I’m not ready to get up yet. I stare at the ceiling. There’s an ornate decoration in the middle, around a naked lightbulb. It’s a few concentric circles with rose petals, and a fleur-de-lis at the north and south ends. It looks regal. I wonder who it was that lived in my apartment 100 years ago. That would make a great book, researching everyone who lived in your Manhattan apartment before you did. You could tell the complete story of some socialite in the twenties and then go on to a soldier in the forties and eventually get to the twenty-something editorial assistant, messenger boy or all-around slacker who preceded you. Maybe that’s my calling, to write that book. I wonder what the best way would be to figure out who lived here before me. I do know there must have been a group of foreigners at some point, because when I moved in, there was a stack of old records on a high shelf in my closet, and they were mostly polkas. Maybe the former residents were Polish.
Wait a second—are polkas Polish, or do I just think that because they both start with “Pol”? I must go to my dictionary and look this up.
This is ironclad evidence that it is important to have time to oneself during the day, as I do. If I was at some mind-numbing job for eight hours, I would not have the energy to be blazing paths in etymology as I am right now.
The dictionary describes its origin this way—and I’m not joking—“Polka, Polish woman, fem. of Polak.” Polak? My father told me—after we went to the Arts High School to see A Streetcar Named Desire and we were talking about Stanley Kowalski—that “Polak” was a slur people used to use before the world got more politically correct. So it’s funny that polka might be the feminine of a slur.
Now that I’ve looked up polka, I should look up polka dot. I can’t imagine where that one came from.
It says “one of a number of regularly spaced dots or round spots forming a pattern on cloth.” It doesn’t give an etymology, which is a real gyp, as far as I’m concerned. Oh, wait, we’re not supposed to say gyp anymore, because it’s short for Gypsy. It’s considered offensive, like so many things.
I wonder where the term “gypsy moth” comes from. Now I have to look that up, too. I admit I have a problem.
It’s defined as, “a moth having hairy caterpillars that eat foliage and are very destructive to trees.” That is so flattering! If I were a Gypsy, I wouldn’t be as concerned about gyp as I was about gypsy moth.
I really must put this dictionary away. It’s got so many treasures inside that I can’t stop plucking them out. Saying I’m just going to look up one word is like saying I’m going to eat just one potato chip, or that I’m going to open up the NPR Christmas catalogue and order just one leatherbound listeners’ diary and pen set.
Suddenly my phone rings. I hope against hope it’ll be someone I know. Usually it’s a telemarketer or a wrong number.
I don’t recognize the number but I might as well see who it is. I wait until the third ring to pick it up. There is such a thing as being fashionably late with phone calls. One ring is desperate; two rings is too soon; and four rings is risky. I wonder if Cosmo has written about this.
“Hello, ma’am. Is the head of the household in?”
“No,” I say. “Big Bruno is out at the construction site. But little old me might be able to help.” Sexists!
“Well, ma’am, my name is John B. Robertson, and I’m calling to give you a great offer. Because of your excellent credit rating, you are invited to a free luncheon during which you can choose to take home either a new Sony video camera or a weekend vacation for two. All you have to do is answer a few questions and then attend the three-hour session. Can I have your name?”
“Mary Jane.”
He laughs. “Could I have your real name?”
“Mary Jane is my real name. Jane is my last name.”
“Oh,” he says. “I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s just that we get a lot of wise guys. Could you please tell me where you live?”
“Down the drain.”
“I should have known you weren’t telling the truth.”
“If it’s any consolation, I wasn’t lying. I was joking.”
“I see. Do you think that you can tell me your real name?”
“I think so.”
“Okay.”
“Anne Sexton.”
“Thank you.” I guess he’s writing this down. “Address?”
I give him the address of the coffee bar where Ronald the Rice-Haired Milquetoast works. He could use the fan mail.
“Now I need to ask you where your income falls. We’re asking you to select from two choices. Would you say it’s A, less than $30,000 a year, or B, $30,000 or more?”
“A trillion dollars.”
“Okay, so that would be B, $30,000 or more. When you go away on vacation, do you go A, within a half hour, B, within two hours, C, within eight hours, or D, more than eight hours away?”
“The question is worded improperly because if the correct answer is A, then the correct answers are also B and C. If your vacation is within a half hour, that also means that it’s within two hours and eight hours. And A is a dumb answer, anyway, because no one takes a vacation to a half hour away. Especially in the 212 area code to which you are dialing. At rush hour, it can take a half hour to go from Christopher Street to Canal Street. Has anyone ever taken choice A, a half hour away?”
“Not too often.”
“Then eliminate it.”
“That’s a good idea, ma’am. I’ll pass that on to my supervisor.”
“I appreciate that, John,” I say. “Hey, John, tell me something. Where are you calling from?”
“Out in Arizona.”
“Yeah, most telemarketers usually call from out West. It’s gotten cold here already. Is it nice out there?”
“It’s not too bad.”
“What kind of salary do they pay you?”
“Um…”
“Do you have any kids?”
“I don’t—”
“How do you feel about organized religion?”
There’s a click. He’s hung up.
I think I’m the first person in telecommunications history to make a telemarketer hang up on her. That alone should clinch me the MacArthur prize.
I actually kind of wish John hadn’t hung up, though. For a telemarketer, he wasn’t so bad. Maybe he hung up by accident. Maybe he’ll call again.
A minute later, the phone does ring. But it turns out it’s my father.
“How are you?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” he says. “I’m in Luxembourg City. How are you?”
“Pretty good,” I say. “I’m at home, in a tiny village in the States, sometimes referred to as ‘The Village.’”
“It sounds charming.”
“It is, sometimes.”
“And how are the other village dwellers?” Dad asks. “Have you met anyone new…socially?”
My father has never come right out and asked about romantic relationships, and I’ve never told him anything. I certainly never told him about Professor Harrison.
I wonder what it’s like to be a father of a daughter and know that eventually, she is going to be defiled in some way. It may take thirteen years, or seventeen years, or thirty-one, but sooner or later, your princess is going to have a prince’s jewels in her silk pillow. I guess you either have to not think about it or pretend it doesn’t exist. Like headcheese.
“No one special,” I say.
“But you’re going to try to make new friends, aren’t you?”
“Sure,” I say. “Hey, when are you coming for Thanksgiving?”
He hesitates.
Uh-oh.
“Well, honey, there’s been a change of plans,” he says. “I have to be traveling that entire week. They don’t have Thanksgiving in Europe. I absolutely promise I’ll come for Christmas.”
I’m disappointed. There were also two years during which I stayed at college for Thanksgiving instead of coming home to the city because Dad was abroad. He works for an investment bank, analyzing forei
gn companies, and he travels a lot of the time. Staying at school over break wasn’t so bad; I actually met some nice people from my dorm who also were there over break, mostly students from out West who didn’t want to go home for just four days. But I can’t complain because usually my dad tries his best with holidays. He knows I don’t see many relatives and that holidays are one of the things that are important to me.
“You have my word on Christmas,” Dad says. “No matter what. I’d never let you down on Christmas.”
“I know.”
“But I don’t want you to be alone on Thanksgiving. I have some friends who’d be happy to have you over.”
“I don’t want to be someone’s charity case.”
“Come on. I’ll make a call.”
“I’m actually excited about planning the whole day alone,” I say. I do still have a few weeks until Thanksgiving to work that out.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. It’ll be nice to have the break.” Not different. Just nice.
“All right.”
As I hang up, I wonder whether my father is distant because he feels guilty about promises not kept. Like the Big Lie. But maybe I can figure it out over Christmas.
As for Thanksgiving, it will be strange that day watching out the window as carloads of people’s relatives arrive and take off. I suppose I’ll try to cook a decent meal. Maybe I’ll pick up a rotisserie chicken at the supermarket.
Hat Guy is wearing his gray hat again, but not the raincoat. It’s too sunny for him to get away with the raincoat, I suppose. He’s sitting in the window of the coffee shop where Ronald the Rice-Haired Milquetoast works when I pass by. He couldn’t have known I was coming. Could he?
Two can play at that game.
I double back, head into the shop and order cranberry tea. Ronald is on the job. He smiles as he hands it to me. “How’s it going?” he asks. I’m too busy to talk to him, so I mumble something and grab a table by the window with my back to Hat Guy. Now, instead of him following me, I’m following him.
But I guess he’s not, because he finishes whatever he’s drinking, crushes his cup and gets up to leave. I briefly catch a glimpse of the books he’s toting.
At the top of each, it says, “Piano/guitar/vocals.” They’re Broadway songbooks. The day I saw him in the subway station muttering, he must have been running lines or singing to himself.
I get up to get napkins, but really to listen to Ronald and Hat Guy’s conversation.
Ronald asks him, “How’s the new pad?”
“Good,” Hat Guy says. “It’s good.” He shuffles his songbooks to avoid dropping them.
“See you.” Ronald nods, and Hat Guy walks out the door.
I finish my tea and hand the mug to Ronald.
“That was Cy,” Ronald says. “He lives around the corner.” I don’t say anything, so he continues. “Cy just moved here. Just got an acting job off-Broadway. He used to have to come in all the way from South Jersey for auditions.” When I still don’t say anything, Ronald adds, “It’s really funny.”
Hey, pal, if I need to be told, then it isn’t.
In the evening, it’s quiet in my apartment, and I feel alone. I know it’s my fault. I have to push myself more.
There must be something or someone out there to challenge me.
I heave open my window and stick my head out to breathe fresh air. I notice an elderly man walking by in an old-fashioned suit and cap. He reminds me of this kid in my elementary school, Jimmy Miller, who came in one year for Halloween dressed up as the principal, in a ratty suit and cap. He got sent home. I think that we always remember kids from elementary school best by something bad they did or something bad that happened to them. Even though I was concentrating on being the kid who got straight A’s and who could recite every major presidential speech and who was the only one to know all four verses of the “Star-Spangled Banner,” I also remember other students by their titles: David Rosner, the boy who threw up in gym; Sandi Anthony, the girl who had to go to the hospital after a projector fell on her head; Ken Meltzer, the boy who wet his pants two days in a row. No one ever forgets the kids who threw up or wet their pants in school. Someday I’m going to see one of them in the New York Times wedding section, and I’m going to wonder if their new husband or wife knows the story, and whether I should write and tell them. I wonder what it’s like to know something about someone that their spouse doesn’t know, like what they were like in first grade.
I take a last whiff of air. It feels cool, crisp and inexplicably tentative, like there’s a subtle harshness creeping in. It feels almost as if it’s trying to transform into a solid.
Chapter Five
The next evening, the newscasters say we are in for a major snowstorm.
The reports get more and more dire. On the radio, the jazz station DJ says in his soothing voice that we should expect four to six inches. On the six o’clock news, they say six to eight. At eleven, they say a foot. This excites me somehow.
Before I go to bed, I gaze up at the streetlight. It’s not snowing yet, but it will. I curl up and drift into a confident sleep. I am excited to see what the world will look like when I wake up.
In the morning, everything is quiet except the sounds of motors in the distance. A sheer white light streams in through my window, and I know what there is to know: Everything’s canceled.
I look out at the naked trees, thin fortresses of snow built up on each branch. I have to admit, it’s beautiful. Just enjoying the view would be another Petrov-pleasing activity. I climb onto my windowsill, which I outfitted with soft black throw-pillows some time ago, and hug my knees. I rest my back against the side of the sill. I can barely make out the apartment across the street, as the snow is still falling, the flakes small but darting fast in zigzag patterns. Even though I can’t see my neighbors across the way, I think about how lucky they are to be huddling inside, listening to music, drinking hot cider or reading on the couch. I think of David and his fireplace, even though I don’t want to. I wonder what he’s doing now, if he ever thinks, at least once, of me and the things we did together. I wonder if I should call him sometime, just in case. But whenever I passed him on campus after the relationship ended, he wouldn’t look at me. For a second, I wonder if, now that I’m older, I could say the things to him that he wanted me to say. But I still don’t think I can. They’re the kind of things someone else would say, someone different than I. And it’s a matter of principle, anyway. If I gave in and did something that made me uncomfortable just because I was pressured to, I’d just be as bad as everyone else.
Besides, if that’s what he wanted most out of a relationship, I’m sure he found it in someone else by now. Or maybe not. After all, he was still single into his early forties.
I suppose I also should not admit that I miss him. Or more, the way I felt at the time.
I read in the window for some of the morning, and in the afternoon, when I turn on the TV, it’s snowing on General Hospital. It’s amazing how soap opera producers have such prognostic abilities. I wonder if they have their own forecasters.
On the screen, the characters hash out their affairs and illegitimate babies and amnesiac former lovers above typed white letters that scroll slowly:
****A winter storm warning is in effect until 8 p.m. this evening***…Stay tuned to this channel for further developments…
Then, the “Special Report” art flashes. A newscaster blathers about the “blizzard,” and behind him there’s footage of people waiting in line at supermarkets. I can’t remember any snowstorm in my nineteen years of life that stopped enough milk and eggs from getting through or prevented people from reaching the nearest store, yet, they act like they have to stockpile a month’s worth of food. I think maybe what happened was that once there was a snowstorm in the 1930s that was so bad that people couldn’t get groceries for days, so now, every time we might get a little precipitation, they act like Armageddon is coming. It’s sort of like the old people who hi
de all their money under the mattress because they grew up in the Depression when the banks blew their life savings. But I think the more likely reason is that people enjoy pretending there’s a crisis just to show off how prepared they are. Hey! Look at me! The boards on my windows are bigger’n yours! In my driveway, I got a four-by-four, and in my pantry, canned yams!
I decide I’m going to enjoy the rest of the storm, trite as that may be. The Inaccuweather forecast says the snow could keep up into the night. I’ll take full advantage. I’ll make cocoa, swirling with cream; I’ll curl up under mountains of comforters, light a couple of candles, keep the television on and hide away from the destruction.
During the 5 p.m., 5:30 p.m., 6 p.m., and 6:30 p.m. newscasts (molest me if I’m wrong, but aren’t there too many newscasts?), the mayor can’t seem to keep away from the microphones. “We are advising anyone who doesn’t have to be out, not to go out,” he says. “The roads are icy and slippery, and there have already been serious accidents.” He is wearing the Politician State of Emergency Rolling up My Sleeves Outfit. For those unfamiliar with the getup, the Politician State of Emergency Rolling up My Sleeves Outfit (PSERMSO) is anything informal that is designed to show viewers just how cool a politician is in a crisis, how difficult this problem is for him, and how willing he is to roll up his sleeves and work with the rank and file. In the Northeast, the standard PSERMSO is a baseball cap bearing the name of the local favorite team, plus jeans and a tucked-in shirt. In the South, the shirts are polo. And we see the PSERMSOs not just during blizzards, but “hurrikins,” as they call them in Looosiana.
The phone rings.
I hope it’s someone I know. I want to talk to someone during the storm. I wait, then pick up the phone on the third ring.
“Hello,” the caller asks, “are you Carrie Palby?”
“What might I have won,” I say tiredly.
“Actually, I’m calling from Lerman Temporaries. We’re trying to set up some temps for the next few weeks because our clients are really busy. Do you have either Wednesday or Friday night free for an assignment?”
Carrie Pilby Page 8