The Little Clan

by Iris Martin Cohen

  “I could be into the Franco-Prussian War.” Ben smiled.

  “Really?” Ava asked, excitedly. “Did you know the front lines came right up to Rimbaud’s home, and he kept running away right into the middle of it? What a fearless little troublemaker he was. It’s so attractive.” She cast a sidelong glance in Ben’s direction, flirtatiously.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about either that war or who that person is. Would the Boer War count?”

  Ava tried to hide her disappointment. “The Boer War is okay.”

  “Man, Ava, a guy can’t make jokes around you. I don’t know anything about the Boer War either. How much homework would I have to do just to ask you out on a date?”

  This was exactly the sort of thing Ava had been made fun of for her whole life, and the nerve, when touched, sent little waves of shock and dismay through her that Ben would stoop to such a thing. The quick fierceness of her reaction made her realize just how much she’d come to expect his friendship, proud that someone so smart and talented would bestow his acceptance on her, and the abrupt removal of that feeling of security made her whole body stiffen. “I don’t mean to be the kind of person you would have to do research for. It’s not my intention to be so nerdy.”

  Ben, who had been watching her intently, shook his head as if confirming something and sighed. The silence between them resumed.

  Even in his silence, Ava was drawn to him. He had that faraway look, an impression of distance she associated with the portraiture of another age that made him so easy to transpose into another century, and this made her want to hold on to him, to find some way to reassert their friendship, force him to keep talking. She couldn’t think of anything.

  “So do you know what I do for fun?” he asked suddenly.

  “What?” she asked, glad for his initiative.

  “Bird-watching. See,” he said when she laughed incredulously. “Now who’s the nerd?”

  The admission felt like a gift, and for the first time that night, she felt a tremulous connection, a coil of human warmth binding her to another person. She liked the thought of Ben leaning against a tree in rapt contemplation of the birds, alone and lost in his imagination. “Is that where you think about art stuff?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Not really, it’s just a hobby. Actually, I do so much other work these days, I guess making art is my hobby now. That’s pretty demoralizing.” He spoke to the steps of a brownstone. “I’m sorry. I haven’t really tried to be charming in a while. I’ve become such a downer. New York City is spoiling my game.” He sighed. “Not that I ever had much of one. In college, I thought the way to a girl’s heart was making her big heavy things in the wood shop. I’m just going to shut up now.”

  Ava had stopped paying attention, caught on the implications of the word “game” he seemed to have just used in relation to her. However, true to his word, he did stop talking, and when she finally noticed the quiet, she realized she should say something. “Did the girls like the things you made?”

  He laughed as they entered the bedlam of Saturday night at the liquor store. “Only the weird ones.”

  Ava watched two drunken women count out the price of a bottle of Prosecco in quarters. “I think it sounds like an amazing thing to be able to do for someone.”

  Ben’s smile was so fraught with meaning that Ava actually turned around to see if anything unusual was happening behind her. “Let’s get your wine,” he said, happily striding down one of the narrow, crowded lanes of the store.

  When they got back to the Lazarus Club, Castor opened the door. “It seems like a very successful party,” he said to the top of Ben’s head, and Ava got a creeping feeling along the back of her neck.

  “Oh god, come on.” She gave Ben a gentle shove. His back was ever so slightly damp, and she felt the hard ridge of his spine bristle at the touch of her fingertip.

  12

  By the time they arrived upstairs, the crowd, no longer contained within the library, spilled into the hallway, rolling like lava. The noise had increased exponentially, and Ava, as she pushed between sweaty backs and laughing faces, was taken aback by the enthusiastic din. A man, a peony wilting in his lapel, tapped her on the arm. “Isn’t it just too Gatsby in here for words?” A woman in a party dress shrieked with delight. Ava smiled politely, glancing back to make sure Ben was following. He looked besieged and wielded the case of wine in his arms as if to ward off the clamor. Seeing that she was watching, he managed a weak smile. Everyone was smoking, and a thick anachronistic haze floated above the party. The windows were open, but the warm summer night disdained to enter, and the heat was intolerable. From across the room she heard George’s quavering baritone singing “Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag.” She looked around for Stephanie, noticing empty and half-full cups on every surface.

  As she followed the singing, she passed Aloysius gesticulating plaintively at Sam Bates. “I mean, the way people talk about the club, it’s like they don’t even know that W.E.B. Dubois once gave a talk here and even had lunch in the club dining room—well, maybe not in the dining room exactly, but pretty near it, I believe,” he said earnestly. Mrs. Bellamy hovered nearby watching Aloysius suspiciously. Sam Bates looked stupefied. Ava was pretty sure he wasn’t ever coming back.

  They found George, and Ben deposited the case of wine at his feet with a rattle. “George, what is going on in here? It’s crazy,” Ava asked, horrified.

  “We’re a long way from Sunnyside,” he agreed gleefully. George had lost his jacket, and his tie hung loose around his neck. He held out a bottle for her inspection. “The liquor guy showed up right after you left.”

  “Marshmallow-flavored vodka? Are you serious?” A ring of crystals lined the neck of the bottle. “That looks vile.”

  “They’ve already been through nine bottles of it.” He swung an arm at the room. “You may think it looks like something for Russian oligarchs, but this gang can’t get enough.” He drained the last of a clear liquid from his cup and grimaced. “It’s not that bad.” He took the bottle back to refill his glass and those of two giggling young women who appeared at his elbow. “Ladies.”

  “Who’s behind the bar? And where’s Stephanie?”

  “I haven’t seen her. Rodney’s bartending. Apparently my mores were not up to his professional standards, which is funny because it’s not like we even have anything to mix with this swill.” He took another swig and rolled it around his mouth. “It’s like the taste of a Tampa debutante.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Every Jew can dream, can’t he?”

  Someone yelled compliments at someone else farther across the room. “Have people been complaining about all this noise?” Ava asked. “Club members?”

  “Nonstop.” George nodded, pointing at Mrs. Bellamy who was in fact now yelling something angrily at Aloysius. George continued, “But Aloysius was being interviewed by somebody and kept chasing everyone away for trying to ‘dim his limelight.’ That guy really wants to be in the newspapers.”

  Ben tapped her on the shoulder. “I need a drink.” She felt she should make excuses, but she wasn’t sure how to explain all of this, and he slipped away before she could start.

  She picked up the case of wine, and almost tripped over a pair of models who lay entwined on the Persian carpet. A tall man fanned them with the galley copies of a fashion magazine. “You look so good in front of all of these books,” one was saying to the other admiringly.

  When she got to the bar, Ben was nowhere to be seen, but Rodney, a bottle of vodka in each hand, was holding forth. “It’s called dialectical materialism, but the really fantastic part is that you don’t really have to do anything. You’ve just got to wait.” He grinned, topping the glasses of two men in cravats who listened attentively. “Maybe hurry it along if the occasion presents itself. Vodka?” he asked Ava.

  “N
o, thanks.” She dropped the box and joined him behind the bar, grateful for the relative safety behind two feet of polished wood. “I’m a little overwhelmed.”

  Rodney poured himself two fingers of liquor. “I haven’t seen a crowd like this in here—” he threw back his shot “—well, ever. Some of these guys are a real kick.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be downstairs?”

  “Nah, the barback is covering for me. How’d you get so many hot girls to come to a book thing?”

  Ava opened a bottle and smelled it. “That’s a good question. I have no idea.” She screwed the cap back on. Rodney leaned his free hand on the bar, his willowy torso bent taut, and looked down at her from his superior height. “What?” she asked.

  “You, gals.” He shook his head. “You gals are a piece of work.” He said this with great affection and a curt, approving nod. “I thought I was doing my part just getting them drunk downstairs, but this is some next level infiltration.”

  “I don’t think I can take credit for any revolutionary intent,” she began and then, suddenly worried he was about to lurch forward and kiss her, Ava took a step backward, nearly upsetting the drink of a redhead in turquoise jewelry who was discussing her colonic. The woman scowled and ashed her cigarette on the sleeve of someone else’s pink linen suit.

  An effete boy in a school blazer ran into the bar. “Someone’s taking a bath,” he announced. “This gorgeous thing just took off her clothes and got in the bathtub.” There was a quick exodus as everyone hurried toward the bathroom.

  “Aren’t you curious?” Rodney was around the bar in two long strides.

  “I don’t think so, although maybe tell George.”

  Rodney ran toward the hall, and Ava assumed George would have to find out on his own.

  In the nearly empty bar, Ava took a minute to smooth down her hair. That guy was right; it was getting pretty Gatsby in here. And while before she would have thought such a statement would thrill her, now that she was surrounded by beautiful drunken people behaving stupidly, it was not as fun as she expected. But then, she hadn’t read it in a while. Wasn’t that the point really, that no one was actually having fun? She again made a mental note to revisit some of the classics she had loved, maybe a little indiscriminately.

  She pulled a bottle of wine from the case and opened it to chase away the discomfort she was feeling. She recognized one of her poets, sitting alone on a window ledge, his smudged glasses reflecting the nearby candles. He raised his eyebrows hopefully, and she poured him a cup, as well. “This is the most amazing reading I have ever been to,” he said, taking a big gulp. “Please let us come back and help at your other events.” He staggered into the other room.

  Ava drank half of her wine in one long slow sip. She could hear yells and laughter; they would pour back in at any minute, and her moment of self-interrogation yielded before the crazed energy of this party. Even if it was not quite what she had expected, the undeniable success of it all broke around her, and she felt giddy, unsettled, as if on a carnival ride that has just changed directions, and she was plummeting one way while the rest of her floated a moment behind, unmoored by centrifugal force.

  Ben came in and put his glass down on the bar, shaking his head as she moved to refill it. “Did you know your whole party is watching some girl get naked?”

  “Pretty decadent.” Ava refilled her own instead.

  “For some reason I thought you might be upset.”

  She was adrift in a current, unexpected and glamorous, and it felt as if Ben was trying to pull her back, to set her once again on the dismal shore of her life where nothing ever happened and all she ever did was read. “You have to admit, it’s very Gatsby,” she said and wondered if that man’s peony had shed all of its petals yet.

  Tenderly, Ben ran a hand over the bar, brushing away ash and wiping a puddle of wine. “You shouldn’t let spills sit on here. This finish isn’t that strong.”

  “Don’t be such a worrier.” She laughed in a higher register than usual. “Have another drink.”

  He looked at her in a funny way that she couldn’t decipher. “I think I might just to go home.”

  She was tempted to ask if she could come, if only so they could stop before they reached the subway, and sit for a while on the steps of a brownstone, under the watchful beam of a streetlamp, and talk. About anything, it didn’t matter, just the pleasure of hearing his voice echo her own, locked in the soothing advance and retreat of conversation. She wanted to bounce her innermost thoughts against him and let him take each one and turn it around, molding it to the as yet unknown cast of his mind, and offer it back to her, changed and fascinating. But she was here, in her private club, supporting this wild tumult like Atlas on her shoulders. And maybe she liked it. “Okay,” she said.

  “Okay.” He waited for another minute, and Ava almost thought he had changed his mind, but then he left, his hands in his pockets. “Bye.”

  A returning flood of thirsty guests soon shook her from her thoughts, and she and Rodney were kept busy serving drinks. Phillip Goldman took up a permanent position at the bar where he presided over the admiring attentions of young women, filling glasses from a bottle and loudly extemporizing lines of poetry. In the other room, someone had discovered Hunting in Zambia, vol. III, and was reading excerpts to hysterical laughter. Ava, distractedly spilling vodka over someone’s Kaballah bracelet, was tempted to rescue the maligned volume. Another pile of books fell somewhere with a clatter. Ava dabbed perspiration from her forehead with the edge of her sleeve, and swallowed a glass of wine. Rodney patted her on the butt in a comradely manner, and they resumed filling the ceaseless procession of empty glasses.

  * * *

  Two hours later, the crowd suddenly left, obeying an instinctive swarm that this party was over and that other more exciting things must be happening somewhere in the torrid night. Ava sat on the bar, playing with one of the foil labels that littered its slick wooden surface, surrounded by empty cups, many of which had been used as ashtrays. “It’s going to smell terrible in here tomorrow.”

  George, his arms splayed over the sides of a club chair someone had dragged into the bar, propped his feet on a radiator. “Like an off-track betting parlor.” In answer to her quizzical look, he added, “I’ve spent an afternoon or two playing the ponies.”

  “You aren’t old enough to bet on horses.”

  “True, but I had a drunk uncle who used to take me along when I was little.”

  “You kind of look like someone’s drunk uncle right now.”

  He brushed his wrinkled shirtfront. “That’s not what the ladies thought. I got two phone numbers this evening.” From his pocket, he pulled a bunch of crumpled papers. “The proof is somewhere here. The rest are people that want to become members.” He fanned out a handful of business cards. “Seriously.” He passed them to Ava. “I believe the House of Mirth may be the end of my age of innocence.”

  She tossed a wadded-up napkin at him and flipped through the cards, names of strangers, each somehow substantiating their crazy project. “I can’t believe this worked. I can’t believe how many people showed up.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Everyone was so—” he searched for a moment “—expensive-looking. Here it is.” He held out a torn Post-it. “Digits. I really owe you two. I haven’t been this universally admired since my bar mitzvah.”

  Stephanie poked her head in. “Here you guys are. Don’t you want to come in the other room? I’m chatting with an internet billionaire about Ayn Rand.”

  “No,” she and George said together.

  “Okay, but his grandfather was like an Indian prince or something, so it’s pretty cool.” Stephanie leaned drunkenly against the doorjamb. “He’s got a shark tank in his living room.” Then, tilting her head back against the wall, she smiled with postcoital satisfaction. “Wasn’t tonight
amazing? Can you believe how many people came?”

  “No.” Ava held out the business cards. “Who were all these people?”

  “Amazing, right?”

  “I don’t even know. It was kind of rambunctious and well-dressed for a book reading.”

  “Isn’t she a snob?” Stephanie asked George. “I serve up your wildest dreams on a silver plate, and you’re finding things to grumble about, silly girl.” She hiccuped.

  Ava wanted to ask her about the introduction she never got to give, but she had lost the thread of urgency; it felt like a petty thing to be upset about.

  “Anyway, that guy with the lazy eye won the National Book Award last year.”

  “Who?”

  “You never pay attention to anything important.” She took hold of Ava’s hands. “We should be really proud of what we accomplished here.”

  “Are you? Is this what you wanted?” Ava asked.

  Her drunken gaze cleared slightly. “Yes, it was everything and more. I want what’s best for us. You just need to trust me.”

  She wrapped her arms around Ava’s waist and leaned against her, bending down so that they could be forehead to forehead. In the soft inebriation of Stephanie’s embrace, Ava tried to frame the discontent that had been lurking around her all evening into words, but it kept dissolving in the tender pressure of small arms around her back. She closed her eyes and felt the cool breath of her friend against her cheek, sweet and slightly sharp, the smell of strawberry gum and grain alcohol. “Your reader was better,” Ava said finally.

  “I know.” Stephanie didn’t move but she smiled.

  A voice called from the other room impatiently, “Where is our librarian? The driver’s downstairs. I’m starving.”

  “Just coming.” Stephanie raised her head and gave Ava a kiss on the cheek that missed and struck air. “Duty calls. Give me a ring when you wake up.”

  “I feel like I could sleep forever.”

  “You should. We deserve it.” She turned away. “I know the most divine little tapas place where we can really talk.” Her voice receded as she left.