Saturn's Return to New York

by Sara Gran

  She tried to smile when she took me into the apartment. She didn’t fool me. I thought we were poor now, like the girl from The Little Princess who had to live in an attic, with an Indian Evelyn had tried to transplant my room exactly from the old house into the new. Here were my books, my clothes, my toys, my Barbie poster—but there was only one window, and it looked out onto the elbow-street. There was no backyard window because there was no backyard My room was smaller and painted a different shade of white and the light was different, it was too bright. She showed me around the horrible place and said, “Well, this is it, honey, it’s just you and me now.” She didn’t say us, she said you and me She closed the door behind us and I cried and cried and cried I knew the world would never be the same. When Christmas rolled around that year we went to Erica Anderson’s house in Connecticut, where we pretended we were a part of her big family with its mysterious aunts, uncles, and cousins My mother was an only child and my father hadn’t been close to his brother and sister. The idea of a big family was alien and uncomfortable to me. It never clicked, Erica’s house, and when I was a teenager I stopped going. For a few years I went to Veronica’s house, until her father made a pass at me that I never told her about, and for a few years after that I had various boyfriends who were obligated to let me tag along to their homes, where their mothers always looked at me disapprovingly and gave me fancy soap, wrapped at the department store. Then I had a few years alone, which were nice I baked a turkey breast and watched Claymation reenactments of the birth of Jesus on television. But for a few years now Chloe and Brian have thrown a party on Christmas night, so not only have I had someplace to go, I’ve had someplace I have to go.

  Chloe and Brian live on the top floor of a little brick house on East Twenty-first street. The house had been Brian’s grandmother’s and now he rents out the bottom two floors for a small fortune to supplement his tiny income from writing. He’s cleaned up, Chloe tells me, over this past year, stayed faithful and sober, and I pretend I believe her. I’ve caused enough trouble already, advising Chloe against him when they first started dating five years ago. Over the years I’ve come to see that despite being a drunk, Brian is smart and kind and genuinely loves Chloe, but he still hates me for that. Nonetheless he meets me at the door with a big smile and a big hug, and we do our usual polite spiel.

  “Merry Christmas,” he says heartily.

  “Merry Christmas!” I reply with equal gusto; it’s a competition, now, to see who can be the chipperest. “How’s everything?”

  “Great. Yourself?”

  “Couldn’t be better Absolutely could not be better.”

  “Good. Let me get you a drink.”

  Chloe and Brian’s apartment is very homey and Dutch with its full bookcases and orderly clutter, full with about fifteen people of whom I know about ten. Each December I’m invited to more parties and each year I have less to say. I get a little more popular every year, as I inch up on thirty, and a little more boring. There’s Clara, who I knew at Trout. Kiss, hug. Thankfully Clara has children, a built-in topic for conversation.

  “How are the kids?”

  “They’re great, they’re with Mitch’s mom tonight ”

  “How old are they now?”

  “Four and six.”

  “Wow. Old.”

  Not a whole lot more to say on that topic. Luckily there’s Josh, Chloe’s ex-boyfriend’s cousin who ended up as one of her best friends. Kiss, hug.

  “How long has it been?” I ask “Years It’s been years.”

  “Where’s . . I’m sorry, I can never remember his name.”

  “We broke up ”

  He looks pissed off, like I’m doing this on purpose. Like I wanted to bring up the worst topic possible on Christmas I tell him I’m sorry, I didn’t know

  “It’s fine,” he says, with a sharp little fake smile, and he turns his back.

  Well. Anyway, there’s Katie. Katie and I briefly lived in the same dorm at college, where we weren’t friends, and then briefly worked together at Wilson Books, where we also weren’t friends. Last year she and Brian worked together on an article for New York magazine, something about co-ops and pets, and Katie and Chloe also didn’t become friends Now she has a book deal big enough to make all the gossip columns and I like her even less. Hug, kiss

  “Congratulations, I heard about the book, that’s wonderful!”

  “Yeah, except that now I have to write the damn thing.”

  “You’ll do fine What exactly is it about?”

  “Well, it’s a novel, Mary,” she says, speaking slowly and loudly, explaining a distinction that with my small pea-brain I may not understand. “It’s not about anything.”

  This time, I turn my back. In the kitchen Chloe looks like she’s about to cry.

  “Cranberries I’m rucking out of the cranberries for the goddamned cranberry stuffing.”

  I’ve been unchained—I have an excuse to leave “I’ll go. Where’s the nearest store?”

  “But—”

  “I’ll go. It’s no problem.”

  “Take some—”

  “It’s fine. I’ve got cash. I’ll be back in a minute ”

  Outside the world is beautiful. No one is out and I have the city to myself, and New York has never been so quiet and cold and beautiful. The supermarket is empty except for the staff, gathered around a ham from the deli department, stuck with a few cloves and set on paper plates and doilies. Everyone is talking about what their mother made for Christmas dinner when they were kids Turkey, ham, mofungo, Spam. They’re having fun and we wish each other dozens of Merry Christmases before I leave with three bags of whole frozen cranberries

  Outside the city is even more beautiful than before I’m so fucking happy I’m not even thinking, until coming up to the little brick house I hear my name

  “Mary?”

  It’s lames Beele Fuck Fuck fuck fuck. Shanaishwaraya shanaishwaraya shanaishwaraya. James was my boss at Levington, Inc, the publisher I worked for just before I got the job at Intelligentsia. We went out a few times after I quit—I think because his boss had asked me to rewrite a memo—and then I never called him. James was a little too clean for me, too sharp in his trenchcoats and shiny brown shoes.

  “I thought that was you, Mary.”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “So. It’s been a long time ”

  “Yep. It has been. How’s life?”

  “Good, good. So You never called.”

  “Well, I’ve been busy.”

  “No one’s that busy.”

  “Well. What can I say?”

  “Well, you could tell the truth.”

  “Look, I’m sorry, I—”

  “Forget it. You know Chloe and Brian?”

  “Chloe. We work together at Intelligentsia You?”

  “I know Brian I work for Men’s World now He did a piece for the magazine last summer It’s funny, you remind me a lot of Chloe.”

  “Well, thanks, that’s flattering ”

  “Not really,” James says. “I always thought she was a stuck-up Manhattan bitch just like you are.”

  He walks up the stoop. Well. Merry Christmas to you, too, James, and in the spirit of the season I won’t tell you that I never called because you were the worst fuck I ever had, with hands that might as well have been boxing gloves and a tongue like a wet wool scarf

  Chapter 6

  Monday morning I’m back at work and Kyra Desai is immediately proven right. Strange things are happening.

  At nine thirty I’m closing my office door behind me when I hit Annette Howard, who’s following me into the room, smack in the face. Annette Howard is a category reviewer Self Help/Personal Development/Spiritual Growth. All I’ve ever noticed about her before is her purse, a mid-size fake Kelly bag she carries with her everywhere, even to run across the room to the printer. My office is opposite the room where the twelve category reviewers work and sometimes I watch them. It’s usually even less interesting than my own job. She
waves away my apologies and inquiries about her nose. I sit at my desk and she sits down in the uncomfortable armless chair across

  “I want your job,” she says.

  “Excuse me?”

  She smiles as she speaks, a spokesmodel smile with a row of caps. The accent is definitely southern Annette is blond and pretty, maybe twenty-five, and it’s becoming abundantly clear to me that she’s insane. “Well, I’ve been thinking about, you know, my career, and about Intelligentsia, and I think the next logical step is for me to have your job. But they wouldn’t have to fire you,” she rushes to add. “They could have two spotlight reviewers. But they might have to, you know, let you go.”

  I don’t say anything and so she continues, “I wanted to let you know ahead of time because of the mental illness Your father was crazy. Everyone knows that So you must be a little touched, too. I know what it’s like. My grandmother had schizophrenia She died in an asylum That’s where I get it from.”

  A hot anger is rising up inside me. “What on earth are you getting at?”

  “You see There it goes. You’re getting paranoid. You’re inappropriately angry. You’re reading insults into a neutral statement Believe me, I know.”

  “I am not mentally ill, Annette.”

  “Not yet,” she says cheerfully Her cell phone rings and she reaches into her purse to answer it.

  “Hello?” she says into the phone. “Oh my God. I know I know “ Her voice trails off and she turns toward me “Excuse me I have to take this call Privately.” She looks at me and waits

  When I was fifteen I would have fought Annette, and I probably would have won (rage trumps muscle, but insanity sometimes trumps rage) Now I’m twenty-nine, I’m good, and so I get up from my desk and walk to my boss’s office. Empty I walk around to his boss’s office Empty The floor is laid out in an oval shape, with offices in the middle and on the edges. A hallway runs around the oval, like a race track The management has tried hard to make the Intelligentsia offices look dusty and literary, with cartoons from The New Yorker and snippets of irony from Harper’s Index and news items from GV stuck on the walls with yellowing cellophane tape Stacks of book reviews and piles of books line the halls though there’s plenty of space in the storage rooms. I walk around the race track looking for someone, anyone I know, silently chanting shanaishwaraya, and come back empty-handed. Most of the senior staff and management has taken off today, the day after Christmas Back in my office Annette is off the phone, sitting in the uncomfortable chair with a little smile on her face.

  “It’s okay,” she says, smiling. “You can come back in now ”

  “Thanks So, what was it you wanted, Annette?”

  “I want your job It’ll be great if they can make a new position, and we can work together, but if not I’ll take your job. I thought with you having mental illness and all, being so unstable, I should warn you ahead of time. I didn’t want you to take it personally. I didn’t want you to freak out.” She makes a crazy-person face—eyes wide, mouth stretched open, tongue lolling out—and then she laughs.

  “Thanks, Annette. That’s nice of you.”

  “No problem See ya.”

  In the afternoon Annette comes to my office again. I’m looking at a website on Vedic astrology and I’m not happy to be interrupted. Annette was infuriating for about five minutes and now she’s a bore She perches herself, spine straight, on the uncomfortable chair and smiles.

  “Mary, I hope you didn’t get the wrong idea from our talk this morning ”

  “What would that be?”

  “See, now, I can tell by the tone of your voice that you did get the wrong idea I can tell by the tone of your voice that you think I don’t like you. And I do like you, Mary. I would never do anything to hurt you That’s why I wanted to tell you ahead of time, about the job and everything So we could still be friends Here, I got you something.” She reaches into her cute black purse and pulls out a paperback book with a blue-and-white cover “I got this for you, Mary. This isn’t one of those free Intelligentsia books. I went out and got this for you in a bookstore. I hate bookstores They’re just so, you know, yuck “

  She holds the book out to me and when I don’t take it she drops it on the desk The Eleven Steps to Wholeness: Recovery for Children of Mentally III Parents I don’t say anything, and over the next minute Annette’s face droops from confident young executive to sad little girl

  “Mary,” Annette says, “I can tell by the look on your face that you’re not ready for this book I can tell by the look on your face that I was wrong to give you this book. I’m so stupid sometimes Sometimes I’m brain dead. I’m a moron I am so sorry, Mary, I am so sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Annette.” I’m hoping to avoid a scene. “It looks good. I’m just a little surprised I’m sure it’s a good book It’s okay.”

  “Is it really okay?” Her face brightens back up

  “Sure it is It’s just that, you know, I’ve got a lot on my plate right now, a lot to read, and I might not be able to get to it for a while I just have so many other books to read right now”

  “See, you’re just like me, Mary I don’t like to read too much either. See how much we have in common? Anyway, now you have the book for when you’re ready. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

  “It’s great,” I tell her. “It’s really great.”

  “It’s a workbook. There’s hardly any reading in it It’ll help you, I promise After you do all the work in this workbook you’ll be totally prepared, emotionally, spiritually, psychologically one-hundred-percent prepared for when I take your job ”

  The Eleven Steps to Wholeness is a paperback, eight and one half by eleven inches, navy-blue cover with white print and gold trim, perfect bound Blurbs on the back cover from Deepak Chopra and Stephen Covey, originally published 1997, fifth edition 1999 Disclaimer on the copyright page This book is not intended to diagnose or treat any mental disorder, emotional disorder, or emotional distress. For mental and emotional conditions seek the help of a qualified mental health care professional. Not a substitute for medical treatment. Underneath that: The Bestseller That’s Helped Millions’

  I remember when the book came out I was working Downtown Books, a bookstore on Miami’s South Beach. I worked for Carl, the owner of Downtown Books, for four years, two years at Seventh Avenue Books in Manhattan and two at Downtown Books in Miami.

  “I opened this store,” he told me once, in his messy Seventh Avenue office full of books, bills, scraps of paper, and wads of cash and credit card receipts waiting to be counted, “because for the first time, I needed a job A source of income. My father had done quite well m the stock market He was an investment banker, he was going to go into early retirement There were some questions as to the legality of it all, and then he had his accident—maybe it wasn’t an accident, but we’ll never know—and no one had the heart to come after me and my mother. So we got to keep the money. I was eighteen when he died.

  “I finished up at Harvard and then I traveled a little India, Europe, Morocco—which is not all Gide and Bowles would have had you believe, especially for an overweight man with little money for heroin—then, I came back to New York and bought this house I was forty, my mother was seventy She had lost her vision, two hip replacements, she did not age well, and the money was almost gone In those days I spent most of my time shopping for books and reading, so it seemed natural to renovate the space and open a bookshop Of course, I had imagined myself sitting behind this mahogany desk, hand selling fine-binding editions of Plutarch and Proust to men like James Merrill, who still lived in the Village then—still my favorite poet, after all this time. I sold a first edition of his today, by the way, for two thousand dollars. Some collector bought it, some awful college boy from Connecticut with a bookcase full of unread first editions at home, all in designer colors to go with the sofa. Anyway, I thought it would be so grand I thought I’d employ a staff of struggling poets who would worship me for my worldly erudition, they’d all be slender and
beautiful and I’d take one of them upstairs whenever I was feeling randy But here, what do we have for today? We have to prepare these deposits for the bank account, which is nearly empty, we have to pay these bills, electricity, unemployment for a girl I caught stealing and didn’t have the heart to turn in to the police, as I should have, we have to make an account of expenses and income for the past month, probably to find that I made just enough to eat and buy a new shirt, and I have to hire someone to do this same job in Miami, which I hope will be you.”

  Well. I had worked for Carl for two years, starting as a clerk, then as assistant manager The manager, Carl knew, was stupendously lazy and passed off most of his work to me, but he was gorgeous and, I guess, the closest Carl had ever come to his fantasy of having a staff/harem. After a few years I got restless and Chloe recommended me for the job at Trout Now, two years after I’d left, Carl had called me out of the blue and asked to come to his messy office for a meeting He had bought a half block of real estate in Miami’s Deco District in the early eighties with the last little bit of his inheritance, and although he hadn’t made a dime yet he knew it would pay off big in the future Now one of his tenants was moving out and he thought he might as well open another bookstore.

  I was in a sticky situation at the time and leaving New York didn’t seem like a bad idea. I was working at my third publisher I had an apartment, a little studio on Pitt Street near the FDR Drive that at that time seemed to cost a fortune, although it now seems impossible that I rented an apartment in Manhattan for five hundred and fifty dollars a month. I had a boyfriend, Jim, a few years older than me, who made a living writing young adult romance novels under the name Nancy St Clair