“Whaddya think, Ells Bells?”
“I like it. Do you?”
“A little snobby for my taste. Has a definite WASPy thing going on.”
“I don't like it either.”
“Don't change your opinion to make other people happy. You have to stick to your principles.”
The waiter brought our drinks. The booth was too low for Elly, and they didn't have booster seats, so she sat with her knees folded under her and sipped from her straw. The coffee was delicious. I wondered how much it cost. Wholesale, and after Voyage à Versailles's markup. At that moment I regretted being locked away from these halls of privilege. Working somewhere boring—as a lawyer under Mr. Felkins maybe—and living comfortably sounded like a good deal. Find a wife, raise some kids—bright ones like Elly—and watch them grow, for once doing work worth less than what I was paid, and indifferent to exploitation accumulating like mercury. It beat living as a borderline impoverished charity case, whose principled stand against materialism might be no more than so much rationalizing following rejection and failure.
Ruth thrived in this system, and I was just as cynical as she was. She'd decided to play the game, but I didn't know if I could if I wanted to. Unlike her, however, none of the gifts I was born with or skills I'd acquired seemed suited to understanding the mysterious corporate forces and bending their power towards my own end. The shadows of ill-defined futures danced just beyond perception, and I had no choice but to muddle as best I could. All people, even the most soulless office drone, probably felt the same.
The waiter came back and asked if we were ready to order. I reminded him our friend had yet to arrive and he left. I don't think he believed me; he thought we were sullying his fine establishment for kicks.
I tested Elly while we waited for Ruth, tossing out simple arithmetic for her to solve. My goal was to have her understand basic algebra before her birthday in September. If I said, “three-x equals nine, solve for x,” I wanted her to know what I meant. She could solve them if asked as a word problem, like, “If there are nine apples and they are divided into three equal groups, how many apples are in each group?” but the abstract idea of the variable eluded her.
Overall, her math skills were good, better than mine when I was her age. She could do multi-digit addition and subtraction in her head with little trouble and already knew her multiplication tables. Math and science were without a doubt her favorite subjects, and I could see her setting fire to fields of nerd hearts if she stuck with it into college.
Ruth was fifteen minutes late. I saw her legs first. Her tan business suit ended above her bare knees, and for a brief second it looked if she were descending the stairs naked. The waiter greeted her with a familiarity reserved for regulars and celebrities. He led her to an empty table, and I waited until the waiter was pulling out her seat before calling to her. When she saw us she smiled and walked over, leaving the waiter gripping the chair and looking perplexed. Ruth sat across from Elly and me, creating a three-toothed smile of a gulf between. She placed her phone on the table.
The waiter, obedient dog that he was, followed behind, asking if Mademoiselle would care for a drink. She browsed the cocktail menu and asked him for something citrusy, not too sweet. He dialed his sycophancy to eleven, assuring her he knew just the drink, and left for the bar.
“Hiiiiii,” Ruth said, her voice sugar-coated.
Elly retreated into a polite, I'm-talking-to-strangers stance. “Hello. I'm Elly.”
“I've heard soooo much about you. What were you two doing before this?” she asked me.
“Elly's taking violin lessons.”
“Oh really? That's exciting. You know, I used to play the violin. I miss it a lot.” Ruth reminisced about her days as a violinist, describing competitions she'd entered and the outfits she'd worn to them. When she asked Elly what her favorite subjects in school were, she nodded a little too eagerly as Elly talked about dinosaurs and volcanoes. I propped my chin with my hand, trying to hide my amusement. Ruth was trying too hard. She played boys like a virtuoso but had a tin-ear for how she sounded to an eight year old. I wondered if she felt the same way watching me talk to girls. Or adults.
The waiter came back with Ruth's drink, a concoction of rainbow swirls with a lemon wedge. She ordered a dozen oysters on the half-shell and a plate of paté for the table. For herself, a salad with grilled tuna. I picked a hamburger, the cheapest item on the menu, and Elly asked if they served pizza. The waiter laughed good-naturedly—with Ruth's addition to our party his demeanor had changed completely. He apologized: no, they didn't. She wanted a grilled cheese instead. It wasn't on the menu, but he'd see what the chef could arrange.
Ruth sipped her cocktail. “It's yummy. You want to try?”
“I'm good. How was your day with James in Rockford?” I asked.
“Oh you know,” she said. “He didn't feel well, so we sat around all day. He took me out to dinner.”
“Yeah? Somewhere nice?”
“No.” She laughed. “There aren't any nice places in that town. We ate at some tacky chain. It was thoughtful of him.”
James had sworn up and down to me that he'd changed his mind and not made a move, but I didn't believe him. I thought he'd probably done something, been rejected, and conveniently forgotten about it.
“Was it, like, a date?”
“Not really.”
“When'd you leave?”
“Oh I don't remember. The next morning, I think.” Her phone chirped. She began typing. Elly was watching us, following the conversation like a tennis match.
I kept steering the conversation back to James and Rockford, but Ruth refused to follow the thread and talked to Elly, who responded politely to her questions, but without enthusiasm. Children dislike being treated as such, and I've always found the best way into their minds is by showing sincere interest in what they have to say. Pretty much the same strategy for engaging with people in general. But Ruth underestimated her and talked on a simple, superficial level that ended up sounding condescending. Similar to the way she often spoke to me. Detached, kind, and willing to file away any comments with unsettling implications as the product of a child's ignorance. Elly asked Ruth if she had to lie to people for her job and she laughed it off, not bothering to answer.
The waiter returned with the oysters and paté, smiling broadly at Ruth.
“Eat up,” she said.
“I dunno if Elly should be...”
“She'll be fine. Cliff's so uptight, isn't he?” Elly thought her comment was funny and Ruth basked in the hard-won approval. She was nothing if not persistent.
“So you do it like this,” I instructed Elly. I picked up the shell with one hand and lifted it to my lips. Elly copied me, using both hands to hold it steady. I tipped the shell back slightly and the oyster slid into my mouth. It was cold, slimy, and satisfying. Ruth ate hers as well. The oyster disappeared into Elly's mouth with a loud slurp and her face twisted in disgust. She spit it out on the table and looked at me at me apologetically.
“No worries, Ells Bells. They're not for everybody.”
“It was icky,” she said. I grabbed a cloth napkin, folded artfully beside my silverware, and cleaned it up.
“At least you tried something new,” Ruth said.
Elly devoured the paté, to my surprise, declaring it her new favorite food. Ruth shushed me when I worried about toxins trapped in the liver. When the Expert lectured me, Elly sensed the amorphous hostility between us and became uncomfortable, but she enjoyed Ruth and mine's more amicable sparring. The tension with the Expert was the air before a storm, charged with static and heavy. With Ruth it was more like an underground cable—the electricity was present, but well-hidden.
We received our entrées. Elly got her grilled cheese—melted gruyere on a French baguette. She loved it.
“She's got good taste,” Ruth said.
“And expensive. The real question is: do you like it more than pepperoni pizza?”
�
��No way!” she giggled.
“Do you remember when we got oysters in Brooklyn?” Ruth asked.
“Yeah. Right before we graduated.”
“And we went to that cute little park on the waterfront?”
“I remember.”
“Was it a date?” Elly asked. The table with the businessmen and their girls erupted with laughter, and for a split-second I worried it was directed at me. I glanced over my shoulder—a skinny blond had climbed on the table and was leaning down and tickling one of the men's chin.
I protested that it wasn't, but Ruth said, “Yeah, I think it was.”
“Did you guys kiss?”
“No, I don't kiss gross boys.” She scrunched up her face and Elly clapped her hands.
“Me either. Ewwww.”
Ruth had found a shtick that worked and she was sticking with it. “Cliff, are you embarrassed? Don't you think he's turning red?” She jabbed her fork in my direction.
“Yup.” I preferred Ruth's previous inability to connect with Elly; this new bond made me jealous. I didn't think Elly liked Ruth's teasing because she was cutting down an authority figure. While it's always fun to watch someone you admire taken down a peg or two by someone with a different perspective of that person, in Ruth, Elly saw an adult whose behavior she wanted to emulate. I wasn't allowed even being better with kids.
“This is fun,” Ruth said. “It's sad we didn't see more of each other after graduation.”
“We did. But then you went and fu—You meddled with that girl Dimitri was dating.”
“Are you still on about that? In any case, I'm glad we've been seeing each other more often now.”
“Because of James.”
“Yeah...”
Silence fell across the table, concomitant with a lull in the antics in the adjacent booth. The men paid for the meal and shepherded the girls—who were drunk and stumbling in their heels—out of the restaurant. The waiter picked up the receipt and exclaimed “Twenty dollars!” As he rang it up he muttered to himself in French.
“Sucks for him,” I said.
“Service jobs are the worst,” Ruth said. Her face was drawn in a frown, and she poked at her half-finished salad, dejected. An impulse to reach out and touch her hand fluttered through my mind—a reminder of how close our breaking through had felt a few weeks ago—but I couldn't in front of Elly. It would be unprofessional.
“Cliff's in love with you,” Elly blurted. Ruth's head snapped up and I looked at her aghast.
Ruth's thoughts traced themselves across her face, buried millimeters deep and threatening to burst into verbalized reality. A thought can hide in the mind's crannies, never quite real until it passes into the wider world. Written, painted, or spoken, it cannot be recanted, though perhaps it can be ignored. She tried three times to form a sentence, but couldn't get beyond a half-finished word before lapsing back into speechlessness. Like myself.
On the fourth try she succeeded: “Did he tell you that?” she asked, her voice falling to a mouse's whisper. Deep shades of pink pierced her tan skin.
“No... but—“ Elly began.
I interrupted her. “I did not. She's taking some stuff I said out of context. Like kids do...” Elly glowered at me, betrayed. I hadn't realized I'd been so transparent talking to her, or that she was so sharp. The irony.
Ruth's mouth twitched. The pink hue remained. “I see. Well it can't be helped.”
“I guess not,” I said, a boulder caught in my throat. “You know what Robespierre says about romantic love.”
“No, what?”
“It's a tool the state uses to keep us pacified.”
“You're so stupid.”
The situation had been defused to my, and Ruth's, relief. Less dangerous conversation flowed from there.
“Did you figure out what James is up to?” I asked.
“No, but whatever he's doing he's going to get caught—that boy's not subtle enough to break the law successfully. I hope he gets arrested before he does anything really dumb.”
“What a supportive friend you are.”
I signaled the waiter for the check. Ruth insisted she pay, and wouldn't let me see the bill. She wouldn't even tell me how much they charged for the grilled cheese.
Outside the restaurant, Elly and I thanked her for the lunch. Shouting to be heard over the racket of the pumps, she said she was throwing a housewarming party this Saturday, and would love it if I came. James could also come, and Dimitri too. I hadn't mentioned to her that he was gone. She walked us to the subway and told Elly it was a pleasure to meet her, then pecked me on the cheek and said good-bye.
On the subway I asked Elly, “What'd you think?”
“You really don't love her?”
“Nope.”
“I'm gonna stick to my principles. You do. She's in love with you too.”
“Just like a movie.”
“Yup.”
* * *
James whistled. “How much does she make again?”
We were standing outside Ruth's apartment building, a stylish spire near Independence Park. A glass terrace jutted out from each story at gravity-defying length, and through the front door I caught a glimpse of a crystal cavern entrance hall.
“You ready?” I asked.
“Born to party.”
The doorman, a diminutive, graying man, said something in an incomprehensibly thick accent. James and I looked at him, bewildered, and he repeated what he'd said before.
“Look, man what the—”
“We're here for a party. Ruth Lee.”
He said something else, and I caught apartment number.
“I don't know the apartment number,” James said. “But the chick's name is Ruth Lee. Isn't that enough? There's a party, and we're going to it.”
He flailed and jabbered at us. It was clear he thought we had no business being here. A couple our age came in behind us. The man had on a charcoal suit with glossy black shoes, and the woman wore an emerald cocktail dress and heels designed for stabbing the sidewalk-sleeping homeless. I could add underdressed to the list of reasons I felt out of place—I'd worn a green corduroy shirt with pearl-snaps, my favorite jeans, and a pair of scuffed skate shoes. James had done slightly better, with a blue and white striped buttondown and a pair of shiny designer jeans. He was, however, wearing loud, orange and green neon sneakers.
“We're here for the party in fifty-two-A,” the man said pleasantly. The doorman nodded and pointed them to the elevator.
“That's the one we want, fifty-two-A,” James said. The man crossed his arms and shook his head.
“Come on James, it doesn't look like we're getting in. Exclusive club,” I joked.
“Fuck that.” He faced the doorman. “Ruth Lee. Fifty-two-A,” he said, speaking loudly and elongating each word to twice its normal length.
“Call her,” James said.
“Why don't you call her?”
“I don't have a phone, moron. Give me yours.” No answer. He tried again. No answer. The doorman watched us, exuding schadenfreude.
On his third try she answered. “No, it's James. We're in your lobby and this dipshit doorman won't let us up. Fifty-two-A? Yeah, I told him. Okay.”
“She's gonna call down.” An antique, black phone behind the doorman's desk rang. He picked it up and after listening for a few seconds, he protested, saying “No. Gibberish. No, no no, more gibberish.” When he finished, he looked at us. “Go,” he said tersely, waving us through.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You gotta show 'em who's boss,” James said once we were inside the elevator, and out of earshot.
Twenty-five was the lowest floor with a button, and we accelerated past it before I'd had time to reflexively check my phone.
The elevator opened to a short hallway with three labeled units: fifty-two-A, fifty-two-B, and fifty-two-C. I knocked and James tried the door. It was unlocked.
Ruth's apartment was as spacious as a small warehouse. Two entire wal
ls were lined with floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a breathtaking view of Independence Park and Manhattan's southern skyline. A staircase with cast iron rails spanned a third wall, leading to a lofted bedroom. And a giant video played against the fourth wall, against which we were silhouettes. Of what, I was too close to tell.
Couches and chairs had been pushed aside, replaced with long tables levitating over strips of copper and piled with drinks and dishes. Men in suits and women in short dresses milled around it, while other clusters of guests had broken off along the edges of the room. It was impossibly elegant and I had a strong desire to bolt back home, where I could hide under the covers and pretend this had all been a bad dream.
“Swanky, right?” James said, making his way towards the tables. I followed in his wake, keeping an eye out for Ruth. The video was a montage of New York panoramas, so we were hemmed in by skyscrapers on three sides.
James grabbed a plate—they were paper—and loaded it with crackers and caviar, stuffed olives and fruit. An assortment of wines were arranged at the table's end.
“These wines are shit,” he said. “Look, they're all from California or South America, and the oldest one is from three years ago. At my old job, clients would've laughed me out of the room if I offered them this.” He picked out a chardonnay in a tub of ice. “Here, it's the least terrible wine she has. And look, these are made of imitation plastic,” he said, flicking one of the glasses with his finger.
I took a sip—it tasted fine to me. “I didn't know you were a wine expert.”
“Not even close. But I had to take a class for my old job. When you're schmoozing rich assholes for their billions, you'd better at least pretend like you're fucking cultured. This caviar sucks,” he said, spitting it onto his plate.
James's antics were simultaneously embarrassing and gratifying. His snobby rudeness grated against my instinctual politeness, but I was happy for the shelter his attitude of superiority, justified or not, provided.
Ruth spotted us and detached herself from a small crowd to say hello. She was wearing a dark violet dress and had changed the streaks in her hair to match. Her hair had also been curled
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