What Nora Knew

by Yellin, Linda

  Phone message #2 (Wednesday, 11:00 a.m.):

  “Hello? I’m calling from the New York Scuba Society. We found your hat. Call for details!”

  Phone message #3 (Wednesday, 6:00 p.m.):

  “Cameron? It’s Molly. Author of the new book Mea Culpas among Morons. I mean, I’m the moron. Not you. You’re the one who sent my essays to Veeva and turned down the column. Although maybe you never even wanted it. But you knew I did and you talked Deirdre into me and we both like Jujubes and we both like sitting in the front row at the movies and maybe that’s not important but maybe it is. I don’t know anyone else who likes sitting in the front row eating Jujubes, so please call.”

  I phoned Angela. “Coast clear?”

  “No men on premise,” she said.

  “I’ll be right over.”

  I opened my front door and she was already standing in her doorway wearing some semi-sheer, baby-doll, lacy, short jumpsuit thing. It was truly uncategorizable. But I knew Charlie was on his way. “Where did you buy that?” I asked, eyeing her outfit.

  “Online,” she said, closing the door behind me.

  “I won’t ask the name of the site.” Angela’s apartment is decorated in Early IKEA crossed with Peanuts posters. A small suitcase was open on her floor with half her wardrobe scattered around in tangled piles. I followed her to the kitchen as she sashayed in feathered mules, one hand on her hip, swinging the shoulder with her Snoopy tattoo. I said, “I doubt Charles Schulz would approve of this getup.”

  “Then good thing he’s dead.” Angela opened her fridge and stared inside, frowning at the contents. “Want something? Wine, vodka, hemlock? Cameron’s still not returning your calls?” She closed the fridge.

  “No.”

  “Call again and pretend you’re not you. Maybe then he’ll want to talk to you.”

  “And be who?”

  “How about Jeri Jacobs calls to invite him to a SpeedLove event?”

  “Apologize by introducing him to other women?”

  “You can be there and surprise him. You’ll have four minutes to apologize face-to-face.”

  “Thank you. I’ll take that plan under consideration. The hemlock plan, not the SpeedLove one.”

  * * *

  I resumed my campaign.

  Text #1 (Thursday, 10:45 a.m.):

  Just in case your phone machine’s broken . . . somebody named Molly is trying to reach you.

  Text #2 (Thursday, 10:46 p.m.):

  P.S. She’s not a stalker. She’s an apologizer.

  Phone message #4 (Friday 8:00 a.m.):

  “Hello? This is Nora. Charles. Not Ephron. I’m looking for Nick. I hope I’m not calling too early. I don’t even know if you’re an early riser or write until all hours of the night and then like to sleep late because we never—”

  The machine cut off; I heard the phone pick up. “I do sleep late.” Cameron’s voice sounded warm and husky. And half-asleep.

  “Oh! Hi! It’s you. Real you! Thank you for picking up.” I was so used to talking to his machine that I wasn’t prepared for the actual him.

  “How’d you find my number?” he asked.

  “I hired Mike Bing when you weren’t looking.”

  “You’re saying he takes assignments behind my back?”

  “Please don’t tell him I’m the one who squealed.”

  “What am I supposed to do about you, Molly Hallberg?”

  “Can we fix it?”

  “We? It?”

  “Yes. You. Me. A possible us? Maybe give me a redo?”

  “Redo you going ballistic on me? By the way, that flaws list of yours? You forgot to mention temper.”

  “That wasn’t me. That was crazy, insane, aliens-have-taken-over-my-body me.”

  “You upset me, Molly. I care for you and you didn’t let me explain. The energy and passion you have that lets you jump on a bike or jump out a plane or go on a Ninety-Second Street Y panel totally clueless—that part of you can be beautiful and fun, but it can be hurtful. And it hurts you, too.” The sadness I heard in him matched the sadness in me. “When I come home at night, I want excitement,” he said. “What I don’t want is a gun pointed at my head. I don’t know if I can be friends with a woman who doesn’t trust.” My mind was racing for the words that would make it okay again. But I never got the chance. I heard Cameron sigh. “I don’t know what else to say, Molly. I’m sorry.” He hung up.

  That was supposed to be my line: I’m sorry.

  I called Angela. I knew I’d wake her. But I knew she’d understand.

  I could hear her fumbling with the phone. “Sweetheart?” she said.

  “Other sweetheart,” I said. “Not Charlie. Molly.”

  “Oh.”

  “Sorry.” At least I got to say sorry to someone. “I just spoke with Cameron.”

  “He called?”

  “I called. He picked up. He said no.”

  “To what?”

  “To me.”

  “Final no? No way no?”

  “He said no.”

  “Oh, no, I’m sorry. Will you be okay this weekend? Are you going out to your parents’? Kristine’s gone, too.”

  “I’ll be fine. I suppose. I guess.” I hoped. “I have the Rockettes class tomorrow.”

  “Charlie and I’ll be back early Monday,” she said. “Forget Cameron. You’ll find someone tons better.”

  “Angela?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you really believe I’ll meet someone better? That people are replaceable?”

  “No,” she said. “But I’m your friend. That’s what I’m supposed to say.”

  25

  The citizens of New York peeled out of the city, grasping for that one last weekend of summer. I spent Friday afternoon walking down Third, walking up Lex, down Park, up Madison; I walked through Central Park trying my best to tune out humanity, only I felt assaulted by humanity. Look at all these couples. Everyone’s a couple. Hand-holding, starry-eyed, in-my-face couples.

  Saturday I slept in late. Not luxuriating-in-bed-catching-up-on-your-sleep late, but more like suicidal-can’t-face-the-day late. It was so unfair! I’d been fine with Russell. Fine enough. Then Cameron wormed his way into my shut-down heart and I messed up everything. I glanced at the nightstand and the clock. My Rockettes Experience started at 1:15. If I wanted to kick myself, I was about to learn how. I bolted out of bed; I only had thirty-five minutes to get to Radio City Music Hall! I couldn’t be late and blow my first official column. Hey, art department! Don’t bother photoshopping Molly’s headshot!

  I showered, threw on clean underwear in case I ended up in a hospital, slapped on some blush, and tugged on my leotard. I actually owned black tights and a leotard, souvenirs of a 2005 Halloween party where I dressed as a cat and Evan dressed as a dog the year before we divorced because he really was a dog. I added a skirt and sneakers to complete the look, pulled my hair back with an elastic. It was important to dress like a dancer to make up for not being a dancer.

  By the time I got downstairs, hurrying through the lobby, I had less than ten minutes to get to my experience. I was running past Dennis the doorman when he stopped me, holding up his hand like a traffic cop. He said, “Molly, you’ve got mail.” I heard the elevator door go ding! He handed me a small, white envelope. “Angela left it yesterday before leaving for the weekend.”

  “Yesterday?” I said.

  “I forgot,” Dennis said.

  I stuffed the envelope in my purse and ran out and down the block to the corner, where I grabbed a cab. I’d have body-blocked and tackled one if necessary. I told the driver, “Radio City Music Hall. Fiftieth Street backstage door! And hurry!” His driving was worthy of a movie car-chase scene as he zipped to midtown, asking questions. Was I a dancer? A musician? An usher? Did I have access to discount tickets for the Christmas show?

  I was the last to arrive in the mirror-lined dance studio. Purses, shoes, and sweaters were stashed and strewn among a long, wall-length row of thick
chairs attached at the arms; the chairs looked like Rockettes. I dumped my stuff and joined the other students, who were seated on the floor around a beautiful, long-legged, bun-topped woman who introduced herself as Miss Melodie. She introduced ponytailed Mr. Seth, sitting at an upright piano off to one corner.

  “And you are?” she asked, checking a note card.

  “Molly.”

  “Molly?”

  “Jeri Jacobs. Sorry! I’m nervous.”

  Beautiful Miss Melodie smiled. “No reason for anyone to be nervous.” She told us there had been over three thousand Rockettes in the past seventy-five years, and the average performance required four hundred kicks. Before I could whip out the multiplication tables, she had us up and on our sneakers spread out behind her like a yoga class, except we were channeling Bob Fosse instead of Rodney Yee.

  Mr. Seth banged away and Miss Melodie called out dance steps that everyone in class, other than one black-leotarded klutz, seemed capable of following. I told myself, I don’t need to be good at this; I just need to write about this. “One-two-three-five-seven!” Miss Melodie called out. I was wondering what happened to four and six when she also started calling out corrections. “Reach, Ginny! Shoulders, Tina! Left, not right, Jeri!” I was having fun. I never got in step with anyone else, but I did get into it.

  About the time I was thinking maybe I’d been harboring a hidden talent for jazz all these years—interpretive jazz—Miss Melodie switched us to tap. I’d be lying if I didn’t say it’s thrilling to put on those beige, T-strapped Rockette shoes, even though they’re technically only a notch better than community bowling shoes. But I loved the way my toes tapped and my heels tapped, and I just wanted to tap-tap-tap-tap-tap until Beautiful Miss Melodie instructed us to line up for synchronized kicking—tallest women in the middle fanning out to the shorter ones. “Quickly, ladies, quickly!” We were on a strict schedule. Jazz choreography. Tap choreography. After our kick line we’d go through mock auditions, have a photo op with Miss Melodie, and a backstage tour of Radio City Music Hall.

  Despite being tall enough to belong in the center of the line, I landed at the far end next to a hyper little creature who, had we taken a vote, I’m sure would have been the second-most-unpopular girl in class. It didn’t take much to know who was the most unpopular. A derisive look here. A scowl aimed in my direction there. Nobody wanting to stand on either side of me in the kick line. But I didn’t care! Hit it, Mr. Seth! Kick! Kick! Kick! I was dancing and kicking and writing about the Rockettes for my first column! I was so excited I wanted to pass out from shortness of breath. Kick! Kick! Kick! “Synchronize, ladies! Synchronize!” Miss Melodie called out. “Jeri, kick when the others kick!” Mr. Seth switched into playing “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” and Beautiful Miss Melodie, tapping and kicking to lead our tapping and kicking, directed us to salute with our right hands while maintaining our line formation with our left hands. “Salute! Salute!”

  I got my salute mixed up with Miss Hyper’s salute, kicking in the wrong direction, treading on her foot and tripping forward. I decided it might be an excellent time to tap-tap-tap my way over to one of those nice cushy upholstered chairs and take a short break, maybe review my undercover questions for the Q&A. Like how do the Rockettes in their skimpy, sequiny uniforms keep from freezing their asses off in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade? Probing, incisive questions like those.

  The other ladies were now dancing in circle-kick formation, arm to shoulder, arm to shoulder. Kick. Kick. It was ten to three; I’d been tapping and jazzing for over an hour and a half. My arms and shoulders needed a time-out. My legs wanted to kick me. I dug into my purse for my memo pad and remembered Angela’s note. I pulled it out of its envelope—written on Snoopy stationery—and read: Hey, Molly! FYI. Cameron tweeted something strange. “Sleepless from wondering were you the one? Mike Bing misses you and needs new perspective. Time to face up up up to problem. Saturday @3.” He sounds crazy. Good thing you didn’t get involved. xoxA.

  I read the note again. Up up up. Sleepless.

  “I’m sorry! I’ve gotta go!” I said to nobody in particular. Mr. Seth was pounding out “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town”; the ladies were kicking and saluting; and Miss Melodie was calling out, “Chin up! You can do it!”

  I scuttled out of the studio with seventeen blocks between Cameron and me, flying down a staircase past a tour group, and kept running out onto Sixth Avenue. About then I became conscious of my leotard and stolen tap shoes, but unless a Radio City Hall security guard came chasing after me with a gun, I had to keep going, down Fiftieth past the Radio City posters, dodging pedestrians and cutting across the street and zipping around the corner at the Cole Haan store onto Fifth Avenue, almost bumping into a man playing a saxophone, all the time praying for a taxi. An SUV with a raised hood had traffic at a standstill. I kept running. Past Rockefeller Center. Past T.G.I. Friday’s. Past Forty-Seventh Street and the Brink’s-trucks-lined Diamond District.

  Even Great-Aunt Ruta would’ve been encouraging me: Go get this man! Probably adding, Though, you might get hit by a bus. I wished there was a bus. No buses. If there were, they’d be stuck buses. Taxis were honking but not moving. I pressed on, weaving among window gazers, camera snappers, map-reading foreigners, flower-laden messengers, T-shirted camp groups, box-balancing deliverymen, package-toting shoppers, and joggers; while sidestepping hot-dog carts and scaffolding. My chest hurt. My legs hurt. I now knew why Nike doesn’t make tap shoes; they’re not meant for running. I ran past the public library. Lord & Taylor at Thirty-Ninth. I passed more GNC vitamin stores and Duane Reade drugstores than the entire population of Manhattan could possibly need. I’d catch my breath and curse under it at red lights. Tap-tap-tapping. My heart pound-pound-pounding. I scurried around a FedEx man, barely missed tumbling over a rolling suitcase. The smell wafting out of the vents from the Heartland Brewery almost did knock me off my feet.

  Plenty of women who watched Sleepless in Seattle might have said, “Meg! Am I seeing this straight? Give up Bill Pullman, who had much better hair than Tom Hanks and probably as good a job—although for the life of us, despite how many times we’ve all seen the movie, can anyone tell us what Bill Pullman’s job was?—but, honest to God, Meg, you want to toss your entire future out that fancy restaurant’s view-of-the-whole-big-sparkling-city window just in case Tom Hanks—whom you’ve never exchanged a single word with—happens to fly from Seattle and be hanging out in New York on Valentine’s Day? Meg, are you off your rocker?” But she went for it. Nora made her go for it. Wrote that script and said you can’t settle for the wrong man; how can you not run toward love no matter how crazy romantic a fairy tale this story might seem?

  What Nora didn’t mention was the long ticket line at the Empire State Building. How did Meg get up to that observation deck so fast? I checked my watch; it was ten after three. I scanned the lobby. It was crowded, festive and beautiful with its gray-and-lilac terrazzo floors, gold- and aluminum-leaf murals of sunbursts and stars, its ceiling murals of gears and wheels and cogs. It takes your breath away, which in my case was easy. I was clammy, sticky, outfitted like a cat; my hair a disaster and my makeup melting. But I made it through the security line. A woman in a leotard doesn’t have a lot of secrets. My handbag made it through the scanner. I forgot my skirt and shoes; I’d left them with the Rockettes. Maybe they’d go on tour together. Had I missed Cameron? Was he able to do it, get on the elevator and step off on that rooftop? He was determined. Determination counts. He might do it. I waited in line for my ticket, still hoping to spot him, invoking Zeus, Buddha, Jesus, Moses, anyone who’d help, hoping that I’d turn and find him right there, yet hoping he’d done it, he’d made it to the observation deck. Cameron. Who’d observed so much in me. The line crawled. Oh, how it crawled. A man ahead of me said to the woman with him, “I told you to buy the tickets online!” “What am I, your secretary?” she said. While they squabbled, a family behind me argued in a language I didn’t recognize, but
I’m sure the wife was saying, “I told you to buy the tickets online!” A boy with a small backpack and a teddy bear stared up at me. Finally it was my turn. Twenty-five dollars for a ticket—unless I wanted to pay the express price of $47.50 and move to the front of the elevator line. I handed over my charge card: “Express.” I signed the receipt. The woman behind the register looked at me, looked at my leotard, gave me my ticket, and said, “I know you’ll have fun.”

  I hurried to the elevators, smug that I could cut ahead for my extra twenty-two bucks. The doors were about to close on a filled car. I scooted in, made room for myself. I was late, too late, but I had to get up there. I paid $47.50 dammit!—get this elevator up there! The doors closed. Then opened. The elevator operator said, “Sorry, folks. We seem stalled a moment.” The doors closed and opened again. And there, in the lobby, standing by himself, looking nervous and scared and delicious in a crisp, new Cincinnati Reds cap, was Cameron Duncan. Staring toward the elevator. I smiled at him. He smiled back. I stepped off the elevator as the doors closed behind me. I hadn’t realized before that music was playing in the lobby. Well, I heard music. Jimmy Durante.

  I walked up to Cameron. My Cameron. “Nice cap,” I said.

  “Nice leotard,” he said. He glanced skyward, shrugged, smiled that sweet, crooked grin of his, now rueful, embarrassed. “I’m never getting up there.”

  “So, you never get up there. I like it down here.”

  He took my hand. “I love it down here.”

  “Let’s stay here.”

  And before he kissed me, he said, “Yes, this is a good place to start.”

  Acknowledgments

  Major amounts of gratitude go to Joyce Hunt, Debi Feinman, Dolores Barnett, Joan Black, Sybil Sage, Chrissy Cross, and Gina Bogin for their cheerleading skills, and to the beautiful Charlotte Arthur, who saves me from anachronisms. To Kathy Sagan for saying I should do this, Gail Hochman for agreeing, and Vivien Yellin for insisting. And to my fabulous Gallery gals: Tricia Boczowski, Elana Cohen, and the two Jens: Bergstrom and Robinson. And of course, thanks go to Mr. Simon and Mr. Schuster, my imaginary boyfriends.