A Long Island Story

by Rick Gekoski

He looked down at Becca, who nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘I’m going to buy a new dress!’

  ‘More than one, I suspect,’ said her father. ‘She said she was going to stay in the city overnight and shop till she drops!’

  Jake looked sceptical, not so much at the explanation – he couldn’t conceive of an alternative – but at the activity. Shopping was stupid.

  Standing to the side, in front of the house, Morrie and Perle exchanged one of those looks that tacitly acknowledged that something was up and agreed to say nothing about it. When the kids released their father, they each gave him a hug and Maurice insisted on carrying his briefcase into the bungalow. Why didn’t he have more luggage? That was odd.

  ‘It’s great to see you!’ he said, a little too emphatically.

  It wasn’t dinnertime quite yet. They gave him time to shower and change, mix a drink and sit on the porch, collect himself after the long journey. The children hovered for a while but soon wandered off to play in the hammock, one wrapping themselves in while the other swung it round and round. It made Granny crazy when they did that, they were sure to hurt themselves! Maurice was reading the paper in the living room, Perle was in the kitchen, as if each of them, the adults and the children, had agreed that it was time to be quiet and to leave each other be.

  The next morning, after coffee and toast, Ben asked if he could use the phone.

  ‘Use the phone? Of course you can? Why do you need to ask?’

  He’d never felt entirely comfortable at the bungalow, didn’t treat it as if it were his own, make himself snacks, turn on the radio or television, borrow the newspaper, take a shower, use the telephone. These things, this place, belonged to them, and if Addie rightly felt comfortable in availing herself of every facility, he certainly did not.

  I wonder why that is? he thought. Why he had never settled during his Huntington visits, never felt as if it were home? Well, soon enough it would be, it was time to see to that. Either he could pussyfoot around, negotiate with his wife, wheedle and ingratiate, or he could do something positive, on his own, right now.

  He consulted his pocket address book, took up the phone and dialled. After four rings it was picked up by Harriet Silber, breathlessly, as if she had been running, afraid to miss the call. How far could someone run in that ferschleptah apartment anyway? The phone was right there, ten steps away from anywhere. What the hell else could she have been doing?

  ‘Harriet? Hello, it’s Ben.’

  There was an uncomprehending pause.

  ‘Ben Grossman, you know, Addie’s husband. We came to look at the apartment . . .’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember . . .’

  The tone wasn’t chilly, quite, but Harriet had clearly been expecting this call for some time, if only as a matter of courtesy. She was anxious to get the lease resolved before they moved to Great Neck, though they hadn’t yet tried to find anyone else. Michelle had been so sure that Ben and Addie would be thrilled to take over the apartment. Some thrilled!

  ‘Look,’ said Ben, ‘I am so sorry we’ve been slow getting back to you . . .’

  ‘Yes. Of course . . .’

  ‘. . . but as you know it has been a very hectic time, rather . . . complicated, if you could put it like that.’

  You could. She knew the story.

  ‘But I think we are seeing our way clear now, and I can confirm . . .’ There was a brief pause while he asked himself if he could indeed confirm anything at all. ‘I can confirm that we are definitely interested.’

  ‘That’s a relief,’ said Harriet, ‘and Michelle and Frankie will be delighted! It’s a perfect solution for you all!’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Ben, ‘just perfect. Could I come round this afternoon to have a final look and to discuss details?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll see you both then.’

  ‘Oh, it’ll just be me, Addie’s in the city doing some shopping.’

  There was an interrogative pause, which he didn’t interrupt.

  ‘Would three o’clock be all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Perfect, see you then.’ Harriet hung up, perhaps a little quickly.

  At two-thirty he asked Morrie if he could borrow the car to go into town.

  ‘Don’t ask! Stop with the asking already! What’s mine is yours!’

  ‘Thanks, Mo, I appreciate it.’

  Maurice passed him the keys.

  ‘Doing some shopping?’

  ‘Yup, few things to pick up. Anything I can get while I’m in the village?’

  He could sense that Maurice, who seemed at a loose end, was about to suggest they go together, thinking it would give them a chance to talk for a few minutes, man to man. Something was up. And knowing his daughter as he did, he suspected it might be trouble. Ben had never spent a night at the bungalow on his own, and the story about Addie doing some shopping didn’t cut any ice with him. No, something was up.

  ‘I think I might get a haircut while I’m out,’ said Ben. It was a good excuse, it would take a half-hour, maybe more, if there was a wait on a Saturday afternoon. You don’t take your father-in-law to the barber’s with you.

  ‘Oh, OK. You do that. I’ll see you later. You want me to arrange a game of pinochle tonight? I could get Popshe and Sam. Or maybe Frankie might play.’

  ‘That’d be great, Mo, let’s do that.’

  His father-in-law smiled at the thought.

  ‘You better go to the bank too,’ he said. ‘You’re going to need some money!’

  *

  She could hear the phone ringing as she opened the door, rushed across the room and picked it up, trying to keep her voice neutral, as if answering a call from the beauty parlour.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi. It’s me.’

  ‘Thanks for calling back.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I? It’s been a long time.’

  It wasn’t clear to Addie, nor perhaps to Ira himself, what this meant. That after fifteen years it’s good to catch up with an old friend? Old? Friend? More than that, surely, and both of them knew it.

  The pause had gone on long enough. Pregnant, did they call it? What would be would be.

  ‘Let’s cut to the chase, can we? I have such fond memories of those times . . . I’d love to know what has happened to you.’

  He laughed.

  ‘Lots! And you?’

  ‘Lots!’

  The next pause signalled: We’re not getting anywhere, are we?

  ‘Look,’ said Addie, ‘I don’t know how you’re fixed these days, how you live, who with. Anything, nothing. But I am in the city, and I am free for a drink tonight, or anytime tomorrow. What do you think?’

  ‘I’d like that. I think I would. And I am leaving work in an hour or so, let’s meet.’

  ‘Great! Where?’ She knew better than to suggest the Oyster Bar, but hoped he would. That would be the sign she was waiting for, the signal.

  ‘I work up at 88th on the East Side.’ She knew he worked at Gracie Mansion, Mayor Impellitteri’s residence, and that he would not say so. Perhaps he was embarrassed to be serving a relative non-entity who was rumoured to have Mafia connections, who was a former law clerk to a schmuck: Supreme Court Justice Peter Schmuck.

  ‘How funny, I am staying right across the park on 86th and Central Park West.’

  ‘If you could bear to come to my side of town, there’s a bar and grill on Lexington between 64th and 65th. Donoghue’s. It’s simple and friendly. Good drinks.’

  ‘I think I’ll walk across the park. I need to clear my head. So I’ll see you there at seven-thirtyish,’ said Addie. ‘Don’t worry if you’re a bit late, I’ll have the paper.’

  ‘See you then,’ he said. His voice sounded relieved. Perhaps because the call was over. Or perhaps because they were going to meet? Both, presumably, she thought. Both, I hope.

  Was it significant that the meeting place was just a few blocks south on Lexington from Hunter College, almost within sight of the corner on which they’d said goodbye?

>   Of all the joints, she thought, why’d he choose this one? It must be significant, but what did it signify?

  She had no intention of walking across the park, was just buying time to see if she could put herself together. She walked into the bedroom and studied her image in the mirror on the back of the door. My God! A drunken, broken night, that frightful scene, the ghastly silent train journey. Her face looked as if it had been soaked in detergent, blotchy, sagging, irrecoverably miserable. And she was going to see Ira in an hour and a half! Why had she agreed to that? How could she? She didn’t even have a change of clothes, even of underwear, hadn’t seen any need to bring an overnight bag, all her stuff was in the apartment. Which she would never again set foot in.

  She ran a bath and undressed reluctantly, discarding her rumpled skirt and blouse, looked at herself in the mirror once again, naked. Looked away. How would Ira remember her? What could he possibly think of this exhausted, saggy-eyed, floppy-titted, greying middle-aged incarnation of that pretty girl?

  Best to call it off. She walked to the phone, began to dial, put it down, went back to the bathroom and turned off the taps, dressed again, went out the door. There was a clothing shop on Amsterdam, at 85th, was it? Somewhere round there. A five-minute walk, nice shop with a green-striped awning. She bought everything she needed, and then some more. Pretty satin underwear, a skimpy new bra that sent a clear message. She deserved a treat. And if she was unlikely to look like a treat, at least she wouldn’t look a walking disaster.

  She walked home with her bags, started the bath again, lay down to soak. What was she so anxious about after all? It wasn’t like they were going to rent a suite at the Waldorf Astoria. Just a drink with an old friend . . .

  Perle didn’t have much in the way of make-up, but Addie had her own powder compact, lipstick and mascara, and found an old jar of Max Factor Pan-Cake Make-up, designed to make you look like a Hollywood star. Addie was shocked to see it. Her mother! She would have been less surprised to find a gun.

  By the time she was dressed and done up, her second visit to the mirror was more reassuring than her first. If she didn’t entirely like what she saw, the emerging lines and wrinkles, the loss of skin tone, the baggy eyes and lank hair, she knew that Ira would. He’d never had much of an eye for detail. And he sounded excited to hear from her, hear her voice again. He had loved her.

  And she, him.

  *

  Harriet Silber was not there, and Charlie Silber was not happy. He opened the door to the apartment, waved Ben towards the living room, indicated which chair he might take. Ben took it.

  ‘To tell you the truth, Ben,’ said Charlie in a tone just short of lawyerly, ‘we are a little disappointed not to have heard from you. In fact, we have people wanting the apartment – you know the Wassermans, Teddy and Ellie? – but we’ve been waiting to hear from you. In fact, on Monday we were going to offer it to them . . .’

  Ben nodded in a manner suitably apologetic.

  ‘. . . unless this visit is to agree to take on the lease, and to arrange a date to sign the papers and to firm up the details?’

  Ben still didn’t say anything. Sometimes, as any lawyer knows, it’s best to let the opposition talk themselves out, make a mistake. Opposition? Mistake? What was he thinking? If there was any opposition it wasn’t the poor sad Silbers, and if any mistake was being made it was his.

  But Charlie was finished, nonplussed that Ben was so unforthcoming. What was the matter with the fellow? Where was his pretty wife? Something fishy was going on, he could smell it.

  ‘I gather Addie is in the city? So have you and she agreed, and can we all now agree?’ He’d warmed up a little, talking, slowly and sympathetically, as to a retarded child.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ben, not altogether firmly but in a clear enough voice. ‘Yes, we have. If you can draw up the papers with the management, we can sign them as soon as they are ready. Or’ – he paused for a moment, things were going to get a bit tricky – ‘Addie can sign them. I will be in Alexandria, serving out my month’s notice and getting the apartment packed up for the moving men. We hope to be able to come sometime in September. If the kids need to start school before we move, we can always stay at the bungalow with Addie’s folks.’

  It sounded slightly odd to Charlie, but he had no reason to doubt Ben’s word, only his sanity. It wasn’t hot enough to be sweating that profusely, and his picking at the dead skin on his hands was not only compulsive but disgusting. Flakes appeared on the carpet as regular as light snow.

  Ben stood up, collecting himself, gave a wry grin. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained. I’m sure we will be happy here.’

  On the evidence to date Charlie was by no means certain they would, but it wasn’t his look out. Great Neck was, and the last bridge had been crossed. Harriet would be delighted to hear it.

  Two, Addie reflected happily, was just the perfect number. Just the two of them, at Donoghue’s. To-day, a two-some, what a to-do. Two Bloody Marys, just right, today as yesterday, blessed be the Lord. Two made them both warm and giggly and connected, risk a third and they would end up in bed, only separately, ready for sleep. Best keep it at two, order a strip steak for dinner, medium rare, some mashed potatoes and gravy, maybe some cabbage. Irish places always stewed it to mush so it dissolved in your mouth, but with a comforting flavour and smell, like day-old baby food in a nursery.

  They had drinks at the bar, but the after-work clientele was egregiously gregarious and invasive. Had they come in before? Did they work locally? Ordering the second Bloody Mary, they spotted an emptying banquette towards the rear and installed themselves on the red leather seats, designed for maximum discomfort, straight-backed and unyielding, so you wouldn’t be tempted to stay and stay. They didn’t mind. Their knees touched under the table, they raised their glasses, touched them together. Clunk, not ping. Heavy glasses, used to multiple toasts. Shall we toast ourselves, our meeting again? They laughed. Their talk was starting to flow now, thank God, it had been a little stiff at first, neither of them relaxed – why should they be? – not quite knowing how to get over those first few minutes, before the first drink took hold. Or, Addie had to admit to herself, her second, if you counted the one in the apartment.

  ‘Have you seen The Crucible yet?’ Ira asked. ‘It’s extraordinary!’

  Making conversation, a bit sad. Addie hadn’t been to the theatre in years and, though she’d read the reviews of Miller’s new play, she didn’t know anyone who had seen it.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m not sure I even want to. I don’t trust these allegories – is that what you call them? You know, when a thing gets used to represent another thing? We have our own witch trials here and now, why should I give a damn about a bunch of hysterical pilgrims?’

  ‘But that’s just the point! This kind of hysteria has deep roots in the American psyche . . .’

  She waved her cigarette in the air, leaving plumes of smoke.

  ‘Gimme a break! The American psyche? Whose psyche? Mine? Yours? A farmer in Kansas? A redneck in Arkansas? There’s no such thing. There’s no such thing as America . . .’

  He shook his head, weary and dismissive. She sensed him hunching away from her and had an acute recognition that if she carried on she would lose him.

  ‘But anyway,’ she said as gaily as she could muster, ‘I guess I’ll see it. I’m a big fan of his, and I adore Willy Loman. I just worry that he has gone too far this time, and that before he knows it he’ll be on trial before those HUAC vampires, defending himself!’

  ‘I’m sure that is just what he is intending,’ said Ira, recovering himself and re-joining her.

  Addie lit another cigarette off the butt of her dying one, pulled the ashtray close.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t!’ Ira said.

  ‘Why not?’ She lit up and took a deep drag, exhaled, not exactly in his direction.

  ‘Please. Since I stopped, the smoke makes me feel sick and makes my clothes smell.’

>   So what? her expression said. Big wussy!

  ‘Besides, they are bad for you!’

  Addie held hers in front of her face and looked at it enquiringly.

  ‘Bad for you? How?’

  ‘They make you cough, can’t be good for your lungs . . .’

  ‘Not mine! Couldn’t live without them!’

  ‘Ask your doctor,’ Ira said tartly. ‘And do please put it out. It was OK sitting at the bar, close to the door. Surely you can make it through a meal without one? Maybe you could just concentrate on me!’

  Put that way, Addie found herself acceding and concentrated on him ferociously. He squirmed and laughed. She needed a cigarette.

  He was different, it was unreasonable to suppose he would have been just the same; he was better, grown into himself, had put on some weight, looked great in a well-cut suit and striped tie, no stupid baseball cap with frizzy hair sticking out. Less hair altogether, he’d be pretty bald in a few more years, just as his father had been. No hat at all, it wouldn’t have suited him.

  She remembered him, and them; it was impossible not to.

  ‘What are you smiling about?’ he asked, aware that there was something he was being left out of.

  She’d been thinking, how could a girl not, of making love with him, those sultry afternoons in his apartment.

  ‘What?’ he said again, as she rubbed her finger round the rim of the cocktail glass and put it into her mouth, excluding him, seeming to retract.

  ‘Just thinking . . .’

  ‘What, thinking what?’ He smiled too, perhaps catching on. He got it, sort of.

  He’d been forthcoming, though there seemed little enough to forthcome about. A successful but not meteoric three years at Columbia Law, a slow rise in the ranks of the lawyer/politico spectrum, the cushy but unsatisfying job in the Mayor’s office, perhaps something better if a decent Democrat won the mayoralty election next year and kept him on.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Addie teasingly, as if dismissively, ‘get on to the real stuff!’

  He knew what she meant, but his real stuff wasn’t all that interesting either. He waved his hand. ‘I’ll bet yours is better!’ he said. He knew she’d got her Masters at Penn, but then she’d disappeared from the radar. What happened in those years? Husband? Children?