“No, they’re not,” I say spitefully. “Because no one seems to be interested in me at all.” And with that, I get up, my face burning, and zigzag around the restaurant in search of the restroom.
I’m furious. At my father and Wendy for putting me in this position, but mostly at myself, for losing my temper. Now Wendy will come across as kind and reasonable, while I’ll appear jealous and immature. This only inflames my anger, causing me to recall everything I’ve always hated about my life and my family but refused to admit.
I go into the stall and sit on the toilet to think. What really galls me is the way my father has never taken my writing seriously. He’s never given me a word of encouragement, never said I was talented, has never even given me a compliment, for Christ’s sake. I might have lived my entire life without noticing, if it weren’t for the other kids at The New School. It’s pretty obvious that Ryan and Capote and L’il and even Rainbow have grown up praised and encouraged and applauded. Not that I want to be like them, but it wouldn’t hurt to have some belief from my own parent that I had something special.
I dab at my eyes with a piece of toilet paper, reminding myself that I have to go back out there and sit with them. I need to come up with a strategy, pronto, to explain my pathetic behavior.
There’s only one choice: I’m going to have to pretend my outburst never happened. It’s what Samantha would do.
I raise my chin and stride out.
Back at the table, Missy and Dorrit have arrived, along with a bottle of Chianti set in a woven straw basket. It’s the kind of wine I’d be embarrassed to drink in New York.
And with an ugly pang, I realize how average it all is. My father, the middle-aged widower, inappropriately dressed and going through a midlife crisis by taking up with a somewhat desperate younger woman, who, against the plain backdrop of Castlebury, probably appears interesting and different and exciting. And my two sisters, a punk and a nerd. It’s like some lousy sitcom.
If they’re so ordinary, does it mean I am too? Can I ever escape my past?
I wish I could change the channel.
“Carrie!” Missy cries out. “Are you okay?”
“Me?” I ask with feigned surprise. “Of course.” I take my place next to Wendy. “My father says you helped him find his Harley. I think it’s so interesting that you like motorcycles.”
“My father is a state trooper,” she responds, no doubt relieved that I’ve managed to get ahold of myself.
I turn to Dorrit. “You hear that, Dorrit? Wendy’s father is a state trooper. You’d better be careful—”
“Carrie.” My father looks momentarily distraught. “We don’t need to air our dirty laundry.”
“No, but we do need to wash it.”
No one gets my little joke. I pick up my wine glass and sigh. I’d planned to go back to New York on Monday, but there’s no way I can possibly last that long. Come tomorrow, I’m taking the first train out of here.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“I do love you, Carrie. Just because I’m with Wendy—”
“I know, Dad. I like Wendy. I’m only leaving because I have this play to write. And if I can get it done, it’s going to be performed.”
“Where?” my father asks. He’s clutching the wheel of the car, absorbed in changing lanes on our little highway. I’m convinced he doesn’t really care, but I try to explain anyway.
“At this space. That’s what they call it—‘a space.’ It’s really a kind of loft thing at this guy’s apartment. It used to be a bank—”
I can tell by his glance into the rearview mirror that I’ve lost him.
“I admire your tenacity,” he says. “You don’t give up. That’s good.”
Now he’s lost me. “Tenacity” isn’t the word I was hoping for. It makes me sound like someone clinging to a rock face.
I slump down in the seat. Why can’t he ever say something along the lines of “You’re really talented, Carrie, of course you’re going to succeed.” Am I going to spend the rest of my life trying to get some kind of approval from him that he’s never going to give?
“I wanted to tell you about Wendy before,” he says, swerving into the exit lane that leads to the train station. Now’s my opportunity to tell him about my struggles in New York, but he keeps changing the subject back to Wendy.
“Why didn’t you?” I ask hopelessly.
“I wasn’t sure about her feelings.”
“And you are now?”
He pulls into a parking spot and kills the engine. With great seriousness, he says, “She loves me, Carrie.”
A cynical puff of air escapes my lips.
“I mean it. She really loves me.”
“Everyone loves you, Dad.”
“You know what I mean.” He nervously rubs the corner of his eye.
“Oh, Dad.” I pat his arm, trying to understand. The last few years must have been terrible for him. On the other hand, they’ve been terrible for me, too. And Missy. And Dorrit.
“I’m happy for you, Dad, I really am,” I say, although the thought of my father in a serious relationship with another woman makes me shaky. What if he marries her?
“She’s a lovely person. She—” He hesitates. “She reminds me of Mom.”
This is the cherry on the crap sundae. “She’s not anything like Mom,” I say softly, my anger building.
“She is. When Mom was younger. You wouldn’t remember because you were just a baby.”
“Dad.” I pause deliberately, hoping the obvious falseness of his statement will sink in. “Wendy likes motorcycles.”
“Your mother was very adventurous when she was young too. Before she had you girls—”
“Just another reason why I’ll never get married,” I say, getting out of the car.
“Oh, Carrie.” He sighs. “I feel sorry for you, then. I worry that you’ll never find true love.”
His comment stops me. I stand rigid on the sidewalk, about to explode, but something prevents me. I think of Miranda and how she’d interpret this situation. She’d say it was my father who was worried about never finding true love again, but because he’s too scared to admit it, he pins his fears on me.
I grab my suitcase from the backseat.
“Let me help you,” he says.
I watch as my father lugs my suitcase through the wooden door that leads into the ancient terminal. I remind myself that my father isn’t a bad guy. Compared to most men, he’s pretty great.
He sets down my suitcase and opens his arms. “Can I have a hug?”
“Sure, Dad.” I hug him tightly, inhaling a whiff of lime. Must be a new cologne Wendy gave him.
A yawning emptiness opens up inside me.
“I want the best for you, Carrie. I really do.”
“I know, Dad.” Feeling like I’m a million years old, I pick up my suitcase and head to the platform. “Don’t worry, Dad,” I say, as if to convince myself as well. “Everything is going to be fine.”
The moment the train pulls out of the station, I start to feel better. Nearly two hours later, when we’re passing the projects in the Bronx, I’m positively giddy. There’s the brief, magical view of the skyline—the Emerald City!—before we plunge into the tunnel. No matter where I might travel—Paris, London, Rome—I’ll always be thrilled to get back to New York.
Riding the elevator in Penn Station, I make an impromptu decision. I won’t go straight to Samantha’s apartment. Instead, I’ll surprise Bernard.
I have to find out what’s going on with him before I can proceed with my life.
It takes two separate subway trains to get near his place. With each stop, I become more and more excited about the prospect of seeing him. I arrive at the Fifty-ninth Street station under Bloomingdale’s, the heat coursing through my blood threatening to scald me from the inside.
He has to be home.
“Mr. Singer’s out, miss,” the doorman says, with, I suspect, a certain amount of relish. None of the doormen in this building p
articularly like me. I always catch them looking at me sideways as if they don’t approve.
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“I’m not his secretary, miss.”
“Fine.”
I scan the lobby. Two leather-clad armchairs are stationed in front of a faux fireplace, but I don’t want to sit there with the doorman’s eyes on me. I spin out the door and park myself on a pretty bench across the street. I rest my feet on my suitcase, as if I have all the time in the world.
I wait.
I tell myself I’ll only wait for half an hour, and then I’ll go. Half an hour becomes forty-five minutes, then an hour. After nearly two hours, I begin to wonder if I’ve fallen into a love trap. Have I become the girl who waits by the phone, hoping it will ring, who asks a friend to dial her number to make sure the phone is working? Who eventually picks up a man’s dry cleaning, scrubs his bathroom, and shops for furniture she’ll never own?
Yup. And I don’t care. I can be that girl, and someday, when I’ve got it all figured out, I won’t be.
Finally, at two hours and twenty-two minutes, Bernard comes strolling up Sutton Place.
“Bernard!” I say, rushing toward him with unbridled enthusiasm. Maybe my father was right: I am tenacious. I don’t give up that easily on anything.
Bernard squints. “Carrie?”
“I just got back,” I say, as if I haven’t been waiting for nearly three hours.
“From where?”
“Castlebury. Where I grew up.”
“And here you are.” He slings his arm comfortably around my shoulders.
It’s like the dinner with Maggie never happened. Nor my series of desperate phone calls. Nor his not calling me the way he promised. But maybe, because he’s a writer, he lives in a slightly different reality, where the things that seem earth-shattering to me are nothing to him.
“My suitcase,” I murmur, glancing back.
“You moving in?” he laughs.
“Maybe.”
“Just in time, too,” he teases. “My furniture finally arrived.”
I spend the night at Bernard’s. We sleep in the crisp new sheets on the enormous king-size bed. It’s so very, very comfortable.
I sleep like a baby and when I wake up, darling Bernard is next to me, his face buried in his pillow. I lie back and close my eyes, enjoying the luxurious quiet while I mentally review the events of the evening.
We started by fooling around on the new couch. Then we moved into the bedroom and fooled around while we watched TV. Then we ordered Chinese food (why does sex always seem to make people hungry?) and fooled around some more. We finished off with a bubble bath. Bernard was very gentle and sweet, and he didn’t even try to put in the old weenie. Or at least I’m pretty sure he didn’t. Miranda says the guy really has to jam it in there, so I doubt I could have missed it.
I wonder if Bernard secretly knows I’m a virgin. If there’s something about me that flashes “undefiled.”
“Hiya, butterfly,” he says now, stretching his arms toward the ceiling. He rolls over and smiles, and moves in for a kiss, morning breath and all.
“Have you gotten the pill yet?” Bernard asks, making coffee in the spiffy new machine that gurgles like a baby’s belly.
I casually light a cigarette and hand him one. “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
Good question. “I forgot?”
“Pumpkin, you can’t neglect these kinds of things,” he chastises gently.
“I know. But it’s just that—with my father and his new girlfriend—I’ll take care of it this week, I promise.”
“If you did, you could spend the night more often.” Bernard sets two cups of coffee on the sleek dining room table. “And you could get a small valise for your things.”
“Like my toothbrush?” I giggle.
“Like whatever you need,” he says.
A valise, huh? The word makes spending the night sound planned and glamorous, as opposed to last-minute and smutty. I laugh. A valise sounds very expensive. “I don’t think I can afford a valise.”
“Oh well then.” He shrugs. “Something nice. So the doormen won’t be suspicious.”
“They’ll be suspicious if I’m carrying a plastic grocery bag but not if I’m carrying a valise?”
“You know what I mean.”
I nod. With a valise, I wouldn’t look so much like a troubled teenager he’d picked up at Penn Station. Which reminds me of Teensie.
“I met your agent. At a party,” I say easily, not wanting to ruin the mood.
“Did you?” He smiles, clearly unconcerned about the incident. “Was she a dragon lady?”
“She practically ripped me to shreds with her claws,” I say jokingly. “Is she always like that?”
“Pretty much.” He rubs the top of my head. “Maybe we should have dinner with her. So the two of you can get to know each other.”
“Whatever you want, Mr. Singer,” I purr, climbing into his lap. If he wants me to have dinner with his agent, it means our relationship is not only back on track, but speeding forward like a European train. I kiss him on the mouth, imagining I’m a Katharine Hepburn character in a romantic black-and-white movie.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Later, on my way downtown, I pass a store for medical supplies. In the window are three mannequins. Not the pretty kind you see in Saks or Bergdorf’s, where they make the mannequins from molds of actual women, but the scary cheap ones that look like oversized dolls from the 1950s. The dolls are wearing surgical scrubs, and it suddenly hits me that scrubs would make the perfect New York uniform. They’re cheap, washable, and totally cool.
And they come neatly packaged in cellophane. I buy three pairs in different colors, and remember what Bernard said about a valise.
The only good thing about going to my father’s this weekend was that I found an old binoculars case that belonged to my mother, which I purloined to use as a handbag. Perhaps other items can be similarly repurposed as well. When I trip by a fancy hardware store, I spot the perfect carryall.
It’s a carpenter’s tool bag, made of canvas with a real leather bottom, big enough for a pair of shoes, a manuscript, and a change of scrubs. And it’s only six dollars. A steal.
I buy the tool bag and stick my purse and scrubs into it, grab my suitcase, and head to the train.
It’s been humid the past few days, and when I enter Samantha’s apartment there’s a closed-in smell, as if every odor has been trapped. I breathe deeply, partly due to relief at being back, and partly because this particular smell will always remind me of New York and Samantha. It’s a mixture of old perfume and scented candles, cigarette smoke and something else I can’t quite identify: a sort of comforting musk.
I put on the blue scrubs, make a cup of tea, and sit down at the typewriter. All summer I’ve been terrified about facing the blank page. But maybe because I went home and realized I have worse things to worry about—like not making it and ending up like Wendy—that I’m actually excited. I have hours and hours stretching before me in which to write. Tenacity, I remind myself. I’m going work until I finish this play. And I will not answer the phone. In an effort to make good on my promise, I even unplug it.
I write for four hours straight, until hunger forces me out in search of food. I wander dazedly into the deli, the characters still in my head, yapping away as I buy a can of soup, heat it up, and place it next to my typewriter so I can eat and work. I beetle on for quite a while, and when I finally feel finished for the day, I decide to visit my favorite street.
It’s a tiny, brick-paved path called Commerce Street—one of those rare places in the West Village that you can never find if you’re actually looking for it. You have to sneak up on it by using certain landmarks: the junk store on Hudson Street. The sex shop on Barrow. Somewhere near the pet store is a small gate. And there it is, just on the other side.
I stroll slowly down the sidewalk, wanting to memorize each detail. The tiny, cha
rming town houses, the cherry trees, the little neighborhood bar where, I imagine, all the patrons know one another. I take several turns up and down the street, pausing in front of each house, picturing how it would feel to live there. As I gaze up at the tiny windows on the top floor of a red-brick carriage house, it dawns on me that I’ve changed. I used to worry that my dream of becoming a writer was just that—a dream. I had no idea how to do it, where to begin and how to continue. But lately, I’m beginning to feel that I am a writer. This is me. Writing and wandering the Village in my scrubs.
And tomorrow, if I skip class, I’ll have another day like this one, all to myself. I’m suddenly overcome with joy. I run all the way back to the apartment, and when I spot my pile of plays on the table, I’m can’t believe how happy I am.
I settle in to read, making notes with a pencil and underlining especially poignant bits of dialogue. I can do this. Who cares what my father thinks? For that matter, who cares what anyone thinks? Everything I need is in my head, and no one can take that away.
At eight o’clock, I fall into one of those rare, deep sleeps where your body is so exhausted, you wonder if you’ll ever wake up. When I finally wrench myself out of bed, it’s ten a.m.
I count the hours I slept—fourteen. I must have been really tired. So tired, I didn’t even know how shattered I was. At first, I’m groggy from all the sleep, but when the grogginess dissipates, I feel terrific. I put on my scrubs from the day before, and without bothering to brush my teeth, go straight to the typewriter.
My powers of concentration are remarkable. I write without stopping, without noticing the time, until I type the words “THE END.” Elated and a little woozy, I check the clock. It’s just after four. If I hurry, I can get the play photocopied and into Viktor Greene’s office by five.
I leap into the shower, my heart pounding in triumph. I slide into a clean pair of scrubs, grab my manuscript, and run out the door.
The copy place is on Sixth Avenue, just around the corner from the school. For once, it’s my lucky day—there’s no line. My play is forty pages long and copying is expensive, but I can’t risk losing it. Fifteen minutes later, one copy of my play tucked neatly into a manila envelope, I gallop to The New School.