By the Way Greta

by Marya Stones

  But his laugh was to die for. Greta couldn’t escape his natural charm.

  Thank God that I came, flitted through Greta’s mind. Thank Ingrid and Humphrey!

  “Nice that you’re here,” Mike said, and came toward her table.

  Greta looked for the friend who was supposed to have come as well, but Mike was alone. She didn’t want to ask. Perhaps he’s coming later, she thought to herself.

  “Have you met Carlos already?” Mike asked, as he sat down.

  “Yes,” Greta had to laugh. “He recognized me immediately since you apparently already introduced me to him yesterday.”

  “Uh, huh,” Mike nodded. “I came in for a glass of red wine yesterday and had Carlos reserve this table for today. And at the same time, I told him about you. Have you ordered already?”

  “Only a café au lait.”

  Mike turned to the counter. “Another one for me!” he called out to Carlos.

  Carlos nodded to Mike. “Hi, Mike, did you sleep well? You didn’t tell me that Greta was such a beautiful woman!”

  Greta blushed and looked at the table, a bit embarrassed. Without much ado and without asking Greta, Mike ordered a lavish breakfast, with all the bells and whistles. The legendary pancakes were included. During breakfast Mike and Greta spoke about anything and everything; both felt fabulous.

  Mike wasn’t only a web-designer; he was head of his own firm. The main branch of his agency was in New York, with a branch in Chicago and one in Miami. In Europe he worked with agencies in Munich, Paris, London, and Rome. His client-network extended from the center of the US to Central Europe.

  Mike also spoke about his family. His father, an American, was also a businessman, but at this point active mostly in philanthropy, and responsible for a number of charities. His mother had died as a result of an accident. She was caught in a storm some years ago on a sailing trip in the Caribbean. Her boat capsized and she was never found.

  “That’s also the reason that I’m always a little nervous in a storm,” Mike added. “Yesterday, as we flew through the hurricane, I could easily have gotten carried away. It was really difficult not to lose control. I would have loved to be able to force the captain to land immediately.” After his long monologue Mike searched for understanding in Greta’s eyes. “But it was all senseless, just not possible,” he added. “You know . . . my mother and I were never that close. Only shortly before her death did we find a way to approach one another. I felt as if I had just found someone, as if I were at the beginning of a mother-son relationship. And then she was gone. I wanted to ask her so many things, about my father, my grandparents in Europe — former-Yugoslavians -- her homeland. I had the feeling that I had been cheated of my childhood and youth, something that I had just discovered again.”

  Greta listened to him for a long time and Mike sensed that he had found a person who understood him, even without many words, and without prying or asking many questions. Greta was no chatterbox.

  Suddenly Mike got up, went to the counter and conferred with Carlos. Greta was under the impression that he had gone to the restroom and quickly glanced at her watch: Ten o’clock. They had spent three hours eating breakfast and talking!

  Wow, that’s pretty long, she said to herself. I guess my shopping trip isn’t going to happen. But I don’t want to go now, anyway.

  What’s he doing there with Carlos? she wondered.

  Mike returned to the table. “Ready?” he asked. “Shall we go?”

  “Oh” -, Greta mumbled somewhat stupidly, “where to?”

  “You wanted to do some shopping, didn’t you? We could do that together. And then there is still my friend whom I wanted to introduce to you. Okay?”

  More than speechless, Greta got up, picked up her knit jacket and purse and followed Mike out of the café.

  “Where are we going first, what’s on the shopping list?” Mike wanted to know. “And how much time do we have before you have to be back at the hotel?”

  Greta found so many decisions being made on her behalf a bit much. It was okay that Mike had ordered breakfast without asking her, and the hours at Carlos’ were really super. But now simply to take charge of her time and herself didn’t suit Greta at all. She tried to find a way out of the situation, but was too bowled over by Mike’s take-charge behavior.

  “Well, I have to go to Macy’s, she stammered, a little helplessly. “And then there is a kind of vintage-shop in SoHo that my friend Nathalie told me about. I wanted to go there too.”

  Mike stood at the street corner and had already raised his arm to hail a taxi. A short, shrill whistle through his teeth, and a Yellow Cab stopped at the curb. Greta hesitated. Should she really get in?

  “What’s the matter?” Mike called out to her and egged her on with his laugh. “We don’t have that much time, do we?”

  Greta slipped into the back-seat of the taxi, and Mike next to her gave instructions to the driver. “To Macy’s,” he said, then turned to Greta. “When do you have to be back at the hotel?” he said, repeating his question from a moment ago.

  Greta answered almost as if by remote control. “Pick-up is at 2:00 o’clock.”

  “Okay, then we have almost four hours,” Mike calculated. It apparently didn’t occur to him to ask Greta if she wanted to spend the entire time with him.

  “Then I’ll call Steve, my friend. He lives in SoHo, which would work out well after we stop at the vintage-shop. We can have a cup of coffee together before I take you back to the hotel.”

  This was decidedly too much for Greta.

  “Oh, thank you so much,” she said. “But this is all really not necessary. It’s not my first trip to New York and my shopping trip is probably not at the top of your list of favorite things to do – all cosmetic items and clothes. Really, Mr. Sloan, many thanks for breakfast and everything. If you could drop me at Macy’s, that would be great . . . – but I think I’d be better off on my own after that, okay?”

  “No, no, absolutely out of the question,” Mike objected forcefully. “I would really like to accompany you and also to introduce you to my friend. Please don’t say no. Please!” Mike was really insistent and intent on having his way.

  Actually it was finally too much for Greta. But he had begged her so sweetly. What was all this about his “friend” whom he kept mentioning? This is a little strange, somehow, she thought.

  “No really,” she started in anew, but Mike interrupted her.

  “Please, my dear Ms. Mayfield. Or shouldn’t we simply call one another Mike and Greta? Please don’t deny me my wish.”

  So . . . it’s his wish, Greta thought somewhat cynically. And now calling one another by our first names!

  “Okay,” she said curtly, “that’s fine.” I’m Greta but don’t complain if shopping gets to be a little too much. I can be quite exhausting.”

  “Excellent, I’m Mike.”

  His broad, open smile softened Greta’s attitude. Mike was certainly all-consuming and this didn’t quite set right with Greta, but so what, she thought:

  By the way, whatever happens is for the best.

  Chapter 11

  And that’s how it was, too.

  As expected, something did happen.

  First, Mike and Greta went to Macy’s. There she was actually able to buy all the Bobbi Brown products on sale. While she was viewing the new color-collection, Mike stood at the other side of the sales counter and foraged through the men’s fragrances.

  Subsequently, they stopped by some of the other cosmetic counters as well. Greta bought some products from Calvin Klein - a promotion that included a small cosmetic bag as a little gift. Then they were in a taxi again, this time on the way to SoHo. Luckily, Greta had the address of the vintage-shop with her.

  For Nathalie it would have been sheer delight. The shop was a true Wow! Only designer wear, everything from the sixties to the eighties; not only clothes, but also shoes, hats, purses, jewelry. A piece in Indian style, another in gypsy style, and cowboy boots.
Mike gravitated to these immediately.

  “Don’t you want to try these on?” he asked Greta. “They look simply first rate.”

  Mike had found a pair of embroidered boots, brown with a flower pattern, with gold snakes in between. They were a little shrill for Greta’s taste, but she didn’t dare say so.

  “You know, Mike, that’s not exactly my style.”

  “Just try them, Greta, please – they would suit you very well. Believe me.”

  Greta gave in and tried on the boots.

  Hm, he’s not wrong! They look really good. And then I would coordinate better with him, too.

  Mike studied her. “They look cool,” he said, impressed. “Do you like them too?”

  Greta looked at the boots in the mirror. “I don’t know. Don’t I look like a Texas tourist? Or someone left over from the eighties?”

  Mike shook his head, “I don’t think so. It’s a question of style. Either one has it or one doesn’t. I find the boots suit you. Honestly. But . . . I’m a boots-fan,” Mike grinned.

  Oh, Greta thought, that’s right. He had boots on yesterday and now I’m slandering these here. Just be careful now – watch what you say.

  “Oh, that’s right,” she said, hesitating. “I’m not sure if I feel good in them. And besides, they’re too expensive for me. I think I’d better stay with these two tunics here,” she said, pointing.

  Mike shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, I understand.”

  What’s that supposed to mean?” Greta thought. Does he think I don’t have any style, or what?

  Mike started to head toward the door.

  “I’m just going to pay and then I’ll be done,” she called after him.

  Too bad . . .

  Actually she wanted to browse a little longer, but with Mike in tow, she couldn’t linger. There was still that dubious friend .... At this point, Greta regretted agreeing to spend the morning with Mike. In two hours she had to be standing in the hotel lobby, all dolled up and ready for the return flight. Anyhow, there was only an hour to spare for the “friend.”

  There won’t be a next time with Mike, she decided quietly.

  “Only two blocks to go,” Mike said to her, as Greta left the shop, “then we’ll be at Truman’s Deli. Steve is probably there already, waiting for us.”

  So it’s Steve, Greta thought. In any case, the friend now has a name.

  They walked briskly toward the deli. Greta felt a little like a stubborn child who is being pulled along complaining, not wanting to leave the playground.

  “Who is this, um, Steve, actually?” she tried to ask nonchalantly.

  “My friend and my younger half-brother.”

  “Oh, your brother?”

  “Yes, my half-brother. My mother had an affair, and Steve was the result.”

  They were quiet the rest of the way. Shortly before they got to Truman’s Deli, Mike took Greta’s hand. She didn’t pull away and was surprised how familiar it felt.

  Steve sat in a wheelchair. He stretched out his hand to Greta.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, “I’m Steve. And watch out for my big brother.”

  “Thank you very much, I’m Greta. “Actually ...” – Greta turned to Mike for a moment – “I didn’t realize that I had to be careful of your brother,” she laughed.

  “Well then, you don’t know enough about Mike yet.”

  “Seems that way, I’m afraid. But we’ve only known each other since yesterday,” Greta smiled.

  Steve was silent as he turned to his brother. They gave each other a warm and tender hug. Steve had dark hair, with a short brush cut, trimmed toward the top. His cheeks were smoothly shaved, and he was slender in stature. He had an open, pleasant demeanor, intelligent eyes and high cheekbones, Greta thought. But Mike and Steve did not resemble one another. Only their voices were similar.

  They ordered coffee and a home-made iced tea. During the conversation, Greta found out that Steve hadn’t been in New York for a very long time. He was a free-lance programmer in the IT field. The brothers supported one another’s businesses by recommending clients to each other, and they shared a few inside jokes regarding their clientele; otherwise, they discussed topics of mutual interest. Although Mike had turned toward Greta and continued to hold her hand, so far he had devoted his attention entirely to the conversation with Steve.

  The hand-holding with Mike was nice, but Greta felt a little funny – somehow comfortable yet strange nonetheless. She let the feeling be and wondered about herself.

  “You have a great tan,” Greta said, as the two brothers paused for a moment. She felt somewhat superfluous with the two of them but wanted to engage Steve in conversation. After all, she wasn’t simply Mike’s fashion accessory. “Have you been on vacation?”

  “No, I don’t take vacations,” Steve said brusquely. “You see, I live on a small farm in the mountains in Jamaica most of the year. There the tan comes by itself.”

  “Oh, how convenient,” Greta said, glad that she had found a topic that she could talk about with Steve. “Isn’t it difficult to have a wheelchair in the mountains?”

  Greta stopped short.

  She was immediately aware how tactless this question sounded. But it was too late. Steve’s eyes narrowed, and Greta felt that she should quickly run to the Ladies’ Room to get away from Steve’s angry stare.

  “So,” Steve said, “you think that I’m not mobile because I sit in a wheelchair? That I’m not capable of moving around alone on a farm in the mountains? That I’m a cripple and not in control of my life?” Steve bent forward a little and looked Greta directly in the eyes. “You know, it’s possible that there are some things that I can’t master as adequately as you, but I manage quite well!”

  Completely staggered by the gruff answer, Greta decided to be more conciliatory. But before she could begin afresh, Steve picked up where he left off.

  “Greta. Forgive me, but I don’t have any desire to explain to you how it is to live in a wheelchair. Except for my brother, it seems to me, we don’t have anything in common and who knows how long the stars will align. As a flight attendant you must surely have a very unsettled and dynamic kind of life. So let’s not waste our time with formalities or unnecessary pleasantries.”

  Greta was completely speechless. The blood rose in her cheeks and she felt like a child in school who had crossed the line: a stupid little girl who doesn’t know any better. Steve gave her the feeling that a discussion with her wasn’t worth it. She was a flight attendant too, and might also conform to Steve’s possible mental image of the cliché, “a dumb juice-pusher, easy to pick-up, easily dropped.”

  Resolutely, Greta stood up. Mike stared at the floor as if he didn’t know how he should deal with the situation. Greta turned to Steve.

  “Mr. Sloan, I’m very sorry if I have hurt your feelings and your sense of self-worth. That was certainly not my intent. Perhaps I was too hasty and inconsiderate with my words, but surely I didn’t want to offend you, let alone humiliate you. You, however, succeeded in doing just that. It’s a shame that you think in clichés and are so quick to judge your fellow human beings and pigeonhole them. It doesn’t matter to me what you think of me now, but since I am no longer interested in spending time with you either, it will have to do. Take good care of your brother, and good luck. Perhaps it would be better if your brother watched out for you, as your behavior bespeaks an insensitive, crass and stupid beast.”

  With her last words Greta focused her glance on Mike and left.

  She was boiling inwardly as she left the deli. She had wanted to pay for her coffee herself, but she couldn’t stand another moment in the presence of the two brothers. Let Mike take care of it, she thought.

  Not until she was out on the street did she notice that tears were running down her cheeks. Her entire body was shaking with feelings of rage and hurt as she ran along the street without a clear sense of direction. She just wanted to find the quickest route back to the hotel so that she could get ready
for the trip to the airport. The return to Europe was always more demanding than the flight to the USA – particularly because of the time difference and the night flight that it necessitated.

  It seemed as if she had already covered about two blocks’ distance when she heard someone behind her calling her name.

  “Greta, Greta! Please wait! Let me explain.”

  Greta turned around, not sure that she had heard someone calling her name. Yes – it was Mike.

  Mike caught up with her, a little out of breath.

  “Greta, I am so sorry,” he gasped. “Steve didn’t mean to be so rude. Since the accident, he’s been tied to the wheelchair and can’t deal with it even now. He didn’t want to humiliate or reprimand you. He sometimes just shoots from the hip too readily. He was present at the accident when our mother died and has blamed himself ever since. He believes he should have saved her although he barely survived himself.” Mike took a deep breath and continued: “And every time when a woman gets near him somehow, even if it’s only a woman that I introduce to him, whom I like” – Mike smiled – “she pushes his buttons and he flies off the handle. I am so sorry, Greta. Steve wasn’t addressing you personally. He attacks every woman that I introduce to him. I just thought he had gotten over this phase and I could introduce you to him without stress. I should have told you all this. Please forgive me.”

  Greta listened to Mike’s explanation, but she was still hurt, angry, and fuming with rage. She would not stand for such behavior. But Mike’s words touched her, too. She understood that it wasn’t about him – or her. Nonetheless, she still found it difficult to forgive Steve. She wasn’t a silly child. And Mike hadn’t protected her from Steve.

  He could have warned me or stopped Steve’s torrent of words.

  But neither happened.

  “So,” she hissed, “you used me as a guinea pig! You wanted to find out if your brother had overcome his psycho-attacks. How am I supposed to take that, Mike? I honestly don’t know whom I detest more now – you or him!”