by Ira Levin
She said, “It’s a lot easier to satisfy the instinct in suburban Wichita, I can tell you that. I grew up knowing everyone on Eleanor Lane and their complete family histories.” She took a fry.
He chewed, swallowed. “If you have any questions,” he said, “I’ll be glad to answer them.”
“Thought you’d never ask,” she said. “What does Vida Travisano do? My ‘hallmate.’ ”
He smiled. “Officially she’s a model,” he said. “My lawyer thinks she’s a high-price call girl. What’s your opinion?”
“Either or both,” she said. “I was hoping you’d settle it for me. How come you okayed her? I’m not objecting, she’s perfectly sweet, but if your lawyer felt that way . . .”
He took a sip of beer. “I like the idea of having a mix of people in the building,” he said. “As much of a mix as you can get, in this neighborhood, at these rents. I don’t want to be entirely surrounded by yuppie clones, not even in the elevator.”
“That sounds reasonable,” she said.
“Ah, but you’re not a lawyer,” he said. “Or someone in real-estate management. I’m sure they think I’m nuts and a pain in the ass.”
She smiled at him. Shrugged. “If they do,” she said, “that’s their problem.”
They ate bites of their burgers. Played some footsie.
She said, “What are the Johnsons like?”
“The Johnsons?” he said. “Oh, thirteen B. They’re never here so I forgot about them. Almost never, a few weeks a year. They’re British, fifty-something. He’s a lawyer, excuse me, a barrister, and she’s—I forget what she does. Nothing. Shops. Comes in with lots of packages.”
Giorgio went by outside the window with a German shepherd; stood waiting while it nosed the base of the corner streetlight.
They smiled at each other. “What does she do?” she asked.
“Owns a travel agency,” he said. “Over on Lexington. Single.” He took a fry.
She squinted out the window. “She looks like a man in drag,” she said.
He smiled, poking the tip of the fry into ketchup. “You’re right, she does,” he said. Ate the red-tipped fry, looking away for the waitress.
She went to a Women’s Media Group lunch at the Harvard Club. Everyone said she never looked better. Ditto at the Vertical Club.
She took Felice to Dr. Monsey on Bank Street for her shots; stopped in at the superette and the bookshop. Everyone said she never looked better.
They biked in the park. Made spaghetti and clam sauce.
Went with Roxie and Fletcher to a Cajun place in SoHo. Pete spoke knowledgeably with Roxie about the artistic process, with Fletcher about federal guidelines in medical-research funding. He told a joke that left them limp. Traded tastes with her, loving looks.
“Didn’t I tell you?” she said in the loo.
“Listen,” Roxie said, standing on tiptoes at the sink, painting her eyes in the mirror, “if he’s rich too and the sex is so great, for God’s sake grab him!”
“Roxie . . .”
“Steffi is fifteen years older than Mike and they’re happy as clams. Pounce!”
One night, when he was staying over and they were going to sleep, she mentioned that an agent was taking her to lunch the next day at the Four Seasons.
“Thea Marshall took me there for my tenth birthday,” he said, lying spooned behind her, clasping her breasts, his cheek in her hair. “God, was it impressive for a kid, the scale of it. . . . We were alongside the pool. The waiters and captains all fawning over us, everyone looking . . . Like we were Mary and Jesus . . . Is it some kind of book-people’s place now?”
She said, “Just at lunch. The Grill Room.”
“I thought I heard that somewhere. . . .”
Felice turned around against their blanketed feet.
She fingered the backs of his hands. “You always refer to her as ‘Thea Marshall,’ ” she said—his hands twitched—”never as ‘my mother’ . . .”
He shrugged against her. “That’s how I think of her,” he said. “How I always have. It was the way she wanted to be thought of—the actress, not somebody’s mother. She only had me because my father made her. And the ironic thing is, she was this really terrific young mother who always did the right thing. On Search for Tomorrow. And totally believable. Day after day, a really fantastic performance. I took cabs home from school to catch it, it was before VCR’s.”
She drew his hands tighter to her, kissed them. Said, “You know, don’t you, darling, that there’s nothing you can’t tell me. . . .”
He lay still against her back. “What do you mean?”
She turned herself around in his arms, hugged him. He stared at her in the near-dark. She kissed the tip of his nose. Said, “Isn’t there something you haven’t told me, baby?”
He stared at her.
“There’s no shame attached to it if you need it,” she said. “I’m all for it, you must know that.”
Staring, he said, “What are you talking about?”
She said, “Dr. Palme . . .”
He swallowed, looked at her. “Dr. Palme?” he said.
She nodded.
“You—think I—see him?”
She said, “Don’t you?”
He looked at her, shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m not his patient. Haven’t been. His or anyone’s. Why did you think so? When I said I heard him . . . ?”
She nodded. “It seemed so—unlikely,” she said. “That he was talking about the Oedipus complex in the elevator, and that you of all people overheard him.”
He smiled. Let out breath. “But it happened,” he said. Smiled wider. “One of life’s amazing coincidences.”
She hugged him, nuzzled into his shoulder, giggling. “Oh God, darling, I’m sorry,” she said. “Believe me, it wasn’t anything else! Only that. Oh Lord. That’ll teach me a lesson. I was so sure . . .”
They kissed, hugging. Felice jumped off the bed.
He laughed, hugging her. Drew a deep breath, puffed it out over her shoulder. “Jeez,” he said, “I couldn’t imagine what the hell you were talking about!”
They took the Circle Line cruise around Manhattan.
She trimmed his hair.
He gave her a Tiffany package, the paper the blue of his eyes. The fluid gold openwork heart on a chain, the big one.
She gave him five pounds of gourmet jelly beans—luscious colors.
Sam called. “How are you?”
“Fine,” she said. “You?”
“Okay. I was in Arizona for a while. My brother died.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear it. . . .”
“Yeah, well, what are you gonna do. . . . That was awful about your friend Sheer. I’m beginning to think there’s really a jinx on this place.”
“Hardly,” she said.
“Listen, I did some thinking out there, about what you said. The memoirs. I decided to give it a shot. Funny and serious both, why be shy?”
“Hey, that’s great news, Sam,” she said. “I’m really glad to hear it. I’m sure you can do it.”
“Thanks, I hope so. I’ve written—I guess you’d call it a first chapter. Would you like to see it?”
She drew breath. “I don’t think I’m the right one,” she said, “I do very little nonfiction; but yes, send it to me, just drop it off in the mail room; I’ll get it to an editor who’ll be sympathetic to the material and who’ll give you a good objective reaction.”
“Okay . . . Thanks. That’ll be fine, I appreciate it. The typing’s from hunger.”
“As long as it’s double-spaced and legible.”
She told Pete about it when he came up—late, he’d hit a glitch in the program he was working on. “It’ll be interesting,” he said, sitting on the side of the bed after she’d gotten back into it. “Maybe I’ll finally find out for sure about him and Thea Marshall.”
She watched him untying a sneaker, sparring with Felice over the laces. She said, “I got the impression that ther
e was a relationship, and it was very much love-hate. He’s liable to say unkind things about her.”
He shrugged, glanced at her. “Is that why you’re giving it to someone else?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “You know I don’t do much nonfiction.”
He pulled the sneaker off. “It was your idea,” he said. “I would think you’d want to work on it.”
She gathered the manuscript she’d been reading into its box. “Oh boy,” she said, shaking her head. “Yes, I would love to, if what he’s written is halfway good. But I wouldn’t be comfortable working with him now, knowing about you and the foundation when he doesn’t, being one-up on him that way. It should be a very open and candid relationship, especially with a writer who’ll probably have to be nursed along chapter by chapter. It’s no good if I have to watch what I’m saying.” She closed the box.
“And yes,” she said, “there would be a problem if he got into things I thought might hurt you. . . .” She put the box on the others under the night table.
He was sitting up looking at her when she sat straight.
She smiled at him, reached, caressed his cheek. “It’s not important, baby,” she said. “Really. I wouldn’t even know him if you hadn’t brought him here, right?”
He nodded.
She smiled. “So quit stalling and get the clothes off,” she said.
He smiled at her. Bent to his other sneaker.
Sam left an envelope in the mail room—folded pages, a dozen. Bad typing but good stuff: New York in the early thirties, eight-year-old Sam and twelve-year-old Abe—Yellen, not Yale—being spirited from the Bronx by Uncle Maurice the actor and shoved onstage in the Group Theatre production of Waiting for Lefty.
Slightly E. L. Doctorow . . .
She gave it to Stuart.
It was the one thing he hadn’t expected, that he’d fall in love with her.
Amazing, that lack of foresight, considering how marvelous she was: warm, smart, honest, funny, sexy—and looking like Thea Marshall. All of which he had known almost since the day she moved in—nowhere near as well as he knew it now, of course—yet the thought he might fall in love with her hadn’t even crossed his mind.
There it was, though. Ruining everything.
He watched her sitting on the sofa with her glasses on and her feet on the coffee table, reading another manuscript some agent was hot on. Contemporary sexual conflicts.
He wished he could tell her about Phil and Lesley and Mark, Vida, the Fishers, the Hoffmans—about everything that was going on in the building, not just the sexual conflicts. How right she had been: it was no good watching every word, having secrets that couldn’t be shared. No good? Make that rotten, Kay.
And if Naomi, who hadn’t been half as sharp as she was, had caught on, wouldn’t she catch on sooner or later no matter how careful he was? Wasn’t he bound to make a slip he couldn’t explain someday? What then, for God’s sake?
She turned, looked at him over her glasses. “What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said. Smiled. “I was just watching you. Resting my eyes.”
Smiling, she said, “If you don’t like it, don’t read it. I won’t be hurt.”
“No, I’m enjoying it,” he said, lifting the open book. “This part on the boat is terrific.”
They smiled at each other. She nodded toward the door, chuckling. “Go on downstairs,” she said. “Work on the program. I could use some alone time too.”
He tucked the book’s flap in its pages. “I’m going to take it with me,” he said. Leaned to her as she took her glasses off. He kissed her. “I love you,” he said.
She kissed him, caressed his cheek, looking at him.
They kissed, and he got up and went around the sofa to the foyer. “Good night, Felice,” he called, “wherever you are!”
Watching him, she said, “Hey, wait a minute . . .” She put the manuscript aside, getting up.
He waited by the hall door.
She went and stood before him. Looked him in the eye. “One of our editors, Wendy Wechsler,” she said, “I think I mentioned her—”
He nodded.
“She does a Thanksgiving dinner for transplanted people who aren’t going home,” she said. “Would you like to go with me? I know it’s late but—I waffled. You know . . .”
He glanced away, drew a breath. Put the book under his arm and took her by the shoulders. “I would love to, Kay,” he said, “and I appreciate your asking me. Sincerely. But I have these cousins in Pittsburgh that I promised I’d go to. I’ve been putting them off year after year and I just can’t back out now after I finally said yes.”
She said, “I understand.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I shouldn’t have waited so long.”
They kissed. Hugged.
He looked at her. “Ummm . . . ?”
“No, go on,” she said. “We both could use a little space. Go on. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
They kissed.
He opened the door, went out.
She watched him open the stairway door and go out to the landing. He waved at her through the wired-glass panel as the door closed.
She closed the apartment door, turned the bolt. Breathed a sigh. Crouched and picked up Felice. Held her before her, eye to eye. “Cousins?” she asked.
“Is it anything I said?”
“No.”
“Or did?”
“No,” he said. “It’s me, not you. Honestly.” His eyelids closed.
She kissed his lips, smoothed his hair back with both hands. “Something with your work?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “Yes. No.”
“I’m not completely computer-illiterate, you know. . . .”
“Honey, please, shh, let’s not talk, okay? Shh. Zap, we’re mute.”
She kissed his lips, his eyelids. Closed her eyes. He moved in her, stiffening.
She signed a writer, bought a suit.
He didn’t call. She decided she’d wait this time.
Worked out at the club, scored at an editorial meeting. Went to a party. Went home and checked the machine. He hadn’t called.
She baked two pumpkin pies, Felice watching.
She called the folks Thanksgiving morning. Bob and Cass were there, Uncle Ted, everyone cheery except the baby wailing in the den. A good call—no arguments, no questions about men. They looked forward to her Christmas visit; she did too.
The turkey was dry but the trimmings were great, the table bigger than last year’s—familiar faces, new ones. She imagined him at a cold table in a Pittsburgh mansion, or, she hoped, alone at his computer with a frozen dinner, the hell with him. Wendy’s suave orthopedist came on to her but she was through with old no matter what. The pies were a smash. She went home and checked the machine; he hadn’t called.
Friday was dreary—surprise. A gray sky, flecks of snow. She paid some bills, cleaned a little, changed the bed. Got the telescope; watched gulls on the reservoir, joggers on the mesh-fenced track—two middle-aged women arguing on the shoulder, one showing her palms, the other shaking a finger, both in blue sweatsuits. Too bad she couldn’t lip-read. Felice, on the window-sill, nuzzled her knee.
She tried to do some work—paring down an overstuffed bio of Dorothy Parker. Got nowhere with it. What was he doing?
She cocooned herself on the sofa and watched soaps—One Life to Live, General Hospital. Hoped the actresses, fairly decent, some of them, were giving their kids enough quality time. Roxie called; she kept her mouth shut and listened for a change. Said everything was fine, status quo. Busy.
She watched Now, Voyager, Felice sleeping in her lap.
Ate a yogurt, took a bath.
On Saturday she got back on track; put the TV in its corner, finished the cleaning, shopped, squared herself at the desk. Three weeks since the whole thing had started. She polished his open gold heart with her thumb—and got to work. Picked up speed, plowed ahead. C
lean copy, thank God.
The phone rang as she finished marking a short end-of-a-chapter page—4:54 on the clock. She watched the phone. It rang. She picked up. “Hello?” she said.
“Hi.”
She took her glasses off. “Hi,” she said.
“How was Thanksgiving?”
“Caloric,” she said. “Fun. Yours?”
“I didn’t have one. I was lying, I was afraid we were getting in too deep. I’m sorry now.”
She turned in the chair. “So am I,” she said.
“I love you, Kay.”
“Oh Petey”—she shut her eyes, drew breath—“I love you, baby, so much. . . .”
“Oh honey . . . God, I’ve missed you. There’s something we have to talk about, it’s too heavy for the phone. Does that sound familiar?”
Smiling, she said, “Two vodka and tonics, coming up.”
“No. Down here this time. Would you mind?”
“Terribly,” she said. “Now?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“You won’t know the place. I cleaned in your honor.”
7
WHATEVER IT WAS, THEY could deal with it, now that he was ready to talk about it. The damn age difference, probably.
She showered and made herself gorgeous and thirty-five, tops. Put on white slacks and flats and the peach pullover, the heart on the chain. Florence Leary Winthrop called, manic, wanting to bounce ideas off her; it took five minutes to get a postponement till first thing Monday. She turned the machine on, got her keys. Put down fresh food and water, told Felice she’d see her later.
The elevators were at fifteen and six, both going down; she took the stairs. Jigged down the zigzagging half-flights lit by fluorescents at the numbered landings, her footfalls whispering down the gray concrete well. She hoped it was the age difference, not MS or cancer or something, there in that bad-luck building. . . .
She went out on thirteen.
He was busy in the kitchen in a plaid shirt and jeans, the apartment door wide open, the Beatles singing “Hey Jude.” He turned, smiling the dynamite smile. “Two vodka and tonics,” he said, wiping his hands on a hanging towel. “But I’m sorry, miss, you’ll have to show me some ID. . . .”
