The thought of Philip in white tights startled Lola. Could this be true, she wondered, or was it merely a sign that Enid was becoming senile? Lola carefully took in Enid’s appearance. Her blond hair was coiffed, and she was wearing a black-and-white plaid suit with a matching emerald necklace and earrings, which Lola coveted and wondered if there was some way she could get Enid to leave to her when she died. Enid did not look particularly crazy—and Lola had to concede that for an eighty-two-year-old woman, Enid looked pretty good.

  “No, he didn’t tell me,” Lola said stiffly.

  “You two have only just gotten to know each other, so naturally, he hasn’t had time yet to tell you everything. But he was in
The Nutcracker as a boy. He played the young prince. It was, and still is, a terribly chic thing to do. Ballet has always been a part of our lives. But you’ll learn that soon enough.”

  “I can’t wait,” Lola said, forcing herself to smile.

  The bells signaling the end of intermission began to chime, and Enid stood up. “Come along, dear,” she said. “We don’t want to miss the second act.” Holding out her arm, she motioned for Lola to take it, and when she did, Enid leaned heavily on her, shuffling slowly toward the door to the theater and keeping up a relentless prattle. “I’m so happy you love the classic arts,” she said. “The winter season of the ballet only lasts until the end of February, but then there’s the Metropolitan Opera. And of course, there are always wonderful little piano concertos and even poetry readings. So one never need be deprived of culture. And now that you’re living with Philip, it’s so easy. You’re right next door. You can accompany me to everything.”

  Back at One Fifth, Philip was shaving for the second time that day. As he scraped the side of his cheek, he paused, holding up his razor. Something was missing. Noise, he thought. There was no noise. For the first time in months.

  He went back to shaving. Splashing his face with water, he felt guilty about sneaking around behind Lola’s back. Then he was irritated. He had every right to do as he pleased—after all, he wasn’t married to the girl. He was only trying to help her by providing her with a roof over her head until she could figure out her situation.

  Passing through the living room on his way out, he noticed that Lola had carelessly left her magazines strewn on the couch. He picked up Brides, then Modern Bride and Elegant Bride. This was too much. He would need to have a talk with her—one of these days—and make it clear where he stood in the relationship. He wasn’t going to be backed into making promises he couldn’t keep. And making his point, he took the magazines into the kitchen, where he pushed them down the incinerator chute, even though this was against the building’s rules.