Hanging by a Thread

by Karen Templeton

  I’ll make that phone call in a few minutes, when I’m not feeling quite so shell-shocked. Instead, I wander back out into the showroom, which, once again, is a wreck. So I start cleaning it up, my thoughts more jumbled than the samples covering every piece of furniture.

  Luke’s going to be a father, which he’s always wanted. Tina’s going to have the baby, which absolves me from having to keep a secret that was going to make me sick to keep. And who knows, maybe they can work things out, get their marriage back on track.

  So why do I feel like shit?

  Actually, I think I know. But going there would be on the same level as the dumb-as-dirt Gothic novel heroine who goes down into the cellar, by herself, at night, in her nightgown, because she hears a strange noise.

  I pick up a wool crepe dress with a loose waist. The fabric is gorgeous, but I’ve never liked the neckline. Or where the waist falls. What’s the point of making loose-fitting clothes if they just make a heavy woman look fatter?

  You could do better, a voice whispers, startling me.

  “Ellie, cara, have you seen the pleated linen skirt?”

  I look up. Jock’s leaning against the door frame, one hand in the pocket of pleated black trousers, a lock of black hair casually slung across his forehead, just a hint of chest hair curling over the dip of his black, V-neck cashmere sweater. He has these weird light eyes, somewhere between gray and green, that surrounded by his olive skin seem to laser right through me.

  “The 1140?” I say.

  He smiles. “I have no idea what the number is. Do we have more than one pleated linen skirt?”

  “No, actually,” I say, riffling through the pile on a padded bench until I unearth it. Needless to say, it’s a total mess. Which means I’ll have to press it, blech.

  “Yes, yes, that’s it,” Jock says, crossing the room to take it from me, his aftershave arriving five minutes before he does. “Cara? Are you all right?”

  My head whips around at the genuine concern in his voice. “I’m fine. Why?”

  To my shock, he tucks a finger under my chin, his eyebrows dipping. “You are lying. I see worry in your eyes.”

  I turn away from his touch, which I neither need nor want. Or rather, I don’t need or want Jock’s touch. Because I’m suddenly and profoundly aware that I wouldn’t mind somebody’s touch. You know, a little masculine tenderness? Some guy who wants to take care of me, for a change? Not that I need to be taken care of, but it would be nice to have someone who wanted to.

  Does that make sense? Or does it just make me a dopey, prefeminist throwback? And do I really care?

  “I’m tired, that’s all,” I say, realizing I’m perilously close to tears and really, really pissed with myself that I am. A linen blouse slips to the floor when I try to hang it up; Jock retrieves it, deliberately grazing my hand with his when he gives it back. It’s everything I can do not to roll my eyes.

  “That Mr. Harold,” he says gently, “he is a son of a bitch.”

  Tempting as it is to agree with him, discretion isn’t exactly one of Jock’s strong suits. And playing people against each other is. So I mutter something noncommittal and will him to go away.

  He doesn’t.

  “Ellie…you are so young to be taking on other people’s burdens,” he says, so naturally I turn to say, “What are you talking abou—?” which Jock somehow interprets as an invitation to kiss me.

  I guess I kinda poke him with the hanger because the next thing I know he’s yelling “Ow!” and holding his palm over his eye.

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you! But I don’t fool around with married men, Jock. Ever.”

  “It was just a little kiss,” he says, pouting. He slowly lowers his hand, as though he’s afraid his eyeball might fall out.

  “Something tells me your wife might not see it that way.”

  “She would not have to know.”

  “I would know. You would know. Whether she knew or not is immaterial.” When he frowns, I explain, “It wouldn’t matter. Whether she knew or not. Because we did.”

  “Ah. You have, how do you say? Principles?”

  “One or two I keep tucked away for special occasions.”

  A rueful expression crosses his face. “I apologize, then. It was just that I thought—”

  When he hesitates, I prompt (because I’m clearly insane), “You thought what?”

  “I see a very pretty young woman who has not been kissed in a long time, so I think maybe I should do something about that.”

  Gotta hand it to the guy. If he was aiming to stun me silly, he accomplished his mission.

  “You know, maybe I should’ve wrapped this hanger around your neck instead,” I say, jamming it into the blouse’s sleeves and clanging it onto the nearest rack. “Even if it had been a long time since I’d been kissed—which you would know how?—where do you get off thinking it’s up to you to do something about that?”

  Jock chuckles. God, what an annoying little man. “Ah, there is the passion I suspect lies beneath that beautiful skin of yours.” He leans closer and winks. “The passion I feel in your soft lips.”

  And then he walks away, rumpled skirt in hand.

  Leaving the words “beautiful,” “passion” and “soft lips” hovering in the air in his wake.

  Is my life a joke or what?

  I take several deep breaths, reassure my poor bedraggled hormones it was just a false alarm, to go back to sleep, and manage to get through the next several hours without anyone trying to either bully or seduce me. Later that afternoon, I’m checking in several bolts of a gorgeous silk/linen blend that just arrived when Nikky—who’s been gone most of the afternoon—pops up beside me.

  “Were you able to make that phone call, darling?”

  “To Fields’? Yep. All taken care of. I’ve already relabeled everything for UPS. Second Day Air.” When a pained look crosses her face, I add, “It was that or nothing, Nikky.”

  She nods. I fully expect her to leave. But as I rip through the plastic wrapping to inspect the next bolt of cloth, she says, “Is everything okay?”

  Geez, am I wearing a sign on my forehead or something? I blink up into what passes for Nikky’s worried expression. I mean, I think she really wants to be empathetic. It’s not her fault she’s missing that gene.

  “Yes, everything’s fine.”

  “Oh. Well, then…Marilyn and I were wondering if you could do us a huge favor.”

  Marilyn’s the daughter. Who must’ve come in the back way, unless I can now add blind to befuddled and depressed. While I can tolerate doing favors for Nikky—since she pays my salary and doesn’t treat me like pigeon poop—the idea of doing a favor for her daughter—who doesn’t and does—isn’t sitting well, just at the moment. However, resisting would require more energy than I have. So I abandon the bolts of fabric and follow Nikky back to her office.

  And there she is, the dear.

  “Hi, Marilyn,” I say brightly. “How’s it going?”

  Suspicious, dull blue eyes peer out at me from the safety of an equally dull, lethargic pageboy. A silvery gleam catches my eye—a stethoscope, nestled against a flat, broadcloth-covered chest all but hidden by a blah-colored trenchcoat. “Vintage” Burberry, as Vogue would say. Otherwise known as “old.”

  Her chapped, bare lips purse, the word “Fine” squeezing through like a desiccated turd.

  This epitome of charm and elegance is a first-year resident at Lenox Hill. I’ve yet to see her when she hasn’t looked like a snarly, starving dog who dares you to take its bone away. However, since I’m a nice person—mostly—I offer her a smile. It is not returned. I do not take this slight personally, since I’ve never seen Marilyn be nice to anybody. Somehow, I doubt she’s in medicine due to an overwhelming desire to ease the suffering of her fellow man.

  I catch the expression on Nikky’s face when she glances at her daughter, though, and I can’t help but ache for her, a little. It’s that did-I-do-this-to-you? look. I
t’s a look I hope to God nobody ever sees in my eyes. A look I’m petrified somebody will, someday.

  Do all mothers live in mortal fear of screwing up? I think of Tina, her terror at the thought of being a parent; of Frances, the worry lines permanently etched between her eyebrows, bracketing her mouth, lines that deepen to gullies whenever her kids pull a number on her. Whenever Jason enters her line of sight.

  My heart begins to race as all the 4:00 a.m. ghoulies make a rare daytime appearance, that Starr will be irrevocably damaged because I work / am single / leave her with her grandfather / leave her with Jason / leave her with Frances / won’t get her a dog / let her eat junk food / eat too much junk food myself / wear my father’s clothes / give her too much freedom / don’t give her enough freedom.

  And that’s just in the first thirty seconds. You want the full list, leave a number and I’ll get back to you.

  “Ellie, angel,” Nikky says, draping an arm around my shoulder and shaking me out of my brooding. Is it my imagination, or does the glower intensify from across the room? “We just bought Marilyn the most adorable one-bedroom in the West Village—”

  Hey. When Nikky Katz atones for her guilt, she doesn’t mess around.

  “—and I actually found a decorator who says she can get it in shape—you wouldn’t believe the wallpaper in the bedroom—before Mar’s roommate gets married at the end of the month. Anyway, the poor baby’s just swamped, has to go straight back to the hospital, and God knows I can’t get away, so…”

  A manila folder, clippings crammed inside like refugees in a fishing boat, appears in front of me. “I was wondering if you’d mind whizzing down there and giving these to the decorator? They’re ideas I pulled from magazines to give her an idea of what we’re looking for.”

  Mildly curious, I glance over at Marilyn to see if there’s any reaction, but she’s gone into zombie mode, staring out at the ice floes meandering down the Hudson. I’m tempted to toss something at her, just to make sure she’s still alive.

  “The decorator’s supposed to be there around four or so, taking measurements and such.” This is said while I’m being led toward the door. “Oh! Before I forget—would you tell her to send her bills here? And to invoice the company, not me personally?”

  Every bookkeeper since I’ve been here has had a cow about Nikky’s taking her daughter’s personal expenses as business deductions. And God knows how she pulls it off. But then, it’s not my problem, is it?

  Nikky rattles off the address to me, then asks me twice if I’ve got it—yes, Nikky, I can remember a two-digit house number and apartment 2-B—but just before I step out of the office, some perverse impulse makes me turn back and say to Marilyn, “I bet you’re excited, huh, getting your own place?”

  The question seems to startle her. “I guess,” she says, the words dragging from her lips. “Not that I’ve seen the apartment. But I imagine it’s perfect. After all—” Like twin lizards, her eyes dart to Nikky. “It must be, if Mom picked it out.”

  Okay, I’ll just leave now, shall I?

  I mull over that little scene during the subway ride. Can you imagine what holidays must be like for the Katzes? There’s an older brother, I hear, but I’ve never seen him. He escaped years ago. To Chicago, I think. Smart man.

  Twenty minutes later, I find the building, a charming four-story redbrick on West 10th. A very pretty block, even in the dead of winter, the kind filmmakers use for romantic comedies set in New York. Oh, yeah, this place has Meg Ryan written all over it. I ring the bell for 2-B; a lively, slightly breathless female voice answers and buzzes me in. The apartment is on the second floor, the door slightly ajar. I hear children’s voices, wonder if I’ve made a mistake.

  I step inside, only to stumble backwards as egg yolk-yellow walls jump out and yell SURPRISE!

  God, the place is—or at least, will be—gorgeous. Honeyed wooden floors blurrily reflect the brick-and-marble fireplace at one end; through the pair of virtually transparent floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see a small terrace. “Hello?” I call out, my voice echoing tentatively inside the large, bare living room.

  A pair of toddlers streak out of what I guess is the bedroom, startling me. The one girl, long-legged with curly dark hair, chases a smaller blonde, their laughter shrill and infectious in the still, empty room.

  “Hillary! Melissa!” Dragging a metal tape measure behind her, a tall, bony, very pregnant woman in a stretchy black jumpsuit suddenly appears, her expression slightly harried underneath an explosion of dark curls. “Sorry,” she mutters with an apologetic smile, then tries to glare at the two little girls. “Hey, you two. Cool it.”

  Naturally, they just laugh all the harder and take off again, their sneakered feet beating a syncopated rhythm against the bare floorboards as they race each other up and down, up and down, the length of the room. The woman rolls her eyes, then smiles in a whatcha-gonna-do? grin. “Baby-sitter crisis, sorry.” She extends her hand. “I’m Ginger Petrocelli. You must be Marilyn?”

  “No, Ellie. Levine. Her mother’s assistant. Marilyn couldn’t make it.”

  Ginger’s brows lift slightly, then she grins. “God, that is a great hat,” she says, eyeing my red wool cloche. “Where’d you get it?”

  “It was my grandmother’s,” I say, once again scanning the living room. “Is this place a knockout or what?”

  The woman laughs. “That’s one word for it.” Over in the far corner, the little girls collapse on the floor in a fit of giggles. “At least they’re not trying to kill each other,” Ginger mumbles under her breath, then nods toward the folder clutched to my chest. “Is that for me?”

  “What? Oh, yeah.” I hand it to her. “I tried to organize it a bit on the way over, but I’m not sure how much good I did.”

  Halfheartedly shushing the children, Ginger starts flipping through the torn-out magazine pages. A plain gold band gleams on her left hand. And from out of nowhere, I feel this…prick of envy.

  This is very weird, especially since I don’t tend to think much about my marital status, much less obsess about it. Maybe because I already have a kid, I don’t know. Not that I haven’t gone out occasionally since Starr’s birth. Fix-ups happen. But honestly, it got to be more trouble than it was worth. You dress up, you go out, you’re on your best behavior. So what do you really learn about the other person, other than whether or not he’s got good table manners? Then there’s the whole will-or-won’t-he-call-me-or should-I-call-him? trauma, which usually is more about your own ego than whether or not you really want to see him again—

  “Well, if nothing else,” Ginger says beside me, scrutinizing one of the clippings, “she’s got good taste.”

  “That would be her mother. I don’t think Marilyn has any taste—”

  We’re interrupted by the tiny brunette who looks just like Ginger, all done up in mauve Baby Gap.

  “Gotta go potty.”

  “I thought you just went.”

  “Gotta go ’gain.”

  “Sounds familiar,” I say, following them back through the equally large, airy bedroom to the bathroom. Yeow—Nikky wasn’t kidding about the wallpaper in here. Sunflowers. The size of garbage can lids. On a lime-green background.

  “You have kids?” I hear from the bathroom.

  “One.” I look away, but now reverse-image sunflowers are seared onto my retinas. “A five-year-old girl. With the smallest bladder in the metropolitan area.”

  Ginger emerges, the little girl shooting past her and back out to the living room, where the giggling starts up again. “I doubt that. Right now, that honor goes to me.”

  I like this woman, I realize. Her neuroses seem to lie within the normal range. For New York, at least. Since that’s a rare thing in my life, I’m reluctant to leave just yet.

  “When’s your baby due?”

  “In six weeks. Might as well be six years.”

  “Are the girls fraternal twins?”

  “They’re not even related,” she says, smiling. �
��The dark-haired one’s actually my half sister. My mother’s testimony to yes, you can get pregnant after you think you’ve gone through menopause. And little blondie’s my husband’s.” Her voice softens when she says this, except then she mutters “Shit” under her breath and glances at her watch. “I’ve got another appointment on the upper East Side in twenty minutes. Girls, get your coats and let’s get cracking! God, I hope I even can get a taxi at this hour!”

  We all troop down the stairs, the girls jumping from step to step. I tell her about billing Nikky’s business, she nods and digs a card out of her purse.

  “I don’t really need—”

  “You never know,” Ginger says with a shrug. “And when you’re just starting out on your own, believe me, you give business cards to everybody.”

  I glance at the spiffy logo on the card as we all thread through the door and down the steps. GPW Designs, it says, with an address in Brooklyn.

  “What’s the W for?” We hang a right and head toward Sixth Avenue; Ginger laughs.

  “Wojowodski. My husband’s name.” Hanging on to one kid with each hand, she tosses me a grin. “What can I say, I’ve got bad name karma.”

  “Is he worth it?”

  “Most days, yeah.”

  I get that funny feeling in the pit of my stomach again, decide to change the subject. “So—you’re in business for yourself?…Oh, here, let me do that,” I offer when I realize Ginger’s going to try to hail a taxi while hanging on to her briefcase and two wiggly little girls.

  “Thanks.” She moves them all back nearer the curb as I step out into the street. “I just hung out my shingle a few months ago.”

  “How do you like it?” I say over my shoulder as cab after cab whizzes by. “Being on your own?”