Riverside Drive

by Laura Van Wormer

“What?”

  Cassy wiped at her eye with the back of her hand. “How did you know?”

  “The new underwear,” Rosanne said.

  “Good God,” Cassy sighed, looking to the window.

  The two women sat there for a while longer. But they did not speak of it again. Ever.

  43

  THE HOMECOMING

  Late Saturday afternoon found Rosanne and Howard still hard at work at the Krandell Arms Hotel. It was very hot work; the wind that blew through the open doors and windows of the seventh floor was humid and—for some reason making it seem even hotter—someone had decided to cook cabbage in the communal kitchen. Howard’s hair and shirt were soaked with perspiration; Rosanne’s bangs were slick against her forehead.

  After Rosanne taught Howard the basics of packing (“Some smart guy you are—so what do ya think’s gonna happen to those cups under the plates?”), the two did not talk much. By now, as they were nearing the end, Howard could interpret Rosanne’s instructions in sign language:

  A nod: Okay, pack it.

  A wipe of the forehead: Oh, man, I’ve got to think about that stuff. Go on to something else.

  A shake of the head, in combination with a shrug: Chuck it—I don’t care.

  A thoughtful smile: No, put it on the pile of things to give away.

  Howard was, at first, quite amazed at the atmosphere of the Krandell Arms. Spanish music was blaring from one room next door, while the Beatles were playing from the other side. People wandered the halls, visiting, smoking pot, eating potato chips—some fully dressed, others not nearly—and there was very serious discussion taking place (in many different languages and combinations thereof) about what was going down tonight, Saturday night. But by now Howard was used to it, so when a fight broke out in the hall he—like Rosanne—was barely conscious of it. Howard did not even blink when Ceily came in (outfitted in black leather) around four o’clock and said to Rosanne, “I like his ass but fine.”

  It was unsettling, packing Rosanne’s things, seeing the remnants of her life with Frank pass through his hands. He packed the flatware and was startled to discover, in a small leather box tucked back in the top of the closet, sterling silver place settings for four, with a lovely “D” monogrammed on the handles. Howard looked at Rosanne, wondering about her earlier life. Other thoughts passed through his mind, too. Like the first fight between Melissa and Rosanne.

  During a dinner party celebrating Daddy’s birthday, Melissa sat there, scowling at the end of the table, bitching about the rattle in the handle of one of the knives. “That damn Rosanne did it,” she declared across to the table to Howard. “I’m sure of it. We had no rattles before she started cleaning the silver.”

  By the time Melissa confronted Rosanne, the case against her had grown alarmingly tremendous. Melissa ranted and raved for five minutes—about the rattle in the handle of the knife that was making life such torture for Melissa; the rattle that had caused her such humiliation at the birthday party for Daddy; the rattle that was sure to bring rack and ruin down upon the heads of the Stewarts...

  Rosanne, when Melissa paused to take a breath, said, “Okay, okay, I admit it. Howie and I were throwin’ knives at each other. We were gonna run away and join the circus.”

  Melissa glowered, speechless with rage. “Howard!” she finally screamed. “Tell her she’s fired if she does not pay for the repair of that knife!”

  Howard succeeded in calming Melissa down, but then when Melissa demanded to know of Rosanne if she was grateful to them for paying for the repairs of the tragic knife handle themselves, Rosanne turned to Howard and said, “If I were you, I’d forget the knife and get the rattle in her head fixed.”

  It had never occurred to Howard that Rosanne might have silver of her own.

  Howard packed the Christmas presents from the Stewarts: the clock radio the first year(“With gratitude and affection, The Stewarts”; the electric blanket from the second year (“With Love, Howard and Melissa”); the food processor from the third year (“Love, Howie and Melissa”); and the microwave oven from last Christmas (“Love, from Howie and the Bitch”). The presents had not been difficult to select; Rosanne had always told Howard exactly what it was she wanted. But buying the presents and hiding them from Melissa had been difficult. (Melissa would have freaked—buying presents for the cleaning woman? Didn’t Melissa give Rosanne ten dollars at Christmas?)

  Howard tried to think about Amanda. About what she would be doing, about what she was wearing. What she looked like. When she smiled. When she first woke up. (This morning, snuggling up behind Howard, she had whispered, “Who left this marvelous man here in my bed? Am I dreaming?”)

  The day was very painful for Rosanne. It was so much, going through all of their things, hers and Frank’s, making decisions about what would go, what would go into storage, what would be...given away. Howie was a big help. He seemed to know when to come over to her and take something of Frank’s out of her hands—a shirt, a pair of pants, a jacket—and get her moving again.

  Rosanne had bought a footlocker to store special things of Frank’s for Jason. When she would ever have the courage to open it again she didn’t know, but she packed it with agonizing care. Frank’s high school yearbook; Frank’s high school varsity jacket; Frank’s sports trophies; Frank’s high school diploma; Frank’s army pictures; Frank’s medals; Frank’s uniform; Frank’s honorable discharge papers; their wedding pictures; Jason’s baby book; a framed photograph of Frank the day the car dealership opened; and, sigh, Frank’s leather jacket.

  Howard politely ignored the fact that Rosanne sobbed all the way through the ordeal of the footlocker. Rosanne kept out one photograph album for herself. To take to Mrs. G’s, to keep by her own bedside.

  At five, they were finished. Rosanne went to find Creature, Buzzy and Zigs to help take stuff down to the Wyatts’ station wagon. She found them drinking beer in Buzzy’s room, watching a Mets game on a fuzzy black and white set (whose antenna was an elaborate structure consisting of coat hangers and aluminum foil). Anticipating that they would have second thoughts about their offer to help, Rosanne was touched when they jumped to their feet and turned the game off without a word of protest or excuse. They followed her back upstairs to Rosanne’s room and shook hands with Howard (another surprise). Howard went down to bring the station wagon around to the front of the hotel.

  “Okay, guys,” Rosanne said, “everything goes but those boxes over there.” All eyes went to those boxes “over there.” “There’s a lot of good stuff in them. Frank’s clothes, mostly,” she added, in a softer voice. She cleared her throat. “Don’t go through them till I’m gone, okay?”

  Creature, Buzzy and Zigs agreed.

  “I don’t care how you divvy up that stuff,” she said, going to the closet,” but I wanted to give each of you something of Frank’s. And you can’t hock it, all right?” She narrowed her eyes at them.

  “Wouldn’t do that,” Creature mumbled.

  “Yeah, right,” Rosanne said. “Okay,” she said, pulling out Frank’s black winter overcoat. It was from the old days, the days when they had gone to church. It was a good coat and Rosanne showed them the satin lining. “It’s for you, Creature. Frank would want you to wear it when you visit your mother.”

  Next was a charcoal-gray suit. “Zigs, this is for you. Now look, here’s a receipt from Barrows around the corner. You just take it in and get the suit altered. It’s all arranged.” A sniff. “Frank would want you to wear this on a job interview.”

  Last, but not least, three of Frank’s leather hats. For Zigs. “You’ll look pretty sharp,” was all she said. It was teary time for all, and they all hated it and tried to pretend it wasn’t.

  God, this was hard.

  They made three trips down and up the stairs (the elevator was out again) and Howard called Amanda to say they would be leaving soon. When the last of the boxes and suitcases had been taken out, Rosanne was left by herself in the room. She sat down on the corner
of the stripped bed (it was staying), propped her head up on her hands and studied the walls, tears gently flowing from her eyes.

  There was a lot to say good-bye to.

  After a long sigh, she got up. She unplugged the phone to carry it with her, slung her bag over her shoulder, tucked the photo album under her arm and took one last look. And then she closed the door and locked it.

  Out on the street, the station wagon and its cargo had drawn quite a crowd on the sidewalk, and Creature and Buzzy and Zigs had formed a protective line alongside it. Howard was sitting in the driver’s seat, elbow hanging out the window, listening to the radio.

  Rosanne came down the stairs and people in the crowd said good-byes. Howard started the car. Rosanne kissed Creature and pressed the keys to the room in his hand. “After you find the things you want, give the keys to Ernesto, okay? He knows you have them,” she added, moving on to Buzzy. She gave him a hug.

  “Gonna miss ya,” Buzzy said.

  “Yeah,” Creature echoed.

  Rosanne hugged Zigs.

  “Fine-lookin’ fox, that one,” Zigs said as Rosanne went around to the other side of the car.

  “Bye-bye!” Ceily called, coming outside and waving.

  “Geez,” Rosanne said, jerking the door open. “You’d think I was movin’ to Miami—I’m moving four blocks, for cryin’ out loud!” She gave one more wave and got in the car.

  “Ready?” Howard said, putting the car into drive.

  “Yeah.” She leaned forward to wave through Howard’s window. “Bye!” she called.

  Everyone waved good-bye and the station wagon pulled out. The guys—Creature, Buzzy and Zigs—stood there, in the street, watching the car wait at the West End Avenue light, right signal flashing.

  “When I was a kid,” Buzzy said, “we had a car sorta like that.”

  “I can’t believe you don’t have the keys,” Rosanne said, swinging her crossed leg back and forth in agitation.

  “I told you, I forgot them,” Howard said.

  They were sitting in the lobby of Riverside Drive. The boxes and suitcases were all upstairs, stacked in a tidy heap by the apartment door. Rosanne sighed. “What are they doing—walkin’ on their hands? I thought you said they’d meet us here.”

  “They are, Rosanne,” Howard said. “Relax, they’ll be here in a minute.”

  “Relax, the man says,” Rosanne muttered, getting up. She walked across the lobby to look out on the Drive.

  “It be good to have Mrs. Goldblum home,” Boris, the doorman, said to her. “She nice lady, yes?”

  “Yeah,” Rosanne said, “she nice lady.”

  Boris nudged Rosanne’s arm. “Did you see?” he asked, nodding toward the building directory.

  “See what?—”

  “Come—I show you. Come,” he repeated, waving her over to the directory on the wall. “Look,” he said, pointing with his finger.

  GOLDBLUM, E & DISANTOS, M 5-C

  “Huh,” Rosanne said.

  “Mailbox too. Up today.”

  Howard walked over.

  Rosanne turned. “They’ve got my name up.”

  “Great. You’re official then.”

  “Probably raised her rent sixty million dollars,” Rosanne said.

  “I don’t think so,” Howard said. “Mr. Thatcher said—”

  A wild burst of honking made them both turn to look out at the street. A yellow Checker cab was pulling up in front of the building. In the front seat, Amanda was waving like a maniac, while, in the back seat, Mrs. Goldblum was demurely adjusting the angle of her hat.

  Howard dashed out and opened Amanda’s door. She got out, whispered something to him; he smiled and kissed her on the temple. Then he hopped around to open Mrs. Goldblum’s door. Howard helped her out and Jason came scrambling out behind her.

  “Hi, Mommy! We’re late!”

  “Yeah,” Rosanne said, picking him up and hugging him. She growled into his neck, sending him into gales of laughter. Rosanne shifted Jason to one arm and turned to Mrs. Goldblum. “Hi.”

  “Hello, dear.” Mrs. Goldblum looked up at the building. She smiled. “My, but it’s nice to be home.” She touched Rosanne’s arm. “I’m very happy.”

  “I’m sorry we’re late,” Amanda said to Rosanne, “but I couldn’t find the keys.”

  “Must be catchin’,” Rosanne observed.

  Amanda took Mrs. Goldblum’s arm. “Come, let’s go in.”

  Mrs. Goldblum took a step toward the door and then stopped. “Where is Missy?” she asked, looking around.

  “Oh, the cat!” Amanda said. “Howard, don’t forget the cat. She’s on the floor in the back.”

  “I’ll get her!” Jason cried, struggling to get down out of his mother’s arms.

  “I don’t think Jason can carry the box by himself,” Mrs. Goldblum said, continuing on inside.

  Rosanne and Jason got the box with the cat inside it. The taxi driver and Howard unloaded Mrs. Goldblum’s suitcases, and Howard paid the driver.

  The caravan proceeded to the elevator, where Amanda held the door for Howard and the suitcases. He squeezed in, the doors closed and the elevator started to climb. “Mommy,” Jason whispered, “I’m all squished.” Everyone laughed.

  “Okay,” Howard announced, “we’re here.”

  Amanda held the door while everyone filed out. “My goodness,” Mrs. Goldblum said when she saw Rosanne’s things in the hallway.

  “Don’t tell me you’re changing your mind,” Rosanne said.

  “Never,” Mrs. Goldblum said on an intake of breath.

  “So where are the keys?” Rosanne wanted to know.

  “I’ve got them—” Amanda said, inserting one into the door.

  “But where are my keys?” Rosanne persisted.

  “I think they’re inside,” Howard said.

  Amanda pushed the door open and stepped back for Mrs. Goldblum to walk in. Then she waved Rosanne and Jason in. She looked at Howard and they exchanged smiles. “Home again, home again, jiggity-jig,” Mrs. Goldblum said, turning on the foyer light.

  “SURPRISE!” a group of voices cried.

  Mrs. Goldblum blinked twice and Rosanne said, “Geez, look at what these guys did.”

  The guys—Harriet, Sam, Cassy, Henry, Althea and Samantha—were laughing their heads off, standing under a banner that stretched across the living room: WELCOME HOME MRS. G, ROSANNE & JASON. (“Missy too!” someone had hastily scribbled in the corner.)

  “Look,” Rosanne whispered to Mrs. Goldblum, “somebody wallpapered.”

  Mrs. Goldblum touched the wall. “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  Everybody started talking at once and poor Mrs. Goldblum was quite overcome by it all, looking first this way and then that, her eyes filling with tears.

  “We only just this minute finished,” Cassy said, pointing to the paint splattered white overalls she was wearing. “I nearly died, Amanda, when you said you were leaving—”

  “I tried to give you time—I lost the keys,” Amanda laughed.

  “Me too,” Howard said.

  “Look at you, Mr. W!” Rosanne said, pointing at him, in hysterics.

  He screwed up his face. White paint was all over his face and hair, save for his eyes. “Kitchen ceiling,” he said.

  “Do let Missy out, dear,” Mrs. Goldblum reminded Jason as Amanda led her away.

  “You better like it!”Samantha Wyatt cried, doing a little dance. She too, like her father, had white paint all over her.

  “A week,” Althea said to Rosanne, “we’ve been coming over here.”

  “Come see,” Cassy said, pulling Rosanne by the hand.

  The tour was a success. In addition to the wallpaper, the living-room windows had new, white, gauzy floor-length curtains. The kitchen was a cheerful yellow and the ceiling, replastered in places, was spangly white. Mrs. Goldblum’s room had been wallpapered in a pale rose pattern; Rosanne’s room in a pale blue; and Jason’s room was off-white, with blue trim, blue curtai
ns and twelve major-league baseball pennants adorning one wall. In Jason’s room there was also a large wooden toy chest that had belonged to Henry.

  “Picture time!” Althea ran around announcing. “Before we eat, we’ve got to take pictures!”

  All of the other Wyatts groaned at this, apparently knowing something about Althea’s picture-taking methods the others did not. But it sounded like a splendid idea to Cassy and she quickly corralled everyone into the living room, where Althea was setting up some very imposing equipment on a tripod.

  “Let me just check it,” Althea said, pushing this, twisting that, and then pressing something and running out from behind the camera.

  “Here she goes,” Harriet groaned, leaning into her husband.

  “What is she doing?” Cassy asked, swinging Rosanne’s hand.

  “Watch,” Sam said.

  They did. Althea turned around in front of the camera, struck a very serious, very sexy pose (as sexy as splattered overalls allowed), held it and— FLASH-CLICK. The camera took a picture of her.

  “When Althea said she wanted to be a photographer,” Harriet sighed, “we had no idea she meant of herself.”

  Sam chuckled, pushing Harriet to the area Althea wanted them in. “We should be grateful, Harriet. She hasn’t taken a picture of us for two years.”

  “Oh, Dad,” Althea said, fussing with her equipment. “I took pictures last Easter.”

  “Two of us and two hundred of herself,” Harriet laughed. “Come on, Samantha.”

  Althea lined everyone up into position. Back row: Howard, Henry and Sam. Second row: Amanda, Rosanne, Cassy and Harriet. Sitting in the front, in a chair, Mrs. Goldblum, with Samantha and Jason and Missy sitting at her feet.

  “Where are you going to go, Althea?” Howard asked.

  “Watch—she’ll hang from the ceiling,” Sam said.

  “Next to you,” Althea said, looking through the view finder. “Okay, flash, check, film, check...”

  “Oh, Sam, she doesn’t have that thing on it, does she?”

  Althea straightened up and addressed her subjects. “Okay, listen up! I want everyone to look right at the camera and say cheese.”