What Nora Knew

by Yellin, Linda

  “Nobody asked you to fix anything. Except maybe you can relax a bit and have a nice, pleasant dinner.”

  We ate in nice, pleasant silence. For about two minutes.

  “Do you like taking baths with candles?” I asked.

  Russell took a bite of his crab cake, chewing it slowly before saying, “Every relationship’s different. There are women you take baths with and women you don’t.”

  “And with me, you don’t?”

  “Molly, that’s not who you are. If I said, ‘Let’s take a bath together,’ what would you do?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “See? Not you.” He looked down at his plate. “This needs tartar sauce.”

  “So you’re saying with other women you might be a man who likes candlelight baths?”

  “I’m saying couples bring out different aspects in each other. You might not realize you’re romantic until you’re with someone who makes you feel romantic.”

  I blew out the candles. Stood up and turned on the overhead light before sitting again.

  “Oh, hello,” Russell said. “Nice to see you.”

  “I worked hard planning this dinner. Lighting these candles. Buying crab cakes and gumbo. I was going to memorize Eva Mendes’s cocaine monologue but ran out of time.”

  “Bad Lieutenant?”

  “Bad idea.”

  “It was a lovely effort, Molly.”

  “It’s a terrible movie, Russell.”

  “Would you feel better if we took a bath together?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t feel like cleaning the tub.”

  He pushed aside the chicken and kissed me.

  I must pause now to confess that I can’t write a sex scene. Some writers are great at describing huffing and puffing and panting and pounding, and if ever there’s a sentence that proves I can’t write about sex, this is it. How do you come up with new adjectives and surprising adverbs for the same sweaty procedures a couple of pet hamsters can do? If you’d never heard of sex and were reading about it for the first time in a manual, you’d say, “Who? What? Where?” The thing is, why are sex scenes necessary? To help the reader visualize the sex? Did we ever want to see Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman going at it? Would that have made Casablanca any hotter? Wasn’t Titanic still perfect without seeing Kate and Leo jump in the sack? Raise your hand if you’d have voted to view Clint Eastwood’s ass on top of a naked Meryl Streep in The Bridges of Madison County or to see Tramp humping Lady.

  And I guarantee you nobody, absolutely nobody, was watching You’ve Got Mail and thinking, Gee, how about some hot, sleazy sex? We didn’t want to see Tom crawling over Meg. I’m embarrassed to have even brought the image up. But Russell and I had sex. Nice, satisfying sex. And that’s all I plan to say about it.

  * * *

  Thursday morning, when I arrived at work, Keith Kretchmer was leaning on the doorway to my cubicle. “Hey, Molly,” he said.

  “Hey, Keith.”

  He was wearing a cardigan; Keith’s not at all flashy for a flash developer. “Sorry you bombed out on your story,” he said.

  “Who told you that?” I stepped around him, walked into my cubicle, and sat down.

  Keith cracked his knuckles. “I was just talking with Emily.” Her hand flew up and waved from her side of the divider, then disappeared just as quickly. “Do you think you’ll get fired? Emily thinks you might.”

  “Emily’s a moron!” I said, raising my voice.

  “I think you’re a good writer,” Keith said. “I hope you don’t get axed.”

  “Thanks, Keith. Thanks for your concern.”

  He ambled off.

  “Good morning, Emily!” I called out again.

  “Morning,” she said from behind the wall.

  I was worried. More than a little worried. I hadn’t received a new assignment since bombing out on Monday. That happens sometimes. A slow day or two. But I didn’t know if the days were slow or I was toast. No, wait, I told myself. Keith’s right. I am a good writer. With a good attitude. Who else would be willing to kayak in the Hudson or walk eight dogs at once or spend an afternoon at a vegan barbecue? Keith? Emily? Okay. A hundred people whose résumés showed up in Deirdre’s mailbox every day. But I’ve been here four years, never missed a deadline except that one time with the sweatproof pantyhose assignment, and everyone agreed those were unavoidable circumstances.

  I checked my e-mails. Straightened my desk. Checked my e-mails again. Called Russell. He was with a patient. Called my mother. Got the machine. I started reading Rebecca; Daphne du Maurier seemed like a juicy target for one of my essays, but I stopped after a few pages. I didn’t want to be seen reading a book at my desk looking useless. Only Emily had that luxury.

  “Hey, Emily,” I called over our wall.

  “What?”

  I walked around to her cubicle. She blinked up at me as if she were stunned I’d walk within a ten-mile radius of her doorway. Stacks of books covered the floor. Three photos of Rory the imaginary ski instructor boyfriend were taped above her file drawers. She shifted in her seat, blocking her computer.

  “Emily, you seem to know everything.” We gave each other the stink eye. “I was just curious if you happened to hear who’s rewriting the romance piece.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, making sure her computer screen wasn’t visible. “Oh, Deirdre probably assigned it to some freelancer.”

  “You think? Or you know?”

  “I think I know.”

  I looked at her Rory display. “So what does a ski instructor do in June?”

  “He’s not just an instructor. He’s also in management.”

  “Okay. What does a ski manager manage in June?”

  “Hikers. People come to the resort to hike.”

  “So you’re dating a hike instructor?”

  “Why don’t you take a hike, Molly?”

  “Why don’t you go call your make-believe boyfriend?” I turned and walked out of her cubicle. And tripped into Gavin, who told me Deirdre wanted to speak with me pronto.

  * * *

  Deirdre started out by asking if I had free time over the weekend, and for a moment I thought it was a cruel segue into “Well, you’ll have plenty of free time next week.” Instead, she talked about bike-share programs in Paris and Copenhagen and how the mayor was planning one for New York and maybe we should see how well they work. And yes, there was a split second or two when I thought Deirdre was sending me to Paris, but she was just sending me to a bike shop. “No other forms of transportation for five days,” she said. “Do everything you’d do that you’d normally do, only go there on a bike.” Good thing I wasn’t planning on visiting Long Island that weekend.

  I said, “I’ll get right on it, Deirdre! I mean—right on that bike!” I sounded like a total fool, blathering because I was so grateful I could switch from being paranoid about my job to paranoid about my life. I didn’t mention that the last bicycle I’d ridden had plastic streamers and a Mattel V-rroom.

  * * *

  Friday morning I looked up bike rentals on my computer and found a place only two blocks from my apartment that I must have passed hundreds of times without noticing, having had no interest or desire to notice. I rented an adorable Schwinn with a cute little bell and some gear gizmo on the handle that I never did figure out. It was the biggest, clunkiest bike in the store. The only model that came with a kickstand. I rented a helmet. I rented elbow pads. The nice lady who helped me insisted I couldn’t possibly pump fast enough on my Schwinn to warrant kneepads, but I rented them, too.

  Despite the hot weather, I wore jeans to protect my skin from scrapes and gouges. I borrowed a backpack from Angela. It was too late to cancel a pressing appointment at Fifty-Ninth Street on the far West Side because I’d waited two months to get the appointment for my first-ever mammogram, so already it was turning out to be a fun day. But at least if I wiped out, I’d be en route to a hospital.

  I left early, allowing myself enough time to ped
al, my speed clocking in at about one mile per hour. Fresh air. Warm breezes. Potholes. At first I was cautious, stopping for every red light five minutes in advance. Everyone passed me. I mean everyone. Babies in strollers. Old men on walkers. It’s amazing how fast a gentle incline turns into a mountain when you’re riding a bike. By the time I got to my appointment and the receptionist asked, “Which department?” I gasped, “Pulmonary!”

  Usually, sitting around a waiting room in a hospital gown makes me grumpy. But this time I didn’t mind. I’d’ve been happy to spend the next five days there. When it was finally my turn, I made jokes about how a man must have invented this contraption and the room being colder than a meat locker. The technician did not laugh. But, hey, squeezing breasts into pancakes all day has to be one of the worst jobs ever, in a serious tie with driving a Hertz bus in circles between the airport terminal and the parking lot. And those museum guards.

  Back outside, it took me only three or four hours to figure out the lock I’d used to chain my Schwinn to a NO PARKING sign, and a mere forty minutes to adjust my helmet and elbow pads, but I discovered riding a bike down a hill is far more satisfying than up. As long as you remember not to pass a truck right before the driver opens his door (I won’t elaborate) and defer to larger vehicles, say, a bus (I won’t elaborate). By the time I hit midtown, heading up Lexington in heavy traffic, empowered by my ability to scoot between cars (illegal) and zip across red lights (also illegal), thinking, Tour de France here I come!—life was magical, life sparkled, romance was in the air. I turned on Eighty-sixth riding against traffic (not illegal, but not a good idea) and glanced over to the Hamptons jitney on the opposite site of the street, passengers with luggage lined up along the sidewalk. Cameron was stepping aside to let a woman, a different woman, another woman, an attractive woman, board ahead of him. I swerved to avoid a taxi, the driver yelling out an implausible suggestion to me.

  My father always says, once you buy a Subaru, all you see are Subarus. He means this figuratively. It is also true of Hondas and Toyotas. But why was Cameron Duncan Subaru-ing me? Like the universe was trying to tell me, Watch out.

  Or something.

  * * *

  My parents invited Russell and me to their country club’s Fourth of July barbecue. I hate the country-club barbecue, even hated it when I was a kid. The grill’s the size of a Buick, and somehow every year the club people set it up so the wind blows the heat into your face, steaming your skin and searing your nostrils while you’re cooling your heels waiting for a cheeseburger. Whenever I think of how hot hell must be, I think of the country-club barbecue.

  I also turned down Pammie’s invitation to spend the holiday in the Hamptons. She sounded miffed, said it was the primo weekend for an invitation and the bedroom would get snapped up fast. Maybe she was more of a Pamela than a Pammie than I’d realized.

  After five days biking around Manhattan until my butt ached and, I swear, my calves doubled in size, which was not something they ever possibly needed to do, well, after that, hanging out in the city, not subjecting myself to cars, trains, jitneys, or anything on wheels, held a lot more appeal than you might think. Sticking around town was Russell’s idea in the first place. He’d been asked to write an article for American Chiropractor. That might not mean much to the average soul, but it’s a mega-honor big deal if you’re an American chiropractor. Russell wanted to get to work on his mega-honor right away, asked if maybe I’d help when he got to the final draft. I was flattered. He’d never asked me to help crack a neck.

  So really, staying in the city sounded like a swell idea until July 1 rolled around, a Friday, and everyone else skipped town. Almost immediately the city felt like one of those Japanese B movies after the A-bomb is dropped and the citizens have evacuated. Angela was away for the weekend. Kristine was away for the weekend. Emily let it be known she’d be busy all weekend, and after about the hundredth time she’d materialized over our wall and said, “Don’t you want to ask why? Don’t you want to ask why?”—I caved and asked why and she told me, “It’s a secret.”

  Friday night Russell worked on his chiropractor article. I read Daphne du Maurier. We fed Joyce and Irwin. We fed ourselves. We ordered a pizza, thrilled to see the delivery guy and know that another human was left in Manhattan. I wanted to invite the guy in to dinner. Russell and I went to bed early. To sleep. By Saturday morning I was wondering if it was too late to call Pammie and see if there’d been a last-minute cancellation for the Daisy Room. By late afternoon, around the time cabin fever was setting in, I insisted to Russell that we go out, take a walk, commune with nature and concrete. We did, and much to my joy we came upon a bevy of humanity.

  As soon as summer rolls around, New York street-corner vendors get together with guest vendors who drive in from places like Sarasota, Florida, or Lansing, Michigan, and throw street fairs. Entire blocks are shut down, traffic is rerouted. Policemen guard the barricades set up to guard the fairs. Local bands with bad sound systems wail off the backs of flatbed trucks. The fairs are held for all the people who forgot to go to the Berkshires, Hamptons, or Fire Island. The fairs are also a way for New Yorkers to kid themselves that a city of over 8 million inhabitants is just as quaint and friendly as a small town, only instead of cotton candy and popcorn, you eat chicken kebobs and spicy link sausages.

  “Look, honey,” I said to Russell. “Here’s a booth selling straw hats you can roll up and pack in a suitcase even though none of us are going anywhere.”

  He was more interested in a table selling tweezers and pliers.

  “You can pull some major nose hairs with these babies,” I said, holding up a pair of pliers.

  Russell was not amused. He bought some toothbrushes, some tube socks. “Can you believe how cheap these socks are?” he said. “This is so exciting.”

  A fair attendee was sitting backward in a chair with her face pressed through a hole beneath a sign that read ENJOY A RELAXING BACKRUB in the most unrelaxing setting imaginable. Eager young sorts stationed next to the sausage booth handed out pamphlets about cruelty to animals. Russell bought undershirts in bulk. “A third the price of Bloomingdale’s,” he said. “This is so exciting.” He bought an LED aluminum penlight. “This is so exciting.”

  We walked back to Russell’s apartment. He played Words With Friends. I don’t know where those friends were, but certainly not in Manhattan. We ordered in Chinese and watched Windtalkers with Joyce and Irwin. I’ve been avoiding even mentioning this, but Joyce and Irwin are Russell’s roommates, two turtles whose habitat is on the kitchen counter next to the sink and Russell’s vitamin jars. Except when Russell takes them out of their glass tank and lets them crawl around the living-room floor and watch DVDs with us. “Joyce, did you enjoy the movie?” Russell asked afterward, speaking in a deep, serious voice, his Irwin voice.

  I was supposed to respond in my Joyce voice. High-pitched and singsongy. “Why, yes, Irwin! I knew Nicolas Cage would save the Navajos!”

  “Of course, Joyce. He was a decorated marine!”

  This went on longer than I’d like to admit until I finally insisted we go to sleep.

  Sunday morning we stayed in bed (imagine sex scene), got out of bed, and Russell cooked omelets. He’s an excellent omelet cooker, chops in all these onions and tomatoes and red peppers. We read the New York Times. Fifteen minutes later we were done. Reading the Times used to be an all-day affair, but now the paper’s shrunk to a pathetic sliver, and on a holiday weekend it’s barely a flyer. We walked down to Riverside Park and sat on a bench where Russell read old issues of American Chiropractor for inspiration and I read Rebecca. Mrs. Danvers burned Manderley to the ground.

  Monday night we snuck up to the rooftop of Russell’s building to watch fireworks. Many New York City apartment buildings have roof decks or roof gardens. Russell’s building has a padlock and a chain. But the super was in town and the super has three kids. He also had the key to the padlock. Whatever residents were around made their way upstairs. The sun h
ad set. The kids clapped their hands in anticipation. The Hudson River looked like its own rendition of rush-hour traffic with sailboats and motorboats bobbing together in the dark water, creating a medley of glittery lights. Below us, the waterfront was lined with celebrants, the West Side Highway closed to traffic. But for we lucky ones on that rooftop, it was all about the vista. Our vantage point offered a floating mosaic of ornate cornices and satellite dishes, water towers and air-conditioning units, a broad, twinkling skyline above an urban panorama. The air felt soft and fresh; eerily quiet. A momentary world of calm. I thought of Cameron Duncan and found myself feeling sorry for him. It must be awful to be afraid of heights, to never experience the sweet perspective of being that much closer to the fireworks, that much nearer to the sky. The fireworks looked magical, splashes of color and cascading designs, the handful of neighbors gasping and cheering with each new blossom of light. I saw Russell’s face in the illumination. I slipped my arm through his and leaned into his shoulder. He was discussing the building’s electrical system with the super. I could see the fireworks. I just couldn’t feel them.

  11

  “How was the Jersey Shore?” I asked Keith Tuesday morning. “How was the Catskills?” I asked Brady. “How was your I’ve Got a Secret and Who Cares Weekend?” I asked Emily.

  Of course, nobody answered. Everyone was sunburned and cranky; the resentment toward the long weekend’s being over, tangible. What? Real life? Back so soon?

  I wasn’t in such a good mood myself. I checked my e-mails. Read Yahoo! News. Scanned Gawker to see if their features writer was doing any cool articles that our features writer—that’d be me—should have done first. I was listening to Adele and her don’t-fuck-with-me songs on my iPod, bouncing to the music, feeling her pain, when I also felt a tap on my shoulder.

  I turned my chair to see Deirdre. I said, “Hi! How was the Hamptons?”

  “Have you seen Emily?” she said. She was in spit-it-out mode. No time for pleasantries. Not even unpleasantries.

  “No,” I said. “Isn’t she in her cubicle?” Oh, Molly, Molly, Molly, you blockhead.