“What makes you think that, Christine? That I want to become famous.”
“You said it yourself. Nobody knows my name.”
“Salinger’s a household word, but he shuns the limelight. To the point of paranoia. Do you really think I’m the type to go on talk shows and bare my chest like Hemingway?”
“Why not, you’ve got a dandy chest.”
He laughed, played with her hand. “Famous is fine, I’d settle for that, Chris. Nothing wrong with a few whiskers, either, maybe some day I’ll cultivate a bunch. Right now I’m thinking about finding a deli and then going home and feeding our faces. We want to have plenty of time to discuss literature on the sofa before thinking of dinner.”
“There seems to be a lot of eating on the agenda,” she observed. “Where are we going for dinner, do you know?”
“Yeah. That is, if it’s all right with you. Is it all right with you?”
“Just so long as it isn’t a vegetarian place.”
“It is. How’d you guess?”
“Okay. If you insist.”
“It’s a place called Eduardo’s, to be serious. I found it awhile ago, it doesn’t look like much but it’s great, I think very highly of it. Practically right around the corner from where I live. So okay?”
“Certainly, fine.”
There was a delicatessen opposite Schaller & Weber, they went in and bought pastrami, potato salad, a jar of dill pickles. Jack said he had rye bread in the house, sweet butter. They sat in their ladderback chairs polishing it off, then had coffee. After that Jack led her to the bedroom. “Lie down, I want to talk to you,” he said with a leer.
“It was nice down by the water,” she said, when they were lying together. “I’ll remember it, you know. There are some things you remember more than others.”
“Yes, I’ll think of that too.”
“And taking that silly shower. Goddamn it, I forgot to get the soap!”
“The whole day blown to smithereens,” he murmured. “You forgot the soap.”
• • •
“Where is this Eduardo’s?” she asked, when they at last got up and turned on lamps. “It’s Italian, one gathers.”
“First Avenue, Fifty-ninth. Yes, of course Italian.”
She was in the bathroom, at the mirror. “My hair. I look like a Forty-second Street hooker.”
“You look like Primavera.”
“Some Primavera. At my age.”
“Your age. You should know from age. I love your hair that way.”
“Like this? A trollop out of Hogarth?”
“Do Marlon Brando.”
“Shut your bloody trap. May I borrow your comb? Or maybe your egg beater?”
“I don’t have a comb. I do have an egg beater, yes, I’ll go get it.”
“Naturally I was kidding. Naturally I have a comb, would you mind bringing me my handbag?”
“Born to fetch and carry, that’s me.”
“Never mind, I’ll get it. I hate people who say would you mind bringing me this, would you mind bringing me that …”
“Shut up, here it is.”
“Grudgingly, I notice.”
“You’re a crazy woman. When they made you, they — ”
“Broke the mold. I know, I’ve heard that before about myself.”
“You realize it’s true.”
“Listen, Jack. I’m somebody’s mother, I really would like a little respect.”
He sat on the edge of the tub laughing. She could see him in the mirror, grinning away. She glanced at her watch. It was after seven. They had had a whole day.
And now it was almost gone.
When they left she was all smooth and combed and fresh-faced. “What is it you use on your mouth?” Jack asked her. “It’s not lipstick. Not the general kind, anyway.”
“A Germaine Monteuil product. Designed to make the most of what nature gave you. You approve?”
“It’s luscious. That wet look.”
“It’s not supposed to look wet! Just faintly moist!”
“That’s what I said, faintly moist.”
Going down the carpeted stairs. They looked different at this time of the evening, the color of the carpet subtly changed. There were round hanging bulbs at each landing, lit now, a soft light. “This is a steal what you’ve got here,” Christine said. “When I think of some of the dumps Rodney and I went into. I wouldn’t put my worst enemy into any of them.”
“It’s a good place, I’m pleased as punch. Look at this, we’re going out to dinner for the first time. Will wonders never cease? Christ, I’m way up, like over and beyond the Van Allen belt. Dinner with Christine Jennings, who’d believe it?”
“Do they have soft-shelled crabs at Eduardo’s?”
“They do indeed.”
She called the house, pleasantly explaining that one of the girls had suggested staying “in town” for dinner. “You don’t mind, Carl?”
“Have a good time, of course I don’t mind.”
Years ago, saying to Mother, “I won’t be home to dinner, some friends — just dinner, that’s all.”
“Don’t be too late, Christine.”
The same sense of adventure, the same feeling that life held infinite promises, the bright night lights, dark pools of shadow where the light didn’t penetrate, walking along arm in arm. “Balmy,” Jack commented. “A balmy evening, listen to me with my eternal clichés.”
“Well, it’s balmy, who’s criticizing? This is such fun.”
There were cordial smiles at Eduardo’s. Jack was obviously a welcome guest, and there was a heady smell of garlic that greeted you when you opened the door and went inside. Very simpatico, and a jovial waiter who called her signora. “Buona sera, signora.”
“No, not a martini,” she said, when Jack gave the drink order. “I’ll have a perfect Manhattan, because Italian restaurants know how to put together one of those.”
“I’m learning something about you every day,” he observed.
“But it’s a fact. Dry vermouth and sweet vermouth, and they use the right brand for it, Stock’s, I think. It’s really my favorite drink, but you only get the real McCoy in an Eyetalian place.”
When it arrived she took a sip and then circled two fingers in the air. “I told you so,” she said triumphantly. To the waiter, “Couldn’t be better, thanks, it’s excellent.”
“Bene, bene.”
“So. What do you think of Eduardo’s?” Jack demanded. “No plush and gilt-framed mirrors, but it’s warm and welcoming, do you feel that?”
“Oh, yes, I like it very much. And thank God no piped music, though if they did have it it would probably be Italian, Neopolitan songs and so forth. I wouldn’t mind that. Just the same I’d just as soon not have it, it’s usually too loud anyway.”
“I used to go to Monk’s Court, music there, but on a stereo, and good stuff. Baroque, also Gregorian chants. Carl Orff too, Carmina Burana. You wouldn’t mind that, would you?”
“No, I’d like that. Why that sort of thing? Oh, Monks, I see. The motif, I take it.”
“Naturally. The waiters wear rough-spun cassocks, rope-tied round the waist. They’re all fat and jolly, like Friar Tuck.”
“Good food?”
“Very old English, hearty fare, slabs of beef, Yorkshire pudding. Nice. You’d like it, want to go sometime?”
“If it’s still in business, sure. So many places are going out of business. When were you there last?”
“About fifty years ago, come to think of it. I’ll check it out.”
“How about the food here, Jack? Veal piccata, I hope?”
“By all means. I thought you were set on the soft-shelled crabs.”
“If the food’s really good I’ll have a hard time deciding. Italian’s my favorite, but only when it’s very special super duper.”
“I would call the food here all of that.”
“That good, huh? I guess I’m glad I came.”
“I know someone else who
is. Not mentioning any names.”
“That’s my Jack.”
“Your Jack is right. I don’t even ogle dames on the street anymore. That used to be one of my beloved pastimes.”
“Their loss, my gain.”
“You said once that you occasionally saw some man on the street, or on the bus … and were attracted to him. I remember that irked me very much.”
“Did it really irk you? Forget it, Jack. I don’t do that anymore either.”
“How can I believe you?”
“How can I believe you?”
“You have my word.”
“You have mine. What’s our waiter’s name, do you know? He’s eyeing us with a benevolent gaze, he seems to approve of our togetherness.”
“He’s probably spinning fantasies about what it would be like to take you to bed.”
“Of course, why didn’t I think of that? Why don’t you go over and tell him what it’s like?”
“Words would fail me.”
“It would be the first time.”
“I’m that verbose? Wrong again, you’re the one who does the most talking.”
“That’s unfair. I’m a very good listener.”
They smiled at each other. Unremarkable conversation, lovers’ talk, silly, the two of them, fondly smirking — how wonderful it would be not to part at the end of the evening, just walk slowly back to Jack’s place, have a nightcap and a few post mortems and then fall asleep together …
In the morning having him there, his warmth beside her.
They had another drink, this time scanning the menus as they downed it: Christine decided on the soft-shelled crabs after all. It was chicken cacciatore for Jack. She had a taste of it, it was delicious. A big, oregano-scented stuffed clam in its shell was added to each plate. Glancing up at the waiter, Christine felt sure it was an extra for them because he liked them.
“How’s your crab?” Jack asked.
“Like poetry. Melt in your mouth. Here, try it.”
He forked up a bit. “Yeah,” he commented approvingly. “I told you, didn’t I? Have some chicken.”
“Great. Really great. Say, this is a find. And the clam. Fantastic. You’re a good man to know, John Allerton.”
“I have my talents.”
Halfway through dinner the overhead lights dimmed. Jack’s face, across from her, went darker and fainter. “Are you there?” she questioned.
“Yes, are you?”
“Could it be a power failure?”
“Some romantic you are. Atmosphere, my girl. Atmosphere.”
“Oh, they always do that?”
“Yes, they always do. In a little while it will be dimmed some more. That’s when everybody starts necking.”
“Oh, it’s that kind of place. I knew there must be some ulterior motives. Well, I like this light. Do I look mysterious and femme fatale this way?”
“You look like Ondine, under the sea.”
“You look like the young Tolstoy, with your beard.”
“Did the young Tolstoy sport a beard? I’m not sure. The beard again, huh? What is it, you want me to grow a beard?”
“Not until your oeuvre takes off. Stay the way you are.”
“Thank you. It can’t be the easiest thing eating Italian with a chin growth.”
“I’m sure it wouldn’t. This is lovely, Jack. I’m having the most gorgeous time.”
“Can we do it again?”
“Yes, darling. Sometime. Yes, we can and will.”
“I hoped you’d say that.”
“I suppose you knew I would.”
“No. I didn’t know that.”
“We will come here again, Jack. Let’s write off Monk’s Court. I want to come here.”
“So do I. They have a tasty rum cake, Chris. And the usual tortoni, spumone. That’s about it.”
“I guess it will be the spumone.”
He put her in a cab afterwards. It was nearly eleven. “Talk to you in the morning.”
“Yes. Jack, it was sublime.”
“It was for me. Be careful, okay?”
“Yes, it is a splendid summer,” she said to the cab driver. “Not too muggy so far, which is a blessing. Do you work nights as a rule?”
“As a rule,” he agreed. “More money in it. Naturally more chance of being mugged and robbed. Killed, let’s face it. You take your chances.”
“Yes,” she said soberly.
“City isn’t getting any better.”
“Unfortunately it isn’t.”
“I remember better. Other days, other times. What are you supposed to do, go to Arizona? Who’s got the dough to do that? Anyway, this is my piece of the U.S.A. Which entrance, ma’am?”
“The one on the left, just head for the circular driveway, that’s fine. How much do I owe you?”
“Two-ten.”
“You made good time, thanks.”
“Easy, not much traffic this time of night. Hey, thanks, you’re a real doll.”
That was because she gave him a dollar and a half tip.
And then inside. “Hello, Manuel,” she said to the night elevator operator. “Ninth floor, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. I don’t see you much, Mrs. Jennings.”
“True. We don’t go out that often at night.”
Manhattan in this year of our Lord — no one went out that much at night. There was a whole bunch of spooks out on those streets. Carl was in the study, poring over some medical journals. “Well, hello,” he greeted her. “I was beginning to get worried.”
“Nothing to worry about, plenty of cabs around.”
“Had a good time?”
“Yes, nice. You?”
“Just going over some material.” He yawned. “I guess it’s about time to turn in.”
“Anything good on television this evening?”
“The usual, a not-bad TV film about school busing. Something you would have enjoyed, very creditable acting.”
He had been waiting for her. He never went to bed until she was there, in the house, his security blanket. He didn’t even ask where she had dinner, It didn’t signify. She was home and now he could turn in, the Missus was where she belonged, it meant he could switch off the lights and get into his pajamas. “You going to read for a while?” he asked her, when they were settled in their beds.
“Not tonight.”
“Sleep well, dearest.”
“You too, darling.”
You should think what you were doing, but you didn’t think because it wouldn’t have any bearing — thinking wouldn’t change things, not one single thing. You lay a bed away from one man and your heart and mind was with another. You just learned to accept things the way they were, and you weren’t hurting anyone if they didn’t have an inkling of what was going on. She fell asleep with the sound of Carl’s light snoring in her ears, not sawing away at a great rate, he never did that, but somehow comforting, quieting, like the sound of a faraway surf, like the murmur of the sea against some distant shore.
15.
Clover was a little late, though not by much and anyway it made no difference, you didn’t mind waiting for a friend. Ten minutes or so after the hour she walked in breezily, looking charming as always, her smart skirt swaying as she swung toward Christine’s table, her coppery tan an effective contrast to the sun-streaked hair. Clover was “petite” but beautifully proportioned: she had legs like a stripper. “Hiya,” she said as she plumped herself down. “Jeez, this is the ticket. I love having lunch out on a Tuesday.”
“Why on a Tuesday?”
“Also on a Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday.” A grin. “Let’s face it, any day in the week. Thing is I’m not pally with anyone in the agency. So generally I wolf down some soggy sandwich either in a Soup Burg or at my desk.”
“How come you’re not pally with anyone there?”
“Tell you about that in a minute. You order your drink yet?”
“No, not until you came. I’m having a martini.”
&nbs
p; “That will be deux.” She gave the order when the waiter came over. “Extra dry, please. Olives, yes, Chris?”
“Um hum.”
“I’m very glad you called, Chris. You and I haven’t had lunch together alone in a dog’s age.”
“Spur of the moment. I had nothing better to do so I phoned you. As a last resort, of course.”
“I had nothing better to do so I said yes, let’s. As a last resort, ditto.”
“None of us ever grew up, did we? Same old wisecracks.”
“With each other, anyway. It’s a different idiom with other people, we’re like a Quad group, sorority sisters or something. I still think of you as Elliott sometimes. When we worked together the five of us called each other by last names. I’m not sure when it was we left off doing that.”
“And I quite often think of you as Martinson. ‘Hey, Martinson, gettin’ much?’ The standard Monday morning greeting.”
“Dumb kids we were. Anyway, kidding aside, glad for your spur-of-the-moment impulse. This is great.”
It had not been spur of the moment by any means. The truth was that Christine had been thinking of Clover Martinson a lot lately, for reasons that were only partly clear to her. It was probably mostly that Clover, who was unmarried and involved with a married man, was the very opposite of herself, who was married and involved with an unmarried man. Also Clover’s lover was older, while Jack Allerton was younger.
At the same time there was a similarity she didn’t need to spell out for herself: in neither case was there a ménage a trois but something vaguely approximating it. What she wanted was to sound Clover out, probe her true state of mind. Was she as carefree as she seemed with this long-term relationship, was it working? It had suddenly seemed imperative to talk to Clover, and so she had phoned her at the travel agency. “Well, all right,” Clover said enthusiastically. “One o’clock? How about Chinese?”
They had agreed to meet at Sheila Chang’s.
The drinks came and Clover said, “L’chayim,” and Christine said yes, to life, and they smiled at each other. “So what’s the reason you don’t have lunch with anyone in your agency, Clo?”
Prompt and concise. “They’re the pits, the scabby end. They are absolute shitheads. I knew that when I went into travel. It didn’t matter then and it doesn’t matter now. Travel’s my bag and the hell with the people in it, I couldn’t care less.”
Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances Page 23