by Nina Solomon
Her head was now swimming—the words appearing in her mind more like fragmented pixels than symbols. She opened her eyes and removed the glasses, her vision taking a while to readjust to normal. Then she placed the glasses back on the nightstand.
Grace spotted the Magic 8-Ball on the floor underneath the desk, back in its white box. She hadn’t consulted it since the night of the anniversary party, having filed it away as a cute but useless item. Now, for some reason, she felt herself drawn to it. She picked it up as if holding something precious, gave it a good shake, and asked in a half whisper, “Am I pregnant?” The answer appeared: Ask again later. Very sound advice, she thought, although later was open to interpretation.
THE NEXT MORNING, Grace decided to tackle the bills. She had begun to avoid the dining room, which seemed uninviting without the Duro-Lites, and now the living room was haunted by the sight of the unadorned, seven-foot Scotch pine that resembled a Trappist monk. When Grace was alone at night, the only rooms in which she didn’t feel like she was floundering were the bedroom and kitchen. She wondered if, after a while, the apartment, like her marriage, would begin to shrink from atrophy.
She went to the hall closet and looked for the Rolling Stones CD Beggar’s Banquet, which Laz always played while he did the bills. Background music was a must for him no matter what was in front of him, and now Grace, too, thought that this was the only way bills were done. The CDs were neatly lined up and alphabetized on the shelf, but the one Grace was looking for was nowhere to be found. She even searched the piano bench, before deciding to choose a record from her old album collection.
After Grace met Laz, he had eventually replaced most of her records with CDs. Those albums that remained were stored in a carton on the floor of the closet. She opened the box and saw her soundtrack to Fiddler on the Roof and My Fair Lady, along with her Bangles and Carly Simon albums, none of which suited her mood. She settled for the Pretenders, Learning to Crawl, wiping the cover with her sleeve. It was an album that Chloe had given to her in college. She’d forgotten she still had it.
Chloe had written on the album cover: To your New Wave. Don’t go back to being a pretender. Grace and Chloe had shared a dorm room during the fall of their junior year, while Chloe’s roommate was on exchange in France. It was the one semester that Grace lived on campus, and it was now a distant memory for her. That semester, she and Chloe, wearing thrift-store clothes, studied until eleven each night and then went out to readings, parties, or to hear music in obscure basement clubs. Grace switched her major from Classics to Fine Arts and spent most of her time in the art studio sculpting.
When Grace returned to her parents’ apartment at the end of the semester, her mother took one look at her hands, which were dry and cracked from working with clay, and said, “Get your coat! We’re going for a paraffin manicure.” Grace’s hands were dipped into a vat of hot wax and wrapped in Saran Wrap. After the wax hardened, it was peeled off, revealing Grace’s smooth, exfoliated hands.
“Are you getting married?” someone next to her asked, as her nails were drying.
Grace hesitated. She didn’t even have a boyfriend at the time. Her mother answered for her. “Yes, she is,” she said. “We just don’t know when.”
THE LID TO THE record player was covered with dust, and Grace’s fingers made long streaks across the smoky gray plastic. She had the distinct feeling of being watched, though she knew she was all alone. She put the record on the turntable, switched it on, closed the lid, and went into the kitchen.
The stack of bills seemed to have expanded like an accordion, the roll of stamps unfurling in front of Grace on the table. This may have been the first time she had ever done bills. When she lived alone, her father had set up a system so that all her bills were paid electronically. She’d never even balanced a checkbook. She was an accountant’s nightmare. Not that she didn’t keep records—she kept everything—she just didn’t know where.
She shuffled the envelopes. Then she remembered about the bill underneath the New York magazine and ran to get it. She’d received letters with the words Urgent or Past Due on them before, but they were usually form letters from her congressman or credit card applications. Once, she accidentally tore up an envelope, thinking it was junk mail, only to discover that it had contained tickets to game six of the World Series. She was shocked to see that the letter under the magazine was an actual notice of eviction unless payment was received within two business days.
At first she assumed it was in reference to the mortgage payments on their co-op, but then when she read further, she saw that it was for back rent on Laz’s old apartment. The letter was dated the day before Thanksgiving. She wrote out a check for it and decided it would be better to deliver it by hand as soon as possible. Grace could never fully understand why Laz needed to hold on to the apartment. She would have relinquished any part of her past if he’d asked her to.
She thought about the key frozen in the fishbowl. She tried to focus on the remaining bills, but the numbers swirled like confetti in her head. Finally, she got up from the table and walked over to the refrigerator.
As she opened the freezer door, her vision fogged from the burst of cold air. Behind the ever-increasing stacks of containers of meatballs and the box of frozen blinis from her father’s sixtieth birthday Beluga Bash two years ago, she located the fishbowl. She removed it, holding it with both hands and gazing into its depths as if it were a crystal ball. She knew what Laz would say if he were to walk in on this scene: “Why spoil things?”
The ice had a bluish cast, completely unmarred by cracks. Grace thought about the lake at Kane’s house. Each winter, the lake was covered by a dark layer of ice, forbidding and unfathomably deep; but in the summer, the water was so clear that the bottom looked magnified. She remembered how she and Laz had once sneaked out to skinny dip while Kane was making breakfast. As she held on to Laz’s shoulders, gliding across the lake on his back, it was as if she were skimming air, not water. Grace always found it unimaginable during the winter that it was the same body of water that had seemed so inviting only months before.
The frozen key was just a faint glimmer within the sphere of ice. The bowl held approximately one gallon of water. She remembered the clerk in the pet store explaining the ratio of water to fish: for every inch of water, you could have one fish. He hadn’t mentioned any such limit on keys or other unresolved marital issues.
Grace guessed that the ice could take several days to thaw. She considered putting the bowl in the microwave, but then remembered Francine’s admonition about sparks from metal. And the glass might crack if she submerged it in a bath of warm water. She placed the bowl on the kitchen counter, moving it away from any heat that might be emanating from the counter’s fluorescent light fixture, and wiped her hands on a dish towel. If she had a thermostat, she probably would have considered turning it down. She wasn’t even certain if she was prepared to use the key this time. If the ice wasn’t melted by Monday, she would have her answer. Time would tell, she decided, glad that the decision was out of her hands.
GRACE SPENT THE rest of the afternoon coordinating Laz’s “comings and goings,” so as to avoid any more conflicts like the one with Kane the previous day. She plotted Laz’s life out in minute detail, using her pink pen to fill in his daily planner a month in advance, even down to such mundane activities as appointments with the dental hygienist and trips to the hardware store or to the Russian baths on Tenth Street.
She consulted her father’s latest e-mail update for the extended weather forecasts and other family events. She’d have to check the date for Kane and Laz’s annual ice fishing trip at the lake, but for now she penciled in an acute case of the stomach flu as well as a list of some ready-made excuses to have at her fingertips.
Most of the time, other people supplied her with the alibis: Laz working as usual? Away, again? Off on some humanitarian mission? She marked the days he would be “out of town” to coincide with family events, such as Grace’s
parents’ annual Hanukkah potluck dinner or the Sugarmans’ New Year’s Day dim sum brunch. The pink pen she was using began to run out; she shook it and pushed on the tip, but it was dry. She switched to a blue pen and a legal pad, which was not nearly as pleasing, but considering the complexity and organizational demands of her mission, she felt she needed to adopt more serious tools.
Grace noticed that Laz had written Contact, eight P.M. on New Year’s Eve in his calendar, and she figured he had ordered tickets for the play at Lincoln Center. He had obviously felt confident that he’d be back by then, sitting beside her to ring in the new millennium. When she got to her own birthday, she stopped. There was a red circle around the date. Underneath, Laz had written in almost illegible handwriting: Grange, nine P.M. Or did it say Grace? Grange Hall had never been one of her favorite restaurants, but she supposed it was the thought that counted.
Her birthday was only two weeks away. As a child, her parents used to take her to the Hawaii Kai for her birthday, which they pronounced as if it rhymed. She always felt like a princess as she drank out of a coconut and sat in a high-backed wicker chair, wearing several flower leis around her neck. Now she left the space as it was, wondering whether she’d be spending this birthday alone.
Once she finished organizing the next few weeks, she felt unusually celebratory, buoyed by a feeling of great accomplishment. She decided to treat herself to dinner, so she made a reservation at her and Laz’s favorite restaurant. As she was getting dressed, the telephone rang.
“Just wanted to check and see what you were up to tonight,” Kane said. Grace glanced at the date book to make sure she wasn’t forgetting anything and then answered with confidence.
“Nothing much. Just a quiet dinner at des Artistes.”
Kane was silent. He started to say something and stopped. “Sounds nice,” he said, finally.
While cradling the phone under her chin, Grace attempted to fasten the clasp of her pink sapphire choker—a present from Laz last Valentine’s Day. She had never been able to do it herself, sometimes even going downstairs and asking José for assistance. Laz had given it to her while she was in the shower. The three smaller jets had been on full force until the bathroom had steamed up and water dripped from the ceilings and walls, but even through the mist, the sapphires had glinted like stars as Laz had fastened it around her neck.
“About Monday,” Kane said. “Greg wants to know if we can go to a place that has spelt pizza.” Monday was Pizza Night. Every other Monday they went to Ralph’s for deep-fried zucchini sticks and a large pie. Kane had cancelled the last two.
“Spelt pizza?” Grace asked. She put the necklace down, unable to clasp it. It wound around itself slowly like a jeweled serpent.
“Yeah, Greg has me off wheat. Something about the gluten.”
“What else does Greg have you off?”
“Well, dairy, too,” he admitted sheepishly.
“So we’re having Spelt Night,” she said. “Sounds appetizing.”
“I’m not laughing,” Kane said, not quite his snappy self. “If you guys can’t make it, we’ll understand.” He seemed to be giving her a too-convenient out, which somehow took away the challenge for Grace. She had already penciled in a family emergency to get out of Pizza Night, but it was a last-minute excuse and she couldn’t use it until Monday afternoon. Even though she’d never planned to go, she found herself irritated that Greg was trying to alter their plans.
“Count us in,” she said adamantly, as if trying to protect her turf.
“You really won’t be able to tell the difference. Except you have to drink a lot of water,” he added.
CAFÉ DES ARTISTES was crowded when Grace arrived. The restaurant had a timeless quality. Everything, from the lacquered bar to the murals of nymphs on the walls, made Grace feel as if she’d stepped into another era. She indulged in the five-course tasting menu, including a cheese course, which featured unpasteurized delicacies smuggled in from France. No wine, just to be prudent. Her waiter was a handsome and ubiquitous young man, who stood nearby at the ready to refill her water glass, replenish the minibaguettes, or offer seconds on the beggar’s purses.
As she was taking a bite of her pear sorbet, the waiter brought over two glasses of Muscato and set them down in front of her. Grace looked at him questioningly, as if to say he must have made a mistake.
“From a Mr. Kane,” he said. Grace looked frantically around the dining room, trying to think how she would explain Laz’s absence. Noticing her futile search, the waiter added, “He called and said to send his best.” Grace tried to laugh it off, but even as she brought one of the glasses to her lips, she felt her heart pounding in her ears. Laz had once told her that Muscato meant “tiny flies” in Italian, and as she took one perfunctory sip, she imagined the carbonation like the flutter of wings.
Grace asked the waiter for the check, passing on the candied orange rinds and the madeleines. She waited for her coat by the entrance, protected from the wind by a glass storm door. Still slightly preoccupied by the near miss with the Muscato, she didn’t notice a couple as they entered the restaurant. There was a sudden stir among the patrons as a celebrity entered the restaurant. The staff began flurrying about, and Grace felt herself pushed rather forcibly from behind as another couple passed by. Grace turned, and as if in slow motion, she took in fleeting details.
“A quiet table in the back, please,” she heard the woman say, as the maître d’ led the couple to a secluded booth.
The woman was striking, with wavy, shoulder-length auburn hair, probably only a few years older than Grace. She looked familiar, perhaps being an actress who played character roles. Grace glanced at the man accompanying the woman. From the side, he reminded her of Laz, and she dropped her coat as it was handed to her. She composed herself, blaming the sip of Muscato, and looked more carefully. There was a definite similarity, but he was much younger than Laz. In fact, he looked a lot like Laz had in his Dartmouth College yearbook.
As Grace turned to go, she caught another flash of the young man’s face and couldn’t shake the feeling that she had seen him somewhere before. Only later, on the walk home in the bitingly cold air, as she thought about the ice melting in the fishbowl, did it register: He was the young man at the bookstore.
THAT NIGHT, GRACE dreamt that she and Laz were lying in a hammock, their legs entwined. Laz murmured, “Baby, baby, baby,” until the hammock began to sag and stretch from their weight, the diamond-shaped holes growing larger and larger, no longer able to sustain them. In the dream, Chloe was mending the hammock with variegated yarn spun from a giant spool. Grace awoke in a cold sweat, her T-shirt drenched, but the answer to her birthday dilemma was suddenly apparent—she would visit Chloe in Chicago.
13
THE PAINTED LADY
It was tradition on the Sunday after Thanksgiving that the Sugarmans would host the weekly Scrabble game. What was not usual was the fact that Bert was doing the cooking, or that it was hibachi night. Bert had gone to great lengths to prepare the spectacular evening. He had even purchased a traditional Japanese charcoal grill. Earlier in the day, Francine called Grace expressly to tell her to dress in loose, comfortable clothing suitable for sitting on the floor. Grace was happy to oblige, as anything other than stretchy, oversize articles of clothing made her feel like lying down, especially after last night’s five-course gustatory binge.
Grace showered, dried off, and surveyed her face in the bathroom mirror. She looked pale. She felt as if her mother’s hand was guiding hers as she applied her makeup before heading over to the Sugarmans’.
GRACE ARRIVED AT Bert and Francine’s penthouse apartment to a flurry of activity. Grace had brought a bouquet of white daisies and thistle, which she knew Francine liked. This, in turn, set off the obligatory commotion of a ten-minute appraisal of all the vases in the house and caused a lamentation about the Lalique that Bert had knocked off the mantelpiece ten years ago, which would have been simply perfect for Grace’s bouquet. It
was decided that the stems were too long and needed to be cut in order to look right in the Orrefors vase.
Bert was dressed in a white bib apron and chef hat. He sharpened his knives on a carving stone in the kitchen as Francine hovered about silently, clucking her tongue. The hibachi grill was set up on a low, square coffee table in what Francine referred to as the Bali room. The room was a small token to appease Bert’s lifelong yearning to live in Indonesia. A microcosmic replica straight from the pages of Travel, it was complete with low leather stools, embroidered throw pillows embedded with tiny mirrors, beaded curtains, and potted palms. Early on during Grace and Laz’s courtship, Laz had given Bert a rare artifact he’d picked up on a trip to Borneo. It was now displayed on a pedestal by the window. That token, along with their shared affinity for etymology, served to ingrain Laz forever in Bert’s heart. With floor-to-ceiling windows on all sides, in the summer months, the Bali room was like a hothouse. But on sunny winter days, it was usually quite pleasant. This afternoon, however, it seemed unmitigatingly gray.
Grace’s father, seated on the floor and wearing a wool cardigan he had borrowed from Bert, was reading aloud the directions for the hibachi grill.
“It says here,” he began, adjusting his reading glasses, which still had the drugstore price tag on the earpiece, “the grill should be ignited twenty minutes prior to cooking. And never used indoors.”