What Nora Knew

by Yellin, Linda

“Divorced?”

  “No, single!” Arnold said the word single with utter glee.

  “You’ve been dating for over seventy years?” I said.

  “Didn’t want to settle,” he said.

  “That’s admirable,” Jocelyn said.

  “That’s romantic,” my mother said.

  “That’s insane,” my father said.

  “We’re happy,” my grandmother said, frowning at her son-in-law.

  “These are our what-the-fuck years!” Arnold said, tossing out a more colorful idiom. My grandmother laughed her ass off while the rest of us looked uncomfortable.

  “Jocelyn tells me you do pranks for an online newspaper,” Dave said to me.

  I shot my sister a look. Told her boyfriend, “That’s not quite how I’d characterize it.”

  “What kind of pranks?” he asked. He was stroking Jocelyn’s arm with one hand while swirling his drink in the other. Multidexterous Dave.

  “I sneak vibrators through security stations. Walk around in kinky underpants.”

  “What do you really do?” Dave asked.

  “Dave has a finance degree from Duke,” Jocelyn said.

  “So your Wharton degree talks to his Duke degree?” I said.

  Dave grinned.

  “You speak the same language,” Arnold said.

  “That’s important,” Jocelyn said. Not that anyone was arguing. “People have conversational patterns. Dave and I, our patterns are in sync.”

  “Two peas in a pod!” Arnold declared.

  My grandmother elbowed Arnold.

  I was surrounded by pea pods. My girlfriends. My family. Soul mates were falling out of trees.

  “We should discuss doing more business together,” my father said to Dave.

  My grandmother cut him off. My father’s talking business pisses her off. “They played Vertigo for movie night last night,” she said. “Jimmy Stewart?”

  “Alfred Hitchcock?” Arnold said.

  “Heard of it,” we all said.

  “Best scene is Jimmy Stewart’s dream with the swirling hallucinations,” Arnold said.

  “Half the residents got sick to their stomachs,” my grandmother said. Arnold and my grandmother shared a big laugh over that one. Jocelyn and Dave rubbed their calves together while looking around in opposite directions pretending we weren’t noticing.

  “Jimmy Stewart overcoming his fears, climbing that tower for the woman he loves,” Arnold said. “Now that’s romantic.”

  “Romantic?” my father said. “He killed Kim Novak!”

  My grandmother shook her head and hooted. “She fell off that bell tower like a limp dick!”

  “Top off your drink?” my mother said to nobody in particular.

  “Tonight’s The Thin Man,” Arnold said. Every night’s movie night in independent living. “Nick and Nora?”

  “Heard of it,” we all said.

  “Even with the Hays Code, you could tell from their snappy dialogue, they were screwing all the time,” my grandmother said.

  My mother topped off her own drink, polishing off the pitcher. “All gone! We’ll need more.”

  “I’ll go!” Jocelyn said, grabbing the empty pitcher.

  “I’ll help!” Dave said. The two of them dashed off into the house.

  “We won’t be seeing them for a few hours,” my grandmother said.

  “Play some Ping-Pong later?” my father said to me.

  “Can you wait until I fold the laundry?” my mother asked.

  “Jesus, Bitsy, I’ll be in my casket before that happens.”

  “Gotta see a man about a dog,” Arnold said, standing up, excusing himself and heading into the house. He kissed my grandmother on the cheek before he left.

  “He’s got prostate issues,” she announced as soon as the screen door slammed behind him. “Pees incessantly.”

  “I’m glad you’re happy, Grandma,” I said.

  “He’s a good man. He doesn’t want to change me.”

  “He’s a little late for that,” my father said.

  “I had plenty of time to change you, Sidney, and I didn’t,” my mother said. “I love you as is.”

  My grandmother and I watched my parents kiss. We kept watching until it got embarrassing. “I’m glad you dumped the quack,” she said to me.

  “Grandma, chiropractors are respected medical—oh, never mind.”

  “I wasn’t looking for Arnold, but I had the good sense to open my eyes when he showed up. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know your quack of a boyfriend was a reaction to your pig of a husband. Get that Evan out of your head. Send him packing already! He’s clouding your judgment and turning you into a coward.”

  “Me? A coward?” My grandmother had just insulted me in the guise of giving advice.

  “Are you telling me that in a town of eight million people there isn’t one man who gives you heart palpitations? And I don’t mean the kind that require digitalis.”

  “Grandma, I’m bad at love.”

  “Baloney. Maybe you’re just bad at spotting it.”

  “What I miss?” Arnold asked, returning from his mission.

  “Brunch!” my mother said, pulling away from my father and standing up. “Sidney will make omelets.”

  “Swell,” my grandmother said. “How do you like your eggs burnt?”

  21

  Monday morning Emily gave notice. Keith Kretchmer told me first, when he leaned into my cubicle and said, “Did you hear?”

  There’s only one appropriate response to that. “Hear what?” I said.

  “Your buddy.” Keith indicated Emily’s office with a nod of his head. “She’s moving to Idaho.” I about flew out of my chair; looked over into Emily’s cube. She wasn’t there. “She’s going to live with some guy out there,” Keith said.

  “Rory the ski instructor?”

  “Yeah. A ski guy in Idaho.” Keith wandered off. I’d have been less surprised if he’d said she was moving there to be a potato farmer.

  I rarely visited Emily’s office; I avoided stepping foot in it. Even if I’d wanted to, it was impossible to find a place to put your feet; the floor was covered with books from publicists and books from publishers and bound manuscripts from self-published writers angling for a review by the ever-literati Emily. Her office was a zoo. She never cleaned it. Half the books were probably already out of print. But I couldn’t help myself. I marched around from my office to hers, removed two stacks from her guest chair, piled them on top of another tottering stack on the floor, and sat down. New photos of Rory and Emily were tacked to her wall: Rory and Emily at the Central Park Boathouse; Rory and Emily against a backdrop of the Queensboro Bridge; Rory and Emily in Little Italy. A framed photo next to her computer of Rory and Emily with fireworks exploding overhead. And next to that, a Cameron Duncan rose.

  A minute later a smiling Emily appeared, stopped, looked at me. “A visit from Molly Hallberg!” She sat down in her chair.

  “What gives?” I said.

  “You heard my good news?” she said.

  “Keith, the town crier, told me. You and Rory? This guy’s for real?” Emily smiled. I’d like to say that for once it was a sweet smile. But it was a smug smile. “You’re giving up your job—your column—for a guy?”

  “He said he’d move mountains for me.”

  “So you’re moving to mountains for him?”

  “Molly, it’s what people in love, do.” Her smile changed. It amped up from happy into radiant. Emily in love. Rory the ski instructor in love with her. I wrangled with the concept.

  “Congratulations!” Brady the cloud administer said, poking his head in the doorway and running off.

  “When did you decide this?” I asked Emily. “What did Deirdre say?”

  “She’s devastated, of course. I wanted to tell her in person before she left for vacation. In two weeks I’m blowing this pop stand. Deirdre’s in her office shooting herself right now.” Emily smiled her Emily smile. “She said I can write m
y column from Idaho.”

  “She agreed to that?”

  “I told her Gawker has writers in Idaho.” Emily stood, picked up her paper rose, and held it aloft like the Statue of Liberty. “Yes, I can have it all!”

  “You can have it all in Idaho. Do you really see yourself living there?”

  “Now I can.” Emily sat down. “Cameron Duncan’s the one who convinced me to take the risk. About Rory. And me.” Emily held her rose in her lap with both hands like an earnest debutante. “He said the two driving forces in the world are love and fear. My rose is supposed to be like Dumbo’s feather. He made it to give me the courage to fly.” She spoke with fervor. “He said, when you realize you love somebody, you want the rest of your life with that somebody to start right away.”

  “Cameron didn’t say that. Billy Crystal says that in When Harry Met Sally.”

  Emily frowned at me. “Well, they’re both right!” she said.

  * * *

  Tuesday afternoon, Cameron called me at work. Outside call. “You owe me a movie,” he said. “And a hat.”

  “I’ve incorporated your Reds cap into my wardrobe,” I said. “I can no longer part with it.”

  “Then Mike Bing will have to hunt you down and steal it back.”

  “Forget it. He kills off any woman he comes near.”

  Cameron sounded like Cameron again. A serious Cameron. “I’m trying to change that,” he said. “Movie on the pier Friday night? Seventieth Street in Riverside Park?”

  “The office is going out for good-bye drinks for Wyatt.”

  “Wyatt who?”

  “Our summer intern. He’s going back to college.”

  “The movie’s not until eight thirty. You can do both.”

  “And just where would I meet you for this movie on the pier?”

  “Front row,” he said. “I only sit in the front. I like to feel like I’m right inside the movie.”

  “And how do you suggest I get a few hundred people to let me cut through to that front row?”

  “Jump out of a plane?”

  “I can do that.”

  “I know,” he said. “You inspire me.”

  “Bullshit.”

  It was a moment or two before I heard him say, “Molly, when are you going to stop needing so much convincing?” I didn’t respond. “First one there, save two seats,” he said, before hanging up.

  * * *

  It’s a good thing I forgot to ask what movie we’d be seeing; I might have said no. Romantic movies on a first date make me nervous. I end up feeling all pressured and awkward about unspoken expectations. It’s like being seated at the singles table at a wedding.

  Friday morning I dressed for Friday night instead of for Friday at work: cotton, cropped pants and a gauzy top, platform sandals more stylish than comfortable. I skipped Wyatt the intern’s farewell party and took the subway uptown, wearing Cameron’s Reds cap, and carrying the beach towel Angela insisted I take. She didn’t want me getting dirt on my butt. Not sexy, she said.

  When I got to the pier, it was still early; the movie didn’t start until dark. I love the Seventieth Street pier. It’s one of the few quiet spots in the city, a long deck flowing out into the sparkling Hudson. Only a scatter of people were milling about, except down by the far end, where a large screen was set up and a small group of moviegoers had already congregated. I sped up as I walked in their direction, my competitive side urging me forward to grab two places. It sure beat waiting till later and crawling through a mosh pit of New Yorkers. I saw one woman positioning a low stadium chair; two guys were sitting cross-legged and playing cards. There was no sight of Cameron. I was hoping he’d arrive first to hold our spots. I hate saving seats; it’s like asking for a fight.

  I sat as close to the screen as I could without landing in the opening credits. A woman wearing a denim jumper and sensible shoes sat down and busied herself spreading out sandwich bags and soda cans, a jacket and a backpack. She reminded me of a land surveyor staking out a property. “Do you mind?” she said when a molecule of my towel brushed against a molecule of her blanket. “Do you mind?” I said. We dagger-eyed each other. I pulled Cameron’s cap lower on my forehead, stretched out my arms, and protected my turf.

  The pier began filling up quickly and soon looked like a giant happy picnic ground with people weaving their way around blankets and coolers, calling out to each other, settling in to watch the sunset over the Hudson and wait for the movie. More women than men. Lilith Fair at the movies.

  By the time Cameron showed up, I had defended his spot half a dozen times. He looked appealing in loose-fitting jeans and a button-down shirt. He was holding a brown paper bag in the crook of his arm. “You’re here,” he said. He sounded delighted. I felt like a woman who might delight a man.

  “Oh, my God!” my pal the space hog said to him. “I saw you at the Ninety-Second Street Y!”

  You saw me, too, I wanted to say.

  Cameron and the woman chatted. She loved his books. She adored him. She was more than happy to make room for him. She’d have shoved me off the pier if necessary. She scooted over. Cameron sat down and turned to me, shrugged like What can I say?

  “Thanks for the sunset,” I said to him. “Nice touch.”

  He asked if I’d seen Sleepless in Seattle.

  I asked, “Is that a trick question?”

  He unpacked the paper bag, unveiling two plastic cups, a bottle of white wine, a popcorn bag and a box of Jujubes.

  “You eat Jujubes?” I said.

  “They’re my favorite food group,” he said.

  During the movie we drank chardonnay. We passed Jujubes back and forth. I chided myself for not bringing floss. We watched Tom and Meg playing Sam and Annie. I could have recited half the lines. Sam on the telephone telling the radio psychologist about the first time he touched his wife’s hand and how he knew. Like magic. Annie sitting in her car on Christmas Eve listening to the radio and crying. Writing a letter but afraid to send it; Rosie O’Donnell mailed the letter. For the slightest moment, as I reached into the popcorn, still focused on Annie, my fingers grazed Cameron’s. A soft, scratchy warmth. Was I dreaming it? Did I imagine it? Magic. We looked at each other and smiled. The unspoken message: This is nice. Sam’s son, Jonah, picked Annie’s letter out of hundreds, choosing her as his future mother because she liked Brooks Robinson. I cringed when Sam dated the woman with the hyena laugh. Bill Pullman did remind me of Russell. I held Cameron’s baseball cap against my heart when Annie flew to Seattle and Sam sees her at the airport. She sees Sam across a street but gets scared and returns to New York and her Russell. But it’s Valentine’s Day and the world’s conspiring for her to fall in love. She says farewell to Bill Pullman and hurries to the Empire State Building and her destiny. She takes the risk. In the reflected light I could see Cameron’s profile as he concentrated on the screen, captivated and transfixed, watching Sam finally meet Annie.

  Okay. I cried. I always cry. I know what’s going to happen, but every time I cry. Jimmy Durante sings “Make Someone Happy.” The Empire State Building windows light up with a big red heart. Fireworks explode over an outline of the city. As the screen went dark, the audience applauded. It’s that kind of movie, the kind that makes you want to applaud. Couples hugged. Girlfriends exchanged wistful looks. The crowd behind us began to disperse, gathering their empty soda cans and popcorn bags, folding up blankets. The air felt fresher, clearer, and romantic.

  Cameron handed me a napkin. Not a rose one. A regular one. I dabbed my eyes. Put his Reds cap on my head.

  He stuffed our wrappers and cups into the brown bag. “Walk out to the railing?” he said.

  “You can do that? Mike Bing won’t panic?”

  “It’s dark. I can manage.” He smiled. “I need the practice. Before this summer’s up I will overcome my fear of heights.”

  “Aren’t you cutting it a little close on the end-of-summer timeline?”

  “I keep visualizing myself on the city’s ta
llest building.”

  “That’d mean the Empire State Building. Sounds a bit ambitious.”

  “Well, that’s what I imagine.” Cameron deposited the bag into a trash container; we walked to the end of the pier. We looked out toward the silent river, Cameron keeping his gaze steady on the horizon, the streetlights and window lights of New Jersey.

  “If you’re uncomfortable, stare at those blinding fluorescents off to the right.” I pointed across the river. “That’s a hospital.”

  “Good to know.” His smile made me smile.

  Other couples gravitated toward the rail, embracing and kissing, amid a rumble of soft voices and laughter.

  I said, “You really do like Sleepless. When you said so, I thought you were just saying so.”

  He nodded. “I like how there’s always a grand gesture in her films. Arranging to meet on Valentine’s Day. Tom bringing Meg daisies when she’s sick in You’ve Got Mail. Billy Crystal declaring love at the New Year’s dance. Grand gestures tell someone how you feel about them.”

  “I like when Annie’s staring at the sky in Baltimore at the same time Sam’s staring at the stars in Seattle.” I looked up.

  Cameron looked up. “No Manhattan stars,” he said.

  “Nope. Just the usual weird vaporous glow, an occasional planet or flying saucer. Wouldn’t it have been great if Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan each saw the same flying saucer?”

  “Molly?”

  “Yes?” We stood facing each other.

  “Take a deep breath, Molly.”

  “A deep breath why?”

  “If you’re done with flying saucers, this would be a perfect time to kiss.”

  He placed his hands on my shoulders and I felt a kind of chill, but it might have been from the wind off the river. I took a deep breath. We leaned closer, our lips centimeters apart. I stopped, leaned back. “Your expectations for a first kiss are pretty extreme. What if the kiss isn’t good?”

  “We should find out,” he said. “It could be a real time-saver. And if it’s no good, we’ll be friends. Or colleagues.”

  “Colleagues?”

  “Yes.” He laughed. “We could have an office affair. Deirdre offered me a column.” He tilted his head toward mine again. I stepped back, out of his grasp, bumped into a couple behind me, excused myself, and turned back to Cameron.