by Sara Gran
Of all my classes, yoga is the most fun. The class is in the East Village and the teacher is a real East Village chick, with tattoos on her biceps and ankles, fingernails and toenails painted black It’s a beginners’ class and most of the other students are, from the looks of it, people like me; people in their thirties who used to be cool and hip and are looking for a way to regain that confidence. No one talks to each other, we just smile and nod our heads in the sunlit room while we wait for Ms. Black Toenails to show up. It’s like waiting on line for a prescription at a drugstore, everyone is too wrapped up in her own problems to be too concerned with the next person’s shit, yet everyone thinks that the whole room is wondering, what’s wrong with her? We all look a little desperate. In a way it’s an admission of defeat, being here.
But it’s fun. We stretch here and there and feel the energy through our spines and get a thrill from coming close to Downward Dog, Upward Dog, the Cobra, and the Plow. The best part of class is the hop. We’re in Downward Dog—feet and hands on the floor, hips in the air forming a nice triangle, if it’s done correctly. Then the teacher says to crouch down and look between your hands. “Think light thoughts,” she says, “and hop forward.” The goal is to get your feet between your hands, and I come close. Out of all the moves we do in class, I’m best at the silly little hop Think light thoughts, and hop forward
I’m on my way out of yoga class one afternoon in the fall when I walk smack into Austin. Literally I’m walking south on Lafayette, planning to get the subway back uptown, when I change my mind and decide to go to an Indian restaurant on Sixth Street for lunch I make a quick full turn on the sidewalk and my left hand smacks hard into Austin’s ass. I turn around to apologize, I think to a stranger, and there’s Austin, totally stunned. Poor Austin: First I refuse to wait five minutes for him, then I hang up on him, then I blow him off for months, and now I hit him.
I laugh He smiles.
“I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you.”
“No, of course not I’m sure you meant to hit someone else entirely.”
We both laugh. It should be awkward, but it isn’t.
“So. Did you find an apartment?”
“Yep. Thirty-eighth and Ninth. I got a real-estate agent. Maggie Maggie was great.”
“Better than me?”
“Well, she, you know, she took my phone calls. She would see me, speak to me, that kind of stuff, so yes, I have to say she was better.”
We both laugh again.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry about that My mother was sick and I—”
“Didn’t deal with it very well?”
“Yeah, that’s it. That’s exactly it.”
“I saw in the papers that she—when she passed away I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“Thanks. I’m okay. I’ll be okay ”
“Good Well. .”
We’re on the corner of Lafayette and Houston, and I feel my heart breaking, it’s cracking into two and then four and then into a thousand pieces at the thought of Austin walking away.
“Indian food.” What I mean to say is, I’m going over to Sixth Street for Indian food, do you want to come with me?, but all that comes out is “Indian food ”
“Huh? Do you know a good place for Indian? Someone told me about this place on Twenty-sixth—”
“I know the best place On Sixth Street This is the best Indian food in the city.”
“One thing I’ve noticed since I’ve been in New York,” he says, “is that everyone thinks they know the best spot for everything. Everyone thinks they have the best Indian place, the best shoe repair place, the best sushi But no one knows where to get a good a haircut.”
“There is no place to get a good haircut,” I tell him. “None. Thirty years, I’ve never had a good haircut Listen, come with me to this restaurant for lunch, and then I’ll give you a haircut ”
“You can cut hair?”
He doesn’t walk away. Words are coming out of my mouth that I don’t understand, but he’s not walking away
“Of course I can It’s easy You have scissors? A good pair of scissors?”
“Uh, I—”
“We’ll buy some. Lovely Locks, about nine dollars. They’re the best. Trust me, I used to cut my own bangs Look, where were you going, right now?”
“Down to a show on Broadway, a gallery A friend of mine’s in it”
“It can wait, right?”
“I guess.” He looks happy. We’re both so fucking happy I could scream It’s ridiculous, to be this happy.
“So listen, we’ll go to this place for lunch which, I’m telling you, is the best Indian place in the city. Then I’ll give you a haircut ”
“I don’t know about the haircut”
“Don’t you trust me? Austin, I wouldn’t give you a bad haircut.” We walk east, and the pieces of my heart pick themselves up and stick themselves back together, perfectly, like a jigsaw puzzle
Chapter 26
As it turns out, I am a shockingly good hairdresser
We’ve silently agreed to push the past, at least the worst of it, out of the way, and over shared tandoori chicken and vegetable kurma we talk easily about our new lives. But after lunch, when I head to a discount drugstore for the scissors, Austin looks nervous.
“Are you sure about this?” he asks
I know how men are about their hair. No makeup, no fancy high-heels—it’s the only outlet they have for all that anxiety My father used an English styling cream that he could only buy at a high-end apothecary on Seventh Avenue. It came in a porcelain jar and smelled like witch hazel. One of the few times I saw him mad—not depressed but hotly pissed off—was when my mother forgot to pick a jar up for him before one of their big parties and he had to make do with Brylcreem 198
“Of course I’m sure,” I tell Austin. I walk into the drugstore and into the hardware aisle, acres of sharp silver files and clippers and scissors. Austin follows, silent as I pick out the Lovely Locks, take them to the cashier, and pay my $8.75. He still looks nervous Outside the store I stop and take his arm.
“Look,” I tell him. “You have to trust me. Today you don’t believe I can cut your hair, tomorrow you’ll think I’m … I’m … sleeping with the mailman.”
He laughs. “The mailman?”
“Whatever. The point is, if you don’t trust me now, you never will. This type of thing never gets better. It’ll only get worse.”
“So if I don’t let you cut my hair now, that’s it? We have no future?”
“Exactly.”
Austin rolls his eyes, but he hails a cab and tells the driver to take us up to Thirty-eighth and Ninth
Austin’s apartment is actually a loft, as big as any I’ve ever seen The front half is a studio, full of lights and cameras and colossal rolls of backdrop Separated by a clean white wall is the space where Austin lives In a bedroom he changes into a worn white T-shirt. He keeps his eyes closed while I’m cutting, and when I finally give him a mirror he breaks out into a big smile
“This is the best haircut I’ve ever had,” he says with amazement.
It is a great cut. Even, yet rounded on top, just a smidgen shorter on the sides, curving down to a subtle fade at the nape of the neck This does everything a good cut should—his eyes are bright, cheekbones high, the whole face is well-framed. No one else, I think, could make him so beautiful.
Afterward, we sit on opposite ends of the big black velvet sofa and smoke a joint.
“I can’t believe what I have to worry about now,” I tell Austin “Investments, taxes, what to do with the brownstone. I feel like some kind of dowager ”
“You’re only thirty,” says Austin, nudging me in the arm.
“Yeah, but I never thought I would be thirty. What are you now, thirty-three?”
“Yep ”
“You know, that’s the age Christ was when he died,” I tell him
“And it’s the age when Buddha reached enlightenment,” he answers “Thirty-three is su
pposed to be, like, the hardest year for men. You’re supposed to reach spiritual enlightenment Or at least try But, you know, it’s always something Soon I’ll be looking at forty—then I’ll really have to worry ”
“You know,” I say, sucking down the remains of the joint, “my cousin’s the president of MOFUG ”
Austin gives me a funny look. “Leopold?”
“Yeah, Leopold ”
He picks up a fat plastic bag of weed off the table “Who do you think I bought this from?”
“No way.”
“I can’t believe he’s your cousin He’s a great guy.”
“Yes,” I say “He is a great guy, isn’t he.”
“Yes,” says Austin. “That’s what I said.”
Chapter 27
Harry Stromer says it, Allison says it, even Veronica says it I have to do something with the house on Commerce Street Kate Lewis, from the bottom floor, has retired to sunny Florida and the two tenants left are nervous They didn’t have leases with my mother and they’re worried I’ll kick them out. Mrs Adler, a former dancer now in her sixties, has lived in the building since before my mother bought it and pays not much more than she did on her original lease, which from what I understand is all she can afford. The Cohens, NYU professors now in their fifties, moved in in 1976 and raised a son, now in college, in their little two-bedroom, for which they pay not much more than I pay for my place in Inwood. I’ve known them as long as I can remember, Mrs. Adler and the Cohens, but I’ve never known them at all We had our own entrance to the top-floor apartment and I always avoided the tenants; it made me uncomfortable to think of these odd people living under our roof. But Evelyn thought highly enough of them to let them stay in the building all these years, so I will too.
And, as it turns out, the place needs work. Doors need to be reset, plumbing must be repaired, a boiler has to be replaced. The tenants were happy to live with iffy hot water and rattling windowpanes when Evelyn was in charge. They trusted her I’m a whole different story, though, and in anticipation of rent increases they’ve gotten together and sent me an itemized list of repairs to be done. Plastering, painting, pipes—this is a new language for me, and one I have no desire to learn. Harry doesn’t mind collecting the rent, Allison says she can negotiate new leases (or, if I want, a sale), but managing the building is no one’s responsibility but mine. And I cannot, in good conscience, ask Harry and Allison for any more favors. They refuse to take a penny from me, and now that all the estate issues are settled I’ve got to take matters into my own hands.
I’m bitching about the brownstone situation to Austin one day in a cafe on First Avenue when he has a good idea Austin, I’m finding out, has a lot of good ideas. He’s changed since Miami. He drinks less, he works less, and he’s smarter.
“I know this kid,” he says, “this great kid. Nineteen, twenty. He did some work on my apartment when I first moved in—”
“Did he do the kitchen?” I love Austin’s kitchen. He’s got built-in cabinets and a big butcher-block island in the middle.
“Yep, that’s him. He’s an assistant for a guy I know, a sculptor, but only part time He used to work for a construction company so he still does some construction on the side. Anyway, he called me last week and asked me if I knew where to look for a good apartment.” Austin looks at me with a smile, like it’s all settled.
“So?” Not only is Austin smarter than he used to be, he’s often much smarter than me. Luckily, he’s patient.
“So, this kid could move into the building and be like a super. He gets a free apartment and he does the work on the building—plastering, roofing, whatever.”
I’m hesitant. “Can he do the plumbing?”
“I don’t know,” Austin says. “But I’ll tell you one thing; he can talk to the plumbers.” It’s obvious, apparently, that I’m terrified of talking to contractors.
“What about the leases and everything?” I complain. “I still need a lawyer to write it all up. I can’t keep bothering my mother’s friend.”
“Maybe my lawyer can help you out,” says Austin. “He’s pretty busy, but I’ll ask him.”
I’m dumbfounded “You have a lawyer?”
“Of course.” He shrugs like it’s nothing.
“You have an accountant?”
He shrugs again. “Yeah, but he’s not the best. I’m looking around, actually. I think I got fucked on my taxes last year. When I find a good one I’ll let you know.”
Austin has changed a lot since Miami.
We meet the kid—James Irwin, known as Jimmy—at a coffee shop near Austin’s place one week later Jimmy is thin as a rail, white with a healthy tan and sandy brown hair cut down to a short fringe. He’s wearing a black button-down shirt and black jeans, probably his best outfit He has a glowing smile and brilliantly shining eyes. If I was eighteen I’d be head over heels.
“So, Jimmy,” I say, feeling very mature, “tell me about yourself. Where are you from?”
“Well, I’m from Georgia originally,” he says with a slight accent, “but, ah, I—” He shifts m his seat, which I assume means a hole in the story. Everyone’s story, I’ve learned, has holes I want to take him off the hook
“So, when did you move to New York?” I ask.
“I moved to New York when I was seventeen, and—”
“Seventeen!” I interrupt. “You moved to New York alone when you were seventeen?”
“Yeah. At first I worked for Lorenzo and Brothers, they’re a construction company. While I was working for them I got my GED. Then just last year I got a job working for Ian Keller—Austin’s friend—but I still do some construction, too. Like Austin’s place.”
“Austin’s place is beautiful,” I tell him “Where do you live now?”
“Well, I’ve got this place in Queens, but it’s a sublet, and the guy’s coming back next month. I thought I had a room lined up in this place in Williamsburg, but then that fell through …”
Austin and I laugh, and then Jimmy does too
“Are you an artist?” I ask him.
Jimmy blushes a little “I want to—I mean, I’m trying—”
“He’s a sculptor,” Austin interrupts. “He’s very talented.”
Now Jimmy blushes bright red. “I’ve got references,” he says, changing the topic. He hands me a large manila envelope, inside of which is a list of former employers and phone numbers.
“Jimmy,” I say truthfully. “I am totally impressed by you. I’m going to check your references and if everything pans out, the job is yours.”
Jimmy is thrilled, Austin is happy, I’m relieved I decide I’ll give him Evelyn’s apartment She would have liked him. The Cohens and Mrs. Adler can stay at their current rents and I’ll rent out the ground floor at the market rate, which is high enough to cover the cost of the repairs.
In bed that night, after Austin falls asleep, I wonder how Jimmy will describe me to his friends This crazy rich lady .. I wonder if he’ll think I’m pretty Or if thirty is too old to be pretty to twenty.
Chapter 28
Veronica, in a rare moment of selflessness, has volunteered to help me clean out my mother’s apartment. The apartment on Commerce Street is eerie and cold, a dead woman’s home, and Veronica and I crack jokes to dispel the ghosts.
“My God,” says Veronica, packing up the kitchen, “you wouldn’t believe what’s m here Pots! And pans’ And I think this is the same yogurt that’s been in the fridge since the first time I came over.”
“It’s an heirloom. The yogurt and the cigarette butts. They’ve been in the family for generations.”
Packing up the kitchen, which Evelyn shunned, isn’t too bad, and the living room is mostly about books, which we pack neatly and slowly in small brown boxes. We vow not to look at the titles, which might bring on distraction. I’ve rented a storage space in downtown Brooklyn; tomorrow movers will come to take everything away. And everything of hers will go to the storage space, I am absolutely not capable of throwing away o
ne shred, one scrap, that belonged to my mother Her desk, littered with manuscripts waiting for blurbs, check stubs, and unanswered letters, is difficult Everything in the bathroom goes into the trash and packing the coats and purses in the hall closet doesn’t bring on much more pain than the ache I’ve had every day since she’s gone. My old bedroom is not too bad; Evelyn was no pack rat, and most of my childhood possessions were given away to charity years ago An odd sweater in a dresser drawer, an old coat and a stack of college textbooks in the closet—I throw them all away More books, Evelyn’s, are piled along the walls and those get boxed up for storage
The hard part is her bedroom The books on the night-stand, dresser drawers of socks and underwear—these are the last items my mother touched in this home. There are two closets. One is full of clothes, a small lake of black cotton and wool In the other closet, a big walk-in, is the mother lode Photo albums. Two banker’s boxes of my father’s papers and one of hers My high-school diploma. A box of pristine first editions of my father’s books. It’s all a little too much and when Veronica offers to finish the closet herself, I readily agree.
“Go for a walk,” she says “Come back in twenty minutes and it’ll all be over ”
Outside I don’t have the strength to walk so instead I sit on the front steps and try not to think An older woman comes walking around the curved street and up to the building.
“Mary?” she says.
It’s Mrs. Adler. I had Milton Duke, my new lawyer, work out the new leases and explain my plans for repairs to the tenants—I thought it would be easier for everyone—and so I haven’t seen her since the funeral.
“How’s everything, Mrs. Adler?”
She’s the archetype of the West Village woman; hair in a tight bun on top of her head, big dangling earrings, black turtleneck, and a Mexican print skirt. Her voice commands the same authority it must have when she taught dance at the New School.