Wonderful Town: New York Stories from The New Yorker

by David Remnick

  I stood there as my pupils dilated. Slowly the room bodied forth. There were a lot of people, maybe as many as seventy-five. It looked like a Halloween party. Women who all year secretly wanted to dress sexy had dressed sexy. They wore low-cut bunny tops or witchy gowns with slits up the side. Quite a few were stroking the candles provocatively or fooling around with the hot wax. But they weren’t young. Nobody was young. The men looked the way men have generally looked for the past twenty years: uncomfortable yet agreeable. They looked like me.

  Champagne bottles were going off, just like on the invitation. After every pop a woman would shout, “Ooops, I’m pregnant!” and everyone would laugh. Then I did recognize something: the music. It was Jackson Browne. One of the things I used to find endearing about Tomasina was her antiquated and sentimental record collection. She still had it. I could remember dancing to this very album with her. Late one night, we just took off our clothes and started dancing all alone. It was one of those spontaneous living-room dances you have at the beginning of a relationship. On a hemp rug we twirled each other around, naked and graceless in secret, and it never happened again. I stood there, remembering, until someone came up from behind.

  “Hey, Wally.”

  I squinted. It was Diane.

  “Just tell me,” I said, “that we don’t have to watch.”

  “Relax. It’s totally PG. Tomasina’s going to do it later. After everybody’s gone.”

  “I can’t stay long,” I said, looking around the room.

  “You should see the baster we got. Four ninety-five, on sale at Macy’s basement.”

  “I’m meeting someone later for a drink.”

  “We got the donor cup there, too. We couldn’t find anything with a lid. So we ended up getting this plastic toddler’s cup. Roland already filled it up.”

  Something was in my throat. I swallowed.

  “Roland?”

  “He came early. We gave him a choice between a Hustler and a Penthouse.”

  “I’ll be careful what I drink from the refrigerator.”

  “It isn’t in the refrigerator. It’s under the sink in the bathroom. I was worried somebody would drink it.”

  “Don’t you have to freeze it?”

  “We’re using it in an hour. It keeps.”

  I nodded, for some reason. I was beginning to be able to see clearly now. I could see all the family photographs on the mantel. Tomasina and her dad. Tomasina and her mom. The whole Genovese clan up in an oak tree. And then I said, “Call me old-fashioned but . . .” and trailed off.

  “Relax, Wally. Have some champagne. It’s a party.”

  The bar had a bartender. I waved off the champagne and asked for a glass of Scotch, straight. While I waited, I scanned the room for Tomasina. Out loud, though pretty quietly, I said, with bracing sarcasm, “Roland.” That was just the kind of name it would have to be. Someone out of a medieval epic. “The Sperm of Roland.” I was getting whatever enjoyment I could out of this when suddenly I heard a deep voice somewhere above me say, “Were you talking to me?” I looked up, not into the sun, exactly, but into its anthropomorphic representation. He was both blond and orange, and large, and the candle behind him on the bookshelf lit up his mane like a halo. “Have we met? I’m Roland DeMarchelier.”

  “I’m Wally Mars,” I said. “I thought that might be you. Diane pointed you out to me.”

  “Everybody’s pointing me out. I feel like some kind of prize hog,” he said, smiling. “My wife just informed me that we’re leaving. I managed to negotiate for one more drink.”

  “You’re married?”

  “Seven years.”

  “And she doesn’t mind?”

  “Well, she didn’t. Right now I’m not so sure.”

  What can I say about his face? It was open. It was a face used to being looked at, looked into, without flinching. His skin was a healthy apricot color. His eyebrows, also apricot, were shaggy like an old poet’s. They saved his face from being too boyish. It was this face Tomasina had looked at. She’d looked at it and said, “You’re hired.”

  “My wife and I have two kids. We had trouble getting pregnant the first time, though. So we know how it can be. The anxiety and the timing and everything.”

  “Your wife must be a very open-minded woman,” I said. Roland narrowed his eyes, making a sincerity check—he wasn’t stupid, obviously (Tomasina had probably unearthed his S.A.T. scores). Then he gave me the benefit of the doubt. “She says she’s flattered. I know I am.”

  “I used to go out with Tomasina,” I said. “We used to live together.”

  “Really?”

  “We’re just friends now.”

  “It’s good when that happens.”

  “She wasn’t thinking about babies back when we went out,” I said.

  “That’s how it goes. You think you have all the time in the world. Then boom. You find you don’t.”

  “Things might have been different,” I said. Roland looked at me again, not sure how to take my comment, and then looked across the room. He smiled at someone and held up his drink. Then he was back to me. “That didn’t work. My wife wants to go.” He set down his glass and turned to leave. “Nice to meet you, Wally.”

  “Keep on plugging,” I said, but he didn’t hear me, or pretended not to.

  I’d already finished my drink, so I got a refill. Then I went in search of Tomasina. I shouldered my way across the room and squeezed down the hall. I stood up straight, showing off my suit. A few women looked at me, then away. Tomasina’s bedroom door was closed, but I still felt entitled to open it.

  She was standing by the window, smoking and looking out. She didn’t hear me come in, and I didn’t say anything. I just stood there, looking at her. What kind of dress should a girl wear to her Insemination Party? Answer: The one Tomasina had on. This wasn’t skimpy, technically. It began at her neck and ended at her ankles. Between those two points, however, an assortment of peepholes had been ingeniously razored into the fabric, revealing a patch of thigh here, a glazed hipbone there; up above, the white sideswell of a breast. It made you think of secret orifices and dark canals. I counted the shining patches of skin. I had two hearts, one up, one down, both pumping.

  And then I said, “I just saw Secretariat.”

  She swung around. She smiled, though not quite convincingly. “Isn’t he gorgeous?”

  “I still think you should have gone with Isaac Asimov.” She came over and we kissed cheeks. I kissed hers, anyway. Tomasina kissed mostly air. She kissed my semen aura.

  “Diane says I should forget the baster and just sleep with him.”

  “He’s married.”

  “They all are.” She paused. “You know what I mean.”

  I made no sign that I did. “What are you doing in here?” I asked.

  She took two rapid-fire puffs on her cigarette, as though to fortify herself. Then she answered, “Freaking out.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  She covered her face with her hand. “This is depressing, Wally. This isn’t how I wanted to have a baby. I thought this party would make it fun, but it’s just depressing.” She dropped her hand and looked into my eyes. “Do you think I’m crazy? You do, don’t you?”

  Her eyebrows went up, pleading. Did I tell you about Tomasina’s freckle? She has this freckle on her lower lip like a piece of chocolate. Everybody’s always trying to wipe it off.

  “I don’t think you’re crazy, Tom,” I said.

  “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  “Because I trust you, Wally. You’re mean, so I trust you.”

  “What do you mean I’m mean?”

  “Not bad mean. Good mean. I’m not crazy?”

  “You want to have a baby. It’s natural.”

  Suddenly Tomasina leaned forward and rested her head on my chest. She had to lean down to do it. She closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. I put my hand on her back. My fingers found a peephole and I stroked her bare skin. In a warm, th
oroughly grateful voice, she said, “You get it, Wally. You totally get it.”

  She stood up and smiled. She looked down at her dress, adjusting it so that her navel showed, and then took my arm.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go back to the party.”

  I didn’t expect what happened next. When we came out, everybody cheered. Tomasina held onto my arm and we started waving to the crowd like a couple of royals. For a minute I forgot about the purpose of the party. I just stood arm in arm with Tomasina, and accepted the applause. When the cheers died down, I noticed that Jackson Browne was still playing. I leaned over and whispered to Tomasina, “Remember dancing to this song?”

  “Did we dance to this?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “I’ve had this album forever. I’ve probably danced to it a thousand times.” She broke off. She let go of my arm.

  My glass was empty again.

  “Can I ask you something, Tomasina?”

  “What?”

  “Do you ever think about you and me?”

  “Wally, don’t.” She turned away and looked at the floor. After a moment, in a reedy, nervous voice, she said, “I was really screwed up back then. I don’t think I could have stayed with anybody.”

  I nodded. I swallowed. I told myself not to say the next thing. I looked over at the fireplace, as though it interested me, and then I said it: “Do you ever think about our kid?”

  The only sign that she’d heard me was a twitch next to her left eye. She took a deep breath, let it out. “That was a long time ago.”

  “I know. It’s just that when I see you going to all this trouble I think it could be different sometimes.”

  “I don’t think so, Wally.” She picked a piece of lint off the shoulder of my jacket, frowning. Then she tossed it away. “God! Sometimes I wish I was Benazir Bhutto or somebody.”

  “You want to be Prime Minister of Pakistan?”

  “I want a nice, simple, arranged marriage. Then after my husband and I sleep together he can go off and play polo.”

  “You’d like that?”

  “Of course not. That would be horrible.” A tress fell into her eyes and she backhanded it into place. She looked around the room. Then she straightened up and said, “I should mingle.”

  I held up my glass. “Be fruitful and multiply,” I said. And Tomasina squeezed my arm and was gone.

  I stayed where I was, drinking from my empty glass to have something to do. I looked around the room for any women I hadn’t met. There weren’t any. Over at the bar, I switched to champagne. I had the bartender fill my glass three times. Her name was Julie and she was majoring in art history at Columbia University. While I was standing there, Diane stepped into the middle of the room and clinked her glass. Other people followed and the room got quiet.

  “First of all,” Diane began, “Before we kick everyone out of here, I’d like to make a toast to tonight’s oh-so-generous donor, Roland. We conducted a nationwide search and, let me tell you, the auditions were grueling.” Everybody laughed. Somebody shouted, “Roland left.”

  “He left? Well, we’ll toast his semen. We’ve still got that.” More laughter, a few drunken cheers. Some people, men and women both now, were picking up the candles and waving them around.

  “And, finally,” Diane went on, “finally, I’d like to toast our soon-to-be-expecting—knock on wood—mother. Her courage in seizing the means of production is an inspiration to us all.” They were pulling Tomasina out onto the floor now. People were hooting. Tomasina’s hair was falling down. She was flushed and smiling. I tapped Julie on the arm, extending my glass. Everyone was looking at Tomasina when I turned and slipped into the bathroom.

  After shutting the door, I did something I don’t usually do. I stood and looked at myself in the mirror. I stopped doing that, for any prolonged period, at least twenty years ago. Staring into mirrors was best at around thirteen. But that night I did it again. In Tomasina’s bathroom, where we’d once showered and flossed together, in that cheerful, brightly tiled grotto, I presented myself to myself. You know what I was thinking? I was thinking about nature. I was thinking about hyenas again. The hyena, I remembered, is a fierce predator. Hyenas even attack lions on occasion. They aren’t much to look at, hyenas, but they do O.K. for themselves. And so I lifted my glass. I lifted my glass and toasted myself: “Be fruitful and multiply.”

  The cup was right where Diane had said it would be. Roland had placed it, with priestly care, on top of a bag of cotton balls. The toddler cup sat enthroned on a little cloud. I opened it and inspected his offering. It barely covered the bottom of the cup, a yellowish scum. It looked like rubber cement. It’s terrible, when you think about it. It’s terrible that women need this stuff. It’s so paltry. It must make them crazy, having everything they need to create life but this one meager leaven. I rinsed Roland’s out under the faucet. Then I checked to see that the door was locked. I didn’t want anybody to burst in on me.

  THAT was ten months ago. Shortly after, Tomasina got pregnant. She swelled to immense proportions. I was away on business when she gave birth in the care of a midwife at St. Vincent’s. But I was back in time to receive the announcement:

  Tomasina Genovese proudly announces

  the birth of her son,

  Joseph Mario Genovese,

  on January 15, 1996.

  5 lbs. 3 oz.

  The small size alone was enough to clinch it. Nevertheless, bringing a Tiffany spoon to the little heir the other day, I settled the question as I looked down into his crib. The potato nose. The buggy eyes. I’d waited ten years to see that face at the school-bus window. Now that I did, I could only wave goodbye.

  [1996]

  E. B. WHITE

  THE SECOND TREE FROM THE CORNER

  “EVER HAVE ANY BIZARRE thoughts?” asked the doctor.

  Mr. Trexler failed to catch the word. “What kind?” he said.

  “Bizarre,” repeated the doctor, his voice steady. He watched his patient for any slight change of expression, any wince. It seemed to Trexler that the doctor was not only watching him closely but was creeping slowly toward him, like a lizard toward a bug. Trexler shoved his chair back an inch and gathered himself for a reply. He was about to say “Yes” when he realized that if he said yes the next question would be unanswerable. Bizarre thoughts, bizarre thoughts? Ever have any bizarre thoughts? What kind of thoughts except bizarre had he had since the age of two?

  Trexler felt the time passing, the necessity for an answer. These psychiatrists were busy men, overloaded, not to be kept waiting. The next patient was probably already perched out there in the waiting room, lonely, worried, shifting around on the sofa, his mind stuffed with bizarre thoughts and amorphous fears. Poor bastard, thought Trexler. Out there all alone in that misshapen antechamber, staring at the filing cabinet and wondering whether to tell the doctor about that day on the Madison Avenue bus.

  Let’s see, bizarre thoughts. Trexler dodged back along the dreadful corridor of the years to see what he could find. He felt the doctor’s eyes upon him and knew that time was running out. Don’t be so conscientious, he said to himself. If a bizarre thought is indicated here, just reach into the bag and pick anything at all. A man as well supplied with bizarre thoughts as you are should have no difficulty producing one for the record. Trexler darted into the bag, hung for a moment before one of his thoughts, as a hummingbird pauses in the delphinium. No, he said, not that one. He darted to another (the one about the rhesus monkey), paused, considered. No, he said, not that.

  Trexler knew he must hurry. He had already used up pretty nearly four seconds since the question had been put. But it was an impossible situation—just one more lousy, impossible situation such as he was always getting himself into. When, he asked himself, are you going to quit maneuvering yourself into a pocket? He made one more effort. This time he stopped at the asylum, only the bars were lucite—fluted, retractable. Not here, he said. Not this one.

  He l
ooked straight at the doctor. “No,” he said quietly. “I never have any bizarre thoughts.”

  The doctor sucked in on his pipe, blew a plume of smoke toward the rows of medical books. Trexler’s gaze followed the smoke. He managed to make out one of the titles, “The Genito-Urinary System.” A bright wave of fear swept cleanly over him, and he winced under the first pain of kidney stones. He remembered when he was a child, the first time he ever entered a doctor’s office, sneaking a look at the titles of the books—and the flush of fear, the shirt wet under the arms, the book on t. b., the sudden knowledge that he was in the advanced stages of consumption, the quick vision of the hemorrhage. Trexler sighed wearily. Forty years, he thought, and I still get thrown by the title of a medical book. Forty years and I still can’t stay on life’s little bucky horse. No wonder I’m sitting here in this dreary joint at the end of this woebegone afternoon, lying about my bizarre thoughts to a doctor who looks, come to think of it, rather tired.

  The session dragged on. After about twenty minutes, the doctor rose and knocked his pipe out. Trexler got up, knocked the ashes out of his brain, and waited. The doctor smiled warmly and stuck out his hand. “There’s nothing the matter with you—you’re just scared. Want to know how I know you’re scared?”