by Anna Monardo
The day of Nora’s search with Gavin Grey, the air was full of wetness that wouldn’t let you get warm, the worst kind of late-winter day. No new snow. The streets nothing but sludge; crusty, soiled, ossified snow underfoot. At the crosswalks, at the corners of buildings, old snow was dotted yellow with the urine of dogs and people.
“Gavin, you’ve got to have something better to show me.” Nora was waiting with him at a pay phone on a street corner while he called ahead to see if a place he referred to as “a real find” was still available. “I need something quick. Now,” Nora lied. She had the loft, but she needed to know that she could move quickly, start a new life, get away from Christopher if he began to fight her. I have a baby, he had said, a son. Nora had never felt so afraid for her safety. What if he wants to move his baby and the widow into the loft? After what Christopher had done, he might do anything. “By the end of this week, Gavin, I have to have a new place.”
“I’m doing my best for you, sweetheart.” He was shuffling through a stack of index cards.
“This week, Gavin,” she said, “and please don’t call me sweetheart.”
“All right, doll.”
Asshole. And yet she had to stand on that cold corner waiting for him to flirt on the phone with the secretary in his office before getting the low-down on the “real find.” Wetness was leaking into Nora’s boots, through her socks and stockings. She tilted her chin down deep into the scarf around her neck, until her face was covered in mohair up to her nose. What if she ran into someone who knew her and Christopher? What if someone saw her standing here with this good-looking moron in a fake leather jacket?
What did people do who really did have to relocate in one week, people without a loft? People whose husbands didn’t have a painting studio to sleep in? Or a second family in Nyack to stay with? From her patients, Nora had heard about husbands who turned violent when asked to leave. What did they do, the people without trust funds that could, if necessary, be tapped for $1,300 first month’s rent, $1,300 security deposit, $2,340 agent’s fee, plus the cost of movers, whatever it cost to get a new phone hooked up, and a couple days off from work? A friend had mentioned recently that the packing materials to move himself from one studio to another had cost more than one hundred dollars.
My next patient who needs to move, I’m giving them a free session.
Gavin slammed the phone and Nora asked, “Yeah?”
“It’s gone. Somebody put money on it already.”
“Doorman?”
“Yeah, but I told you, it’s gone.”
“If it was such a deal, we should have gone there first instead of—”
“Hey, the deal might fall through,” Gavin said, tucking his stack of cards into the inner pocket of his jacket. “Nothing’s gone until it’s gone. Where can I reach you if something else comes up?”
Nora couldn’t wait for the workday to be over so she could go back to her own miserable downtown life. It’s bad, she thought, but it’s mine. Her own pillows, her own furniture, her own shampoo. Probably, eventually, she’d have to fight Christopher for all of it. But better to wrestle with him than with strangers, better to be ripped off by him than by strangers. As she walked up the street to her office, Nora told herself not to feel defeated because she’d failed to leave Christopher today. It would take time.
But Nora did feel defeated.
SOMEHOW SHE MADE her way through the rest of Tuesday, all of Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday without canceling any appointments, without making any huge mistakes with her patients, though she did lose focus when a young playwright going through a divorce mentioned that he and his wife were deciding to put their small co-op on the market, and she almost began to weep when another man described the weekend from his childhood when his father moved out of the family’s home. Nora had arrived now at Saturday morning, seven o’clock, after five hours’ sleep, the most she’d managed all week. Sitting on the couch again—this was now her “post,” a protective trench on the edge of a battlefield—she held a mug of hot coffee in one hand and with the other hand was touching a paper-towel-wrapped ice cube to the puffiness under her eyes. Take care of yourself. This is what she would have advised a patient in her condition. She dialed a locksmith to see about changing the locks on the loft, but when they put her on hold she hung up.
A LITTLE AFTER NINE O’CLOCK, the telephone rang. After four rings, Nora heard through the answering machine the voice of Gavin Grey. “Nora, it’s me. Pick up if you’re there.”
You arrogant—
“Well, Nor, I was right. As usual. The deal on West Seventy-fifth fell through. I knew it would. If you’re still looking, we should jump on this imme—”
“Nora Conolly speaking. Is this about an apartment?”
“Hey, yeah, sweetie, it’s me, Gavin. Wake you? Good. No. Listen, how fast can you get uptown? Just off Broadway, Seventy-fifth Street.”
“If it’s a low floor close to Broadway,” Nora complained, “it’s going to be noisy.”
“Do you want a place to live or not?”
IT WAS A PREWAR BUILDING, more worn out than charming. There was a doorman, but he wouldn’t be on duty until four in the afternoon, and he’d leave at two in the morning. As Nora and Gavin entered, the main door was unlocked and wide open. The lobby smelled of fish with hints of a gas leak underneath. “Nice old slate floor,” Gavin said as they waited for the elevator, and Nora stared at his lizard-skin cowboy boots.
Feeling she should make an attempt, she said, “Laundry in the building, right?”
“Absolutely, in the basement. This is a full-service building.”
“What’s the rent?”
“He’s asking sixteen fifty. We could maybe get that down a bit if we show him you’re the ideal tenant.”
Upstairs, the sixth-floor hallway felt sinister—dimly lit with Gothic sconces, and the walls had that oily film left from insecticide—but the apartment itself, 6H, was a clean one. It was the tiny, overtended one-bedroom home of newlyweds. “These tenants bought a house in Jersey,” Gavin said. “Weird coincidence. Turns out this guy’s the brother of a girl I knew at Williams.”
“You went to Williams?”
“Yeah, for a while.”
Yeah, like maybe two weeks.
The couple’s boxes were marked PANTRY, DEN, GUEST ROOM, COMPUTER ROOM (did people in the suburbs actually have special rooms for their computers?), and stacked neatly along the walls, reaching the ceiling in some spots. Despite all the packed boxes, the two rooms were still stuffed with stuff, highly decorated in a way that made Nora lose heart. Such terrible taste, and yet they can move out of a place I can’t afford to move into.
On every surface, there were brass-framed photos of the couple’s wedding. Bride wearing a ruffle around her neck and a necklace. And the tables on which the photos rested were covered with flowered cloths and crocheted doilies. In the bedroom, Nora’s eye caught a set of big shoulder pads on the bureau and she looked away, more embarrassed than if she’d seen a stranger’s bra. The newlyweds’ bed had a mound of decorative pillows on it, and stuffed kittens, and a crocheted quilt folded across the bottom of the lace-eyelet bedspread. The room was stuffed with Ethan Allen oak furniture, the regulation newlywed bedroom suite.
Standing in the cramped room, Nora assumed her own marriage was over, and, oddly, by now, that news really felt quite small. Sort of like getting used to the idea that Daddy had been in jail. The useful thing about the fact of Christopher’s baby was that it canceled out every other worry, made a mockery of any effort. The word Natassia no longer bit.
“What do you think?” Gavin asked.
Feeling clammy, as in a déjà vu, Nora walked through the rooms a second time. GameBoy. Commemorative mugs. Photo albums. In the kitchen, a lineup of blender, mixer, food processor, electric grill, toaster, waffle iron, all covered with matching ruffled covers. Duck motif in the kitchen. In the bathroom, pandas. The toilet seat had a ruffled cover. The Kleenex box and spare roll of
toilet paper had ruffled covers. So much effort.
“This building is co-op, you know,” Gavin said, “so you’ll have to be approved by the board. Two months’ security up front, nonnegotiable. Plus the first month’s rent.”
“Plus your fee.”
“Plus the fee.” Gavin read over the card. “You’ll have to give something to the super, too, it says here.”
“So we’re talking over eight thousand dollars.”
“In this market…”
Nora interrupted him. “I’m going to think about this one.”
“If you’re serious, decide fast. I’d hate for you to lose it.”
“You really think…?”
“Yeah,” he told her.
And that’s how Nora found herself reaching into her big leather sack purse, pulling out her checkbook, writing out checks.
“Just three checks for now,” Gavin instructed, “all made out to the agency. The super can wait till later. He gets cash. And you need to fill out this form so we can check with your employer and do a credit check. Your credit good, Nora? And now the owner, it says here, he wants three personal references in addition to the employer’s reference.”
Nora was leaning her checkbook up against the wall to write out her checks, even though Gavin had invited her to sit down on the young couple’s sectional sofa and use their glass-topped coffee table.
“Nora, hon, you’re making the right decision. In a year or so, with the market the way it is, you’re going to have a very enviable rent.” Gavin had stayed silent while she’d looked the apartment over, but now he was chattering. In the elevator: “Definitely the right thing for you. Nicest neighborhood in the city. Hell, I wish I could afford it.”
By the time they got downstairs and out onto the street, Nora, to her great relief, heard herself saying, “I changed my mind. I don’t want that apartment.”
“But you just said…” All Gavin’s chitchat had stopped, and for one naked moment his blue hound-dog eyes showed her exactly how much she’d been annoying him for the past forty-five minutes.
“Yeah, but I don’t know. My gut. I think I’m going to give this apartment search a break for a while.”
“Suit yourself,” Gavin said, smiling, pretending again. “You’re the one who has to be happy. I just hope…”
Tearing up the three checks and tossing them into a big trash can at the corner of Broadway was the first action in days that made any sense to Nora, but it wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet, and she couldn’t think what she should do next. Saturday, then Sunday lay ahead of her, and then the rest of her life.
Nora walked. All afternoon. Into shops, out of shops. As usual, sales clerks rushed to her; apparently Nora gave the impression of someone who was going to buy, and buy big. She spent fifteen minutes in the pews of a Catholic church somewhere, ten minutes in the ladies’ lounge at Saks. She could have gone into the public library, but she didn’t. It was late, and she was on the last leg of her hike home, headed east on West Twenty-third Street, and she glanced across the street and noticed a man standing behind his pretzel cart, and at just the moment Nora’s eye passed over him, the vendor stepped out of his sneakers and, with white-athletic-socked feet, onto a patch of carpet spread between the curb and his cart. Nora saw the man get down on his knees, turn to face the East Side. He crouched, lowering his head to the carpet. The sun was setting, the Saturday-evening streets were high-strung. People rushing—many of them hungry, probably ready to grab a bite anywhere—but this vendor had stopped his business, turned his back, and given himself over to something essential to him that he could not see. Nora knew nothing about this vendor’s God, knew nothing of what he prayed for, but she watched—her hands were inside the pockets of her coat, her fingers gently stroking her palms—and what she saw was a man acknowledging the powerful mystery that carried his life. Continuing down the street, Nora bowed her head and did the same.
CHAPTER 35 :
FEBRUARY–MARCH
1990
Wednesday, a few days after her failure to find a new place to live, Nora was in session with her pregnant patient and heard something shocking. With just about one week until her due date, the woman was fanning herself with a folded-up New York, and she told Nora, “I have good news.”
“Great,” Nora said, “tell me.”
“He left his wife. He decided he wants to be with me and the baby. He chose us.”
Nora’s facial expression must have shown her confusion.
“The baby’s father, of course. He moved into my apartment this weekend.”
Nora leaned forward in her chair. “What?”
“He’s taken a room at the Yale Club, just, you know, so his wife won’t feel so bad. But he’s with us. He’ll be there for the birth. He reserved a private room for me at the hospital.”
Nora was floored. There’d been no mention of the man for months, nothing to suggest they’d even been communicating, but what was truly shocking was the sound of Nora’s own voice saying, “That’s your good news? You’re kidding me, aren’t you?”
She actually said that, to a patient.
And still Nora couldn’t stop herself. “After everything you’ve said about him, you’re letting the man near your child? You’ve taken him into your home? Are you nuts?”
The patient was very smart and, after just a moment of stunned silence, switched into her polished, professional mode. “I think there’s something here that has more to do with you than with me. I’m leaving early today.” And she walked out.
Nora was still leaning forward in her leather chair, her pendant bobbing against her knees. I’m not doing well. I’m not well. I need help.
FIVE DAYS LATER, to Nora’s enormous relief, the patient left a phone message, her voice happy and excited: “Dr. Conolly, it’s a girl. She was born Saturday morning. She’s fine, everything was amazing. We named her Frida. We’re all really, really happy.”
Nora was relieved on several counts: (1) the patient was still communicating with her; (2) the birth had gone well; (3) it was a girl. Research suggested that unmarried fathers stuck around less often for daughters than they did for sons. If Frida was lucky, her bad-news father would ditch soon. If Nora was lucky, her patient would come back and give Nora a chance to say what she knew she needed to say: “I made a mistake. I never should have said to you what I said. I never should have reacted in such a judgmental way. I’m sorry.”
I’m truly not doing well.
Nora knew it was time to call someone. She had lots of therapists’ names she offered as references to other people, but for herself, who to call? Had someone mentioned a Cather? Dr. Cather? Where had she heard that? Nora had no idea where to begin. And so she considered it a gift from the universe when she got home that evening and found this phone message: “Nora, it’s me. Candice. Are you still talking to me? I’m sorry I’ve been a lousy friend. I’ve been wanting to invite you and Christopher over for dinner, to see the girls. They’re so big since you saw them at the hospital, but I can’t even tell you, this whole twin business is—God…Anyway, would you meet me and the girls for coffee? This Saturday morning? Jacques has to work, which means we’re switching our usual brunch with his family, which means the girls and I are free. And don’t hate me for asking you this, but could you swing it to meet us in our neighborhood? That would help me a lot. The babies and I would love to see you.”
Candice. No, I don’t hate you.
There were a few back-and-forth phone messages and it was arranged: ten-thirty Saturday morning, for coffee at a French bakery on Madison Avenue in the Eighties. For the next five days, Nora clung to those details. She had high hopes for this visit.
CHRISTOPHER HAS A baby son who lives in Nyack.
Nora had not yet said those words to anyone. She’d been holding the news inside herself for three weeks. Would she tell Candice? Probably not, but Nora was ready for some kind of disclosure, an unburdening. I made a big mistake in a session. Probably she wouldn�
��t tell Candice that, not a good move professionally, but Candice and her husband did own a maid’s room on the top floor of their building, and Nora was ready to ask if they would rent it to her; this request would, of course, bring on further questions, and Nora would eventually be saying that she and Christopher were, basically, separated. Probably Nora should begin to get that news out herself, before Christopher started going around telling people he’d gone behind Nora’s back, had a baby on his own. Nora wondered if she should tell Candice everything, the truth about Christopher, Baby Natassia, all of it. Ten years we’ve been friends and I’ve managed not to tell her; I’m not telling now.
Nora and Candice had met during their first semester of psychoanalytic training. For a while they were casual friends, talking before and after lectures. Candice was in the heart-wrecking last stages of divorce from her first husband, and she talked to Nora about that sometimes, but they never even exchanged phone numbers. So Nora was completely surprised one school night when Candice called the loft to ask if she could come over. “My family’s great, but they’re just worn out listening to me, and it’s too late to call my therapist. You just seem really empathic,” she told Nora, “and I’m hurting so much I don’t think I can do tonight alone.” What could Nora say? Candice lived a few blocks uptown. It was almost midnight; Christopher offered to meet Candice halfway (he was proud that his wife was already so skilled at her profession that other students were calling for help). After that night, for several weeks, Candice had many sleepovers at the loft. Christopher was turned off by how forthright she was about her misery; usually he went to bed. But Nora, from the start of this friendship, admired Candice’s ability to ask for what she needed. Eventually, Nora benefited greatly from these late-night sessions. She had never met anyone as willing as Candice was to talk long and deep about grief. At that point, eight years had passed since Nora had lost her parents. Kevin, Mary, Christopher—none of them had offered Nora the chance to talk—and be heard—the way Candice did. It was Candice who took the first trip back to Greenport with Nora, literally held her hand when she cried.