“Your sock drawer is a mess,” she giggled.
He held out his bare arm for her, and she went to him again.
“You’re the only girl I ever loved,” he said. “You know that, don’t you? You’re the only girl I’ll ever love. At least I can finally have you for a little while. At least, for a little while, we can have each other. The way it was supposed to be.”
“I love you, Michael.”
Did I say that? she asks herself now. It all seems so long ago, and in another world entirely, and their affair only lasted two weeks—two weeks, at the most, was all it had been, give or take a few days. Two weeks, she thinks. That was the title (wasn’t it?) of a novel, Two Weeks, yes, by Elinor Glyn, a steamy romantic novel of the 1920s, set in some mythical Graustarkian kingdom, in which the heroine and her lover rolled about on leopard-skin rugs in the lover’s palace.
But there had been no leopard-skin rugs in her affair with Michael, and the palace had been only Riverside Drive. In her mind, now, the affair seems not only long-ago and passionate, but at the same time somehow banal. He seemed to bring out a domestic, housewifely side of her that she had not known existed. She had discovered, for instance, that he was a terrible housekeeper. His, or his decorator’s, passion for built-ins was based on the fact that he used the built-ins to conceal his clutter. He hid his laundry under his bed. He stored his firewood behind the skirts of one of the big living room sofas. She bought him a laundry bag and made space in a closet in which to hang it. She found a sheltered corner of his terrace on which to stack the firewood. She took his suits to the cleaner’s and, when they came back, saw that they were hung neatly in even rows, on matching wooden hangers, and in plastic garment bags. She dusted and lined up his shoes in their trees. She organized his tie racks, for he had a habit of hanging up his neckties without undoing their knots. She arranged his shelves of shirts and sweaters according to color and long-sleeve, short-sleeve. She paired and folded his socks. Though Michael employed what he called “my dusty lady” as a maid-housekeeper, dusting seemed to be the dusty lady’s sole field of expertise.
Mimi cleaned out his medicine chest, discarding many empty tubes of toothpaste, cans of shaving foam and deodorant, spent razor blades, bottles of cologne and after-shave, and … bobby pins. She felt a slight twinge of guilt throwing out the bobby pins but decided he had no further use for them. Ancient prescriptions, long past their shelf life, along with an imposing collection of used Q-tips, also made their way into the garbage. He was, she discovered, a penny saver. A gallon jug was filled with copper coins. She counted and stacked these in paper rollers, took them to the bank, and exchanged them for bills.
She attacked his refrigerator, throwing out many objects of dubious age, identity, and odor, including a drawerful of what may have once been recognizable as species of vegetables but were now pulpy and discolored blobs. She bathed the refrigerator’s interior with detergent and baking soda. In the process, she discovered that his eating habits were erratic, at best, and that he lived primarily on carry-outs—pizzas and Chinese food. She restocked his larder with health foods, his freezer with wholesome frozen vegetables, his refrigerator with fresh milk, eggs, fruits, and juices. He made jokes about her efforts to organize and systematize his household and life and told her she was “turning into a typical Jewish mother.”
But the process of discovery and change was not at all a oneway street during those few weeks. In their lovemaking, he took her on a journey of discovery to a destination she had never known about before. He called it “little white stars”—an implosion of them from an inner, unexplored galaxy.
“Did you see them?” he would ask her.
“Yes … oh, yes.”
They had never once spoken of Brad.
“I’m going to see your father tomorrow,” he said.
“Thank you, darling.”
“After that, how’d you like to drive over to East Orange and have a look at the house I’m building there?”
“I’d love that.”
“Good. I’ll pick you up at your house at four. You’ll be my pick-up,” he said.
In Henry Myerson’s office, he took a seat opposite the company president’s big desk.
“It’s funny,” Henry Myerson said, “that you should have asked to see me, because for the last few days I’ve had it on my mind to call and ask to see you.”
“Is that so?” Michael said.
“Yes. It’s occurred to me that you might be able to be of unique service to me, Mr. Horowitz.”
“Well, that’s what I’m here to offer you,” Michael said. “To be of any service that I can.”
“I know you by reputation,” Henry said. “As a builder and developer—as well as what you’ve been doing for my mother.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Michael said, “but I don’t think you realize that we’ve met before.”
“Have we?” Henry said, looking flustered. “I’m sorry, but I don’t recall—”
“About two and a half years ago, your daughter and I came to your house to tell you that we wanted to get married.”
“Oh,” Henry said, shaking his head as though to rid it of dusty memories. “Was that you? I’m sorry, but I didn’t … forgive me, but that was a very emotional time for all of us, I’m afraid. Very emotional. I’m sorry I didn’t connect the name—not an uncommon name, after all. And I’m afraid that meeting wasn’t a very pleasant occasion for you, was it? Sorry about that.”
“No, sir, it wasn’t pleasant. It wasn’t pleasant at all.”
“Well, these things work out in the end,” Henry said. “Mimi’s happily married now. Fine fellow, Brad Moore. Lawyer downtown. He’s made her very happy.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sure of that.”
“And you—I’m sure you’re married yourself by now.”
“As a matter of fact, I’m not.”
“Well, then,” Henry said a little lamely, “it’s good to see you again.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now then,” Henry said, and he rose from his chair, walked to his window, and stood looking out, his hands in his pockets, his back to Michael. “You’re a builder, you’re a developer, Mr. Horowitz.”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“Primarily in New Jersey, I gather.”
“I also have a project going up in Manhattan, on the Upper West Side.”
“Good. Lots of development going on, on the West Side. Lincoln Center and all that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I suppose—or at least I gather,” Henry said, “that as a builder and developer, dealing with unions in the building trades and that sort of thing, you have occasion to do business, and come into contact with, people—men—who are members of what I believe is called the Cosa Nostra.”
“I’m not quite sure what you mean by that,” Michael said carefully.
“I mean, I’ve heard, I’ve read—and surely you have, too—that building contractors, in dealing with the unions and so forth, often have occasion to deal with some questionable types, people who at least have connections with the Mafia.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that, sir. But I personally—”
“There’s never been anyone you’ve suspected of being connected with any of this?”
“Well, I’ve had my suspicions, yes. But in my business, I try—”
“So at least you know who these people are. You see, Mike—May I call you Mike?” Henry Myerson went on, “This company faces a lot of problems right now—problems of transition, from old management to new. Most of these problems we’re going to be able to deal with, I’m confident of that. But there is one problem, a persistent problem, that’s not going to go away unless a certain individual is … eliminated.”
“Eliminated?”
“Yes. This is an individual of no moral worth whatsoever, a scourge on society, a person society would be better off to be rid of. I’ve been thinking about this for some time, Mike. I assure you I’m a moral man an
d have never considered taking means as drastic as I’m thinking of to dispose of an undesirable, totally worthless person, a lowlife of the lowest possible order. But under the present circumstances—”
“You’re talking of having someone killed,” Michael said.
“Well, that’s a rather crude way of putting it, but yes. And it occurred to me that someone like you, a developer, with your connections, might have access to—”
“Does this individual have a name?”
“Nathan Myerson.”
“A relative?”
“In a sense, yes.”
“Well, let me tell you this, Mr. Myerson,” Michael said. “In my business, I’ve run across people whom I’ve suspected of Mafia ties—I won’t deny that. But I’ve personally tried to steer clear of any of that. I don’t want my business, or my reputation, tainted with any of that. Whenever I’ve had an inkling that a person I’m dealing with isn’t straight, I stop doing business with that person. Immediately. I will not knowingly do business with those people.”
“You couldn’t even supply me with a name?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“I assure you, you’d be helping rid the earth of one of its worst scum.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”
“There’d be money in it, of course.”
“I’m sure there would be, but the answer is negative.”
Henry Myerson turned from the window, spreading his hands. “Well, there was no harm asking, was there?” he said. “I thought there might be something you could do to help us.”
“There is nothing,” Michael said, getting to his feet. “There is nothing I can do, except to say, if anyone asks me, that I know nothing at all about a man named Nathan Rosenblum.”
“Myerson. Nathan Myerson.”
“The name is Rosenblum. The name of the man I remember discussing with you in your office today is Nathan Rosenblum. If I’m asked if we discussed a man named Myerson at this meeting today, I’ll say no, it was Rosenblum. Do you understand? I’m doing this for your sake, Myerson, and for your daughter’s sake.”
“Mimi could benefit, greatly, in the long run, if this were done.”
“I think I’ll be the judge of that,” he said.
In East Orange that afternoon, she had not noticed anything particularly different about him, except that he seemed to be talking unusually rapidly. They were walking around the grounds (or what one day would be the grounds) of his new house, but the grounds that day were not much more than mounds of excavated earth and rock, scattered with pieces of heavy building equipment.
“This will be a flagstone patio,” he said, “leading off the glassed-in garden room. The pool goes here, and over there will be the tennis court. I may put in two tennis courts; I haven’t decided yet. My landscape guy, Tommy Church, is pushing for two, and what the heck? There’s plenty of room. There’s five-acre zoning here, and I have fifteen. The courts can be lighted, because there are no neighbors within sight of this to complain. Tennis courts should be lined up north-south, did you know that? So the sun never gets in the players’ eyes. The things a guy learns when he gets rich … Amazing.…
“Over here I’m going to put a greenhouse. Not a humongous greenhouse, just a fair-sized one to grow fresh flowers for the house. This whole hillside is going to be terraced, with field-stone retaining walls, all the way down to the brook, and of course all this will be planted. And look at the view, kiddo! All of downtown Manhattan in my backyard, from the tip of the Battery—look!—up to and including the Empire State Building. And see over there, through the trees, that green shape? The Statue of Liberty! Those trees are coming down, so there’ll be a better view of her. You should see it at night, the view.…”
Inside the house, which had been roofed over, the partitions between the rooms were still marked by bare upright studs and lintels, and they picked their way across bare floors scattered with sawdust and carpenters’ nails.
“A piano would look lovely in that corner,” she said.
“Hey! Great idea! Not that I can play a note. The room’s big enough—forty by fifty. Off this hall, here, goes a powder room, and down the hall, there, will be my study. Here’s the dining room.… Think the kitchen’s big enough? And talk about organized. If you think you organized my kitchen in the city, this one’s really going to be organized. There’s going to be storage for everything. This will be for a walk-in freezer. In the center goes the appliance island: plenty of counter space, an eight-burner range, two double ovens, plus a microwave. Dishwasher … double sinks. Here,” he says, leading them along, “is the butler’s pantry. Hey, get me! I don’t have a butler yet, but I’ve got a butler’s pantry! In here: laundry room. Washer, dryer, lots more linen storage. Ceramic tile floor.”
“A butler to polish your George the First silver every day.…”
In just ten years, he would declare this house too small for him and would be building an even larger one.
“You haven’t said how your meeting went with my father this afternoon,” she said, when they finished the tour.
“Not good,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “He wouldn’t let me look at his balance sheet. That’s his right, of course. But without seeing that, there’s nothing I can tell him.”
“Oh,” she said, trying to hide her disappointment. “Well, thanks for trying, anyway, Michael.”
“Know something?” he said. “It was pretty funny. He didn’t even remember me.”
They moved outside again, where rutted, muddy tracks marked where his driveway would curve in, between tall stands of birches, from the street beyond. “Four-car garage,” he gestured. “Heated, of course.”
“It’s going to be a beautiful house, Michael,” she said. “It ought to have a woman for you to share it with.”
He said nothing.
“Could it be me, Michael?”
His look darkened, and he tossed the sandy lock of hair back from his forehead. Finally, he said, “Sit down a minute, Mimi.” He indicated a pair of carpenter’s sawhorses. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”
They sat, and he said, “It can’t be, Mimi, and for a couple of reasons. To begin with, I’m crazy about you. I think you know that. I have been since I first met you, and I probably always will be, but that’s not really what I want to say. What I want to say is that you’ve made your choice of husbands, and I think you made the right one. How old are you now, Mimi? Twenty-two? You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, and the world’s a beautiful place, and there are a whole lot of wonderful and beautiful things and places in it, and you wouldn’t want to spend the rest of your life with a guy like me. Don’t interrupt. Listen to what I say. Me? I’m all over the place—I’m here and there, one place to the next. Even with this house, I know I’ll never settle down anywhere for very long. It’s not me. I’m too restless, too ambitious. I’m not solid, Mimi. Your husband’s solid. I need a woman who’ll take care of me, pick up after me. You need a man who’ll take care of you. That’s the man you married. You knew what you were doing, and you did it.
“And let me tell you something else, kiddo. I’m Jewish, and you’re Jewish, but there’s a difference, and your grandpa saw that. Your husband’s a goy, and that’s important for someone like you. He can take you places and show you things that I never could. I’m not ashamed of being a Jew, but I’ll tell you, Mimi, in this world we live in, being a goy is better. That’s just a fact of life, and anybody with any sense admits that. I mean, you’re blond but they’re blonder. If life’s a crapshoot, the goyim have the better odds. If life’s a poker party, the goyim hold the higher hands—that’s why the guy you married is a better choice than me. What’s more, the guy has class and he has style—like you do, which is why you need a guy with class and style. Me? I have no style, and I have no class. I’m just a schlepper—an honest schlepper, maybe, but a schlepper just the same. The guy you married will give you a beautiful life, Mimi. I don’t want you to schle
p through life with me. An old New England family, it said in the paper. He can give you that; that’s class on top of class. I can’t give you that. Now, listen very carefully, because I’m going to tell you what I want you to do. I want you to call him at the Harvard Club—”
“How did you know he’d moved to the Harvard Club?”
“We live in a small town, Mimi. New York is a village. Everybody who’s anybody knows where everybody else who’s anybody is living. Call him at the Harvard Club, and tell him you’re sorry about whatever you said or did that made him move out on you. Ask him to forgive you—I mean, beg him to forgive you. Tell him you love him, tell him you want him back, beg him to come home—I mean, get down on your knees and beg him! Because I’ll tell you something else about this guy I’ve never met: he’s proud. They all are, the goyim. I mean, I’m proud to be who I am, but he’s prouder to be who he is. I want you to deliver a real performance, Mimi, appealing to his pride, his honor, his dignity, his sense of duty. Tell him you need him back because you can’t live without him. He’ll come back because, believe it or not, I know him very well, this guy I’ve never met. Because I know he loves you. If he didn’t love you, if you hadn’t hurt his pride, he wouldn’t have moved to the Harvard Club. He’d have moved back to Boston.
“I want you to do this for me, kiddo. If you love me at all, you’ll do it. If you want me to have any more respect for you, you’ll do it, because I know it’s the right thing, the only right thing, for you to do. You see, you deserve a guy who belongs to the Harvard Club—not me. Oh, kiddo, kiddo, it’s so hard to say good-bye.” She saw there were tears in his eyes.
Sitting outside his unfinished mansion, in the ragged ruins of his unfinished garden, Mimi’s own eyes focused on banal objects—an idle Bobcat tractor standing ready to move more earth to shape his driveway, a pile of slate that would one day become a terrace, a stack of two-by-fours—and for a moment her own life seemed as broken and surreal as that broken and unfinished, almost lunar, landscape. She thought: How can I have let myself be hurt this way again? And by him. Again. Squeezing her eyes shut and making fists of her hands, she offered up to God, if there was a God, a great crimson promise and a prayer: Dear God, if there is a God, I promise that as long as I live I’ll never let myself be hurt this way again.
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