The Right Address

by Carrie Karasyov

  “Drew!” said Cordelia.

  “Yes, now that she’s bought everything else in New York, she wants a child,” said Morgan in a harsh tone that he never used in front of his wife.

  “That’s not why . . .” began Cordelia.

  “I don’t know, Cordelia. This just seems crazy. You want a fur coat one minute, the next you want a Regency desk, the next a kid. Are you going through menopause?”

  Cordelia was mortified. She never expected this reaction. Why was Morgan being so cruel?

  “I know it sounds impetuous to you, but I’ve given it a lot of thought.”

  “Oh, yeah? Have you thought about how babies scream all day? How they whine and fuss? Have you thought about what you will do when you get tired of it?” Morgan couldn’t even think of babies.

  “I have! I’ll take care of her. In China they leave them on bridges!”

  “You say you want one now, but who knows . . .”

  “You all have left and have your own lives,” she said, looking not only at her sons but also at her husband. “And I’m here with still a lot of love to give. There are so many needy kids in the world—shouldn’t a family as privileged as ours give back?” Cordelia stood up and stared at her family. They were surprised to see her so passionate. It was if she had been defibrillated from a flat line back to life.

  “Cordelia—” began Morgan.

  But before he could finish, she interrupted him. “I know you all think of me as someone who just shops all day, but I’m more than that! I am!”

  Cordelia burst into tears and ran out of the room. Morgan turned to look at his boys, who glared at him. He felt guilty. It wasn’t Cordelia he was mad at.

  “Boys, be nice to your mother. She’s having a hard time.”

  Morgan gently rapped on Cordelia’s dressing room door. He thought he heard a muffled “Hello,” so he slowly opened the door. Cordelia was lying on her peppermint-striped divan, her back to him, a bunched up ball of tissues clasped in her fist. Her shoulders rocked with her sobs. Morgan sighed and sat down on the armchair beside her.

  “I’m sorry, Cord. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

  Cordelia didn’t respond. Morgan looked around the room, at the peach skirted vanity table with the silver dresser set. All of the brushes and mirrors were carefully aligned in front of the row of Cordelia’s antique perfume bottle collection. He felt sad thinking of Cord sitting there, primping to go out to a party, looking at herself in the mirror.

  “Make me understand, Cord. Where is this coming from?”

  Cordelia still did not face him. But her small voice murmured, “Is this what it’s all about? I can’t believe that this is my life . . .”

  “What do you mean? I think your life’s pretty good.”

  “No, no, no,” she whispered.

  “You have two healthy kids and everything your heart desires.”

  “I don’t mean that, Morgan. I know I’m privileged and lucky.”

  “Then what is it?”

  She turned toward him. “I feel like I’m floating in emptiness,” she said, her eyes dancing around the room, blurred by a veil of desolate tears. “I feel marooned.”

  Morgan took her in his arms. Her thin body went limp, and she seemed so frail and helpless. How could he have done this to her? She was marooned. He had forgotten her. This was all his doing. “Don’t worry, sweetie. You’re not alone.”

  “I’m gasping, Morgan. I need something more.”

  “I haven’t been here for you, Cord. I’m sorry.”

  Cordelia broke into heaving sobs. Morgan held her until she fell asleep in his arms. He brushed his lips against her hair and vowed that he would make her happy. It was about time.

  chapter 47

  Joan was sitting at a booth at RSVP, absentmindedly browsing the lunch menu while waiting for her cohort. Cheese soufflé? No, too fatty. Hmm, what would it be today? Okay, leeks vinaigrette—she’d be a good girl. She looked around the normally packed café, and today it was oddly sedate; there were three tables of women, and they were all speaking in hushed tones. Was something amiss? Just as Joan was starting get suspicious about something being up, Wendy burst in dramatically and took her seat across from Joan, poker faced. She exhaled before opening her lips to speak. The news was that shocking.

  “Joan. Something horrible has happened.”

  A few blocks away, Morgan was opening the bedroom door and looked upon his sleeping wife. She had been through so much, and now he was about to rouse her from her comforting slumber only to deliver news that would certainly make her want to crawl back under the covers and hibernate forever. Morgan was at an early squash game that morning when he heard. Instead of going back to the office, he went to tell Cordelia in person before the barrage of phone calls woke her and thrust her into drowning hysteria. He needed to be by her side when she was told. He could barely believe it himself. In a Harlem flophouse, bound and gagged, on a soiled mattress, Jerome de Stingol was found dead.

  “Cord, honey, wake up,” he whispered softly, putting a hand on her hair. “Cordelia, something horrible has happened.”

  Two floors down, Melanie soberly wound up her phone conversation.

  “Gosh, what is the world coming to? This is such a tragic loss, what a shock . . . Yes, I’m just floored . . . Right, okay, well, thanks for calling . . . Take care. Okay, ’bye.” She hung up the phone quietly. Wow.

  If she had sat down with the pantheon of scandal gods herself, she couldn’t have asked for a better eclipse of that Crispin article. Kids, there’s a whole new disgrace in this town, and it’s rocked by a lot more seedy darkness than her boring life. That bitchy asshole Jerome de Stingol was gonzo. Poor thing, he probably never knew what hit him. But even though Melanie was relieved by Jerome’s demise, she didn’t relish it the way she would have several weeks ago. It just didn’t affect her life in any way, and that was odd to her.

  Cordelia’s screams of agony were deafening. Her quivering sobs from the night before paled in comparison to this world-toppling catastrophe, as the hole that was usurping her life was now gaping. She pounded her pillow, screaming “WHY?” and Morgan told the housekeeper to please ring for a doctor. He rubbed her back soothingly, though nothing could mend her twice-shattered heart.

  At RSVP, Joan was also in a state of shock. “No! It cannot be possible! He was the last great walker!”

  Wendy paused dramatically, inhaling and closing her eyes. “He shall walk no more.”

  Across town, Arthur walked from the carport lined with hearses to the main entrance of To Die For, his vast empire serving all your death needs. Hearse drivers bent over playing craps stood and saluted Mr. Korn, whom they revered as a leader but related to as if he were one of their own. He was loaded, sure, but he was always down with the peeps.

  “Hey, boss!”

  “Hey, guys—slow day?”

  “Yeah.”

  He walked through the reception hall leading to the seven different funeral parlors, down the stairs to the embalming lab. Makeup artists did the finishing touches in one section, reconstructive surgery took place in another, and new bodies entered the refrigerated room from a doorway on the side.

  “One, two, three,” said a coroner as a command for his assistant to help him lift a corpse onto the gurney. Two seconds and one groan later, the body was in place and the bag unzipped.

  “Holy mackerel. I knew that guy!” said Arthur, amazed. Was it some friend of his wife’s? He’d seen him around.

  “Forensics just got through with him,” said Sal, his head of operations. “He was found last night, and they did some rush autopsy. They said he was some big deal in Manhattan.”

  “Wow.”

  “Homicide victim—some gay porno sex slaughter in Harlem.”

  “How strange,” said Arthur. It was starting to come back to him that his wife thought this guy was a real phony.

  “It took two hours just to get the dildo out of his ass.”

  “Is his se
rvice in one of ours?”

  “Naw, we’re just preparing it. It’ll be in some fancy schmancy church on Park Avenue.”

  “Shit. I’ll probably have to go to his funeral.”

  “You run with quite a group of people, Mr. Korn.”

  “Yeah, Sal, I do,” he said, walking farther down the hall. “And the funny thing is, I don’t even like most of them. They’re all very snooty and not so much fun. I don’t know why that is.”

  “They can play all high and mighty, but they all end up on the same slab as you and me.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  Arthur noticed a new coffin coming out of the shipping department.

  “Hey, is that the new DX7000?” he asked, as exhilarated as a child bursting bows and ripping wrapping on Christmas morning.

  “It just arrived, boss.” Sal beamed with pride.

  “What a beauty. Look at the finish,” he said, stroking the glazed exterior with awe and appreciation.

  “Burl.”

  “Fabulous. The brocade lining is terrific,” Arthur noticed, fondling the interior. “Lavender was a good choice for this.”

  “We’ve also got burgundy and hunter green.”

  Arthur stared at the coffin lovingly, rubbing his hand back and forth on the polish. He sighed deeply.

  “It’s sad that no one will appreciate all this hard work and craftsmanship; it’s all in vain. It doesn’t count, really.”

  “Well, we do. And we count.”

  Arthur looked at him and smiled. “Yes, Sal, we do count.”

  chapter 48

  At lunchtime Cordelia was still unbathed, unbrushed, unrouged, and wrapped in her ecru cashmere peignoir. Not that she cared. She tried to lift her arm to comb her hair, but after one stroke her hand fell limply to the vanity table. What was the use? Nothing mattered to her now. Nothing, that is, except writing the best eulogy that the Upper East Side had ever heard. She owed it to her Jerome. Oh, Jerome. What could he have been thinking? What could he have been doing? To end this way was so unseemly, so sinister, so seedy. There must be an explanation; he was obviously abducted, no matter what the police said. It just didn’t make sense that he would be in Harlem of his own volition. And in some dirty apartment . . . no. Everyone knew Jerome was the biggest germaphobe there was. He wouldn’t even swim in the pool at the Bathing Corp., for fear of toddler feces. And he went ballistic at cocktail parties if someone double-dipped the shrimp. No, not a chance he’d be up there in some vulgar tenement by choice.

  He had walked her to the Memorial Sloan-Kettering benefit just last week, and now he was gone. Flashes of Jerome in his tux, gently guiding her into a grand ballroom, raced through her mind. How could she exist without him? How would she know when it was time to rewallpaper? How would she know what to wear? Her life was torn apart. She would have done anything to bring him back. But all she could do was walk to her Queen Anne’s desk and furiously try to write something that captured the man she admired, the sad irony being that he would have been the one she would have turned to for advice on precisely this sort of endeavor. Every time Cordelia tried to compose something, pulling at her hair, the tears blurred her eyes and she was unable to see the paper. Balls of Easter-egg Tiffany stationery lay crumpled on the oatmeal carpet—glaring failed attempts at heralding the man she adored. She looked outside the large French windows at the frenzied, fevered pace of traffic and pedestrians. She was offended that the world was going on outside. How could Park Avenue continue as if nothing was amiss? It was vile.

  “I hear Cordelia Vance is chained to her desk, convulsing,” whispered Joan to Wendy, her bright red–lipped mouth full of foie gras.

  “They should never have asked her to write the eulogy. She’s probably ripping her hair out,” agreed Wendy, wiping her mouth with her napkin.

  They had arrived at Swifty’s early, in order to get the best table, in order to catch all of the lunching ladies on their way in, in order to make sure they were not left out of the loop in any way. And, yes, while Cordelia was ripping her hair out, furious at the world for existing without Jerome, Joan and Wendy had made it their mission to find out every dirty little detail of his demise.

  “Who decides those things, anyway? I mean, he has no family, right?” asked Joan, waving to Cindy Briggs and Fernanda Wingate.

  “Except for that nephew in Minnesota,” said Wendy, putting a forkful of frisée in her mouth.

  “What nephew?”

  “I don’t know, a nephew,” said Wendy.

  “So he asked her to do it?”

  “No. Cass Weathers told me that her husband’s firm is handling the estate. Apparently Jerome left a ridiculously long, detailed will, with all these last wishes down to the songs to be played at the funeral and the hors d’oeuvres to be served at the reception.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, at least we know we’ll be well fed! Oooh, and I know he loved caviar! Maybe there will be some,” said Joan with a raised brow.

  “Oh, definitely. And not only that—his stipulations were so particular that it took three lawyers to arrange everything. Apparently flowers could only be white calla lillies arranged by Renny, Lawrence Powell was to read the Lord’s Prayer . . .”

  “Lawrence? But he barely knew him!”

  “Come on, dear, we’re talking about Jerome. It was all about status.”

  “Good grief.”

  “He specified who would be his pallbearers.”

  “I can imagine that list.”

  “And he even wrote the pamphlets to be handed out to the guests, specifying the font to be used.”

  “Such a diva!”

  “And of course, Cordelia had to do the eulogy. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.”

  “It’s interesting that he said he wanted his precious Cord-Cord to eulogize him, hmmm? He would know that she would never be up to the task—”

  “I know, it’s unfortunate, because Cordelia is not the type who can handle this,” said Wendy in a solemn whisper. “She’s so fragile.”

  “Fabergé egg.”

  They paused, lingering over Cordelia’s weakened condition in their minds, and then moved on. Wendy switched the subject to one of their faves.

  “Anyway, on to more important things: what are you wearing?”

  “Black Valentino, and you?”

  “My Chanel matelassé suit. What do you think? Last season, but I’m not going to splurge on a new one for Jerome.”

  “No need. He would have been the only one who noticed anyway.”

  As Joan and Wendy headed into a full-on debate as to which shoes to wear for the ceremony, Morgan was dealing with his own trifling affairs. Namely, Maria.

  “I’m so sick of your excuses!” she screamed into the phone. “I will not be ignored.”

  “We’re going out on Friday!” said Morgan, exasperated.

  “I don’t care. I want to see you now!”

  “Listen,” said Morgan, making sure the door of the library was closed tightly. “My wife has suffered a tragic loss. A great man has died. He was a dear friend.”

  “I read all about your ‘dear friend’ on Page Six. Now I know what psychos you hang out with. You and your friends are loco! You put freaks on a pedestal and you treat me like yesterday’s shitty diapers!”

  “Maria, it’s not like that. It’s complicated.”

  “It’s not complicated! It’s simple! You prefer lunatics to your daughter!”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is! And I wonder how Page Six would feel about that!” Maria slammed down the phone.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Morgan said into the empty phone.

  Oh, she was a nightmare. But she’d be over soon, and hopefully he’d put to rest that little chapter of his life. It had to end, finally. Cordelia would need him now more than ever.

  chapter 49

  Arthur had left work and was driving home when he spied Olivia Weston exiting their building with a worri
ed face. She wrapped her caramel shawl around her, wincing from the cold, and tried helplessly to hail a cab. All off-duty. Arthur was about to pull over and offer her a ride when a cab slowed down and asked for her destination. Agreeing to take her, the driver gave a nod and she hopped in. Arthur paused. Should he follow her? Wasn’t that a little stalkerish? But before he could even think, he was pulling around the corner in her direction. At least his driver was off that day. He would have felt too idiotic saying, “Follow that cab!”

  He followed her down Park, around Union Square, down Broadway, and left on Twelfth Street. Where the hell was she going? He kept his eyes glued to the medallion number on the top of the taxi so as not to lose it. Q6X8. They suddenly became magic numbers to him. Around a garbage truck, around a stalled car, he kept the number in his vision; it was the code that brought him to her, the signifying mark of her chariot, a yellow swerving vehicle that carried precious cargo.

  When the cab finally slowed, Arthur was surprised, since they were back in no-man’s-land, on Avenue D between Eleventh and Twelfth streets, right across from To Die For number 487, and right back to where he’d run into her before. He watched Olivia get out of the cab and walk up the shady steps of that creepy building dappled in fire escapes, where her friend lived. There were a couple guys having a smoke on the landing three floors up, and music was playing out the window of another floor.

  She buzzed and waited until the ringing sound allowed her slight push to open the door. Arthur was worried. Here she was, this total knockout, wandering into this fleabag of a building. She could be the next Jerome de Whatever. Panicked, he parked, flipped on his hazards, and walked out toward the building. Just as he was approaching the front door, his cell phone rang. Arthur fumbled in his pocket to turn it off and walked over to the building Olivia had entered. The front door was still ajar, so he walked in and followed the soothing sound of her voice. He could hear Olivia up one more flight, but he lurked below under the staircase by an open utility closet where he could hear most everything. She was talking with someone in the hallway. When he peered out momentarily, he saw that friend of hers, Holland, from the reading. She was framed by a doorway with pieces of chipped paint falling off, and she seemed to be in sweatpants and a T-shirt, with those same cat’s-eye glasses. She seemed mad. Furious. And his dreamgirl, the beautiful and brilliant Olivia, was now somehow reduced to tears by this venomous girl.