Everybody Rise
Page 37
“Your friends will be happy to see you again, Camilla,” Barbara said with a lifted eyebrow. Evelyn had been telling her gently, then insistently, that the friendship with Camilla was a thing of the past, but Barbara seemed to have decided not to hear it.
“Charlotte,” Evelyn said pointedly. “Not so much Camilla.”
“You shouldn’t just give up friendships so easily, Evelyn.”
Evelyn tilted her head, looking at the sun peeking out from behind the platform’s railing. “Mom?” Evelyn said. “You have to let me make these decisions, okay?”
“Don’t be condescending.”
“I’m not, Mom. It’s just my call now. Okay?”
Barbara looked around, as if she were going to see something that would change her daughter’s mind, but she eventually looked back at Evelyn. “If that’s what you wish.”
Evelyn’s rueful smile turned into a laugh. “That is what I wish, Mom. I’m going to hug you now, all right?”
“As if I would object to a hug?”
“Okay.” Evelyn leaned in for a hug; her mother’s breath felt warm on her cheek, and both of them pulled away quickly, patting each other’s arms.
“Safe travels.”
“’Bye, Mom.”
“Good-bye, sweetheart.”
Evelyn had been surprised to see that her mother waited on the platform once the train arrived, despite the chill, and raised a gloved hand in a farewell wave. Evelyn waved back from the inside of the smeared window.
The train scooted toward Manhattan. Evelyn had planned to crash at Charlotte’s place in Brooklyn—Charlotte was visiting some textile factory in Georgia—for a few days while she checked out Craigslist apartment shares and hit the streets. Google said Brooklyn Heights had several good coffee shops, and while she pulled double shifts, she could look for a longer-term job, something in magazines, maybe, or e-commerce. As long as she earned $31,000 a year, and spent it on little besides rent and groceries, Evelyn could stick to the payment schedule she’d made with her credit counselor.
When the train pulled into Penn Station, Evelyn got out quickly but then stood on the dark platform as people pushed by her and up the stairs to the station. Brooklyn. Cheese makers and beer designers, or whatever Charlotte had said. The same song in a different key; her trying to create a life that other people had deemed worthwhile, Evelyn fighting to prove herself once again.
People were rushing off the train around Evelyn, who expected someone to ask her what she was doing here, or where she was headed, or what her plans were. Instead they barreled by, one hitting her with his backpack, another with his briefcase, and she realized she was now the irritating out-of-towner interrupting traffic flow. She started moving, dragging her bag up the stairs. As she reached the crammed waiting room, she read the Amtrak board. Adirondack, Carolinian, Crescent, Northeast Regional. Departing tracks 7E, 12W, 14W, 9W. An arrangement of travel brochures was displayed underneath the board, and she recognized the brochure sticking out of the top: Boston—the City on a Hill. The same quiet-looking city, the same pretty lights, that she had considered when she was waiting for Camilla in her final visit to Lake James. The same place where she had once been a good friend to Charlotte, to Preston. What was it that station attendant in his USS cap had said? Sometimes it’s good to take a train somewhere else?
She pulled a brochure from the stand and, with a yank on her bag’s handle, ran through a side door and along the hallway, her Tretorn soles squeaking as she veered around the corner to the Amtrak ticket counter. There was no line, and the clerk, a small woman with short gray hair so vertical and curled it looked like it had been through a fire followed by a washing-machine cycle, asked, “Where are you going?”
Evelyn held up the brochure. “Boston.”
“Business or pleasure?” the woman asked.
“I guess both.” She unzipped her money-belt thingy with her other hand. Her cash was stored in there, and she felt absurd wearing it, but she also wasn’t about to get her Caffeiteria and Hub money stolen due to pride.
“Nice town, Boston.”
“If you can make it there…,” Evelyn said, but the clerk didn’t get the joke. “They do a lot of out-of-town tryouts for musicals there. People can get their footing,” she explained.
“You an actress?”
“No. No. I’m not. I…” She pulled some twenty-dollar bills from her money belt, then looked up with her eyes bright. “I can work in theater, though. I mean, not onstage, but take tickets for Harvard musicals. I don’t know. Sell ads for programs. Maybe stage-manage someday. Along with working in a coffee shop. But mostly I’m going to see my old friend.”
The clerk shrugged. “One-way or round-trip?”
“One-way. Just one-way.”
The woman handed over the ticket. “Boarding now. Better hurry. Northeast Regional. Track nine west.”
Evelyn pulled her bag back through the Amtrak waiting room, flipping open her phone and trying to call 781-555-1212 as she ran, and pressing connect over and over again with no luck until she got to the bottom of a staircase that led up to Eighth Avenue, close enough to the exterior that she had a bar of coverage. “Hi, I need a listing for Marblehead. Seaview House. Yes, please connect me,” she said. The phone rang twice, and someone on the other end picked up. “Hello, Seaview House, offering specialized addiction treatment since 1987, how can I help you?” said the woman’s voice.
Evelyn started laughing. “Was 1987 because of all the traders?” she said. “A friend told me that.”
“I’m sorry?” the voice said.
“I’m trying to reach Preston Hacking. He was a patient there for a while and I think he’s out now, but I need to get a message through to him,” Evelyn said.
“One moment, please,” the receptionist said. Evelyn checked out the “Boarding” status for her train and tapped her foot.
“I can’t give out his number, but you’re welcome to leave a message,” the receptionist said.
“Thank you,” Evelyn said. “Tell him that it’s Evelyn, and I’m sorry for being out of touch for so long, and I’m sorry about everything, but I’m coming to Boston and I’m coming to see him. I don’t know where I’m staying, or what I’m doing, but I’ll figure it out, and I’ll be there tonight, if I can see him. If I can help him. Even if I can’t help him, I’ll be there. That’s it. I’ll see him soon.”
With her other hand, she pushed in the backing of her pearl earring so hard that she could feel the blood pulsing in her ears, and felt the comfortable discomfort of the even beats.
“Evelyn,” the receptionist said kindly. “Very good. I’ll pass on the message.”
Evelyn gave the woman her phone number, then ended the call.
“Northeast Regional, please proceed immediately to the platform for boarding. Northeast Regional,” said a loudspeaker overhead.
Glancing up the stairs to Eighth, Evelyn pressed the number now at the top of her favorites list and willed the other end to pick up.
“Hello?”
“Char?”
“Ev? You sound like you’re in a cavern.”
“Close. I’m in Penn Station.”
“You made it to New York?”
“I did—I was going to—but then I realized—I’m going to Boston. The train’s about to leave. I’m going to go see Pres and drag him out of his solitude and try to be a friend. You can’t do it, but I’ve got the time. Of course I should be the one to go.”
“Northeast Regional,” the loudspeaker said again, and Evelyn jiggled one foot.
“Charlotte?” she said.
“I think I’m about to cry, and I’m standing in the middle of a textile factory. Of course you should be the one to go,” Charlotte said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Go. Good luck. I’ll call you tonight.”
Evelyn sprinted to the gate, flapped her ticket at the attendant, and bounded down the escalator to the platform, her bag clanging over the escalator steps and into her
calves. As she darted into a car and settled into a seat, breathing hard, she looked down to see she had a text from Charlotte.
“Nice to have you back,” it read.
Evelyn typed out her reply: “Not totally back, but working on it.” The train lurched, and when it pulled out into the harsh New York sunlight, she pressed send, and was on her way.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have loved books for as long as I can remember. To be writing one is a dream.
Elisabeth Weed, hereafter to be known as the dealmaking WASP, took this book and sprinted with it. She is a skilled editor, a tough negotiator, and a funny, frank, and delightful person. I lucked out with her. Dana Murphy at The Book Group is a smart, careful reader. I am glad to have the hardworking Jenny Meyer and Howie Sanders on my side.
Everyone I’ve dealt with at St. Martin’s Press has been warm and wonderful. Charlie Spicer is witty, lively, and wise. Sally Richardson is a fierce—and glamorous—advocate for the book. Olga Grlic, Michael Storrings, and the art department created a stunning cover. Lisa Senz, Jeff Dodes, Laura Clark, Angelique Giammarino, and the marketing team have been innovative, and the salespeople are go-getters whose love for books is obvious. Dori Weintraub and Tracey Guest are total pros on the PR front. I am excited for this book to go into paperback because I’ll get to work more closely with Jennifer Enderlin. April Osborn patiently answered my many irritating questions. Elizabeth Catalano, Dave Cole, and the copyediting staff saved me from multiple errors.
The writing of this book was informed by dozens of authors and musicians. House of Mirth was the first adult book I fell hard for, and Edith Wharton’s astute view of society and women’s roles in it never ceases to impress and unnerve. I first read Booth Tarkington’s The Magnificent Ambersons in my teens, and his tale of a family scraping to retain its status has been on my mind since. Theodore Dreiser’s An American Tragedy showed how toxic social ambition can become. Louis Auchincloss’s books provide an acerbic take from a Manhattan society insider; he should be more widely read. I have borrowed Camilla’s Racquet Club bracelet from him; I like to think she could be the descendant of some of the women he wrote about.
From Stephen Sondheim, I borrowed not only this book’s title but a particular view of lonely New York from Company and of dreamily ambitious New York from Merrily We Roll Along. Meryle Secrest’s Stephen Sondheim: A Life and Sondheim’s own Finishing the Hat were great reads and helped put his work in context.
Leonard Bernstein composed moving New York soundtracks that enriched my understanding of the city, and I refer to his and Sondheim’s West Side Story and his (along with Betty Comden and Adolph Green) Wonderful Town and On the Town throughout. I have also used lyrics from Annie, Bells Are Ringing, Evita, Cabaret, and Pippin.
Lots of people helped me understand Evelyn’s world—or, really, Camilla’s world—from insight into the New York debutante season to old-money mores. They were generous with their time and I thank them soundly. Errors in how I portrayed their world are mine alone.
I learned how to be curious from great teachers, especially Tom Rona, Sue Hovis, Roger Hindman, and Ron Kim. I learned how to write from great editors, especially Dean Murphy, Jim Aley, Dan Ferrara, and Jane Berentson (I often thought if I could do my job with one-tenth the sass and intelligence of Jane, I was doing pretty well). Wendell Jamieson and the Metro editors have been not only terrific editors but supportive of letting me work on the novel while I work at the Times. It is a privilege to be part of the staff of The New York Times, and to be a part of an organization trying to observe and explain the world.
My friends were terrifically supportive even when I was frantic with anxiety about this book. Erin Autry Montgomery and Irene So Hedges are the kinds of smart, funny, lifelong pals one hopes to make in college. Robin Pringle is a devoted friend who makes leaning in look awfully elegant. Caroline Han has amazed me since the day we met. Katie McClurg Anderson is warmth personified. Megan Wyatt has been a stalwart since long before she wore a detergent box and I wore a cocktail dress to appear in our elementary school play about Northwest trees. Andrew Mandel and Scott Resnick sang me through some of my favorite moments in New York. Friends like Sarah Goldstein, Kayleen Schaefer, and Reyhan Harmanci make this city a place I love living in. There are many, many others whom I admire and adore (that’s you! I see you!).
Several friends and acquaintances contributed directly to this book. Cynthia Collins Desai, a longtime, loyal, and hilarious friend, used her alarmingly good memory to help pinpoint hot spots in pre-financial crisis New York. They say it’s hard to make lifelong friends after thirty, but Jessica Silver-Greenberg proves otherwise, I hope: She is a brilliant colleague, marvelous friend, and uproarious gal, and her feedback was invaluable. Julie Bosman has been a terrific guide through the publishing world and a paragon of graceful work-life balance. Olivia Wassenaar graciously answered my questions about Upper East Side life. Jennifer Pooley’s feedback made this oodles better. Susan Bradanini Betz was a meticulous copy editor. Amor Towles, Nick Bilton, Tina Henry Bou-Saba, and Emma Frelinghuysen gave savvy advice about the book business and marketing. Courtney Sullivan, Maggie Shipstead, and Emma Straub kindly agreed to be early readers. Malcolm Gladwell’s perceptive read was enormously helpful. David Carr helped me, like he helped so many other writers, feel like I had the gumption to do this thing. I really miss him.
My extended family is full of creative people and I am lucky to be a part of it. From dancing down Forty-second Street with Joanne to talking life and love with Denis to watching Missy paint, time with them has enlivened my world. My godmother, Mara Jayne Miller, is stylish, sharp, and a total original.
I have huge admiration for Lee Clifford and Jerry Useem, who are coolheaded parents, supportive spouses, fun to be around, and have propped me up when I’m down many, many times. I forgive Lee for telling Santa that “Stephanie has been bad, very bad.”
My parents, Steve and Judy Clifford, encouraged reading and questioning, exposed me to art and music, and made me feel like I could take risks because they had my back. Their support and belief in me, and their enthusiasm for this book, has meant the world to me.
Thanks to Mac and Mabel, the best of writing companions.
Love and thanks to Steven, whose smiles in the morning show me that happiness needn’t be so complicated. He is joy.
Finally, when Bruce Headlam encouraged me to keep going with this novel, he said that it doesn’t matter what the end product is, but it matters that you try. He believes in living a creative, full life and works hard to make that a reality for us. While handling his extremely demanding job, he gave me time and space to write, he gave me advice, he let me vent when the book wasn’t working, and then he helped me get back to writing. I love him, I thank him, and hope he knows how much he counts.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
STEPHANIE CLIFFORD is a Loeb Award–winning reporter at The New York Times. She grew up in Seattle and graduated magna cum laude from Harvard. She lives in Brooklyn with her husband, son, and two cats. Follow her on Twitter at @stephcliff. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraphs
Part I
1. Sheffield-Enfield
2. Next Stop, Lake James
3. Shuh-shuh-gah
4. Camp Sachem
5. A Bottle of T
6. Sag Neck
7. Social History
8. New York, New York
9. Wall Street Blues
10. South of the Highway
12. Summer in the City
Part II
13. Rich and Happy
14. A Selection of Jamón
15. Appointment Book
16. Silent Night
17. Security Questions
18. People Like Us
19. Scottish Fling
20. Homeward Bound
21. Trophy Hall
22. Typee
23. Le Bal Français
24. After the Ball
25. 10:15 Adirondack
26. Racecourse
27. Remaining Balance
Part III
28. Everybody Rise
29. Marina Air
30. Sentencing Guidelines
31. Self-Surrender
32. On the Dock
33. Northeast Regional
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
EVERYBODY RISE. Copyright © 2015 by Stephanie Clifford. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Olga Grlic
Cover illustration by Kamenuka/Shutterstock
eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-07717-2 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-46688912-5 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466889125
First Edition: August 2015