“There must be something wild about you.”
”Yes,” she giggled.
Jones checked his watch. He clinked glasses with Millie and drank up. Cohen was singing I’m Your Man.
“And you?” Millie asked, sipping her Mimosa.
“And me what?”
“Is there something a little wild about you?”
“Let’s find out.”
He put his arm around her and started to dance. Millicent chugged down the rest of her drink, tossed the glass in the direction of the kitchen, and rubbed up against Jones as they danced. “Are you my man?” she said, as he gradually steered her towards the bedroom.
“I am tonight.”
Jones had never known a woman to be so energetic in bed. She squirmed and bounced, scratched his back and screamed her delight. Exhausted, he rolled over on his back and closed his eyes. Millie kissed his cheek and got up to wash and wipe the sweat off her body. When she returned to the bedroom, she said softly, “Would you like me to fix us dinner?”
“Temp,” she said, “how about something to eat?”
Jones was fast asleep.
28
The chair of the Planning Committee called the members back into order and announced that the City Council had referred the question of a new boulevard back to them. The representative from the Chamber of Commerce moved to send it right back to the City Council, but the other members agreed that the motion was out of order.
There followed a discussion about which to consider first, the convention center or the boulevard. The dean of the school of architecture and the chair of the city’s Arts Committee both voted to discuss the convention center first. The representative from the city council reminded them that since there was no motion on the floor there was nothing to vote on. The representative from the Chamber of Commerce said a new boulevard would be disruptive to business and moved to reject it. He looked around the table for a second. After an uncomfortable silence, the City Council representative seconded the motion, “just,” she said, “to get the discussion started.”
“Do we have a diagram of the proposed boulevard?” asked the architecture dean.
The chamber representative said they did not need a diagram to reject the concept.
The Arts Committee delegate argued that they would look foolish rejecting something if they did not know what they were rejecting.
The other members stared at her briefly before the chamber representative said they were rejecting the idea of a new boulevard so it didn’t matter what it looked like.
The City Council representative pointed out that they had not rejected anything yet.
The other members now regarded the dean of the school of architecture who appeared to be doodling on a note pad. He looked up and said, “Oh, I’ve just been sketching out an idea for the new boulevard.”
Several members, speaking all at once, insisted that there was already a new boulevard under discussion, that there was no specific boulevard before them, and that the motion on the floor was to reject the whole idea of a new boulevard. When voices began to be raised, the city councilmember asked them to take turns.
“Who are you to tell us what to do?” the chamber representative asked.
“I’m the chair of this committee,” she reminded them, looking about for a gavel.
They were silent for several minutes, watching the dean continue to doodle. The Arts Committee chair got up and gazed out at the avenue. A few people lingered at a sidewalk café despite a breeze that was beginning to blow litter around the street. She watched a mime crouching behind a man in an overcoat talking on his cell phone as he walked, the mime imitating his every movement until the man turned and scowled at him. The people at the café laughed. It reminded her of Paris. She recollected the sweep of the Champs Elysées leading to the Arc de Triomphe.
“I have an idea,” she announced. “How about combining the two? The new boulevard could lead to the convention center. It would be a grand statement, something like the Champs Elysées. Imagine the Convention Center in two parts, joined by a sky bridge so that it forms an arch over the end of the boulevard. Seattle could become the new Paris, except that we don’t have a subway.”
“You’re crazy,” said the chamber representative.
“We have a streetcar,” the council representative reminded everyone.
“I like it,” the dean said.
The Chamber delegate leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and said, “There is a motion on the floor.” He turned to the chair and demanded that she call the question.
After muttering something about business under her breath, the council representative asked for a show of hands. There was one for and two against. The chair abstained and pronounced the motion defeated. “We ought to add another person to the committee,” she said.
With no apparent way to proceed, the Chamber representative suggested referring the whole matter back to the City Council, “where,” he proclaimed,” it should have gone in the first place since they would have to appropriate the money.”
After a brief discussion, they agreed unanimously, just as a knock on the door announced lunch.
A young man entered the room with a container full of sandwiches, granola bars, and small bottles of apple juice.
“What do we have here?” the city council member said in mock surprise.
The young man examined the tray and announced that they were all tuna fish.
“Do you have one on rye bread?” the dean asked.
The young man plunged back into the container, shuffled the sandwiches around and replied, “I don’t think so. They are all on some kind of tan bread with little things in it. Seeds, I think.”
The dean sighed and accepted a sandwich and an apple juice, spurning the granola bar.
The city council member took a granola bar and the apple juice, saying she was on a gluten free diet.
“Since when?” the chamber representative asked.
“Since last week, and already I am feeling better. More energy,” she said, pumping her arms to demonstrate.
The Arts Committee member accepted a sandwich and a granola bar “for later.”
“I thought you were on a low carb diet,” the chamber delegate said accusingly.
“I am,” she said, “but I’m hungry. Do you mind?”
The chamber member took a sandwich, a granola bar, and the apple juice. Before he took the first bite, he moved they adjourn. It passed unanimously.
29
Millicent woke up with a smile on her face. She had been wrong about Jones. He was a kind, considerate, take-charge guy, and a great lover. His vision for a new Seattle would not only transform the city, it would mark the beginning of a new era in urban planning and she, Millicent Mondelay, would be his muse and biographer. She reached out her hand to fondle his tangle of white hair, but touched only empty bed.
“Templeton?” she called.
There was no reply.
She looked at the clock. It was 8:20, almost an hour later than she usually awoke. Guess I forgot to set the alarm, she thought, and giggled. Temp must already be at work designing the new civic center. How thoughtful of him not to wake me.
Millicent showered, put on a robe, and went to the kitchen for coffee and a maple bar. She knew she should eat something more substantial, but she was eager to get to work. Perhaps she could have something to show Jones the next day.
By mid-afternoon she was so famished she had to quit. She had Googled Jones but did not find much that she did not already know. Even Wikipedia did not know much more than that he was born in North Dakota and was an architect. It had pictures of some of his buildings. Either they didn’t care, or Jones was very good at keeping his private life private. She filled in the gaps as best she could.
The phone rang just as she was getting ready to go out for something to eat. It was Syd Snyder with what he said was exciting news: Save Our Seattle is planning a big rally in front of City Hall
next Tuesday and Councilman Rogers has agreed to speak. They want Millicent to introduce him.
“Millie?” Syd said. “Are you there?”
She waited another few seconds, giving herself time to think, but nothing useful came to mind.
“I’m here, Syd. Look, I don’t think I can make it next Tuesday.”
“I understand. Deadlines, huh?”
“That’s it, Syd. A deadline.”
“I hope you’re doing a piece about that crazy boulevard. We could use some publicity.”
Millicent felt trapped. She observed her hand that held the phone shaking.
“Listen, Syd,” she said softly. “I have been having second thoughts about the boulevard. Perhaps remaking the city isn’t such a bad idea after all.”
There was no response.
“Syd? Syd?
She hung up. For a few minutes she wondered if she was doing the right thing. Then the melody of Dancing to the End of Love wormed its way into her mind and she thought about dancing with Templeton, and how warm and strong he was in bed. As she waited for the elevator, it occurred to her to also take another look at the Belissimo Condos. Perhaps she had been unfair to them.
30
Jones was working on a sketch for the technology museum. The steps would mimic a keyboard and the building itself would be in the shape of one of those old desktop PCs, five or six stories high. He was drawing in rows of narrow windows to represent cd drives when Marge buzzed and said that Millicent Mondelay was on her way.
“Tell her I’m busy.”
“Too late. She said she just called to make sure you were here and hung up.”
It was the day after he slept with Millie, waking up to an unfamiliar dawn and getting dressed and leaving her condo without waking her. On his way home he stopped for a coffee and breakfast sandwich, then changed clothes and went to his office before anyone else was there. He was having second thoughts about his little affair with Millicent Mondelay. Second thoughts? He asked himself. More like first thoughts. He laughed at himself and went back to work, looking back and forth between the computer screen on his desk and the sketch for the technology museum, wondering if a black clad building might be too dramatic for a civic oval. Millie was more exciting in bed than Arlene, he thought, recalling the way she squirmed and gave herself up to him, but I would rather spend an evening with Arlene.
There was a commotion in the outer office. Marge was trying to tell Millicent that Jones was busy and Millicent was insisting that she had to see him. Jones heard Marge say, “Leave it here and I will give it to him as soon as he has time,” but it was no use. Millicent pushed past the secretary and barged into Jones’ office. She was waving several sheets of paper.
“I got up early this morning,” she said. “You were gone but I couldn’t help thinking about us (Us? Jones thought) so I had a quick cup of coffee, instant in fact, and started writing my article.”
She tried to hand him her manuscript. Jones said, “Put it there,” pointing to his desk.
“No, it’s only a rough draft but you have to read it right now. I want to finish it in time for next week’s paper.” She shoved the pages into his hand.
With one more look at his museum sketch, Jones took the papers and moved close to the window to read them. She had written that he grew up on a farm in North Dakota, that his father abandoned the family and that Jones had to work at haying every day after school.
“I grew up in Jamestown,” he told her, “and my father was a realtor who never abandoned the family. I don’t even know what haying is.”
“Well, I forgot to ask about your parents,” Millie said, “so I had to make something up. I think my version is more interesting.”
Jones crumbled up the first page of her article and started reading her description of his civic oval when the outer door opened and slammed shut and he heard Arlene’s voice demanding to know if he was there.
“Stay here!” he commanded Millicent, and went out to meet Arlene. Marge, with arms outstretched, was trying to keep her from Jones’ office.
“There you are!” Arlene yelled.
“Where else would I be at this time of day? Speaking of which, I thought I asked you not to come to the office while I’m working.”
Arlene freed herself from Marge’s grasp and got right up to Jones’ face.
“I called you last night. Three times. You weren’t home.”
Retreating a step, Jones’s said, “I was busy.”
Just then the door behind Jones opened and Millicent came out. “He was with me,” she said calmly. She slid her hand inside Jones’ arm; he wrenched his arm free but Arlene had already turned and was going out the door. “Go to hell!” were her parting words.
Jones followed her out of the office. He looked toward the elevator but then heard her clattering down the stairs. “I’ll call!” he yelled down the stairwell, and heard a faint “Don’t,” in reply.
Back in the office Marge had pinned Millicent against the wall with a stare. “Get out,” Jones told her.
“I thought...”
Jones went into his office, grabbed her article, returned to the outer office where Marge was pushing Millicent towards the door and threw the manuscript at her. She tried to retrieve it, but Marge had a firm grip on her.
“Last night..” Millicent pleaded.
“Out!”
And with one mighty push Marge propelled Millie into the hall and locked the door.
“Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it,” Jones said.
“Women?” Marge asked stooping to pick up the pages of Millicent’s article.
“Architecture,” Jones said, laughing. “Throw those away.”
He went back to work on the museum, but he began to feel badly for the way he treated Arlene. That night he called her, but she hung up as soon as she heard his voice. The next day he went to her condo but she was either out or she would not answer the buzzer. He decided to wait a few days, let her cool off. Meanwhile, he continued planning his civic oval, drawing in a small park in the center with a couple of trees for shade at one end and a slide for children at the other. On Friday he decided it was time—they could make up and spend the weekend together. He might even take her away, the Oregon coast, perhaps, or Vancouver.
It was a drizzly Seattle afternoon. Jones stationed himself outside the Seattle Art Museum, waiting for her to get off work. The museum would be open until nine, but at six most of the office staff began filing out. Arlene was among them and Jones hesitated to approach until she was alone. He watched as she chatted with another woman, neither of them protected from the rain, and finally she said goodbye and started up First Avenue, either oblivious to his presence or ignoring him. He ran after her and held the umbrella over her head.
“I’m sorry you had to see that the other day,” he said.
She looked at him as if he was trying to sell her an investment in a gold mine.
“I mean, she doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“Me neither,” Arlene said. “And neither do you.” She walked out from under the umbrella. “I mean, to me. You don’t mean anything to me but trouble.”
He grabbed her arm and repositioned the umbrella so it covered both of them, but mostly her. “It was a mistake.” She took a step away. “I apologize.” She started walking again. What does she want? he asked himself.
Arlene turned suddenly, startling an old woman with a cane who looked as if she was ready to use it on Jones.
“We’re through,” she said. “I can’t take this anymore. I wanted something more than a date. I wanted marriage, a family, someone I could count on. You’re clearly not it. Goodbye, Temp.”
“Don’t call me Temp. I hate that.”
“Goodbye, Temp.” She began to run. The old lady raised her cane and Jones backed away.
He hailed a cab and on the way home he wondered if he should tell her that he would marry her, if it was too late, and most of all, if that was what he really wanted to do. I’
m just not good at this, he thought.
Back in his own living room, looking out over the bay, he imagined himself married to Arlene, coming home to her each evening, saying kichee coo to a baby, or whatever it was fathers were supposed to say, and decided that he couldn’t do it.
31
“Why is the boulevard thing back on the agenda?” asked council president Mittingale.
Elizabeth Trimble explained that the Planning Committee had referred it back to them. “We could not reach a decision,” she said with a sigh. “The boulevard combined with a new convention center is just too big a proposition for the Planning Committee. It would change the face of the city, so we thought it best handled by the council.”
“I don’t like it,” council member Rogers said. “It would destroy dozens of historic buildings. There is to be a rally here tomorrow to denounce the idea and I am going to address it.”
Mittingale suggested they hold a hearing before reaching a conclusion and got into an argument with Rogers who insisted a hearing would be a waste of time because the idea was preposterous.
“Well, if only for the sake of appearances,” Mittingale said, “it would be seemly to consider the proposition before rejecting it.”
“Are you suggesting that I am unseemly?” Rogers asked.
“I was being sarcastic,” Mittingale replied, “but you might attend meetings of the council wearing something besides jeans and a t-shirt that says Save Our Seattle.”
Rogers rose in his seat and glared at Mittingale until Stan Williams, a twelve term member of the council, patted his shoulder, gradually lowering Rogers back into his seat. “Those are nice jeans,” he said. “Where did you get them?”
While they were discussing jeans, Elizabeth Trimble moved that they invite Jones to a hearing to describe his proposal. It carried 5 to 2 with 2 abstentions. When Rogers realized the council had voted to invite Jones he objected but was told he was too late.
The Architect Page 8