The Right Address

by Carrie Karasyov

  “Well, shall we get started?”

  “I really want a tour first, if you don’t mind,” said Maria, looking around the foyer. All this big, black, ugly old furniture and pictures of frowning old people that looked like pilgrims. She could tell immediately that Cordelia had no style. Where were the crystal statues? The gold figurines? The big gold-framed portraits of naked ladies with fairy wings?

  “Oh, all right,” Cordelia said, sort of taken aback. “I hope it’s in order. We haven’t really entertained lately.”

  Of course the house was in order. House Beautiful could enter the Vances’ houses at any second of the day and it would be picture perfect. Cordelia led Maria into the living room and watched her scrutinize every inch. Cordelia, who never set foot in the room unless they had company, turned to look at it with an outsider’s eyes. The walls were lemon, with elaborate moldings, adorned with gilt-framed Fragonards and Mary Cassatts. The curtains were Colefax and Fowler, the Jubilee Rose design. There were two eighteenth-century powder blue velvet fauteuils, a trio of Louis XVI bergères, a George Smith sofa upholstered in pale persimmon. There were silver-leaf consoles, regency tables, and a Russian pedestal table. Famille rose vases on chinoiserie brackets were sprinkled on the walls. Yes, she could definitely see how someone could be impressed.

  Although Maria murmured “It’s nice,” she really wanted to barf. It was a load of crap—all mismatched chairs that looked too uncomfortable to sit on, a tiny couch that her Aunt Lupita’s ass wouldn’t even fit on, and all those flowery fabrics. The woman clearly had no taste; that was probably why Morgan was fed up with her.

  Cordelia led Maria through the apartment, which just confirmed Maria’s distaste, until they finally arrived at the Boston lettuce–walled solarium. Tons of flowers were laid out, as well as elaborate vases, scissors, gardening gloves. Maria realized that she was going to ruin her Lee Press-ons. Great. They took three hours to get on.

  “So what do you know about flower arranging?” asked Cordelia. She was an expert and had even been pressed to write a second book on the topic by her friends, but she had demurred.

  “I know that it’s easy to dial one-eight-hundred-flowers,” joked Maria. Cordelia didn’t smile.

  “So we’ll start with the basics.”

  Cordelia began a detailed discussion of the ins and outs of flower arranging while Maria’s mind wandered. This old bag is a frickin’ bore! She looked at Cordelia’s cornflower blue eyes and counted the wrinkles. She wore very little makeup—she really needed to spice it up a little, make an effort. After all, pretty soon she’d be searching for a new husband.

  “I think I get it now,” said Maria, cutting Cordelia off.

  “Oh, okay. Sorry, I get a bit carried away. It’s really a passion.”

  “Yeah, so, uh . . . you wanna go sit down and talk? My feet are killing me.”

  “Oh, okay.” Cordelia led Maria into the spinach green library. More chintz, more mismatched chairs. And with all that money, you’d think they could buy some new books. Every one on the shelf looked used and old. Geez, these people needed serious help.

  “So tell me about your family,” said Maria, plopping onto a couch and immediately sinking into a sea of tasseled pillows. Way too many pillows. Maria chucked some on the floor. Cordelia looked disconcerted.

  “Well, I have two sons.”

  “And what about your husband?”

  “Well, you know Morgan.”

  “Yeah, but how did you meet?”

  “We met at a cotillion.”

  Maria stared at her blankly.

  “A friend’s deb ball,” Cordelia added.

  “So you’ve been happily-ever-after since?”

  “I suppose,” said Cordelia, surprised by this woman’s audacity. But it was actually kind of refreshing to speak with someone who was so blunt. Social doublespeak could be so tiresome.

  “You suppose?” asked Maria, scooping out a handful of mixed nuts from in a silver dish. “You’re not sure?”

  “Well, it’s been twenty-eight years. Everyone has a few bumps.”

  “Really? So it’s bumpy.”

  “No, things are fine.”

  “Then what were you saying?” Maria looked at her as if she actually cared, and for some reason that emboldened Cordelia.

  “I think . . . I think I may be going through a little—I don’t want to say crisis, but I definitely am at a strange time in my life. It’s . . . you know, well, you’re still very young and attractive, but you get older, the kids grow up and leave home, everything changes but everything stays the same. There’s really no sense of liberation or purpose. I guess I just feel really restless.”

  “Well, all those old farts you hang around with are probably pretty boring.”

  Cordelia laughed. This Maria was kind of a hoot. “That’s true.”

  “You need to rev it up a little. I bet you never had a Latin man. You need a Latin lover. Someone who fucks you hard.”

  “Maria!” said Cordelia, more amused than appalled.

  “It’s true. You WASPs are all frigid! You need some cunnilingus! Get a guy to go down on you.”

  Cordelia turned bright red. “Maria, you really are too much.”

  “It’s the solution.”

  “I was thinking of another solution entirely, but you may be right . . .”

  The sound of a key opening the front door interrupted the talk of Latin sex habits. It was Mr. Vance.

  He walked in and saw Cordelia and Maria. His heart stopped. The Venn diagram of his world had collided completely now, and his whole universe swirled with confusion and fear.

  “What’s this?” said Morgan, entering the room like a wind-up doll, stunned and stiff. His face displayed no emotion, but he was bubbling with fury inside.

  “Hi, darling. What are you doing home?” asked Cordelia, turning her head to look up at him.

  “I have a match nearby, needed to get my gym bag. What’s going on?”

  Maria gave Morgan a wicked smile, and then she actually winked at him. It was fun to see him squirm.

  “This is Maria Gonzales—”

  “Garcia.”

  “Excuse me, Garcia. She won the flower arranging lesson lot at the Harbor auction.”

  “I see.”

  “You remember Maria from Brown Brothers?”

  “Yes, I do . . . hello.”

  “Yes, I was a working girl until I got myself a rich honey. He takes good care of me.” She pierced Morgan with her sly gaze.

  “How wonderful,” said Cordelia with sincerity. Good thing she was blessed with the looks to lure a man who could take care of her; she’d probably worked her way out of the barrio.

  Meanwhile, Morgan hadn’t seen his wife this gay in months. What the hell was going on here?

  “Cordelia, I really need to talk to you. Now.”

  Cordelia could tell there was something wrong. Maria stood up. “I guess I be going now. Thanks for the lesson, Cordelia. We’ll have lunch sometime?”

  “That would be fun!”

  Morgan was seething. He scowled at Maria as she took her leave, and waited impatiently for the elevator to come and collect her. When he was sure she had gone, he turned to Cordelia.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I don’t like that woman. I don’t want you to see her again.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s a thief. She stole from the company and she was fired. And she’s a liar. Don’t trust her.”

  “She seemed charming.”

  “Don’t let her fool you. Never contact her again; do you understand?”

  “Yes, dear. All right.”

  “Good. Now where’s my gym bag? I’ve got to go to a match.”

  If Morgan had ever had any doubt about what he was about to do, it had dissipated the second he saw Maria at his apartment. Her evil, taunting looks over his innocent wife’s shoulder made any former feelings for her evaporate; she was a horrible, manipulative, insidious little
tramp. And she could bring down his entire world. The audacity. She was in his home; she had crossed the line into the sacred—where his wife sleeps and his children were raised, for god’s sake! The stakes were getting way too high.

  An hour later, in a cold open field in Battery Park, near a piece of modern art, Morgan paced back and forth, looking at his breath as it hit the air. On his shoulder he carried a Brown Brothers gym bag, and as he spied passersby he thought of what they’d think if they had X-ray vision to see the piles of cash that sat in his sack instead of squash clothes. Would he even remember the man’s face? It had been dark in that nightclub. There was a red glow to everyone’s face—even his son looked different. He stopped mid-stride and looked at his watch. Damn this. What was he thinking? He turned to walk back to his office, then froze again. Cordelia. What about her? This would be to help them, their marriage—she didn’t deserve any of this. No wonder she’s so lonely; he had tuned out ages ago. Maria was too dangerous to be allowed to continue.

  The thuglike goombah from the club sauntered over.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  Morgan handed him the bag, grimacing. Was this his life?

  “Don’t worry,” comforted the man in the floor-length, belted leather coat. “You’re doing the right thing. Life’s too short to deal with shit like this. And hers is even shorter.” He laughed, but Morgan did not match his smile. He simply shook at the reality of this moment.

  “I’ve gone insane. She has driven me insane.”

  “You gotta save yourself, everything you’ve built,” the man said. As his arms moved, Morgan could hear the leather of his coat rubbing against itself, and he wanted to throw up. “You don’t want that bitch nagging you and threatening you in twenty years, do you?”

  “No. I love my family. I’ve got to protect them. My wife—I . . . I realize now that I love her more than anything.”

  “So you know it’s the right thing. That bitch I saw you with, she only sees the money in you. I mean, no offense, you’re good-looking guy and whatnot, but if you were a pharmacist in Passaic, she’da never been on her back—you know what I’m sayin’?”

  “I suppose.”

  “That bitch has dollar signs in her eyes. Like the cartoons.”

  “She totally used me,” agreed Morgan. “I made a terrible, terrible error of judgment. It was a moment of weakness, and now it’s just spun way out of control. I almost destroyed my whole life. I can’t hurt my wife. I just can’t.”

  “Hurt that bitch instead.”

  “It won’t . . . be painful, will it?” Morgan thought back to her spread legs and ear-piercing screams when their daughter was so violently born. The echo of her cries still haunted him. Clearly she had zero tolerance for pain.

  “She won’t know what hit ’er.”

  Morgan nodded and stood there, silent.

  “I’ve seen situations like this before,” the man said, now slinging the gym bag over his shoulder. “If it ain’t dealt with, you know, it gets too messy to deal with . . .”

  “. . . and it all unravels.”

  “And then everyone’s a loser.”

  chapter 40

  The sagebrush raw silk curtains were drawn to a close, and the white-noise machine was on the highest setting. A Georg Jensen tray with dill-dappled poached salmon and balsamic-splattered mixed baby greens topped with goat cheese and toasted almonds lay untouched next to the firmly shut door. There was a pile of discarded European fashion magazines (American being too painful right now) and unread Judith Kranz novels next to the bed. But everything was ignored. Melanie was in too much agony to face the outside world, so she lay in her apricot peignoir under her Porthault sheets and stared at the ceiling. She had remained in this torpid state for the past four days since she had read the article. And she was hoping to remain there until it was off the newsstand. Three more days. But then, what about the newsstands of the mind? There would be no trucks to come around and erase what the city’s readers had already seen. The electroshock-torturous words were already emblazoned in the memories of everyone, engraving her in the tome of scandal for all eternity.

  She had a gallery of emotions and visited them at various intervals. The first, her favorite, was victimization. How could this be happening? Why was everyone against her? Because she was young? Because she was beautiful? Because she was from Florida? Did these people really think they were so great because their ancestors thumbed an earlier boat to America than her ancestors? It was ridiculous.

  Her second emotion was humiliation mixed with paranoia. What did the Lutzes think? What did the Vances think? What did Diandra think? And—oh, god! What did Mr. Guffey think?

  Her third, remorse. Why did she have to show off? Why did she have to name-drop? Why did she try so hard to impress everyone? Why did she humiliate her beloved Arty? Her final emotion was despondency. Because with her datebook empty, the mail void of invitations, and the phone silent, she was really on her own.

  Melanie’s mind wandered back to the most humiliating episode of her life prior to recent events. She was in eleventh grade and not in the “cool clique,” which primarily comprised the richest girls with the best clothes. One morning the leader of their pack—Sandy St. John, whose daddy owned the Toyota dealership and who was head of the cheerleading clique—decided to stand up and write on the blackboard: “These are the people I hate.” And underneath was only one line: “Melanie Sartomsky: Hillbilly Trash.” Melanie never knew why she had singled her out. She felt the same way today.

  As Melanie tossed and turned, running through possible scenarios in her mind, there was a soft knock on the door.

  “Yes?” asked Melanie, annoyed. Didn’t “Do Not Disturb” mean “Go The Fuck Away”?

  “I’m sorry, madam, but may I please have a word.”

  It was Guffey. Damn. Melanie had been avoiding him in particular. She knew she had failed him. She was like his errant student who hadn’t heeded his lessons and had flunked out of school.

  “It’s not really a good time, Mr. Guffey.”

  “I do apologize, madam, but I really must speak to you as soon as possible.”

  Melanie sighed. She knew what was coming and couldn’t bear to hear it. “All right, you can come in,” she said, clasping her satin robe closed.

  Mr. Guffey opened the door and looked around at the mess. She could see him recoil in his retinas, but his face betrayed no emotion.

  “I do beg your pardon, madam. I know you’re under the weather. It’s just that something really rather urgent has transpired, and I do need to inform you.”

  “Oh? What’s happened?”

  “I won’t bother you with the irrelevant minutia, madam, as it’s quite trivial, but the fact of the matter is that I need to request a leave of absence, effective immediately.”

  He paused and waited for Melanie’s reaction. So this is what happens, she thought. When the shit hits the fan, even the butler clears out. Her own frigging servant had turned on her. But then, how could she blame him?

  Although her voice had disappeared somewhere into her trachea, she managed to get out, “May I ask why?”

  “It’s really quite trite, madam, so I’d rather not burden you, as I know you’ve had your own . . . concerns of late.”

  “I see,” said Melanie, rising. She walked across to her mirror and squinted her eyes. She’d bet all the SARS in China that this poof was galloping down to Palm Beach to shack up in Diandra’s servants’ quarters. He should at least forgive her. People make mistakes. His departure was treason. He was a friggin’ Benedict Arnold.

  “Fine, Mr. Guffey. And how long is this . . . leave of absence supposed to be for?”

  “Unfortunately, I cannot say. I do apologize, but there are some matters that need attending to, and I am unsure as to how complex it will be to settle them.”

  “Right, right,” said Melanie, pouring herself a glass of water from her etched bedside decanter. “Matters. Yes. Important matters can take a
long time.”

  Mr. Guffey raised his eyebrow. “Perhaps, madam.”

  “All right, Guff,” said Melanie, taking a swig of water. “Off you go! You can take all the time you need. We’ll be just fine here. Me and the rest of the gang.”

  Mr. Guffey paused, wanting to say more but realizing it was really not the time. “Thank you, madam.” He gave a slight bow and walked out of the room.

  That was it, thought Melanie. If her own butler was hotfooting it away from her scandal-ridden life, the whole situation had devolved into a Turkish sitcom. Enough lounging around in her nightie: she had to go have a gulp of New York fresh air.

  An hour later Melanie was briskly walking along Second Avenue, perusing the windows of Banana Republic and the Gap. She had her sunglasses on and knew that in this locale (east of Lex) she was safe from detection. It was good to be outside. Arty—who had immediately forgiven her after she’d shed her first tear—had been begging her for days to get back into the swing of things, but she had resisted. But now she had become ready from going through not only her four grieving stages but also three boutique boxes of Puffs Plus. She had no more tears. She was hardened and strong. Stronger, at least. She was in “to hell with it” mode. She strolled for close to two hours and headed home.

  As Melanie was turning the corner to her building, she could have sworn that she saw Regina Bates entering under the canopy. But she was nowhere to be seen when Melanie entered the lobby.

  “Luca, was that Regina Bates?” asked Melanie.

  “Yes, I believe, ma’am,” said Luca, the doorman. He picked up a clipboard that was on his desk and scanned down it. “Yes indeed, ma’am. Regina Bates.”

  “Where was she going?”

  “To Mrs. Aldrich’s, ma’am.”

  “Oh my god!” said Melanie, realizing at once that she had made a terrible error. “Please let me see that list, Luca, because if it is what I think it is, I’m in big dog doo!”

  Luca handed her the clipboard and Melanie scanned through all the names as quickly as possible: Joan Coddington, Cordelia Vance, Eve Masterson . . . and so on. It was the FAD group.

  “This is the Fight Against Dysentery committee.”