“I’m not quite clear on what you’re aiming for, Ms. Links,” the bibliographer said.
Thinking how nice it would be to lunch by the Potomac with the gentleman, Amalie spoke up. Leaning forward so he could feel a little warmth, she summarized their project in five sentences and showed him two documents. It was an elegant presentation as his gratified smile told her.
From Hannelore there was no acknowledgment that Amalie had performed well. All she said on the return flight was that she hoped Amalie had learned something. But Amalie, quite contentedly, was mulling over the bibliographer’s sotto voce invitation to return for a follow-up visit so he could show her his incunabula.
“Aren’t we having fun?” Hannelore said now. The bus was going up Route 17 past shops with names like Formica Renaissance, International House of Pancakes, and Birthplace of the American Carpet, then up to the Thruway.
After the rest stop in the fetid bus terminal in Albany, they crossed the Hudson River, shrunken now to a skimpy polluted stream, into Troy. “Armpit of the Western world,” Ed’s assistant termed it as he macerated his cigar. And then there were cows! Barns! A U.S. government research facility! But it was clear to Hannelore that most of the people on this bus were not impressed. They would have to be replaced. No problem. Thanks to the relocation experts she had the exact figures on the number of unemployed in the Bristow area. The experts had also prepared a profile on the kinds of employees she could expect to hire there. The studies on which the profile was based had been conducted by the noted sociologist, Herbert Marcus (a name she recognized as German). She had found the tables surprisingly clear.
Amalie was watching the road signs. Wasn’t this close to the spot where Stewart’s accident had taken place? He was heading home from Middlebury College. The ambulance came from Bennington. Stewart had stopped in Hoosick, birthplace of Grandma Moses, and telephoned home.
“Are you cold?” Hannelore asked. “You are shaking, poor thing. Najeed, give her your extra sweater, the one from Bloomingdales.” Amalie’s teeth were chattering. She was dizzy. Was she going to faint? They were very close to the scene of the accident. She found herself leaning forward, taking deep breaths. “Chew on this.” Hannelore handed Amalie a cracker wrapped in cellophane with the Lufthansa emblem on it. “I always carry these.”
Ed sat down next to Amalie and put his arm around her shoulders. “Take it easy,” he said. “It’ll pass.”
“I’m all right.” She closed her eyes. “It’s Stewart, the car…” She could smell burning rubber. A high whine in her ears. The car horn was stuck. Something was jammed against her chest, a steering wheel, a stopped heart.
“Almost there,” Hannelore said. “Then you can rest.” She held an ice pack against Amalie’s forehead. Where she got it, Amalie couldn’t imagine but she was grateful for it.
Gradually the dizziness subsided. No one here knew the details of Stewart’s death. They were explaining away her malaise, attributing it to carsickness, lack of sleep. Someone even suggested pregnancy. “Honey, don’t make no unnecessary motions.” Lisa the clerk with spiky eyelashes trembling with concern. Ed was expertly massaging her neck.
“I’m sorry…” This was so embarrassing.
“Pack up, pack up,” Hannelore called cheerfully. “We are soon there.”
Amalie was full of thanks for these people, strangers, but so good. The obstacle was still in her chest, however. The heart that has ceased to beat, the despair.
#
Marshall was waiting on the veranda of the Stafford Hotel for the chartered bus. He felt good about giving his crew a couple of days in the country at the company’s expense. Wait till they started working at the new location. There would be trees, an atrium, a fitness and meditation center, cradle-to-grave environment. But to discourage fraternization during work hours they were doing away with the conventional single entrance, the one elevator which was an invitation to intimacy and time wasting. Instead there would be a spacious lobby with many access points. You separate departments by building transparent aerial walkways so there are no cozy spots where people can hang out together. Much more efficient. Hannelore was enthusiastic. Marshall had let Hannelore work with the architect, giving her virtual carte blanche. But then he’d had second thoughts about the whole scheme. The relocation expert, knowing his man, said, “You’re creating a modern version of a historic American phenomenon, the company town. Bristow is moribund right now. The building will be a symbol of new life. You’ll be a pioneer.”
“Captain of industry,” Hannelore corrected, preferring the military title.
#
Amalie couldn’t sleep although Hannelore in the next bed seemed to be having no difficulty.
Why did the bus have to take that route? Did she need reminders of the scenery Stewart was looking at when he crashed? She can’t help thinking of him riding around the area with a woman beside him, obediently craning her neck to look at the pair of eagles soaring above the tree line, loosening that chiffon scarf and tossing it behind her. “Stewart was no goody-good.” Julie’s words come back into her head.
The hotel room smelled like perfume. Stewart disliked perfume, Amalie remembered. He never let her wear it. But maybe she didn’t know him as well as she thought. Didn’t Julie talk about his quirks and weaknesses?
She sat up in bed with a sudden urge to smoke, which she had never done in her life. It was important to understand where she might have failed her husband.
Did he resent my reluctance to hear him explain his theories? she asked herself. What else did he resent? I never liked making love outdoors and he held that against me. We even tried it in Mosholu Park but he gave up after that. Maybe Miss Chiffon Scarf was not averse to doing it al fresco. We’re close to nature here in Vermont. Today I might not object. With that thought in mind Amalie lay down again and fell asleep.
Earlier, soon after their arrival, the employees had been taken on a guided tour of the Biblio Haunt, future sales outlet for an expanded Berger MicroPubs. Marshall proudly pointed out the peaked roof and turrets, the leaded windows. “I hope they get rid of those dogs,” Hannelore said, unnerved to see so many canines nosing around the bargain tables on the porch of the bookstore. “They should shoot them.”
Inside the Biblio Haunt it was cold and smelled of mildew. Amalie found herself standing next to Marshall in an alcove. “I own it,” he said, opening his arms. He meant the fifteen rooms and crannies filled with books, the stairs piled high with volumes, the decaying antimacassars covering the few ratty plush armchairs scattered around. “Americana,” he pointed to a large room. “I own all of American culture. How do you like that—me, a kid from New Jersey.” Old milk glass bottles rattled on the ledges as the wind blew through cracks in the windows. This is not for me, Amalie thought, her eyes watering from all the dust.
Hannelore had managed to forage around on the side of the road for wildflowers which now decorated the hotel room she and Amalie were sharing. “We make it homey even for two nights.” She slapped her chin and cheeks with a medicated cream, hoping that everyone was grateful for this trip. The expense was enormous she told Amalie, but Marshall with his customary generosity wanted to do something for his people. He had visionary ideas but sometimes got carried away.
Awakening early, with the smell of perfume in her nose—or was it the mixed bouquet emitting its fragrance—Amalie dressed and went down to the lobby. The front door was unlocked. Did they feel so secure here?
To her surprise there was Marshall jogging up the driveway. When he saw her he waved happily. “Haven’t done this in years,” he panted. “Not supposed to do strenuous exercise if you’re not accustomed to it.”
“But you like to live dangerously, right?” She smiled.
“I do, I do.” He held out his hand. “Amalie. I’ve been wanting to talk.”
“Now? It’s 6:30 a.m.”
“Amalie.” He wiped his brow.
“Marshall.” She laughed. Then, to cover her embar
rassment she said, “In some tribes in Senegal, you always preface a sentence with the name of the person you’re addressing.”
“I love that,” he said, moving toward her.
“Will you excuse me?” Amalie moved back a step. “I just want to look around a little.”
“Okay, okay.” He put up his hands in surrender. “I know I’m not very presentable right now.”
“I’ve seen men sweat before so don’t worry about it,” she said
“Look—I won’t intrude on your privacy, on your bereavement. I just sense a connection—no, strike that. Forgive me. This air. It puts thoughts into your head. You don’t know what you’ve been doing for forty odd years and you suddenly start questioning everything.”
“I know what you mean.” Amalie suddenly wished she could tell Marshall about her marriage.
“There’s nothing like New England,” he said with a kind of desperation in his voice. “Ideal location for us, Vermont. Near all those colleges. You’ll like it here. You could think about going for a Ph.D., part-time. We’d help with tuition. No, what am I doing? Don’t construe this as pressure. I don’t want to know your decision yet. Look, it’s a beautiful day. Why don’t we go into the woods. Breakfast isn’t for a while. You’ll teach me the names of trees.”
Another Mosholu Park. Here was her chance to try it out. But it was a little too soon. She was surprised to note that Marshall was blushing or maybe it was just the exertion from his run.
“Call it a midsummer night’s dream,” he said.
Amalie was fascinated. She wasn’t the only one to be jolted by the country.
“I like the way you listen, Amalie. Though for you it may be the better part of valor. I know, I’m rambling.”
She felt there was something very engaging about Marshall now. Why had she been leery of him? What was it that had struck her as ruthless? You weren’t supposed to let your guard down with a boss. They had such power over you. But who wants to be on guard all the time?
“I’m keeping you. I’m sorry.” There were sounds of activity inside the hotel. Marshall turned to go in, then added, “Just bear in mind that you might benefit from staying with the company. Consider it.”
The boss had spoken. Of course it would be a perfect solution to Amalie’s housing problem if her building was demolished. But what would happen to Charlie? Well, Charlie would be all right. He’d leave home, travel cross-country, do odd jobs and maybe even go to college eventually. For her, moving up here might be the easy way out. An undemanding job away from the rat race of city life. The only challenge would be to fight boredom. No, it wasn’t enough. She’d stagnate here. Amalie was hearing the siren song of the larger corporate—or nonprofit world, in New York City, her city. She had an inkling that she might like a job where she could exercise some power—power with conscience, as Stewart might have said. A decision maker. The idea was immensely appealing. And thinking of all the decisions she’d been making lately, Amalie wondered if the tenant rally at City Hall would be a success. She had slipped reminders under her neighbors’ doors. It was less than a week away. Rain or shine. Meet in the lobby, 10:00 a.m. Friday.
She had refiled the papers contesting the sale of her building, only this time she sent them to a specific official whose name she’d gotten from her city councilwoman who was sympathetic to tenant rights.
It certainly smelled good here in the country. Good not to hear sirens and step over trash. She found a path into some woods, close to the hotel. Decaying logs were sprouting enormous funguses just like those in a fairy tale. She wondered what poison ivy looked like and whether there were bears nearby. There were lots of mossy patches, just large enough for two entwined bodies.
A faint clanging from the hotel told her that breakfast was being served and she hurried back.
In the dining room Ed motioned her over to the empty seat next to him.
“You had me worried yesterday,” he said.
“My husband’s accident happened near here.”
He squeezed her hand and poured about half a cup of maple syrup on his pancakes.
“Are you moving with the company?” she asked.
“Most probably. You?”
“Depends,” though she wasn’t sure on what.
“I hear they’re planning to have t’ai ch’i in the parking lot every morning,” Ed said.
In the afternoon, the staff took a tour of the local cheese factory, a small wooden building from which a rank odor issued. This was purportedly the only handmade-cheese factory left in America and perhaps that was just as well. Inside, long troughs filled with bubbling curds and whey were being stirred by young workers with long poles. The owner, the former headmaster of a prestigious private school in New York that had courted Charlie, gave a lecture on the process. Hannelore sampled the curds which tasted like popcorn. “Maybe your son could get a job here,” she told Amalie. The stench was overwhelming and Amalie went outside to wait. She could just see Charlie, who was lacto-averse, up to his ears in cheese.
And in the interests of cementing good relations, they were commanded to attend a fried chicken dinner at the local church where they mingled with the local gentry, their future neighbors. Some of the employees made frequent trips to the parking lot for some clandestine swigs of wine bought at the supermarket. As a result there was a lot of good feeling and major cases of heartburn during the night.
The following day, on their way home, the chartered bus passed a large white frame building with green shutters and a large veranda. The sign in front said 1759. Center for Language Training. On the lawn a blackface jockey statue was vomiting water into a fountain. There was no other sign of life. “CIA front,” Ed said. He hadn’t spoken much though he was sitting right next to Amalie. Marshall had remained behind for another couple of days.
Soon they would pass that spot where the accident happened.
“You’ll be okay,” Ed said, sensing her unease.
Up front someone had begun to sing some dirty limericks. Hannelore was in ecstasy with her crew. Her eyes were brimming with joy. Marshall in his wisdom—that old Jewish wisdom, she thought with awe—had again made a brilliant decision.
Chapter 9
A pox on birthdays, Alex Dobrin thought, on his way to Lampedusa’s restaurant with his son. Again he was hearing about Fernmeadow Estates where children were not permitted within the confines of the electrified fence unless accompanied by an adult. To hear Ralph describe the community it was a veritable hotbed of culture: amateur nights, craft fairs, a lecture series on the great sitcoms of the 1950s.
“You could even do some concertizing, Pop.”
Alex shuddered. It was different when he had the store. There he had given master classes in “Music and Socialism” to a packed house. Wasn’t that when he had first seen his neighbor Amalie Price? He would miss her sorely if their building went down and the tenants dispersed. She was away for the weekend, some company trip, and already he missed her.
Lampedusa’s had originally been the President Theater, but now a waterfall and miniature grotto decorated what used to be the lobby. Lanterns and streamers hung in perpetual celebration from the arches.
“You know,” Alex told the coat check attendant, “this is where they first performed Odets’ Awake and Sing.”
“Is there an album for it?” she asked.
“I don’t think the young lady is interested.” Ralph smiled uncomfortably.
“Sorry,” Alex mumbled. “It was before your time.”
“But I like the classics,” she said sweetly. “Especially Kurt Vonnegut.”
A menu the size of the New York Post was put in front of Alex but he waved it aside impatiently. “You’re probably too young to remember, Ralph,” he said, “but this is where they did some of my incidental music. I was working with Piscator. Very avant-garde. Pirandello.”
“Antipasto.” Ralph smiled nervously at the waiter.
Alex pointed to the accordionist who was hoisting his instrume
nt to his shoulders. “What do you want to bet he plays ‘Funiculi, Funicula’?”
A couple of barking chords, and sure enough…
“I like this place,” Alex said charitably.
“Do you, Pop? I want you to have a wonderful birthday.”
Poor Ralph, so eager to please. Alex resolved to make a special effort for a change.
There was a large group at another table. Several generations, tightlipped and redfaced. The kids were kicking each other under the table. A many-tiered birthday cake had just been set down in front of the patriarch.
“A guy with a machine gun is going to jump out of that cake.” Ralph leaned confidentially toward his father and they both laughed. “Hey, this is real nice.” he laid his hand on Alex’s sleeve.
“Whatever you do,” Alex said gruffly, “don’t order me a cake.”
“Here’s what I got for you.” Ralph took a small box out of his pocket.
“You shouldn’t spend money on me.” Alex was embarrassed. “Buy something for the kid,” a sniveling, timid, running-to-fat eleven-year-old, his grandson.
“Birthdays are a tradition and we have to keep up the traditions, if you know what I mean.” Ralph lowered his voice. “They call us ‘people of the book.’”
“Only the first five.” Alex unwrapped the gift. A digital watch. He had to put on his glasses to read the time though he didn’t have any trouble with ordinary watches.
“It’s a beauty, isn’t it.” Ralph was fidgeting excitedly. “The strap is leather.”
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