Leap Year

by Peter Cameron

  “Coco?” said Solange.

  “She’s my daughter,” the woman said. “She brung you here. You been staying with me.”

  “How long?” Solange asked.

  “Almost two weeks. You was down real deep. We thought you might never come up. I got to call Coco.”

  Solange looked around the room. She was lying on a couch, swaddled in an afghan crocheted from fluorescent synthetic yarns. There was an open tin of sardines on the coffee table before her and beyond that a mammoth console TV set on which flickered news.

  “You must be starving. You want a fish?” the woman asked, stabbing a sardine with what looked like a fondue fork. She held it toward Solange, dripping bile-colored oil on the afghan.

  “No,” said Solange. “Where am I?”

  “This is Teaneck, New Jersey, darling. Now I’m going to call Coco. You look real peaky, so hunker back down, you hear. I’ll be right back.”

  CHAPTER 27

  BY THE TIME COCO’S MOTHER returned from her phone call, Solange had recovered her wits and some of her natural color.

  “Coco say she’ll be out to fetch you tomorrow night,” Coco’s mother said. “You hungry?”

  “No,” said Solange.

  “You should eat something. You ain’t et for two weeks. I could fix you some eggs. How about that?”

  “No thank you,” said Solange.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  “I think not,” said Solange.

  “I’m Jewel,” said Coco’s mother. “You don’t remember Jewel?”

  “No,” said Solange.

  “You remember anything? Maybe your head messed up.”

  “My head,” said Solange, “is just fine.”

  Jewel smiled. “Well, I was a maid of your ma’s. Way back when in Port-au-Prince.”

  “I didn’t think Coco had a mother,” said Solange.

  “Sure she do. I just…I got myself married to this white man, off a cruise, see, and come up to the U.S.A. Coco stay down with you. Your ma took care of her for me.”

  “I thought she was an orphan,” said Solange. “She never told me.”

  “She’s a strange one, but I don’t blame her. We’re all strange is how I figure. I mean, look at you, talk of strange. You gonna tell me how you come to be a zombie?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Solange.

  “Time’s one thing I got.”

  “Are they sardines?” Solange, overcome by a sudden, lunging hunger, nodded to the tin of fish on the coffee table.

  “Best thing for you after a trance. That fish oil warms your blood. Here,” Jewel handed the tin and the fork to Solange, “eat them all, baby.”

  While Solange devoured the first tin of fish, Jewel fetched another and a tall glass of water into which she dropped some fizzing pellets.

  “What are those?” asked Solange, reaching out for the glass.

  “Just something to perk you up,” said Jewel. She watched as Solange’s thirst was slaked. “So,” she prompted, when her patient had returned to the sardines, “you gonna tell me your story?”

  “Well,” Solange began, picking a grizzly bit of fish from her teeth, “my husband, Anton, has this mistress named Amanda.”

  “That’s a bad name, Amanda. You got to always watch out that way.”

  “Anyway, she—Amanda—tried to murder me, to get Anton and my money, I suppose. She shot me, but I didn’t die, I just went into a coma.”

  “Good for you.”

  “They blamed the murder on an innocent young man. I’m the only one who knew Amanda really shot me, except for this man, who has no witnesses. So you see, if I came out of my coma, Amanda was in…”

  “I know what she be in,” said Jewel.

  “Exactly,” said Solange. She wiped some fish oil from her chin and then licked her fingers. Delicious. “So when I started to regain consciousness, Anton tried to smother me, but he stopped at the last minute. He couldn’t do it.”

  “Most men can’t,” said Jewel.

  “That night I did come up, and I knew that Amanda would be back to finish the job. So I decided to do it for her, pretend to be dead until I could figure out how to deal with them. Luckily, Coco was there. She had been coming to see me, trying to get me out with…well, you know, and there was this nurse, Laleel Bundara, who Coco and I know from the church. They put me into the death trance, Laleel had me declared, and then they snuck my body out…”

  “And that’s how you come be zombie in Teaneck.”

  “That’s my story,” said Solange. “What about you? What are you doing in Teaneck?”

  “I’m selling real estate,” said Jewel. “I’m with Century 21.”

  Pleasant as Jewel was, Solange found being conscious in Teaneck a fate worse than assumed death. So, on the morning after her reawakening, she borrowed twenty dollars and a raincoat from Jewel and took a bus to the Port Authority. She belted the raincoat as chicly as she possibly could, taxied to the Carlyle, registered under an assumed name (Rowena Stronger), and gave her last few coins to the bellboy, promising him more later if he would fetch her up some breakfast. She took a long shower of the type that can only be enjoyed in a clean, luxurious hotel room and emerged from it, swaddled in terry, to find her breakfast delivered. Eggs Florentine had never tasted— No. Nothing had ever tasted this good. She stood by the window, smiling down at the elegant avenue. Raising her glass of fresh-squeezed, she toasted her new life and then set about structuring it.

  “Daycare, Miss Coco,” was how Miss Coco answered the phone.

  “Guess who?” said Solange.

  “Baby mine,” said Miss Coco. “Where are you?”

  “Back where I belong. I’ve managed a suite at the Carlyle.”

  “The who?”

  “A hotel. But I need to get into the apartment. I need clothes and money. And I want my jewelry, if that bitch Amanda hasn’t already made off with it.”

  “Well, go get them, baby,” said Miss Coco. “They’re yours.”

  “I can’t,” said Solange. “I can’t be seen. I’ve got to lay low for a while. That’s why I need your help. Can you go to the apartment for me?”

  “Well, I can’t go now,” said Miss Coco. “I’m at work, lady. And I can’t leave. One bitch is already on my case, trying to get me fired.”

  “Why don’t you come by here after work, say, five-thirty? And bring me a wig.”

  “A wig? Where am I going to find a wig?”

  “There’s a place on Madison, about 61st or so. Enny of Italy. Charge it.”

  “What color do you want?”

  Solange thought for a moment. “Red,” she decided.

  “It gets dark so early now,” said David.

  “Yes,” said Lillian, “but you know, I like it. What I really love are those evenings in December when you leave work at five and walk home, and it’s like the middle of the night. The headlights and shop windows. It makes the city seem almost European. Like Paris. Or how I imagine Paris, never having been there.”

  “How come you don’t travel more? Don’t you get a lot of free trips through work?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t really like it. Traveling confuses my life.”

  “That’s funny,” said David. “I feel just the opposite. I feel like my life is confusing and it’s only when I go away that I have any perspective.”

  “But you hardly ever travel.”

  “I know. That explains a lot, doesn’t it?”

  They stood on the corner of Madison Avenue, waiting to cross over toward the park. A short black woman clutching what appeared to be a hatbox bumped into them, excused herself, and hurried away into the ambered dusk.

  “That was Miss Coco,” David said. “She works at Kate’s daycare.”

  “She looked a little strange,” said Lillian. They entered the park and walked in silence. “Guess who called me the other day?” Lillian finally said.

  “Who?”

  “Heath.”

  “Heath called
you? He doesn’t even know you.”

  “Yes he does. I met him last spring, when you burned your fingers, and I went down to the Cafe Wisteria and told him. My errand of mercy, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. Why did he call you?”

  “He wanted some PR advice. Apparently he had a really terrible experience on ‘Orca.’ ”

  “He was on ‘Orca’?”

  “Yes. So I’m going to try to get him some simpatico interviews. We’re having lunch next week. Do you want me to tell him about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “About you and Loren. That you’ve split up.”

  “No,” said David. “I mean, I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. It’s over between Heath and me. Let’s sit down.”

  “No,” said Lillian. “We should keep walking. It’s getting awfully dark. Where are we?”

  “We’re…if we keep walking this way, we’ll come out near the Museum of Natural History.”

  “We’re walking west?”

  “Yes. Is that okay? Do you want to turn around?”

  “No, this is fine. I’ll take the bus back across.”

  “We could have dinner.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just can’t. Are you sure you know where we’re going?”

  “Yes. Isn’t that the San Remo? We’re just a bit farther uptown than I thought. I think.”

  “As long as you know where we’re going.”

  “Are you feeling any better?”

  “Yes. I haven’t been sick in weeks.”

  “You don’t look different.”

  “I’m starting to bulge a little. Here, feel.”

  “I don’t feel anything.”

  “Yes. Here. Feel that?”

  “That’s your pelvis.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s my baby.”

  “It’s an awfully hard baby. Is it kicking?”

  “Not kicking, really. More like…undulating.”

  “Tell me again about the father.”

  “I don’t know much. He’s young—twenty-six, I think. Smart, handsome, and creative. He’s tall and has green eyes. Brown hair.”

  “He sounds great.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “Maybe we aren’t walking west. Maybe we’re going uptown.”

  “Are we lost?”

  “No. I mean, this is Central Park. How lost can we be? I just think maybe we should be walking, well, maybe more in that direction. I think that’s west.”

  “So we are lost.”

  “We’re a little lost,” said David. “At least, I’m a little lost. I shouldn’t speak for you. You may be exactly where you want to be.”

  “Greetings,” said Amanda Paine to the concierge.

  “Good evening, Madam,” he replied. “May I help you?”

  “In fact you could. I’m here at Mr. Shawangunk’s request—Anton Shawangunk, 38C—he’s alerted you, I’m sure.”

  “On the contrary, I’m afraid. Mr. Shawangunk is out of the country.”

  “But of course, I know that. That is precisely why I am here. He’s asked me to collect his mail, water his plants, and feed the cat.”

  “I didn’t know Mr. Shawangunk had a cat.”

  “I was speaking metaphorically,” said Amanda.

  “Well, he left no word with us. What company are you with?”

  “Oh, goodness, no,” laughed Amanda. “Unlike you, I am not employed in the service sector. I am merely doing Mr. Shawangunk a favor.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Mr. Shawangunk and I are colleagues, you see.”

  “I thought you looked familiar.”

  “Yes…I’ve stopped in before—on business, of course.”

  “Of course,” said the concierge. “Well, you’re in luck. Mrs. Shawangunk’s sister is up there now. She’s come to sort out Mrs. Shawangunk’s things. Mrs. Shawangunk is no longer with us.”

  “She’s broken her lease, so to speak,” muttered Amanda, as she hastened toward the elevator. Once safely ensconced in its ascendant shell, she reviewed the situation: Anton was due back from a week in Mustique later that evening. After the gaffe at Solange’s funeral, he had decided they should avoid each other until after Heath’s trial. But a week’s separation was more than Amanda could bear, and on the assumption that Anton must be feeling similarly, she had decided to surprise him in his bed that night. How annoying that Leonora had picked this particular evening to come and meddle! Well, she would just have to be gotten rid of.

  The apartment door was locked. Amanda knocked and was ignored. “Hello!” she called, knocking again. “Leonora? It’s Amanda. Let me in!”

  The door opened a few inches, exposing a slice of Miss Coco’s rather unfriendly face.

  “Greetings,” said Amanda. “Are you helping Mrs. Trumpet? Is Leonora here? Who are you?” Apparently some maid who doesn’t speak English, Amanda thought. She tried to speak more distinctly. “I am here to help. Let me in.”

  “But…” Miss Coco protested, to no avail. Amanda forced herself through the crack in the door.

  “Have you started? Leonora’s in the bedroom, I suppose? Follow me.” The bedroom was adrift in clothes. The mess seemed to originate on the bed, which was covered with dresses, lingerie, and jewelry, and explode out across the floor. Leonora was nowhere to be seen. “My, my,” said Amanda, standing in the doorway, “you must learn to respect clothes, my dear! I think perhaps you are not qualified for this particular job.” As she spoke, Amanda unlocked a cavernous armoire and peered inside. “Oh, dear God,” she cried, clutching the heavy wooden doors for support.

  CHAPTER 28

  A TRAIN LEFT GRAND CENTRAL Station later that night. It crept into the dark tunnel, emerged briefly into the illuminated backyards of the Bronx, and then descended to the shores of the Hudson. It slipped beneath the canopy of the Tappen Zee and sped north, into the tight sleeve of night. Lillian sat by the window, staring through her reflection at the fluid darkness of river. She was going to see Claude for the weekend.

  Years later, she would think: Remember that midnight ride, racing toward Claude, who I knew very little but hoped I might love very much? Remember the beginning and how happy I was then? But now, as the train slowed to stop in Rhinecliff, this happiness was unfelt, furled deep inside her. It would be recognized only in retrospect. How dangerous life would be if it were otherwise, and we felt our greatest happinesses as they occurred! The world would be undone by joy: Cars would speed off roads, planes drop from the sky, and trains hurtle ecstatically off their tracks. As Amanda stood gaping into the open armoire, she vaguely sensed the horrid little maid come up behind her, but she found herself unable to move, unable to speak, unable to do anything but stare. She was overcome with longing. The armoire was full of the most beautiful shoes in the world. Amanda was a woman of many and complex desires, yet her lust for shoes was of epic proportions. Oh, how she wanted to touch them all, wear them all, but most of all she wanted to own them all! Life was so unfair.…Perhaps if she tried on just one pair. Those pumps upholstered in watered silk—what color were they? An iridescent lavender? She leaned down to get a closer look and tumbled forward into the dark. She heard herself scream, felt her head hit one of the shelves, and then fell into a flurry of falling shoes.

  “We have blackberry and strawberry-rhubarb,” the woman in the aqua pantsuit said.

  “We’ll try a slice of each,” said Claude, “and a bowl of vanilla ice cream. Are the pies warm?”

  “I could nuke ’em up for you.”

  “Skip it,” said Claude.

  “Skip the pies?”

  “No, just skip the nuking.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Lillian and Claude were sitting in a diner booth. Lillian was looking down at her placemat, which depicted different styles of covered bridges. Claude’s featured an illustrated catalog of desert plant life. The combination was a little disorienting. She looked
up at Claude. They both smiled. Neither of them knew quite what to say. They were at the stage where it was hard to talk. They both knew they liked each other better than any conversation they could have at this point would indicate.

  “So,” said Claude, “how was the train ride?”

  “Nice,” said Lillian. “Although I almost missed it. I was walking in the park with David, and we got lost.”

  “Is he the one who was up here? David and Loren?”

  “Yes, although they’re not a couple anymore.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Claude.

  Lillian shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “I think it’s better this way. I think it was a mistake for them to get back together.”

  “What do you mean, back together? I thought they were married.”

  “They were. And then they were divorced, about a year ago. Well, longer now. And then Kate—remember Kate, their daughter? Well, she got kidnapped, and they both went out to California to get her, and Loren was crushed by a glass wall, and they were in an alleged earthquake, all of which made them decide to get back together. But it didn’t last very long.”

  “You have weird friends,” said Claude. “Do you know that?”

  Lillian laughed. We’re all weird to someone, she thought. She wondered whom she was weird to. Then she thought, I should tell Claude about the baby. It’s wrong not to. I’ll tell him when the pie comes.

  “How are things at Chez Claude?” she asked.

  “Slow,” said Claude. “We’re only open two nights a week now that summer’s over.”

  “What do you do the rest of the week?”

  “I don’t know. I hang out. Play the piano. I’m teaching a sauce course at the Culinary Institute.”

  “Don’t you get bored up here?”

  “No,” said Claude.

  “You don’t miss Manhattan?”

  “Not at all.”

  “How long have you lived up here?”

  “A year. Almost just. I left New York right after the crash. I wasn’t always a chef, you know. I worked as a stockbroker for twelve years.”

  “You did?”

  “Uh huh. Although it’s hard to believe now. I finally decided it was time to forget it and come up here. If I’d stayed in New York, I think I would be dead by now.”