Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances

by Dorothy Fletcher

  She should be able to clean off her desk for the night at just before six and then hie herself up to Fifty-seventh Street to join Anton. He worked in the Genesco Bulding and they met outside it, whereupon they stolled up to her apartment on Eight-third, stopping off at a Gristede’s for whatever food shopping might be necessary.

  She and Anton were together three evenings a week. Monday, Wednesday and Friday, though Anton didn’t stay overnight. He left at around eleven, unless they had guests, in which case it would be later. Clover always went downstairs with him to be sure he got a cab. Otherwise he might have decided to walk home. He had an arrogant disregard for even the simplest safety measures, no street smarts. She thought it was probably because he had lived through such grisly times in Europe, and everything else seemed picayune to him.

  They were also together all day on Sunday. This was the way Anton apportioned his time between wife and lover. Clover had no idea how this arrangement sat with Mrs. Ehrenberg, but it suited her well enough. She was not one to cry over spilled milk, bang her head against a stone wall about things she had no power to change. She would have liked very much to be the sole possessor of this man she loved so much, but then it seem reasonable to assume that so, undoubtedly, would Mrs. Ehrenberg.

  And my goodness, she was used to living alone after many a long year. Maybe it would be hard not to live alone for someone so accustomed to it. It wasn’t that she had planned not to marry, but then she had never planned to marry, the way girls — even today — simply took it for granted that whatever course their lives took it would include the altar and the delivery room. She had always been comfortable with herself, not so much egocentric as simply at home with Clover Martinson, though she had often wished her sister April hadn’t married either, that the two of them had just gone on, in a companionable spinsterhood, with apartments close to each other’s. April had married, though, and now lived in Connecticut, as did their mother, who had left New York when their father’s firm relocated there. Now Daddy was dead, so it was nice that she had April within visiting distance.

  She didn’t miss April the way she used to, thankfully, since she had Anton now. It was just that her sister was almost like an alter ego, with the same ready spontaneity as herself and the same avid greediness for all the things there were to do and see and learn. They had always been best friends when they were growing up, doing rash things, absolutely in tune with each other, guessing what was in each other’s mind and finishing each other’s sentences as if they had a common brain pan. They had no formal religious beliefs, but she and April had always admired Jesus for his unstudied humility, his joyful poverty and his simple enjoyments, walking about in the fresh air and rapping with all sorts of people.

  Before she met Anton she had plenty of fun and no lack of attention from guys. There was a period of a few years when her refrigerator was almost bare, just bread, milk, butter and so forth and in the pantry coffee and a few tins. Food was no problem because she was asked out to dinner just about every night in the week. Men wanted her, not only for her looks but for her easy, reckless abandon. She was never a great lay: her lust died quickly and maintaining a sexual relationship was difficult for her. She would rather go out to dinner, or a movie, or the opera, or take a walk. Ex-lovers found themselves gravitating back to her, for friendship and a good time. She was genuinely liked, which was primarily what she wanted.

  That was over, there was Anton now, and she was just like any of the other of her married friends: she was happily hog-tied.

  In her office at shortly after three, she pored over schedules, using the phone, writing out airline tickets. She had lengthy conferences with a client who had become a friend as well, and one with a male client, a lawyer who generally drove her up the wall but who today was a pussycat. All went smoothly and at five-fifty-five she paperweighted a few piles of material, locked her desk, and left.

  She could see him standing there, as she neared the Genesco Building, a cigarette stuck between his lips, lean and handsome and looking expectant. She raised a hand, grinning, and he did the same. “Hi,” she called, rushing up to him.

  They kissed and then walked, hand in hand, uptown along Fifth. It was that lovely time of day with the sun at its strongest, like a fiery eye, so that a kind of golden sheen glazed streets and structures. “How was your day?” she asked him.

  “Çi, ça. Yours?”

  “I had lunch with the girls. Meryl, Helene, Ruth and Chris. I’m stuffed. Can we have a light dinner?”

  “An omelet?”

  “Yeah. With a green salad. Summer’s nice, isn’t it?”

  “It’s barely spring.”

  She was completely happy. She couldn’t imagine any other life but this one with Anton. Everything had led up to this unalloyed contentment, and it was all she would ever want.

  • • •

  Ruth and Christine, after making their way over to Fifth, crossed to the park side and started downtown. “You didn’t want to go shopping, did you?” Ruth asked.

  “No, I wanted to take advantage of this heavenly day, stay out in the fresh air.”

  “It’s probably anything but fresh, but pollution or no it feels like champagne.”

  It was indeed a rare day, a bonanza after the bum winter. Blue skies, like enamel. Cloisonné skies, speckled with delicate clouds that looked like pointillism. “How’s this for an improvement in the weather?” Ruth demanded. “I guess we’re set now, I doubt we’ll revert to icy blasts.”

  “No, I don’t think so. Just about time too. I’m so sick of wool scarves and lined gloves and bundling up like an Eskimo.”

  “It was a nice lunch.”

  “It was great. I missed Meryl the last time, when she was laid up with the flu.”

  “She looked fine today.”

  They walked down to Fifty-seventh Street, watched the Hare Krishna crew with their shaved pates and jingling bells. High-stepping it, cavorting and chanting. Ruth shrugged. “I suppose if they want to make jackasses out of themselves.”

  “Yes, well.”

  They retraced their steps, starting back. “Ever worry your kids will go overboard for something like that?”

  “Nancy’s too ambitious and Bruce is too square. Like me.”

  “The trouble is you’re not square.”

  “I wasn’t once but I am now. Sad to say. I’ve become a bore.”

  “Okay, what shall we do, go back to school? Pick up where we left off?”

  “I’d like to open a tiny shop somewhere. Over on Second, I guess. Gifts. Not run-of-the-mill garbage. Mad things, insane things nobody else has.”

  “Where would the capital come from?”

  “I haven’t thought that out yet.” Christine laughed. “Just kidding, of course. I can dream, can’t I? Let’s go down and say hello to the seals.”

  They turned in at the entrance to the zoo area, down the steps and across the brick-tiled walkway that led to the central esplanade. On this sun-bleared day of early spring the crowds were out in full force, the vendors’ stands enjoying a brisk business. “Well, all right,” Ruth said, throwing her head back and breathing deeply. “This is more like it. I was here a week ago, I thought I’d be blown away. I can hack cold, but I detest and abominate wind.”

  The seals too seemed to vibrate to the change of seasons; they were as skittish as kittens, barking croupily and sliding off their rocks to splash in the sparkling pool. Screaming kids mimicked them, volleys of admonitions from harrassed parents rang out, babies bawled, English, Spanish merged to make a great clangor, noise pollution bombarded one’s ears; it was a lovely bedlam. “You know,” Ruth murmured, “it’s little things like this that make you happy in the most idiotic way. Oh, I love New York.”

  “Even if it is dying.”

  “Bull. Well, maybe, who knows. So I’ll die with it.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me.”

  “Let’s have a soft ice cream.”

  “After that lunch? Well,
okay.”

  They lapped it while sitting on a bench. Chatting idly for a bit and then falling silent, sitting close to each other, companionable and glad to be together and just as pleased to sit quietly and watch the passing parade. “Duty calls,” Christine said regretfully at shortly before five. “Let’s catch the hour at the clock and then we’d better get on our sticks.”

  “Okay. I’ve so enjoyed today.”

  “Me too. Better hurry, it’s a few minutes to.”

  They made it in time, and stood smiling as they joined the attentive throng in front of the Delacorte clock, where the beguiling bronze animals revolved slowly and with an endearing pomposity, beating their drums and wielding their batons. “Five o’clock and all’s well,” a smiling mother said to her toddler. “Wasn’t that fun, Jeffrey?”

  “Well, back to the salt mines,” Ruth said briskly, and they left, arm in arm, and ambled back home. Ruth turned off at Sixty-sixth, her street. “Take it easy,” she called.

  “You too. We’ll do something next week.”

  “I’ll probably see you at the supermarket on Saturday.”

  Three blocks farther the complex that was Christine’s own home grounds loomed, the Colonnade, so named because of some architectural features that were functional but gave the impression of decorative pillars if you stretched your imagination a bit.

  It was an enclave, housing God knew how many souls within its confines, and a kind of superhuman effort must have been required to prevent the block-long, block-wide structure, in its elephantine proportions, from appearing to be either a hospital or a penal institution. Miraculously, whoever had mapped out this sprawling monstrosity had been in the main successful. There was much lush planting inside girdling stone walls that gave the clever impression of being built out of adobe brick, like that of an old Mission, and winding, woodsy little paths where you half expected to see an elf or two. There were imaginatively-shaped espaliered trees and dappled expanses of lawn dotted with lacy benches and chairs. It was rather like a Maxfield Parrish conception of paradise.

  The Colonnade had been one of the first luxury houses to employ concierges. Just like in Paris, some residents commented with only marginal irony. Where you lived in this monolithic beehive determined which concierge was assigned to you and which elevator you used. Also which maintenance men got your money at Christmas. It was a fortress in the jungle of Manhattan: there were many such. It had gone co-op some years ago, though there were still, it was said, some nonsubsidized units. Famous people lived there and some infamous people. Money was the requisite, though controversial political figures and flamboyant film personalities had a tough time finding their way into the bastion. It was well patrolled and there had been relatively few burglaries and there was a marked absence of small children, though there were many pint-sized dogs with cranky barks who had been trained to wait until they were out on the sidewalk before emptying their bowels.

  Carl Jennings had had the foresight to see the wave of the future, that cooperatives and condominiums would swallow the rental market, a shark wolfing down smaller fish. You didn’t have a prayer these days unless you had lots of money in the bank. If you had it you thanked God for it and tried not to think of less fortunate people. For the eight-room apartment Carl had bought in 1977, he had paid the sum of $190,000 which, at the time, had seemed a princely sum but which inflation had beggared, so that by this time the asking price would be something like three times that amount, and he never tired of reminding Christine of that fact.

  He arrived home while Christine was putting the artichokes in the steamer. “What’s to eat, honey?” he asked her, accompanying the question with a pat on the rump.

  “Linguine with clam sauce. Artichokes, and I made a flan for dessert.”

  “Sounds tasty.” He kissed her. “How was your day?”

  “I had lunch with the girls. You?”

  “So so. Anything I can do?”

  “No, sit down and read the paper or something. This will be ready in half an hour. Tell Nancy.”

  No one had to tell Bruce; he was setting the table. He was increasingly thoughtful, maybe a little apprehensive too, wistful, clinging even, for he would be going away to college next year, and anyway he had always been her shadow. Nancy was Daddy’s girl, but Bruce and Christine had a dialogue that was very precious to her.

  Next fall he would be vamos. Home for the holidays, but no longer under her aegis. His room would be empty.

  God, I’ll miss him, she thought.

  It was a good dinner, she was a good cook. Many years had accomplished this, and these days it was her only duty around the house. It irked her that Nancy was picking at her food. “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked her daughter.

  “Not very.”

  “I can imagine why. You had junk food after school. Why do I bother to cook?”

  “Why don’t you hire a chef de maison, then you won’t have to slave over a hot stove.”

  “There’s little enough for me to do as it is. At least I can make a meal for my family. Damn it, Nancy, why do you do that?”

  “Eat junk food? Live dangerously, I always say. You should be grateful I don’t go in for angel dust.”

  “You go in for angel dust, you look for other accommodations,” Christine said calmly.

  “May I be excused?”

  “No you may not. Sit there and move the food around on your plate. What did you do with your hair?”

  “Got tired of it and threw it in the trash can,” Nancy answered sassily, and Carl laughed.

  Christine smiled. “Look who’s picking me up on semantics, of all people. However you fixed it, it looks nice. I used to part my hair in the middle.”

  “I remember that,” Carl said. “You looked like a Renaissance Madonna.”

  “She’s not a bad-looking chick,” Bruce conceded. “Not that she’ll ever be any competition for you, Mother. She’ll go downhill fast, she’ll be blowsy in her thirties.”

  Nancy threw a crouton at him. “What’s for dessert?” she asked.

  “I made a flan.”

  “Oh. So I’ll hang around.”

  “I thought you would.”

  We’re really a pretty nice bunch, Christine thought, sitting at her end of the table, the day dying, the prospect of a good documentary on television later on. Her daughter was blooming, getting to look more like Ali McGraw every day, and her son had those soft, velvety eyes. Facing her husband, she had to admit that he was a fine-looking man, though his hair was thinning at the back and it wouldn’t hurt him to lose some weight around the middle. Still, and all things considered, they weren’t such a bad lot.

  The burst of sun that snaked in from the terrace cast a glow on the domestic scene. The classic American portrait, father, mother and offspring, along with a well-filled table. Like a Norman Rockwell. Why then should she feel this malaise, this nagging discontent? There were no monetary worries, far from it. Carl’s earnings as a doctor were gargantuan, neither of the kids was in reform school and it would soon be summer, when the living was easy.

  She poured herself some more Beaujolais, forked up the last of her salad and molded her face into a smile. This was hers, this was what she had, it was all she would ever have and she wouldn’t have it always. She sat there, with that fixed smile, which encompassed them all. Her family, two of whom she had brought forth from her own body.

  And now it was time to get up and clear the table, bring in the dessert, the pot of coffee, fresh napkins. Bruce would help her, though Nancy would remain seated, keeping her father company, the two of them grinning at each other and he asking about her day at school. She would do one of her imitations, having inherited this dubious talent from her mother. Some instructor or other, mimic his speech or his stance or his pedantry. Carl would smile anticipatively. After a while, from the kitchen, she would hear his deep-bodied laugh, while she and Bruce exchanged amused glances. “There they go again,” Bruce would say.

  Immobility claimed Chris
tine this evening, however, and the entr’acte between the meal and the dessert was unduly prolonged. She had eaten very little, after the hearty lunch earlier in the day, so it had been for her mostly the green salad. She was still dwelling on the lunch, and her friends, and thinking that the walk later on with Ruth had been sort of idyllic. Two old friends strolling the well-trodden paths of Central Park. The sky had been so blue, like the portals of heaven. How lovely, how lovely …

  Her eyes were heavy — too many martinis. Three. Surely no more than that? She couldn’t quite remember. But three at the most, she never went past three.

  She heard the sigh escaping. It came from her. “Well,” she said, to no one in particular. “Everyone finished?”

  Everyone was, it seemed. But she didn’t get up, just sat there. There were no remarks, no one made a crack at the unwonted delay, not even Nancy asked were they going to stay there all night or what. They just sat there waiting, sort of arrested in motion, almost unmoving, with the sun hitting Carl full in the face, so that he had his head slightly lowered, as if in prayer, and his eyes half closed. She thought of the ossified bodies in Pompeii, lying in their glass showcases on their backs, just the way they had fallen when the terrible blow struck, their voices stilled forever by the awesome force that ended the course of their lives in the midst of whatever they had been doing at the time. Maybe cooking, maybe tending a child, maybe getting ready for a party, maybe screwing, maybe waiting for their dessert to be served, who would ever know now?

  But it wasn’t that, after all, and it wasn’t a Norman Rockwell drawing, all folksy and heartwarming. It was Duane Hanson, of course, of course. They were Duane Hanson figures, cast in plaster and then clad in store-bought clothing, large as life and real as life, artfully posed in the most natural postures imaginable, a striking facsimile of honest to God people. There they were, right in her own dining room, to add to the decor. Pretend companions, that’s what they were. She was playing house and force-feeding them, the way she used to do with her dolls. Eat that up, you bad girl …