Woman in the Window

by Thomas Gifford

  “Very funny.” He lowered the binoculars. “Be serious, Natalie. He’s a client of ours. What was it like, really? All sort of Irish and everyone quoting Yeats and Wilde?”

  “Not exactly. Let’s see—seriously summing the evening up? Let’s just say it was grand through thin and thin. Loved him, hated her—I don’t know, Jay.” She smiled sweetly across the desk at him. “Once they began defacing my picture in PW I left. …”

  “Sometimes,” he sighed, “your sense of humor is lost on me.” He got up from where he was kneeling and took two mints from the dish on the corner of her desk.

  “How was Clive Morrison?”

  He rolled his eyes, frowning. “He brought his mistress with him. God. He spent more time with his hand on her leg than he did talking to me. Randy old bastard.” He sucked the mint. “So, despite your feeble attempts at wit, I was lumbered with a truly ghastly evening. Consider yourself fortunate. Ah well, one never knows—I spent most of the evening longing to exchange places with you.” He shrugged and went back to his office.

  Friday night.

  Natalie was used to spending Friday evenings at home, alone, worn out from the week, glad to settle down with a new record or a book to read for pleasure or a trashy movie on television. She would sometimes order in a pizza from the Original Ray’s. Or soak the evening away in a hot tub. Or write letters. Or make a careful plan of the weekend, allowing time for all the necessary errands—the laundry, the cleaning, the seamstress who altered this and that, the shoe-repair man, the trip to Gillies for her favorite coffee—as well as visits to the Whitney or MOMA or the Metropolitan for a certain show. She’d check the Weekend section of the Friday Times for the hours at which movies she particularly wanted to see were being shown. She might arrange to have Sunday brunch with a female friend from outside the world of publishing. Friday evenings were precious. Friday evenings were for Natalie. For throwing the tennis balls for Sir, maybe for a leisurely walk to reacquaint him with the block on which he lived. Friday evenings she began to unwind and recover from the week. …

  But tonight was different. Almost unprecedentedly, she wanted company. She wanted someone to talk to and she realized how few were the possibilities. Tony would misinterpret a suggestion that they meet—even if she wanted to see him—and in any case he was probably out on the island. Or busy. And Lew … poor Lew, she’d burdened him enough.

  She ran through her list of girl friends and couldn’t get excited. What was the matter with her? Was she becoming such a recluse?

  Julie, of course. But it was Friday night and Julie was bound to be laying waste her various watering holes of choice. Still, there was always the chance for a miracle. She looked around the apartment: none of the stolen items had yet been replaced. So Saturday was already planned for her. Unless she didn’t really give a damn, for the moment. Perhaps she needed a day in the museums. …

  She called Julie. A miracle. Home and no plans for the evening. “Sure, order a pizza and I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.”

  Waiting for her, Natalie wasn’t sure what she wanted to talk about. It would come to her.

  “And you worry about me when I go out for an evening!” Julie’s deep, throaty laughter erupted in the stillness. She licked tomato sauce from the huge pizza slice that flopped around in her hand with a life of its own. “I mean, last night you saw the seamy side!” She laughed again, her great wide mouth grinning, showing more teeth than was possible.

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” Natalie said, leaning back, sitting on the floor looking at the brick wall where the television set used to be. “There was a stagy quality about it, like I had walked into a theater and found myself in a play I hated. It was both more and less than real, sort of intensified—do people really act that way?” She took a drink from a can of beer and bit off another chunk of pizza. “They even had names like people in a play—Rory and Moira. Who’s named Rory and Moira, anyway?”

  “What are you saying? That you think they put on the whole little psychodrama for your benefit? And once you escaped they had a good laugh and brought out the Louis Quinze table and chairs and dumped the cats out the window?” Julie snorted indignantly. “No way. These were real loonies. People don’t pull practical jokes like that in what passes for life. No way.”

  “No, I don’t suppose.” Natalie leaned forward and poked the logs in an attempt to coax some flames out of them. “But there was something else going on in that room, something between the two of them. There was so much energy—I don’t know how to explain it but that’s what made me think of the theater, it was like the energy I’ve seen on a stage.” She shook her head, knowing she wasn’t making much sense. “Horrible as they were—and they were horrible, I promise you—there was an electric current running between them. It was exciting—it excited me, I was sweating and my heart was pounding. …”

  Julie looked at her appraisingly. “You were excited, weren’t you? I mean, excited—”

  “That’s what I’m telling you. And when I left them I felt lonely … and frustrated.”

  “You’re talking about sex, aren’t you? You were sexually excited by the situation and then sexually frustrated afterward—am I getting this right?”

  Natalie nodded. “Yes, you’re getting it right. It couldn’t have been about them. But all the talk about fucking and my being a whore and did I fuck the other writer—” She shivered at the memory, disgusted. “But I was aroused by them somehow. It was something in the air—look, do I sound like a raving idiot?”

  “No, I’m just trying to think.” Julie munched another wedge of pizza. “I’ve felt the same thing. In a way. In a bar or a room full of people I really don’t like, a setting I don’t like—when I leave, when I’m alone—and glad to be alone—I get, you know, that feeling. It’s just there. Sure, in the air. But then, that’s me … your case is much simpler.” She chewed away, smiling.

  “You think so?”

  “Of course. You are lonely. Lonely for a man. It’s been a long time, Natalie.”

  Natalie felt herself flushing. “Haven’t you heard of the new celibacy?”

  “Of course. I may even confound medical science by deciding to adopt it, but that has nothing to do with simple desire. Celibacy does not remove desire, Nat: it’s not surgery. You’ve been alone with your vibrator too long—” She laughed loudly.

  “I don’t have a vibrator!”

  “That’s your problem! Get one!” She couldn’t stop laughing.

  “You’re missing the point. Stop dribbling pizza—the point is, I’m talking about the feeling that I needed warmth, some human companionship. Not a vibrator, for God’s sake.”

  “Well, don’t forget Sir.” At the sound of his name, Sir came edging toward the box of pizza and Julie gave him a chunk.

  “Okay, don’t be serious.” Natalie had almost lost the point herself and was beginning to giggle.

  “Look, it’s so simple. You’re finally past the divorce trauma, you’ve had your delayed reaction to the sense of failure you felt after investing so much of your life in Tony, after trying to help him get his book published. Now you’re getting ready to reenter the real world and find a man. Simplicity itself—you make such hard work out of everything, Nat—”

  “But that’s not the way I feel. I don’t want another person underfoot, someone I’ve always got to consider whenever I want to do something.”

  “Then why bellyache about being alone?”

  “Damned if I know.” She grinned. “Maybe it was a momentary aberration?”

  “Bullshit, darling! But why don’t you just sort through the men in your life. There’s Tony, of course. I mean, it’s never over till it’s over—” It’s over.

  “I’m not so sure. There’s still something there, something you’re trying to sort out. Maybe you still feel responsible for him, how should I know? But he’s not a goner, yet. Then there’s Jay Danmeier. From what you say, he’s quite an imposing guy—”

  “He’s marr
ied, Julie. And he can be a real pain in the neck, believe me. An ego the size of Rockefeller Center and all the vulnerability that goes with it.”

  “First, you didn’t say you were looking for a husband. And second, he’s obviously nuts about you. You can have him any way you want him—as a lover or a husband. Believe me, I know these things. He’s a sitting duck, Nat. And—” She took a deep breath and a long drink of beer. “And then there’s Lew, your old pal who’s probably been crazy about you since college. Poor bastard. On the whole, that’s not bad for a start. Three live ones.” She leaned back, rubbing Sir’s ears and smiling smugly.

  “You named three men. These are not relationships, just men. Men I know. And they’re all out of the question. An ex-husband, my boss, and an old friend who is strictly that. Not a chance.” She felt helpless: there was no getting past Julie’s own kind of logic, no making her see the differences.

  “Only because you won’t let them be relationships. Who knows, maybe you’re not ready yet. But you’re never going to find out if you keep everybody at arm’s length. Lighten up, Nat, have a little fun. You take it all so seriously.”

  “How else am I supposed to take it? I’m thirty-seven, I’m caught in the great female time warp—I want my career, I love my work, really love it. And a lot of the time I feel pretty sure that I want children and the meters running, faster and faster. And I can’t bear the thought of setting out with a sheet of requirements to find a man who matches up … I don’t simply want to breed. I guess I want to fall in love. And you can’t make that happen, Julie, you can’t force it. So how else can I take it? It is serious, for God’s sake.”

  Sir looked up at her with a piece of pizza crust dangling from the corner of his mouth. He swallowed and it dropped onto the floor where he discovered it and ate it.

  “It can be fun,” Julie said, yawning. “Surely you remember fun?”

  “Vaguely.”

  They both laughed.

  Natalie went to bed early, right after Julie left. She was preoccupied with the content of Julie’s observations: there was enough truth in what she’d said to nibble away at Natalie’s resolve to live alone, to concentrate on getting her own life under control before further complicating it. Spontaneity was out, as far as Natalie was concerned. At least for now. Impulses had to be curbed and their places taken by plans with some thought behind them. She had to give Julie credit for seeing to the heart of things: the idea of the failure she felt at the end of her marriage, for instance. So often people thought that it was your lost mate you were moping over when in fact it was the loss of the relationship and all the effort you’d put into it—not the specific person. You mourned for the give and take, the familiarity and ease, and deep in your heart you were afraid that you could have saved it had you been a better human being. …

  She lay in the darkness listening to Saint-Saens First Symphony, wishing for the moment that she had never heard of the Family Linehan, never experienced the bizarre, unsettling evening.

  The telephone rang.

  It was MacPherson. Immediately she remembered the message on her machine, began to fall all over herself, apologizing for not getting back to him.

  “Hey, Natalie,” he said, calming her, “it’s okay, really. I know you’re busy. And I’m feeling overly protective for a cop. Anyway, I just got to wondering if everything was all right—if there’s been any more scary men in the shadows. So, how are things?”

  She told him about the evening with the Linehans, making a manic comedy of it.

  “Ah, the literary life,” he said. She’d never heard him laugh before. “It makes a good story. By the way, have you told anyone about the Alicia Quirk murder? The tie-in with the gun?” His voice had lost its amusement but the supercilious edge was absent, too, which was a relief.

  “I told Lew Goldstein … and I mentioned it to Julie Conway just an hour or so ago—why? Wasn’t I supposed to?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” He paused. “I guess I just don’t think it should become common knowledge, people talking about it in social situations … you don’t want the connection between you and the gunman and the murder suddenly turning up one morning in Garfein’s column. You want the guy with the gun to just forget about it. The best thing would be for him to figure the gun just disappeared under several tons of cement. Then he’d believe he’s safe.” He sounded thoughtful and marginally worried.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” she said. “But I’ve told only the two of them. And I’m all they have in common, so they won’t be going on about me to mutual friends. No, I think we’re all right.”

  A few moments later he said, “I had another reason for calling you, ah, Natalie. An apology. I’m not sure how to go about this—”

  “Indecision suits you,” she said, smiling to herself.

  “How did you know?”

  “Sticks out a mile. Almost human. Even friendly. Certainly not as detestable as I’d thought—”

  “Clever you! Well, the point is, I’m sorry for giving you such a hard time. I’ve been under some pressure here in the world of evildoers, but that’s no excuse. For some reason, you make me nervous and I come on nasty. Tough-cop routine. You’re dangerous … or something.”

  “I’m dangerous and I make you act silly—how’s that?”

  His laughter erupted over the telephone. “Nice. A little simplistic but nice, very nice. Cuts right to the core. I’m trying to keep my silliness under control—and how dangerous you are only time will tell. Well, I’m glad I caught you at home.”

  “Have you got a band playing in your apartment?”

  “Usually. But not right now. That’s Stan Kenton’s Christmas album. It’s the only Christmas music I ever really get into. My folks didn’t ignore Christmas but they didn’t make a big deal out of it. Where do you stand on the Christmas issue?”

  “Christmas, my God—I haven’t even thought about it yet. I guess it’s—what? Two weeks away—wow. I may skip it this year and just settle into a nice comfortable depression. I always think of that song about the snow is snowing, the wind is blowing, but we will weather the storm … and Mel Torme, the chestnuts roasting on an open fire. And I always get sad.”

  “Remember that part of All About Eve, where they drive up to that house in the country and there’s the big snowstorm and Bette Davis can’t get back to do the play and Eve has to go on in her place—”

  “Doesn’t Hugh Beaumont or somebody sabotage the car?”

  “Hugh Marlowe. Look, have you got your tree yet?”

  “I guess I wasn’t going to get one.”

  “Well, I’m going to get one tomorrow. The Deaconess Hospital always has good ones in their lot. Your neighborhood!—look, you want to go with me?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Precisely. Let’s get an early start. I’ll come by at ten tomorrow morning. Okay?”

  “Absolutely.” She had almost hung up when she pulled back the mouthpiece: “MacPherson? You still there?”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Have you sent me any flowers in the past few days? Roses?”

  “No.” He waited. “Good idea, though. I wish I had.”

  “See you in the morning,” she said.

  She went to sleep, happily for a change, wondering, What next? Of all the men she and Julie had considered, the cop had never crossed her mind. But then, why would it have? Until a few minutes ago, he’d been a cop … not a person.

  She woke to the sound of shovels on the sidewalk outside her bedroom window. It took several minutes of listening before the implications of the sound struck her and she leaped out of bed, ran naked to the window, and peered through the curtains. The street was thickly coated with snow, several inches of it piled up on cars and sidewalks and trash cans. Cars moved slowly past, the sound muffled. She felt a little-girl’s excitement at the change, the newness of the world outside, as if it were a fresh chance somehow, a clean slate she hadn’t yet smudged with her mistakes.

&n
bsp; She was up and into her jeans and heavy sweater when MacPherson arrived at ten on the button. His face was red from the cold and his hair was dusted with snow. She fixed him a cup of coffee and they stood in the living room looking out at her courtyard with the evergreens drooping under the heavy snow and the lawn furniture on the way to disappearing. The snow fell thickly, tufts clinging to one another as they floated through a windless sky.

  She couldn’t get the image, the metaphor, out of her mind: it was as if the snow was falling, covering up all the bad things she’d experienced lately. A fresh chance … It was hopelessly silly even to think in such terms but she couldn’t help it; she let herself feel rescued, freed from worry.

  MacPherson was making the switch from cop to whatever he had in mind—and she wasn’t altogether sure—with considerable ease. He mooched around the apartment, sipping the hot coffee, inquiring about the collection of tigers, looking through the tapes and recordings, admiring the art and the spaces the burglars had left behind.

  She found herself listening more than talking, watching him in a way she hadn’t before, wondering what his life was like. He made little jokes, smiled quickly, showed a sense of irony and enjoyment at the snow and the season. She let herself be swept along by him, didn’t bother to try. She just allowed the morning to happen: the choosing of a tree and then learning that he had decided it was to be her tree rather than his because he was determined to have her celebrate Christmas. She smiled, nodded, knowing he was inserting himself into the holidays—her holidays. Which, she knew, wouldn’t have existed without him. It’s all right, she told herself. Let it happen. It was fun. Slowing down, not forcing everything through on her own, letting someone else take over for a while. She had been fighting it for so long, had looked upon it as some kind of defeat … yet there was no defeat in this, no defeat in standing outside the hardware store holding on to the tree, which was full and round and cheery and only three feet high, while he went in and bought her a stand to put it in, a box of lights and tinsel to decorate it. She was smiling broadly, then laughing as he came out laden with packages, which he gave to her, and began his struggle to embrace and carry the sweet-smelling little tree.