The Man on the Third Floor

by Anne Bernays

  “What are you talking about?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Well, I’ll see you later, at the church I suppose. I’ll take the car,” she said. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  Mind? Yes, I minded. But I didn’t say so. I would walk and she would get to be within a closed space with the love of my life.

  Fleming had kept his first and only apartment, which was on Third Avenue and Fifty-Third Street. It was a thirdfloor walk-up with a minuscule kitchen he rarely used, preferring to eat out. He had a small workroom for his desk, typewriter, and books, a serious room without ruffles of any sort. He didn’t own a television set but he did have an old record player on which he played mostly swing, just as I did. Tommy Dorsey, Frank Sinatra, Earl “Fatha” Hynes. When he gave a party he would pack the place and serve Johnny Walker Black and Bombay gin and a couple of bowls of potato chips. Sometimes there were fights after people got drunk, and once the police turned up and told him to pipe down, the neighbors were complaining. He could have lived almost anywhere, but he loved this apartment and his friends loved it too; it was what a Negro friend of his called “cool.”

  I climbed the three flights and rang the bell. Fleming answered. He was wearing a cotton robe over his boxers and a white tee shirt. His feet were bare. “Greetings, old chum,” he said. “What can I get you to drink?” Clearly, there had been a party the night before; glasses were everywhere, some of them with drink still in them, others with cigarette butts floating like dead fish. The smell was powerful: smoke and whiskey and body heat, all of it stagnant. There was a pair of loafers near the window overlooking the Third Avenue El, which was slated to be demolished the following year.

  I said, “I thought you weren’t going to have a bachelor party.”

  “I wasn’t, I didn’t,” he said. “This was an afterthought. Honestly.”

  A girl emerged from the tiny kitchen. She blinked, as if to get the sleep out of her eyes.

  “You remember Betty Gilpin? From the steno pool?”

  “Well, if he doesn’t remember me I sure remember him,” the girl said. She looked to be about forty, slightly shopworn and wearing a silk kimono, a kind of clichéd garment that made me think of Sadie Thompson, the sad heroine of Rain. “I’m not sure,” I said.

  “Betty wanted to come up here and join me for old time’s sake. My last night of freedom, so to speak.”

  I remarked that it must have been quite a party, wondering why he hadn’t asked me to join him.

  “We got started after eleven,” he said. “Some of the old gang just showed up.”

  It was an awkward moment for me but Fleming didn’t seem the least disconcerted. Betty, meanwhile, went off somewhere, presumably to get dressed. Again, Fleming asked me if I’d like a drink, which I declined. He said he ought to get cracking but made no move to do so. Instead he went into the kitchen. “Shit! No clean glasses.”

  He invited me to take a seat while he showered. “You’re a good egg to do this,” he said over his shoulder. I wasn’t sure what “this” referred to—being there now or being best man—or both. I felt uncomfortable in my new dinner jacket, probably because this was its first time out and it pinched me under the arms. I sat down and thought about Barry, wondering what he was doing. Was he lying on his back having a smoke and listening to the radio?

  The daydream continued and then Betty came back, wearing a silk dress with flowers all over it.

  “Can I mooch a cigarette from you? I’m all out.”

  To keep her company I lighted one for each of us. She told me she remembered me very well from during the war.

  “You were smart and quiet. Some of the guys looked up to you. I’ll bet you didn’t know that.”

  I shook my head. I not only hadn’t known that. (I was certain they thought I was a prep school snob, which didn’t make me the most popular man on board.) I also didn’t believe her.

  “Some of the girls thought you were pretty cute. You know, girls like the strong silent type. Gary Cooper, sort of like that.”

  “Come on, Betty, you know better than that.”

  “Better than what?” She began to gather up last night’s debris, twitching her behind as she walked back and forth from the living room to the kitchen, smoking all the while.

  I knew that all I had to do was stick my hand out as she passed by me, and I could have had her right there while Fleming was in the shower. But I found her about as appealing as a plate of boiled cauliflower. The waste of it! The flirtation, if you want to call it that, was all on her side, and I sensed that had I grabbed at this advantage she would have cared as much or as little as if I hadn’t. It was all the same to her.

  Fleming reemerged. He had on striped trousers and was struggling with the studs on a dress shirt. His black suspenders lay against his thighs. “Fucking shirt,” he said. “Hey Betty, do you know how to do up these things?”

  Betty helped him with the shirt. He lay his left hand across her backside and wiggled his fingers. The smile she gave him tried, I think, to convey a sense of irony, which I’m pretty sure Fleming did not share.

  Eventually Fleming’s three ushers, not including his brother, Grant, showed up. They looked like models for some smart brand of whiskey or cigarettes, and they had that air of privilege I associated with members of the New York Athletic Club. None of them looked remotely like a writer. The five of us stood around trying our best to be hearty, drinking and telling dirty, anti-marriage jokes until it was time to leave.

  We persuaded a taxi driver to take all five of us, although he told us it was illegal. Fleming assured him he’d pay the fine if we were caught. We weren’t caught. It was early enough so that no one had arrived at the church except those who had a part in the ceremony, and the flower arrangers, who were putting the finishing touches on long streams of wide satin ribbon punctuated by bunches of white and pink flowers. The three ushers took off to do their appointed tasks, and Fleming and I slipped into the godly green room where we were met by the minister inside clerical robes. He had a youthful, ruddy face and wire-rimmed glasses. I opened the door to the sanctuary a crack and looked out over the crowd. The place was packed. Baroque organ music started up quietly. The minister said, “Gentlemen, it’s time,” and asked me if I was sure I had the ring. Fleming had bought it at Cartier; the stone was an emerald-cut diamond half the size of a sugar cube, set in a platinum band. I had stuck it in the pocket of my jacket, where it formed a bulge. Fleming smiled encouragingly at me. I figured he was a little drunk.

  We stepped into the sanctuary and waited, side by side (I actually could feel Fleming’s heart pounding). Walking down the aisle ten feet in front of Mary and her father were two adorable blond children, the boy wearing short black velvet pants and the girl a stiff white dress that stood straight out like a dancer’s tutu. Each of them carried a basket filled with flower petals which they had been instructed to distribute on the aisle floor like grain to a flock of chickens. Oohs and aahs floated around the church when these two angels appeared. The boy shot out his left leg and gave the girl a kick just below the hem of her costume. It was a hard kick; you could hear his leg connect with hers. The girl let out a shriek and dropped her basket. No one said a word. Fleming stiffened. There was the merest trace of a smile on his face. The girl began to bawl, the noise rising and echoing against the stone walls. A woman—presumably her mother—rushed over and picked up the child and dragged her off into a side aisle, where she continued to wail. With a slight rustle, the audience resettled itself and the ceremony went on as if nothing had happened. How I admired the restraint. Mary was released by her father, at which point Fleming moved from my side to hers, exactly as we had rehearsed it the day before. Five bridesmaids of varying sizes and shapes, every one stuffed into an identical pale pink dress with a wide satin belt, stood on the other side of the altar looking as self-conscious as if they were naked. One of them giggled, another seemed about to faint.

  The minister took a long time blessing
the couple, delivering a homily that recommended the joys and pleasures of family life, skipping over the honeymoon and all that that entails. He read from The Book of Common Prayer: “And here we offer and present unto thee, O Lord, ourselves, our souls and bodies, to be a reasonable, holy and living sacrifice unto thee.” The word “reasonable” struck me as odd in its context, as odd as a lemon growing on an olive tree. He admonished Mary and Edgar not to seek happiness in worldly things—the usual grab bag of advice containing more than a grain of truth, but so well buried beneath threadbare rhetoric that I would guess some of the wedding guests missed it entirely. Fleming began to rock slightly on the balls of his feet, impatience seeping out of him like sweat. Mary was perfectly still. Finally, the minister got around to renaming them “Man and Wife.” Fleming let out an audible sigh.

  The organ struck up again and the couple turned and walked briskly back down the aisle, reversing direction. Mary smiled right and left and right again. Fleming looked as if he were glad to get this over. The guests rose with a creak here and a grunt there, and we all headed toward the back—or is it the front? I can never remember—and on to the reception.

  This was held at the clubhouse of The Century Association, an all-male establishment founded in the nineteenth century and dedicated to helping the arts thrive in a society that seemed ever more prone to helping the businessman thrive. It was said that members were not allowed to talk to anyone in the press about the club, its membership or activities, on pain of expulsion. So the club had about it an air of mystery that made it seem something like the most sacrosanct of secret societies, like Yale’s Skull and Bones. You enter, you’re transformed. This was the first time I had been inside the club, and I half expected a robed ancient to blindfold me and walk me through fire and water while drums beat in the background. But as I said to Phyllis as we stood inside the glass doors, in the lobby—with its marble floors and double staircase—it was the twin of the Orange Club. “They’re all alike,” I said. “On the surface and deep down. Brothers in exclusion.”

  The reception was a cocktail party with a few canapés— pigs in blankets, chicken livers wrapped in greasy bacon, minuscule egg salad sandwiches. The bars—there were two of them, one at each end of a gallery halfway up to the second floor—were doing a brisk business. “You can tell it’s not a Jewish wedding,” I said. “Heavy on the booze, light on the food.” Some of the guests, thirsty after a long afternoon, elbowed their way to where glasses and bottles were lined up in a neat phalanx. The bride, her train gathered up and hanging gracefully over her left arm, walked around chatting with small groups of her guests. Fleming did the same. Phyllis spotted a man she knew and went over to talk with him beneath a large pastel of a girl reading a book in a window seat with leafy trees on the other side of the window. This was not the place for abstract expressionism. Someone came up to me and asked if I played golf; I said, “I’m afraid not.” He turned and left, presumably to find someone who did.

  I looked at my watch and tried to decide how much longer I had to stay. Would there be speeches? Of course there would be speeches, and as best man, I would be expected to say something witty, edgy, and loving.

  Just then I sensed a kind of stir in the crowd, and heard a yelp like that of a puppy whose tail has been caught in the screen door. In a flash, Fleming was at my side. “Get that man out of here,” he said.

  “What man?”

  “Fred Forstman. Your boss.”

  “Ex-boss,” I said.

  “Okay then, ex-boss. Just get him out of here.”

  “What’s he done?”

  “He’s smashed. He’s getting just a bit too close to some of Mary’s lady friends. He pinched my mother-in-law on the ass.”

  “Fred did that? You must be kidding.” “Mary’s having a fit.”

  I wasn’t all that surprised. But this was a matter not of category but of degree, and I figured the drugs he was taking to keep him upright had affected his judgment. I was amused but dared not show it; Fleming was very angry. He repeated his instructions. I’m not sure I was the one to remove Fred, but I went along with Fleming anyway. I remarked that anything can happen at a wedding and often does.

  “Not at my wedding,” Fleming said. “This guy’s fucking out of control. Mary’s not used to this sort of thing.”

  The two of us walked over to where Forstman was standing with a woman in a smart black dress, a small hat perched on her blond curls and a deep ravine between her breasts. Forstman practically had his face in the ravine. One of his hands was holding a golden drink, mostly gone. The other was restless at the end of its arm. I figured a couple of minutes more and the hand would have found a risky target. “Hey Fred,” I said, “Wouldn’t you like some fresh air?”

  “No. Why? Helluva party. Hello my friend, my golden goose,” he said to Fleming.

  He turned back to the woman who, for reasons known only to herself, was still standing there. Maybe she liked it. Forstman might be old and sick but he had a young man’s reckless nerve.

  “Thanks, Fred, for the compliment. Now how about you and Walt and I take a little walk downstairs and outside. I think you’ve had enough party.”

  Forstman looked confused. “What’s the matter? Did I commit an unseemly act? Have you met my new acquaintance here? What did you say your name was, honey? Hey, did you fellas know that Episcopal is a perfect anagram for Pepsi-Cola?”

  The woman suddenly seemed to grasp what was happening. “I don’t think that’s particularly funny,” she said. “I don’t think you should joke about religion. And please excuse me.” With that, she turned and walked away.

  “It’s not a joke,” Forstman said. “It’s an anagram. Oops!” Forstman got his feet wrapped around each other. “Where’s Judy?” Judy was Mrs. Forstman.

  We looked around and couldn’t spot her. Fleming told me to take Forstman downstairs while he went to look for Judy.

  “I must of done something,” Forstman said softly, shaking his head. “Or else I’ve lost my touch. Where did you say you wanted me to go?”

  We walked down the marble staircase. I retrieved Forstman’s coat and hat from the cloakroom; he couldn’t get his mind around what they looked like, so he had a hard time describing them. Just then Fleming brought Judy, who looked—I don’t quite know which—mad or frightened, or maybe she couldn’t choose between them. She asked her husband if he was alright. He assured her he was. “Just had one too many of those Century martinis,” he said. “I think I’ll go home now.”

  When we got back upstairs the crowd was still hanging in there, waiting for toasts to be made and cake to be cut. Fleming remarked he hadn’t known that Forstman had a drinking problem.

  “I don’t think he does,” I said. “Do you know how sick he is? They’ve given him less than a year to live.”

  “All I know is he has no manners,” Fleming said. “Let’s not talk about it.”

  He was steaming. He seemed not to be able to shake it off. Fortunately, it was time for the toasts. I was called on first. I made the expected, unoriginal jokes about perennial bachelors greeted by polite laughter. I talked some about our experiences together in wartime Washington, made a passing reference to the Cold War (without moral inflection but with pointed reference to the bride and groom— “may there never develop,” etc., etc.); and then partly to help Fleming get rid of the bad taste in his mouth, spoke briefly about how much this author meant to Griffin House and especially to Fred Forstman. “Fred, where are you?” I said. Heads swiveled, but of course he had left the premises. “Well,” I said, winding up. “May Ed and Mary enjoy the life together that they deserve.” Polite applause. Then Mary’s father spoke and then his brother, Grant, who had shown up and was appropriately ambiguous while Fleming frowned.

  Phyllis said, “I suppose you’re ready to leave?”

  “As a matter of fact I am. You?”

  “I just met someone from the station. I’d like to stay and talk to him for a few minutes.” She assume
d I knew she meant WNYC.

  I told her I didn’t think I wanted to stay; the noise was getting to me and the feeling that I was trapped. She consented, and asked if I wouldn’t mind taking a cab home so she could ride in the car with Barry. “Of course you can have the car,” I said even as my heart was breaking.

  IT WAS past eleven when Phyllis got home. No visit with my prince tonight. I was in bed reading one of Bruce Catton’s books about the Civil War, rumored to be a top contender for this year’s Pulitzer in non-fiction. It was a pretty good read and I kicked myself for not having made a larger offer when it was originally auctioned.

  “Oh, you’re still awake?” she said.

  “Did you eat?”

  “Those nasty little hors d’oeuvres?” she said. “No, I made myself a sandwich just now.” There was a trace of something shiny on her chin. Why did I notice these things?

  “Well,” I said, “you certainly seemed to have enjoyed yourself. What a crowd! My father would have called half of it ‘the enemy.’ ”

  “You mean because most of them are Republicans? Sometimes—and you’re probably not going to believe this— I can overlook that. Especially, you know, if it has something to do with me.” She was peeling her clothes off as she talked. I pretended to look at her, but I threw a veil over my eyes so I wouldn’t have to see the rolls and bumps and lumps; is there anything crueler than what time does to a female?

  “I’m going to take a shower. My hair stinks of cigarette smoke.”

  Phyllis was a long showerer. I decided to take a chance that tonight’s shower would be especially long. As soon as Phyllis was safely in the bathroom with the door closed, I sprinted upstairs for a goodnight hug and kiss. It turned out to be something more extended than a simple hug and kiss. When I came back downstairs, Phyllis was in bed with the bedside lamp turned off. Light from cars traveling our street striped the ceiling and were gone. In the dark, she asked me where I had been. Guilt made me irritated and rough. I told her that she knew I had some of my best ideas at night, why did she keep asking me the same question over and over again. I was writing a memo about the Civil War if she really wanted to know; did she want to take a look at it.