Summer in the City

by Irene Vartanoff

  Truth to tell, Susan’s first impressions at Coquette Books were borne out by her subsequent days on the job. Employees seemed to stay at their desks all day. There was no noise in the halls. Work apparently got done, but it hardly seemed worth the bother of coming to an office if the editors didn’t walk around and talk to each other.

  Balked of human contact, she made shopping the highlight of her day, as it had become back in Ohio. Each lunch hour she checked out as many stores near the Coquette Books office as possible, trolling for easily-carried furnishings for the bare apartment. She explored lots of little shops, some of them filled with extremely expensive antiques, others piled high with cheap imported items from around the world. She returned from her lunch hour with filled shopping bags every day.

  By Thursday evening, she felt more settled in. She joined Rona at her yoga class. Rona was so busy this was the only way to catch her.

  “Funny how yoga was fashionable when we were children, and now it’s back in again,” Susan remarked. The room was full of women in colorful leotards and other exercise gear. They were all so graceful. She was merely sitting cross-legged next to her friend.

  “Proof that we’re old, honey, to have lived the full circle of a trend,” was Rona’s dry response.

  “Fine. Be cynical.”

  “Speaking of enduring hideousness, whoever sold you that parachute cloth suit should be shot,” Rona said with a grimace. She folded herself into another impossible position in imitation of the instructor.

  “Some things never change. Women were always in search of self-improvement, better health, and better bodies,” Susan said.

  “Don’t try to change the subject. Tomorrow night we’re getting takeout and going over your entire Little Miss Ohio wardrobe.”

  How could Rona even talk in that pretzel position?

  ***

  Friday morning, Linda’s sour riposte to Susan’s greeting was, “Don’t forget today’s a half-day.”

  “A half-day?”

  “Ask somebody else about it. I’m busy.”

  Linda had already turned her hostile gaze to her computer.

  What was wrong with this woman? Susan backed out of the office.

  Elizabeth Winsor’s assistant, Joanne Loos, gave Susan a quick lecture on the history of publishing Fridays.

  “Back in the fabled days of the New York literary scene in the early twentieth century, editors would leave work right after lunch on Friday afternoons to spend their weekends at house parties in Connecticut, on Cape Cod, in upstate New York, or way out on Long Island or Bucks County, Pennsylvania. There would be big weekend parties at the homes of wealthy arts hangers-on.”

  “You mean the glamorous parties that F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda went to?” Susan asked.

  Joanne nodded. “It’s now the custom for people in publishing to quit work early on Friday afternoons in summer.”

  “To think that I’m now part of that tradition,” Susan said reverently. “How wonderful.”

  Joanne said, “Whatever. At least we get to avoid the rush hour commute.”

  ***

  A few hours later, Susan heard the noises of people leaving the office. She still was struggling to finish her mailings for the day. That was how she learned something else. One by one, all of the junior editorial staff came to her desk and deposited manuscripts. She accepted them with pleased surprise. Finally, she could not contain her curiosity any longer. Of course it was Cary whom she asked.

  “Why is it that I never see any of you depositing these stacks during the rest of the week?”

  “You leave too early,” Cary replied. “We all work at least until six, sometimes seven.”

  “Should I be staying later?” she asked, dismayed. She didn’t want any special favors.

  “I don’t see why. The mailroom closes at five. There’s nothing more you can do after then.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Unfortunately, that emphasized a division between her and the editorial staff.

  “We can’t get you the manuscripts earlier in the day because we’re all working on other projects then.”

  “Oh. Like what?”

  “Editing accepted manuscripts, for instance. Got to run now. Have a nice weekend.”

  With that, Cary waved cheerily and took off. She was a nice young woman. Which made sense, because how could a nasty person edit optimistic romances?

  With a whole afternoon free and not as tired as she had been earlier in the week, Susan indulged her love of shopping. Not for clothing. She’d wait for Rona’s help with that. For the apartment. She had discovered the major suburban discounters were hiding in classic old buildings. Soon, she had purchased and arranged for instant delivery of chairs, tables, and many accessories. The hours-long expedition equipped her with flatware, china, linens, and many more of the small comforts she took for granted at home. She even bought herself a self-inflating mattress. Why toss and turn even one more night? Life was too short.

  She arrived back at the apartment building in a cab, surrounded by shopping bags from her foray and feeling satisfied. She was adjusting to her new job. Life in the city was not daunting her. She wasn’t quite as lonely as she had expected.

  Had she done any deep thinking about her future yet? About the fling? No. Maybe tomorrow. Tonight was girls’ night in.

  ***

  A few hours later, the furniture had been delivered and set up. Just in time, as Rona called to say she was putting in their order for takeout Chinese.

  “What do you want?” Susan resisted saying, “Everything.” She put on the brakes and recited a couple of sensible choices.

  A while later, Rona arrived on a waft of delicious smells. “I brought the food up here because we’ll be looking at your clothes and—oh, my god!” She stopped talking and stared at the transformation Susan had managed in mere days.

  She’d put an area rug on the living room floor, and a coffee table flanked by two comfortable armchairs in the Frank Lloyd Wright Chicago style. Lamps rested on side tables that held greenery and candles. The windows had privacy shades and she’d hung curtain rods and taupe linen curtains. Best of all, now there was a wooden bistro set in a corner with four tall chairs. She had decorated it with a vase of flowers and happily arranged place mats and napkins. On them sat her new china, silverware, and glasses, ready to receive their dinner.

  “Isn’t this wonderful?” she asked. “I’ve been shopping all week and having so much fun. I always wanted to furnish an entire place from scratch with brand new things, not antiques or hand-me-downs.”

  “A dining set? Curtains?” Rona asked. “What on earth were you thinking?”

  “That I’m too old to sit on the floor. After all, I’m not the one who has been doing yoga for forty years,” she responded, hoping that Rona would see some humor in the inelasticity of her old friend.

  Rona did not laugh.

  “This apartment is scheduled to be renovated in three months. Why furnish it at all?” The bag of food hit the floor as Rona became consumed in her negative reaction.

  “I’m living here. I want to be comfortable,” Susan said.

  “I’ve had other tenants here and they only put up a card table and chairs,” Rona continued, looking around with disapproval.

  Susan picked up the bag of Chinese food, which luckily hadn’t started leaking. She set the boxes on serving plates. Rona was still eyeing the improvements and making objections. No, ranting was a more accurate word. Rona was ranting.

  “And curtains over shades! Who needs curtains?”

  Rona’s tirade continued, as Susan kept her own eyes on the food she was arranging, the packets of duck sauce and mustard. She was trying not to tremble. She hadn’t expected such a violent reaction from Rona. Of course, Rona didn’t like change. The crammed apartment two floors below was a silent witness to that. Rona was awfully worked up over new furniture.

  Rona picked up a green vase. “Why buy this?” Not one piece of furniture, not on
e vase, not one addition to the apartment pleased Rona. Not one single purchase, each one of which had given Susan pleasure, was acceptable in Rona’s opinion. She looked at each one and made nasty comments. Every item was unnecessary. She didn’t comment on the style or the color. She simply hated that Susan had made the previously empty apartment a home.

  A home. That was it. Rona had always, always camped out. Her only real home was back in Massachusetts, the house in which she grew up. Every apartment she’d had in New York had simply been another dormitory room for her. Including the one downstairs stuffed with the odds and ends Rona had collected too obsessively for too long.

  Now Susan understood. Rona’s anger had nothing to do with being practical, or with the impending renovation. It had everything to do with Rona’s refusal to make a home.

  “Aren’t you listening to me?” Rona suddenly turned from her angry condemnation of the air mattress in the bedroom, over which the futon mattress had been laid. “This is ridiculous.”

  “It’s temporary.”

  “Think of the money you’ve wasted on all this—this junk,” Rona said in disdain. “You’re surely not taking it back to Ohio with you? Cheap garbage from the discount stores?”

  “It’ll last the summer. I can afford to buy these things and give them to charity when I leave.”

  When Rona began to object some more, Susan cut her off.

  “Please listen to me.” She took Rona’s hands. “I love you, but I refuse to camp out.”

  “Why not?”

  “Listen, okay? Please?”

  Susan smoothed her hand over the dark wood of one of the side tables, on which she had placed her new green glass vase. Finally, she looked at Rona with a sad smile.

  “When I was living in the mental institution, I had a room to myself. It had a bed and a desk and a chair. Not much else. I was allowed only a few personal possessions.”

  She waved away the sound of sympathy that Rona made.

  “I had to decide whether I would change my ways and be able to return to my home. Or I could continue acting out and messing up, which might have led to a prison cell.”

  “You wouldn’t have.”

  “Not a sure thing then. Anyway, that part of my life is over,” she finished. “I have deliberately turned this empty, barren apartment into a cozy home, to remind myself constantly of what I have fought to regain. A full life.”

  “You’re completely wrapped up in self-pity,” Rona snapped. “What the hell does filling this place with cheap discount store crap have to do with living a happy life?”

  “I—I…” She felt her eyes fill with tears. Oh, darn.

  Rona saw, and suddenly her anger was gone, replaced by sympathy. She hugged Susan.

  “Don’t cry. I’ll stop. Life’s too short to fight over mere things.” There was a warning in her words. Rona would tolerate Susan’s buying sprees, but did not expect to be confronted about her own habit of over-collecting.

  “Thanks,” Susan said, regaining control. “Let’s eat.”

  After that, they climbed onto the bistro chairs and Susan ate sweet and sour pork, which Rona insulted as too tame. Rona had General Tso’s chicken, which Susan amiably complained was too spicy for her. There was no sharing of dishes. They had détente.

  After some clearing away, it was time for the main event.

  “All right, let’s see what you’ve got.” Rona smiled. It was not a pretty smile, but she was in good humor again.

  “Where’s the 360-degree mirror and the metal trash can?” Susan asked. That new TV show, What Not to Wear, always had them.

  “We’ll improvise and throw the rejects out the window. It’s New York. Somebody below will take them away,” Rona said airily.

  Susan led the way to the bedroom, where she pulled at least a dozen dresses from the closet. She had oodles of bright colors and pastels.

  “Pastels? At your age? No way.” Rona grabbed every one and tossed them on the floor.

  “But they’re so pretty!”

  “Pastels belong on young girls and elderly ladies. Next,” she ordered.

  Rona gave the second batch short shrift.

  “Too suburban. Too bright. Too loud.” Three brilliant colored dresses hit the floor.

  “What is this?” Rona eyed a long denim skirt with amazed disdain.

  “It’s comfortable,” she said defensively.

  “Comfortable. Don’t say that word. Comfortable is the opposite of fashion.”

  Rona seized the denim skirt and wadded it into a ball.

  “Karen Allen, the eighties are calling. Come get your skirt.” Rona threw it on the floor with malice. “I should kick it, too. It’s that ugly. Do not tell me you brought the matching cowboy boots.”

  At Susan’s lack of response, Rona turned around. “You did! Forget it, sister.”

  “They’re retro.”

  “We’re too old for retro. Leave that to the kids. Next.”

  Susan brought out several pantsuits, mostly in clear colors. Rona blew through all but one, the most subdued of the lot. As Susan made to fetch more, Rona threw up her hands.

  “Stop. This is hopeless.”

  She sat Susan down in the living room.

  “Not only do you have no idea what to wear in a sophisticated city like New York. That’s bad enough,” she said with a stern air. “You’re also choosing the wrong colors for your hair and skin tones. Now, pay attention. I’m going to give you the rules.”

  With that, Rona launched into a description of how women their age should dress in a big city. The colors and fabrics that wouldn’t overpower Susan’s blonde hair and light skin.

  “Remember, nothing finicky. Plenty of black.”

  “I hate black,” Susan said firmly. “I will not wear black ever again as long as I live.”

  Rona quickly backpedaled. “Then dark brown or navy. They’re both neutrals. Do not waltz around this town dressed like a tourist grandma in white pants.”

  “I’ve seen them. I wonder why they do that?”

  “Who knows? Anyway, in a dirty city like this, white is crazy. Okay for a night out. Not for day.”

  Susan made a face.

  “I saw that. I need a drink,” Rona said. “This is thirsty work.”

  “I don’t have anything here.”

  “We’ll go down to my apartment where I’ve got a nice bottle of Pinot Noir. Anyway, I need to recover from the sensory overload,” Rona said, shaking her head at the pile of bright clothes she had ruthlessly insisted should be discarded.

  After they had run downstairs, they squeezed through the entryway to Rona’s place and went into the living room. Susan looked around and asked pointedly, “Where can we sit?”

  She started counting chairs. In addition to a couch entirely covered with neat stacks of papers, there were seven chairs, mostly of the kitchen type and all mismatched. Every single one of them was piled with papers also.

  She edged her way into the kitchen, where Rona was pouring a glass of wine.

  “Orange juice?” Rona asked.

  “Fine. But there’s nowhere to sit.” A tiny breakfast bar was up against one wall, but it was covered in papers and other odds and ends. So was the one stool beneath it. The kitchen was too small for two people to hang out. She went back to the living room.

  “Don’t look, but I’m going to move some papers,” she warned.

  Rona came running back from the tiny kitchen. “No. Not that one. The seat has to be re-caned.”

  “This one?”

  “The frame needs gluing.”

  Susan cast another look around. “How about the couch? We could both sit on it. I’ll put this pile on the—”

  “No! Don’t!”

  “Rona.” Susan looked her in the eye. “We are the humans. We get to sit on the furniture.”

  She took a stack of old newspapers and gently put them on the floor, ignoring Rona’s gasp of concern.

  Susan sat on the couch and faced Rona bravely. “Seems t
o me you’ve got some issues about possessions, too. I’ve been in therapy for years now. How about you?”

  Gingerly, Rona removed another stack of newspapers, almost caressing them with her hands as she carefully put them on the floor. She grasped her glass of wine tightly and sat.

  After a minute, she said, “I’ve seen someone. She says I keep these things for comfort.”

  “You mean, they’re comfortable?” Susan emphasized the last word and raised her eyebrows in pretend disdain.

  They dissolved into laughter.

  ***

  Later that night, Susan took a shower in her newly curtained bathroom, under her newly cleaned, clear-flowing showerhead. Her issues and Rona’s issues. What a sad pair they were.

  They’d known each other for thirty-eight years. Most of that time, they had lived in different states. They’d met when she was considering colleges. Back then, college-bound teenagers didn’t do elaborate tours and the colleges themselves didn’t have the student guide setups they now did. Instead, her older brother, who knew Rona’s older brother, put the girls in touch. Rona, who had just graduated, dished about the college and arranged for her to meet a senior, which led to Susan enrolling. When Rona came back to campus on a visit, they finally met and hit it off. Four years later, when Susan graduated, she again looked Rona up. By then, Rona was living in Chicago, finishing up her Ph.D. and looking around frantically for a tenure track position at a top university, a tough feat for a female in the early 1970s.

  They shared an apartment in Chicago. Susan barely had time to relax from the end of college when a personal tragedy occurred that sent her into a tailspin. Both of her parents were killed in a car crash caused by a drunk driver. She moved back home to deal with the aftermath. It was a year before she had recovered enough to continue on to graduate school. Not that she finished.

  She met Rick and they married. Then, a few years later, when she was thirty, Rick was posted overseas all summer. They gave up their rental apartment and put their things in storage. She spent several months with Rona, this time in New York, where Rona had managed to grab a shaky hold onto a tenure track position at the university. Susan took a university course while looking around for her next step. She never did decide. Instead, she went home to Ohio and raised two children, working a variety of part-time jobs over the years. Meanwhile, Rona rose in her career.