by Amber Brock
Virginia passed by the window, and the answer seemed less certain. After all, Max wasn’t to blame for Hen’s disappointment. Nor was he responsible for Kitty’s complete failure to realize that Andre was never a serious threat to her lifestyle, since it appeared that all the interest her father had ascribed to him had been imagined. Max had done nothing wrong. Finally, painfully, she had to admit that despite his innocence, he had ended up hurt too. As New York drew closer, she could not escape the answer. She had devised the scheme. She had put the plan into motion. She had ignored all warning signs. No one had forced her hand.
Kitty was to blame.
For so long, her main point of pride was her perfect, clear-eyed assessment of the world. She had been so sure she knew everything about Hen, about Andre, even about Max. In reality, she knew nothing. Hen wasn’t grateful for Kitty’s interference. As it happened, she was secretly wary of her oldest friend. Andre had no interest in Kitty at all. And Max…the worst part was, she’d known deep down exactly how upset Max would be to discover he’d been used. Hadn’t he said he worried Kitty would be “the wrong kind of smart”? He’d shown greater understanding in that one statement than Kitty had shown in her whole friendship with Hen. Of course he’d be happier walking away from Kitty. She wasn’t worth the trouble she caused.
The recognition opened all the wounds afresh, and she welcomed the pain of each one. Using Max the way she had set out to do was cruel enough, but Kitty at last accepted that what she’d done to her best friend was unpardonable. She stroked Loco’s soft fur. If you knew what I’ve done, she thought, you’d hate me too.
Her father met her at the train station, and his excited smile fell at the sight of her face. “Kitty, are you ill? What happened?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but threw herself into his arms and burst into tears instead.
* * *
Kitty spent the next couple of weeks holed up in the suite at the top of the Vanguard, except for the short walks she took with Loco. Most of her day was spent listening to a recording of “Habanera.” Each time the song ended, she would lift the arm of the record player and set it down to start the song over. After a few hours, she could hit the exact moment the song began. And if I love you, take guard yourself.
The saving grace was that Kitty could be sure that once Hen had explained everything to Charles, he wouldn’t want to break the engagement. Hen could keep her fiancé and avoid her mother’s wrath. Kitty had even written a letter, explaining her part in the scheme, and sent it to Hen to present as evidence to Charles of Kitty’s wrongdoing. There was no response, but Kitty hadn’t expected one. She tortured herself thinking about how Hen had been so close to letting go of Charles on her own, and Kitty had pushed her friend back into his arms with no way out. It was small comfort to think that, with the letter as proof, Hen could have him back and wouldn’t be ruined socially.
The upside to her new exile from her former society was that in the evenings she had more time to spend with her father. They resumed their weekly dinners out, always at places carefully selected by Kitty to be least likely spots to run into one of Hen’s crowd. Kitty hadn’t been able to bring herself to tell her father the whole story. No sense having him angry with her too. All she could manage was that she and Hen had a fight, and she wouldn’t be coming around anymore. She was grateful that her obvious distress kept him from even mentioning Andre.
Since she didn’t have much to say, she listened a great deal. To fill the silence, her father began explaining parts of his business in more detail than he ever had before. Kitty found herself fascinated by the negotiations required in the building of an empire, and surprised herself by having suggestions on how her father could finesse difficult deals. More surprising was how receptive he was to her ideas. He shared more and more of his plans, and she offered advice that he took seriously.
One evening, as they sat in a booth at Keens, her father described a complaint he’d received from a guest renting a banquet room. As soon as he said the name, Kitty inhaled sharply.
“Dr. Stone?” She set her fork down beside her plate.
“Yes, why?”
“Not the same one who was supposed to come for Mama?”
He thought for a moment as he searched his memory then shook his head. “I don’t know who you mean.”
“When Mama was sick, right before she died. You called for the doctor, and I know his name was Stone. I’ll never forget it. I’m surprised you don’t remember.”
Her father’s tone was tender. “We called for a lot of doctors. I don’t remember all their names. Though I’m sure Stone was likely one of them. He’s one of the best.”
“But he’s the one who wouldn’t come. His office said he was out of state, but I saw him. When we drove to that one special pharmacy, I saw him walking into a hoity-toity high-rise that same day.”
There was a long pause. “I think you’re remembering it wrong. Every doctor, every specialist I called came to see her. It was just that none of them could do anything.”
“I know this happened. I know it.”
“You were very little, Katarina. I think you’re mistaken.”
Her father moved on to a new topic, and Kitty tried to listen. She picked at her food, but her mouth was too dry to eat any more. The sight of the doctor entering the building repeated in her head, along with her father’s assertion. She must have confused the order of events at the time. How would she have even recognized Dr. Stone if she hadn’t already seen him with that same black bag in their home? She must have built the narrative in her mind later around what she believed, not what she’d actually seen. As with so much lately, she’d been wrong. Without the certainty of that vision to guide her, what would she do with herself?
* * *
Her pleasant hours with her father were too few, and she would always find herself back in the suite, ruminating on what a total mess she’d made of her life. A few times, she attempted letters to Max, unsure what else to do. Each one started with:
Dear Max,
I know what you must think of me
And each one ended up in the wastebasket. She could not defend herself, and he would not want to hear it anyway. Unable to write to him, she made up her mind to forget him, but that proved impossible. Thoughts of him popped up constantly. Sometimes it was images, like the sight of him drenched on the Malecón. Other times, it was sensations on her skin, like his fingertips pressing on hers as he helped her play the piano. Mostly, though, it was the echo of his words in her ears.
If you don’t go anywhere else, you’re not truly seeing New York at all.
That was the phrase that finally got Kitty out of the building for something other than dinner with her father. She searched her memory, but she couldn’t recall the exact wording of the poem that had inspired those sentiments in him, not even the part he’d shown her. He’d said he’d assumed that once she’d heard of it, she’d run out and read and interpret it for herself. The urge to do so needled her, so she hauled herself down to the bookstore to find the stupid thing.
Normally, she’d go down to Book Row on Fourth Avenue and browse store after store, chatting with clerks about her next selection. But since she knew exactly what she wanted, she only made one stop, at the Strand Bookstore. A dark-haired young woman Kitty recognized greeted her cheerily.
“Welcome back,” the girl said. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Did you ever get around to reading The Robe?”
“I didn’t,” Kitty said.
“I know you don’t go in much for current books, but it’s that classics style you like.”
“Thanks, but today I’m looking for a book of poetry.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “That’s new.”
“I’m trying new things these days,” Kitty said with a smile. “I’m afraid I don’t know the title of the collection, but the poem is ‘
Little Gidding.’ It’s by T. S. Eliot.”
“Oh, that’s over here. That one is in Four Quartets.” The girl motioned for Kitty to follow her down the cramped aisle. “It’s a good thing you caught me working today and not Ralph. I’m an English major at NYU. Poor Ralph would have taken forever to find it. He’s strictly a Louis L’Amour type of guy.” The girl pulled an unassuming black-and-white volume from the shelf. “This is it. What else can I help you find?”
“This is all for today, thank you.” Kitty ignored the girl’s attempt at hiding her surprise and followed her back to the register to pay.
Back home, Kitty scoured the poem. She wondered how Max could have made heads or tails of it. It had five sections, each so different from the last she couldn’t believe they were all part of the same work. The lengthy poem seemed to wander aimlessly, much like the speaker in the second section. And very little of it made sense to Kitty. She found the excerpt Max had shown her, about searching and exploring, but just before it were a few lines that caught her attention:
What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.
The simplicity of the lines’ truth startled her. She was at an end; it certainly felt like an ending. She’d lost her best friend and the man she was falling in love with, and the future stretched empty before her. But that emptiness was not a permanent hole that her life had fallen into. It had the possibility to be blank pages for a new chapter. If she acknowledged the ending, she could face a new beginning. Max’s suggestion that she had never really seen New York seemed like a good enough place to start. She needed to walk out into the city and explore.
And walk she did. She also took the subway, buses, and sometimes taxis, something she’d avoided before in favor of riding with her father’s driver. She listened to folk singers in Washington Square and jazz singers in Harlem. She tried food from the pushcarts on Arthur Avenue and from vendors in cramped storefronts in Chinatown. Mostly, she walked the streets and watched. She met people and really listened to them. Sometimes she viewed New York through the same eyes she’d seen Havana with, and then suddenly the scene would flip and become her home again. She would feel lost one moment and found the next.
In expanding her view of the city, Kitty began to see what Max was talking about. She hadn’t known her world as well as she’d thought. She saw injustices small and large, things she never would have noticed before. A certain group prohibited from this building. A muttered word to that person. If those were the things she could see, how much more was hidden? And the penthouses of Manhattan always towered high above it all, far away from the realities on the ground. But as she went out into the city each day, pieces of it began to seep into her. She took bits of her experiences with her, and they began to reshape the map of her home in her mind. She was newly arrived in a different world.
* * *
One afternoon, about three weeks after her return, the phone rang. Hoping her father was calling to say he was free that evening, Kitty picked up.
“Kitty? It’s Charles,” said the voice on the line.
Her shock prevented her from answering right away. She concluded that he was calling to berate her, and she started composing apologies in her head. “Charles, hello,” she said in the calmest tone she could muster.
“How are you?”
Just dandy. He wanted to go through all the pleasantries first. “I’m fine, and you?”
“Fine.” The word came out in a short burst. “I suppose you’ve heard.”
This was a sharp left turn she hadn’t expected. Why wasn’t he screaming at her? Get it over with. “Heard what?”
“I would have thought you’d be the first to hear. You mean you really don’t know why I’m calling?”
“I have an idea, but why don’t you just tell me,” she said.
He heaved a sigh. “Hen and I—well, we split up.”
The street could have cracked open, swallowing the whole hotel, and Kitty still wouldn’t have been more stunned than she was at that statement. Hen hadn’t actually done anything wrong. And Kitty had been so sure her letter would be enough to mend things between Hen and Charles. But, then, she’d been right about very little lately. She couldn’t speak, so he continued.
“I was calling to see if I can take you to dinner on Saturday,” he said. “I think we need to talk.”
Her jaw clenched. So, he’d heard everything and still wanted to leave Hen. Maybe he thought Hen and Kitty cooked up the plan together. Now he wanted to read her the riot act to her face. She guessed he deserved his chance to tell her off. He was every bit as affected by her scheming, if likely nowhere near as hurt. She could explain once again that it was all her fault, maybe convince him where Hen and the letter had not. If Hen really wanted to be with this guy, she could at least try one more time to help with that.
“Okay,” she said. “Where were you thinking of going?”
“How about the Palm? Eight thirty. We can meet there.”
Kitty rolled her eyes. Of course Charles would choose the most high-profile place he could think of as the best place to chew her out. “I’ll be there.”
On Saturday, Kitty lay in the bed when she first woke up, checking herself for any sign of illness. None appeared. No fever, no scratchy throat, no headache. No excuses. She would have to go to the Palm and face the music. The thought that Kitty might be able to take the full blame and at least get Hen back in Charles’s good graces was the only thing that could get her out of bed.
Most of the day was occupied in choosing the proper outfit. She hadn’t really mined her closet since she’d gotten home. There had been few opportunities to dress up. After much deliberation, she decided the demure look was best. She chose a white blouse with a slim black-and-white plaid skirt she’d gotten in Miami. The black ribbon in her hair was purely for the other Palm patrons. She couldn’t look as though she’d given up entirely.
As the car pulled up to the curb in front of the Palm, she twisted the strap of her handbag. She considered telling the driver to turn around, but he was already opening the door for her. She had no choice.
When she walked in, the maître d’ explained that the rest of the party was already seated and led her to the table. Charles stood when he spotted Kitty and kissed her on the cheek.
“Kitty, good to see you,” he said. “Sit down, please.”
Good to see you? She sat, and the waiter spread a napkin on her lap. “Hello, Charles,” she said, accepting the menu. She guessed that, whatever her transgressions, she still merited a sleazy kiss.
Charles already had a martini, so Kitty ordered a drink. The second the waiter stepped away from the table, Charles grabbed Kitty’s hand. She nearly dropped the menu.
“What’s going on?” She blurted the words out without thinking.
He cocked his head. “I would have thought it was obvious.”
“I can’t say I was expecting a warm reception, that’s all.” She withdrew her hand from his on the pretense of smoothing the napkin in her lap.
“Don’t be silly. You and I have known each other almost as long as Hen and I have. Why can’t we still be friends, even if Hen and I aren’t together?” He smiled. “More than friends?”
She took a moment to collect herself. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?”
“Hasn’t Hen already told you?”
Curiouser and curiouser, she thought. “I’d like to hear it from your perspective,” she said smoothly.
The waiter came over with Kitty’s drink, and Charles lowered his voice. “Well, you told me yourself Hen was…indiscreet in Miami. When she came back, I was ready to forgive her.”
Kitty pursed her lips involuntarily, but covered it with the first sip of her vodka pineapple. “That’s very big of you.”
He nodded. “The way I see it, she may have indulged herself too much, but that’s no reason to throw away everything we have. She kept dodging me when she got back, so I assumed she was ashamed of how she’d behaved.” Charles threw his hands in the air. “That wasn’t it at all. She wasn’t the least bit sorry. She said she didn’t regret a thing.”
Kitty struggled with this information. Hen had nothing to regret—why would she put it that way? “That’s…odd,” Kitty said.
“I thought so too. But nothing was odder than what she told me next. She said not only was she leaving me, there's someone else.” His mouth twisted in a sneer. “Leaving me! For him.”
Kitty abandoned all pretense of knowledge. “I have to admit, Charles. This is the first I’ve heard about any of this. Hen and I had a disagreement before coming back home. We haven’t spoken.”
“I’d have thought her little affair would have been obvious. She said it was no one’s fault, just that they’d been thrown together so much and had fallen in love. What kind of life is that guy going to give her, I ask you?”
“What guy?” The words came out before she could stop them. Had Hen invented some man from the trip to get out of her engagement? The more Charles said, the less the conversation made sense.
Charles looked no less confused. “You were with her the whole time. You were the one who told me. Are you saying you didn’t notice her with Andre?”