Clio Rising

by Paula Martinac

  “I don’t offhand,” I said. “But I’ll keep my ears open. What’s your hero’s name?”

  “Jasmine Jeffers,” Vern replied. “She’s a line cook by day, like me, but at night she turns into Jazz, the superhero.” She strung the name Jazz out by several syllables and spread her broad hands for emphasis. Her eyes flitted from Thea to me and back, and I wondered if she had caught the tap on my leg.

  “Cool name,” I commented, right before Gerri steered the conversation diplomatically toward books we wanted to tackle as a group. She’d been crashing at Thea and Vern’s for a few weeks, and maybe she’d already heard a lot about Vern’s comics. She had asked me recently if I knew about any shares because she was “antsy” about her living situation, but if I’d been sleeping on somebody’s couch, my duffle bag stuffed into the corner, I might have been antsy, too.

  During our break, I wandered into the kitchen looking for another beer, and Vern followed me. Although she fussed with some empty food containers, she cleared her throat a few times like she wanted to talk.

  “I’ll definitely ask around at work,” I said out of the blue. “About lesbian comics. I work at a literary agency.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s cool, man,” Vern said. “Don’t trouble yourself, though.” She smiled and reached past me for a can of Coke. “So . . . you and the professor?”

  The non-sequitur startled me. I didn’t remember telling Thea that Hallie was a professor, and I was surprised to think she might have talked about me to Vern.

  “Sorry?”

  “Thea. I call her ‘the Professor.’ Makes her smile.” She smiled herself, shyly.

  I had never asked Thea what she did at Barnard and stupidly assumed it was not teaching. To me, college teachers were in their thirties or forties, like Hallie, and Thea didn’t look more than twenty-five or twenty-six. “I didn’t know Thea teaches.”

  Vern frowned. “For real?”

  “We’re just friends,” I said, although Thea’s tap on my leg had stirred something in me. I just wasn’t sure what. “So, no, we’re not together or anything.”

  Vern’s face lit up, and she nodded repeatedly, like she was letting the words sink in.

  “You . . . are you interested in her?” I asked.

  Her eyes fell to her chunky work boots, which could have easily demolished my high-tops. “Don’t say nothing about it. It’d make her uncomfortable. She could’ve picked somebody else for a roommate, somebody from school, but we really hit it off one night at Déjà Vu. I made her laugh a lot, and she’d been pretty sad about her girl. So she took a chance on me. I mean, Thea, man—” She shook her head. “You get me?” I said I did, and we fist-bumped to our new, unspoken understanding.

  After the salon, Thea escorted me back down the hallway to the door in shy silence. What had the tap on my leg meant? I knew what it signaled the first time I tapped Hallie’s leg, then felt hers brush mine in reply.

  “This was great, Thea, thanks,” I said. “I love your apartment. And these photographs. Did you take them?”

  “You like them?” Her humility was unusual among the New Yorkers I’d met, who raced to spout off their accomplishments.

  “You could be a professional,” I said. She bit her lip, keeping something back, like maybe she’d already sold work or had a gallery show and was too modest to say so. “This one of the homeless guy? Amazing.”

  “Freddie. He’s a Vietnam vet. I don’t think he’s exactly homeless. He does odd jobs for our super and kind of lives in the basement.”

  We both cringed. “With the rats?”

  “I don’t ask. Anyway, he trusts me, so he let me take his picture.” After a pause, she added, “That one was in The Village Voice.”

  “Wow, really? I’d love to see more of your work some time.” The compliment made her smile.

  “Well, thanks for coming and helping to keep the salon alive. It means a lot to me. And I’m glad I got you out of the Village for a change. You know, you and Gerri should get a place uptown. Not that I want her to leave or anything, but . . . I mean you’re in a weird situation with Barb. Don’t you feel kind of odd?”

  “She isn’t around much,” I said, lowering my voice and glancing back down the hallway. “I think she’s pretty much living at Renee’s.”

  Thea took in the information. “Well, it could be worse. She could be your ex,” she said. “Mine kept her stuff here for a month after she told me she was in love with somebody else and was planning to move in with her.”

  “Ouch.” I shook my head in sympathy. “That’s rough. You ever see her?”

  “We’re in touch. I had coffee with her last month.” Gerri said lesbians had a tradition of keeping their exes as friends, even when the breakups were less than amicable. She had confessed to feeling guilty at not being up to the challenge, but I didn’t blame her. It was something I could have never done with Hallie, even if she’d given me that option.

  “Diane’s a new client of your boss,” Thea continued.

  “Oh, yeah? Diane what? In my, um, executive function, I type up all the file labels, so I’m sure I did hers.”

  Thea favored me with another smile. “Diane Westerly,” she said, and my mouth dropped open. “She’s going by her initials for the book, though.”

  “Oh my God,” I said. “I just read her manuscript. She’s a freaking genius!”

  Had a speck of something gotten into her eye? Stupid, I thought. I hadn’t considered how my comment, which I meant as praise, might prick Thea’s feelings because a “genius” had dumped her.

  “Well, at least in her writing,” I added quickly. “She was a dumbass to let you go.”

  That brought the smile back. “I know I should stop seeing her. I must be a masochist or something.”

  “No, you’re a good person,” I said. “Way better than me. I can’t stomach the thought of seeing Hallie. I’d throw up.”

  Thea nodded quietly, then opened the door for me. “We should hang out some time,” she offered. “Go to a reading or a concert. You’re not so bad after all.”

  On the long subway ride home, I replayed the backhanded compliment several times in my mind and the way Thea’s eyes took on that twinkle when she said it.

  Chapter 13

  Diane Westerly’s femme appearance caught me by surprise. She showed up for her meeting wearing a clingy skirt and frilly blouse dressed up with gold chains. Chunky hoop earrings caught on her braids. Her heels made her just a few fingers taller than by gangly five-ten, but she somehow towered over me.

  In the reception area of the agency I reached for Diane’s hand, wanting to appear confident although I didn’t feel it. Her gaudy domed ring bit into my fingers, but I held the handshake as I jumped nervously from sentence to sentence as if they were track hurdles. “I’m Livvie Bliss. Thea’s a friend of mine. From the salon? You must know Gerri, too. Thea mentioned she had a friend with this agency and I asked her who. I just loved your book. Minnie is such a great character. Can I get you some coffee?”

  Diane’s eyelids fluttered with confusion, and she extracted her hand from mine. “No, thanks. Is Bea available?”

  “She is! She’s expecting you. Right this way.”

  When I dropped into the seat next to Diane in Bea’s office, the author seemed more befuddled, clearly wondering why the coffee girl got to take a meeting with a client.

  “I asked Livvie to read your manuscript,” Bea explained. “She’s been working with Clio Hartt. She had some astute comments.”

  Diane nodded haltingly, letting it sink in that I occupied a rung somewhere above go-fer but below agent. We both turned our focus to Bea, who proceeded to outline some changes she thought would tighten the plotline. Diane nodded agreeably at each one, but her hands tightened on the arms of her chair as Bea posed my suggestion about deleting the HUD secretary, who didn’t seem to serve much purpose.

  “That cut isn’t an option,” Diane said, raising her chin a couple of inches. Although she was talking to me,
she didn’t glance my way. “You don’t understand his purpose.”

  “I guess I don’t,” I said, catching Bea’s eye. The boss’s expression told me to let it go.

  “You’ll make that decision, of course,” Bea concluded. “We’re here to give you guidance, not dictate changes.”

  Bea proceeded with a detailed “plan of attack,” as she called it, for finding a publisher, which included an exclusive first look to Sarah Marcus at Random House, Gerri’s boss.

  “If Sarah doesn’t want it, I’ll eat it,” Bea said. “She’s all about timely, and she’s all about women writers. And exquisite writing, of course.” An image of Bea stuffing paper into her mouth flashed into my mind, and an audible little snort escaped my lips. Diane turned toward me with a snarl in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, that wasn’t about your writing,” I scrambled to explain. “I loved your novel. I just got this funny picture of Bea eating the manuscript—” That excuse made me sound like a six-year-old giggling over a fart joke, and Bea raised her eyebrows.

  “Livvie, why don’t you get us some coffee?” she suggested, chopping me back down to the receptionist Diane originally mistook me for.

  Banished to the kitchenette, I fumed over my humiliating dismissal, which I’d brought on myself with one stray snort. “Dope,” I muttered. “Stupid hick.”

  Making matters worse, less than an eighth of an inch of coffee remained in the pot, stewing into sludge.

  “I mean, you could at least tell me it’s almost empty!” I complained to no one as I muscled the pot clean.

  I’d been at the task several minutes when I felt someone’s presence behind me and turned to see Diane filling the doorway.

  “Is this the way to the ladies’?”

  “No, it’s across the hallway. You need a key.” I pointed to the rack of restroom keys on the wall, but both keys labeled WOMEN were missing. Clients were always leaving the keys in there by mistake, and I was always having to call the building manager to retrieve them.

  “But it looks like a couple of people are already using it,” I continued. With the pot finally scrubbed, I spooned grounds into a filter and switched on the machine. “Sorry you have to wait. Fresh coffee will be right up.”

  “None for me. As I said before.” She fingered one of her chains. “Could you knock on the restroom door?”

  “Whoever it is will be out in a minute.” I stared at the coffee-maker, willing it to finish its sputtering.

  “Look,” Diane said after a ticklish pause, “I don’t know what Thea told you, but there’s two sides to everything.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I replied. She had moved a few steps closer to me, and her mere proximity felt intimidating. “Thea didn’t gossip about you. She just told me your name. Sorry if I gave that impression. The only thing I know about you is that you’re an amazing writer.” I flashed her a smile, which she returned hesitantly but with a look of relief.

  Nan arrived to replace the restroom key and glanced from Diane to me and back again, sensing she’d stepped in something. “You’re D. A. Westerly, right? Nan Berger. Your novel does indeed sound amazing, like Livvie said. Can’t wait to read it.”

  The coffee finished brewing with a spurt. I poured a cup for Bea and slid between Nan and Diane to deliver it. In my office, I considered the bizarre scene that had just gone down between me and Diane, and how Bea would likely take me to task for my perceived rudeness to a client. Clearly, my meeting skills needed work. I wondered, too, what Thea had seen in the diva— and more, why I cared.

  I caught a glimpse of Diane when she returned from the restroom, scuttling past my open door toward Bea’s office. Maybe I was mistaken, but her eyes looked puffy, like she’d had a little cry.

  • • •

  Approaching the gate of Milligan Place for my Friday afternoon with Clio, I flinched at the sight of an ambulance and a patrol car double-parked on Sixth Avenue. An officer held the enclave’s gate wide open, while two paramedics hauled a stretcher down the front steps of Clio’s building. My heart flapped in my chest.

  But the figure under the blanket wasn’t Clio. Eli’s face had a spectral cast that made me worry he was already dead.

  “Eli!” His eyes flickered open.

  “Please step back, sir,” one of the paramedics addressed me.

  “I know this man,” I explained as I walked alongside the stretcher. “Eli, it’s Livvie. Is there anyone you want me to call? Something I can do for you?”

  “Remmie,” he said through cracked lips. He swallowed with difficulty. “Super has the key.”

  “Of course! Don’t you worry a minute about him!”

  I watched helplessly as they slid him into the ambulance and sped off. The middle-aged super stood in the doorway to Eli and Clio’s building, a silver carabiner of keys dangling from his belt. He shook his head.

  “Damn shame,” he said. “Nice kid. Shitty luck.”

  “I need to check on Eli’s cat. Take care of him till he gets home.”

  He shook his head again. “Ah, I bet you twenty bucks that boy ain’t coming back home.” The wager on Eli’s survival chilled me, but I nodded so he’d let me into the apartment.

  The place was littered with crumpled clothes and empty bottles of cough syrup. The shades were drawn and the room was dark, making it hard to locate the little black cat. He was hiding under the bed, traumatized by his person being taken away.

  “Hey, Remmie,” I said, coaxing him out with a bag of salmon treats I’d picked up along with the canned food.

  When Remington was calmer, I looked around for some way to transport him and his other accoutrements. He’d need bowls, a litter box. On the floor in the apartment’s only closet sat a mini-crate that he hissed at, until I sweet-talked him in with the help of more treats. I worried that Clio wouldn’t like the extra visitor, but I had promised to return the keys to the super posthaste.

  Remington and I knocked at Clio’s, my arms full of his supplies, and I heard her grumbling from behind the heavy door. “More disruption!” She looked at me like my arrival was unexpected rather than late. “Oh, I lost track of time,” she said. “This building has been like Grand Central Station today! What is all this? Are you moving in with me, Miss Bliss?”

  We stepped inside, and I deposited the crate and litter box next to the door. “I hope you don’t mind the extra company,” I said. “Your neighbor, Eli? The commotion was him being taken to the hospital.”

  “Well, I know that. I saw the whole thing through the peephole.” She squinted at the crate. “Just what do you mean by ‘extra company’?”

  “His cat,” I said. “Remington. He just ate a bunch of treats, so I hope he’ll behave while we work. But I’ll leave him over here in case he gets noisy.”

  Clio leaned down to get a peek inside the kennel. Remington was huddled against the side, meowing. “You can let him out,” she said.

  “But what if—”

  “I said, you can let him out,” she insisted.

  “That would be great,” I said. “He doesn’t like this crate much. Some mistreatment when he was a kitten.”

  I’d never seen her interact with anyone but me and the cops, so it was a surprise when I unlatched the kennel gate and Clio bent to offer Remington her fingers for sniffing. He took a few whiffs, then sidled up to her, brushing against her ankles. I was nervous that he might trip her, but she remained steady and unperturbed, even bending over to scratch his tiny head.

  “We had cats when I was a girl,” she said. “Right up until I came to New York. And Flora had Diamond, but he died before we left for Paris. He was a tuxedo, too, but the white on his chest was so perfectly shaped! This one looks like he didn’t button his dinner jacket right.” She scooped Remington up to her chest and he didn’t resist.

  “Did you ever have another cat?”

  Her voice caught a little. “Our homeplace cats didn’t get out in the fire,” she said. The information both answered my question and
didn’t.

  “How many were there?”

  “Three,” she replied without even having to stop and count. “Taffy, Roscoe, and Beebee. Plus the hound dog, Pepper. I could see one animal getting trapped, but four?” Her steely eyes held mine. “I come from careless people.”

  I wanted to push her further, ask if that was why she stopped writing about North Carolina. There had been two tomcats described in detail in the Nelle story I’d read. But Clio had moved on from the bad memory, placing Remington gently on her armchair on top of a crocheted afghan. “I could watch him for the young man,” she said, more to Remington than to me.

  “That would be great. I’m not sure I can have pets at my apartment, and I was wondering where to take him.” Thea had crossed my mind, partly because I needed an excuse to call her.

  “I see you brought his litter box, but do you have food for him? He’s such a little bitty thing, really.”

  I unpacked the Friskies cans, along with two metal bowls I’d brought from Eli’s. Clio set them up in the kitchen, filling one with fresh water, and then disappeared into the bathroom with the litter box.

  While we hunkered over Clio’s desk, Remington settled in and snoozed. Every so often, I glanced over my shoulder and caught him staring at us, making sure we were still there.

  • • •

  “I’ve written a new story,” Clio announced when I arrived Saturday afternoon. Her face lit with a girlish smile.

  My eyes popped open. “You wrote a whole story?”

  “Most of one,” she said. “Maybe three-fourths. It’s like the cat is my muse!”

  “That’s terrific, Miss Hartt! I’m so happy for you.”

  Remington was nibbling at his lunch in the kitchen, looking as comfortable as if he’d been raised there and not across the hall. The familiar layout of Clio’s apartment must have helped him adjust.

  “Do you think . . . What was his name again? The young man who’s sick?”

  “Eli.” He’d been at the top of my mind since yesterday, and I intended to try to locate him at St. Vincent’s after my visit with Clio.