Page Turner Pa

by David Leavitt

  She laughed. "What a strange question!" And she looked at her hands. "You mean without the rings, or anything?"

  "Yes, just your hands."

  "I'm not sure," Tushi said. "Would you?"

  "I'm sure I wouldn't. Well, I'd better be going. Tell Nicky good-bye for me."

  He left. She shut the door behind him. It was nearly sunset, and the curtains were blowing out an open window in her kitchen. She went to close it, and as she did, leaned out to watch Kennington leave. He was running across East End Avenue, waving and shouting at a cab. Then the cab stopped. He got in.

  Off he rode, into swarms of yellow and red.

  For warmth, she squeezed her own arms, which prickled, and shut the window firmly. Odd: suddenly the apartment seemed so full of shadows that she became frightened and, running through the corridors, switched on every lamp, every fixture. Next she put on music, Saint-Saëns's Carnival of the Animals, the most innocent thing she could think of. And still she felt frightened.

  Finally she did something she almost never did. She knocked on Nicky's door.

  "Who is it?"

  "It's Mom. Can I come in?"

  "Just a second." Shufflings sounded, a bolt was released. "Okay."

  In darkness Nicky sat on his futon. He had the curtains tightly drawn. From the earphones of his Walkman a bleat of music thumped, tinny and whining.

  "Hello, darling," Tushi said, and, throwing herself down on the futon, took him roughly in her arms.

  "Mom, stop!"

  "I love you, Nicky. I hope you know that."

  "Mom, please."

  She held him. Soon he stopped protesting and closed his eyes. Pressing her teeth into the hard silkiness of his shoulder, she put on her best Transylvanian accent, and said, "I am a vampire. I am going to suck your blood."

  "Oh, right."

  "Mmm, fresh boy blood. Delicious."

  "You are a vampire." He laughed.

  "I wish I could drink you!" she said, and wished, suddenly, for her other boys as well; also, for the first time, that the young man might not come back tonight, so that she could spend this evening alone with Nicky.

  Curious: when she'd first met him, she'd thought of Kennington in the same way that she now thought of the young man; had imagined seducing him, marrying him. Until she'd learned which choir he sang in.

  Where was he now? Halfway across town, probably, nearly to the apartment where Joseph waited for him, just as he had waited every day, these many years. He had patience, Joseph. She did not. That was why her own history, for all its small misfortunes, would never amount to a tragedy.

  At length she let Nicky go. Rubbing his arms, he rolled away from her.

  "Did Richard take you for Chinese lunch?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  "And are you so sick of Chinese food that you couldn't eat it for dinner?"

  Nicky hesitated. "I guess I could handle it," he answered after a second's contemplation.

  "Come on, then," she said, "we're going out," and stepping into the bathroom, she had to shield her eyes against the halogen bulbs. In the mirror an aging woman looked back at her: a woman with a lover young enough to be her son.

  "It's okay," she said to no one. But was it? And, remembering, for some reason, the page turner, she put on her favorite lipstick, her spiciest perfume.

  With her hands. Her hands.

  Bulging veins, blunt nails, age spots.

  "Ready?" she shouted, shutting the bathroom door behind her.

  "Ready," Nicky answered sullenly.

  "Come on, then." And bundling an arm around him, she herded him toward the elevator.

  When Kennington arrived ten minutes later, Joseph was on his knees in the living room, rifling through some old programs and photographs that he'd pulled from a bureau drawer.

  "What are you looking for?" Kennington asked as he shut the door.

  "Well, it's the damnedest thing. One of the photographs is missing from the bookcase."

  "Which one?"

  "The one of you at the Trevi Fountain."

  "Are you sure you didn't move it?"

  "I've looked everywhere."

  Kennington took off his coat. "I wonder what could have happened to it," he said, sitting down and picking up the Game Boy.

  "All I can think is that Maria must have broken it while she was dusting. She's done that before, broken things, then hidden them so I wouldn't find out."

  "And you think she hid it in that drawer?"

  "That's where she put that porcelain dog she broke last year. And you have to start somewhere ... oh, look at this." He opened a yellowing pamphlet. "You know what this is? The program from that concert you played in Dallas, when you were fifteen."

  "If you're wondering whether Maria broke the frame, why don't you just ask her?"

  "Oh, and here's another one. From Rome, the same trip when I took the picture."

  "Look, are we going to dinner or aren't we?"

  "We are. I just thought I'd see if I could find the picture first."

  "But isn't that like looking for a needle in a haystack? And anyway, who knows whether Maria broke it? Maybe someone stole it."

  "Why would anyone want to steal it? It didn't have a silver frame. And there are plenty of things in the apartment that are much more valuable." Joseph hauled himself up from the floor. "Still, you're right, it is like looking for a needle in a haystack." He brushed off his trousers. "Well, are you ready?"

  Kennington didn't hear him. He was holding his hands in front of his eyes and staring at them, almost as if he were trying to memorize something.

  "Richard?"

  "What?" He put his hands down. "Sorry. Yes, I'm ready."

  And they went to dinner.

  19

  SHE FLEW ALL DAY, on a flight she could not actually afford, to a city she had visited only once, on her honeymoon (irony of ironies), long ago and in another life. The roads were sleety, which only intensified the ordinary end-of-day traffic. Nor did the taxi driver, a heavyset, unsmiling Jamaican named Desmond Fairclough, provide much in the way of reassurance. Would he kidnap her, she wondered, rape and maim her in some South Bronx lot? Already she could see the broken glass, the audience of hooters. Or perhaps Desmond Fairclough planned only to cheat her, to take her on some ridiculously roundabout route in order to inflate the already excessive fare. It was possible. She had no idea where she was, other than in a whorl of wetness and clashing light. Not for the first time, her life was in a stranger's hands.

  Then they crossed a bridge, and crossed an avenue, and another avenue. "White Street," Desmond Fairclough announced, sooner than she'd expected, and opened the door. She stepped outside. He helped her hoist her suitcase from the trunk, took her money, and veered off into the weather. The street was empty, eerily quiet. Loading docks lunged over the sidewalks. Across the way, a sign advertised something called the Wing Fat Fish Company. All of this alarmed her. After all, she had assumed that Kennington would live in a good neighborhood, an opulent neighborhood, in a gracious skyscraper from the lobby of which doormen would flock to usher her in. Instead she found herself amid fish factories and the odor of raw meat. Was it possible there were two White Streets in Manhattan? Or maybe the driver had misunderstood her instructions, and she wasn't in Manhattan at all. Death felt, suddenly, imminent, close at hand.

  Still, she had to see. So she gathered up her suitcase and, hobbling over to the building marked 48, rang the intercom.

  After a few seconds a male voice answered.

  "Richard?"

  Crashing noises in the background. "I can't hear you!"

  "Richard Kennington?"

  A buzzer sounded; the door unlatched itself. Pushing through, Pamela made her way to the elevator, which turned out to be a freight model: entirely too big for her and her single Samsonite. Up she rode, to the third floor, where the elevator opened onto a narrow foyer. Across the way a steel door hung ajar, music sounding through the crack: classical music. So perhaps she had c
ome to the right place after all.

  She stepped inside. The apartment was huge, the floor a sea of yellow wood planks stretching to windows that towered seven or eight feet over the street. Buckling pine bookshelves lined the walls. Near the center of the room a small crowd was milling around a grand piano, while on the coffee table, a platter of dip and vegetables sat ravaged, picked through. So he's having a party, she thought. Somehow it hadn't occurred to her that he might be having a party. And meanwhile no one was paying her the least attention. Nor did she recognize Paul, or Kennington himself, for that matter, among the assembled luminaries, in the haze of smoke and chatter.

  Eventually a woman with long black hair detached herself from the crowd around the piano and slunk over to greet Pamela, who stood cowering in her raincoat, suitcase between her legs. "Hello," she said, holding out a long hand. "Can I take your bag?"

  "I'm looking for Richard Kennington," Pamela said. "Have I come to the right apartment?"

  "Of course. Richard should be back any minute now. You see, he's flying in from Chicago tonight, but with the weather being so bad, his flight was delayed." Tushi peered cryptically at the suitcase. "Can I help you with anything?"

  "I'm here for my son" was Pamela's frosty reply.

  "Your son. But who is your son?"

  "You should know."

  "I'm sorry, I don't—"

  "From the concert, if nothing else. The one in San Francisco. But there's no point in any of this because I know he's here. There's no use pretending."

  "Mrs.—"

  "Porterfield."

  Pamela scanned the room anxiously.

  "Mrs. Porterfield, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I don't think your son is here, actually. What did you say his name was?"

  "Paul."

  A young man wearing an apron drifted in from the kitchen. "Can I help you with something, darling?" he asked, wrapping his arm around Tushi's waist.

  "No, everything's fine. We've just got a little confusion here. You see, Mrs. Porterfield is looking for her son Paul, whom she's convinced is at the party. Only I've never heard of him."

  "Well, there's one way to find out." And forming his hands into a bullhorn, the young man called out: "Your attention please. Paul Porterfield. Paging Paul Porterfield. Is there a Paul Porterfield in the house?"

  All at once Joseph separated himself from the crowd and hurried over to Pamela, who had now settled down on top of her suitcase and was crying quietly.

  "What's this about Paul Porterfield?" he asked. "Who's looking for him?"

  "I am," Pamela answered meekly. "I'm his mother."

  "But why..."

  Behind them the door swung open. Kennington, bearing his own suitcase, walked in.

  Pamela stood.

  "Surprise," the guests shouted, before breaking into a hearty rendition of "Happy Birthday."

  Very stiffly Kennington put down the suitcase.

  "Where is Paul?" Pamela asked, her voice cold. "You can't hide him from me."

  "But I don't—"

  "You can't hide him from me," she repeated.

  "I don't intend to hide him from you," Kennington said. "I have no idea where Paul is. I haven't seen him since Rome."

  "Rome?" Joseph asked.

  "I think maybe you three ought to talk in here," Tushi said, very efficiently moving across the floor to hold the bedroom door open for them.

  There was no place to sit. The bed was covered with coats. So they stood, all three of them in postures of discomfort, Pamela pulling at her fingers, Kennington and Joseph leaning against the window, their arms wrapped tightly over their chests.

  "Where is Paul?" Pamela once again demanded. "I want my son. I've come to get my son."

  "I'm sorry, but I don't have any idea."

  "Don't lie to me. Especially after Rome—"

  "What is this about Rome?" Joseph thrust in. "Richard, how on earth do you know this woman?"

  "We met when I was there in June. Just by chance."

  "And who are you?" Pamela interrupted. "How do you know my son?"

  "I'm Mr. Kennington's agent. And I only know Paul because before Christmas I ran into him in the elevator in my building. I—"

  "What was he doing in your building?"

  "He has a friend downstairs from me. And he remembered me from San Francisco, and we got to talking. Later I asked him if he'd like to turn pages at a little recital I was hosting. This was when you were in Japan," he added to Kennington.

  "Why didn't you tell me this?"

  "What was the point? I didn't know you'd met these people in Rome."

  "I don't see why you're bothering with all these lies. It's no use," Pamela said, sitting down on the coats.

  "Mrs. Porterfield, Pamela, I'm telling you the truth. I honestly haven't seen Paul since June."

  "And I'm telling you I know you're lying. I found your address in his address book. I saw the picture."

  "What picture?"

  "The one you gave him. The one you signed to him."

  "But I never gave him any picture! This is insane!"

  "You're wasting your time. I saw it."

  "Well, maybe he bought a picture somewhere. Sometimes I sign them after concerts—"

  "That picture? I don't think so."

  "What was the picture?" inquired Joseph.

  "It was of him in Rome. At the Trevi Fountain. No doubt you got a kick out of my humiliation that night."

  Joseph turned, gazed at Kennington, who sat next to Pamela on the bed.

  A hush descended.

  "There's a party going on," Kennington said presently. "We can't stay in here all night."

  "Yes," Pamela said. "Far be it for a mother to get in the way of some highbrow party. But you needn't worry because I didn't come here to spoil your fun. I came here for Paul. And so if you'd just be kind enough to tell me where I might locate him—"

  "Pamela—"

  "Have you tried his apartment?" Joseph suggested.

  She shook her head. "He's never there. He's always practicing. He claims."

  "It's at least worth giving a call." Kennington handed her the telephone.

  Reluctantly she accepted it, dialed, waited.

  Soon enough her expression changed.

  "Hello, Teddy? This is Mrs. Porterfield. I'm fine, how are you? Good. Listen, honey, is Paul there? No, there's no message. All right, I'll call back later."

  She hung up. "Any other bright ideas?"

  "He might actually be practicing," Joseph said. "Or, there is one other possibility." He glanced at Pamela, who still held the phone. "May I?"

  "Be my guest."

  She handed it to him. He dialed 411.

  "Yes, have you got a listing for an Alden Haynes, please? H-A-Y-N-E-S. On Central Park West. Thank you."

  Pushing down the little buttons on the cradle of the phone, he dialed again.

  "Hello, Alden? Joseph Mansourian here. Fine, fine. Yes, far too long. Listen, I'm sorry to bother you at this hour, I realize it's rather awkward, but I'm looking for that young friend of yours, Paul Porterfield. I don't know if he mentioned that we met in the elevator ... yes. It's rather urgent that I speak to him, you see, I have his mother here, and she's been searching all over town for him ... He is? Good, good. Thank you."

  He handed the phone to Pamela, whose face had over the course of the conversation grown rather flushed.

  "Hello, Paul? Hello. Darling, I'm so glad to see your voice. Hear your voice, I mean. Gosh, I'm nervous." Again, she smiled. "Well, guess what, sweetheart? I'm in New York. I'm at Richard Kennington's apartment."

  "You're where?" Kennington heard Paul shouting.

  "I'll just go and make sure everything's all right outside," Joseph said, stepping carefully over Kennington's knees and out the door.

  Together, they deposited Pamela and her suitcase in a cab, then got into the elevator.

  "Why didn't you tell me you'd met these people?" Joseph asked as the doors shut.

  "Why should
I? Is it my duty to report to you every time I meet someone?"

  "No, of course not. And yet if this woman's to be taken seriously, your involvement with her had to have been quite a bit more than just a conversation in the street. You had to have—"

  "I helped her out when some gypsies tried to steal her purse. That was all."

  "And the son?"

  "We got to be friends. He's a fan."

  "Did you sleep with him?"

  "Joseph!"

  "You've got to tell me. After all, I'm the one he stole from. And you have to admit, you've never been very astute at judging these sorts of situations, Richard. I mean, don't you remember San Francisco? He knew everything about you. Who's to say he didn't arrange to be in the elevator that day, just so that he could inveigle his way into my apartment, so that he could—"

  "Joseph! You're the one who asked him to page-turn."

  "Has he called you? Written you any letters?"

  The doors to the elevator opened. "Darling," Tushi called, rushing from the apartment. "Is the madwoman gone?"

  "She's gone," Joseph said. "We put her in a cab."

  "I must tell you," she continued, clapping an arm around each of their backs, "when I first saw her, I thought she was some sort of deranged fan."

  "She's not a deranged fan," Kennington said. "She's not any kind of fan at all."

  "She's just an unhappy woman who wants her son," Joseph added.

  "Oh, her son. I meant to ask you. Who is her son? She said something about San Francisco."

  "The page turner," Joseph said. "The well-dressed page turner."

  "That's her son? Oh, dear. Well, happy birthday!"

  "Happy birthday!" the crowd echoed, as Tushi's young man, for the second time, carried in the cake, which was in the form of a piano.

  "Make a wish!" he cried, after they'd finished singing.

  Kennington did. He blew out the candles.

  "Chocolate and white chocolate," Joseph said. "Your favorites."

  "Yes, my favorites," Kennington repeated, and plunged the knife into the soundboard.

  20

  ALL THE OTHER GUESTS had left the party, and Tushi and her young man were dancing. They were dancing—she'd put one of Kennington's Billie Holiday CDs on the stereo—and so they did not hear the noises from the kitchen, where Joseph was helping Kennington clean up.