The Ghost of Greenwich Village

by Lorna Graham

  Everyone nodded into their drinks.

  Eve thought for a moment. “It seems to me,” she began. The others, lost in private meditations on their unjust treatment, didn’t look up. “It seems to me … ironic.”

  “What?” asked Russell.

  “It’s ironic,” she said, feeling very wise and very drunk. “That we—writers, of all people—should be without a voice.”

  The group gazed at her as though she were the Oracle at Delphi. Either that or they were just very drunk, too.

  • • •

  The others melted away into the night, citing exhaustion, waiting boyfriends, or suspicious girlfriends, leaving Eve alone with Mark as she nursed her last drink.

  “Mind if we get out of here?” he asked. Eve nodded, pushing the glass away, still half full. It sounded like he wanted the second half of their evening to begin.

  “You seemed a little out of sorts tonight, given that it was a celebration,” she offered as he helped her on with her sweater. His hand brushed her neck lightly and sparks flew down her spine. How long had it been since she’d been touched? Months.

  “I guess it was because it suddenly hit me: I’m gonna be you guys’ boss,” he said as they headed out the double doors to the empty street.

  “And you’re not sure what you should and shouldn’t say anymore,” she said.

  “Exactly. I mean, I’m aware of the downsides of this gig as much as anyone. Hey—taxi!” But the cab turned in the other direction, its red taillights disappearing down the street. “But I know what it’s like to lose a job. And that was worse. Much worse than a job that’s occasionally superficial and thankless.”

  Eve couldn’t imagine Mark being fired. “Really? What—?”

  “Damn. Do you think we should walk over to Third? This is ridiculous.”

  He was certainly eager. She wondered if he was going to ask her to go over to his place. She certainly hoped so, since hers was out of the question.

  They got to Third Avenue and found a taxi waiting at the light. “Well, good night,” said Mark, opening the door for her. “Thanks for coming out.”

  Eve hoped her face didn’t betray her disappointment. “You don’t want to maybe … hang out? A little while longer?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Like you said, I’m your boss now.”

  “Does it really matter?”

  He sighed, seeming to acknowledge that this discussion had been coming. “Look, I really like you, I do. I think you know that. You’re beautiful, and incredibly sweet. Smarter than most people at the show.” He paused for a moment, seeming to consider something. “You want to know something?”

  “What?”

  “That day when Orla Knock came in? Asking me about the two other writers we had on file? And I told her they were doing vacation relief at CNN?”

  “Yes.”

  Mark flicked his eyes down the street, then brought them back to her face. “I lied. I didn’t even call them.”

  “Really?” The thought thrilled her more than anything he’d ever said or any look he’d ever given her.

  “Yes, really. But I don’t want to mess this job up, or complicate it more than it already is. Orla was never anyone’s friend. But I am you guys’ friend, so I just want to avoid any possible weirdness, okay? For everyone’s sake.” He gave her a winsome little smile and guided her into the taxi. “Okay, Toulouse?”

  Eve nearly teared up at the use of his pet name for her. She nodded and waved halfheartedly as the door slammed shut. As the taxi cruised downtown, for once Eve didn’t see the mythical city around her. All she saw were the smudges on the window.

  Chapter 8

  Something was wrong when the highlight of one’s weekend involved walking the dog and looking for plaques on old buildings. Yet even as Eve lamented how things had ended before they began with Mark, she couldn’t help but be a little moved to discover Pound and Millay, who had also lived alongside one another on her mother’s shelves. She felt energized by them and decided to try for something harder: to track down some lesser-known writers, especially among the Beat generation. Eve took to carrying a small pad of paper to scribble down the addresses of the homes she found and had filled three pages so far.

  On Saturday afternoon, she and Highball found themselves on a previously unvisited block of Jane Street, in front of a consignment store called Full Circle. It lured her with a Peggy Hunt lace cocktail dress in the window. They entered and Eve ran her fingers over the sheer black netting that overlaid the champagne taffeta bodice.

  “I don’t know about that for you.”

  Eve turned around. A young woman behind the counter was addressing a lumpy customer who’d just stepped out of a dressing room wearing what looked like a hand-painted Mexican blouse and skirt, probably from the forties.

  “Excuse me?” said the customer.

  “The print on the skirt makes you look wider. And the wooden buttons add bulk at your bust. It’s not flattering.” The content was harsh, no doubt, but the young woman’s delivery was so sincere that it almost muted the hurtfulness of her message. “Try the bias-cut yellow sundress over there instead.” The customer frowned at her reflection and stomped back into the changing room.

  Eve approached the counter, which displayed an array of rhinestones, pearls, and cameos, set against slabs of black velvet. She picked up a carved green Bakelite cocktail ring and tried it on.

  “Now, that’s something,” said the proprietress. Like Eve, she was spare of build, although she possessed a coltish, animated quality that made her presence seem quite vivid. She pushed back a curtain of blond hair, somewhat stiff with dye, to reveal large brown eyes, rimmed in black kohl like Cleopatra’s.

  “It certainly is unusual,” said Eve. She slid the ring off and put it back.

  “I mean your cardigan.” She gestured at Eve’s cashmere sweater, with its appliquéd pieces of antique Asian textiles. “I can’t remember the name, but that’s the one where the label is sewed into the waist instead of the collar, right?” Eve shrugged out of it and handed it over. “Carruthers. I knew it. Can’t imagine what you paid for it.”

  “It was my mother’s.”

  The girl gave a low whistle. “She has great taste.”

  “Had, actually.”

  “Oh. I’m so sorry.” She sounded like she really was sorry.

  “Thanks,” said Eve. She admired some brooches for a minute or two. “May I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why did you warn that woman away from that outfit?” Eve whispered the question because the woman was still in the store, prowling somewhere in the back and making disgruntled noises.

  “It wasn’t right on her.”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “But it wasn’t absolutely right. And that wouldn’t be fair to her. Or the dress.”

  “Not fair to the dress?”

  “That dress deserves the right person. She’s beautiful, but delicate. I worry about her. She’s not exactly a kid anymore and the next person who takes her home could be the last partner she’ll ever have. I want her to be with the right one at the … end.” She pressed a button that popped open the cash register, and began making stacks of bills. Looking down, she said, “I anthropomorphize clothes. I realize this is not normal, but there it is.”

  Eve stuck out her hand. “Eve Weldon.”

  “Gwendolyn Montgomery.” They shook but before either could say anything further, the dressing room door burst open and out came the customer, this time in a sky blue polyester pantsuit, circa 1975.

  “Now, that,” said Gwendolyn under her breath, “is a match made in heaven.”

  • • •

  The answering machine light was blinking when she got home. Eve pressed the button, kicked off her shoes, and headed into the kitchen.

  “Eve. Is this you?” She stopped in her tracks. “Not sure if I dialed right. Anyway, Alex here. Fr
om the Met gala thingy. I know it was months ago but it’s been a crazy summer. Wondering if you want to hang tonight. Call me.”

  Eve looked at the machine, overcome with excitement. Finally. Of course, it happened just when she’d stopped thinking about him, but that was life for you. She lifted Highball’s front paws and began to dance around the apartment. Then something occurred to her. Asking her out at the last minute, after all these weeks, was not a good sign. At the very least, he assumed she didn’t have plans. And of course, she didn’t. Vadis was still on the road. Quirine had once said they should take in a movie together but hadn’t mentioned it since. And Mark? Well.

  Eve definitely wanted to go out. But if she accepted Alex’s invitation, it would be tantamount to admitting her status as social pariah. She sat at the bar, frowning in thought.

  Donald appeared with a slight pulsing next to her left ear. She knew what he was going to say: She should stay home and help him tackle his next story.

  “As it happens,” he huffed, “that’s not it at all.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No.”

  “What were you going to say, then?”

  “I think you should go.”

  “Go where?”

  “On this date.”

  “You do?”

  “This generation,” he groaned. “Such ceremony! One of the young women who lived here before you, she actually bought a book on how to trap a man. She had to say no to every boy three times before accepting an invitation, wouldn’t spend the night for three months, and all kinds of other nonsense. All part of some scheme to lasso a husband. Pathetic. In my day, things were much more free. Girls said what they meant and did what they wanted. They walked home in their Saturday night clothes on Sunday morning and didn’t care who saw them. Take my advice and loosen up. If you like this young man, accept his offer and try to have some fun for a change.”

  Eve was touched. Donald had often been kind, but rarely had he given any real thought to her happiness, and certainly not at the expense of his own. Heart beating fast, she picked up the phone and dialed Alex before either she or Donald could change their minds. He answered on the third ring and didn’t sound in the least bit surprised to find her on the line.

  • • •

  He buzzed at five after eight.

  “Be right down,” she said, preempting any suggestion he might have about coming up. She looked in the mirror once more, taking in the shirred red cocktail dress and royal blue bouclé jacket.

  “I’m sure you look very lovely,” said Donald.

  “Thank you.”

  “I wonder …”

  “Yes?”

  “Could you perhaps tell me what you look like?”

  Eve pressed her lips together. What everyone always remarked on first was her slight build, ebony hair, and pale skin. Like any girl, often she felt quite pretty, but sometimes plain. Her father said she was the most beautiful girl in the world. Of course, most dads thought that of their daughters. But then again, Alex had picked her out of everyone—actresses and models included—at the Met gala.

  “How do you imagine me?” she asked.

  “Ah. Well, you’re a Midwest girl. So I picture you as corn-fed. Long blond hair, strong shoulders, large hands. Sturdy. I like to think of you that way. Am I close?”

  “On the nose,” said Eve, smiling to herself. She couldn’t blame him. She herself had often imagined Donald as something of a Beat caricature: clad in a black turtleneck, slapping a pair of bongo drums.

  “Well then. Have a good time.” Donald’s tone was upbeat yet wistful, like a father trying to affect bravery while sending his daughter off on her first date.

  “I will.”

  “But remember one thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Actually two things.”

  “Okay.”

  “Everyone will disappoint you. And in the end, we’re all alone.”

  Typical.

  She kissed Highball on the forehead, turned out the light, and left.

  • • •

  Alex stood on the sidewalk, gazing down the block toward the sunset over the Hudson River, which was just visible at the end of the street, and now shimmered a smoky, soft purple. She cleared her throat and he turned.

  “Ah,” he said, as if reregistering what she looked like, and not without pleasure. “The belle of the ball.” She gripped the rickety iron railing and made her way down the stoop. Standing on the bottom step, she was exactly his height. He kissed her on each cheek. “Ready?” Eve nodded and Alex led her to a waiting taxi. As they pulled away from the curb, Alex lowered his window and Eve did the same. The evening moved in, warm and close. Couples held hands, store windows twinkled, and high above them, plastic bags rattled in the trees like maracas.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner,” he said. “Been dealing with magazine stuff, up against the clock. I really did want to see you before this.”

  “That’s all right,” said Eve, glad he’d mentioned it and sorry for all the times she’d cursed him. She liked his linen sports jacket and two-tone shoes. It wasn’t a vintage look, but there was something retro about it. Something imaginative.

  “That’s where I lived as a kid,” Alex said, pointing at a Federal-style townhouse. “My parents were kind of boho and didn’t want to live on the Upper East Side like all their friends. If owning an entire townhouse on West Ninth Street can be considered boho.” A couple more blocks went by, one with a deli on the corner. “That’s where Zander and I used to steal gum when we were in junior high … and there,” he said, pointing at Washington Square Park, “is where I broke my arm when I was sixteen. Skateboarding.”

  “I broke up a dogfight there. Got a scar from the stitches to prove it,” said Eve, holding out her arm.

  “You’re tougher than you look,” said Alex, running his index finger along the slightly raised skin.

  They passed 38 Washington Square South. “That’s where Eugene O’Neill lived,” said Eve. “And he also lived down there, at 133 MacDougal.”

  “How do you know that? Or I mean—why?”

  “I walk my dog a lot.”

  “Huh?”

  “I walk past all those plaques on old buildings that tell you about the famous people who’ve lived there.”

  “What plaques?”

  “The reddish oval ones. Usually near the front door somewhere. You’re a lifelong New Yorker and you never noticed?”

  “Guess not.” Alex scanned the buildings outside looking for one but they were all offices and NYU dorms.

  The car moved through the traffic on Delancey and Eve became aware that they were approaching the on-ramp of a bridge.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Brooklyn. Buddy of mine’s just opened up a place near me and I said I’d support him. Sound okay?”

  “Of course. Wait—you say the place is near you?”

  “Yeah, near my apartment.”

  “You live in Brooklyn and you came all the way over to get me?”

  “Of course,” said Alex, patting her hand.

  As they reached the middle of the East River, Eve peered out the back window and the bridge behind them looked strangely narrow, like pulled taffy. Moments later, they were deposited in a maze of wide, buzzing streets, which coursed with fewer taxis but more trucks, more pizza places but fewer manicurists. If Manhattan was a slender, delicate girl, Brooklyn came off like her burly, ever-so-slightly coarse older brother.

  They pulled up in front of a plain, two-story brick building that might have once been an office or a school. Its front door was padlocked and two of the windows were boarded up. Alex knocked on one of the windows with two sharp raps. Then he led Eve down the steps and around the side to a big metal door. He knocked six times. A slip of paper slid out the crack beneath the door. Alex opened it and grinned. Eve read it over his shoulder.

  Which high school team’s banner hangs over the men’s room door at The Yachtsman?
<
br />   He wrote Choate, and slid the paper back under the door, which, after one or two beats, opened. They found themselves in a pitch-black hallway on what felt like smooth wood floors.

  “Hey,” said a voice in the dark.

  “Who’s that, Ted?”

  “Yeah. Just head toward the music, man. They’re all down there.”

  Alex led Eve by the hand toward the sound of twenties jazz. After about fifteen seconds, a door opened and they stumbled into a small but beautifully appointed room dominated by a long bar of dark wood. Small tables were scattered around, each surrounded by four striped, silk-upholstered club chairs. About two dozen young men in khakis and girls in pencil skirts and cardigans looked up, a few breaking into smiles at the sight of Alex. He pulled Eve lightly through the crowd, shaking hands and kissing cheeks, introducing her to nearly everyone with some detail of their shared past. It seemed they were all either classmates, campmates, clubmates, or colleagues at some time or another. But Alex appeared to occupy a special place among the group; the others eagerly confirmed his observations and laughed at even the smallest of his jokes. A couple of girls looked at him with umbrage and several others brushed their eyes over Eve with naked curiosity.

  They sat down at a free table and were immediately swarmed by a pair of ruddy young men whom Alex introduced as Paul and David and a round, playful girl named Barbara who went by Bix. “We haven’t seen you in forever,” they mock-whined at Alex.

  A burly carrottop in black slacks, a white shirt, and a long white apron appeared with teacups on a silver tray.

  “Speakeasy theme,” he said. “Like it?”

  “It’s terrific, Tom,” said Alex, holding his cup high in a toast.

  Eve sniffed her own cup and detected scotch, a young one, but nice. She felt like she’d stepped into a time machine. “Wonderful,” she said. “I can just imagine Fitzgerald in that corner over there, writing Flappers and Philosophers.”