The Ghost of Greenwich Village: A Novel

by Lorna Graham

  “In no small part because of you, I never got Picnic on Smell. They’re still struggling to break out. If you do what I tell you now, we could both make some serious money. Don’t you owe me at least that? After I got you out from under Daddy’s thumb? Got you a job?”

  The thought of “serious money” gave Eve momentary pause. “Everything you say is true,” she said finally. “But I just can’t.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Vadis. “Whatever. Forget my advice. Looks like you already are thinking about yourself.” Vadis stood, threw her coat over her arm, and left.

  • • •

  Eve roused herself three times a day for dog walks and sustenance. When she ventured onto the sidewalk, she wore a hat pulled low to keep away the cold and prevent her from being recognized, though passersby often stared and several asked for her autograph. There were usually a couple of reporters outside, too. Eve had to admire their persistence if nothing else.

  Two days later, she came home from buying logs to a message from Mark.

  “Giles wants to see you. Tomorrow, two o’clock. And don’t ask me what he’s going to say. I have no clue.”

  • • •

  The fire stairs were grungier than ever and seemed to have multiplied; Eve found herself panting well before she got to Smell the Coffee’s floor. By the time she arrived, though, she’d almost convinced herself things were going to be all right. She thought of all the free publicity Smell had received in the last few days, not to mention the fact that the city was minus one violent criminal. Didn’t all that count for something? Wouldn’t she have to be considered an asset to the show?

  As she threaded her way through the rows of cubicles, she caught sight of Quirine and Russell going into the tape room, but they didn’t see her. Several colleagues stared at her with open curiosity.

  Others refused to meet her eye, though two production assistants gave her small smiles.

  Eve stopped at Claire’s desk. She expected to be kept waiting a few minutes and planned to use the time to do some deep breathing.

  “Go right in,” said Claire, barely looking up.

  Giles’s office was twice the size of the one that had belonged to Orla Knock. It was lined with banks of television sets tuned to what appeared to be every channel in the world, even foreign ones. Giles sat looking at some papers at the far end behind a gleaming Lucite desk and under a shelf of Emmy awards that gazed down upon them like an assembly of tiny tribal elders. Eve put her hand on the back of the chair that faced the desk.

  “No need to sit,” said Giles, without looking up. “For legal reasons, we have to meet face-to-face for me to fire you.”

  “I’m fired?” she said, looking at the thinning hair, gray mixed with a few diehard strands of blond, atop his head.

  “Of course you’re fired. What did you think?”

  “I thought, well, I mean—”

  “I am going to do you a favor, though.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m going to save you some time. Don’t bother with the other morning shows, don’t bother with the other networks, and don’t bother with any of the local stations, either. Nobody’s hiring you. Got it?”

  Eve nodded.

  “When you leave, you’ll see Malcolm outside,” Giles continued, finally deigning to look at her. Malcolm was the security guard posted to their floor. “He’ll escort you to your office, where you’ll collect your things. You will not touch your computer or phone. When you’re done, he’ll take you downstairs and onto the sidewalk. And you will surrender your ID.”

  Eve stood for a moment, letting her mind become a clean, blue space and hoping to come up with the perfect parting line. Nothing came. She tried seeing the child inside of Giles. No dice. Donald had been totally wrong about that one. Giles returned to his paperwork and she walked out. Malcolm, holding a large cardboard box, tilted his head at her.

  “Tough day, huh?”

  She nodded up at him and began the long trudge to her office.

  Inside, she retrieved the pictures of her parents and Highball that she’d kept on her desk. From her drawers, she took the paper, pens, and stapler she had bought with her own money, since the network did not provide them. Except for a black cardigan hanging on the back of her door, there really wasn’t much else. Her belongings barely filled a quarter of the box. Malcolm, ever gallant, took it from her and they headed back to the main offices.

  On the way out, she passed Mark’s door. She paused and he looked up at her for a moment. Then he went back to work.

  • • •

  The elevator doors opened and Eve walked into the lobby with Malcolm behind her. As she headed toward the revolving door, she caught sight of Cassandra coming out of the kiosk with a newspaper and a pack of cigarettes. Eve picked up the pace.

  “Hey,” Cassandra called out. “Wait.”

  Eve stopped but didn’t turn. Cassandra walked around her until they were facing one another.

  “I’ll be outside,” Malcolm said, and shuffled off.

  “What?” asked Eve, bracing herself.

  Cassandra swayed slightly, putting her weight on one foot and then the other. “I heard they fired you. I just wanted to say goodbye.”

  “Okay.”

  Cassandra lightly tapped the rolled-up paper against her thigh. She waited until a couple of men in suits walked by before continuing. “So I got a call from Page Six today. They wanted a quote about you and Bliss Jones.”

  Eve narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t give them one.”

  “Actually, I did.” Cassandra looked this way and that. “I told them Bliss had it coming and that any other writer would have, and should have, done what you did.”

  “You did?”

  Cassandra nodded.

  “Won’t Mark be furious?”

  “Fuck him.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Look, it’s no secret you and I aren’t best friends. But you at least have balls. Which is more than I can say for him.” She pushed a lock of copper hair out of her eyes. “And anyway, they’ll never know. I spoke anonymously,” said Cassandra. “As a Smell the Coffee ‘staffer.’ ” She delivered a wicked smile so disarming that Eve smiled back.

  “Well,” Eve said. “Good luck.”

  Cassandra’s expression became sober once again. “Yeah. You, too.”

  • • •

  Out on the sidewalk, Malcolm handed Eve her box and took her ID. With a pink face, he gave her an embarrassed pat on the shoulder and retreated inside.

  She looked around at the crowds zooming by, the men with their briefcases and camel-hair coats, the women in their sleek blowouts and high-heeled boots, and she remembered how daunting she’d once found them, the big-striding New Yorkers of Midtown. Now she could keep up with them easily. The problem was, she had nowhere to go.

  Chapter 15

  For a brief moment after the Stiletto, Eve had felt she owned Manhattan. Maybe everyone who came here thought that at some point. But in truth, it was impossible. The most you could rule was your own roost. And sometimes not even that, as she was now reminded.

  Donald began to push on her the names of literary agents and editors to contact about his work. Dutifully, she consulted the phone book and made some calls, but unfortunately, they all turned out to be dead.

  She also left a message with Vadis to tell her she’d been fired, and to explore what media options might still be available.

  Vadis never called back.

  • • •

  She was grateful, as ever, for Gwendolyn and her easy friendship. Eve and Highball dropped by Full Circle on a regular basis and Highball soon showed real talent as a store dog. Customers often brought in their own dogs and Highball entertained them so well that shoppers stayed longer than they’d planned—and bought more.

  “I still can’t believe it. That they fired you,” said Gwendolyn for the third time that week. They were sitting at the counter reading the paper and eating croissants. “I mean
, I can, but it sucks. It makes them look small. Frankly, you were so good in your interview, I think they should have found a way to use you on air. Like as a justice correspondent, or whatever.”

  “Well, the justice correspondent at the network is an actual lawyer. And has covered Washington for decades, so …”

  “Well, okay, maybe not that. But something. You really were good.”

  “Thanks. But do you mind if we stop talking about it?”

  “No problem. You’re right. We’ve talked this subject to death.”

  “How’s class?”

  Gwendolyn dipped her paper toward the trash and swept some flaky crumbs from it. “Finals are coming up. Brutal. I’m not near ready and don’t have enough time to study. Usually I can hit the books while I’m here, but with the holidays, it’s going to be too busy for that.”

  “Let me help,” said Eve.

  “Help how?”

  “I can be here. Help customers while you study. I probably couldn’t do much with the books, but I could ring people up, sew buttons, run errands, whatever you need. I don’t have a job, remember?”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll pay you, of course. I can carve something out of my check.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Eve, without thinking. “This is just a friend helping out a friend.” Gwendolyn jumped off her stool and stood before her, her large brown eyes full of relief. Eve stepped off her own stool and the two embraced. It felt good to help someone else. Over Gwendolyn’s shoulder, Eve caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror on the opposite wall. Given everything that had happened, she looked unaccountably happy.

  • • •

  These days Eve slept in, no longer automatically jumping out of bed at 6:58 with her heart pounding. But she still bought all the papers and paged through them carefully first thing in the morning before heading over to Full Circle. Knowing what was going on in the world was top-grade social lubricant in New York, where one of the most terrifying things that could happen socially was to have a reference about a Times op-ed piece go sailing right over your head.

  She read both the national and international coverage first, but it was the media pages that she perused with special attention, wondering if she’d see something about Giles being demoted or Bliss suffering some kind of mental breakdown. But today it was another familiar name that caught her attention.

  NET EXEC “KNOCKED” FOR A LOOP

  The buzz out west is that Orla Knock, Vice President of Entertainment at America’s third-placed network, is about to be shown the door. The official reason: Ratings that tanked this season and a roster of mid-season replacements that appears hopeless. But savvy industry watchers know most of those shows were greenlighted well before Knock’s arrival in L.A. The unofficial reason, according to a source: Knock does not get along with her superiors, particularly the male ones, who have evidently decided that a hefty payout is worth every penny if they can rid themselves of this famously exhausting firebrand.

  Eve exhaled. Orla Knock fired, too. Who was safe? Perhaps only the Marks of the world.

  • • •

  December stormed in and with it, the wearisome five-minute routine of putting on a hat and scarf, waterproof boots and mittens. Most of which proved fruitless. The rain came in sideways under her umbrella and the wind laughed in her sleeves. It wasn’t as cold as the Midwest, but the dampness coming off the river made it feel worse, somehow.

  De Fief’s letter came as quickly and sharply as a guillotine. Eve read it in the vestibule so as not to alert Donald. Her rent would increase 18 percent beginning in January, and an inability to produce the new amount would immediately be met with eviction proceedings. Eve leaned against the wall. She’d managed to save some money the past few months, but hadn’t been very diligent about it. And her efforts to line up a new job were going nowhere. Hoping Giles’s threat had been just that, she’d sent résumés to the other networks and the local stations and had followed up with phone calls, but had received not so much as a flicker of interest.

  • • •

  Donald had stayed away for several days. Now, at last, he was back, sounding cheerless, almost defeated. His brave front, which usually manifested itself as a staccato rhythm, had quieted to something softer, almost a kneading. Or was it pleading? But presently, she felt him do his best to shake it off and return to normal. A week later, he declared he was ready to work again.

  Eve felt around under the settee for the pad. “We left off with Rock, Paper, and Scissors running through the streets,” she said, turning the pages. “Let’s see. ‘The sky overhead is licked by pink and orange flames. It is as if the world mirrors their happiness: Nature herself celebrates the unlikelihood and purity of their friendship. Sound drains. Colors deepen. A bird cries and flies out of a tree.’ ”

  Eve held her pen tightly.

  “Destiny does not like being flouted and will track down those who ignore her,” Donald growled, and Eve recoiled slightly, rubbing her ear. “One evening, after a literary salon, they say their good-nights. Paper goes to embrace Rock and finds he is compelled to wrap her after all. It is his right; it is their fate to come together this way, after all. He will wrap her and in the morning they will find Scissors and tell him that they are now a two within the three. But as Paper stretches to take Rock in, she vanishes. It is as if she has disintegrated in his arms.

  “Paper searches the city, high and low. Every café, every club, every garret of a friend. He is worried now. She is not teasing; she is not being coy. She is gone. At last he goes to the home of Scissors, to recruit his help in the hunt. It will mean confessing what he tried to do, but he is willing to take this chance.” The words, which had been coming fast, suddenly slowed and grew halting. “All this time, he has flouted destiny. Now destiny repays the favor.”

  Eve took down the last of his words and, her heart racing, asked, “Why? What?”

  “Quiet,” said Donald, sounding labored.

  Eve gave him a few moments to compose himself. Softly, she said, “Please don’t get angry with me, but what is this about?”

  “Not this again.”

  “Please tell me, what is this story about? It’s different from the others. You’ll give me that, won’t you? Is it about your childhood? Are these characters your family?”

  “Stop.”

  “Why won’t you tell me anything about yourself?” she asked quietly.

  “Do not interrogate me. If you are tired, we can postpone the dictation. But no more questions.”

  “Have you given any more thought to doing the memoir? Honestly, it would be so interesting.”

  “We don’t have time for a memoir. Now that you’ve begun the search for an agent, we must move swiftly. As soon as the literary world becomes aware that unpublished works of mine exist, they will want to see them as soon as possible. And we must be ready with the complete collection. All the stories work together and must flow in the proper order. There are probably letters in the mail to us right now.”

  Eve brought a knuckle between her teeth. The agent search. She’d told Donald that she’d compiled a list of agents who handled experimental fiction and who were actually alive. She’d promised to send out query letters as soon as she had time to draft them, but had completely forgotten. She tried to stifle this thought before he could detect it, but—

  “What?” he asked. “You haven’t even begun to look?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’ve been lying to me.”

  “No, I haven’t. It just slipped my mind. Believe it or not, you are not the center of my universe. I’ve had a rough few weeks.”

  “You’ve been playing me for a fool.” Donald’s pulse through her mind burned like a tiny electric snake.

  “Don’t be so dramatic.”

  “You’ve let me down in the worst possible way! You have all the power here; I cannot go into the world and verify what you tell m
e. I am completely dependent on you and you betrayed me.”

  “I have the power? I? You must be joking. You completely control my life.” How could he not see he was the cause of her isolation? He was the looming scandal, the ex-con in the family, the bones in the backyard. Vadis and Mrs. Swan both had good reason to think she was nuts because of him. And if she could have invited Alex up, they might be together to this day. Eve stood and began to pace around the room in a tight circle, the only kind this claustrophobic apartment would allow. “Why do I put up with this? Why? So you can finish this useless work that no one wants.”

  “You little horror! Can you not see that these stories are the inheritors of the great ideas and themes of my most important work? It may be too much for your ordinary little brain, and only I know how truly ordinary it is, but—”

  “You’re fooling yourself!” Eve felt her stream of words slice through Donald’s, stopping them cold. “You might once have been ahead of your time. You might have pushed boundaries and ‘remade the short story’ if you’d lived. Maybe. But from what I hear, you were never really talented. Your friends were, but not you!”

  “From what you hear? What have you heard, you insolent—”

  “And even if you did have a modicum of talent, you’d have to come up with a whole new approach to get published now. You can’t hide behind these stupid metaphors anymore. Others have trodden this path since you died. You’re going to have to produce something different to get anybody’s attention now. Something real.”

  “Real? What the hell do you mean by that?”

  “You really want to know? Your work is soulless. There’s no emotion, no guts, no you. There are pretty words but it’s cold; it’s boring. And self-indulgent. You refuse to put anything of yourself out there. To be vulnerable. To be true. You may have something to say but you never say it!”

  There was a terrible hush, which became more and more ominous as Eve contemplated the various ways Donald might respond. He’d triggered more than a few headaches, even when he was in a good mood, but when angry he might—

  “I refuse to be true? I?” he boomed, a crack of thunder across her cerebellum. Eve had to steady herself on the doorframe of the kitchen.