The Nest

by Cynthia D'Aprix Sweeney

  PART TWO

  THE KISS

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Paul Underwood ran his literary magazine, Paper Fibres, from a small warren of offices up a worn flight of stairs in a slightly sagging building that stood in the shadow of the Manhattan Bridge. He’d bought the four-story brick front before the Dumbo section of Brooklyn became DUMBO, when the masses of migrating Manhattanites had been priced out of Brooklyn Heights and Cobble Hill but still had their hearts set on the aesthetically pristine, historically important, and relatively affordable brownstones of Park Slope or Fort Greene. He’d stumbled into the small wedge of a neighborhood one bright summer Saturday after walking across the Brooklyn Bridge. Leisurely heading north, he’d found himself wandering through the industrial blocks and admiring the streets of blue-gray Belgian bricks laid out in appealing patterns, threaded through with defunct trolley tracks. He’d noted with approval the absence of expensive clothing boutiques, high-priced coffee shops, restaurants with exposed brick and wood-burning ovens. Every fourth building seemed to be an auto body shop or some kind of appliance repair. He liked the vibe of the place; it reminded him of Soho back when Soho had energy and grit, a little theatrical menace. Down by the waterfront a sign indicated that the scrubby park populated with crack dealers and their customers was slated for expansion and renovation, and he noticed that the same developer had signs all over the neighborhood heralding the arrival of warehouse-to-condo conversions.

  Standing on a corner of Plymouth Street that afternoon, in the waning days of the twentieth century, listening to the clank and rattle of truck beds as they rumbled over the approach to the Manhattan Bridge to his north, watching the sun illuminate the massive arches of the Brooklyn Bridge to the south, Paul Underwood saw his future: a For Sale placard on a seemingly abandoned corner building. At the top of the building’s reddish-brown façade he could make out the faded, white letters of a sign from the long-defunct business the dwelling once housed: PLYMOUTH PAPER FIBRES, INC. He took the sign as an omen. He bought the building the following week and started his literary journal, Paper Fibres, the following year.

  Paul lived on the top floor of the building (two bedrooms, nicely renovated, meticulously furnished, spectacular views) directly above the Paper Fibres offices, which were crammed into the front half of the third floor. The back half of the third floor and the entire second floor housed two modest but increasingly lucrative rental apartments. At street level there was a lingerie store. La Rosa didn’t sell fancy lingerie, nothing lacy or push-up or see-through, but what Paul thought of as old-lady lingerie, matron underwear. Even the plastic torso mannequins in the windows looked uncomfortable, bound tightly with brassieres and girdles that resembled straitjackets with their rows of steel hooks, dangling elastic belts, and reinforced shoulder straps. Paul had no idea how they stayed in business, had never seen more than one customer in there at a time. He had his suspicions, but the rent check was on time every month so as far as he was concerned La Rosa could launder hosiery or money, or sell whatever they liked to the odd selection of male customers who usually left empty-handed.

  Paul went to great pains to keep his home and work life separate. He never brought work “upstairs,” he never appeared in the Paper Fibres offices in what he thought of as civilian clothes, always dressing for the commute one quick flight down. Every morning he put on one of his exquisitely tailored suits and chose a bow tie from his vast collection. He believed the butterfly shape beneath his chin provided a necessary counterweight to his overly long face and inelegant hair, which was baby fine, mousy brown, and tended to stick out around his ears or at the crown.

  “You can get away with colorful ties,” his ex-wife had told him, diplomatically referring to his rather unremarkable features—gray eyes that were more watery than striking, thin lips, a soft, almost puttylike nose. Paul never minded his ordinary looks. They lent a valuable invisibility in certain situations; he overheard things he wasn’t supposed to hear, people confided in him, errantly judging him harmless. (His looks didn’t always work in his favor. There was the recent lunch, for example, which he’d scheduled with a young poet after their e-mail exchanges had turned flirtatious. That she’d been disappointed in his appearance versus the muscular wit of his correspondence had been abundantly clear by the look on her face. Well, he’d been surprised, too. Surprised to discover that she didn’t remotely resemble her author photo with its glossy hair, hooded eyes, and come-hither glistening lips.)

  Paul valued routine and habit. He ate the same breakfast every day (a bowl of oatmeal and an apple) and then went for a morning walk along Fulton Ferry Landing. On weekdays he never deviated from his route, becoming an expert chronicler of the waterfront in all its seasonal mutations. Today the wind was fierce, battering the hearty souls brave enough to be outside; he leaned into it, pitching himself forward and wrapping his scarf more tightly around his neck. He loved the river, even during the grim New York winter, loved its steely gray shimmer and menacing whitecaps. He never tired of the view of the harbor; he always felt lucky to be exactly where he was, the place he’d chosen to belong.

  As he headed toward the far edge of Fulton Ferry Landing, Paul saw Leo Plumb’s familiar figure sitting on one of the benches closest to the water. Leo and Paul had taken to walking together every so often. Leo looked up and waved. Paul picked up his pace. He’d actually begun to look forward to the days when Leo would join him at the bench. Stranger things had happened, he supposed.

  PAUL HAD BEEN LIVID when SpeakEasy magazine folded and Leo hadn’t invited him to help start the website that would eventually grow into SpeakEasyMedia. Leo hadn’t taken everyone from the print magazine, but he’d taken those generally considered the sharpest, the most desirable, and Paul had always believed himself to fit squarely in that category. Maybe he wasn’t the most talented writer, the most fearless reporter, but he was reliable and capable and ambitious and shouldn’t all those things count for something? He met deadlines, his copy was pristine, and he pitched in where needed even when it wasn’t his responsibility. He did everything you were supposed to do to earn the things you wanted. He was nice.

  That no one else was surprised Paul wasn’t going with Leo was also a blow. He kept waiting for the shocked looks, the crooked finger beckoning him behind a closed door, “Leo isn’t taking you?” When it didn’t happen, he realized nobody else considered him prime pickings either.

  He’d mustered the nerve to ask Leo about it once. “Underwood, this is not going to be your scene,” Leo’d said, putting a heavy palm on Paul’s shoulder and holding his gaze in that way Leo had, the way that made you simultaneously flattered to command his full attention and slightly brain addled, unable to capture a train of thought. “You would hate it. You’re an in-depth feature guy. I wouldn’t do it to you. And I’m paying peanuts.”

  Paul comforted himself with Leo’s explanation for a while. He probably would hate gossip; it was true that Paul specialized in the longer cultural pieces. And he wasn’t willing to work for nothing. But then Paul discovered that Leo had hired Gordon FitzGerald as content editor at the new SpeakEasy. Gordon wasn’t any more interested in short form or gossip than Paul, and he was sure Gordon wasn’t working for peanuts. Paul had supervised Gordon—he’d recruited him!—and he knew that Gordon was nothing but trouble, a drunk and a world-class dick. For months after Leo left, Paul freely offered his opinion of the new venture: “Dead in the water in six months.” He had, of course, been preposterously wrong.

  Paul didn’t know what had happened to land Leo in rehab because the public details were sketchy and Bea was closemouthed. He’d heard rumors about a car accident out in the Hamptons. Leo’s wife, Victoria, had been seen around town with a number of high-profile dates. Leo seemed to be shacking up (again) with Stephanie Palmer in Brooklyn. His Porsche was gone.

  When Leo appeared in his offices one morning in November ostensibly looking for Bea, Paul didn’t think anything of it. But Leo was there for hours, no
sing around Paul’s office, asking questions about issue scheduling, advertising deadlines, print sales, subscriptions, finances. He wanted to know about the magazine’s online presence (slim), writer relationships (robust), and how Paul would expand if he could—“If you had all the funding you wanted?”

  And then Paul thought he understood. “Nathan sent you here,” Paul said. “You two are working together again.” It made sense; they used to be partners and Paul thought his recent meeting with Nathan had been promising. Leo held Paul’s gaze in a way that seemed significant and said, “Officially? No. Officially? This is just a friendly visit.”

  “I see,” Paul said. He didn’t see but hoped to God that Leo was there on unofficial-official Nathan business. At one of the countless holiday parties he’d attended in December—he couldn’t even remember which one, they all blurred, all the cheap Prosecco and waxy cubes of cheese and gluten-free cupcakes—one of his old SpeakEasy colleagues mentioned that he’d heard Nathan was thinking about starting a literary magazine—or investing in one.

  “As a write-off?” Paul asked, unable to imagine any other reason.

  “I think it’s more of an ego thing,” his friend had said. “Something respectable and highbrow to balance the other stuff.” The other stuff, Paul knew, referred not just to the gossipy lowbrow nature of SpeakEasyMedia’s online presence, but to the soft-core porn site that generated most of the company’s revenue.

  “Any idea who he’s considering?”

  “None. You should call him. The money he’s willing to throw at someone is chump change for him but probably massive by your standards.”

  Paul had been on the phone scheduling a meeting the next day. Keeping Paper Fibres afloat sometimes felt like trying to cross the Atlantic Ocean in a leaky skiff. He was constantly plugging one hole, just to have another appear and then another and he felt like the whole venture was going to sink more times than he cared to think about.

  The rental income from his building, in addition to allowing him to work and live rent-free, provided some income—enough to pay himself, Bea, and his one other full-time employee (a managing editor who spent most of her time filling out grant applications and chatting up prospective donors and trying to keep existing contributors from turning fickle) a modest income. Paper Fibres had a solid subscription base—as far as those things went—and even managed a decent amount of advertising revenue, but not enough to cover all his costs and pay writers and keep his related projects thriving.

  The majority of outside funding came from Paul’s two elderly aunts, his deceased father’s sisters who’d never married and treated Paul like a son. They were a certain type of elderly New Yorker, sharing the same rent-controlled apartment within walking distance of Lincoln Center for decades and decades. Voracious readers, eager travelers, regulars at all kinds of readings and the Broadway Wednesday matinee. They had annual subscriptions to the ballet, Carnegie Hall, and the Ninety-Second Street Y and box seats at Shea Stadium. Every January since he’d started his publication, they sent an extremely generous check. The Sisters’ Fund, as he thought of it (and how he listed it on the contributors’ page, which thrilled them), was how he could pay writers and manage, once or twice a year, to publish a book under his very modest imprint. Usually a poetry collection, the occasional novella, or a book of essays.

  Two years ago, the January check had been a little less. The following year, less still, and last month, nearly half what it used to be. Paul would never question them, but he worried that maybe something was wrong and they weren’t telling him. He invited them out, as he did every January, to thank them for their contribution—drinks at the Algonquin and dinner at Keens Steakhouse. Before Paul got a chance to ask if everything was all right, they brought up the diminishing checks, speaking in their typical fashion, almost as one person. He was used to their eccentricity by now, but on the few occasions they stopped by his office—“just to have a look around”—he realized how they appeared to others. “Like those Grey Gardens ladies,” one of the interns had said once, admiringly, “minus the dementia and cats.”

  “We’re so sorry,” they told him over lunch. “It seems we’re going through our retirement fund a little more quickly than is ideal.”

  “Our accountant has put his foot down, dear. He’s trying to get us to cut all expenses by half.”

  “Especially ones he deems ‘unnecessary,’ anything charitable.”

  “You can imagine our distress. Of course we initially refused, but then—”

  “He summoned us to his office! Like a principal bringing truants called to account. It was mortifying—”

  “Mortifying. He had charts.”

  “Not charts, graphs. They were very colorful.”

  “Very.” Mutual and grave nodding commenced; Paul waited.

  “You see, the amount of red on the future projected income—”

  “Red isn’t good.”

  “I realize that nobody wants red on the charts,” Paul said.

  “Graphs.” They looked so troubled, avoiding eye contact, drinking their wine too fast, that he quickly reassured them he understood.

  “You’ve done so much already,” Paul said. “You’ve done more than enough.”

  “Our check will be a little less every year but you can count on us for something.”

  “I’m afraid we’ve lived too long. Who would have thought?”

  “Especially after all those years of smoking? All the red meat? We’ll be lucky if there’s anything left for our funeral when that day comes.”

  Paul decided to ignore the odd sentence construction, the assumption that two people would have one funeral—on the same day—although it was impossible to imagine one sister without the other.

  Although he thought he’d have more time, Paul knew this day would come eventually; his aunts wouldn’t live forever. Countless times he’d tried to get a better handle on the business side of things, his tenuous finances, but he hated the business side of things. He was trying to figure out how to redouble his funding efforts when he serendipitously heard the chatter about Nathan and arranged a meeting. Nathan hadn’t committed to anything but he’d been engaged, curious. He’d asked lots of questions and Paul offered intelligent, thought-out answers. Why wouldn’t he? He thought all the time about what he would do if he had more money. The website was pathetic, nothing more than a place to subscribe and submit, and many of his writers were frustrated their content wasn’t available online. He wanted to publish more books, many more books. He wanted to expand the modest-but-respected reading series he ran, start a summer conference, and maybe open a writing center for at-risk youth. But it would all take more money than he’d ever had.

  “Let’s both think on it a little more,” Nathan had said. “I’ll be in touch in a few weeks.”

  And then there was Leo, standing in his office and looking around and asking questions.

  “Unofficially,” Paul said to Leo, “is there anything specific you’d like to know about how things work here?”

  Since then he and Leo had met a handful of times, usually starting at the bench in the morning. They’d stroll, get coffee, and talk—mostly about work and the challenges of running a literary magazine. But about other things, too: real estate, the rapidly expanding Brooklyn waterfront, city politics. Paul still wasn’t sure what Leo was after. He assumed more than one person would be in the running for Nathan’s dollars, so he was trying his hardest to impress Leo, walking him through every stage of putting the summer issue together, occasionally pretending to solicit Leo’s advice and then feeling pleasantly surprised at his excellent input. Paul had forgotten—it had been easy to forget given Leo’s gradual morph from new-media celebrity into his glaring life of unrepentant indulgence—how cunning Leo could be about the printed word. Leo’s instincts were infuriatingly effortless and accurate, and Paul couldn’t help enjoying him and their lively exchanges. It was, in fact, Leo’s presence that made Paul Underwood rekindle the tiny ember he’d
consigned to a much smaller place that was the thought of kissing Beatrice Plumb.

  Over the years, Paul had had a few carefully selected lovers. They came and went, some more than once. He’d been married briefly, didn’t seem to have the knack for it, but he had loved Beatrice Plumb for nearly always. His love for her was quiet and constant, familiar and soothing; it was almost its own thing entirely, like a worn rock or a set of worry beads, something he’d pick up and weigh in his palm occasionally, more comforting than dispiriting. Paul suspected Bea would never love him, but he thought maybe, one day, she might let him kiss her. He was a very good kisser; he’d been told so often enough to have confidence in that skill and to know that a good kiss, perfectly timed, well executed, could establish inroads to far more interesting destinations.

  He’d thought about kissing Beatrice for so many years that he knew he should probably never try, that the reality would almost have to pale in comparison to his many, many years of imagining the kiss and how it would unfold (in the back of a taxi on a sultry rainy night, on a stalled subway train as the lights flickered off, under the elegantly tiled archways of Bethesda Terrace as the sun was low in the sky, and his favorite: in the sculpture garden at MoMA, both so overcome by the lush, rotund Henry Moores that they turned to each other simultaneously, needing the same exact press of flesh at the same exact moment).

  Paul had spent the past decade watching Bea’s light dim and it was troubling. Not only because he cared, deeply, about Bea as a writer and a person, but also because he suspected her slow fade played a part in his waning libidinous thoughts about her. He wasn’t attracted to failure; he preferred his women dedicated and ambitious. Bea had stopped talking about her book years ago. He never saw her sneaking time to write or even scribble on index cards or in a notebook. Some days he wanted to fire her, make her leave the office and do something else, anything else. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.