“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
Clio replaced the photo and flashed me a quizzical look. “I don’t know why you’re sorry,” she snapped. “You didn’t know her. She died in 1958. Were you even born then?”
“No, but I mean I’m sorry because she was such a talent,” I said as a quick save. “I’m sorry she was misunderstood. Maybe someone will stage a revival of her work someday.”
Clio frowned like that was the most unlikely thing she’d ever heard and returned to her desk. “Well, I didn’t ask you here to talk about Flora,” she said, and relief washed over me. “I have finished my story.”
“That’s wonderful!” I imagined reporting the news at Ramona’s party later in the day. But then worry set in: “You don’t mean the ‘Madame Louise’ story, do you?”
“No, I mean the story that fellow’s cat inspired.” Remington must have sensed he was being praised, because he crept out of the shadows, purring.
“Well, he’s your cat now if you still want him. Eli can’t take care of him anymore.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” she said with impatience. “Anyway, I considered what you said—” she would never give me, or maybe anyone else, credit for advice, “—and wrote a North Carolina story.”
“Wow, that is spectacular.”
Lines of disapproval creased her forehead again, and she busied herself gathering up pages, presumably of the story. “It is not literally ‘spectacular,’” she said, causing me to make a mental note to look up the literal meaning when I got home and could consult my pocket Webster’s. Clio was certainly in a cantankerous mood— “tetchy,” as the old folks said back home— and I wondered how she could tolerate my presence at all. I expected to be dismissed at any moment.
“I just meant . . . well, I’d love to read it whenever you like.” I stopped myself from mentioning that I might see Bea later in the day. “What’s it called?”
“The working title is ‘Before the Fire,’” she replied, handing me what looked like at least thirty pages. “You will read it here, as I do not have another copy.”
I plopped down in the stiff-backed chair I usually occupied there and read.
The delicately mysterious story roped me in with its first line: The officer’s question scratched like sandpaper: “And what happened just before the fire?” he said again.
I finished with a sharp intake of breath, loving the seeming effortlessness of it, its clear affection for the animals who did not survive.
“This is just beautiful, Miss Hartt,” I said. She had been staring at me from her place in the armchair, Remington in her lap— probably throughout the thirty or so minutes of my reading. As much as she downplayed my importance as a reader and adviser, she was clearly waiting for my assessment and maybe just a tad uncertain that it would be approval. I felt a pinch of sympathy for the great artist who spoke a confident game but underneath doubted her own talent.
“I fell in love with Pickles and Henny,” I continued. “They’re such full, complete characters, more than many human characters I’ve read. It’s crushing when they pass.”
She sighed, and I worried for a second that my praise was somehow wrong, my emphasis on the animals too intense, and that she’d chastise me for not understanding her writing. But she simply said, “Thank you”—something I wasn’t sure she’d ever said to me before. “It’s not finished,” she went on.
Baffled, I looked back through the pages. “It feels complete to me, Miss Hartt. I mean, the ending is so—”
“I can’t see it,” she interrupted.
As I’d read, I easily pictured each detail of what I assumed was the Threatt homeplace. “Really? The setting’s so vivid,” I said. “Right on down to the cast-iron cornbread pan on the stove. Is it based on your family’s home?”
“It is, but I can no longer see it. My head just doesn’t work the same, and everything’s fuzzy.” Her voice cracked. “And until I can see it, I won’t have communicated what I want to, and this won’t be finished.”
She blew her nose into a balled-up handkerchief she pulled from her sweater sleeve.
“Are there any pictures?” I asked.
Clio shook her head with impatience, but then a dim light went on in her eyes. “Rufe might have some, though. He still lives down there.”
She’d never mentioned anyone in her family by name, and given her advanced age I was surprised anyone besides her still survived.
“Who’s Rufe?” I asked.
“My little brother. Well, he’s going on eighty now, so he’s not so little.”
“And you’re still in touch?”
She scowled. “Well, of course, I am! Aren’t you in touch with your kin?”
“You just never talk about them,” I observed. “You’ve talked about Hendersonville, and the homeplace, but I don’t remember anything about siblings.”
“There were eight of us, ten if you count the stillborns, but Rufe and I are the only ones left,” she said. “I’ve got nieces and nephews, but there were so many so fast, I don’t recall their names.”
“Wow, eight kids. Your mama must have been busy.” The size of her family felt very old-timey; my grandparents had also hailed from families of eight-plus offspring.
“I didn’t care much for the six sisters, but Rufe was such a smart little fella. Kind of my pet when I was a teenager. I haven’t heard from him in a while.”
“Maybe you could call him about pictures?”
“Yes, I’ll do that. I can wish him a Happy Thanksgiving.” Before I left, I helped her locate her address book, and there, sure enough, under the T’s was an entry for Rufus Threatt. It struck me as funny that she had written out her own brother’s last name, as if she might forget it.
I heard the click of her phone’s rotary dial as I stepped into the hallway.
• • •
Ramona’s address on Gramercy Park East was a classy building I’d passed many times when I roomed at the Parkside— a turreted edifice that Sergeant Sal had explained was the oldest apartment building in the city. “Jimmy Cagney lived there in the sixties,” Sal had said with pride, as if she owned the building herself. “You’d always see him walking his little dogs in the park. Nicest man ever!”
With its stained-glass panels, the front door alone was enough to intimidate, but then the mosaic tiled floor and grand fire-place in the lobby made me feel like I’d stepped into an Edith Wharton novel. When the doorman asked which apartment I was visiting, I lost my voice for a moment and held out my invitation to him shyly. “Ramona Costa,” I managed to say, and he steered me toward the elevator, an ancient Otis cage that took its sweet time as it wheezed its way to the third floor. I marveled that someone not much older than I could live in such opulent style.
There were only two apartments on Ramona’s floor, and I veered toward the one with a coatrack situated in the hallway. The door was slightly ajar and led to a foyer with an elaborate herringbone-patterned wood floor. Handsome people were laughing and socializing, cocktails in hand, very Gatsby-esque; a few gave me curious looks as I edged past them. I was willing to bet I was the only guest who’d arrived in jeans and a Carhartt jacket, bearing a box of Triscuits and a Tupperware container of pimento cheese.
“Livvie!” Ramona called out from the galley kitchen. She was wearing a tight black dress and comically high heels, but she maneuvered in them as easily as I did in my high-top Chucks.
“I didn’t know this was a dressy party,” I said. “Sorry.”
“You live in Chelsea, right?” I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad in her eyes, or how the question followed from my observation, so I simply handed her the crackers and pimento cheese.
“Oh, you brought it! You have to try this cheese,” Ramona said to another skinny, heel-clad woman in the kitchen, who bore a striking resemblance to her. “Livvie’s from the South, and this is some kind of delicacy down there.”
“I’m Raquel,” the second woman said. “Ramona’s sister.”
> “Oh yes, my sister Raquel!” Ramona rolled her eyes.
“I told you, casting directors call back Raquel more than Rachel.” Two actresses in the same family? I wondered if that had any impact on Ramona giving up on acting.
“Well, could either Raquel or Rachel point Livvie in the direction of the food? I’ll put this heavenly cheese on a plate and bring it out. Right after I sample a little.”
Raquel led me to the living room and, after a quick motion toward the buffet table, left me to my own devices. My entire apartment on Fifteenth Street would have fit into Ramona’s spacious living room, which had two window seats facing out onto Gramercy Park. Cross-legged as a Buddha in the grandest of the two seats and flanked by partygoers was my boss. Bea caught my eye and raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment, which seemed like an invitation to join her.
As I approached Bea’s social semicircle, I realized the woman talking to her, whose back had been facing the crowded room, was Diane Westerly. Now that Thea and I had ventured into the murky area of friends who kiss, I felt both more awkward around Diane and more protective of Thea.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Bea,” I said before greeting Diane. “It looks like the gang’s all here.”
“Livvie, isn’t it?” Diane asked in a way that suggested she knew my name perfectly well.
“I just had to see Ramona’s apartment,” Bea said, as if she needed to explain why she was there. “This building! Absolutely gorgeous. The elevator alone should have landmark status. Jemima invited me to a party here a few years back, but I couldn’t make it.” I guessed Jemima was the client who’d moved to London and bestowed the place on Ramona. There was a Jemima Somebody whose file folder I recalled seeing. If I stuck around Bea’s agency long enough, maybe I could score a fabulous sublet, too.
Diane and Bea exchanged comments about the parquet floors and the stunning view of the park.
“The rent must be through the roof, though,” I commented, to add to the conversation. Bea looked like rent was a distasteful subject, a transaction that simply happened, and then proceeded to steer the subject toward a short history of Gramercy Park: “the only private park in Manhattan, like some sort of Victorian lady,” she said.
“Have you ever been inside?” Diane asked.
“Yes, it’s lovely. Wonderfully calming,” Bea said.
As a resident of the Parkside, I’d had access to a park key for three months. But because I’d never actually used the key— someone else always seemed to have it when I had free time— I kept the fact to myself. I remembered telling my sister about the key, and Sue had exclaimed, “Who locks a freakin’ park?”
I was about to change tacks and ask Bea where she lived, when our circle was interrupted. “There you are, Dee! This place is so big, I—”
My heart pulsed like a jackhammer at the voice.
“Hey, Thea,” I said weakly. Her face looked like someone had pinched in both cheeks.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. After the previous evening, I didn’t think she meant it to come out so rudely, but it did.
“I work with Ramona. The hostess?” I said, all the while thinking, What are you doing here?
“This is a work party?” Thea said, turning a scornful look to Diane. “You just said it was someone you knew and it was in a great building and did I want to come and see it.”
With a cough, Bea rose from her perch at the window; the drama of a client’s life was more than she was interested in. “If you will excuse me, I need to be somewhere else,” she said.
“I’ll walk you out, Bea,” I offered. “I have some good news about Clio.”
Thea grabbed at my sleeve. “Are you coming back?”
“No,” I said, holding a smile that hurt my jaw as I glanced from her to Diane. “I have a lot going on.”
Thea winced at the blow of hearing me repeat her own words from the night before. Before she could respond, I turned away, following Bea for a quick good-bye to Ramona and then out into the hall, where the cooler air hit me with a welcome blast. My report about Clio’s new story grabbed Bea’s attention, and our conversation as the elevator clanked its way down to the street kept my mind off the gash in my heart.
• • •
In my hurry to escape the hurt of seeing Thea with Diane, I hadn’t eaten anything at Ramona’s, not even a cracker with cheese. By the time I scuttled back to the West Side, my stomach was moaning in protest. I hadn’t bothered getting a rotisserie chicken as originally planned, because I thought I’d be eating at the party, so I stopped at my favorite Korean grocery for a turkey sandwich.
“How come no turkey dinner for you?” Mr. Park, the owner, was staffing the deli counter by himself, the wife and teenaged kids who usually worked with him noticeably absent. In addition to stocking high-quality cold cuts, Mr. Park’s customer recognition and service skills were superlative, and he had started building my turkey with Havarti on a baguette before I even got the words out of my mouth. “You like turkey.”
“I do like turkey,” I said. Usually, I found it effortless to make small talk with Mr. Park, an affable guy with the look of a nerdy NYU professor, but that day my mind was elsewhere.
He cocked an eyebrow, maybe sensing a bigger story. But instead of explaining, I turned the conversation to him. “How come you’re open today, Mr. Park?”
“Closing at six.” That spoke for itself, since the place was always open until late. “My wife home cooking.”
“Nice,” I said. I’d never thought about the Parks having a home where they went after serving everyone else, but I suddenly imagined him making the trek home on the train— to Queens?— every night.
“I am lucky man.” He was just adding the final flourishes to my sandwich when he asked if I wanted cranberry dressing, either on the side or right on top of the turkey. “Taste really good.” He nodded toward a hand-printed sign that said cranberry sauce could be added to any turkey sandwich through Saturday for an extra fifty cents.
He waited for my response as I shifted from foot to foot, trying to decide. I loved cranberry sauce, but in my vulnerable, slightly disoriented state the addition of it to my order seemed like the biggest choice I’d ever faced.
“Hey, no charge today for good customer.” He wrapped up my sandwich and gave me the sauce on the side. The small kindness almost moved me to tears, but I sniffed them back and thanked him.
I considered going right home, maybe donning my pajamas at the ridiculously early hour of six o’clock and losing myself in some sappy made-for-TV holiday movie. But I kept seeing Thea’s face in my mind— first her beatific expression when we pulled apart from our kiss, and then the drawn, worried look when she spotted me at Ramona’s.
At that moment, I felt as isolated as if I’d landed in New York days, not months, before. I wanted nothing more than to spill my woes to a friend. Gerri wasn’t home, but I found myself heading to Milligan Place anyway— and knocking at Clio’s door for the second time that day.
• • •
“I saw you already today, didn’t I?” Clio said in a worried voice, like maybe she’d dropped a day or two from the calendar.
I considered lying and saying I just wanted to make sure she was OK, but my drop-in was wholly about me. “I had a really bad day,” I said, “and I needed to see someone.”
Clio clicked her tongue as she let me in. “You need to cultivate some younger friends, Miss Bliss.” Her voice shifted to a softer, less judgmental tone. “But I suppose most young people are away with their loved ones. There’s just us old curmudgeons. And our cats.”
She looked strangely disheveled, with her hair sticking out in wisps, and her gray sweater buttoned wrong. Remmie’s food bowl was empty, and he was positioned in front of it as if willing the Friskies to appear.
“Have you two eaten?” I asked. “I have a killer turkey sandwich that I’d be happy to share. There’s cranberry sauce and a pickle, too. And I’ll open a can for Remington.”
“I had a frie
d egg,” she replied, but her glance toward Remington in the kitchen suggested uncertainty about the statement. “I’m not . . . I don’t think he ate.” My grandmother had lapses like that, too, and couldn’t be trusted to eat every day unless someone stopped in to remind her.
A vague smokiness rose from the kitchen nook. Clio’s cast-iron frying pan was pushed to the side of one of the burners, which still emitted a low blue flame. I rushed to turn it off but didn’t chide her about it. “Well, you might like a bite of the sandwich anyway,” I said. “Mr. Park knows his way around a turkey sandwich.”
After fixing a bowl for Remington, I cut the sandwich into quarters and portioned them and the cranberry sauce between two small plates. I placed hers on the stack of books next to her chair and pulled up a wooden chair for myself. When she ate a quarter of the sandwich in just a few appreciative bites, I wondered how long ago she’d turned on that burner and fried the egg.
“Well, this is simply delicious,” she said. “But you must finish it. I’m quite full.”
I didn’t argue, and inhaled my own portion and the rest of hers without speaking. The speed was more about my melancholy than about hunger. The day Hallie dumped me for good, I’d eaten a large sausage pizza on my own, then topped it off with a pint of chocolate ice cream.
“And what could have possibly made someone so young have such a bad day?” she asked, wiping her mouth on the paper napkin I’d given her. The question surprised me. I assumed she would have forgotten the statement about my day in the fifteen or so minutes that had passed.
“Love,” I said after a dramatic sigh, as if Thea and I already enjoyed a romantic relationship.
Clio Rising Page 14