“Sal, do you remember our trip to Europe during college? Well, we had very, um, different approaches to international travel. I got on that plane with a dozen travel guides, detailed lists and maps, and you had a Star magazine and a stash of gummy bears—Briggs, know that gummy bears can solve most anything—and a passport and all the trust in the world that we’d figure it out, that we’d have fun, that we’d be totally fine. And you were right, Sal. We were. Your optimism about the world has served you so annoyingly well at times. Look at the guy next to you. For those of you not privy to the story of how they met, it went a little like this. Sally goes back to her tenth Princeton reunion. She’s with her friends, many of whom are here tonight, and she spots this guy at the keg at Tiger Inn and he’s doing a keg stand at age, what, thirty-one? And Sally, my genius doctor sister, is like, That looks like fun, I’m going to do one of those. And she marches on over and lets everyone lift her legs so she’s upside down funneling beer. And then they talk and, bam, love.”
Smith looks over and sees Tate and thinks of something. Keeps going.
“I stumbled upon this quote just a few days ago, on Thanksgiving actually,” she says, catching Tate’s eye. “Truman Capote said these words, and I hope I’m not butchering them too badly, but he said, ‘The brain may take advice, but not the heart, and love, having no geography, knows no boundaries.’ I love this because I’m realizing that Sally has been trying to teach me that love is not something we can map out but must stumble into, and when we do, if we are lucky to, it has no limits. That’s what I see when I look at Sally and Briggs. Something limitless. It’s inspiring.
“Oh, and Briggs, for you. One final thing. That fateful summer in Europe when we were in college? We sat on this bench in Amsterdam one day, feeling very grown-up drinking our sludgy black coffees, and your wife asked me something. What kind of guys do you think we will marry? And we thought about this and I said I didn’t know and clearly I still don’t know”—she pauses for the crowd’s laughter—“but she had these stars in her eyes, Briggs, and she said, I’m going to marry the greatest guy. And I’m going to wait for him. And she did. Let’s all raise a glass of something good. To my sister and to Briggs and to a love worth the wait.”
Smith exhales. She reaches down to collect her glass and lift it high into the air. The applause is thunderous and she feels gripped with joy, almost as if she’s floating. As she makes her way back to her table, to Sally, she’s overcome with a deep sense of relief, but also with the sense that what she said, however imperfect, however unpolished, was utterly honest and real. Sally stands and meets her halfway. The wedding photographer lowers himself by them and snaps furiously, capturing this moment of two sisters wrapped up in a hug.
Briggs waits for his turn. He hugs Smith. “I think we are going to have to find a way to get some keg stands going at the after-party.”
The band starts playing “We Are Family” and Smith dances with Sally, and is wonderfully surprised when her parents join them. Bitsy has let down her immaculate guard and twirls with abandon. Thatcher has loosened his bow tie and smiles earnestly, his forehead glistening with sweat. Guests spill onto the floor to surround them. She spins Sally around and around. When the song is over, Tate stands waiting, an enormous smile splayed on his face. He pulls her toward him. “That was perfect, you know,” he says, leading her toward the bar.
“I need a cocktail,” Smith says, bouncing almost. “I need six cocktails.”
“Slow down, cowgirl,” he says, smiling.
But she doesn’t slow down. She speeds up. She drinks and she dances and she talks to people. She flits about. She and Tate take goofy photos together in the photo booth. They even pose for some ridiculous selfies, participating in the hashtag nonsense. They spend the remainder of the evening with Clio and Henry, bouncing between the bar and the dance floor, taking periodic pauses to stand by the windows and look out at the city.
At one point, Tate takes Clio to dance and Smith hangs back with Henry. She looks at him, really looks at him. His alabaster skin and brilliant blue eyes, his black hair. He sips his whiskey, seems far younger than his fifty years.
“You having fun, Henry?”
“Absolutely,” he says, looking around. “This is a lovely party, Smith. I consider myself lucky to be included in this important night for your family.”
“Thanks, Henry,” she says, staring at him. He’s a very good man, this Henry, and Smith will make a point of getting to know him even better. He’s brought out the best in her friend; Clio is a different person with him. So solid. So strong. Happy. She must tell him this. The alcohol pushes her along. “Thank you,” she says, “for making Clio so happy. As you now know, she’s been through hell, and just to see her smiling again . . . The point is, well, you better take care of her or I’ll, oh, I don’t know what I’ll do, I’ll organize your shoes or something, but take care of her, okay?”
Henry beams. Laughs heartily. Drains his drink. “That’s my intention.”
“Well, good then,” Smith says, taking his hand. They weave in and out of tables and make their way onto the parquet floor. Song after song, the four of them dance. The band plays Coldplay’s “Yellow.” Smith smiles when she looks over and sees Clio and Henry in an embrace by the bar. Her friend is smiling, singing along. Look at the stars, look how they shine for you, she mouths at Henry.
It dawns on Smith that she’s drunk. Totally, blissfully gone. High as a kite. Free as a fucking bird.
She pulls Briggs aside and hugs him. “Do you know how lucky you are to have her?”
He grins. “I know.”
“No, I mean it. You better not ever fucking take her for granted,” she says, waving her finger jokingly in his face. “She’s the best girl in the world. You know that, I trust?”
Briggs laughs. “She feels the same way about you. You know she’s always been a little envious of you?”
“What?” Smith says.
He nods.
“What is all of this?” Sally says, appearing seemingly from nowhere, draping her arms around Briggs.
“Your sister is just reminding me of my good fortune,” he says.
A crashing sound from across the room interrupts them. One of the enormous arrangements of branches has toppled over, first causing shrieks and then howling laughter. Things are, as they should be, taking a turn toward wildness. Some of the older guests start sneaking out. But Smith and Tate and the rest of them stay until the bitter end, drinking and dancing.
As it does during the best and brightest moments in life, time zips by, and just like that, the wedding is over. Hotel staffers shuffle the drunkards through a black and white marble foyer into the regal two-story Conrad Suite, which awaits for the equally over-the-top after-party. David Guetta spins at a DJ booth. The space is utter opulence, embellished with silver and gold leaf and rich jewel-toned fabrics, etched mirrored paneling, lavish multitiered crystal chandeliers and a vast marble fireplace. Waiters circle with trays full of late-night bites: cones of herbed French fries, tiny pots of mac and cheese, mini pizzas and Kobe beef sliders.
After twenty or so minutes, Sally and Briggs enter. She has changed out of her wedding dress and now wears a short, flirty white number, her hair swept into a topknot. Everyone gathers around them. The music is loud and thumping. Candles flicker everywhere.
“So, look, I have something to tell you,” Tate says, grabbing Smith’s arm. His voice shakes. His eyes are wide, bleary from booze. A frank seriousness falls over his face. Through the haze of alcohol and euphoria, Smith feels herself beginning to panic.
“What is it?” she says.
“Get some air with me?”
MIDNIGHT
“I like the sound of that.”
Tate holds Smith’s hand and drags her through the lobby. They stumble past the big clock. It chimes midnight.
He pulls her along the famous mosaic floor at the entry, past Cole Porter’s Steinway piano on the Cocktail Terrace, down the plush carpet
ed stairs, through the glass doors and out onto Park Avenue. Smith looks up at the hotel’s grand brick and limestone façade, which is lit with bright lights.
It’s cold enough now that she’s shivering. Tate peels off his jacket and drapes it around her. He fiddles nervously with his camera, his fingers looping and unlooping the strap, fidgeting with the gears. He kicks anxiously at the sidewalk and then looks up at her. Smiles. His eyes are big and bright under the lamplights. “How are you doing? This is quite the event. You seem to be surviving pretty well.”
“I am. I think the vats of champagne are helping, but I feel better about things than I have in the longest time, Tate. I’ve been moping around, all woe-is-me, but tonight, I don’t know . . . Tonight, I feel okay, optimistic even. So what about Asad and broken hearts and all that garbage, right? The past is the past.”
“Yes!” Tate says, taking her shoulders. “The past is the past and I mean, I’m sorry to say, but that Asad didn’t deserve you. He could have married you, Smith. He’s a grown man. A doctor. He doesn’t need anyone’s approval. You deserve a guy who’s going to stand up for you.”
Like you? she wonders.
She nods, galvanized. “You’re right. He could have stood up to his family. If they love him, they would have come around. I know that. It’s just hard to admit. It’s easier to blame these people I never had the chance to meet.”
“It wasn’t just his family, Smith,” Tate says.
It’s clear from the look on his face that he’s censoring himself, that he knows something more.
“I’m not totally oblivious,” Smith says. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Thatch said or did something to make Asad leave.”
“Smith, when we were in the Hamptons and I was having drinks with your father in the library, he told me that—”
She holds up her hand to stop this confession. It’s been a good night, all about family. “That’s okay. I don’t need details. I know who my father is. Besides, like I said, the past is the past . . .”
“Well, speaking of the past, I’m guessing you saw the e-mail from Olivia this morning?”
“Was it that obvious when I stomped out of your apartment?” Smith laughs sheepishly.
“Pretty much,” he says. “And I’m sorry. You shouldn’t be in the middle of this crap.”
“Are you going to see her when she comes?” Smith asks, and then wishes she hadn’t. Her insides lurch as she waits for his reply.
“I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head, looking down at the sidewalk. “I’m not sure I can figure any of this out if I’m with you right now, Smith. I don’t even know who I am anymore and I don’t want to drag you through this. I need to be alone. I haven’t been single since I was a freshman in college, which is insane, and I need time to process the shit I’ve been through.”
“I get it,” Smith says sincerely. “Believe me, I get it.” She finds a smile even as a quiet sadness spreads inside her. But he is right. They’ve both been burned. They both know better than to jump into something serious now. Time. Space. Solitude. Freedom. They both need all these clichéd things people talk about.
After a beat she breaks the silence. “You said that you don’t even know who you are anymore. The messed-up thing, Tate, is that I’m not sure I’ve ever known. I’ve been so close with my parents and my sister and Clio, I haven’t even needed to figure it out. But Sally is married now and Clio and Henry are moving in together and I need to find out who I am on my own, without them. I’m going to get my own apartment. Something I can afford on my own. I will still see my family, of course, but not every day.”
As she stands on the blustery sidewalk in front of the grand hotel, Smith begins to truly feel the enormity of what’s to come, of the steps she’s now vowing to take. Yes, she’s a bit sauced, but that doesn’t matter. This courage is not liquid; this resolve is real. All of this is incredibly, inspiringly clear to her now, what she must do, what she will do. She thinks of her family and Clio tucked inside, celebrating, and she loves them and knows how lucky she is to have them and love them as much as she does, but finally, after thirty-four years in this world, she’s ready to strike out on her own.
It’s time.
“How about this,” Tate says, rubbing his hands together, his breath forming clouds in the air. “You’ll find your own place, maybe even downtown where all of us cool kids live, and I will figure shit out with Olivia and get in a good groove with my photography and we can meet again . . . for a tailgate in New Haven or Cambridge or a stroll through the park or a noon Bloody at the Boathouse? Or for a mind-erasing bender around the city?”
“I like the sound of that.” And she does. She really does.
Tate pulls her into him, throws his arms around her. “Look,” he says, pointing up at the sky, and Smith sees it: the moon, a barely there crescent of white against the inky expanse. “Our goodnight moon.”
Her mind snags on one word, a hopeful word: our.
And then he does it. What she’s been imagining, what she’s been waiting for. He places his cold hands on her cheeks, frames her face, pauses and then pulls her toward him. He kisses her. And he keeps on kissing her. He doesn’t stop. She tries to pull away—there are people around, they are on the street—but he won’t let her. And so she surrenders, allows her body to fall into his. His camera is bulky between them, but he tosses it around behind his back. He playfully bites her bottom lip.
Minutes pass and the whole world falls away.
It just falls away.
Sunday, December 1, 2013
CLIO
A block or two west of the new City of Man in Turtle Bay there is an old willow that presides over an interior garden. It is a battered tree, long suffering and much climbed, held together by strands of wire but beloved of those who know it. In a way it symbolizes the city: life under difficulties, growth against odds, sap-rise in the midst of concrete, and the steady reaching for the sun.
— E. B. White, Here Is New York
NOTES/FACTS FOR RAMBLE WALK*:
SEPTEMBER 30, 2001
HISTORY: Designed by Frederick Law Olmsted & Calvert Vaux and completed in 1859. 38-acre area running between 73rd and 78th streets. Originally an expanse of rock outcrops running along a large swamp, it was transformed into a tranquil and lush woodland or “wild garden.” Per Olmsted, the area was created to “excite the childish playfulness and profuse careless utterance of Nature.”
LANDMARKS: Azalea Pond, Balcony Bridge, Loeb Boathouse, Evodia Field, the Gill, Hernshead, Humming Tombstone, Indian Cave, the Lake, Maintenance Field, Mugger’s Woods, Oven/Willow Rock, the Point, Rustic Shelter, Riviera, the Swampy Pin Oak, Tupelo Meadow, Upper Lobe, Warbler Rock.
THE RAMBLE’S BIRDS: Central Park is situated on the Atlantic Flyway (favored migration route for many birds); more than 250 species of birds have been spotted in the Ramble and people come from all over the world to see them. Common sightings: pigeons, warblers, hawks, egrets, woodpeckers, ducks, vireos, cuckoos, sandpipers, flycatchers. Also, many species pass through during spring and fall migration. Park has become magnet for migrating Neotropical songbirds and other species that winter in the south.
MIGRANT SPECIES: Eastern Phoebe (mid-March through late May), wood warblers (small, brightly plumed Neotropical songbirds) including Prothonotary, Cape May, Yellow-throated, Hooded, Worm-eating. Also: Solitary and Spotted Sandpipers. American Woodcocks and a variety of sparrows.
BREEDING SPECIES: Thirty-plus species (per Audubon), including: American Robin, Starling, Common Grackle, Song Sparrow, House Wren, Gray Catbird, Tufted Titmice, Downy Woodpecker, Warbling Vireo, Wood Thrush, Cedar Waxwing, Eastern Kingbird, Northern Flicker, Mallard, Green Heron, Eastern Screech-Owl, Red-tailed Hawk (two or three per year).
HUMMINGBIRDS: Ruby-throated Hummingbirds visit in spring and fall and are attracted to deep-throated flowering plants. Extract nectar from flowers with long, thin bills and are very active feeders.
CELEBRITY BIRD: Red-tailed Haw
k Pale Male (named for his fair coloring) kicked out of nest it built on Fifth Avenue building. Celebrity protest brought nest back.
POINT IS TO GET LOST?: In an 1860 essay, an NYT reporter had two complaints about the Ramble: (1) not enough benches, and (2) there were absolutely no signs indicating how to get out of the Ramble. Today, a few benches, but there are still no signs. Apparently, it was the designers’ goal to make this intimate area seem big and complex through the use of winding paths, shrubbery and rock hills to block visibility. The result: no logical way to organize a tour of this place or give easy directions to someone who is lost in the Ramble. Maybe that is the point after all. To be lost.
8:24AM
“What will happen?”
All she remembers from her dream: The harp, fluorescent, flickering fitfully in a grainy darkness. Under it, a single word, all caps, a conspicuous exhortation, lit up, blinding in its cartoon cast: FORGIVENESS. All other details are lost. The dream, she decides, was neither nightmare nor fairy tale.
When she opens her eyes, the world is befuddling in its sameness and strangeness. The hotel room is just as it has always been, arrestingly white, ever generic and pristine, but it’s as if the quality of the air has been tweaked just so. The light is brilliant and lacelike; there’s an almost viscous serenity to the space. Clio feels as if she’s floating. She hears the faint rumblings of Henry puttering on the other side of the cracked-open bathroom door. He hums opera. He runs the tap.
She sits up. Swings her legs over the side of the bed. Without thinking, she reaches to open the bedside drawer. Her mother’s letter sits there, quiet and crisply folded, just as she left it last night. Clio retrieves it, smooths it open, the single page of paper, the cryptic swirl of her mother’s head and heart a transfixing blur before it all grows sharp.
The Ramblers Page 31
