The Little Clan

by Iris Martin Cohen

  Despite the clutter, the room was peaceful. There were no sounds of traffic. Faint squares of March sunlight traced the high windows on a faded carpet. Ava accepted a seat on a blue velvet sofa and sank much lower into the cushions than she expected to. She felt a strange urge to lie back among these overstuffed cushions and take a nap. She imagined she would wake up with that same calm that comes at the end of an illness, when a fever has finally broken and the world feels cool, filled with ease like a glass of cold water.

  They sat in silence for a moment while Constance smiled a friendly, slightly unfocused smile. “Were you able to find the place okay?” she asked.

  Ava nodded. “I’ve never been to this neighborhood much.”

  “I like it, reminds me of Europe.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Ava said, excited, and then wanted to talk about Flaubert and Zola and government building projects of the Second Empire and the triumph of the haute bourgeoisie and whether demimondaines were as tragic as they seemed. But she didn’t. “Although I’ve never actually been,” she clarified for fear of sounding presumptuous.

  “You should, a girl of your temperament. The whole continent is practically the Lazarus Club, antiquated, fusty, totally delightful. May I get you a cookie?” Constance crossed one leg over the other. “My neighbors have been on an entrepreneurial frenzy, and I figure Girl Scout cookies are the tithe I pay for being childless on the Upper West Side.” She smiled again, self-effacing and apologetic, but then looked at Ava with a glance so quick, but so piercing, Ava had the impression she was enacting these dowdy mannerisms like a shield, a defensive scrim behind which Constance was a much sharper woman. The perception gave Ava a tiny thrill that she didn’t quite understand, and disarmed by her own observation, she nodded. Constance rose slowly as though climbing tentatively into her own center of gravity. Seeing her standing, poised and delicate on the tiny points of her heels, it struck Ava again that this awkward fragility was some sort of a deliberate affectation; Constance wasn’t actually very old, and she was very self-possessed. Ava was fascinated. “I’ll fetch us some. The Samoas are particularly good.”

  While she was gone, Ava scanned the bookshelves, pleased to recognize many of the spines. There was something thrilling about this alignment of tastes; it seemed to imply a possible intimacy just waiting to erupt, an established structure of kindling awaiting a match. She wondered if that were the sort of thing it was acceptable to say. I have a lot of the same books as you do, therefore we should be friends. She suspected it wasn’t, and yet wasn’t this exactly why she was here? How did one establish a connection with someone when conversation seemed so stilted, so ill-suited for sharing important things? She wanted to run her fingers along these stacks of books, to establish even just a tactile connection with this woman whose mind ran along similar currents but whose breadth of experience, judging from the variety of these shelves, made Ava’s own well of inspiration seem a meager stream in comparison.

  Constance returned with a pile of cookies spread out on the blue-and-white figures of a plate of Delft china. Ava took one, glad for something to do with her mouth and hands.

  “Take a couple, one is just torturing yourself. Indulgences are for the young, and you’re so very young.”

  “Thank you.” Ava clutched a stack of gooey circles and felt the chocolate stripes immediately start to melt across her palm. “Although, if you’ll excuse me, you don’t seem that old.”

  The high arch of Constance’s brow lifted only slightly, but it was enough to cast her smile as an inquiry. “You’re very polite. And I love people who still abide by a code of manners.”

  Ava wanted to tell her about all the Victorian etiquette books on her shelves at home, but shyness prevented her. “I haven’t had a Girl Scout cookie in a long time,” she said just to be saying something as she placed the first cookie in her mouth. Chocolate, caramel, coconut and vanilla cookie crumbled across her tongue, the combination almost forgotten but immediately recognizable.

  Ava’s eyes rested on the shelf nearest her line of vision where she noticed a group of familiar spines, their common interest. “Which translation is your favorite?” she asked, pointing, her annunciation slightly marred by caramel.

  Constance was snapping into a Thin Mint with brittle efficacy. She turned around. “Of the Proust, you mean? Oh, I think it’s hard not to love the first one you were exposed to. Although, it’s difficult to say, I think Lydia should have kept going. Then it would be fair to judge. Do you like Proust?”

  The many years of hiding this affection made her small nod feel like the confession of a long-secret shame.

  “How wonderful.” Constance’s smile was just a bit devilish, and she asked, “Which volume is your favorite?”

  Ava thought for a moment. “The Captive.”

  Again the dark, delicate line of Constance’s eyebrow rose. “Really? That’s an unusual choice. I feel like you can tell so much about a person from which volume they like best.”

  Ava found she was blushing and wasn’t sure why.

  “Poor girl, imagine having to put up with Marcel.” Constance took another Thin Mint, holding it up for contemplation as she spoke. “The idea that women can satisfy each other perfectly well without them has always driven men to distraction. But a girl has to eat.” She cracked the cookie with a sharp, pointed incisor.

  Ava was starting to feel a little warm, and she pulled her blouse down from where it was creeping into her armpits. She had never really thought of Albertine this way, and she felt confused by this sudden opening of horizons like a curtain that had been pulled back too quickly, blinking in the unexpected infusion of light. “I thought she was just messing with him.” Ava realized how insubstantial this sounded.

  “You should be wary of putting too much faith in a narrator’s point of view.” Constance smiled. “It’s not their fault, but they so often prove to be less than reliable. Especially if they’re clever and charming and such pleasant company.”

  While they were talking, the back of one of Constance’s shiny shoes had slid free from her crossed foot and now dangled from the tip of her toes, revealing the narrow bones and high arch. Constance moved her leg, the shoe wavered, and just as Ava thought it was about to fall, with a twist of her ankle she brought it to sit firmly on the back of her foot again. “So you talk like a writer—is this why you started your project?” she asked, looking at Ava with a curiosity that seemed to have sharpened.

  Ava wasn’t sure what to answer; everything felt filled with a flickering significance that welled up, flooding her with a confused elation, then subsided again beneath the flow of words. Finally, she had found someone to talk with about books in all of the ways she had always dreamed of. “Yes,” she said. “Well, not really,” she amended.

  “Please, spare me the self-deprecation,” Constance interrupted her. “I understand why you do it, but I just can’t abide it.” Despite the sharpness of her tone, this impatience felt strangely loving. “That’s quite a club you seem to have put together.” Constance recrossed her legs in the opposite direction, and Ava found she was staring at the other shoe waiting to see if this one would slip, as well. She wanted to stay in this apartment and talk to Constance forever.

  “Well, I’ve been working as a librarian for the last few years.”

  “How orderly and quiet. I always had a fantasy of being a librarian. But maybe that’s just because I used to like the way I looked in glasses.”

  “That might be why I took the job in the first place,” Ava admitted. A strangely expectant silence hung between them at this acknowledgment of their physical selves. They both probably did look good in glasses, Ava thought and flushed at the idea. She wondered why she had assumed Constance would be so much older. Was she in her fifties? Maybe, if Ava had to guess. She wanted to ask and then suddenly felt very confused and embarrassed that she even wanted to know. What could it p
ossibly matter? “Do you wear glasses?” Ava asked, and her voice made a funny wobble, out of place in such an innocent question. But the slight incline of Constance’s posture shifted, as if the intimacy of the question seemed clear to her, and she watched Ava curiously. Ava realized she needed a plan. She had come in the excitement of finding a sympathetic acquaintance, but it now felt imperative that she have reason to come back, to yield to the strange magnetic force that circled Constance. She wanted to impress herself upon the material of Constance’s mind and see the shape of the image she left behind, to find a reason to return to this apartment that smelled of old books and bergamot. “I read your book and thought it was amazing and was wondering if you might want to do a reading at our space,” she said with sudden inspiration.

  “It’s a pretty glorious space to read in,” Constance agreed.

  Then remembering the precariousness of their position, Ava qualified quickly, “It would have to be in the next few weeks.” She apologized.

  “That’s a little soon, but there’s a chance I could do it. Why such a hurry?”

  “We’re having some complications at the Lazarus Club.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know how you can stand that place. It’s beautiful, but those people are deranged. That president asked me if it was my habit to wear trousers, generally. I almost told him it was my habit to bed anything in a skirt, generally, but then I didn’t want his aneurysm on my conscience.”

  Ava was trying so hard not to appear embarrassed at this revelation, she found she couldn’t decide where she was supposed to be looking.

  “I’m sorry,” Constance said, just a little archly. “Have I shocked you, my dear?”

  “Of course not,” Ava lied. “I’ve read The Well of Loneliness.” She had, by accident as a teenager, thinking that Radcylffe Hall was a man’s name. She had been mildly scandalized by the subject matter then and very impressed with what an intuitive, sympathetic author he turned out to be. She had actually read it twice.

  Constance laughed. “I see.”

  Ava was feeling very funny now, as if the air in the room had become very thick and hard to breathe, but she didn’t want Constance to notice anything, so she shifted again, accidentally bumping over a pile of books at her elbow. “I’m sorry,” she said, picking them up, glad for a moment to be able to turn her back. “I love this book,” she said, holding up a heavy volume. Again, this was the kind of thing she normally felt compelled to hide, and the thrill of confession struck her again, wild, liberating.

  In order to read the title, Constance bent toward Ava, bringing with her the scent of gardenias. “Montaigne, I also always loved Woolf’s essay on him.”

  Deciding this was getting ridiculous, Ava mentally committed to reading those books as soon as she got home.

  She finished stacking the books and ate another two cookies. Still inclined to chat, Constance asked where Ava was from, and they had a spirited discussion of the virtues of raw oysters of which Constance was a fan. Eventually Ava knew she needed to go. She needed to leave before she did something to ruin this perfect afternoon. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time,” she said finally.

  “It’s been a pleasure. I look forward to seeing you again in the full glory of your salon. Just give a call about the details when you have them.”

  For one instant, the House of Mirth flickered around Ava, the glamorous, elevated endeavor she had intended. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I will. Soon, I promise.”

  On her way out, Ava snuck a glance through an open door, a bedroom, another pair of high heels overturned on the floor. She wasn’t sure why, but it made her happy that this impractical footwear was an established proclivity. For someone who moved as gracelessly as Constance and whose bones were so tiny, the gesture seemed both a rejection of frailty and the heightening of it to a near aggressive act. The shiny talons seemed so sexual, so assertive and yet the fear she might topple over at any minute bespoke a vulnerability that filled Ava with a confused empathy. As one who had agonized over the various messages that could be read in the trappings of appearance, Ava couldn’t help but admire the contradictory, complicated, intriguing story bound up in these beautiful shoes.

  Alone in the hallway, she stood for a minute in front of Constance’s door and waited, she wasn’t quite sure for what exactly, but the equilibrium of her world seemed to have rattled, and she needed a moment for it to settle.

  Outside, the sun was still shining, and she stopped at a fruit stand on a corner and bought an orange. She dug her nails into the thick peel, ripping it free in large, satisfying chunks, and disposing of them conscientiously in a green wire garbage can. In the distance she saw the low, stone walls of Central Park.

  The park was still bare, and high, spindly branches arched above paths lined with benches. A kid on a bike trailing pink streamers, a pair of runners in spandex, teenagers walking intertwined, their hands in each other’s back pockets—Ava felt surrounded by what seemed like creatures from another world. As if a pair of blinders had been removed, the narrow walls that enclosed her previous life seemed to have shattered, and she looked with surprise at a universe that seemed new and glossy and full of interest. She sat on a bench, not far from an old lady napping into a twisted scarf, and finished her orange, happy to admire this vibrant pageant that seemed to unfurl in proportion to her pleasure in observing it. A toddler stumbled by on unsteady legs, a tiny drunk chasing an unflustered pigeon. A pair of Havanese carried the ends of their leashes in their mouths, proudly rendering their walker superfluous. People flew past on Rollerblades, bicycles, skateboards, all manner of wheeled contrivances, and the thought struck her—people exercised—and the strangeness and simplicity of it only underscored the attenuated parameters of the life she had been living. She wanted to talk to all of these people, to ride a bike, to engage somehow in the spectacle of life that was taking place. Orange pips burst in her mouth, and she wished she could express to someone the wonderful particularity of sitting on this bench, on this afternoon, the taste of citrus bright against her tongue, and the obscure sense of possibility that bubbled up through all of these impressions.

  20

  The next morning she woke up to a violent pounding on her door, and when she opened it, Stephanie handed her a brown paper bag. “I brought you some fucking chicken soup because there is no way you can possibly still be puking, and to be quite honest, I’m a little upset that you would pick a time like this to get sick when I am out there hustling like crazy to try and save our asses.”

  “Thanks,” said Ava, thinking that she should still be mad, but knowing from experience the futility of waiting for apologies from Stephanie; she accepted the bag.

  Stephanie looked her up and down. “I would have thought you would be skinnier.”

  Ava didn’t answer, and put the soup down. “Do you want coffee?”

  After a brisk nod, Stephanie sat down on the foot of Ava’s bed, her fingers tented in deliberation. “So I found a lawyer who said he would meet with us.”

  “We don’t have any—” Ava began.

  “Pro bono. He’s a friend of a friend,” Stephanie interrupted her. “There’s no way they can kick us out right now. We put way more than the seven thousand dollars they are asking for into that space in renovations. It’s totally illegal. They’re just trying to take advantage. Apparently they’re desperate for money because the city keeps trying to sue them into fixing this building or something.”

  “I’m not sure it’s illegal to trick people into doing your renovations for you. Stephanie, if you knew this was coming, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I did. I left all the notices in that stack of books you were supposed to read.” She had an icy glint in her eye. “Why? Have you not been reading any of the books I’ve been asking you to?”

  Ava looked away, embarrassed, and she watched the coffee drip into the carafe, a patter of ac
celerating beats that matched her heart as a rush of anxiety about her future swept over her. “Oh god, oh god. What am I going to do? I live here. Stephanie, this is my home.”

  “Whatever, you can move in with me. The point is, we have to keep the club going. We’ve come so far. We can’t lose this momentum. We need to stick together.”

  “I don’t want to move in with you.” Ava angrily reached for two cups. “The last time I lived with you, you just up and abandoned me. You know I never got our security deposit back or anything. I was basically about to be on the street when I got this job.”

  “I couldn’t help it. I needed a break. I had just been broken up with and then that thing with the gallery happened, which totally wasn’t my fault, but it was awkward.”

  “That gallery was a mess from the beginning.”

  “Well, it was going to be awesome, but I got stabbed in the back by some people I really trusted, and why are we even talking about this right now when we have to concentrate?” Stephanie’s voice had risen almost to a shout.

  “I’m just freaking out about the possibility of all of this falling apart,” Ava yelled back. “I’m in debt because of this. How can you not be worried?”

  “Of course I’m fucking worried. This is my whole life, too. This is my last chance to make it in this city. If this goes bust, I just know I’ll end up a low-level marketing exec with a summer place on the Jersey shore just like everyone expects from me, when I know I’m fucking Hamptons quality.” She took a deep breath, joining Ava by the kitchen and ripping open a packet of Splenda with her teeth. White crystals fluttered over the counter, and Mycroft leapt up to dab at them with his tongue. “You’re just feeling pessimistic because you’ve been sick. You’ll see.”

  “Aren’t the Hamptons just full of hedge fund traders and investment bankers? If all you want out of life is a place by the beach, then who cares? Why are we doing this?”