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for JD
All the world’s not round without you.
—TOM WAITS
- MONDAY -
They bought the house on Warren Street in 1980. Josef was six and Charlie two, and with Armie on the way, their Jane Street two-bedroom no longer cut it and so upstate they went. He joked that with three kids it was acceptable to give up. Yet it hadn’t felt like giving up. It had felt like the next good thing. It meant a larger retail floor for George & Ana Westfall Antiques. More room for Ettore Sottsass and Memphis-Milano and everything else the aesthetically elite wanted to buy. And George was good at business. He always had been. Ana, too, give the woman credit.
When they arrived in Hudson they were the only antique shop on the block. With business a shadow of what it had been in Greenwich Village, those early years were a struggle. They questioned the wisdom of relocating. They’d crammed the kids into the car and traveled to shows, and George and Ana had drummed up private collector business and bought pieces and sold pieces, and together they grew. The ’80s became the ’90s and then it was a new century. The baby boomers and the gays and the growing ranks migrated upriver and brought with them shops, wine bars, restaurants, cafés, business. Now Hudson had a bookstore, a gourmet grocery, a place that sold overpriced custom wood furniture (where Armie, despite his background, refused even to inquire about a job), a restored hotel-turned-theater “showcasing” local “acting” (Josef’s assessment), twenty-four-hour pharmacies. A well-known chef from Manhattan had just relocated his restaurant to Warren Street.
From the window in the living room George glared at streetside patrons of a bistro, saw directly into an artisanal butcher shop, a Belgian beer merchant, and a pet supplier whose signage read Unique Gourmet Pet Accoutrements. And there were more shops coming every year.
But he wouldn’t live to see most of it. They had quantified his life in a word. Months. The diagnoses were bad. He was diminishing rapidly. The initial treatments had been promising—twenty-five feet of intestines and two-thirds resected. Which apparently left enough crevices for a slew of seeds to hide out. Three years in peaceful remission and all the while, unknown to the doctors and not picked up on the scans, they grew. Metastasized. Blood when he coughed, appetite dwindling, weight coming off, appearance of the second mass. They said another word. Inoperable.
No matter how much he thought about it, he could not get his mind around the concept of death. The more he thought about floating in some black consciousless infinity, the more anxious he got. Perhaps Ana was right. Maybe if he believed he would go to heaven he’d find some comfort. No. He couldn’t do it. He had nothing in the way of faith. He’d stopped shaving.
He patted his sweater pocket and found the cluster of Ativan. He popped two tablets and swallowed. He would die in this town house. Less than a quarter mile from the banks of the Hudson River, surrounded by all the furniture, all the stark wood, all of Ana’s baubles and trinkets.
And the hammering. That would be Armie in the basement, tinkering away on God knows what. A table, he remembered the youngest and most thoroughly lost of his three children telling him. “It’s a table, Dad. It’s like you pretend you’ve never seen furniture before.”
Armie spent most waking hours cloistered over a hobby bench sawing or working a drill press, or at church, or wandering the streets like a true local weirdo. George’s daughter, Charlie, fared no better, 2,700 miles away, catering to vapid movie stars, married to a French expat whom George suspected of being, much like the “city” they called home, made of plastic. In all likelihood his daughter would not be there when he died. His main hope was that at least Josef would come. At the breakneck pace his firstborn lived, George was doubtful even this could be accomplished.
George turned his back to the window and shuffled to the middle of the study and peered into the living room. He looked at the painting. He wondered how much it would fetch. He hoped two million. He’d been told by its previous owner—his friend the painter Chuck Partridge—that it was a “lesser” Magritte. Two suited figures viewed from behind, floating in a blue, cloud-speckled sky high above a green field. He’d had it since 1965. Chuck had a heart attack right at his easel and to George’s surprise bequeathed him the Magritte. It was called Conversation in the Sky, and when they moved to Hudson he hung it over the couch and there it stayed, the centerpiece of what he felt was an impeccable and well-decorated living room.
When he’d purchased homeowners insurance with the house, the painting was appraised at $500K. He’d know in a few days how much it had appreciated. He wanted his wife and children not to squabble over details or get sentimental. They would sell the painting and split the profits between them. Let them find whatever it was they were looking for in this life. Let them be happy.
The wind plied the windows of the study. He felt its pulse and pressure. The skies darkened and on the television in the kitchen, which he’d left on, the throbbing awful weather system was almost there. It wouldn’t be much longer now.
* * *
Give me money and give me a woman with a great ass. Give me fixed variables and market fluctuation. Give me what I need. Get me away from these useless assholes hiding from water. God, this town is full of pussies. It’s just water! And wind! Water and wind and the whole city—the whole Eastern Seaboard—acted like the fucking apocalypse was landing. Give me all your bad weather. I’ll come out on top. I will be just fine.
The weekend = dismal. Lines at the health food store up and down three aisles; they closed the fucking subway so he couldn’t get to Brooklyn to see Nora, and he needed to see Nora; he couldn’t hail a taxi to save his life (there were no taxis to hail); the gym was empty, so no women to stare at; his ex-wife had left him three voice mails “thanking” him for all the “help” he’d given her and his daughters preparing for the storm; his lawyer had yet to return his calls re: visitation rescheduling; he planned to take the girls on a vacation to Hawaii.
His father had called twice and he’d not answered either time. His mother had sent text after text. Now it was Monday. The storm had hit. It was hitting. The airports were closed. The bridges would soon be closed, which he could give two fucks about except it meant Marc Crawford (and his money) had postponed the meeting. Again. And he gave a fuck about that.
His assistant, Ariel, called at 8 a.m. He clicked over, anxious for news about Crawford’s company, BellWeather Capital, and instead found himself contending with indecipherable gibberish as she cried her twenty-two-year-old eyes out. He cut her short because he was on hold on the other line with his real estate broker re: the sale of his Upper East Side two-bedroom.
He stood in windswept rain on Park and Seventy-sixth. There were no cars. There were no people. He’d sooner hail a supermodel than a taxi and he was pretty wet despite his best efforts to pretend the weather wasn’t getting really bad. He wore a long black raincoat ($450) over a dark suit ($2,500) and a pair of duck boots ($109). He had his hair combed over to the side and back, as he always did. He had sharp features, his father’s green eyes.
He made a point of going about his morning with business-as-usual aplomb. He got up at six and swam a hundred laps in his building’s pool, followed by some moderate weight training (because there is such a thing as too much exercise). On normal Mondays he played squash with Stephen Jansom, who was in-house counsel for PlaxoBurnsPine. Stephen called at 7:30 to say, “My wife won’t let me leave
the apartment.”
“That’s a match forfeit, pussy.” Josef hung up.
Everyone—Stephen and his wife and the whole of NYC—had shuttered themselves up in their apartments to eat junk food and snuggle and watch movies until the power (maybe) went out. At which point they would light candles and play board games and talk about “what an adventure” it all was.
Not that it mattered. What mattered was the goddamned meeting with BellWeather Capital. Crawford’s people emailed to say he couldn’t get into the city until after the bridges reopened, which wasn’t going to happen for days. I’ll be fucking bankrupt by then, Josef told himself. Roger and Ellis would walk. Both of them came to him separately to express their concerns about the delinquent paychecks. Josef brushed it all off as a “cash-flow hiccup” that would soon be corrected.
He’d poached Roger from Google and Ellis from an assistant art director position at PlaxoBurnsPine, the multinational Big Pharma that made Josef a lot of money not long ago. It also made (then lost) a lot of money for Josef’s younger brother (but that was another story). He assured Roger and Ellis time-and-a-half payouts once the deal went through. But the deal kept getting delayed. Unforeseen hitches and technicalities, round after round of contract vetting and reviews of financial documents and applications as his initial capital dwindled under the growing laundry list of business (and personal) expenses, e.g., general office upkeep, payroll for three employees, development, hardware, tech support, two (!) mortgages, alimony, tuition for the girls (Isobel, thirteen, and Florence, eleven) at their chichi downtown private school, phone bills, Internet bills, insurance premiums, market research, publicity strategies (wishful forward thinking), and all those times he took Marc fucking Crawford to dinner, coaxing that bald turd. And he hated waiting. In this he was like his father. All the day-to-day bullshit, and now he owed Roger and Ellis for a month of programming. Ariel he kept paying because he paid her so little it was laughable. And naturally he’d made the mistake of fucking her. Twice. It was beyond his abilities not to fuck her and now the transgression was yielding some complicated payoffs. He would have to let her go unless she pulled herself together and stopped crying every time they spoke.
He stepped in a puddle, enjoying a childlike imperiousness. He checked his Hamilton ($1,845). Did it even matter what time it was? What was the rush? What was the likelihood that Dr. Hammerstein, his therapist, would be in her office waiting for him? He might as well just go back up to the apartment, jerk off to some Internet porn, soak in the tub, and spend the afternoon trolling the “casual encounters” section on craigslist for women seeking “NSA Storm FWBs.” (This was the actual title of the post he’d made the night before, which so far had received nothing but spam responses.)
He initially planned to skip his biweekly therapy session, but after the news that Crawford wasn’t coming, it suddenly became paramount that he see Dr. Hammerstein. The further he spiraled away from everyone else, the quicker she evolved into the most consistent thing in his life. And today he knew what he wanted to explore. He’d start off the session talking about how badly he felt he needed Nora. How antsy and squirmy he got thinking about her. How he wasn’t sure how he’d live without her. Or maybe it was Natalie he felt that way about. Then he wanted to segue into how, once the BellWeather Capital deal fell apart (and he knew it would, he just fucking knew it), he’d be in Armie’s shoes. Well, not that drastic but certainly back schlepping around some soul-draining hedge fund (if he was lucky). He’d sell his apartment (this was already in the works, it had been on the market one week already, with an open house attended by sixty interested parties) and use the profits to settle some debts. That would float him only so long. He’d have to return to the workforce. The worst part of which was: he’d have a boss again. And on top of all this, he hadn’t had sex in two days. The storm was fucking everything up.
* * *
Prickling, scavenging panic. George needed something tangible. He reached a shaky, limpid hand to the red curtain. To feel the delicate, soft fabric upon his fingers. His body had dwindled; his arms stalk-thin at the wrist now. With his other hand he took his cell phone from the pocket of his sweater, next to the Ativan.
“Call Josef,” he told the phone. The phone did not respond. “Call. Josef.”
His children had given him the thing for his birthday and in almost a year’s time his increasingly palsied fingers had begun failing to navigate the swipe mechanics with any accuracy. His texts were a notorious mess of goofy autocorrects and lapsed punctuation for which those same children chided him. Charlie insisted everything about the phone was “intuitive as can be!” but even his simplest attempts to send emails and the brief failed experiment of using it (at Josef’s business-minded behest) to replace the credit card machine at the shop all met disastrous ends. An early misadventure found him sending a not-complete email to a customer, quoting the price on a set of Paul McCobb chairs at almost $1,000 less than intended, followed by a frantic correction email from the laptop. The virtual world eluded him, but this was not some great revelation. His life belonged to tangible things. Stained wood, bent metal, reupholstered, refinished, resold. Paper receipts and a ledger you knew inside and out because you wrote it with your own hand.
He gave up on the voice recognition and with a huff tapped up his recent calls. One of the few tasks he had mastered. It went straight to voice mail. George recalled a crucial meeting of some kind, to take place later that afternoon. Surely it had been canceled with the weather? Everything had been canceled, or so said the TV. If he knew his son, though, the boy would make it work. Somehow he always made it work. He imagined Josef dashing around Manhattan in the middle of all the wind and rain, cutting a striking figure in one of his close-tailored suits costing God-knows-what. He’d reconciled long ago to the idea that Josef was his favorite child, yet he rarely spoke to or saw his eldest and remained uncertain as to whether the feeling was mutual. Most of the emotional connection resided in his mind. For every ten messages one would be returned.
“Hey, big boy,” he began. Outside the trees shook and the sky was a flat gray wash. “I’m in the study, bored out of my mind. Thought I’d try to catch you. It’s eerie out there. All this anticipation! Your mother is going to meet Carl to put sandbags down at the shop. That building has character. I’m sure it won’t do any good. Oops! I hear your mother leaving now. Ha. Okay. Well. Oh, yes, the big meeting, right. My mind is going. Either way give us a call and let us know how everything pans out. If you’re a millionaire or not. Ha! I love you, my boy.”
Here George paused. He wanted to go on but wasn’t sure there was anything to add to what already felt like a rambling, semicoherent message. He dropped the curtain and scratched at the curling gray hairs left scattered over his scalp. His whole body itched, plus the constant stabbing gut pain and the wafting nausea. He hadn’t shit in four days thanks to the chemo. Nothing new. A few leaves tumbled over the bricks out back. The ficus bent in its pot.
Like everyone along the coast, he and Ana had spent the weekend watching the green-yellow-red vortex as it spun up the meteorologist’s screen, twirling and moving and resetting and twirling and moving. They’d stocked up on rice and water and flashlight batteries but hadn’t been sure what else to do. Filling the tub seemed drastic.
He realized he was still on the phone with Josef’s voice mail.
“What was I saying? Oh, yes. I’m fucked if anything goes wrong during the storm. I’ve got chemo tomorrow, assuming there’s power. Your mother’s been trying to get me to go down to the hospital just in case, but I don’t think so. Okay. Well. That’s enough. I’m sure you stopped listening a while ago. I love you. Your mother loves you. Your brother is crazy and we need him out of here. Help him. Talk to him. Don’t loan him money, I’m not saying that, just, talk to him. Okay! I might be dead by the time you call back, haha! But call anyway.”
He hung up and turned and saw Ana in the foyer, putting on her boots and raincoat, looking at him. She’
d recently cut her dirty-blond hair to shoulder length, high in the back, and though he had not told her, it suited her greatly. Her neck was tanned and long, with its graceful creases.
“What are you bothering him about now?”
“Voice mail!” George said as an explanation.
“Dr. Karnam told you not to stand too long in one place.”
“I was going to paint.”
“All you do is paint the backyard. The river’s four blocks away!”
“I don’t feel well.”
“You never feel well. Where’s Shadow’s leash? Audrey’s on her way to take him for a walk, since you refuse!”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Me waltzing down there in the middle of a hurricane and the wind knocks me right in.”
“Yes, George, that’s my master plan. You figured me out!”
* * *
She was in a dead zone. The hills did that to you. Down around Sunset was no problem, but ascending Beverly Glen Boulevard, skirting the reservoir to avoid the 405, service shrank to one bar. Calls got dropped. Sometimes Melody was on the other end, smack dab in the middle of another full-on emotional breakdown, or it was her mother lodging further complaints against her father, or Abbott’s preschool reporting another outburst. Less frequently it was Rey telling her how one more time he’d be “grading papers” late and why didn’t they just go ahead and eat dinner without him. And always the caller’s voice beamed from her phone through the Volvo’s stereo: disembodied, ominous, inescapable. None of these calls was ever welcome or enjoyable, but she remained diligent and fielded them because she felt guilty and because she thought it was her job and because she wanted to be a good daughter, mother, wife, publicist.
A disconnected call always tipped Melody into panic mode, and no matter how many times Charlie explained the bad reception in the hills, Melody never failed to get indignant. “I’m gonna lose you,” Charlie would say in anticipation as Melody plodded on and the call fell out mid-sentence, and when she got back in range and the bars popped up, the phone would ding ding ding with a voice mail and/or several frantic texts from P.Le.A.Se. Publicity LLC’s most needy and lucrative client. Nine times out of ten when she lost one of Melody’s calls she was already en route to the Chalet—Melody’s name for her mansion—to handle yet another “emergency.” That was Melody’s MO: as needy as a child, requiring constant reassurance, constant affirmation of her beauty, her talent, and her place in the world of stardom. It wore Charlie out, and it paid like this: pretty well but not well enough.
The Antiques Page 1