At lunch, Jones answered the boy's personal questions. He loved Shaina at the time, he said, or thought he did, you know how young people are. He is married but separated. When the questions got too close, Jones parried them with questions of his own: How is Shaina, what was it like growing up in Albany, well, it’s time to get back to work.
At dinner one evening in one of the city’s finest restaurants overlooking Lake Union Martin asked Jones why he left the east coast.
Jones stared out the window at the boats bobbing along on the lake. They looked like they were racing each other. A cacophony of music drifted up from several of the boats. The waiter brought the wine they ordered and opened it before Jones answered.
“I didn't feel appreciated. My idea for remaking the state capital was rejected and I was tired of designing houses for nouveau millionaires. I first came out hoping to compete to build the new library. I didn’t get the commission, but I liked the area, except for most of the architecture. When I looked around at the buildings here I realized that they needed me.”
“But you still design houses.”
“Got to pay the bills.”
“Do you have any big projects in mind?”
“Well, the city is going to build a new convention center. I want to design it.”
After dinner, Jones dropped Martin off at his hotel, a place that rented rooms by the week. It was only a few days before he would be going home.
“How about a baseball game Sunday afternoon? They’re playing the Yankees.”
“Sounds great!”
“You’re not a Yankee fan, are you?”
“It’s the only team I know.”
“Oh.”
“What’s wrong with the Yankees? I grew up liking them.”
“I grew up driving a Chevrolet, but I don’t root for General Motors.”
9
“Why haven’t you called?” Arlene said, her voice so loud Jones had to hold the phone away from his ear.
“I’ve been busy.” He thought of telling her about the visit from Martin Trathorn, but decided against it. Anyway, the boy left over a week ago.
“You don’t care about me.”
“I do. I do.”
“The very words I long to hear.”
“What? Oh, I get it. Very good. How are you feeling?” He dropped his pencil on the floor.
“Awful.”
“That’s good.” He picked it up and put her on speakerphone so he could work while she talked.
“You bastard! I’m lying here sick—“ He switched off the speaker and picked up the handset—“…dog and when I say I feel awful you tell me that’s good?”
“I didn’t hear you. I thought you said ‘full.’ As in, you just had a big meal. What’s wrong?”
“You’re full of shit, Jones. What’s wrong is I had an abortion yesterday and I feel awful. I have been throwing up. My head feels as if a locomotive is running through it. And what’s worse, I am having second thoughts.”
He wanted to tell her it was too late for that, but he figured she knew that. He was disappointed. A child with Arlene, with her artistic instincts would have been interesting. For just a moment he contemplated divorcing Sarah, marrying Arlene, and trying again. It wouldn’t work. There would be someone else and soon he would be telling some Jane or Mary that he couldn’t marry them because he was married to Arlene.
“Are you still there?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m here. What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to drop dead.”
“What’s your second choice?”
“Come over here and be nice to me.”
Jones covered the mouthpiece and let out a long sigh. How was he going to get any work done if he had to keep comforting a woman one way or another? “I’ll be over as soon as I can,” he said, and hung up before she could ask him how soon that would be. After all, he mused, she didn’t get pregnant by herself.
The rumor about a new convention center had given him an idea. What Seattle needed, he though not long after he arrived, was a whole new downtown. The convention center could be the key to get such a renovation started. He had been outlining a plan when Arlene called, a huge oval anchored by the convention center on one end and a new city hall on the other, commerce and government joined yet separate. An art museum would be on one side of the oval and he was considering what to put opposite it when he was interrupted.
He was still thinking about his new downtown when he arrived at Arlene’s condo. It would be pedestrian friendly with an underground transportation hub. He started to wave hello to the doorman when he looked at his hand and realized he should have brought something, candy, or flowers, so he tip-toed away and went to find a flower shop.
He returned half an hour later with a dozen red roses and a box of dark chocolate truffles.
Arlene looked worse than she sounded. He noticed for the first time a strand of grey in her auburn hair. There were shadows under her eyes and the only color on her lips was a spot of clotted blood where she bit herself. Yellow pajamas flowed out beneath her green bathrobe and she seemed at least two inches shorter than when he had last seen her. Jones, the flowers and candy still in his hands, embraced her as well as he could.
“Thanks,” she said, with no more feeling than if a stranger had handed her a flyer about a new bank opening.
The flowers and candy suddenly seemed to weigh about ten pounds each.
“You look fine.”
Arlene took the flowers into the kitchen where she looked around for a vase and finally stuck them in an iced tea glass. Jones sat on the edge of the couch and opened the box of candy. He selected a mint and sat back to enjoy it. When Arlene came back into the room he proffered her the box.
She put the flowers on the table and took a truffle. “Mmm. Raspberry,” she crooned. The spot of blood was gone from her lips and she had pulled her hair back into a pony-tail.
“You’re looking better,” Jones said.
“You said I looked fine a few minutes ago.”
“Well, now you look finer.” The melody to Dinah ran briefly through his head.
Arlene sat down next to him and placed her hand on his thigh.
“You know what I was thinking?”
He could guess, and tried to head her off by changing the subject.
“How would you like to go to the opera tonight? They’re doing The Magic Flute.”
“I was thinking I really would like to have a kid, even if you didn’t marry me. There are a lot of single mothers. Sylvia Simmons in my book club has a four-year-old and she’s not married. And come to think of it, my father died when I was—“
Jones gently removed her hand from his crotch and stood up.
“Not now,” he said. “Maybe some time. I’m not ready. You’re not ready.” He was retreating now. When he reached the door, he said, “I’ll call you.”
10
Back at the office he found a couple waiting for him. The woman, dressed in a purple pantsuit, paced the small reception room. She had brown hair that was gathered in a bun on top of her head and bangs that peered down over a face that looked as if it had just smelled something vile. The man was seated in the visitor's chair thumbing through a copy of Architectural Record. He wore a dark blue blazer and grey slacks. Trouble, Jones thought.
The man stood up and introduced himself: "Arthur Heatherstone-Flanders," he said, extending his hand which Jones regarded as he would a small animal which might bite. "My wife, Doris." The lady nodded.
Marge, noting the look on Jones' face, said quickly, "They want you to design a house for them. A big house."
Heatherstone-Flanders retrieved an attaché case from the floor next to the chair where he was sitting, placed it on Marge's desk, and snapped open the latches. He pulled out a copy of Town and Country magazine, opened it to a dog-eared page, and showed Jones a picture of a house large enough to house a regiment.
"This is the sort of thing we had in mind," Heatherstone-Fla
nders said.
Jones looked at the picture. With its turrets and mansard roof it looked like a French castle except that according to the caption it was in Dallas.
"Are you from Texas?" Jones asked.
"Ohio. We just saw this in the magazine and it caught Doris' fancy. We're thinking five or six bedrooms, a large dining room—we like to entertain--a media center, a spacious kitchen, two or three car garage, and a guest house."
"Is that all?"
Doris cleared her throat and her husband said, "Oh, yes, a swimming pool. Indoors. You know what the weather is like around here. I was also thinking a billiard room if that isn't pushing it."
Jones looked from the man to the woman and back again. They seemed serious.
"Where are you thinking of putting this, uh, little mansion?"
The man laughed appreciatively.
"We bought some land up at Goose Point just north of the city. View of the Sound. Here's the address," he said, taking out a business card and writing a Goose Point street number on the back. "There's a house on the property now that will have to be torn down. Say, do you mind if I sit down? My back is killing me. I didn't realize Seattle had so many hills. Not used to them."
Jones stepped aside and Heatherstone-Flanders sat down in the chair next to the little magazine table. Marge hurried into Jones' office and returned pushing his high-back leather chair which she offered to Mrs. Heatherstone-Flanders, earning a dirty look from Jones.
"Well, Mr. Heather What's-your-name—"
"Call me Arthur."
"Well, Arthur, off the top of my head I would say you're looking at maybe two million dollars, and that's not counting the cost of demolishing the structure that's on the property now."
Arthur stood up again. Thinking they were about to leave, his wife stood up, and Jones, assuming the price had scared him off, prepared to open the door, but Arthur explained that they had recently sold the communications business Doris' father had built ("You've heard of Flanders Fones? No?") and moved to Seattle to be near their son who was working for Microsoft, so two million was not a problem.
"All right," Jones said. "Come back in a week and I will have a preliminary sketch for you."
As they shook hands all around, Arthur said, "If you need to get in touch, we're staying at the Lexis."
Jones looked from the man to his wife and back again.
"Ah, you mean the Alexis. The hotel."
"Yes."
Jones handed him the magazine but Arthur told him to keep it for inspiration. When they left, Jones waited a minute, then opened the door just wide enough to see that they were gone. Then he laughed so hard two pigeons that were napping on the window sill fluttered away and Marge went to get a glass of water. When he stopped, he tossed the magazine into the waste basket by Marge's desk, drank the water, laughed again, and returned his chair to his office.
11
The city's Planning Committee convened at eight o'clock on a Saturday morning. The dean of architecture and the chair of the Arts Committee were absent. The dean sent a message that he had another meeting and would join them as soon as he could; the chair said she would be working late Friday night and they should go ahead without her.
The representative from the Chamber of Commerce said they had three things to decide—where, what, and how much. He moved to discuss how much, but the city councilmember said there was also whether.
"Weather?" asked the Chamber of Commerce representative.
"Whether or not to build a new convention center. Some people think we can't afford one."
"We can't afford not to build one. Think of all the added revenue the city will get from a new, expanded convention center. They're building a new center in Tacoma, for goodness sake. Do you want us to fall behind Tacoma? I move we go on record to build a new convention center."
"We can't vote. We don't have a quorum. Let's adjourn until the dean gets here."
When the dean arrived he found an empty room. Must have been a short meeting, he thought. He was about to leave when he saw that a blank notepad had been left on the table.
"I move we build the new convention center on the waterfront," he declared. He looked about the empty room. "All in favor, say ay. Ay."
He wrote on the notepad that the dean had moved that the new convention center be built on the waterfront and that it passed unanimously. He was about to adjourn the meeting when there was a knock on the door. Before he finished saying "Come in," an attractive young woman entered the room. She had caramel colored skin, closely-cropped hair, and jewel-green eyes. She regarded the empty chairs and then fixed her eyes on the dean.
"I was looking for the meeting of the convention center planning committee."
"This is it," the dean said. "I'm not sure if I am early or late. Or you either. Late, or early, I mean. Can I help you with those?"
He took the pile of papers she was carrying and caught a fleeting aroma of her spicy perfume.
"I was sent by the secretarial pool. My name is Iris Peabody."
The dean introduced himself and welcomed her.
For several minutes they looked at each other, around the room, and then back at each other.
"What are the papers you brought?" the dean said finally, picking up a sheaf of papers stapled together. "Hmm, a budget," he observed before she could answer.
At the sound of footsteps coming down the hall, he took a seat and invited the secretary to do so as well. When the door opened, they stood up. The city councilmember and the representative from the Chamber of Commerce entered the room. The councilmember welcomed Ms. Peabody, whom she knew, and introduced her to the rest of the committee. “The arts representative is absent. Again,” she said.
When they were all seated, the councilmember passed around the papers the secretary had brought.
"You'll see that I have put together a proposed budget," she said. "There are allocations for a secretary," she gestured towards Ms. Peabody and asked her to begin taking notes. "I have also included an amount for travel and incidentals. Down the road we may want to hire some staff, but I left that out until we have a better idea of our plans, though there's something to be said for including it in our initial request. Take a few moments to look it over and then we'll vote to adopt."
The members of the committee began to study the budget until the secretary cleared her throat and said, "I don't mean to interrupt, but you can't vote on this today."
The representative from the Chamber of Commerce said, "Why not?"
"Because it would be a violation of the open meeting law."
12
Marge said the Heatherstone-Flanders had called to ask how the design for their new house was coming along. Jones had forgotten all about it.
"Tell them to come in around five-thirty. You don't have to stay."
He closed his office door, got out a sketch pad, and went to work. When he finished he thought he would show it to Arlene. He called her but got a busy signal. Good, she's home, he thought.
"Going out," he called to Marge.
It was a hot afternoon and Jones' taxi was stuck in traffic.
"What's the problem?" he asked.
"People going to the game."
The city should have a subway."
"Too cheap."
"I can walk faster than this."
"Go ahead."
Jones got out of the cab and began walking towards Arlene's condominium. When he got there he dialed her number on the directory and waited for her to buzz him in.
"Who's there?" she asked.
"It's me." It occurred to him that she didn't usually ask and while he waited he wished he had asked her for a key because he found standing there to be a bit humiliating. He looked to the doorman who shrugged his shoulders. Finally, there was the familiar grinding noise and he pushed the door open. At her unit he knocked on the door once, twice, then three times in his familiar pattern. There was no response for so long that he thought she must be out and was about to leave w
hen the door opened half-way and Arlene peeked out.
"I can't let you in," she said.
"Why not?"
"I'm expecting company."
Jones saw that her hair was arranged a new way, mostly off to one side as if her head had made a half turn and her hair hadn't. She was wearing a lime-green blouse and a gold necklace that he thought he bought her but he wasn't sure.
"Who?"
"No one you know." She looked at her watch. "You can come in for a little while."
"Never mind," he said.
He turned to go and did not look back even when she called his name and said to call her tomorrow, but he stood at the elevator and did not press the button until he heard her door close.
“Nice day,” the doorman said.
Jones did not respond. He knew what the man was thinking: That was a short visit. Did she kick you out?
He went to the coffee shop across the street and found a window seat. Am I jealous? he wondered.
A woman with a plastic shopping bag from a local supermarket entered the condominium, and then two young men holding hands, and a white-haired gentleman carrying an umbrella. Jones looked at his watch. Half an hour had gone by. Was she teasing him, or…
Out on the sidewalk he peered up at her living room. Arlene and the white-haired gentleman drifted past the window. They were dancing.
Back at the office, Jones unrolled the schematic design he had made of the house for the Heatherstone-Flanders, added some landscaping, and then put his feet up on the desk to wait. Shortly after Marge left, there was a knock on the door. Jones rolled up the sketch, slipped a rubber band around it, and shouted "Come in."
The invitation was unnecessary; the Heatherstone-Flanders were standing in the outer office.
"Is that it?" Doris Heatherstone-Flanders said, pointing at the scroll in Jones' hand.
"It is."
"Well, let's see it," Arthur said.
Jones got some thumb tacks from Marge's desk and pinned the drawing to the wall. The Heatherstone-Flanders stared at it, looked at each other, and then at Jones.
The Architect Page 3