At the door, with the pages of Catherine tucked under his arm, Howard promised to read them before the block party on Saturday. Amanda would really come, wouldn’t she? Standing there, listening to the tone of his voice, some of Amanda’s good feeling returned. This was indeed a very nice man. A very nice man who genuinely seemed to want to help her with Catherine. “You must not feel as though you have any obligation to me,” she said. “I don’t,” he said. “But, in any event, I’ve met one of my more wonderful neighbors, haven’t I?” He held out his hand and Amanda shook it. “You don’t know how much fun this has been for me tonight. I really needed to be cheered up—and I was.” He grinned. Then he saluted. “Until Saturday.”
Without thinking, Amanda curtsied.
“Good night,” he said.
“Good night,” Amanda said, closing the door.
He is attractive, she thought.
But then, so had been Christopher.
It was the apartment, it was her breasts, and it was the wine, Howard told himself all the way home. What was the matter with him? His heart was racing, his stomach felt achy. Howard felt nuts. She was bright—obviously, granted. Eccentric. A recluse. Hardly the stuff women of dreams are made of.
But she was very, very, very pretty. Not beautiful. Though she had verged on it, the way she had been standing by her desk, against the light. In the kitchen, too, when she was sitting on the counter. Looking down. Such strange eyes. That mouth.
The rest of her body certainly wasn’t hard to take either. “Rosanne’s here,” Melissa announced at the door, arms folded. “I think we should stand together on this.”
Howard dropped his briefcase, laid Amanda’s manuscript on the table, and brushed past Melissa without comment. Rosanne was standing in the middle of the living room, looking small, spent. She made no effort to greet him: she simply set her tired eyes upon him. Howard went to her and touched her arm. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Melissa marched in, plunked herself down on the couch, crossed her legs and then her arms too for good measure. “Well,” she said. Rosanne continued to look at Howard. “You could have called me before sendin’ the cops over.”
“We didn’t send the police,” Melissa said. “The police asked us if there were any unusual visitors recently and we simply told them that your husband was one of them.”
“I did call you,” Howard said. “No one answered and I left a message.”
“You called her, Howard?”
Howard looked at Melissa. “Yes, I did.” He shoved his hands into his pockets.” “Thanks,” Rosanne murmured. Then she addressed herself to Melissa. “I don’t think my husband had anything to do with this.”
Melissa tossed her head. “That’s for the police to decide. We have nothing to do with it.” “I don’t think your husband had anything to do with it either,” Howard said.
“Well,” Melissa said, rising from the couch, arms still folded, “regardless of what anyone thinks, I know, Rosanne, that you’ll agree with me that it would better that you not work here until this matter is cleared up.”
“Melissa—”
‘’No, Howard.”
Howard touched Rosanne’s arm again. “She doesn’t mean it. Of course you’ll stay on.”
Melissa’s eyes narrowed at the opposition. She circled the couch and stopped behind it. “Rosanne is not to return until this matter is settled. Do I make myself clear?”
Howard looked to the ceiling. “Melissa—”
“Let’s just get real, Howard, shall we?” The tone of Melissa’s voice could cut steel. “You couldn’t pay for the electricity around here.” To Rosanne. “I’ll send you a check for one week. I think that’s more than fair.” She walked out of the room; a few seconds later they heard the bedroom door slam.
Without a word, Rosanne turned to go.
“Rosanne,” Howard said, following her, “don’t worry. We’ll straighten this all out. Just come back on Monday. Everything’ll be all straightened out by then.”
Rosanne continued down the hall.
“Rosanne—”
“Don’t you get it, Howie?” Rosanne said, wheeling around. She backed up a step and fumbled for the doorknob. “There’s nothing to straighten out. Your wife hates me, and I hate her. She wants me out of here and you can’t stop her.”
Howard sighed. “Rosanne, look—”
“And I don’t care how smart she thinks she is,” Rosanne sputtered. “There’s something all twisted up inside of that woman.” She yanked the door open. She looked back at him, softening slightly.
“I’m sorry, Howie, but that’s the way I see it.” She was breathing heavily. “I like you, Howie—always did. But if you don’t do somethin’ about that bitch, you’re gonna get all twisted up inside too.”
She waited a moment, but Howard couldn’t say anything.
“Bye,” she said, closing the door.
A moment later she knocked. Howard opened the door and Rosanne handed him her keys to the apartment.
Amanda settled down into the six pillows on her bed to read Charlotte Bronte’s Villette. In the course of wading through Catherine this afternoon she had come across a reading a list from one of her graduate courses at Columbia. Seven years late, but better late—
The buzzer went off on her phone, prompting—as it always did—an image of Carl to flash through her mind. Amanda’s phone system had been her first concession to twentieth-century high technology. The man who had come to install it, two years ago, had been named Carl; Carl had to give Amanda six “phone lessons” to understand how to operate it without zapping people off left and right; and then Carl had come back every other Monday until Amanda bought her word processor from Roger.
There were three different lines on the phone—one for the world, one for her parents and one for special friends (Mrs. Goldblum, Rosanne and Claremont Riding Academy)—so that when the phone rang Amanda had a very good idea as to whether she wished to pick up or not. (She rarely picked up on “the world” line. The engineer she had hired to assess the north tower, Mark [predecessor to Carl], was still calling—after three years!) The phone also had a tie line to the house phone in the lobby, and it was this line that was buzzing.
She almost didn’t answer it. It was near midnight and she couldn’t imagine it being good news. More likely it was notification that Roger had been hauled out of the lobby by the police. She took a breath and picked up.
“A Mr. Stewart is here to see you. He says if it is too late he will come back another time.”
Stewart—Howard? He must love the pages, she thought. “No, it’s fine, send him right up.”
“Yes, miss.”
Amanda scrambled out of bed and grabbed the robe at the foot of it. She brushed her hair fast and furiously, ran a quick check in the mirror and sailed off for the front door. When she heard the elevator, she counted twice and then swept open the door with a big “Hello!”
Howard was holding some pages of her manuscript in his hand. His tie was gone, his shirt was open at the top and he was drunk.
“Found it that bad, did you?” Amanda said.
“Don’t let me do anything stupid.”
Amanda rubbed her eye, smiling.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
Amanda, still smiling, stepped back from the door. “Surely.” She watched Howard drift down the hall. “Why don’t you go to the kitchen? Do you remember where it is? Turn left.” He did not remember and apparently did not know left and so Amanda had to steer him there.
“I’m afraid I’m a little drunk,” he said. “But I still know wonderful writing when I see it.” “Good,” Amanda murmured, pushing him into his old chair in the kitchen. “May I offer you some coffee?”
Howard smiled like an idiot.
“Or perhaps some tea, with honey and milk?”
“Mmm,” Howard said, taking off his glasses and dropping them on the floor. It took a bit of time and effort, but he managed to pick them up. “I’ve never d
one this,” he announced.
Amanda went about making tea. “Did something happen?”
“Oh, nothing in particular. My wife sent the cops to Rosanne’s, Rosanne came over, Melissa fired her, Rosanne called me a wimp—other than that, nothing’s happened.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Amanda said.
Howard rambled on for a while, the bits and pieces that he shared adding up to something quite ugly in Amanda’s mind. By the time he was finished, Amanda had decided she must see Rosanne the following day. At Mrs. Goldblum’s if need be.
Amanda shared the pot of tea with Howard. As upset as she was about Rosanne, she nevertheless found herself hinting about the pages of Catherine she had given Howard.
“It’s the only good thing that happened today,” he said. “I sat down in the study with her—”
Her, Amanda’s mind registered.
“—and if I hadn’t brought a bottle of wine with me... But I liked what I read. I mean, Amanda, I’m loaded and all, but I’m not that loaded. And then,” he sighed, “it just seemed like a good idea to come over. At the time.” He frowned. Then he looked at Amanda across the table. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’ve never done anything like this—”
“You’ve apologized at least forty times,” Amanda said. “That’s more than sufficient. Besides, if I were upset, I would simply have you thrown out.”
Howard seemed surprised by this. “Really?”
“Really,” Amanda said.
He smiled.
She smiled.
His eyes dropped down to her robe and then came back up.
Amanda swallowed.
Silence.
“I should go now,” he finally said.
She closed her eyes and nodded. And then, opening them, she stood up. He just sat there, staring up at her. Amanda held out her hand and smiled. “No,” he said, suddenly shaking his head, “it’s all right. I mean—I’m all right.” And he got himself on his feet and followed her to the front door. “You will come Saturday, won’t you?” he asked her, pushing the button
for the elevator.
“I’ll be there,” she promised, leaning against the door.
“I, uh—” He hesitated.
“Yes?”
He looked at her nervously, smiled and touched at his glasses. “Thank you for being so understanding about—uh, this.” “It’s quite all right.” “I—shoot—” He dropped the pages. Amanda just stood there, watching him gather the papers together. When he stood up, his attention focused on the jumble in his hands, Amanda let her eyes drop—
No.
She raised her eyes immediately. The elevator arrived. “Good night,” he said, stepping in. He turned around, ran a hand through his hair, and waved. “Good night!” “Until Saturday,” Amanda said, waving back.
Howard undressed in the bathroom. Flicking off the light, he stood in the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Then he opened the door, crossed the bedroom and slipped into bed. He put his glasses on the night table, settled in on his left side, facing away from Melissa, and pulled the covers up over his shoulder.
“Howard,” Melissa said.
Pause. “Yes?”
“I don’t want to fight with you,” she said.
“I don’t want to fight with you either,” he said.
Silence.
The rustle of sheets; Melissa’s hand on his shoulder. “We need to talk,” she whispered. Howard took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Finally, “I’m tired, Melissa. Let’s talk in the morning.”
Melissa snuggled up behind him, slid her hand up his chest and let it rest there. Howard felt the side of her face press against his back. In a moment he felt her hand inching its way down, unsure. He waited.
Her hand reached him, there. Her fingers touched him lightly. The response was immediate and growing. When Howard started to turn over, Melissa’s hand slipped away. “I’m tired too,” she said, rolling over to the other side of the bed.
10
WHAT MRS. GOLDBLUM’S
PRIDE WROUGHT
It was a dreadful situation, Mrs. Goldblum knew, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to make the calls she knew she would have to. Soon.
Next week, no doubt.
Sigh.
There were no more stocks in the safe deposit box. There were no bonds left. There were sixteen love letters from Mr. Goldblum, the negatives of Sarah’s wedding pictures and Mrs. Goldblum’s engagement ring that had become too large for her to wear.
Bernard Meltzer speaks of Empire Diamond on his radio program. He says I can trust them for an accurate appraisal.
It could not come to that. Could it?
Sigh.
Daniel would be of no help. To tell him would only burden him with guilt about the money she had given him. Freely... She could hardly take the bread out of her grandchildren’s mouths. Could she call Ben, wonderful Ben? He was remarried, for several years, and had three children now. She could hear Ben saying to her, “I’m only glad you called. How much do you need?” Sarah had married well Sarah.
Oh, Sarah, my baby, I miss you so much. Still.
Ben was out of the question. It would break Daniel’s heart if she asked Ben for help. They did not see eye to eye, those two...
“Oh, my,” Mrs. Goldblum said aloud, covering her face with her hands at the kitchen table. Missy rubbed against her leg. She smiled and leaned over to pet her on the head. “Little Miss,” she said. Then the dizziness came back and she had to right herself, slowly, grasping the edge of the table. She would wait a minute and then prepare some milk and honey. That would make the dizziness go away.
Missy meowed. She was hungry too. Mrs. Goldblum couldn’t get up yet to feed her and it made her sad that the kitty had to sit there and be hungry. Missy’s eyes were looking up at her—”Did I do something wrong?” they asked. Tears started to rise and Mrs. Goldblum folded her arms on the table and slowly let her head sink down onto them.
You must pull yourself together, Emma Goldblum. There have been harder times than these. Deep breath.
Robert darling, please tell me what to do.
Several minutes passed.
Until you have time to think it through, you must cut back your expenses, she heard.
I have, Robert, I have.
All that you can?
Mrs. Goldblum was feeling a bit better when Amanda stopped by, darling girl. She had brought Mrs. Goldblum a basket of yellow and white gladiolus from Embassy Florists, to, she said, apologize for canceling their tea on Tuesday. Without thinking, Mrs. Goldblum asked her to stay for luncheon (there was nothing but the one Stouffer’s souffle for Rosanne), but Amanda declined, explaining that she had received a new sense of inspiration about Catherine and was eager to get to work. (They did not pursue this topic; Catherine pulled Amanda into a world where Mrs. Goldblum did not care to follow. When some of one’s relatives have spent their lives running away from Russians, Mrs. Goldblum did not see any reason to pay them a visit even by way of fiction.)
When Mrs. Goldblum saw Amanda to the door, Amanda said she had thought Rosanne would be there.
“She called this morning to say she would be late.”
“Oh,” Amanda said, averting her eyes.
Tell, Amanda. Explain the situation to her. She would give her right arm to help you.
“You’re using your cane. Is your hip bothering you?” “What, dear? Oh, this—” Tell her. Pause. “Yes, a little. Arthritis, you know.” I can’t. Daniel I would be so ashamed. “Would you ask Rosanne to telephone me? I left a message for her yesterday, but she must not have received it.”
Mrs. Goldblum promised that of course she would, and hurried their interview to an end. Mrs. Goldblum felt terribly guilty; she imagined that Amanda could sense it, hence the strange expression on the dear’s face. An expression Mrs. Goldblum recognized. Worry. She had seen it on her own face in the mirror every day since the arrival of that hateful letter from that awfu
l Mr. Robin.
Rosanne did not appear until close to two. Mrs. Goldblum retired to the living-room couch, waiting, thinking about how to handle the task in front of her. Rosanne must have suspected something, she thought, because Rosanne this day was strangely quiet.
When Rosanne dragged the vacuum cleaner into the front hall, Mrs. Goldblum decided she must go through with it before she lost her courage. “Rosanne dear—”
“Yeah?” “I won’t require—that is, I mean to say, I won’t be needing you to clean for the next few weeks.” Rosanne was silent, her mouth drawn in a tight line, her arms holding the vacuum attachments up against her chest.
Mrs. Goldblum’s hand tightened around the tissues in her hand. Slowly, carefully, “It will only be for a short while. Dr. Campbell seems to think I should try to do the household tasks myself. For my arthritis, you see. Exercise of any kind—”
Rosanne let the attachments crash to the floor. “You could at least tell me the truth,” she said, eyes flashing with anger.
Mrs. Goldblum looked down at her hands.
“Say somethin’ to me, Mrs. G.”
Still Mrs. Goldblum couldn’t speak.
Rosanne walked over and stood in front of her, hands on her hips. “What did Amanda tell you this morning?” Mrs. Goldblum, startled, looked up at her. “Amanda has nothing to do with it,” she said softly.
“So you just want me outta here, huh?” Rosanne’s eyes started to fill and she turned away. “Jesus, Mrs. G!” she cried suddenly, whirling back around. “After all this time, you don’t trust me—do ya?”
“I do trust you, dear, it’s just that...” She brought the tissue up against her nose, unable to look at Rosanne. She shook her head. “It’s a family matter,” she finally said.
Rosanne took a hard intake of breath and then bolted for the kitchen.
Mrs. Goldblum tried to stand, but dizziness forced her back down onto the couch. When Rosanne flew back through the hall with her things, heading for the front door, Mrs. Goldblum raised her hand, saying, “I will pay you for today, dear. It will only be for a few weeks.”
Slowly, Rosanne turned around at the door. She was blinking back tears. “If you can’t trust me, I don’t want nothin’ from you. Ever. “She yanked the door open, her bag hitting the wall. “And tell—” Her voice broke.
Riverside Drive Page 17
