Riverside Drive

by Laura Van Wormer

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, just a quick question. My son Henry—”

  “I met Henry last year. He’s a nice guy.”

  “Thank you, I think so. Anyway, Howard, Henry’s sorting the fiction and he needs to know if you want them separated into categories of any kind.”

  “If he’s got the time, tell him to pull anything that looks like a mystery or a romance novel. But if he doesn’t have the time, tell him not to worry about it.”

  “Mystery and romance. Got it. Okay, that’s it. The books will be labeled and in cartons down in the basement of 162. The tables will be there, too, and the super will open—”

  “I know the drill,” Howard assured her.

  “Terrific.” Sigh. “Howard, thank you, I’ll see you Saturday.”

  “You bet.” Click, click. “Amanda.”

  “Howard. “

  Howard.

  “Sorry to keep you holding. Cassy Cochran’s calling about the block party Saturday. I’m doing the bookstall.”

  Another wonderful laugh. “You will recognize me as the dazed creature searching for Trollope.”

  Silence. Howard was thinking.

  “Listen,” Howard said, “my wife’s already home talking to the police about our robbery, so why don’t I just go ahead and... come and see you, say, six o’clock?”

  “Six o’clock would be lovely.”

  Lovely.

  “Where are you?”

  “One seventy-three.”

  “Apartment?”

  “The fourteenth floor.”

  Pause. “You don’t have an apartment number?”

  “No. Do you know the building the children call the ice cream castle?”

  “The one with the towers?”

  “Exactly. The north tower is my bedroom.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, not at all.” Her voice lowered, playful. “The man who designed the building lived in here. It was all one big room, this floor. Very much like a chapel. When I first saw it, there were fourteen rows of chairs, all facing toward the window of the north tower.” Pause. “But he never had any visitors. And all those chairs... They say he would lie on a blanket of velvet in the south tower, and play the flute through the night.” Pause. “It’s closed now, the south tower. Ghosts, they say. Insufficient structural supports, I say.”

  They both laughed.

  “He had an altar of sorts, in the north tower, my bedroom. But, alas, that is too long a tale to be told at the present.”

  “Tell me the highlights.”

  “Pictures of Stalin, Coco Chanel and Marilyn Monroe.”

  “I’ll be there at six.” A low laugh.

  “I thought you might be.”

  Howard was grinning when he hung up. He laughed aloud once, too, shaking his head. Rosanne, old girl, you sure can pick ‘em.

  “You shouldn’t be smiling,” Bob announced from the door. “You’re ten minutes late for your lunch with Clark Bryson and there’s a guy out here who’s trying to dump two thousand—” He turned his head. “What did you say they were?”

  Mumble.

  “Two thousand pictures of airplanes,” Bob finished. “He says they belong to you.”

  “They do.”

  “Nice to know we’re expanding our horizons. Your wife’s on 5.”

  Howard picked up. “Hi.” “You’re not going to be happy, Howard. Detective Mendez says he knew exactly what he was doing. He bypassed the silver—because of the monogram—knew the real pearls from the fake ones, took my good bracelets, the earrings Daddy gave me last Christmas—all untraceable. Thank God I put Mother’s jewelry in the safe deposit box.”

  “Well,” Howard sighed, “we were lucky then.”

  “You weren’t lucky, Howard. He took all of your stuff.”

  “My stuff? Like what?”

  “All of your silver dollars are gone.”

  Ouch. He had been collecting them since he was four years old. There had to have been over three hundred, worth something—

  “All of your cuff links and tie clips. Your school ring, your Nikon—”

  Ouch.

  “And your Sony from the study, which is destroyed. The screen’s in a million pieces in the lobby. And do you have your pens with you?”

  “No.”

  “Then he took all of your Cross pens too.”

  Good. He hated them anyway. Daddy Collins gave him one on every holiday. Always had them engraved “H N S.” It was no mistake; Howard was quite sure Daddy thought his middle name was Nils, instead of Mills. “Daddy’s sending over people to install an alarm system this afternoon. He says we should have had it done a long time ago and he’s right.”

  Howard started flipping through the mail folder on his desk.

  “And the police seem to know all about Rosanne’s husband,” Melissa said. “Apparently we’re not the only people he’s robbed.”

  “Damn it, Melissa, how do you know?”

  “Detective Mendez, unlike you, seems to be very interested in the fact that he was here yesterday.”

  “Did it ever occur to you,” Howard began, shoving the mail folder and sending papers flying off his desk, “that no one would be stupid enough to rip off the place where his wife works?” Howard gripped the phone cord and stood up. “Surely even you can understand that one doesn’t rob in order to get caught.”

  “Did you leave the front door unlocked this morning?”

  “What?”

  “Did you leave the front door unlocked?” Melissa repeated.

  “Don’t be stupid. It locks by itself.”

  “Don’t you be stupid, Howard. There’s no sign of a break-in. So unless it was Rosanne herself—and I wouldn’t put it past her—”

  “Stop it! Just stop it!” Howard yelled. All the typewriters on the floor stopped. “I’d accuse anyone—even you—before I’d—oh, hell, Melissa!” Howard slammed the phone down.

  “Yes,” Howard heard Bob saying outside. “Please tell Mr. Bryson that Captain Stewart—right, Captain Stewart—will be taking off shortly and will land at the Barclay in approximately ten minutes. Right. Thank you.”

  The sound of the office typewriters resumed and Howard grabbed his jacket.

  9

  IN WHICH AMANDA AND

  HOWARD BECOME ACQUAINTED

  AND MELISSA HAS HER WAY

  Amanda looked at the boxes of Catherine like a mother who wished her child would behave better.

  She spent the entire afternoon trying to pull together the first three chapters for Howard Stewart to read. The operative word in the latter was “trying”; once Amanda had Chapter 1 safely in the folder, she discovered Chapter 1 from 1981 and liked it better. And then she came across the 1983 version, which was radically different from the other two, prompting her to read succeeding chapters to see what it was she had been trying to do in 1983. The result was that Catherine was soon spread out all over the floor in the writing room, Amanda was near apoplexy with time running out, poor Mrs. Goldblum was informed that tea was canceled, and Rosanne was given the opportunity to lecture Amanda on the virtues of Reader’s Digest Condensed Books.

  By the time Amanda threw herself in the shower at five o’clock, the “pages” for Howard Stewart numbered something over four hundred. (Chapters 1, 2, 3, ala 1981, 1983 and 1986; outlines of intent from 1978, ‘80 and ‘85.) Amanda Exposed, she thought she should write on the folder. By the time she was dressed, Amanda decided to hide the “pages” in the kitchen and if—only if—Howard Stewart expressed a desire to read part of Catherine would she bring them out. (Amanda had a vision of opening the door, pages in hand, and Howard Stewart fainting.) Amanda also filed his letter away—the one that had GARDINER & GRAYSON, PUBLISHERS emblazoned across the top—which had been hanging over her desk.

  Howard Stewart arrived promptly at six and Amanda found him charming. Warm, clever, earnest—what was there not to like? He was her age, she thought, perhaps a year or two younger—perhaps a year or tw
o older. And she liked his looks. The way he was dressed—tweed jacket, loose-fitting pants—was enticing, but a large part of his appeal to Amanda had to do with the possibility of a change in costume. Take off his glasses (marvelous eyes) and put him jeans, boots and a hat and he’d make a fine cowboy. Let the five o’clock shadow grow into a beard, stick an ax in his hand, and he could be Pa in Little House in the Big Woods. Slick his hair back, dress him in a tuxedo, hand him an elegant walking stick, and plop him down in a speakeasy in the 1920S. Cloak him in furs against the cold winters of imperial Russia and...

  Amanda noted how well he handled her, kept her on track. He was very direct about Catherine, about Amanda’s relationship with her, about Amanda’s relationship with the work. Every time Amanda lapsed into excuses about why the book was taking so long, Howard Stewart gently forced her into the present, about today, about her work habits and how (and if) they were changing, could be changed. At one point, while pacing in front of the fireplace, Amanda got so flustered she knocked over the fire irons. Howard jumped up, steered Amanda down into a chair, and said, very gently, “I apologize. I’m firing too many questions at you. This book is your life and doesn’t deserve to be rushed, not even when talked about.”

  He held her shoulders while he said this.

  If Roger had done the same thing, Amanda would have been waiting for him to kiss her. But the thought did not cross her mind with Howard Stewart. In fact, what she was thinking about was how much she yearned to curl up in his arms and cry. She wanted to tell him that Catherine would never be written, never be finished. That there was no point to this discussion, because if Catherine were to be finished, then Amanda would be left alone, and she would be finished too.

  She did not curl up in his arms. She did not tell him this. She got him another glass of white wine and gave him a tour of the apartment. He seemed to know a good deal about antiques (in each room he headed straight for the best pieces) and made comments that let Amanda know that his appreciation was sincere.

  He adored the writing room. Poking about, noticing all the boxes and files and shelves of papers, he asked her what else she was working on. When Amanda admitted that it was all Catherine, Howard merely smiled and nodded, saying, “I think you’ve been living alone with her for too long. And I think it’s wonderful you’ve decided to let someone meet her.”

  Couldn’t this man just stay here forever? Read in the corner?

  She brought out the “pages” from the kitchen and handed them to him without a word. “Good,” was all he said, tucking the manuscript under his arm. “And now, fair is fair. Where is the altar?”

  For a minute Amanda didn’t know what he was talking about. She was too caught up visualizing Howard sharpening pencils at her desk. Amanda understood, finally, and led him to her bedroom. When she turned on the lights, Howard covered his face and groaned.

  Amanda didn’t know what to do.

  Picking up on her confusion, Howard quickly said, “It’s the most remarkable room I’ve ever seen. I could move in here, lock the door, and be perfectly happy for twenty years.”

  Amanda smiled.

  When Amanda had the contractors erect the walls, and hence create the rooms of her apartment, she had driven them to distraction over this room. The walls had to be torn down twice before she was happy with them. Rather, with it. Extending out from the front arc that made up the facade of the tower, the room had one continuous curving wall. In essence, the room was one sixty-five-foot circle, a third of which was the ironwork and glass of the tower windows; a third of which was built-in bookshelves of various sizes and shapes; and the last third of which was taken up by a stone fireplace and a four-poster bed. Ivy hung everywhere; Victorian paintings hung at odd junctures over and through the bookcases; there were candles everywhere, too.

  Howard scanned some of the books and noted aloud that they were in alphabetical order by author. “The only way I can find anyone,” Amanda said.

  He looked at her then for a moment, his face unreadable. “Anyone,” he murmured. “You speak of them as people too.”

  Amanda nodded.

  His expression changed then and the corners of his mouth turned down.

  He seemed to be trying to shake whatever the thought was that he was holding.

  They went back to the kitchen, where Amanda refilled their wineglasses. Howard’s eyes rested on a note that Rosanne had written. He looked at his watch.

  Amanda handed him his glass. “I don’t mean to keep you,” she said.

  “Are you kidding?” Howard said. “I told you—I could stay here for twenty years.” He looked around suddenly, seemingly nervous. He put the manuscript down on the table and sat down in one of the chairs.

  Amanda lifted herself up to sit on the counter above him.

  “Maybe I should talk to you,” Howard said.

  Amanda blinked several times. “What, pray tell, have you been doing for the last few hours?” He looked down to his feet. “I’ve got a problem.” Amanda waited, curious. “My wife’s got it in her head Rosanne’s husband robbed us and I’m not sure what I should do about it.”

  Amanda sipped her wine. Quietly, “Do you think he did?”

  Howard looked up at her. “No.”

  “Then what is the problem?”

  He rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. Shaking his head, “You don’t know my wife.”

  “From the sound of it, perhaps it’s fortunate I don’t.” His head kicked back with a laugh. Amanda jumped down from the counter, picked the phone up off the counter and placed it on the table next to him. “222-5673, Room 709.”

  Howard picked up the receiver and punched in the number. The operator buzzed the DiSantos room but there was no answer. Howard had to call back a second time to leave a message. He hung up the phone and both he and Amanda, now leaning against the counter, looked at it.

  Howard finally spoke. “Ever wish you could just—disappear? Vanish?”

  Amanda merely smiled.

  They talked for another twenty minutes about the Stewarts’ robbery, about how much they both loved Rosanne (a great deal of laughter in sharing their views of her), and about the dubious circumstances of the DiSantos home life. They agreed that Howard should stand up to his wife on this; they agreed that Rosanne deserved every possible break in life; and somehow the subject veered and Amanda was promising to help Howard at the bookstall on Saturday at the block party. By this point the two were

  sitting almost knee to knee in chairs. Another glass of wine had been consumed; their faces were slightly flushed. It was approaching nine-thirty.

  “Will I be working side by side with your wife?” Amanda asked.

  “No, thank God. Melissa’s got some grand scheme going with the Junior League. Cookbooks and food and dressing up like recipes or something.” Pause. Smiles. Amanda fingered the stem of her glass. “May I ask you something?” “Sure.” “Do you consider yourself... happy?” He made a sound deep in his throat. “You mean am I happily married?” Amanda didn’t say anything. “I don’t think so.” Amanda nodded, sipping from her glass. “I wasn’t either,” she said. Howard’s eyes darted around as if he expected a husband to walk in. “I’m divorced,” Amanda said. “I’ve been divorced so long, I think I’ve always been divorced.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, six years is a long time.”

  Howard murmured his agreement. After a moment he met her eyes. “I’ve thought about getting divorced.” Amanda’s heart started to pound. And that wasn’t all. Voice strained, trying to pull it off as a joke, “Your wife plays around, perhaps?”

  Howard roared. “Melissa wouldn’t play a piano,” he said, slapping his knee. He continued to chuckle to himself and then, a moment later, his smile abruptly died. “We don’t do anything, either one of us,” he said.

  Silence.

  “Do you have children?” Amanda said.

  “No. You?”

  Amanda shook her head.

  Silence.

>   Howard sighed. “I think I keep thinking it’ll get better.”

  Softly, “Was it ever—better?”

  “No,” Howard said.

  Silence.

  “We were very fortunate, Christopher and I—that’s my husband, Christopher. Was my husband. If we had had children...” She let her voice trail, shaking her head. She looked back at him. “Why haven’t you had children? You seem like the kind of man who would want to be a father.”

  He thought a minute and then shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve never really even talked about it. I guess with Melissa’s career—”

  “She works?”

  “Oh, does Melissa work. She’s very successful.”

  “In publishing?”

  “No, banking. She’s with First Steel Citizen.”

  Amanda’s surprise was evident. “I wouldn’t have envisioned you with someone in banking.”

  He tossed back the rest of his wine and put the glass down heavily. “Me neither.” He gave Amanda’s foot a slight nudge. “What about Christopher, what did he do?”

  “Christopher?” Amanda threw her head back to laugh. “Christopher didn’t do anything.”

  “I don’t believe that. He must have—”

  She leaned forward. “It’s true. Christopher did absolutely nothing while married to me, except—” She sighed and leaned back in her chair. “Oh, let us tread gently past the subject of what Christopher did.”

  “How did you live then?”

  Amanda tossed her hands up. “I’m wealthy. I admit it. My grandmother died and left me all this money and Christopher married me and spent a lot of it. Not all of it, though.” She gestured to the room. “I have this. I have more, too.” She hastily covered her mouth. “Pardon me. I’m not a particularly good drinker.”

  “Nor am I.”

  Amanda pursed her lips for a moment. “It’s a pretty terrible thing to know that someone married you because your grandmother died.” She frowned. “It’s really rather distressing.”

  “My wife’s got money,” Howard said, rocking back on the chair legs.

  The cheery warm feeling (and feeling of other kinds) that Amanda was experiencing dissipated with this announcement. She was very polite, friendly still, but brought the evening to an end.