Jane Austen in Scarsdale

by Paula Marantz Cohen

  “I think the poems had the strengths and weaknesses of youth,” insisted Kirsten. “I wouldn’t call them crap.”

  “Did I call them crap?” asked Ben, his tone growing, if anything, more sarcastic, as he looked at Anne with an air of mock innocence. “I was speaking in general terms. I didn’t say the guy’s poems were crap! Maybe I think they’re crap, but I didn’t say so.” There was an edge to his voice that Anne realized she had heard only once before, long ago. He was angry—angry when the situation didn’t warrant it. She felt a sudden wave of pleasure. Could it be that he was jealous of Peter Jacobson? It couldn’t possibly be—and yet his manner seemed to suggest as much.

  Before she had a chance to fully assess his reaction, a group of Fenimore parents engulfed her with pressing questions: “Will the admissions office think Shari isn’t serious about Syracuse if she visits for only one night instead of two?”; “Should Jacob take the SATs again to try to improve his 2370 score?”; and “Should Dawn list tennis ahead of debate on her college application?” It was amazing how these questions, whose answers were either blatantly obvious or entirely inconsequential, took on weight and urgency for these otherwise intelligent people. But one of the by-products of the college admissions process was that it impaired parental judgment. Like a seasonal disorder

  or a bout of PMS, the insanity would pass eventually, though not before Shari was ensconced at Syracuse and Jacob launched at Penn.

  As she fielded these questions, Anne soon lost sight of Ben and Kirsten. Everyone was herded into the cafeteria by the Home and School Committee, where a nice spread had been laid out. Mrs. Wanamaker’s brownies were much praised and, in the end, were possibly as big a hit as Peter’s poetry, though they could hardly claim the imprimatur of the Pitzer Prize.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  SOON AFTER SHE ARRIVED AT WORK THE NEXT MORNING, ANNE RECEIVED a call from Harry Furman. “The problem with your apartment is solved,” he announced triumphantly. “You can move back in on Monday”

  “Really?” said Anne. She had never doubted that the law was on her side, but she had expected there would be more of a tussle with Carlotta. She had even been prepared to pay her off, within reason. But apparently this was not going to be necessary. Harry, it seemed, was as good a lawyer as he had boasted he was.

  “Oh yes, the place is almost ready. We’ll leave the keys with the super for you to pick up on Monday. As you know, Carlotta changed the locks, so you’ll need them.”

  Anne paused. There was something in the manner of this communication that struck her as odd. He had referred to Carlotta by her first name. But that wasn’t it. Everyone who met Carlotta referred to her as Carlotta. No—the oddity lay in the use of “we.”: “We’ll leave the keys with the super for you to pick up.’”

  Anne tried to sound nonchalant. “I suppose Carlotta made quite a fuss,” she said. “She was pretty set on staying in the apartment.”

  “Well, yes,” said Harry slowly, “she did at first. But then things worked out.”

  “How fortunate,” said Anne, “that they did.”

  “Yes,” said Harry, clearing his throat. “Carlotta and I rather hit it off. She’s a very attractive lady and, well, she seemed to see something in me. What, I can’t imagine.”

  Anne thought that she could: a duplex on Park Avenue at Seventy-ninth Street.

  “So it was simply a matter of transferring her things to my place,” explained Harry. “I would have contacted you sooner, but I wanted to make sure everything was cleared out and the place was in good condition. Carlotta has quite a few things, especially in the clothing department. Fortunately, I have walk-in closets, and we plan to turn the third guest room into a boudoir, as Carlotta puts it. We’re also renovating the bathrooms. She says she couldn’t possibly live without a bidet.

  Anne felt extremely grateful to Harry. He had not only liberated her apartment but also, upon consideration, her father. Not that Elihu would have any sense that he had been trapped. Indeed, since he had no money, it was a matter of semantics as to whether Carlotta had trapped him or he had trapped her. Still, there was no saying what sort of assets she might have wrung out of him in the long run.

  As it happened, Anne had made a recent discovery that shed additional light on Carlotta Dupre. It all began a week ago when Fenster had announced that the key to his Tale of Two Cities test had been stolen. Vince had then asked Mr. Tortoni, the assistant principal, to get to the bottom of the theft, and Tortoni had commandeered one of his famous “locker sweeps,” in which a small army of handpicked staff fanned out into the halls and insisted that students open their lockers on the spot. As a result of this operation, not only was the missing test key discovered in the locker of Sylvius Alexrod (son of Arnold Alexrod, the Corian king), but Sylvius’s locker also yielded the keys to a dozen other teachers’ tests, along with an extensive stash of hard-core pornography. (Sylvius, apparently, in the entrepreneurial spirit of his father, had been running a media empire from his locker.) Sifting through the material with Vince after school, Anne had had her eye caught by a DVD that pictured a revealingly clad young woman, identified as “international supermodel, Candy Delight.” As Anne looked closely at the alleged supermodel in the hot pink jersey, she realized that Candy Delight looked amazingly like Carlotta Dupre.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  THE PASSING OF THE SCARSDALE HOUSE INTO THE HANDS OF THE Cutlers happened with surprising ease. Anne had timed her departure to coincide with their moving in, and as she packed her things in her old bedroom, which she had occupied for the past several months, she could see trucks coming in and out of the freshly repaved circular driveway in a steady procession. They carried the Cutlers’ worldly possessions—which were quite literally of the world: Turkish rugs, Danish cabinets, Russian samovars. Along with this cornucopia of exotic objects were boxes of books. That, Anne thought, was one thing that hadn’t changed about Ben Cutler. An image of his old Queens apartment with its piles of books lining the walls flashed into her head. She pushed the image away; she had no wish to revisit the memories of that time.

  Carrying her suitcases out to the front door, she practically collided with Ben, who was bringing another box of books into the house. Without saying anything, he put down the box, took the suitcases from her hands, and carried them to the car. She followed him out, not sure how she felt. He was helping her— the suitcases were heavy—but the quick, sudden movement with which he had taken them from her had seemed almost hostile. She remembered the anger in his voice when he had spoken about Peter Jacobson and wondered if he was still angry—or—she hardly dared think it—jealous. She watched him as he swung the suitcases into the trunk and found her gaze fastened, against her will, on the curve of his back. She had once encircled that back with her arms, and the recollection engulfed her, despite herself.

  “I see you paved the driveway,” she said lamely, after he had stowed the suitcases and turned around. Her mind was.in turmoil, and the smooth surface beneath her feet was all she could think of to talk about.

  He ignored the comment. “Feel free to stop by whenever you please,” he said in a clipped tone. “I know how devoted you are to your grandmother.”

  Was there irony in his voice? She didn’t know. She had the impression that he was about to say more, but Pauline now called loudly from one of the downstairs windows. “Bennie— where do you want to put these books? Don’t you think we should give them away since you already read them?”

  Ben gave a short laugh. “She can’t understand that books don’t get used up. I’ve tried to explain that they aren’t like clothes or furniture—that we keep them because we might want to read them again.”

  “And because they remind us of how we felt when we read them,” added Anne softly.

  He nodded and was silent a moment. “Well, I’d better get going before my philistine sister gets rid of all my books.” He paused a moment longer. “Don’t worry about your grandmother.” His voice had an undertone of ge
ntleness. “Pauline may not be good with books, but she’s excellent with people. She’ll take good care of her.”

  Then, he turned, and she watched his back as he walked to the house, leaving her alone.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  ANNE FIAD NOT BEEN BACK TO HER MURRAY HILL APARTMENT IN months, so when she finally lugged her suitcases up the three flights and opened the door, she almost turned around and walked out—she thought she had come to the wrong place. The apartment was immaculate. A cleaning service had obviously been in, which had washed and ironed the curtains and bedspread and had eliminated all babka crumbs from the corners of the kitchen, all crushed caviar from the rugs, and all champagne from the ceiling. These were casualties that Anne knew had occurred during Carlotta’s residence, having visited once or twice to pick up a few items during that period.

  A new coat of paint had also been applied to the walls, and some of the appliances had actually been replaced. Anne could only put this astonishing transformation down to Harry Fur-man’s intervention. Certainly, it could not be ascribed to Carlotta, a woman who had never for a moment thought of anyone’s comforts but her own.

  Indeed, her suspicions regarding Carlotta’s past occupation had been confirmed after she had slipped the tape of Supermodels Burn Up the Sheets into her handbag when Vince wasn’t looking. After Winnie had gone to bed, she popped it in the VCR and was confronted with the unmistakable person of Carlotta Dupre, “operating,” so to speak, under the name Candy Delight. One could hardly say she was burning up the sheets—she seemed to be rather bored—nonetheless there was a good deal of activity with multiple partners that did not look simulated, in the parlance of the industry. Clearly, Carlotta had done things for cash that were not on the intellectual level of The Widening Gyre.

  But Anne assumed that the subject of Carlotta Dupre had been thankfully put to rest until one Sunday, soon after she had moved back to her apartment. She was drinking her morning coffee when the downstairs buzzer rang.

  “It’s Carlotta,” said the voice over the intercom.

  Anne couldn’t imagine what Carlotta would want to say to her, but she buzzed her in. Perhaps she had left a thong behind the bookcase.

  To her surprise, Carlotta and Harry both appeared at the door. Harry was carrying a bottle of champagne and Carlotta, a bouquet of roses. “These are for you,” she said.

  Anne couldn’t help noting that there was a difference in Carlotta’s demeanor. Physically, she looked the same. Indeed, if anything, she was more glamorously attired—in a suede miniskirt with fringe and a lemon yellow silk blouse. “Versace,” she commented in an aside to Anne, “this year’s line.”

  “We came to thank you,” she continued. She was holding Harry’s hand and smiling happily. Harry also looked extremely pleased.

  Anne took in the couple. It suddenly struck her that this might be a felicitous match after all. Carlotta’s apparent happiness seemed to derive from ridding herself, finally, of all money worries. It was no longer a matter of adult videos, runway remnant sales, sublet apartments, or assistant editorships at small un-remunerative poetry journals. She was now the queen of her own domain, beholden to no one—soon to be on the board of the Met and the New York Public Library.

  It occurred to Anne that Carlotta had merely suffered a kind of money deprivation in the way diabetics suffer insulin deprivation. Provide the needed substance and the patient revives— becomes animate, lively, even pleasant to be around. Now that Carlotta had money via Harry—who had loads of it and no compunction about sharing it, so long as his partner showed him a modicum of gratitude and affection—she no longer had any reason to be nasty.

  “We wanted the apartment to look as good as possible,” she said. “It was my idea to have it painted. I was going to do the walls in teal, but I didn’t want to take the liberty. I know you go for a more classic look. So I went with white, like you had before.”

  “That was nice of you,” said Anne, referring both to the painting of the apartment and the fact that Carlotta had restrained herself from painting it teal.

  “It’s just so wonderful that I met Harry,” continued Carlotta, “and I feel I owe it to you. He told me about having dinner with you, and how you told him you were really poor, which was news to me.” She gave Harry a knowing look.

  “Carlotta wants to apologize,” said Harry. “She feels that she hasn’t behaved very well to your family.”

  “Yes,” said Carlotta. “I bared my chest to Harry” Harry nodded and looked down admiringly at Carlotta’s extensive cleavage. “Including some work I did when I had no money. As it turned out, I didn’t have to tell him; he recognized me. He, sort of, admired my work.” She gave a tender glance toward her fiance, who patted her hand. (When Harry had gone to check out Anne’s apartment that first time and Carlotta had opened the door, he had been thrilled to be confronted with Candy Delight, whose “work,” as he later confessed, he had long followed with appreciation.) “Not that he would ever want me doing anything in that line again—except privately,” she explained, squeezing Harry’s hand.

  “I probably owe your father an apology too,” continued Carlotta. “I was sort of leading him on. It’s so hard when you don’t have resources. But now that I’m with Harry I can see how morally bankrupt I was.”

  “ ‘Morally bankrupt’ is too strong,” insisted Harry.

  “Well, misguided then,” Carlotta amended.

  “But we both feel as though we owe you something,” said Harry. “When I told Carlotta about your situation—how you had no money and you were helping your grandmother, she felt really guilty. She’s got a heart of gold, you know—when she can afford it. We feel we want to make it up to you somehow.”

  “No need,” said Anne hurriedly.

  “But we want to do something to express our gratitude, so we thought we’d like to have you be the maid of honor at our wedding,” continued Carlotta. “Neither of us has much family, except my dad in France, and Harry’s ex-wives. It’s just going to be a small ceremony, but we feel really strongly about wanting you to be part of it.”

  Anne drew a breath. What she really wanted was for these people to live happily ever after and never see her again.

  “I’d be honored,” she said.

  “Great!” exclaimed Harry. “Now, let’s get a move on, Candy; you’ve got a fitting at Bendel’s this afternoon.”

  He was infatuated, but he hadn’t neglected to draw up a prenup. After all, he’d been a lifeline on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? He wasn’t stupid.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  DURING THE WEEK OF HER HOSPITALIZATION, RACHEL’S RELATIONSHIP with Peter Jacobson progressed rapidly. Together, they had waded through most of the Norton Anthology and devoted a large chunk of time to Wordsworth’s Prelude, which Peter maintained was one of the great poems of all time, to which Rachel, though she tended to doze during some passages, agreed. Her taste in poetry coincided uncannily with his, which made it inevitable that they fall in love.

  When she was finally released from the hospital, the question arose as to where she would go. Rachel, inspired by Frost’s “Mending Wall,” had mended her relationship with her mother and therefore had the option of moving back to New Jersey, at least until she decided what she wanted to do next (the acting dream had officially died, and she was thinking about taking some elementary ed courses). But Peter begged her to move in with him. She had been reluctant at first—“it’s such a big step and I wouldn’t want to get in the way of his writing”—but he had convinced her that if she didn’t move in, he would certainly write nothing. “I agreed for the sake of his art,” she announced with an air of regal self-sacrifice. “He says I’m his muse.”

  Winnie had responded that being a muse was a role not to be taken lightly, and that she should be sure that she ate well and got plenty of rest so as to be up to it. When Rachel noted that they did not have much money to live on, Winnie was dismissive. “You’re young, you’ll figure out something. The impo
rtant thing is to follow your heart.” Anne had stood by and listened to this advice with a pang. How she wished it had been given to her thirteen years ago.

  Meanwhile, the Cutlers had moved in and Winnie had dealt with the upheaval with surprising equanimity.

  “Are you all right?” Anne asked, when she called her grandmother soon after the move.

  “I’m fine,” Winnie said airily. “It’s hectic, but I have to say it’s a pleasure to finally redecorate, especially Elihu’s side of the house. Your father thought he was Rudyard Kipling—all that leather and dark wood, not to mention the bamboo in the yard. I’m happy to say we’re ridding the place of all traces of Colonialism—except the bamboo; it’s there for good. A very tenacious sort of plant. Kirsten and I decided that we rather admire it for that.”

  “So you and Kirsten are getting along?”

  “Oh yes,” said Winnie. “We both agree that pale yellow will be best for the second-floor halls. Not that I don’t have my hands full, what with talking about Kafka with Jonathan and directing Pauline in the kitchen. She did do extremely well with the veal chops last night. Benjamin said they were the best he’d ever had—which is saying something.”

  “It most certainly is,” said Anne.

  “Now, Anne, there’s no need to be sarcastic. Just because I’m getting along so well without you. You know I miss you. But these people aren’t bad. Benjamin is very busy with his guides, but he comes in to chat every now and then. He’s quite the gentleman, I must say If I had known . . .” She trailed off.

  “If you had known what?” snapped Anne.

  “If I had known that the house would end up in such good hands, I would have sold it sooner,” Winnie said quickly.

  “If you’d sold it sooner, then you wouldn’t have sold it to them,” said Anne a bit sourly. “It was all in the timing.”