I looked across the waiting room at Mrs. Williams.
“I have to drop something off somewhere first,” I said.
“I have a date with Isaac,” I said, when I got her settled on the sectional. I picked up the phone to order a pizza for her, but the look on her face made me hang the phone back up.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing, dear, it sounds divine,” she said. “So elegant . . .” Her eyes glazed over and her mouth froze in a terrible frown.
She watched me brush my hair the way I had watched my mother when I was a little girl, turning up the black fox collar of her coat and grabbing the braided leather strap of her Ferragamo pocketbook. Elegant and divine.
Mrs. Williams sat on the couch with her hands folded in her lap like she was on a long flight. I hated the way she got stiffer and smaller in the evenings. I hated that when I returned, she would tell me that the man from the eHarmony commercials had been over for tea.
She didn’t speak or walk when she left her apartment, so there was really no reason I couldn’t bring her with me on my date. I was sure Isaac would understand.
Unfortunately she insisted on changing her clothes and randomly scattered some rhinestone bee clips in her hair, actually doing a pretty good job. By the end of it she looked like she was ready to go to a wedding.
She pushed her own wheelchair down to the lobby and then sat in it. “We’re going to Elaine’s,” she told the doorman. “It’s a lovely restau—” She stopped speaking as soon as we crossed the threshold.
When we got to Elaine’s, Isaac was already there in the room adjacent to the bar, at a table in the corner. I parked Mrs. Williams next to the bar, and I went to explain to him that we weren’t going to be alone.
“Interesting coat,” he said.
I was wearing a coat from Mrs. Williams’ closet that she said I could have. It was a cloth coat from the sixties, embroidered with brightly colored Liberty Bells and American eagles and drums and crossed swords. Very Paul Revere. I felt ready for battle in it.
“Thank you,” I said. “Interesting tote bag.”
He kissed me and I got over that awkward feeling of not even being sure I would be able to recognize him, even though we’d had two dates and slept together. I recognized him all right.
“I’m afraid we need a bigger table,” I said, nervously.
“Don’t tell me you invited Ivy again,” he said, looking past me. He seemed almost happy about it.
“No!” I said. “The girl I brought is a much better conversationalist than Ivy Vohl.” If we were going to spend another whole date talking about Ivy Vohl, I was pretty sure that was going to be the end of me and Isaac.
“Oh, come on, Ivy’s a good conversationalist,” Isaac said.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware this was an Ivy Vohl love-athon,” I said.
“Fine, we’ll change the subject. If you keep bringing people on our dates, I’m going to start thinking you don’t want to be alone with me. Maybe they can bring over another chair,” he said.
“We don’t actually need a chair,” I said. I left and came back a minute later with Mrs. Williams and pushed her up to the table.
“Isaac, this is Mrs. Williams. Mrs. Williams, this is Isaac.”
Isaac tried not to look surprised. “Hi!” he said, putting out his hand. “She’s really hot,” he whispered to me.
Mrs. Williams just stared straight ahead.
“You see she’s a lot less intrusive than Ivy Vohl,” I said. “She doesn’t speak.”
“She eats,” Isaac said. Mrs. Williams was quickly polishing off the flat sesame crisps she had already slathered in butter. “It’s nice to be on a date with a girl who has a healthy appetite for a change,” he said to her. I hated when men said things like that. “Please, sit down,” Isaac said. “I thought you’d feel at home here.” He pointed to the wall behind me which was papered with pictures of gondolas and Venice canals.
“I do!” I said. “Isaac, thanks for being so understanding about everything.” He actually didn’t seem too thrilled.
“Oh, I think bringing a chaperone was a very wise idea. You’ll help me to behave myself,” he said to Mrs. Williams.
The waiter came and I ordered the veal picatta for myself and the chopped salad for Mrs. Williams, because I was sure that was what my grandmother would have ordered. Isaac ordered pasta and a bottle of red wine.
“So,” Isaac said.
Something about Mrs. Williams’ silence made us silent too. It was horribly awkward. Her silence had made her disappear, and with the glinting metal of her wheelchair and rhinestones of her hair clips, she had started to seem more like part of the restaurant, a centerpiece, champagne bucket or dessert cart, than a person.
“Didn’t you have your book party here?” Isaac asked.
“Yes I did.”
“I read about it on Page Six.”
I remembered myself standing in the rain at the newsstand reading the item. “This is me,” I’d said to the Indian newstand man. “This is you too, yes?” he had asked, opening a porno magazine and pointing to a naked Asian woman.
Isaac looked at his watch. “Arthur Weeman should be here soon. Rebekah, are you blushing?”
I’d forgotten about Arthur Weeman. My cheeks started to feel like they were burning. Even though I was the youngest one in the restaurant, I was the one having a hot flash. I’m not ready for this, I thought.
“Are you going to take his picture?” I asked, suddenly worried. I didn’t want anything to happen that would annoy Arthur Weeman.
“No,” he said. “I’m on a date with a, with two, beautiful women. I don’t want to spend my time looking at his old, shriveled face.”
“He’s not shriveled,” I said.
“Besides, I couldn’t sell it for anything, anyway. His gondola’s sort of sailed. He’s over.”
If he was so over, then why, when he walked into the dining room a moment later, did everyone turn to look at him? I sucked in my breath. He was smaller than he was on the screen, but bigger than he was in his window. His nose was different, less pronounced, more delicate. My heart ached for him. The eighth wonder of the universe. A national treasure. My eyes filled with tears.
Isaac grabbed my hand. “Happy?” he asked.
I nodded.
Isaac took his camera out of his tote bag.
“Isaac, don’t,” I said. I’d been in a trance, and had started to almost slide under the table, but the camera jolted me back. Arthur was with the actor Philip Seymour Hoffman and another man. “Isaac, please, leave them alone.”
“I don’t want their photo. I want yours. At this moment.”
He called the waiter over and asked like a tourist. “Would you mind taking our picture? Just press that button. Rebekah, slide your chair over.” Isaac stood and scrunched down on one side of Mrs. Williams’ wheelchair, and directed me over to her other side. He put his arm around both of us, and we all put our heads very close together. “Bellisimo,” the waiter said.
For the rest of the meal, I tried to chew my veal and not stare at Arthur Weeman. I felt like I was sitting at his table, laughing gaily with Philip, listening to Arthur describe his next film.
“I have to go to the ladies’ room,” I whispered. It would involve walking past his table.
“So go,” Isaac said. “Mrs. Williams and I have been waiting all night for a chance to finally be alone together.”
I stood and steadied myself for a moment before making the journey past him. Then, just as I was steps from his table, Arthur Weeman removed his sports jacket. I was behind him, trying to stare straight ahead, trying not to look at him, but something made it impossible for me not to turn and gape.
It was the sweater from Barneys. The green cashmere sweater Thalia had admonished him to wear in her latest letter to him. He had bought the sweater. He was wearing it. He had listened to Thalia.
“Miss, the ladies’ room,” the waiter said, touching my shoulder an
d pointing to the back of the room. “Miss.”
Arthur Weeman turned in his chair and looked at me.
“Nice sweater,” I said, and rushed into the ladies’ room. I had never felt more powerful in my entire life.
When I finally got myself together several minutes later and made it back to our table, Isaac had paid the check.
“Thank you for dinner,” I said. I wanted to throw my arms around him. I glanced at Arthur Weeman in his sweater one last time, and we wheeled out of there.
He walked us back toward Mrs. Williams’ apartment. “Allow me,” he said, gallantly taking over the job of steering. He draped his tote bag over the back of her wheelchair. My head was aching slightly. I was worried about the wine mixing with the Parlodel. And I’d let Mrs. Williams have wine too and she had to take at least nine pills before she went to bed. But I didn’t care because I’d never been so happy. Isaac yawned. “I’m tired,” he said.
I was pretty sure that was some kind of date language for “I don’t like you.” Maybe it had been a mistake to bring Mrs. Williams. Why, I wondered, was it impossible for me to have one nice normal date with a man? Why couldn’t I wear a skirt and sweater set instead of a coat with eagles and swords on it? Why couldn’t I carry a slim Fendi bagette instead of an old bag in a wheelchair?
“But I’m not too tired to come upstairs,” he said, as we wheeled up to the iron grillwork doors.
We crossed the threshold into the lobby. “Oh, no,” Mrs. Williams said. “We don’t allow gentlemen callers.”
Isaac laughed. “Don’t you think you’re being old-fashioned?”
“Did you have a nice evening?” the doorman asked her.
“They didn’t even let me have dessert,” she said. “Next time I’m going to have a Caesar salad and prime rib.”
“It’s a date,” Isaac said. “Well, I guess this is good night, then.” He reached out and took my hand, pulled me to him, and kissed me right in front of Mrs. Williams.
He pressed his mouth to my ear. “From now on, every time I see an old woman in a wheelchair I think I’m going to get an erection,” he whispered.
I had to admit it was pretty romantic.
I was too wound up to sleep, so I took out a pad of lined stationery I had bought in a store near my father’s office. It had pictures on it of old-fashioned Venice scenes, gondolas passing under bridges, pigeons and cobblestones along the Grand Canal, women strolling with parasols in San Marco Square. I got into bed in Mrs. Williams’ maid’s room and wrote to Arthur.
December 7
Dear Awful Writer,
I just came home from a rather interesting evening for once. My parents picked me up after Hebrew School and said we were having dinner at Elaine’s and that boy I like named Isaac was standing right next to me and I just blurted out that maybe we could invite him to come with us and by some Jewish miracle my parents said okay. It was almost like a date except my parents and grandmother were there and Isaac and I didn’t say a word the whole time unless you count having to answer the stupid questions my father asked him like what college he hoped to get in to and what he hoped to major in and what his bar mitzvah speech is going to be about.
I had a secret fantasy that Isaac would hold my hand under the table but he didn’t. It would have been a perfect evening if my sister Lucy hadn’t been there. She monopolized the conversation talking about her stupid math competition. She has very nice hair and she kept spooling it all around trying to show off. I couldn’t tell if Isaac liked her or not because he was sort of quiet.
I got out of bed and walked into the kitchen to look out the window one more time. His light was on but no one seemed to be there. As I stood looking out the window, the sky suddenly lit up with snow. Even though I was thirty-three years old, the first snowfall of the year still excited me. The once-a-yearness of it, like a birthday wish. I put the Paul Revere coat on over Mrs. Williams’ B Altman nightgown, opened the window wide, and leaned all the way out.
Then I went back to my letter.
But anyway the reason I am writing to you is because it occurred to me suddenly (in the bathtub) that you have never had a scene in any of your movies that took place in a snow storm. Is it because it would cost too much money or because you don’t like to be cold or is it a coincidence? I have, as you know by now, seen all of your movies and there has never been a trace of snow and I think that’s a catastrophe. Would you consider putting a snowstorm in your next film? I can’t imagine anything better.
Love,
Thalia XXXOOO
P.S. the restaurant we went to was Elaine’s.
Writing it was different now because of that sweater. I felt almost certain he would read it. In a day or two he would be holding this piece of paper in his hands. Shaking with excitement, I found a red lipstick in my purse and dotted it on my lips in the reflection of the window. I kissed the page tenderly. Then I slid the letter into its matching Venice envelope, got into bed, turned off the lamp, and was finally able to fall asleep.
13.
At 33, signed first editions of her novel are sold for large sums to collectors of rare books
Nine days before Christmas, on Saturday morning, I sat perched at Mrs. Williams’ window watching Arthur Weeman. He stood there for a long time staring at the snow fall on the empty playground between us.
When he finally disappeared, I waited for a while for him to come back and was just about to give up, when I saw a very strange thing.
A man wearing dark glasses, a sheepskin coat, and a plaid cap was standing in the middle of the playground videotaping something. He was walking awkwardly, hopping really, and I realized his feet must have been cold because he wasn’t wearing snow boots. It seemed creepy for him to be there, almost perverted, a man all alone in the Gardener playground, making big footprints in the virgin snow. I thought about reporting him to someone and I looked up at Arthur Weeman’s window to see if he was witnessing this, but he still wasn’t there. The man in the playground seemed to be filming his own footprints. He turned the camera up toward the sky and when he tilted his head up, I saw that it was Arthur Weeman.
He was videotaping snow. Then playing it back and watching it on the camera’s small screen. He was auditioning the snow, giving it a screen test. Thalia had suggested snow and now he was casting it.
So now this was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Arthur Weeman was alone in the Secret Garden and I was watching through the shrubbery. In a way, I was his camera. In a way, he was holding me in his hands. In a way, if you thought about it, he was seeing the snow through Thalia’s eyes, which were, after all, mine. My voice could be in his head. My letter in his pocket.
This was it. Thalia had affected him. She had contributed to his work, collaborated with him practically. The last letter, the one about snow, had been my golden ticket wrapped up tight in my chocolate bar. And now my Willy Wonka, my Walt Disney, my Arthur Weeman, was twirling in fast circles, filming our snow.
A security guard came out of the building, into the playground and said something to him. Arthur looked annoyed, his concentration broken, and put up a hand to ask for more time. The security guard retreated. Arthur took off one glove and did something to the camera. But he didn’t bring the camera back up to his eye.
Go back to work, Arthur Weeman, I whispered, but he seemed to be finished. Worn-out and cold.
I could not bear for this to end. Make a snow angel, Arthur Weeman, toss a snowball. You know your Thalia would want you to. Do you see her, Arthur Weeman? She’s there, alone, sitting on the concrete bench. Talk to her, Arthur Weeman, go to her, she’s your biggest fan.
Arthur Weeman just stood for another minute or two and then, clearly freezing, he left.
I opened the window so I could feel our snow on my face, and I looked down at his footprints and at something brown in the blazing white. It was his glove lying there like the amputated hand of God. It was as if he had been made of snow all along and had melted, leaving only one gl
ove behind. But it was my proof that what I had just seen, the greatest filmmaker who had ever lived, was real. So, I thought, that’s how the Prince must have felt when he found the glass slipper at midnight.
Mrs. Williams had let me use her opera glasses and I trained them on the glove which was getting heavily dusted with snow and looked as beautiful as a palomino pony. I wanted it. The Prince at least had the slipper, he just didn’t have the foot. I had to get my hands on that glove. But it was Saturday. There was no way I could get into that playground and if I could get in, what if he, watching from his window, saw me retrieve it.
All I could think of was the glove. I couldn’t stand to think of it languishing in a terrible lost-and-found crate next to umbrellas and gym shorts and single socks in the gym teacher’s office. The Prince hadn’t just kicked the slipper into the bushes. The glove wasn’t just any glove, after all. It was the glove of the world’s greatest filmmaker.
Then I thought, I had to at least try.
I banged on the big glass doors until the security guard came and opened them. I felt thirteen again.
“Hi,” I said.
“If you’re looking for Arthur Weeman, he’s already gone,” he said.
“No.” His statement took me by surprise.
“He got into a limo and the papa-rizzo chased after him. He was in-co-nito. Poor guy. Career’s over. Hasn’t made a funny movie since nineteen sixty-eight.”
“Yeah,” I said. It was good that he drove off in a car. It meant he wasn’t home.
“That one that took place in the movie theater. That movie was terrible.”
That movie was magnificent, I wanted to scream. The last thing I wanted to do was discuss the films of Arthur Weeman with an idiot. “Yeah,” I said.
“What was it called, Genie something?”
“Um, I think it was called Genius in a Bottle. Actually, I work for him, and he left something in the schoolyard, so if I could just pop back there. . . .”
“Great, now I’ll probably get in trouble. I told him not to leave nothing. . . .”
I walked quickly past him, through the lobby and down the hall to the opposite side of the school, and out into the courtyard. I grabbed the glove, just barely visible, and then looked up nervously at Arthur Weeman’s window.
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