Summer and the City

  “And my wife took all the furniture. What about you?” he asks. “Have you ever been married?”

  I look at him in astonishment. I’m barely old enough to drink, I nearly say. Instead, I shake my head as if I, too, have been disappointed in love.

  “I guess we’re both a couple of sad sacks,” he says. I go along with his mood. I’m finding him particularly attractive at the moment and I’m hoping he’ll put his arms around me and kiss me. I’m longing to be pressed up against that lean chest. I sit in the beanbag chair, instead.

  “Why’d she take the furniture?” I ask.

  “My wife?”

  “I thought you were divorced,” I say, trying to keep him on point.

  “She’s mad at me.”

  “Can’t you make her give it back?”

  “I don’t think so. No.”

  “Why not?”

  “She stubborn. Oh Lord. She’s as stubborn as a mule on race day. Always has been. That’s how she got so far.”

  “Hmmm.” I roll around seductively on the beanbag.

  My actions have their desired effect, that being why should he think about his ex-wife when he has a lovely young woman—me—to concentrate on instead? Sure enough, in the next second, he asks, “How about you? Are you hungry?”

  “I’m always hungry.”

  “There’s a little French place around the corner. We could go there.”

  “Terrific,” I say, leaping to my feet, despite the fact that the word “French” reminds me of the restaurant I used to go to in Hartford with my old boyfriend, Sebastian, who dumped me for my best friend, Lali.

  “You like French food?” he asks.

  “Love it,” I reply. Sebastian and Lali were a long time ago. And besides, I’m with Bernard Singer now, not some mixed-up high school boy.

  The “little French place around the corner” turns out to be several blocks away. And it’s not exactly “little.” It’s La Grenouille. Which is so famous, even I’ve heard of it.

  Bernard ducks his head in embarrassment as the maître d’ greets him by name. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Singer. We have your usual table.”

  I look at Bernard curiously. If he comes here all the time, why didn’t he say he was a regular?

  The maître d’ picks up two menus and with an elegant tip of his head, leads us to a charming table by the window.

  Then Mr. Monkey-suit pulls out my chair, unfolds my napkin, and places it on my lap. He rearranges my wine glasses, picks up a fork, inspects it, and, the fork having passed muster, replaces it next to my plate. Honestly, all the attention is disorienting. When the maître d’ finally retreats, I look to Bernard for help.

  He’s studying the menu. “I don’t speak French. Do you?” he asks.

  “Un peu.”

  “Really?”

  “Vraiment.”

  “You must have gone to a very fancy school. The only foreign language I learned was fisticuffs.”

  “Ha.”

  “I was pretty good at it too,” he says, making jabbing motions in the air. “Had to be. I was this runt of a kid and everyone’s favorite punching bag.”

  “But you’re so tall,” I point out.

  “I didn’t grow until I was eighteen. What about you?”

  “I stopped growing when I was six.”

  “Hahaha. You’re funny.”

  And just as the conversation is about to take off, the maître d’ returns with a bottle of white wine. “Your Pouilly-Fuissé, Monsieur Singer.”

  “Oh, thanks,” Bernard says, looking sheepish again. This is very odd. The apartment, the restaurant, the wine—surely Bernard is wealthy. Why, then, does he insist on acting like he’s not? Or rather, that it’s all a burden which he must somehow endure?

  The wine pouring is yet another ritual. When it’s over, I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “It’s annoying, isn’t it?” Bernard says, echoing my thoughts.

  “Why do you let them do it, then?”

  “It makes them happy. If I didn’t sniff the cork, they’d be very disappointed.”

  “You might even lose your special table.”

  “I’ve been trying to sit at that table”—he points to an empty table in the back of the room—“for years. But they won’t let me. It’s Siberia,” he adds, in a dramatic whisper.

  “Is it colder there?”

  “Freezing.”

  “And what about this table?”

  “Right on the equator.” He pauses. “And you—you’re on the equator too.” He reaches out and takes my hand. “I like your gumption,” he says.

  The chef pulls out all the stops for Bernard. After a stomach-numbing meal of seven courses—including soup, a soufflé, two desserts, and some delicious after-dinner wine that tastes like ambrosia—I look at my watch and discover it’s just after midnight. “I ought to go.”

  “Why? Will you turn into a pumpkin?”

  “Something like that,” I say, thinking about Peggy.

  His next move hangs in the air, spinning like a lazy disco ball. “I suppose I should walk you home,” he says finally.

  “And ruin all this?” I laugh.

  “I haven’t done ‘this’ for a while. What about you?”

  “Oh, I’m an expert,” I tease.

  We walk back to my building, swinging our hands between us.

  “Good night, pussycat,” he says, stopping in front of my door. We stand awkwardly, until he makes his move. He tilts up my chin and leans in for a kiss. It’s gentle and civilized at first, then more and more urgent, ending just before some imaginary line of lust is crossed.

  The kiss leaves me swooning. Bernard looks at me longingly, but settles for a gentlemanly peck on the cheek and a squeeze of my hand. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Okay.” I can barely breathe.

  I watch him stroll off into the night. At the corner, he turns and waves. When he’s disappeared completely, I slip inside.

  I creep down the hallway to the apartment, brushing my fingers against the pea-green wall for support, wondering why anyone would paint a hallway such an ugly color. At the door, I carefully insert my key into the first lock. The bolt drops with an alarming ping.

  I hold my breath, wondering if Peggy has heard the sound, and if so, what she’ll do. But when I don’t hear anything for several seconds, I try the next lock.

  It, too, turns easily, which means I should now be able to enter the apartment. I twist the knob and try to ease open the door, but it won’t move.

  Huh? Maybe Peggy didn’t lock the door after all and I’ve ended up locking it instead. It doesn’t seem like something Peggy would do, but I try turning the locks in the opposite direction just to make sure.

  No luck. The door moves precisely one-sixteenth of an inch, and then refuses to budge, as if someone has shoved a heavy piece of furniture in front of it.

  The dead bolt, I think, with rising panic. It’s a metal bar that runs across the door and can only be opened and closed from inside the apartment. We’re supposed to use it strictly in an emergency, like a nuclear war or a blackout or a zombie attack. But apparently Peggy has decided to break her own stupid rule and has locked it to teach me a lesson.

  Crap. I have to either wake her up or sleep in the hallway.

  I scratch on the door. “L’il?” I hiss, hoping L’il is awake and will hear me. “L’il?”

  Nothing.

  I slump to the floor, resting my back against the wall. Does Peggy really hate me that much? And why? What have I ever done to her?

  Another half hour passes, and I give up. I curl into a ball with my Carrie bag nestled between my arms, and try to get some sleep.

  And then I guess I do fall asleep, because the next thing I hear is L’il whispering, “Carrie? Are you okay?”

  I open my eyes, wondering where the hell I am, and what the hell I’m doing in the hallway.

  And then I remember: Peggy and her damn dead bolt.

  L’il puts her finger to her l
ips and motions for me to come inside.

  “Thanks,” I mouth. She nods as we quietly shut the door. I pause, listening for sounds of Peggy, but there’s only silence.

  I turn the knob on the bolt and lock us inside.

  Chapter Six

  The next morning, triumphant, perhaps, in her perceived victory, Peggy sleeps until nine. This allows the Prisoners of Second Avenue a much-needed extra hour of shut-eye.

  But once Peggy’s up, she’s up. And while early-morning silence has never been her forte, this morning she appears to be in an especially good mood.

  She’s singing show tunes.

  I turn over on my cot, and rap quietly on the plywood. L’il raps back, indicating she’s awake and has heard the singing as well.

  I slide under the sheet and pull the covers up to my nose. Maybe if I lie flat on my bed and put the pillow over my head, Peggy won’t notice me. It was a trick my sisters and I perfected when we were kids. But I’m quite a bit bigger now, and Peggy, with her beady crow eyes, is sure to notice the lumps. Perhaps I could hide under my cot?

  This, I decide, is beyond ridiculous.

  I won’t have it. I’m going to confront Peggy. And full of brio, I hop out of bed and put my ear to the door.

  The shower is running, and above that, I can hear Peggy’s particularly grating rendition of “I Feel Pretty” from West Side Story.

  I wait, my hand on the doorknob.

  Finally, the water stops. I imagine Peggy toweling herself off and applying creams to her body. She carries her toiletries to and from the bathroom in a plastic shower basket she keeps in her room. It’s yet another deliberate reminder that no one is to use her precious possessions on the sly.

  When I hear the bathroom door open, I step out into the living room. “Good morning, Peggy.”

  Her hair is wrapped in a pink towel, and she’s wearing a worn chenille robe and fluffy slippers in the shape of bears. At the sound of my voice, she throws up her arms, nearly dropping her basket of toiletries. “You almost scared me to death.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “If you’re finished in the bathroom—”

  Perhaps Peggy’s not such a bad actress after all, because she immediately recovers. “I need it back in a minute. I have to dry my hair.”

  “No problem.” We stand there, wondering who’s going to bring up the locking-out issue first. I say nothing and neither does Peggy. Then she gives me a shrewd, vicious smile and goes into her room.

  She’s not going to mention it.

  On the other hand, she doesn’t have to. She made her point.

  I trip into the bathroom. If she isn’t going to say anything to me, I’m certainly not going to say anything to her.

  When I exit, Peggy is standing there with a blow-dryer in her hand. “Excuse me,” I say as I wriggle past her.

  She goes back into the bathroom and shuts the door.

  While the apartment is filled with the buzz of the dryer, I take the opportunity to check in on L’il. She’s so tiny, she looks like a doll someone laid under the comforter, her round face as pale as porcelain.

  “She’s drying her hair,” I report.

  “You should sneak in there and drop her blow-dryer into the sink.”

  I tilt my head. The whirring has suddenly ceased, and I skittle back to my cell. I quickly plop myself in the chair in front of my mother’s old Royal typewriter.

  A few seconds later, Peggy’s behind me. I just love the way she insists we respect her privacy, yet doesn’t believe we deserve the same, barging into our rooms whenever she feels like it.

  She’s slurping down her ubiquitous can of Tab. It must be like mother’s milk to her—good for any occasion, including breakfast.

  “I’ve got an audition this afternoon, so I’ll need quiet in the apartment while I’m practicing.” She eyes my typewriter doubtfully. “I hope you’re not planning on using that noisy thing. You need to get an electric typewriter. Like everyone else.”

  “I’d love to, but I can’t exactly afford one right now,” I reply, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my tone.

  “That’s not my problem, is it?” she says with more saccharine than an entire six-pack of diet soda.

  “It’s that little itch.” Pause. “No. It’s that little itch.

  “Damn. It’s that little itch.”

  Yes, it’s true. Peggy is auditioning for a hemorrhoid commercial.

  “What did you expect?” L’il mouths. “Breck?” She checks her appearance in a hand mirror, carefully dabbing her cheeks with a pot of blush.

  “Where are you going?” I hiss in outrage, as if I can’t believe she’s going to abandon me to Peggy and her little itch.

  “Out,” she says, mysteriously.

  “But where?” And then, feeling like Oliver Twist asking for more grub, I say, “Can I come?”

  L’il is suddenly flustered. “You can’t. I have to—”

  “What?”

  “See someone,” she says firmly.

  “Who?”

  “A friend of my mother’s. She’s very old. She’s in the hospital. She can’t have visitors.”

  “How come she can see you?”

  L’il blushes, holding up the mirror as if to block my inquiries. “I’m like family,” she says, fiddling with her lashes. “What are you doing today?”

  “Haven’t decided,” I grumble, eyeing her suspiciously. “Don’t you want to hear about my evening with Bernard?”

  “Of course. How was it?”

  “Incredibly interesting. His ex-wife took all his furniture. Then we went to La Grenouille.”

  “That’s nice.” L’il is annoyingly distracted this morning. I wonder if it’s due to Peggy locking me out—or something else entirely. I’m sure she’s lying about her mother’s sick friend, though. Who puts on blush and mascara to go to a hospital?

  But then I don’t care, because I get an idea.

  I dash into my cubbyhole and come back with my Carrie bag. I rifle through it and pull out a piece of paper. “I’m going to see Samantha Jones.”

  “Who’s that?” L’il murmurs.

  “The woman who let me stay at her apartment?” I ask, trying to jog her memory. “Donna LaDonna’s cousin? She lent me twenty dollars. I’m going to pay her back.” This, of course, is merely an excuse. Both to get out of the apartment and to talk to Samantha about Bernard.

  “Good idea.” L’il puts down the mirror and smiles, as if she hasn’t heard a word I’ve said.

  I open my bag to replace the paper, and find the folded-up invitation to the party at The Puck Building, which I wave in L’il’s face. “That party is tonight. We should go.” And maybe, if Bernard calls, he could come with us.

  L’il looks skeptical. “I’m sure there’s a party every night in New York.”

  “I’m sure there is,” I counter. “And I plan to go to every one.”

  Samantha’s steel and glass office building is a forbidding bastion of serious business. The lobby is sharply air-conditioned, with all manner of people rushing about, harassed and irritated. I find the name of Samantha’s company—Slovey, Dinall Advertising—and board an elevator for the twenty-sixth floor.

  The elevator ride actually makes me a little queasy. I’ve never ridden an elevator so high up. What if something happens and we crash to the ground?

  But no one else seems the least concerned. Everyone has their eyes turned to the numbers that tick off the floors, their faces intentionally blank, deliberately ignoring the fact that there are at least half a dozen people in the space of a large closet. This must be elevator protocol, and I attempt to copy their demeanor.

  But I don’t quite get it right, because I actually manage to catch the eye of a middle-aged woman holding a sheaf of folders in front of her chest. I smile, and she quickly looks away.

  Then it occurs to me that popping in unexpectedly on Samantha in her place of work might not be the best idea. Nevertheless, when the elevator opens on her floor, I get out and bump around
in the softly carpeted hallway until I find two enormous doors with SLOVEY, DINALL ADVERTISING INCORPORATED etched into the glass. On the other side is a large desk behind which sits a small woman with black hair that rises in sharp spikes. She takes in my appearance, and after a beat, says, “Can I help you,” in a doubtful, grating tone that sounds like her nose is speaking instead of her mouth.

  This is very disconcerting, and in a hesitant voice intended to convey the fact that I hope I’m not bothering her, I say, “Samantha Jones? I just want to—”

  I’m about to say I want to leave the twenty dollars for her in an envelope, but the woman waves me to a seat and picks up the phone. “Someone’s here for Samantha,” she whines into the receiver. Then she asks for my name and nods. “Her assistant will be out to get you,” she says wearily. She picks up a paperback book and starts reading.

  The reception area is decorated with posters of advertisements, some of which appear to go back to the 1950s. I’m kind of surprised that Samantha Jones has her own assistant. She doesn’t look old enough to be anyone’s boss, but I guess Donna LaDonna was right when she said her cousin was a “big deal in advertising.”

  In a few minutes, a young woman appears, wearing a navy suit, a light blue shirt with two straps tied around her neck in a loose bow, and blue running shoes.

  “Follow me,” she commands. I jump up and trot behind her, through a maze of cubicles, ringing telephones, and the sound of a man shouting.

  “Seems like everyone around here is pretty cranky,” I wisecrack.

  “That’s because we are,” she snaps, coming to a halt by the open door of a small office. “Except for Samantha,” she adds. “She’s always in a good mood.”

  Samantha looks up and waves at the chair in front of her. She’s seated behind a white Formica table, wearing an outfit that’s nearly identical to her assistant’s, with the exception of her shoulder pads, which are much wider. Perhaps the wider your shoulder pads, the more important you are. Her head is cocked against an enormous phone cradle. “Yes, of course, Glenn,” she says, making a yakking motion with her hand. “The Century Club is perfect. But I don’t see why we have to have flower arrangements in the shape of baseballs. . . . Well, I know it’s what Charlie wants, but I’ve always thought the wedding was supposed to be the bride’s day. . . . Yes, of course. . . . I’m sorry, Glenn, but I have a meeting. I really have to go,” she continues, with mounting frustration. “I’ll call you later. I promise.” And with a roll of her eyes, she firmly replaces the receiver, looks up, and tosses her head.