You’re my only hope to find him, Cherry. I know it’s a lot to ask, but if you could somehow check with some other models or something I know you could find him and talk to him for me. Tell him I don’t expect him to come home, but if he would just call me it would mean so much. Then I might be able to hate him and go on with my life, but as it is I can’t even hate him. There is just a big gaping hole where he pulled my heart out.
Please don’t forget about me. I am begging you.
Love,
Cassie
17
* * *
SOHO
“Welcome to SoHo, sweetie. That’s short for ‘South of Houston.’”
“You mean Huseton, don’t you? Like in Texas? Ain’t that how it’s spelled on the sign?”
“No, darling, I mean Houseton. Don’t ask why it’s pronounced differently. It just isn’t much like Texas, I guess.”
After breakfast, Sal didn’t have to twist Lale’s arm to go on to his apartment. There was no place else to go, and they had to get ready for the meeting with Michel at three. Lale had crossed a bridge, and whatever happened he was going along for the ride. Sixty dollars an hour was a powerful influence on Lale’s good intentions, and he was kind of getting used to Sal. In for a penny, in for a pound.
They drove down the west side of Manhattan, the Hudson River on the right and a row of seedy-looking buildings on the left. As they went farther south, the buildings got seedier, some of them meat-packing places with big burly men in bloody coveralls hauling huge sides of beef and pork and legs of lamb out of refrigerated trucks.
They made a left turn on Canal Street, and then another left up Greene Street.
“At one time, the early eighteen-hundreds and beyond, this part of town was the main drag of New York, theaters and exclusive shops down here on lower Broadway, where all the rich women came to their dressmakers. No off-the-rack in those days, honey. Every stitch was made to order. This part we’re in now, only a couple of blocks west of Broadway, was the back door, so to speak, of the biggest red-light district in New York. Right on this block, Greene Street, there were fifty-two whorehouses! Can you imagine? Then, of course, when all the immigrants started crowding in down here, the ritzy businesses moved uptown, as they would tend to, since that was where the land was, most of it farms, can you believe? Chicken coops on Fifth Avenue! The theaters and expensive stores went to what is now midtown Broadway, and the fancy madams and their pleasure parlors went right with them, leaving this part of town to the dressmakers, who had finally discovered ready-to-wear, and who had tons of cheap labor in the immigrants. All these wonderful old cast-iron buildings were built as factories in the later part of the century. The place I live used to be a blouse factory. Wait until you see it. It’s absolutely to die. You’ll love it.”
In his worst nightmares, Lale couldn’t have imagined a place as bad as this to live. Big trucks blocked most of the dim, narrow cobblestone streets, boxes of garbage were piled high on the sidewalks, and Lale saw more than a few fat rats rummaging around. The buildings were high and dark, some of them with loading docks right off the street where trucks could back in. Noise from the trucks and machinery made a din that echoed in the cavernous street and everything seemed to have a coat of black soot on it.
“You don’t mean you live down here, do you?”
“Yes, isn’t it amazing! Don’t worry about the streets—they’re really quite safe. They’re much quieter at night. And you will love the loft. Here we are. Home sweet home.”
Sal neatly pulled the Mustang around a truck that was parked half on the sidewalk, got out, and shoved up a rolling door in the wall that opened to a good-size room. Then he got into the car, drove into the room, got out, rolled the door back down, and pulled on a rope. The room started to rise, and Lale jumped when he realized it was an elevator. The elevator stopped on the fourth floor, Sal opened a set of double doors with a key, then drove the Mustang right into his apartment. Lale sat for a minute in disbelief, then got out.
“I told you, you wouldn’t believe it! Isn’t this just the best?”
The room was three hundred feet long and thirty feet wide. A row of iron columns painted creamy green ran down the center, but there were no walls to divide the space. Tall windows, grimy with New York dirt, let in pale light, and the noise of the factories and the stream of cars and trucks plowing down Broadway, two blocks away, made a muted roar in the background, like the ocean. The floors were concrete, splattered with various colors of paint, strewn with Oriental rugs, and a red velvet curtain hung across part of the back wall, tied by a gold tasseled rope. A large bed covered in a gold-and-red satin coverlet and throw pillows could be seen behind it. The walls were partially plastered in crumbling layers, colors of yellow and green and blue, the brick showing through in places, as though someone had started to tear it down and quit in the middle. There were two red velvet couches and a leather chair set in a conversation arrangement around a low coffee table, and farther down, a wooden counter divided the kitchen area from the rest of the space.
In the front part of the loft, near the door where the car was parked, enormous canvasses were stretched directly onto the walls, and a long rough table was loaded with twisted paint tubes and brushes. A glass palette made from an old window was smeared with rows of oil colors. Several bold abstracts were in various stages of completion. Heavy with paint so thick it threatened to fall off the canvas onto the floor, all the paintings, like Edvard Munch’s, seemed to scream.
In another part of the open space was a lighted makeup table lined with rows of wigs and hairpieces in varying colors pinned to Styrofoam heads. Cases that looked designed to hold fishing tackle overflowed with makeup.
Lale stood rooted to the spot, trying to take it all in, not sure what to do, where to go.
“Come on in, darling. Don’t stand there like a tourist. I swear, it is like pushing a Cadillac up a hill to get you to do anything. Just sit over there at the table, and I’ll make a nice pot of tea. Since you are light on luggage, we’ll have to figure out something for you to wear for your test. Not to be rude, but that shirt and jeans are getting a little whiffy. It is clear you didn’t pack your Arrid. And we have to do something with that amazing head of hair. As gorgeous as you are, you could stand a little pruning and polishing.”
“Okay. Okay. You don’t have to carry on. I’ll sit. This is all just a little new for me, all this living in warehouses that were old whorehouses or shirt factories or whatever. I never had a car in my living room before, but I can see where it might be handy. I also don’t see anyplace for me to sleep, and I ain’t going to sleep in that fancy bed you have over there. No way.”
“Will you stop it? Of course you aren’t going to. That’s my bed. Although since I’ve been gone, I’m sure Preston has given it a workout. The sheets are undoubtedly not fresh. You can sleep on the couch. Preston is my roommate, although I think he must be a teensy bit annoyed with me right now. I neglected to mention to him I was taking off for Nashville. Heat of the moment and all. He is the painter, which is how we got this place. You have to be an artist to get to rent these, and Preston is a wonderful painter, don’t you think? I consider myself an artist, too, as does anybody who has worked with me, but somehow the powers that be who pass out these spaces think it has to be on a canvas or a pedestal to be art, not on a human face, which is my canvas. Nevertheless, the rent is right—one hundred a month—which we split. You can just be a guest for a while until you get on your feet, and then if you want to find another place, that is up to you. I’m sure Preston will never know you’re here. He has his head in his work night and day. He never even talks, which frankly I don’t mind, as he rarely has anything interesting to say beyond ‘Cool, man.’ Leaves me more space to talk, which I love to do. If you didn’t notice. In the meantime, let’s get you out of those clothes and into the shower.”
The bathroom—a shower and toilet—was behind another curtain near the kitchen, which had a blue woode
n table and four chairs, a sink, a hot plate, and small fridge. Open shelves held dishes and glasses and an old tin pie cupboard served as a pantry. But there were fresh flowers on the counter and the cupboard was painted Spanish Gold, with red-and-turquoise knobs. To his surprise, Lale kind of liked it.
Lale stood in the shower for as long as the hot water lasted, letting the last few days wash out of his system. It dawned on him that he hadn’t thought much about Cassie or his folks since he’d landed in New York, and that bothered him. What was wrong with him, that he could so easily leave them behind? It seemed like Buchanan was as far away as the moon, and instead of two days, it had been years since he lived there. He was afraid of what the future held and part of him was deeply ashamed of what he’d done, but most of him just felt alive and happy and free.
He came out wrapped in a towel, and saw that Sal had laid out some pants and a shirt for him on the bed, and a clean pair of boxer shorts, something that looked like red paisley silk.
“What the heck are these things? They look like bloomers. Don’t you have any Jockeys?”
“Afraid not. You really have no choice. While you were in the shower, I put your things in to soak. Industrial-strength detergent. Here, put these on and get dressed, and I’ll give that lion’s mane a trim. I’m quite good with hair, although makeup is my forte.”
The shirt was some kind of shiny black nylon material, and the pants were bell-bottomed hip-huggers, too tight to button.
“I can’t wear these. They’re too little. Are they yours?”
“Oh, no. Mine would be much smaller than those. Those are Preston’s. The only ones I could find that weren’t covered in paint. He would be in a rage if he knew I lent them to you, but he seems to be elsewhere. Probably buying out the oil department at Pearl Paint. He spends every dime he gets on the stuff. Little excessive for my taste, if you want to know the truth. Slathers it on like cream cheese. He does sell occasionally, though. At least the buyers get a lot for their money! I like watercolors myself. Light, simple, tasteful. We used to be lovers, you know, Preston and I, but that went by the by ages ago. Except for the odd occasion, like ships bumping into each other in the night kind of thing. But he’ll have no problems with you here, I’m sure, once he finds out you’re straight and I’m not sleeping with you. Although you would be surprised to find out how many straight men like a little diversion from time to time. Especially young married men. It’s not cheating, they think, if it’s with another man. I know several of those, and in fact…”
“Okay, okay. I hear you. How much of my hair are you going to cut off? I suffered for this hair. Coach nearly didn’t let me play my senior year, but I was the quarterback, and he didn’t have much choice.”
“I’ll just shape it a bit. My, what thick hair it is! You really will have to start using some hair products. Long might be hippie-chic, but the suits paying for the ads still want a reasonable length. It’s the moms and dads that have the money, and the readers of Esquire and Playboy aren’t hippies. Oh, you are going to be the find of the year, Lale Hardcastle! And it was all my doing! If I do say so myself, I am a genius.”
Sal clipped happily away as the sandy-blond hair fell on the floor in fluffy piles. Lale looked at himself in the mirror and saw with cold eyes a stranger emerging.
18
* * *
LALEA
Dear Cherry,
I hate to write you about this, but it is so hard to get you on the phone. Cassie had her baby, and it was a little girl. She had a hard time and lost a lot of blood, and is still in the hospital. The worst part is that the baby is, well, she’s harelipped, I guess is the only way to put it. But it’s really a bad one. Her little mouth is just gaped open, split from top to bottom, and her nose is all over her face. Her eyes are kind of on the sides of her head. Everyone is in a state of shock. Annie is just killed. The little thing is so deformed that she can’t really suck, and if she does manage to get some milk down she throws it up. I was in there when Cassie begged them to let her try to breast-feed, and she tried and tried, but just couldn’t. Every time she looks at the baby she cries, so much that her milk dried up. I guess they are trying to feed her with a bottle with some kind of special nipple, but that isn’t much more successful than the breast was, and I think they are going to put a feeding tube down her poor little nose. Cassie won’t eat, either. She is so pale she’s green, and weak from all the blood she lost. I’m so worried about her. She just stares at the wall. Lale’s mama and daddy have only been to see the baby one time, and I heard Janet told somebody they don’t think the baby was Lale’s, or else why would he have left like he did? It is horrible. If I ever get my hands on Lale Hardcastle, I will chop off his balls and boil them in vinegar. I guess you haven’t found him yet, or you would have told me.
Besides all that (as in, Aside from that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?), things are going all right here. Cassie’s little brother, Barry, got in trouble for making clay pipes in my class, and I got in trouble for letting him. They were great pipes, though—the bowls were little faces with tiny glasses, headbands, and funny beards, long hippie hair making the stem. The principal, ol’ Roamin’ Hands Bachman, was hanging out in my class, like he likes to do, saw them, and confiscated them right out of the kiln. He didn’t buy for a minute that they were for tobacco, and said Barry was too young to smoke tobacco in any case. The next day, Barry and some of his buddies brought six goats to school and let them out in the halls during assembly, and while Mr. Bachman was trying to handle the pandemonium, Barry sneaked into his office and stole the pipes back. It was crazy. They had to let school out for the rest of the day until they could round up the goats and scrub the floors. Nobody can prove for sure it was Barry who did it, but everybody knows. I think part of the reason he did it is that he was so upset about Cassie that he just had to let off some steam. He is just angry at the world, and I don’t blame him. Father Leo has been visiting Cassie, but I don’t think he is doing her much good. There’s not a lot he can say, and thank goodness he’s not one to talk about God’s will and all. I don’t think God would do something like that to someone who is already hurting like Cassie was. She named the baby Lalea, by the way.
Speaking of Father Leo, I’ve been up to the abbey a few times to see him. He is building a raku kiln out in the field near the bluff that he’ll let my class share. I wish you were here to help us. It’s not the same since you left. I think Leo misses you, too. He has that big painting you did, the Virgin Mary on the Rocks, hanging in his office. (The one where she is sitting on the ice cubes in a martini glass, not the other one on the cliff. I think he hung it to shock Father Bennett, but it really is good.) Leo has the most amazing gray eyes, doesn’t he? Like clear water. He gave me a pot he made on the wheel, a perfect red one, that has the Philippine Tagalog word for love on one side and happiness on the other. It is a crying shame he is a priest. Ah, well.
How is your romance with Aurelius going? Have you done it yet? If you were down here, you would be tarred and feathered by the Ku Klux Klan just for having lunch with him. If you didn’t already know, they have a chapter here in Buchanan, even though there is only one black person living in town that I know of. His name is Scipio Jones and he works making pots up at Lost Acre Hollow, which is where I met him. He built himself a cob house out in the woods, dug the clay and mixed it with straw all by himself. Pretty impressive. He’s going to let me bring my class out to see it and we’ll do a project making little cob houses. He’s pretty cute, too, so I might just follow your lead and see what it’s like. The Klan knows he’s there, but it doesn’t look like they’re going to do much about it. Can’t burn down a cob house. I heard that the Klan had started a little movement to get the name of Buchanan changed to No Niggers, Arkansas, but then Scipio moved in and it would be stupid to have a town called One Nigger, Arkansas, so they had to give it up. Some of the Kluxer kids are in my class. They don’t know what to make of me. I am not white, but I’m not exactly black, e
ither, and frankly they like me, so they are confused. I love it.
Remember that article in Cosmo we read about how the new hot thing was white women going out with black men? Let me know if it’s true what they say, you know, about the size.
Much love,
Baby
19
* * *
ITALIANS
When I read Cassie’s letter, I felt like a dog. It was true that I hadn’t written to Cassie even one time since I’d come to New York, but I hadn’t known what to say. I didn’t want to tell her about the Zack business until I knew for sure he was Lale, and frankly, it hadn’t been at the top of my agenda to find out. In truth of fact, I dreaded like everything finding Lale and having to give him a tongue-lashing for running out on Cassie. He would ask me what business of mine it was and I’d have to say it wasn’t any really, but he was a jerk anyhow, and then where would that go? I mean, was he going to say, “Oh, thanks for pointing that out to me. I’ll run and get on the bus and go right back to her”? I hate confrontations. I sort of knew already that Zack was Lale, but when I saw the old Playboy Cassie mentioned at one of the photographers’ studios and looked at his picture in the L&M cigarette ad, I knew for sure.
I was still putting off answering her letter, trying to decide what to do, when I got Baby’s letter a few days later, and then I was really sick to my stomach. I was going to have to do something, but I didn’t know what. Poor Cassie. I thought it couldn’t get any worse, but it had. How could Janet and George Hardcastle not believe it was Lale’s baby, knowing Cassie like they did? They used to like her. But on the other hand, I could see how they wouldn’t want to believe it of him. He was their son. I don’t know if he had even written or called them, but surely he must have. How could you go off and not tell your parents where you were? But then if he had, why hadn’t they told Cassie where he was or given her his address? The whole thing was just a mess that I had somehow gotten sucked into, even though it was totally none of my business. I had to write to Cassie, so with a heavy heart, I did:
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