Appetite

by Sheila Grinell

  “You’d like Arturo. He does performance pieces with a social angle. I told him that my boss is going to cure cancer, and he exploded with pleasure. If you come, you might find yourself part of the piece.” She folded her hands like a supplicant. Her eyes didn’t beg.

  He hesitated. He didn’t need complications at work; he needed results. Besides, he had Irene. And Maggie. Plenty of women already rattled around in his head, taking up space that could otherwise be devoted to science. But Hope was different from other women, like an alien creature. And he admired those fabulous legs. “The meeting shouldn’t take long. Where’s the gallery? I could meet you there.”

  “Madison and Seventy-Second. It says Caldwell above the window. Arturo will be delighted. Me too.” She turned back to the microscope.

  He returned to his desk, wondering if the scene at the art gallery would be hard to stomach. He’d had no time for art galleries on his path to becoming lab director, but curiosity pricked him. He left a message on Maggie’s cell saying that he’d be late.

  He walked along Madison Avenue, a chilly corridor between tall buildings, in the twilight. Wrapped around scrawny sidewalk trees, strings of white Christmas lights twinkled; it was only November, yet shop windows sported glittering ornaments and plastic greenery. No inflated Santas or wire-frame deer nodded their electrified heads in this tony neighborhood though. He passed people standing in front of the displays, catching glimpses of their faces reflected in the glass. They looked happy, pointing and chatting, as if they cared about each other. Easy to get the Christmas spirit when you have lots of bucks. He remembered why he didn’t frequent the East Side—so predictable, so snobbish, so boring. He crossed Seventy-Second Street, dodging a couple of taxis. New Yorkers hung casual about traffic. New York, apart from the Upper East Side, suited him so much better than the Indianapolis of his childhood. In New York, you smelled opportunity; it was a sharp, hard smell that he relished.

  The gray lettering on the brown wooden facade at Caldwell’s was barely legible. The old, polished wood must have darkened with exposure to weather and grime. Understated, a signal to the cognoscenti. As he reached to ring the bell set into a bronze plaque, the door opened and Hope smiled him in. She looked demure in a soft, clingy black dress. She took his jacket and invited him to look around while she tended to something. Arturo was anxious to meet him, she said, and Arturo would be easy to spot.

  The gallery consisted of a succession of doorless rooms with crisp white walls and a gleaming wooden floor. A guitarist played classical music in a corner. In the first two rooms, paintings hung on walls and a few dozen people stood sipping cocktails and chatting. White-haired men in dark suits stood beside painfully thin women with dowager humps in brightly colored knits, diamonds glittering as they gestured with knobby hands. A mustachioed young man in black passed hors d’oeuvres.

  A tired-looking young woman holding an infant in a carrier slung against her chest walked in behind Paul, followed by a nerdy guy hoisting a three-year-old on his shoulders. Paul followed the young family, past a stanchion that read “Performance at 6:15,” into the third room. No paintings. A tiny man in a red silk shirt sat on a chair next to a man-sized cage in the middle of the floor. A ring of gray hair descended to his shoulders from his otherwise bald head. The young mom approached him and pecked his cheek. He fondled the baby while they talked in Italian.

  A camouflaged door in the rear wall opened, and Hope entered, followed by an older woman with the same horsey face and long legs, obviously her mother. Mrs. Caldwell fussed over Arturo, and Hope beckoned Paul to join them. She introduced him as the brilliant scientist with whom she was fortunate to work. Arturo rose and embraced him. Paul looked down at the top of Arturo’s inadvertent tonsure. From this angle he could see a snake coiled in the bottom of the cage. Arturo released him, saying, “Will you stay after the performance? I want to know how you will conquer the devil.”

  Hope said, “We’ll be here. Tend to your grandchildren.” She drew Paul away from the group. Looking at her watch she said, “It’s almost time.”

  “What have you signed me up for?”

  “Arturo will take the python out of the cage and wrap it around himself and sit on the chair for half an hour or so. People can talk to him or not, as they wish. He will focus all his energy on staying alive while addressing the emotions that snakes bring up in the viewers.”

  “Sounds like something out of Harry Potter.”

  “It’s actually deeply moving. You’ll see. And afterwards he’ll chat you up about cancer, and then I’ll take you to dinner. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Anything for art’s sake.”

  “No,” she said, “anything for a friend helping out another friend. Excuse me a minute.” She walked past the stanchion to greet a cluster of newcomers.

  Paul withdrew to a corner of the room and phoned home, asking Jenn to tell her mother not to wait dinner. He expected Hope to take him to a snotty restaurant that her set frequented. He hoped to hell the food would be tasty, not just pretty. He walked to the bar to get a bourbon before Arturo’s show.

  She had her own apartment, a studio high over Second Avenue, painted white and almost bare of furnishings except for the bed in the middle of the room and two six-foot canvases leaning against walls without windows. Paul sat on the lone stool at the countertop in the kitchenette, surveying the place while Hope hung his jacket and her coat in the closet. There were no clothes or books lying around, no dirt on the kitchen counter or appliances. It looked like she only camped out there. Where, he wondered, did she really live?

  She rummaged in an overhead cabinet in the kitchenette and removed a pair of china cups, setting them on the counter. She opened the bottle of Fernet-Branca that had been foisted upon her after the Italian dinner Arturo had cajoled them into sharing with him and his family, and poured a shot in each cup. Paul hadn’t wanted to eat with Arturo, but she had pleaded with him. The meal turned out to be big and good, and he’d enjoyed Arturo’s riff on the vanity of performance art, including his own. When Paul and Hope refused tiramisu, Arturo told them that sipping a digestif was the best way to end such an occasion and presented the bottle. They had gone to Hope’s place, “just around the corner,” for a taste.

  They each raised a cup.

  “Smells foul,” he said.

  “Arturo says they make it with herbs that grow on the hillsides above the vineyards. It’s eighty proof, you know.”

  “You drink this stuff?”

  “My family has represented Arturo for thirty years. He used to make sculpture. I remember climbing on pieces in his studio as a little girl. My mother was aghast, but Arturo indulged me. I grew up with his family.”

  “He knows a lot about cancer. His questions were pretty astute.”

  “He read up for you. He wanted to make the most of your acquaintance.”

  “What if I hadn’t come?”

  “Then both of us would have been sorely disappointed.” She gestured toward the bed. “Can we sit down? I’ve ordered a couch, but it won’t arrive for another few weeks, so we have to make do.” She perched on the edge of the bed, knees together, cup in lap. He sat a foot away, a respectful distance.

  “Tell me about those canvases. Are you a painter?”

  She shifted, crossing her legs. “No. A friend left them here. There’re supposed to be metaphors of me. I don’t see any likeness.”

  “I’m no judge, but all that red and black. What kind of a friend was he?”

  She looked directly at him. “Not good enough. We broke up a while ago. I should dump the paintings, but they’ll be worth something in a few years. Does that make me venal?”

  That’s her story, he thought, on the rebound. “No, it means you’re practical. Scientists don’t make money.” Women on the rebound wanted a hug, he’d found, not a lover. Being needy made her less attractive. He stood and meandered over to look at one of the canvases. He traced the thickest brushstrokes with his hand as he contem
plated leaving.

  “Before you go,” she said behind him, “let’s have dessert.”

  He turned around. She stood naked next to the bed. Gorgeous, muscled legs; sleek torso; real, full breasts that stood up prettily—he was aroused. First time a seductress had beaten him to the punch, and the novelty appealed to him. As he undressed, she lay on her side, languid, like an odalisque, watching him, opening her arms when he reached her. Her flesh was warm and smooth. She wrapped her legs around him. He went for it.

  She stirred when he got up, but he shushed her and she fell back into sleep. Leaving a note, claiming to have forgotten an early golf game, he dressed silently and made his way out. She couldn’t have known that he didn’t play golf. He wanted a hot shower, and he didn’t want another screw lest he disappoint her. It had been a while since he’d spent all night having sex.

  It was still dark outside. He hailed a cab on Second Avenue to go to 125th Street to catch the next train to Westchester. In the taxi, on the platform, in the train, he drowsed and thought about her. He’d been wrong about her being needy. She was a voluptuary, alternately rousing him and being roused, savoring each caress, the press of their bodies, the hot height of their coitus. In between screws, she exuded contentment. Her lust disarmed him. He wanted to possess her; he wondered if he could. She was far more skilled at lovemaking than any thirty-year-old should be.

  He let himself in the mudroom door and descended into the Lair. It was too late for a shower—Maggie rose early and might hear. He removed his shoes and belt and lay down on the couch, pulling up a throw. He tasted Hope again. He smelled sex on his body, warming beneath the coverlet. Tired, he closed his eyes.

  Muffled sound overhead. Something was happening in the kitchen. He squinted at the television against the rear wall: eleven thirty. He’d slept five hours. Saturday. Someone should check the new batch of cultures.

  Turning on the basement shower spigot, he let the water run for a minute; in December, the basement water never really got hot. He stepped into the stall and soaped. Hope came to mind, and the guy who jilted her. She’d mentioned in passing that he was an artist her parents had been promoting, older than she by quite a lot. She’d traveled with him for a year, showing his portfolio to galleries all over the world. She said he was divorced, not that it mattered, because he was unavailable in other ways. He wondered if she thought him available. Did he want to be? He didn’t need a young woman, an employee for God’s sake, nosing around him. He was perfectly comfortable with Irene, who kept it casual. And there was always Maggie.

  He found a bottle of shampoo on the floor of the stall and poured some in his hand. In the quiet moments last night, Hope had asked about his work. She’d asked deep questions. She’d said he was probably the only person she knew, including her friend Arturo, doing something truly important. He believed her. She knew enough science to appreciate the significance of what he wanted to do. She’d told him that she was sure he’d make a breakthrough. Yes, he would.

  He stepped out of the stall and used the slightly damp towel that hung on the rack—nothing completely dried in the basement—to wipe himself. Clean clothes lay upstairs, past whatever was going on in the kitchen. As he climbed the stairs, Hope’s face and figure came to him. He could almost feel her legs wrapped around him, smell her perfume and sweat. Such a spicy young lady, so strong, so challenging. It would be hard to refuse her. Should he try?

  Jenn nodded to him as he emerged from the basement. “We didn’t wait breakfast for you. I can make you scrambled eggs if you like. Mom’s at her friend Ellen’s house.”

  “Yeah, eggs sound good. I’ll go change my clothes and be right down. The train was late last night.”

  She went to the fridge. “Two eggs or three?”

  “Three. My cholesterol’s better.” Stepping to the stairs, he avoided looking at her. If she thought anything amiss, she was too smart to say. He was relieved that Maggie wasn’t home. There was no need to belabor his excuse.

  SEVENTEEN

  It had been warm for the entire month before Thanksgiving, and some of the neighborhood trees had remained green, which Maggie found disconcerting in December. The whole world seemed out of alignment, maybe only a little, but enough to destabilize her mood. She walked home head down, idly kicking fallen leaves, half hearing the rustle as her conversation with Ellen meandered through her head. On the sidewalk in front of their driveway, her toe caught on a crack hidden under a mound of leaves and she pitched forward. She reached for a tree to catch her balance; the tree that saved her, she realized, was also the cause of her stumble, its roots having forced a section of concrete upward. You never perceive underground forces until it’s too late. Like the disappointment that had festered between her and Paul, gradually reordering their lives.

  She kicked a pile of leaves at the base of the tree and entered the backyard. Kicking leaves was a habit formed in childhood. She used to pile leaves up and jump on the piles to release the powdery, spicy smell. Her mother hated the game because it brought dust and dirt into the house. In her mother’s orbit, there were few games. By fourth grade, she longed to play at friends’ homes, because each visit revealed a new treasure: Chutes and Ladders, Monopoly, canasta, a hamster. And in those homes, she usually looked on while the other girls played, because she feared appearing ignorant or breaking something. Her best friend’s mother offered snacks; the woman also turned her into a reader, thank goodness, lending her books after the friend had finished them, teaching her to use the library. Of course, Maggie had given Jenn games and books, the accoutrements of childhood that Claudia disdained, at the appropriate age and in the proper measure.

  Earlier that morning, she and Ellen had put their heads together about a job for Jenn and had drawn up a list of people to call. Ellen had taken half the names, promising to get on the horn in the afternoon. She said her lawyer husband might have something to offer when he came back from the gym. Maggie had put the other names in her pocket; she would start calling when she got home, although it might be hard to reach people on a Saturday so close to Christmas. A short while ago Jenn would have objected to her butting in. Today Jenn was grateful for the help. To what should Maggie attribute the change: Arun’s influence or an empty bank account? She kicked one last mound of leaves, which scattered in all directions.

  Entering the house through the mudroom, she found Paul eating in the breakfast nook while Jenn washed dishes at the sink. The odor of frying greeted her. She removed the red fleece vest that Paul used to mock as frumpy but no longer seemed to notice and sat with him.

  “Can you hang the Christmas lights today?” she asked.

  He shook his head no and swallowed. “I’ve got a new batch of cultures to check.”

  “Can’t you get someone else to do it? Alicia lives close by the lab, doesn’t she?”

  “She went home for Christmas week. But you’re right. I’ll call the new technician. Your daughter can scramble an egg.” He tucked the last morsel of egg onto a bit of toast, added a bite of sausage, and maneuvered the stack into his mouth. Chewing, he picked up his mug and headed for the Lair.

  A few years before, she would have asked him what time he got home last night and why he hadn’t come to bed upstairs. Today she would wait for him to get off the landline and his computer so she could use it to troll for a job for Jenn. And bug him about the lights. She hoped to spend the weekend as a threesome, enjoying the decorating rituals they had started when Jenny was small. Lights on the garage and front portico; the un-tree, a wire frame hung with ornaments and tinsel, in the living room; the handmade crèche on the lawn. She wanted to re-create the sense of comfort they had enjoyed in the early years before Jenn burst loose. Paul used to enjoy the family side of Christmas; he might come through.

  “More tea, Mom? What did Ellen say?” Jenn said from the sink.

  “You know her husband, John? She thinks he can help. We have a plan.”

  Jenn laughed. “You two always have a plan. Remember
Women Leaders of America? I thought it was ridiculous to call a bunch of high school girls women, let alone leaders.”

  “They’re still meeting,” Maggie said, “but they changed from newspapers to something with media. Ellen and I aren’t involved anymore, but our names are still on the masthead.”

  “Are you disappointed that you didn’t produce the next generation of Pulitzer Prize winners?”

  “No. It was good fun.”

  Jenn wiped her hands. “Well, you were right. I was being a brat at the time.”

  Maggie kept a straight face despite the urge to grab Jenn and hug. Back then, she had tolerated Jenn’s hostility to the club she and Ellen had dreamed up. Jenn had insisted that girls should be left alone to flower organically, and she’d criticized for months. Paul had wanted to ground her for it, but Maggie had defended Jenn’s right to her opinion. Although Jenn never acknowledged that the club helped girls with fewer resources than she had, she stopped griping about it after her sophomore year in college. Today’s conciliatory words lifted Maggie’s spirits: Jenn had outgrown her adolescent intransigence. But had Arun fostered intransigence of another kind?

  “No more tea, thanks.”

  She pulled her computer closer and powered it on to search for a recipe for walnut stuffing. Women Leaders of America. Perhaps Teenage Sleuths of Pelham would have been more apt. She and Ellen had created the club to get girls from both ends of town to work together despite the snobbery that caused so much ill will. They had asked the girls to work in teams to identify problems in town and taught them how to research issues and survey attitudes. The girls published their work in the local shopper’s weekly and developed a reputation as investigative reporters, which became a matter of pride. It was so satisfying to see the look on a girl’s face when she showed off her byline, especially a girl from a compromised family situation. One of Maggie’s favorites, an unkempt sixteen-year-old named Steffi, handed in assignments torn from a notebook, grease stained, without much punctuation, but gutsy and on point. Steffi watched over her siblings while her single mother worked. She came to club meetings as often as she could until her mother, annoyed by the attention the girls attracted, forced her to quit. Maggie tried to talk to the woman, but she wouldn’t listen. Maggie’s own judgmental mother would never have understood the club either. So wonderful that Jenn, at last, appreciated it.