The Ramblers

by Aidan Donnelley Rowley

  She reaches the museum steps and sits, hands deep in her pockets, her breath leaving white wisps of condensation in the air. From her perch, she spots a trio of pigeons near the curb. They peck at a twist of pretzel and this makes her think of her mother, who was always full of odd facts about Darwin. One such fact was that he studied pigeons, obtaining skins from around the world, tucking into pigeon treatises, befriending fellow fanciers and joining London pigeon clubs. Say hello hello to the pigeons, Eloise would say when they spoke on the phone.

  She dials. Her father answers on the second ring. She can picture his movements, his standing up from his TV chair and walking swiftly to the kitchen to the home’s only phone. On Sundays he watches football, something Eloise gave him flak for. She thought it was a brutal sport.

  “Marsh residence,” he says. The mere sound of his voice and tears prick her eyes. Guilt spreads within her, a gnawing feeling that she’s fallen woefully short as a daughter, that she’s betrayed him somehow by getting on with her life, a life that doesn’t really include him.

  “Hey, Dad, it’s Clio,” she says, swallowing, a familiar lump forming in her throat.

  “So you got back okay?”

  “Yes,” she says. “Last night was the opening of Henry’s hotel. It went well.”

  “Good to hear,” he says, his voice distant.

  “I’d like for you to meet him at some point,” Clio surprises herself by saying, and waits.

  “I’d like that,” he says, his words perfunctory, trailing off and giving way to a heavy silence.

  The truth is that she’s not ready for her father to meet Henry. She’s never been ready to bring a man home. Not that there have been many men. Clio’s chalked it all up to choice; after having a front-row seat to her parents’ struggle, she hasn’t exactly been eager to commit. But now there is a man in the picture and she cares about him and, no, she’s not ready for any of this.

  The silence now doesn’t surprise her, but it does leave her crestfallen. When her mother died, she foolishly hoped that her relationship with her father would reset itself, that they’d learn to lean on each other, that they’d make efforts to get to know each other. Her hopes were high; she’d be dutiful about calling often, about checking in. She’d reach out several times a week even if only to talk about the banal details of their respective lives, her work with the birds, his construction jobs. It would be healthy for each of them to indulge in some of the normalcy they never had when her mother was around.

  She willed an optimism that felt flimsy at times, a deep wish that things would magically transform, that he would find his voice in the precarious aftermath, and she’d find hers too, that they’d take greater interest in each other’s lives, that they’d ask each other questions and make up for all those lost years.

  They didn’t. It hasn’t happened that way. Instead, more distance. More silence. Clio has rationalized it all, has worked hard to assuage her own blooming shame, soothing herself with stories likely fictive; maybe this is what her father prefers.

  He’s always been quiet, a man of few words, never one to examine or explore life too deeply, the strong silent type who never really seemed all that strong—though who is she to judge, there’s no saying she would have had more fortitude in his unfortunate spot of essentially babysitting a time bomb.

  He’s stayed in New Haven and she’s stayed here. They talk from time to time, their calls strained and halting and full of hurt that neither of them seems to be able to unpack. She can’t shake the feeling that she’s abandoned him.

  “I’m going to catch an early train on Wednesday,” she says.

  “I told you I can handle the house,” her father says now. “You don’t need to come. I know you’ve been busy with the travel and with Henry. I can handle it and I don’t want to burden you with—”

  “Dad, stop,” she says, aware of a trace bitterness in her voice, biting her lip. “I’m coming home. I want to, okay? If you can pick me up at the station, great. Otherwise, I’ll catch a cab, or call Jack, or something . . .”

  “I always pick you up,” he says.

  “You didn’t last year,” she says quickly, immediately regretting this unnecessary barb. Why must she always bring up the past?

  “I have to work on Wednesday, but if you get in before eight or eight thirty, that’ll work.”

  “I think there’s a 5:57 or 5:47. I’ll be in before eight. We can have dinner together, or—”

  “Good then.”

  “How are the Giants playing?” Clio asks. It’s a foolish, insipid question, but it’s all she’s got. They’ve perfected a collective cowardice, grown skilled at talking about everything other than what matters.

  “Oh, not so well. Nice to take a break from the packing, though. Having myself a Heineken that Jack brought by. I’m looking forward to seeing you,” he says. “It’s been too long.”

  It’s been too long. A dagger. Always.

  “Yeah, you too, Dad,” she says before hanging up. She looks down at her phone and then up at the trees, the sky, city strangers out and about, doing their Sunday stuff. A bolt of determination hits her: This time, things with her father will be different. She will go home and see him and they will talk. They will get somewhere.

  Clio stands and walks down to the sidewalk. She begins her well-worn route back to the hotel, cutting through by the Hayden Planetarium. She walks by the Nobel statue and heads west along Seventy-Ninth. When she reaches Amsterdam, she feels herself slowing. A surprising sense of calm falls over her as she takes in this little corner of the world that’s become so familiar. She’s come to recognize certain people and certain dogs. Down the way, ruddy-faced men stumble euphorically from under the neon harp of the Dublin House, the charming sliver of a pub where she and Henry had drinks on their first date after he walked her through the construction site for the hotel.

  That night. She remembers it so clearly, how easy it was to talk to him, how he was a gentleman but also fun. He walked her back to the San Remo and handed her his very own copy of E. B. White’s Here Is New York, telling her: Read this and you will understand. She wasn’t sure what she was meant to understand and didn’t ask but it was all very clever; this ensured that she would see him again because she’d have to return his book. She promised to read it, and this made him smile and he took her face in his hands, bent down and whispered words she wouldn’t forget. Just think, days ago, I didn’t know you. Time is a funny thing.

  And then their first kiss. A simple kiss, a wispy tease, barely there at all. He pulled away and stood quietly, his tall silhouette stark against a wallpaper of trees and spring night sky. And Clio just stayed there on the sidewalk, smiling. He walked away into the night, making it only as far as the corner before turning back to see if she was still there. She was.

  He’s it, Smith said later after all the Googling. Clio fought her on this. There was no it. It was a fiction, a fairy tale, a fallacy. It was what got people in trouble. But Smith wouldn’t budge. She held firm. It, I tell you.

  She stayed up and read Here Is New York. She read carefully but quickly, and when she got to the final page, the part he’d underlined about the beleaguered willow tree . . . Life under difficulties, growth against odds, sap-rise in the midst of concrete . . . she felt tears filling her eyes.

  When she closed the book, a scrap of paper fell out and floated to the floor, a scrap of paper she’s saved. You might just be my thing. —HK.

  Goodness, he liked her. Even then. From the very beginning. Enough to call his brother. Enough to write a love note. Last night was not good, there’s no way to make it good now, but they will talk about it like they have talked about nearly everything and move on; she will make it right. Determined, Clio picks up her pace.

  At the entrance of the hotel, she pauses and peers inside. Through the glass, she beholds a new scene: a hum of activity, vitality, life, the first guests.

  She walks inside. The concierge greets her warmly. “Welcome back, Ms. M
arsh. He’s in the garden,” he says.

  Nerves come as she walks past a boisterous crowd gathered at the elevator bank, toward the glass door to the courtyard. She grabs the handle and pushes her way out.

  Henry is sitting on a bench and turns toward her. A tired smile overtakes his face, but there is distance in his eyes. Things are different now.

  “I needed some air,” Henry says, standing. “I’ve been a disaster all day.”

  “Me too,” she says, nodding.

  He wears his favorite ivory cable Aran sweater, his heather-gray Irish flat cap, an old pair of Levi’s. He hesitates for a moment but then comes straight at her, eyes steady and tired, and wraps his whole body around her. He lifts her up, carries her to the bench and holds her on his lap. She stares up at the white sky.

  A fleck of cold brings her back to the moment.

  “Snow,” Henry says. “I have a thing for snow.”

  “I didn’t know that,” she says.

  “Now you do.”

  With the two of them, there’s been little silence. All those years, both of them alone, saving up stories. They’ve packed their time together with words. But here and now: silence. Clio wants to believe that there’s something peaceful about this snowy quiet.

  “Come on,” he says. “Let’s head up.”

  They ride up in the small elevator with an older couple who’s just checked in. Henry shifts into work mode, turning on the charm, welcoming them to his hotel, but Clio hangs back and takes in the rich detail of the tiny space. The wallpaper—made of recycled strips of old New York Times. The lantern that once hung in the Algonquin Hotel, where E. B. White wrote Here Is New York; the round vintage buttons with numbers in an antique font. The red light of the ceiling camera reminds her of his words last night: People will see us. The memory arouses her, fills her with warmth. All she wants is for everything to be fine, to fast-forward through the hard parts. All she wants is to kiss him, to feel his weight on top of her again.

  When Henry opens the door to his room, Clio sees something that both saddens her and makes perfect sense: the bookshelf is back in its place. The door is hidden once more, gone, as if it were all a dream. Empty room service platters rest on the bed. Newspapers are strewn everywhere. Clio drops her bag to the carpet, takes a deep breath.

  Henry unzips her jacket, peels it from her and marches it to the closet, where he hangs it.

  “What happened last night?” he says, nibbling his nail, pulling her to sit beside him on the bed. “You scared me running off like that. Tell me about these panic attacks. What do they feel like? Why do they happen?”

  His questions are fair. Straightforward. She’s answered them before.

  “Have you ever had one?” she asks.

  He shakes his head. This does not surprise her. He’s not wired that way.

  “They’re so awful, Henry. You feel like the walls are closing in, like your lungs and your heart are just going to stop, like you’re going to die even though you know that it’s all irrational. I had them in waves since college, sometimes two or three a week, but I haven’t had one in a while. Since before I met you.” Henry smiles at this.

  “Last night was a lot, Henry. The party was wonderful and I had a really fine time, but I think I was more anxious than I realized and then the apartment and your saying all of these incredibly meaningful things about the future. I just—”

  “Look, Clio,” he interrupts, a hint of anger in his voice. “It wasn’t right of me to put all of this on you, to catch you off guard like that. You were exhausted, and I had far too much to drink, and believe me when I tell you I’m feeling my share of shame today. I’m typically a bit more cautious in my dealings with you. You know that.”

  “I do,” Clio says meekly. “I don’t want you to have to be cautious with me, but it just felt so out of the blue, that suddenly the world was moving so fast. I feel like you barely know me.”

  He pauses. Considers this.

  “I’m not sure that’s fair. I think I know a good deal about you,” he says. “I know that you do this soft, hiccuplike thing when you sleep. I know that you walk to the window when you have an idea for work or are feeling overwhelmed by something. I know that you would prefer having your nose in a book to doing most anything else. I know that your favorite color is red and that you drink your coffee extra sweet and that you love raw cookie dough and have never in your life tried calamari. I know that you love subtitled films and that your movie snacks are Milk Duds and extra-buttery popcorn. I appreciate that there is far more to you, Clio, and I want to learn it all, but you can’t say that I don’t know you.”

  He’s been paying attention. Each detail lifts her. She reaches for his hand. He laces his fingers in hers.

  “Look, Clio. Before you, there were affairs. Nothing more. And I was surprised at how different I felt when I met you. Truth is, I was going to wait. I know you’re going home this week to pack up the house, and it’s all loaded emotionally, and I vowed to myself to wait until you were back and the hotel was moving and grooving, but then I saw you across the bar for the first time in three weeks and you looked so beautiful. And I was just overcome with something I’ve never in my life felt, something I can’t explain, and I just couldn’t wait. I love you and I want this, Clio. I’m afraid I was rather under the impression that we were on the same page, that this was mutual.”

  “It is,” Clio says. “But there are some things I need to tell you, Henry. Things about my past. About my family.”

  “Then tell me,” he says, his blue eyes wide and pleading. “Tell me everything.”

  “I will,” she says. “But you’ve got to give me some time.”

  “Okay,” he says, nodding, looking down. “If that’s what you need. Has it even occurred to you that I might be scared too?”

  And this, this question, for some reason, it stuns her and changes everything. Because, no, it hasn’t occurred to her that he might be scared. What in the world does he have to be scared of?

  “You are?” she says. “You’re scared?”

  “I am,” he says. “I’m old, Clio. I’m getting on in age and it suddenly occurs to me that I might want more than a bunch of hotels and I guess I’m scared that maybe I’ve missed the boat and it’s too late, or maybe that I’m terrible at all of this. I know how to open a hotel with my eyes closed, but I’m not sure I know how to do this.”

  Clio looks into his eyes. There’s so much hope there, mixed in with the blue.

  “Your brother showed up on my walk today,” she says.

  “I know. He confessed when I saw him earlier.”

  “He loves you a lot.”

  Henry smiles a weak smile. “It was good to see him. Made me realize how much I miss him and his kids and the rest of my family. You really are so lucky to have your dad so close. A mere stone’s throw, really.”

  Lucky. She’s never thought of it this way. That she’s lucky to have her father so close. She’s spent so many years now trying to put distance between herself and her parents, herself and her past, but maybe she is in fact lucky on some level. She thinks of her father all alone in that decrepit house, swimming in a sea of cardboard boxes, eating dinner after dinner alone, all of the times she felt she should hop a train and be with him but couldn’t bring herself to. It was all too hard.

  Henry orders another round of room service.

  The food arrives quickly and they quietly tuck into a sumptuous feast. Clio tastes everything, savoring the range of flavors—the nutty smoothness of the pumpkin gnocchi, the tang of the blue cheese burger, the earthy tones of the papery vegetable terrine. Henry does what Henry does, presiding over it all, passing her a beer.

  “So, how was the first day?” she says.

  “Oh, I think as first days of hotels go, it was pretty grand.” He laughs.

  When her phone rings, it startles her. A number she doesn’t recognize appears on the screen, stirs anxiety. She doesn’t answer. It rings again. The same number. Henry asks
if she needs to answer it, but she shakes her head no. Who keeps calling her? There’s no voice mail when she checks.

  “You know what?” he says, cutting the quiet.

  “What?” Clio says.

  “I think everything will be just fine.” It’s as if he can read her mind, as if he knows how desperately she needs this assurance. And maybe, in a way, he can read her mind. Maybe this is how it works when it works: someone begins to know you, not perfectly, never perfectly, but well enough to look you in the eye and guess what you need.

  Everything will be just fine.

  It’s something a mother might say. A mother other than the kind Clio had.

  Clio’s been waiting far too long for someone to say this.

  She’s waited far too long to believe it.

  “I know it’s my turn to choose the show, but let’s do a little Downton. You, my Bird Girl, have had quite the twenty-four hours.”

  She leans over and kisses him and burrows her face into his chest, listens to the defiant thrum of his beating heart. When she pulls away, she knows what she wants to do, what she must do. She thinks of the Andean hummingbirds she saw up in the mountains, their tiny bodies evolving so that they can survive at higher and higher altitudes. She can’t hesitate. If she does, she might lose her nerve.

  “Come home with me, Henry?” she says. “I want you to meet my father.”

  Monday, November 25, 2013

  SMITH MAE ANDERSON

  Start where you are.

  —Pema Chödrön, Comfortable with Uncertainty

  SMITH ANDERSON

  THE ORDER OF THINGS, LLC

  theorderofthings.net

  MINDFUL ORDER FOR A

  MINDFUL EXISTENCE

  As founder of the Order of Things, LLC, I believe that organization and tranquility in the home lead to organization and tranquility in the head and heart. I tackle each project with comprehensive, tailor-made innovation, streamlining the homes, schedules and daily lives of my loyal and discerning clients. Without fail, my no-nonsense approach yields exceptional results and enduring change. With a BA in psychology and physics from Yale University and an MBA in management from Columbia University, I began my career as a management consultant with McKinsey, a profession in which I thrived due to my innate passion for detail and efficiency. Today I apply those skills and passion to train my clients to clear their homes of burdensome clutter, simplify overbooked days and improve quality of life. I’ve gained a reputation for imagining solutions that are unique, practical and aesthetically superior. I transform the entire essence of each space. From powerful executives to time-strapped parents, my clients celebrate my incomparable mix of Ivy League intelligence, resolute confidentiality and abiding devotion to design. I have appeared on the Today show and Good Morning America and am regularly featured in the New York Times and New York Post, Psychology Today, and O, The Oprah Magazine, among other publications. I am at work on my first book on clutter theory, cognitive dissonance and the butterfly effect.