When Jim returned he dumped the videos on the coffee table. She picked up the top one and read the cover. “The Bridge on the River Kwai.” Jim was putting his feet up.
“Don’t know that one,” said Talmadge.
“Alec Guinness,” said Ceinwen. “As a prisoner of the Japanese. Along with a bunch of other soldiers. All British.”
“Nope, for once you’re wrong. You forget William Holden is there too,” said Jim. “And some Canadians.”
“Nobody ever remembers the Canadians.” Ceinwen picked up the second box. “I get the feeling you’re making a point here.”
“Why, whatever do you mean? Great movie.”
Talmadge leaned over and read the spine. “The Great Escape. More prisoners of the Japanese?”
“The Germans,” said Jim.
“Oh good, variety,” said Talmadge. “And Ceinwen, look, they escape. Right there in the title, see?”
“The British prisoners all get shot,” said Ceinwen.
Jim crossed his legs. “Because one of them makes an incredibly stupid mistake.”
“I vote for that one,” said Talmadge. “Not that you two just ruined the ending or anything.”
“If you don’t like these, there’s still time to go back,” said Jim. “They had A Man for All Seasons.”
“There you go, she’s almost laughing,” said Talmadge. “Who’s a prisoner in that one?”
“An English Catholic,” said Ceinwen. “He gets beheaded.”
“You know you love me,” said Jim.
“I do. But you stink.”
Four days passed before she picked up the phone. Classes were ending, she knew. He’d be giving his final exam soon. She called the home number and let it ring until she lost count, until she heard the apartment door opening and she set down the receiver, needing two tries to get it in the cradle. That was enough time for Jim and Talmadge to make it to the living room, and to see her replacing the phone on the cardboard table that had been its temporary home since the previous Christmas.
“Uh-oh,” said Talmadge. She sat on the couch and stared at the TV, which she hadn’t turned on.
“Talmadge,” said Jim. “What do we got in the way of tea these days?”
“We got oregano.”
“Oregano? Jesus.”
“Whole leaves. It’s cleansing.”
“Fine. Just use the tap water, god knows it’s hot enough. Let’s cleanse.” Jim plopped next to her and offered her a cigarette, which she took even though she didn’t smoke menthols. He waited until they were both well into their first drags, and said, “Was he there?” She shook her head. “You can’t call him.” Silence. “Let me repeat that. Nice and slow. You. Can’t. Call. Him.”
“I hadn’t been planning to,” she whispered.
“Hey, nobody ever does. You get weak after a while. I understand. But I’m telling you, I’m a man and I know how our brains work. Worst thing you can do.”
“I only did it because …” She trailed off.
“I know. You felt bad. It’s been a few days, you start to think, maybe I was too harsh. I said mean things. So you figure, I’ll call and say … well, I don’t know what you say to this one. ‘Hi, I’m sorry I pointed out that you already have a girlfriend.’”
“That’s not why.”
“‘I’m sorry I called you rich?’”
“No.” She started to sob. “It’s his birthday.”
Jim slipped an arm around her waist.
“Sagittarius,” Talmadge called from the kitchen. “That is one flaky sign. And you’re what, Gemini? Oh dear.”
“Let us know when it’s ready.” The toilet paper had migrated to a spot under the coffee table. Jim pulled it out for her. “I’m sorry, honey. But like I said, I’m a guy, and I’m telling you, if you call him, you look desperate. If you want him back, it’ll make him want you less. And if you decide good riddance, you’ll feel better leaving it like this.”
She blew her nose. “It was just one call.”
“One is too many and a thousand wouldn’t be enough. Speaking of which…”
Talmadge had come in with the tea. “Are you ready? Because this is something you may not hear me say again for a long, looong time. But—” He picked up her hand and put the mug in it. “Jim is right. Did you hear that, Jim?”
“My week is made.”
“My pleasure. I repeat, Jim’s right. If Pope John Paul wants you back, he’s gotta call himself.” She took a sip and so did Jim. “How is it?”
“It’s worse than the sage.”
“I’ll say,” said Jim.
“Good. We’re cleansing like with like. Bitter with bitter.” He waved his hands over her head. “Think of it washing through you.”
Talmadge walked to the phone, a heavy, black-metal rotary from the 1940s that Jim had bought refurbished. It had a twelve-foot cord so they could move it around the apartment, and untangling the cord was another of Talmadge’s self-appointed duties. This time, he picked up the whole phone. “Observe. Jim keeps saying I know nothing about recovery, but he is so very, very wrong.” He carried the phone into Jim’s room, walked back out, shut the door on the cord and dusted his hands. “Avoidance? Works.”
2.
THREE MORE DAYS WERE ALL SHE HAD TO GET THROUGH UNTIL Matthew left, and she made it without calling. Jim took the phone out of his room. She quit looking down the store to the entrance. Vintage Visions was hopping, and Lily was happy, or at least less nasty. One week before Christmas, Talmadge waited on Madonna and talked of nothing else for days.
She went home every night and watched war movies with Jim until Talmadge rebelled: “I know you’re mad at men right now. I know you want to see them suffer. And Jim, he just likes to see me suffer. But one more battle scene and I’m buying Miracle on 34th Street. Colorized. And I’ll play it every night.”
They split the cost of a tree, a ratty, lopsided affair that Jim and Talmadge bought on Avenue A and bargained for fiercely, united in holiday stinginess. For two days before that, they had argued about colored versus white lights. Ceinwen recused herself. Jim won. They got white.
She’d bought ornaments here and there, but the tree was bigger than she had reckoned, and it looked even rattier sparsely decorated. They walked around it a bit and debated about where to get more ornaments, until Ceinwen remembered her box of broken jewelry. They finished trimming it with severed strands of fake pearls, necklaces and bracelets with broken clasps, clip-on earrings that hurt too much to wear, mateless earrings, and brooches with missing stones. Jim contributed a few cufflinks. Talmadge strung up some worry beads.
They agreed it was the chicest Christmas tree in Manhattan.
Christmas morning they opened gifts. For Talmadge, Jim and Ceinwen had gone halfsies on a huge framed poster from the Marlene documentary they’d watched together. Ceinwen’s gift from Jim was a set of rhinestone dress clips from the 1940s, which she immediately put on her coat. Talmadge had managed to get Jim an entire double-breasted vintage suit, and Jim had the courtesy not to ask where it came from. Nor did Ceinwen question the origin of her gift, a black silk robe with a red-and-gold dragon guarding the back, claws outstretched. “This is a very powerful sign for you right now,” explained Talmadge.
Jim’s mother had sent him an answering machine. They argued about what to record for the outgoing message, and finally Jim said they’d use the prerecorded one until they reached a consensus.
Jim made a small turkey, basting it every ten minutes like a madman. Ceinwen made the mashed potatoes, and they ate a salad so they’d feel like they’d earned the chocolate ice cream.
After dinner, Talmadge announced he needed to call home. “Do you want to call home first?” he asked Ceinwen.
“No.”
Jim was shaking his pack of Newports. “Damn. Forgot to stock up.”
“Thrifty’s open,” said Ceinwen. “I’ll run down.”
As she descended the stairs she heard music. She was surprised Miriam wasn
’t out. She stopped and tried to identify what was playing. Classical, that was all she could tell. For Ceinwen, classical was either Beethoven, or Not Beethoven.
When she came back upstairs she deposited the cigarettes on the coffee table. “Miriam’s home,” she said.
“Wanna invite her up?” came Talmadge’s voice from behind his screens. He was trying to decide where to hang Marlene.
“You think she’d come?”
“I was joking,” came the voice again. “What are we going to do with Miriam, hold a snubbing contest?”
Jim narrowed his eyes. “Is this about your grandmother?”
“Granana? What do you mean?”
He gathered his words. Then, “She died, and I know you miss her, honey. But if you’re looking for a substitute, I don’t think Miriam is the way to go. She doesn’t even have a dog.”
She unbuttoned her coat and went to her room to hang it up. When she returned she sat on the couch. “Granana was barely as tall as me, she weighed about two hundred pounds, and she never wore anything unless it had elastic. She hardly left the house and the only music she listened to was bluegrass and gospel. When she wasn’t sitting around watching old movies, she was watching CNN or backtalking William F. Buckley on Firing Line. Trust me, Miriam does not remind me of Granana.”
Talmadge went into the kitchen and crossed back to his space, a brick in one hand and a nail in his mouth. Jim put down the answering-machine manual. “All right. You want to talk to Miriam. It’s Christmas Day. Go take her a gift. Maybe she’ll invite you in.”
She thought about it. “Not bad.”
“Talmadge isn’t the only one around here who can come up with something devious.”
“I love you too, Jim.” Hammering began.
She grabbed Jim’s hand. “Help me find something I can give her.”
They went to her room and surveyed her shelves.
“How about a scarf,” said Jim. “You have what, twenty? You won’t miss one.” He pulled the stack down and they sat on her bed.
Some were souvenir scarves from the fifties and sixties, which she’d bought because if you folded them right they kind of looked like Hermes. Kind of Hermes surely wasn’t right for Miriam. There was a velvet one she used to keep her head warm in cold weather, a couple of plain ones that were too boring, a couple of lace ones that were too young. She drew out a long, narrow scarf, dusty pink chiffon, edged with lace that had aged to dark ivory, dotted with tiny pearl beads. Probably 1930s at least, maybe earlier. It was so delicate she had worn it only twice. She unfolded it and held it up to the light.
“I said you should give her a scarf,” said Jim. “I didn’t say it had to be your best one.”
“This is the only one I think she would like.”
“It looks its age,” said Jim. “It’s beautiful, but she’s gonna know it’s not new. Didn’t she criticize you for wearing old stuff?”
“I think she might like it.”
“Suit yourself.” They went back into the living room, and Jim picked up the tissue and ribbon he’d saved from Talmadge’s present and wrapped the scarf. He’d gotten so much practice at his store that he didn’t need tape. “There you are.”
Talmadge’s head appeared between his screens. “You’re really going to do this?”
“She can’t lose,” said Jim. “If Miriam hates the scarf, it’s still hers.”
Ceinwen went downstairs and looked under the door. There was a faint light, and the music was still playing. She knocked and listened for Miriam’s footsteps. The music stopped, the door opened. Miriam was wearing a big sweater and yet another expression Ceinwen couldn’t read for the life of her.
“Hello.”
“Hello, Miriam. Merry Christmas.” She held out the gift. Miriam took it and picked up the end of a ribbon. “It’s by way of being neighborly,” said Ceinwen. “And,” she continued after a beat, “I also wanted to say I was sorry. For, you know, offending you a while back.”
“You didn’t offend me. I’m sorry you thought you did.” She let go of the ribbon. “This is a lovely thing to do. Thank you. Would you like me to open this now?”
“Yes, please.” She said that too fast, but Miriam opened the door wider. The light in the living room was soft and pretty at night; the glass hurricane lamp gave off a pinkish glow. Miriam gestured toward the armchair.
“Have a seat. I’m afraid I didn’t get you anything, but maybe you’d like some coffee. I just made it.”
On the coffee table was a tray that held a china pot, a creamer, a sugar bowl, and a cup with a saucer. Everything matched. Ceinwen never drank coffee at night—it kept her awake. But the cup had a gold rim and a gold vine shimmying up the handle, and dark blue and deep pink flowers on the side. She wanted to pick it up.
“Thanks, that sounds great.” Miriam went to the china closet and came back with another cup and saucer. Then she walked to the sideboard and reached into the cabinet underneath.
“I’m going to put some brandy in mine. Would you like some too?” She came up with a large green bottle.
“Even better.” Drunk, and unable to sleep. At least that would add one twist to all the other nights these past two weeks. She watched Miriam pour out the coffee, then a generous splash of brandy in each cup. Ceinwen took a sip and Miriam picked up the present.
“This is really very nice of you.” She pulled on the bow. Of course Miriam wouldn’t just rip away. She unfolded the paper and held up the scarf, fingering the lace at the edge. The quiet lingered so long Ceinwen wondered if she might get thrown out again. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s vintage.” Might as well get that out of the way.
“I used to wear scarves like this,” said Miriam. “Brings back some memories.” She folded it neatly and set it beside her. “You’ve been making an effort to cultivate me. Haven’t you.” It didn’t sound like an accusation, but it didn’t sound like an invitation, either.
“I’m from Mississippi,” said Ceinwen. “We’re used to knowing our neighbors there.” She took another sip of coffee for morale. “But I have to admit, you’re the only one in the building who seemed like …” Miriam wasn’t going to help her out. “… like we might have things in common.”
Miriam took her first sip. “You’re an old-movie buff.” Ceinwen nodded. This didn’t seem to be going as well as it could have. “I’ve met a few over the years. I don’t think many of them go so far as to wear the old clothes, though. Especially not at your age.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Ceinwen, seizing a chance to push the conversation somewhere better. “Vintage is really popular.”
Miriam sighed. “You seem like a nice girl. Really. But if you think I’m some treasure trove of movie lore, you’re wrong. I was a seamstress. Mostly I saw the costumers. When I saw the stars, it was just fittings. Good morning, are you sure this seam is straight. Can you take the bodice in. When will this be ready. Good night. I never did hear much gossip and what I did I’ve probably forgotten. It’s been more than forty years.”
This was uncomfortably close to what Ceinwen had, in fact, been hoping for all these months. But it still felt unfair to both of them. “I thought you seemed interesting before I had any idea you’d ever been near Hollywood.”
“That’s nice to know. Unfortunately, I’m not. I’m a widow living alone on the Lower East Side. I play mah-jongg with some friends uptown. Sometimes we go out to dinner. I read books and I go to museums and lectures. I don’t even go to the movies anymore.”
She was starting to feel peeved. She’d brought Miriam her best scarf and in return she was getting Irish coffee and a talk about how boring the woman’s life was. “I haven’t asked you about Garbo or Joan Crawford or anything, and I wouldn’t.”
“Garbo was a Sapphic.” Sapphic? Who says Sapphic? “Crawford was gracious but she hated Norma Shearer and we had to be careful to schedule their fittings so they couldn’t possibly run into each other. Is this anything you haven’t read be
fore?”
“If I were going to ask you about the old days, I wouldn’t ask you about MGM,” retorted Ceinwen. “I’d ask you about that.” And she turned and pointed to the silver-framed picture on the table.
“That’s what you were looking at last time.” Miriam set her cup in its saucer and crossed her legs at the ankle, a ladylike pose Ceinwen had never learned to maintain. “You saw that photograph, with me in costume, and decided I’m a forgotten star. Like Sunset Boulevard. You must have seen that one?”
“Of course.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but that isn’t the case either. No mansion, no chauffeur, no stardom. I had only one part where I was on screen for more than a few minutes, and the movie is long gone.”
“Lost?”
“Has been for decades. I don’t think there’s many people alive who ever saw it. I’m not Louise Brooks. Nobody’s going to ask me to write for the New Yorker.”
Ceinwen twisted toward the picture again. “I don’t know any Emils from the silents,” she said. “Except Emil Jannings.”
Miriam began to laugh. It was the first laugh Ceinwen had ever heard from her, and it was wonderful, a low-pitched vibrating cackle. Even her laugh was elegant. And it went on and on, until she picked up her napkin and wiped her eyes with it. “You looked this up, did you? And that’s what you came up with? I inscribed a photograph with love to Emil Jannings? Have you seen his movies?”
“Sure I’ve seen them,” said Ceinwen, too sharp, but her viewing chops were being maligned. “I saw The Blue Angel like everybody else.” Miriam started laughing again. “I didn’t think it was him, but he’s the only Emil in any of my books. I figured your Emil wasn’t an actor.”
“No. No, he wasn’t an actor. And he’d have given you what-for if you compared him to Jannings.” She folded the napkin and laid it beside her cup. “He was a director. German, like Jannings. That was all they had in common, I assure you.”
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