“Listen to me. I’ve seen you every day for seven months now. I’ve seen you with Mary. You’re a good man.” She paused for a moment. “But I’m not so sure about Lennie and Nora. I think they’re more infected with evil than Ray. Listening to what the two of them did makes me feel covered in slime.”
“Her father says Nora is immersed in guilt.”
“I should hope so.”
“He also says Lennie and Nora want us to have dinner with them next week.”
“Well, I hope you told him where they could put their invitation.”
“I’ve decided that I want us to accept.”
CHAPTER XVIII
◊
It was six-thirty p.m. on a July evening and the sun hadn’t set, but the light was starting to fade.
“I’m nervous,” Linda said as we turned west onto East Eighty-Sixth Street.
“I can understand why,” I answered.
In my months at Schoolcross I’d come to take my association with the Hirshes for granted, but I knew Linda might feel slightly dazzled. Nora and Lennie are celebrities in the art world and beyond, even though their latest press clippings had been far from flattering.
“Can you? I’m not talking about their money or celebrity or social status, you know.”
“So why?”
“Because I know the most intimate details of their personal lives, and I’ve never met them.”
“I know you think Nora has behaved very badly, and she has, but in many ways I’ve always liked her, and I . . .”
Linda interrupted me.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she? I’ve seen her picture.”
“And you think that would cloud my perception?”
“Oh, no. Of course it wouldn’t.”
We moved apart to allow the passage of a little dog on a leash held by an approaching matron, who smiled at Linda and me. When we moved together again, Linda’s tone had an edge.
“The woman betrayed her husband with a criminal, then betrayed her lover so her husband could kill him. But you’ve always liked her?”
“I’m not going to have this conversation again. Let’s save our judgments for the walk home. I thought you were going to tell me why you were nervous.”
“After everything you’ve told me, I’m afraid my mouth is going to drop open when we’re introduced. What should I say to them?”
Recalling my father’s all-purpose advice, I said, “Hold out your hand and say, ‘How do you do?’”
“Very funny.”
We reached the Hirshes’ building a half block off Central Park, and I was momentarily surprised and a little put off. I had expected that their new home would at least demonstrate some contrition for their past behavior, but in fact it was a modern tower of darkened glass and expensively simple modern architectural detail. During the elevator ride to the sixteenth floor, I shared Linda’s nervousness. Why was it so important to them that we come to dinner? What did they want?
Alerted to our arrival by the house phone, Lennie, wearing a blue polo shirt and a pair of khakis, waited by an open door as we stepped out of the elevator and into the vestibule. His apartment appeared to occupy the entire sixteenth floor. As he ushered us into a spacious white marble-floored reception hall, I glanced at Linda and saw that she was staring, her mouth wide open.
Nora greeted us, and I understood Linda’s reaction. Through her loosely fitting white cotton shift, I could see that she was very pregnant.
Linda recovered, held her hand out to Lennie, and said, “How do you do?”
They shook hands solemnly. I stared at Nora until Linda nudged me. I said, “How do you do?” and without thinking of my injury, extended my right hand.
Nora gave me her wan smile, took my offered hand gently, and said, “At least you didn’t ask, ‘Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?’”
“Nora . . . you’re pregnant!”
“Bradley . . .” Linda whispered.
“Observant as ever, I see,” Lennie said. “Come in. Welcome. Let me fix you a drink.”
“Scotch and soda!” Linda and I said simultaneously as we followed him through the hall.
The living room was high ceilinged and decorated in a modern style quite unlike what I had expected of Lennie and Nora’s new household. The furniture—all chrome, glass, and aubergine velvet—was almost as abstract as the so-so art on the walls. I remembered that Highat had told me Lennie and Nora had rented the place furnished. After the traditional warmth of her beloved Big House, I couldn’t imagine Nora living here.
“What do you think, Bradley?” Lennie asked, indicating the apartment with a sweep of his arm. The living room windows offered a marvelous side view of the sunset over Central Park, but I only glanced out, then turned my attention back to the interior.
“It’s terrific, Lennie. When do we blast off for Mars?”
“I know,” he said with a sigh. “That’s how Nora feels about it too. Actually, I rather like it . . . as a change of pace.” He moved to a malachite green bar on which sat a silver ice bucket—Georg Jensen, I noted—and an opened bottle of San Pellegrino. He took four faceted crystal glasses from a shelf on the wall and placed them beside the bucket. “Anyway,” he said with his back to me, “there aren’t a lot of choices available if you want to live in the city on short notice. We lost everything in the fire, so we needed to lease something furnished—and in a building that’s not a co-op.”
To move into any decent co-op in New York requires the approval of the building’s board of directors, which always consists of snobby current residents. Lennie and Nora were infamous now and unlikely to be welcomed in any “good” building.
“This isn’t a co-op?” I asked, studying the side of his head as I spoke to his back. He’d grown his hair longer; the scar left by the ax was obscured.
“It’s a condominium. No board approval necessary. Friend-of-a-friend situation through Highat . . .”
He had located a bottle of Scotch and some soda in the cabinet beneath the bar, and as he retrieved them his voice trailed off.
“Not too strong, and on the rocks, please,” I said.
Lennie poured two drinks, added ice from the bucket using a pair of silver tongs, and handed me the glasses. Then he poured sparkling water for himself and Nora. We joined the women, who had migrated to a sofa and several chairs around a coffee table, and Lennie handed Nora her glass. I placed our two drinks on the table and sat next to Linda on the sofa, facing the windows to the park, and Nora and Lennie took the chairs on either side. I was still taken aback by Nora’s pregnancy. For a long while, no one said anything. Then they both spoke at the same moment and the strained silence was broken.
“Thank you for . . .” Nora began. “I just wanted to . . .” said Lennie. Nora faded while Lennie continued to run with the conversational ball. “. . . thank you for accepting our invitation. And for finally giving us a chance, Bradley, to thank you for what you did for us all.”
Their “thank yous” made me uneasy.
“You’re very kind, Lennie,” I said. “But I have a question. How are Linda and I supposed to hold our faces this evening?”
“Hold your faces?” Lennie asked.
Nora smiled. She always understood my blending of truth with humor.
“He’s saying they’re not sure how to act under the rather awkward circumstances,” she said to Lennie. Then she said to me, “Hold your face however you like. Before the fire you were one of our closest friends, and I hope our friendship doesn’t have to . . .” She remembered something. “Let me see your hands,” she said.
I extended them and she leaned forward and took them, examining with tenderness the alterations left by Ray’s footwork. “What do the doctors say?” she asked.
“They’ll be fine one day. Rather like a severe case of arthritis, that’s all.” I withdrew my hands. “But I do need to ask you something, Nora. What’s the official position on your pregnancy? Do we ignore it? Sympathize? Congrat
ulate you?”
“Bradley, please . . .” Linda said.
“No,” Lennie said. “It’s a fair question under the circumstances. The official position is this—Nora and I are going to have a child. Congratulations are in order.”
I stood in front of Nora, and when she rose too, I gave her a kiss on the cheek and said, “Congratulations.” She felt too thin when I hugged her, even with the bulge below her belly.
“Thank you,” she said. To Linda she asked, “Are we being rude? This must all be so confusing for you.”
“Not at all,” Linda answered.
“I’ve told Linda everything that happened at Schoolcross,” I said, looking first at Nora and then at Lennie. “Everything.”
Then I sat back down—“collapsed” might be a better description—onto the sofa next to Linda. Lennie spoke up.
“While we’re talking frankly, let me say that I respect your stand on this whole thing—about not wanting our thanks, and about not speaking to me as long as Mario remained in jail. Believe me, I was as distressed about that as you were.”
“And me, Bradley?” asked Nora. “Are you still angry at me too?”
She looked so vulnerable. Her face had been washed completely clean of any pretense by all she’d experienced.
“Do you smell something burning?” I asked.
She sprang back to her feet. “The bread!” Linda followed her into the kitchen.
“And what about me, Bradley?” Lennie asked with a friendly smile. His complacency and self-centeredness in these opulent surroundings made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.
“What about you, Lennie? Do you want to know if I’m mad at you, or do you want congratulations on the pregnancy?”
His smile vanished. “I thought we could keep this civil,” he said. I expected him to strike back, but instead he slumped in his chair and said, “I was trying to do something good, Bradley. I was trying to help someone—a fellow artist—who was dying in a cell. I thought it was my duty.”
“Don’t feed me that bullshit, Lennie. You wanted to play the tough guy by hanging out with your private killer. You never considered that he was a real person. Tingley had you pegged. Art was only your excuse—you did it for your own stimulation. Four people are dead because of your careless arrogance . . .”
I was starting to raise my voice, but Lennie’s demeanor wasn’t conducive to piling on. He slumped further in his chair and hung his head. I’d never unleashed such venom at anyone before and until that moment hadn’t realized how emotionally draining it would be. I, too, lowered my gaze, unable to look at him, and the silence hung as heavily as the words that had been spoken.
“I know,” said Lennie finally. “I did something wrong. Haven’t you ever done something you deeply regret but can’t undo?”
Would you please put that baby down? We’re going to be late, I had said to Linda.
Before I could answer Linda and Nora came into the room, talking happily together.
“Dinner’s ready,” Nora said before returning quickly to the kitchen. Linda stayed in the living room and took my hand gently, at the wrist, as if to help me up from the sofa. “Nora is lovely,” she said to me. “I can see now why you’ve always liked her so much.”
The redness of my face and the sheen of sweat across my forehead alarmed her, and she looked at Lennie, who was staring fixedly at some invisible object in the corner.
“What’s going on here?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “Lennie and I were having a little chat. Dinner’s ready?”
I walked with Linda into the dining room, then glanced back at Lennie, who was following us, his mood much subdued since the moment of our arrival. Nora was uncovering dishes on a buffet table and she smiled.
“Help yourselves, please,” she said. “We’re very casual tonight.”
The dining room table was set for four. I served myself a plate.
“Please sit, Bradley,” Nora said. “Don’t wait. I need to bustle for a while.”
Linda already had taken her seat while Lennie circled the table, filling our wineglasses with a Pouilly-Fuissé. When he reached Nora’s place he glanced at her standing by the buffet.
“Half a glass please, darling,” she said.
By the time he had finished pouring the wine, Nora had served his plate. He took it from her and sat at the head. Nora seated herself opposite him.
“Please, begin,” she said, cutting a chicken breast.
Blood was still pounding in my ears from my outburst at Lennie. Linda and Nora resumed chatting, but I couldn’t concentrate on their conversation. The chicken was tasteless, and after a bite I sat there holding my fork, trying to recover my composure. Lennie wasn’t eating either, just pushing food around his plate.
Nora noticed the strained silence and interrupted her conversation with Linda.
“What’s going on with you two? Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine, dear,” Lennie answered, his voice calm and somewhat distant. “Bradley gave me a tutorial on arrogance and responsibility, and I’ve been digesting its contents. We both have.”
Nora and Linda looked quizzically at me, then at Lennie.
“Stop it, Lennie,” I said.
“No, I won’t stop it. So I asked him a question in return—one he hasn’t answered yet. ‘Haven’t you ever done something you deeply regret, but can’t undo?’”
“Yes, Lennie, I have,” I said.
“I’m sure everyone has,” said Linda. “I’m sure we all have.”
“Amen to that,” Nora said quietly.
“But we didn’t invite you here tonight to play truth or dare, Bradley,” Lennie said.
“Why are we here?”
“My intention—or our intention . . .” He indicated Nora with a nod of his head.”. . . was to sound you out on whether you might consider representing me—my work, that is.”
“Lennie,” I said, “I just accused you of playing the tough guy for your own stimulation. Now you want me to represent you?”
“Well, I want you to at least consider it. And, yes, your accusations are painful, but this is the first time we’ve talked since . . . the tragic events.”
“Believe me,” he continued, “there’s nothing you can say to hurt me that I haven’t already said to myself. I value your honesty and know I can trust you. But excuse me if I don’t patronize everyone by parading my guilt publicly.”
“What are you suggesting?” I asked. “That we act as if Ray Martin never existed? That you never got him out of prison? That we all live happily ever after?”
“What’s your suggestion, Bradley?” asked Nora. “That we all live miserably ever after? You should know that having you here tonight was my idea too.”
“I want to ask Nora and Lennie something,” said Linda, the strength of her voice startling everyone at the table. We all looked at her. “After what the two of you did to each other, how can you stay married?”
There was a barely audible collective sigh around the dinner table—as if someone very far away were deflating an enormous balloon—and then we just sat there looking at each other.
“I’m sorry to press you like this, Nora,” she continued, “but I’m not asking out of curiosity. Bradley and I have hurt each other badly too. We’ve said and done things that are unforgivable.”
Nora answered her.
“My mother and father told us last Christmas that some marriages don’t begin until both people have committed and forgiven the unforgivable. They seemed to be speaking from experience.”
We spent the rest of the evening in a detailed four-way discussion of Lennie’s career and his unhappy relationship with Danielle Crockett and the Crockett Gallery. Lennie’s professional situation posed some unique challenges—and opportunities. If he left Crockett and I took him on, we’d need gallery space.
Linda and I finished the bottle of wine, and my fingers hurt less than at any time since I’d discontinued the pain
killers. After we’d all finished our decaf coffee or tea in the living room, I promised I’d think about the evening’s discussion and get back to them.
Linda surprised me as we were leaving.
“Next time,” she said, “you come to our apartment.”
Nora gave her most endearing smile and said, “That would be wonderful. I want to meet Mary. I hope that she can be like a sister to the baby.”
As we walked out the door, Nora handed me a Bergdorf’s bag containing a white cardboard box. “There’s a thing in the box that belongs to you,” she said. “But please wait to open it. I don’t want to cry.”
Linda and I decided to stay on the crowded sidewalks of Eighty-Sixth Street for three blocks east, then take Lexington south to Seventy-Third. The temperature was pleasant for July; the restaurants would be busy this time of night and there would be people on the street. Ever since my encounter with Raider, I planned my walking routes with care, thinking about lighting and circumstance.
“What do you make of it all?” Linda asked as we reached our walking pace. I’d been mentally preparing for a postmortem of the evening, but before I could respond she answered her own question.
“We need to think about the offer to represent Lennie,” she said. “But I have to admit, they’re nothing at all like I’d imagined. You described them well, but somehow I had a very different image in my mind. Of her especially.”
“How so?”
“I pictured her as a spoiled rich girl.”
“Well, she certainly can be. But you’re right—Nora is more than that stereotype. Her devotion to Lennie had been remarkable until Ray Martin came to Schoolcross.”
“I don’t have Lennie completely pegged yet,” Linda said. “I don’t think I’ve ever encountered such a combination of artistic egotism and profound guilt.”
“The guilt is new. And well deserved.”
She turned the subject back to Nora. “And now she’s going to have a baby . . .”
”I’m still flabbergasted by that. Did she say anything to you about the pregnancy?”
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