The Little Clan

by Iris Martin Cohen

  Ava looked away.

  “Okay. Fine. Bye, Rodney,” she heard him say, while she stared hard at the book in her lap until the title wavered in the edges of her vision. She hated Comic Sans so much. She heard the door close.

  “Cheer up, comrade,” Rodney said, a little too brightly, she thought. “Romantic love is a bourgeois construct anyway.”

  She gulped some wine. She had messed it up again. She was going to end up a spinster. How could she be so bad at this? Stephanie’s laugh floated from the other room. Mrs. Van Doren snored, a gentle cooing whistle. Rain fell. A quiet helplessness welled up within her, and she yielded to it, glumly staring at the last few glittering feathers of the peacock’s tail beside her.

  Eventually something banged, startling her out of her reverie. When she looked up, Mr. Dearborn was standing by the door, leaning both hands on his cane with a more sprightly air than usual. Ava almost thought he was smiling. And then, even though he had her attention, he banged his cane on the floor again and seemed pleased at the sound of it. “Yes?” Ava asked.

  But Mr. Dearborn just waited. He was definitely smiling at her, she decided, and it was very unpleasant. She considered asking him to just please go away as she had already had a very difficult night and didn’t need him grinning at her like the specter of death when she had just this minute been broken up with, but before she could figure out a reasonable way to phrase such a request, Aloysius entered the room with a bundle of Kleenex and a World Book Encyclopedia. His preternaturally black hair stood on end, and Ava noticed a short halo of white roots at his scalp that made it almost look like his hair wasn’t attached to his head but rather floated above him like an angry cloud.

  With a nervous glance at Mr. Dearborn, he spoke loudly to Ava. “I’ve just come to tell you that things are not going to continue as they have been around here, no, sir. Don’t think for a moment that they will.”

  Ava allowed herself a short moment of rubbing her eyes. Finally, she opened them and looked at the blurry figures in front of her to face what was coming. “What’s the trouble, Aloysius?”

  “It’s just beyond all reckoning.” He shook his hands violently for a minute and tucked the book under his arm to press the bridge of his nose. “We have never had such problems in the club. The very idea of our members being assaulted, assaulted, by bodily fluids on the very steps of this institution, by plague-ridden harlots. Who knows what Mr. Dearborn could have caught? That you would bring such an element into my club, putting not only our reputation but our very health at risk, it’s just unsupportable. And that—” his voice rose to a shriek pointing at Ava’s poorly repaired mirror, which he appeared to be noticing for the first time “—you’re tearing this place apart!”

  Mrs. Van Doren, roused by the baying of the Lazarus Club president, opened her eyes, shifting into wakefulness with a reptilian stillness. “Oh, hello, Aloysius. How have you been? I missed you at Westminster last month. The Lhasa Apsos were tremendous.”

  Aloysius glided toward her and melted over the back of her chair. “Oh, Mrs. Van Doren, I didn’t see you there. You know what I’ve been going through.” The high ridge of her wingback chair seemed to prevent him from nuzzling the silk scarf around her neck, and he sighed so hard it almost ruffled her stiff curls. “Trying to keep this place together, trying to make everyone happy. I work my fingers to the bone—” Aloysius extended his chubby pink fingers for Mrs. Van Doren’s inspection “—just like a slave.”

  “Oh, hello, Arthur,” she sniffed in the direction of Mr. Dearborn.

  “Flora.” He nodded coldly.

  “I know what the board said, Aloysius dear, and they’re a bit high-spirited, but it’s so lively having young people about.” Mrs. Van Doren patted him on the arm. “I just know I would miss them.”

  “Miss us?” Ava asked.

  Aloysius unwrapped himself from Mrs. Van Doren and handed Ava an envelope. “I suppose you’ll have to go, too. I’ve given that other one two of these already.” He leaned in to whisper to Ava, “I would be careful about her. I suspect she’s somewhat fast. Rodney, go back downstairs,” he commanded as he left. Mr. Dearborn gave Ava one more of his death’s head smiles before turning and clomping slowly after Aloysius.

  “Are you on the clock?” Ava asked.

  Rodney ambled past her in no particular hurry. “All wages are theft.”

  Inside the envelope, folded into an unfamiliar and official-seeming four folds, a properly formatted letter of business was, as it declared, a third and final notice of eviction. The lessor (The Lazarus Club) desired to inform the lessee (The House of Mirth Literary Society, LLC) that due to repeated failure to pay the stipulated monthly rent of $1,000.00, under due process of the state of New York, the lessee was hereby required to pay the full amount owed, $7,000.00, or vacate the premises before the end of the current calendar month or immediate court proceedings would be instituted. Sincerely, Andrew Henlow Tilley IV, Esquire, Attorney at Law.

  Three notices? They had received three notices already, and Ava hadn’t seen one of them?

  Stephanie. Of course.

  Ava should have known, should have expected. Stephanie always thought she knew better, that she didn’t have to concern herself with pedestrian matters like debt and eviction or just the simple human decency she might owe a friend who has put her life and job and house on the line for her. And why would she, if she considered Ava useless? She glanced toward the bar, but a loud peal of laughter stopped her. She couldn’t possibly confront her friend, her best friend, her only real friend, with all those people around; betrayal had stripped the skin away, and she couldn’t subject the raw wound of her feelings to the casual scrutiny of strangers.

  She noticed that Mrs. Van Doren, clawed hands resting on her armrests, was watching her expectantly. “You knew about this?” Ava asked.

  Mrs. Van Doren waved a hand sort of apologetically, then cracked her knuckles, flashing a gold leopard biting a diamond chain that took up most of her index finger. “You mustn’t put too much faith in Aloysius, dear,” she said. “I’ve known him since he was a child, but according to the board, he’s a bit of a snake. I believe they are planning on getting rid of you two and renting this space out to someone else for much more money now that it’s so nice here. I agree it’s a shame after you’ve worked so hard, but as a woman who’s put more than a few husbands into the ground, may I offer some advice?”

  Ava nodded.

  “Don’t waste your time around here. Marry rich while you still can. And read books. Lots of books like this one.” She tapped a coral nail on the Wharton next to her. “A girl’s got to find her way in this sorry world.” She reached a bony arm toward the shelf closest to her. “This one, too. I almost dropped out of Vassar because of this one.” She tossed it to Ava, chuckling at the memory and twirling the leopard around her knuckle. One of the estate books Ava hadn’t noticed before, Three Guineas by Virginia Woolf. She was so sick of everyone always telling her to read Virginia Woolf.

  “Um, thanks for the suggestion.” Ava took the book. “Please excuse me one moment.”

  Down the familiar hallway, she fled with the impression that the building swayed above her head, just waiting to crash around her ears. Everyone had betrayed her. Ava knew better than to be caught like this, a lesson hard learned in all those terrible years of grade school, but she had forgotten, her longing had made her weak and lazy, and she had let herself be baited out of her solitude just to be deceived and humiliated. She ran down the stairs to the main entrance, but paused with the uncomfortable realization that there was nowhere she wanted to go. New York was full of strangers and elbows, and she couldn’t face the bruising that navigating that human stream would entail. The Lazarus Club was all she had, and now it wanted to chew her up and spit her out.

  Through the iron grill where the curling initials of the club were held captive by a profusion of iron vines, Ava
noticed something big and shiny and black. Howard Steward’s Maybach glistened in glorious, anachronistic repose, as though the Duke of Windsor had just pulled up, and Ava admired it even as frenzied thoughts ran through her head. Three weeks. What would they tell their members? They had events scheduled that would have to be canceled. Deposits had been paid, swallowed up by the ceaseless accumulation of daily costs. How could they possibly pay back everyone who had paid membership dues? And where would she live? How was she going to pay off her credit card? What was she going to do?

  “Nice car.”

  “What?” Ava started in the cold marble lobby.

  “It’s a nice car,” Castor repeated. “Mr. Steward is quite a successful man,” he said with what Ava almost thought was a note of friendliness, the first she had ever heard from him. “He’s a good person to have on your side.”

  “I guess.” Ava watched rain bounce on the polished roof outside. “I don’t know if he’ll be much help.”

  “Are they kicking you out?” he asked.

  Ava nodded. “How have you managed to stand this place, Castor?”

  “Not my name.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not my name,” he said a little more curtly. “It’s just what they call the doormen here. Weird ass name it is, too.”

  “I’m sorry.” Ava wasn’t sure if she should say more and waited, hoping he might introduce himself properly.

  But he licked the tip of his pencil, and looked down to let her know their conversation was over. “Burn this place down someday,” he mumbled to himself, writing in his small black notebook.

  Ava desperately wanted to ask what his real name was and what he was writing, but it seemed intrusive, and she decided it was time to go home.

  Back in her apartment, she pulled off her clothes, turned on the taps, and sat down in the cold tub. Not quite warm water swirled around her, and she shivered, closing the drain with a clank. She didn’t get up to turn on the lights. With her chin on her knees, she held her toes in her hands, watching as goose bumps made the hairs on her shins stand up. Eviction. Evicted. All that work, all that debt, all those seven months. He couldn’t mean it. He couldn’t cast her out. There had to be a way. Aloysius liked her, he always had. She would figure out how to reenlist him in their cause.

  Mycroft leapt onto the lid of the toilet where he sat, cleaning his lips with large, rhythmic passes of his tongue. Ava held out a finger, and he licked a drop of water from it. Purring bounced against the dark of the small, tiled room. As water crept up the side of her ribs, Ava had to acknowledge that despite the looming catastrophe, she was relieved to be here, alone, in the bath.

  Eventually, she heard a loud banging on her door, which she ignored. After a few minutes of knocking and yelling her name, Stephanie gave up. “I know you’re in there, Ava. We have to talk. I gave you copies of this ages ago. It’s not my fault you don’t read your mail.” Ava draped a wet washcloth over her eyes; funny that the collapse of her entire world could feel so warmly relaxing.

  19

  The next morning, Ava woke up to a note under her doorstep.

  I knew you would freak out. Stop worrying. It takes months to evict someone. Everything is fine. We’ll fix it. Call me. We’ve got work to do. (Sorry we got into a tiff, you know I love you heart heart kiss kiss, but seriously you were being a little unreasonable. Smiley face)

  Ava didn’t call. She also didn’t answer the phone later when it rang. Unable to face Stephanie or the Lazarus Club, Ava decided to have the stomach flu. And every time Stephanie called thereafter, Ava told her she was puking and promptly hung up, despite Stephanie’s outraged sputtering. Ava spent the next few days in her apartment crying over her losses—her boyfriend, her apartment and her salon—and rearranging her bookshelves, separating the doomed love stories from the happy. In the end, the cheerful marriage plots outnumbered the death and despair shelves by so much that she demoralized herself all over again. Everyone could pair off successfully except her, apparently. The poster of Arthur Rimbaud lost its place of privilege above her bed, and Ava spent many long hours studying the blank space left behind. He had been there fluttering her heart for ten years, and now his pretty face was consigned to the darkness of the closet. Her heart had not quite yet closed around the loss, and she didn’t have the energy to shift all her other pictures around to disguise the visible reminder of what was now forsaken. She couldn’t even bear to think about the rest of it.

  She considered calling her mom, but she was pretty sure nothing her mom was going to say would make her feel better. She even dug up A Room of One’s Own, thinking maybe she would find some vicarious maternal consolation in it, but at the last minute the gauzy picture on the cover of a lady looking sadly out of a window into a swirling pink cloud was just too unappealing; she was not that limpid creature.

  The one bright spot that kept Ava from total despondency was that Constance Berger called and, since Ava was still mostly not answering the phone, left a message inviting her to tea. And then as if she knew, as if she could see right into the heart of Ava’s timid equivocations, told her not to bother calling back, she would just expect her the following Wednesday at three. What a gift that brisk directive was, and Ava listened to the message over and over just to hear her say that wonderful, absolving phrase again.

  * * *

  By the time that day arrived, Ava was sick of canned soup, tired of hiding from Stephanie and very glad to get out of her house. She washed and set her hair. She found a nice tweedy dress that didn’t make her look too lumpy. She wound her pocket watch. The front door of the Lazarus Club banged behind her as she left.

  When she came out of the subway, the Upper West Side was filled with sunshine. Ava was drinking a cup of peppermint tea, trying to calm her nervous stomach, but it was scalding hot, and each time she tilted the cup, a little burst of liquid welled up through the small plastic hole in the lid and burned her lips. She winced, wiped her mouth, and minutes later, when in anxious anticipation of where she was going, she forgot and nervously took another sip, the unhelpful lid did the same thing again. She gingerly touched her tender lip and threw the full cup of tea into a garbage can where it landed with a wet thud. A dog walker passed, a stern charioteer behind a web of leashes, the dogs all wearing coats. She looked up at the numbers, searching for Constance Berger’s building.

  In all her time in New York, she had never really been called to the wide avenues near Riverside Drive before, and she was surprised at how grand and vaguely French it all seemed. She had never been to France, but in so many of her favorite novels, these were just the sorts of buildings she imagined adulterous lovers and governesses and courtesans hurrying in and out of. The decorative stonework erupting over the doors and around the parapets of the heavy square blocks of apartments called to her mind just the mix of frivolity and bourgeois virtue that she associated with Second Empire Parisians. When she finally found it, the building impressed Ava with its stateliness, and she lurked outside for a minute trying to remember the name of the main character of Sentimental Education. He had been another of her nineteenth-century heroes, and from what she remembered he had walked down a lot of unfamiliar streets like these; she was surprised that she couldn’t think of his name; it was unlike her.

  It seemed that, like reading, she had also lost the habit of daydreaming, staring at her bookshelves, invoking the phantoms of the past and her imagination. Life had rushed in, her books had receded. Now trying to summon the characters and situations she would have previously used for guidance, she found them distant and immaterial. It was a little terrifying to be out in the world and feel so unequipped. Life felt strangely indistinct. But at least here she was far away from the Lazarus Club and the terrible troubles looming there.

  The doorman of the building watched her indifferently but steadily enough to make her feel guilty, and it was the desire to prove that she had leg
itimate business in his dominion that finally pushed her into the lobby. It would have been nice if the elevator had been older. She imagined in a building like this that she would have the satisfaction of slamming a metal cage before being whisked upward, but it was sadly modern and nondescript. Ava wiped her sweaty palms against her skirt and then tried to remove the little strands of gray wool that came off on her fingers. Eventually, released into a mint-green corridor, she hesitated by the call buttons, admiring an old brass mail shoot. An eagle struggled to free itself from a profusion of ribbons on the cover that she lifted and let fall with a clang. With a slow rattle, the elevator cast off on its next trip.

  Ava pressed the bell and hoped she had misunderstood the invitation and would have to leave after just a few minutes of polite apologies with promises to return some other time. Instead the door opened, and Ms. Berger stood in front of her as wild and strange-looking as before. Ava felt she could almost see herself reflected in the black, glassy, slightly convex eyes. Just as her gaze was giving Ava the terrifying impression that she could see into the depths of her soul, she smiled and turned, waving at Ava to follow. “So glad you came,” she said. “Call me Constance.”

  Hunched and frail, she swayed on the points of another pair of very high heels, an unsteady gait that made walking seem like an impromptu imitation of the common activity, one she was trying out for a lark. Ava felt an impulse to put a supportive hand under one of her elbows, but refrained.

  They entered a living room lined with bookshelves and filled with stacks of books on every surface. The disorder gave the impression that these were objects of utility to their owner, as if a system of organization would betray a purely decorative or superficial cast of mind that Constance Berger had no time for. Instead these books stood waiting to impart their knowledge as practical as a sandwich or pencil, casually functional. It made her own newly ordered shelves feel very superficial in comparison.