by Nina Solomon
Just as the kettle was coming to a boil, Grace noticed that the amaryllis on the dining room table had begun to wilt. She propped up the stalks against the side of the bark trellis that encircled the crate, but the stalks just bent in the opposite direction like overcooked asparagus. She remembered the instructions to cut the plant down a few inches above the base of the bulb, but now, as she sipped her tea, she opted for neglect, deciding that it could wait until Monday.
FRANCINE, SWATHED IN a full-length silver trench coat, vinyl boots, and her signature plaid Burberry umbrella (large enough for a golf foursome), was not in the least deterred by the rain. Even Bert, whose new shoes were not waterproof, trudged on like a trooper. His appearance was indeed significantly altered. He sported a black fedora, and Grace could detect the beginnings of a goatee.
“Mother went on quite a spree,” Grace’s father said as they crossed Ninth Avenue. “Did she tell you?”
“Don’t exaggerate, Milton. I just bought a few things, that’s all.”
“So, Francine,” he continued, “you’re off to Paris on Monday. It’s going to be some trip, huh?”
“Of course, it will be. Even more, in retrospect,” Francine answered. “Grace, tell Laz I’ll whip him up some culinary delight when I get back from Le Cordon Bleu,” she added, shooting Bert a punishing look as they walked down the street to begin their gallery-hopping adventure.
The galleries were on a side street, in renovated garages that bore no resemblance to their former incarnation, although Grace’s mother kept insisting that she smelled gasoline. Bert held the door open for Grace and then sloshed his way through to the entrance of a photography exhibit. Grace felt as if she were sleepwalking as she followed her parents and the Sugarmans in and out of gallery after gallery. She was unable to absorb anything she saw, as though her mind was covered in some impervious, repellent material.
Their last stop on the tour was a huge installation by Damien Hirst. Grace could hear Bert’s shoes squeaking across the floor as they all wandered about the gallery in their rain gear like a family of longshoremen. Grace walked in the opposite direction.
The exhibits were diverting enough—a blend of art, technological finesse, and arresting imagery—and Grace soon found herself mesmerized by the sight of a large white ball suspended by a current of air. In the next room, there was a huge glass tank filled with green water. Swimming around inside the tank were dozens of large black, orange, and silver fish. It was like the aquarium except for the life-size gynecologist’s table complete with stirrups also inside the tank. The only thing missing was Dr. Gaylin in a wet suit.
The fish began to swim fervently about in what looked like a feeding frenzy, but there was no food, only large air bubbles coming out of a tube. Also in the tank, on a small table, was a rusting computer, a broken watch, and a white mug next to the computer keyboard. Grace walked around to the other side of the tank, and as she did, she saw that the mug had letters on it. She looked closer. They spelled out the name Bert. She read the title of the piece: Love Lost.
At first, she thought she must still be asleep, and that the whole day, including Bert in his hat and this strangely apt installation, was just a dream. But this was far too clever even for her, so she knew she was certainly awake. Her Mary Poppins dream now seemed patently obvious—Bert is the name of Dick Van Dyke’s character in the movie. Grace was surprised that it had taken her so long to unravel the connection.
These images not only penetrated Grace’s psyche, they had hooked her, and she felt as if she were about to be devoured by the fish. She walked over to a bench in the center of the room and sat down. She considered contacting Damien Hirst and asking him how on earth he’d managed to distill her life and encapsulate it into a seven-by-seven-foot tank.
Grace saw her father walking toward her. “Francine’s getting antsy,” he said. “Some exhibit, isn’t it?” Grace took one of those deep breaths she’d learned in yoga but that she had never mastered, because holding her breath for any length of time, even for only seven seconds, terrified her. The breath, at least now, did serve to calm her somewhat.
“Yes, it’s really something,” she agreed, not sure what she was agreeing to. She heard someone approaching from behind. Bert sat down, holding his hat in his hand. A more dejected sight Grace had never seen, and she surmised that the new look had not served the purpose he’d hoped for.
“You have any Mylanta, Milt?” he asked.
“How many you need?”
“Two will do it, thanks,” he said. Grace’s father reached into his pants pocket and pulled out two tablets still in the plastic sleeve. Bert proceeded to pop them into his mouth and chew them, the white powder adhering to the corners of his mouth.
“Who’s ready to eat?” Grace’s father asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Bert said. Then he turned to Francine, who had joined them. “Time to shove off, honey.” He reached for her arm, but she quickly pulled it away.
Grace stood up from the bench, but as she did, she felt the room grow dark.
“Grace, what’s the matter?” her father asked. “You look peaked.” He put his hand to her forehead. “And you’re burning up.”
There was a pounding in her ears and the room began to spin. As she fell back on the bench, an image of dozens of tiny, dazzling butterflies circled around her. When she opened her eyes, her parents and the Sugarmans were standing above her. She sat up slowly. Something flat and disklike was beneath her. She grabbed hold of it, and discovered Bert’s now-flattened fedora, which she handed to him.
“For heaven’s sake, Grace needs a doctor,” Bert said in a panic. “Who has a cell phone? Someone should call Laz. Where the hell is he anyway? He should be here. Especially at a time like this. It would be easier to get Henry Kissinger on the phone!”
“Calm down, Bert, you’re acting hysterical,” Francine said. “You’re frightening Grace. She needs calm, rational people around her now. Why don’t you take half a tranquilizer? It’ll do you good. Grace doesn’t need a doctor. Everything’s fine. Look, the color’s coming back into her face. Go make yourself useful and get some wet paper towels.”
Bert scurried away and returned with a handful of soaking wet paper towels, a trail of water behind him. Grace pressed the towels to her forehead. She was beginning to feel better when she noticed bloodstains on her khaki pants.
“Honey, are you having pain?” her mother said quietly, sitting down on the bench beside her.
“Not really. It’s just a very heavy period, that’s all,” she told her. “I got a little light-headed, don’t worry.”
Her mother, quickly assessing the situation, reached into her oversize tote bag and rummaged around. “Everything is under control. No need to get excited,” she said and miraculously pulled out a pair of black satin cargo pants and a rhinestone belt with the Loehmann’s tags still attached.
“Paulette to the rescue,” Grace’s father beamed.
“And here—you might need this,” she said, stealthily handing Grace a blue-wrapped sanitary napkin as if it were a bag of hashish. “Why don’t you go to the ladies’ room and change? And here’s a couple of Aleve. First thing Monday, we’ll make you an appointment with this new doctor I found. Then we can have lunch at the Whitney. Doesn’t that sound nice?” Grace hadn’t really heard a single word. Her mother handed her the pants along with two white pills. Then, wrapping her raincoat around Grace’s waist, she escorted her to the ladies’ room and then waited for her outside.
Grace looked at herself in the mirror. Her complexion was the same pale yellow color as the letter from Griffin’s mother. It would have been so much easier to go blank, but she couldn’t. For once she agreed with Bert. Laz should have been here—just as he should have been at other times these past five weeks. She was afraid, and she wasn’t supposed to be bleeding.
When she emerged from the ladies’ room, still walking a bit unsteadily, she was met with nods of approval from Francine and her mother as
if she were about to venture out for her prom night. Her father and Bert stood off to the side, Bert holding his misshapen hat in his hands.
“I knew they’d be perfect on her,” her mother said. “See how they skim her hips and elongate her torso?”
“You do have an eye for these things,” Francine agreed.
“They’re one size fits most. No iron. Those pants, a crisp white shirt, a red cashmere sweater, a good pair of shoes, and you’re ready for a week in Europe,” she told Francine. “All set, everyone?”
Grace touched her mother on the shoulder. “I think I’m just going to head home,” she said.
“Honey, are you sure? It might make you feel better to be with people.”
“No, really,” Grace said. “I’ll talk to you later. Have fun.” Grace kissed her parents good-bye and wished Francine a good trip. She watched as the four of them left the gallery. As soon as they were out of sight, Grace called Kane.
20
LITTLE ODESSA
Kane picked Grace up right in front of the gallery. Miraculously, on the ride to Brooklyn, just as they were crossing the Manhattan Bridge, the rain ended, Grace’s bleeding stopped, and the sky turned a deep, clear blue, with bright stars and light, puffy clouds.
They were on their way to Little Odessa, where a surprise birthday celebration for Greg was planned at a Georgian restaurant. Grace would have preferred the quiet of just Kane’s company, but it was better than being alone while things were invisibly disintegrating inside her.
“I’m glad you called,” Kane said, turning off his windshield wipers.
“I hated the way we left things the other night,” Grace said.
“I know. Me, too.”
“I didn’t think you’d ever want to speak to me after all the awful things I said to you.”
“You and Laz are two of my closest friends. I don’t want there ever to be tension between us.”
“I still don’t know what came over me,” Grace said.
“Too much wheat grass, I guess,” Kane said.
“I don’t know. Whatever it was, I’m sorry. We really are so happy for you.”
Kane reached his hand out and touched Grace’s arm. “It’s all forgotten. I can’t believe you’re finally going to meet Greg.”
Grace looked out the window at the passing neighborhoods—attached brick row houses delineated by only slight stylistic variations, and then stretches where there were only stores. Kane pulled off Kings Highway and drove through the center of Brighton Beach, although the idea that they were anywhere near the ocean seemed unbelievable to Grace. It looked like any outer borough of the city, except that the lettering on the storefronts—even the Duane Reade and the Barnes & Noble—was written in both English and Russian.
They parked and walked several blocks down the main thoroughfare, then turned left onto what looked like a deserted street. Kane’s cell phone rang.
While Kane was on the phone, Grace saw his shoulders slump. “How long will you be?” she could hear him say. After a few minutes, he ended the conversation and put his phone away. “Looks like Greg won’t be able to make it until dessert,” he told her. “Some emergency at a photo shoot.” Grace felt a sense of empathy toward Kane. Their relationships had more in common than he knew.
They walked in silence until, out of nowhere, a restaurant appeared, its lights blazing and its interior festooned with brightly colored streamers and red-and-green garlands. Even though it was only five-thirty, every seat, except for those at a long table reserved for Greg’s party, was taken. A silver disco ball spun from the dropped ceiling, sending flashes of prismlike lights around the mirrored room.
In the back, on a raised platform, a man wearing a white jacket and tight spandex pants was playing a synthesizer, and Grace recognized the melody of “Surfin’ U.S.A.” Everyone at the restaurant was swaying and singing along, although the words were in Russian. She scanned the faces in the room as she followed Kane to their table, which, unfortunately, was right next to the speakers. Kane made apologies for Greg’s absence, and just like at the anniversary party, things went on in spite of the missing man of the hour.
“Are you okay?” she shouted to Kane over the music as they sat down.
“Oh, yeah. Comes with the territory.”
“I know what you mean. But at least we have each other,” she said, linking her arm in his.
“Always will.”
They didn’t have to look at menus; Kane had ordered in advance. The food arrived on huge platters and bowls that were filled with Russian delicacies—grilled eggplant, spinach purée, smoked fish with pickled beets, spicy minced string beans, cheese-filled pie, and a basket of warm airy bread that the waitress placed on a high silver stand. Everyone took a spoonful of each dish and passed it along. Grace noticed that she’d worked up quite an appetite.
The man next to Grace turned to her and extended his hand. “I’m Carmine. Greg’s old man.”
“I’m Grace. A friend of Kane’s.”
“Gotta love that guy! Grace, you have any idea what this is?” Carmine asked, as he examined an unrecognizable dish.
“I think it’s some kind of meat,” Grace said.
“It’s cabbage,” the waitress said curtly, as she walked by.
“Tastes like my mama’s meatballs, may she rest in peace,” Carmine said. “Only without the meat, obviously.”
Kane flagged down the waitress for another glass of wine. As Grace watched the spinning disco ball and listened to the warped sounds from the synthesizer, she found herself growing hypnotized. Even the Russian lyrics to the Beach Boys’ song were beginning to sound comprehensible. She took a long swig of Kane’s wine and looked at the people assembled for Greg’s party. Friends and family. One of Greg’s cousins got up to do the chicken dance, which Grace had once seen at a wedding. The setting and the cast of characters had changed, but not much else. With only a few minor differences, this was the Italian version of her parents and the Sugarmans. Even Grace’s role was the same.
“Miss, this is the best wedding I’ve ever been to,” Carmine said. The waitress gave a perfunctory smile.
“He thinks he’s a comedian,” his wife, Sophia, said, taking a bite of food and turning her back to him.
“What? I was just being friendly,” Carmine said. “Grace, would you care to dance?” As Grace listened to the music, which now sounded a bit like a synthesized version of Elvis Costello’s “Watching the Detectives,” she thought about Adrian Dubrovsky—or was the elusive Russian detective watching her?
“Thanks, but I’m going to have to take a rain check,” she said. Someone passed Grace a dish of something surrounded by a mass of clear jelly. Another mystery vegetable, perhaps. She looked at the pale, oval slices on the platter and decided to try one. She had just taken a small bite when she noticed the knuckles on the underside. They jiggled slightly. She set down her fork as she realized that she may have just ingested the toe of a pig. She felt nauseous and turned to Kane, unable to speak.
“Grace, what’s wrong? You’re breaking into a sweat.”
“Nothing,” she managed to say, feeling herself begin to gag. “I think I’m going to go.”
“But Greg will be here any minute. Can’t you stay just a little longer?”
“I really can’t. I want to leave before I get up and start doing the chicken dance. Tell Greg I’m sorry.”
“I wish I could drive you home,” he said.
“It’s Greg’s birthday. You should be here.”
“Why? Greg’s not.”
The DJ, who also happened to be the maître d’, called a car for Grace. It arrived in less time than it took her to put on her coat.
Kane walked her outside and hugged her. “I’m really glad you came,” he said. “I couldn’t have gotten through this evening without you.”
“If you only knew,” she said, giving him a hug.
GRACE GOT INTO the back of the black sedan and gave her address to the driver, then dozed off d
espite the bumpy ride home. She awoke with a jolt to see someone other than José holding the car door open for her. As soon as she stepped out of the car onto the cobblestone driveway, she realized at once that she’d given the driver the wrong address. She was standing in front of Laz’s old building. Perhaps some delusional side effect of the methotrexate had catapulted Grace five years back in time, so that when she turned the brass doorknob of the apartment, Laz would be inside waiting. She turned back to the car, but the driver had already sped off, without collecting his fare.
“Good evening,” the doorman said. “Mrs. Brookman, right? I’m really enjoying the book Mr. Brookman gave me.” She stared blankly at him.
“A travel book,” he continued. “He left it for me yesterday.” And then Grace understood. She knew what book without having to ask.
“The Innocents Abroad,” he beamed. “A hand-bound, leather edition. I can’t wait to read it.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“He’s such a nice young man,” he said. She wondered why Griffin would have given away a book that had been a gift from Laz, but perhaps he felt that the books were poor substitutes and that he’d rather have nothing.
Grace walked into the building and down the marble corridor to the side entrance, where she could get a taxi heading in the right direction. The chandeliers gave off an eerie yellow light. Reflected in the Baroque mirrors that lined the hallway, Grace saw the fuzzy outlines of what looked like Mr. Dubrovsky sitting on a velvet chair. His legs were crossed, he wore black wing tip shoes, and on his lap he held a hat. She spun around to see if he was indeed really there, but the chair where she’d thought she’d seen him was now empty. No sign of Mr. Dubrovsky or his reflection.
Grace thought that she must have experienced some kind of Manhattan mirage, the consequence of too many blinis after having grown faint earlier. Then checking her own reflection in the mirror, she walked outside to find a taxi home.