by Murphy, R.
“You’re the best,” I told him. And he was.
Between writing, shaling, drawing my stick figures in outfits to organize my Manhattan packing and the various social activities that now occupied my evenings, the next week flew. David stayed at my place and he caught, uggghhhhh, two more mice while we got to know each other better inside and out. Such a lovely man.
Stacey tripled up on chorus practices and, all modesty aside, we didn’t sound too shabby. Together with Liz, Kim, and Bev, my Manhattan roommates, we organized the items we’d pack for our city weekend to avoid overlap and ensure an abundant supply of wine in our cramped quarters.
To save several hundred dollars, Bev and Gino had decided to split up and stay with three roommates of their own gender, which surprised me.
“Who knows?” Bev said when I questioned her about it. “Sleeping apart from each other for a few days might spice things up a little. Don’t forget, we’ve been married a loooooong time.”
David and I certainly didn’t need to spice things up since it had been a loooooong time since either of us had been in a physical relationship and we were enjoying ourselves. But we’d committed to our separate hotel arrangements months ago. And a commitment is a commitment. Sigh.
Tuesday morning, I started the long drive to Katie’s house in New Jersey while David went back to his place. He’d scheduled extra hours at the winery while I visited my family, and he’d volunteered to keep an eye on my lakefront while he was around. In a few days, though, David would join the other chorus members on the bus chartered for our time in Manhattan. Worried about the water level, I’d toyed briefly with the idea of cancelling my weekend away. The other members of the chorus talked me out of staying home, though. As Bev pointed out, I’d done everything I could to fight off the waters. Now my fate rested in the lap of the gods.
My drive through the Pennsylvania mountains seemed a lot quieter without Bob nattering at my side, as he had last year. How I missed his nonsensical approach to life, brightening the day, distracting me from my worries. My time with David was lovely, but it didn’t have quite the same zing as my hours with Bob. I spent the drive pondering my retrieval strategy for him, and practicing our concert songs at the top of my lungs, which might explain some of the looks I got from my fellow motorists. And I must say, the forsythia throughout my route took my breath away. That bright pop of yellow smacked Old Man Winter right on the behind every time. The sight of each golden bough lightened the weight of the gray days I’d been carrying in my spirits.
My niece Amy remained on campus and Katie and Bill were at work, so I let myself into their house after the long drive, brought my bags up to the guest bedroom, freshened up, and walked the mile over to Pop and Milly’s to stretch my legs. Dad was napping when I arrived, so Milly and I shared a quiet cup of tea in the kitchen and caught up on family doings. Eventually I heard the mechanical chair raising Dad from his reclining position, and I went into the living room to find him reaching for his walker and repositioning his plastic oxygen cord, which was simultaneously his salvation and the bane of his existence.
Every time I saw Pop these days, it shocked me. Only recently had his hair become completely white—he hadn’t started graying until his mid-seventies—and his eyes, even after his many naps, always looked exhausted. Never much of a talker, Dad and I chatted for only a few minutes before getting down to our customary “Destroy Roz” Scrabble game. While we played, I described my upcoming weekend in enthusiastic detail, but nothing seemed to excite Dad any more.
I washed the dishes after Milly’s healthy dinner, said my goodbyes, and then walked the mile back to Bill and Katie’s to join them for an after-dinner glass of wine.
Wednesday passed in much the same fashion—walk to Pop and Milly’s, Scrabble, nap, dinner, back to Bill and Katie’s—and by Thursday morning I was more than ready for a little Manhattan vitality.
Chapter 7
Once More unto the Breach
Since the usual good-weather construction congested the ramp leading to the Lincoln Tunnel, bus schedules couldn’t be trusted. Bill suggested I take the train instead and he dropped me off at the station Thursday morning. I bought a cup of coffee at the upscale station café and studied my fellow early-morning commuters while I sipped.
Virtually every woman wore black, and glossy manicures fluttered on fingers’ ends like exotic butterflies. Hairstyles were subdued and controlled, reflecting the professional women who sported them. The heels! My God, the heels! How do other women go through life with them, much less walk many city blocks in them? I’d be crippled if I had to wear them every day. The newspapers of my commuting days had been replaced by sleek and stylish electronic notepads. I felt like a dinosaur clutching my inky New York Times, wheeling my battered weekender suitcase behind me.
A kind conductor hoisted my suitcase up the train car stairs when the train arrived and the mob of commuters packed into it. Once in the train cars, we eventually spread out, settling into the noxious orange seats.
The train hummed toward Manhattan that bright spring morning, such a welcome change from the wet, cold weeks that had preceded it. We clicked through early-twentieth century suburbs filled with quaint Dutch colonials and prosperous split ranch houses. Blossoms of dogwoods and budding cherry trees at their peaks of loveliness brushed my window as we sped by. Daffodils and tulips planted along the banks nodded at us in the crisp morning sun.
After my springtime wanderings through the flowering Jersey suburbs, Penn Station, the train’s terminus, punched me in the side of the head. Masses of single-minded commuters pushed through the neon-lit caverns of the building, salmon heading upstream to spawn. They trapped me in their wake. Before I knew it, I was stuck on the escalator, moving upward into the bright sunshine of Eighth Avenue. Horns blared, traffic lights blinked, pedestrians shoved. I escaped the busy sidewalk for a moment, catching my breath, pushed up next to Madison Square Garden. I planned to walk to the Gotham Hotel, my goal, many blocks away over by Grand Central Station, even though it might be cumbersome wheeling my luggage behind me.
After getting my breath and my bearings, I started cross-town. First I paused at Macy’s flagship windows to admire the Easter chicks, bunnies, and pots of blooms planted strategically around models sporting spring’s finest fashions. Fifteen minutes later, after pulling my heavy suitcase along many blocks of coffee shops, gritty cafés, zipper and fastener manufacturers, and aging specialty clothing stores, I met up with a quiet middle-of-the-block park with a fountain that offered ledges to sit on. Hot now, from carrying my oversized purse and tugging my overnighter, I decided to rest for a few minutes. Passersby abounded, so I thought I’d take it easy only until a woman not wearing black walked by. I figured I’d be there for five minutes. After twenty minutes, I threw in the towel and started walking again. A lady wearing a sweater so dark green it looked black trotted by. Close enough for government work.
Finally, sweaty and tired, I reached the Gotham Hotel. Built to house thousands of budget-minded tourists at a time, it sported a huge sterile lobby with high ceilings, easily washable chairs, and generic replaceable artwork. But heck, as long as the rooms were clean and bedbug free, sterile and generic worked just fine for me for a short stay.
I passed easily through check-in and took the elevators to the eighteenth floor. The utilitarian hallways felt almost like those in my college dorm, but our room was nice. Very, very crowded, though, for four women. Two double beds, a miniature couch, and a built-in dresser-desk filled the space. As I entered, Liz unpacked her suitcase into the closet. Bev, my bedmate, had settled in already and left to see the town. We expected our fourth roommate, Kim, to arrive at dinnertime.
“Even though it’s tiny, the room looks pretty good to me,” Liz commented. Her curly blond hair bounced around her face as she walked between suitcase and closet. I plunked on the bed, too hot and sweaty to
do much until I caught my breath.
“I like the color,” I said, scanning the room. “I’ve never been big on slate gray, but it looks good here. Kind of cool and sophisticated, especially with all the white trim.”
“And gray doesn’t show the dirt,” Liz responded in her practical nurse’s voice. “I shouldn’t say that, though. It looks very clean.” She paused in her unpacking to look at me. “Why are you so pink, Roz?”
I swiped a tissue across my still-damp forehead. “I’m pink because I lugged my suitcase all across town like an idiot instead of taking a cab.”
Liz stared at me, puzzled. “What did you do that for?”
Which answer should I give her? Because I’m too cheap to hire a cab or because the long walk offered good exercise? I decided on the latter. “I thought it would be a good workout, and I guess I was right,” I said, mopping my face one last time before throwing the tissue into a nearby color-coordinated waste basket.
“Huh.” Liz zipped her empty suitcase and nestled it tidily in the bottom of the closet. “Okay, I’m all set,” she said, looking around. “Bev’s been and gone, so we’re only waiting for Kim and she’ll be here later. I’m going to meet up with Bev, so I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“Sounds good. I’m going to shower while the bathroom’s available and run some errands. Then David and I are meeting for dinner and Anything Goes. Do you know what time rehearsals start tomorrow?”
“On the bus driving in, Stacey told us to be downstairs in the ballroom at eight. We’ll rehearse here in the hotel tomorrow and Saturday, and then have a final run-through at Carnegie Hall Sunday morning.”
“Sure sounds like a busy weekend,” I said.
“You got that right. See you later,” Liz said as she closed the door behind her.
I quickly showered and changed. I had a couple of hours to put my Bob plan into action before I met up with David for our pre-theater dinner. I figured if I could locate Bob at the Algonquin this afternoon and get everything straightened out with him, David and I might be able to enjoy a nice quiet dinner there this evening without any external drama or excitement.
I hustled out of the hotel and scurried west to the Algonquin. Ever naïve, in my mind I thought I’d walk into the hotel reception area, see Bob drunk on the same loveseat where Amy and I found him last winter, talk to him and persuade him to come back to me, and that would be that. End of story. Honestly, looking back on the situation, some days even I am shocked at what a nitwit I can be.
After a brisk fifteen-minute walk, I pushed through the Algonquin’s revolving doors. Once again, I did a double-take at the décor. Even though I knew better, for a few seconds I felt like I had stepped back into the 1920s, the hotel’s heyday. Antique tables, upholstered chairs, loveseats, and potted palms all packed together in the high-ceilinged room. A grand piano anchored the back corner and dining rooms branched off to the left and the rear. Diminutive lights twinkled on each table, giving the virtually windowless space a warm, soft glow.
After charging through the door, I glanced immediately at Bob’s loveseat. Empty. My heart sank. I had hoped and prayed that finding Bob might be straightforward but . . . of course not.
A young, polished, redheaded hostess with the inevitable gleaming New York manicure wandered over. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m looking for a friend,” I said. “I thought he’d be here.”
“We’re not too busy right now and no one told me they were waiting for someone, but you’re welcome to look around if you’d like. Let me know if we can get you a drink or something to eat.” She motioned me into the lounge area.
“Thanks so much.”
I strolled through the lounge and the two dining rooms, hovering for a few moments over the fabled but now-deserted Round Table. I even checked out the restrooms on the lower level. Nothing. Anywhere. After twenty minutes of fruitless searching, I sat on Bob’s loveseat in the lounge and ordered a cup of tea. Sipping, my thoughts wandered, encouraged by the room’s furnishings to imagine it in its prime.
My readings over the past few months had painted a picture of the bright young things in the Algonquin Circle stopping by constantly during the Twenties, taking hours from their jobs in publishing, writing, rehearsing for or reviewing Broadway shows. Brilliant, witty, cutting quips zinged their way around these rooms during the boom years of the Circle, right before the Great Depression flattened the country and our economy.
Funny thing, though, for the most part, these Round Table members were not particularly famous when they first got together. They were just building reputations for themselves in their respective careers. Names from my winter reading rolled through my mind. Alexander Woollcott, a huge, engaging, sniping theater critic, longtime friend of Harpo Marx. Dorothy Parker, a quick-witted poet and writer whom Aleck Woollcott described as a cross between Little Nell and Lady Macbeth, reputed to have the most vicious quips in the Circle; columnists Franklin Pierce Adams and Heywood Broun; and Pulitzer Prize winner and prolific playwright George S. Kaufman, among many others. My buddy Bob toddled in the midst of that madding crowd, but I had trouble visualizing his befuddled, nonsensical approach to life in the midst of this sparkling, slightly nasty, group. For all his snarkiness, Bob had never said a cutting word to me.
I sipped my tea, trying to figure out my next step. Could Bob be sitting next to me this very minute, invisible because he wasn’t assigned to me anymore? If that was the case, how could I pull back the curtain between my world and his? I muttered, “Bob? Bob? Are you here?” under my breath a couple of times, but left off when the hostess shot me a sharp look. I smiled at her innocently, and returned to my silent strategizing. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a lot of time to figure this all out, considering rehearsals and everything else the chorus had scheduled for this weekend. In fact, this visit was the only time I’d be at the Algonquin on my own. Tonight, David would be with me.
I wracked my brain and then remembered, reluctantly, the ring I’d put so much energy into forgetting. That engraved gold ring I’d worn to the ghost ball and rescued from my heating vent months later, only to get uptight every time I looked at it, much less held it. Virtually the only piece of expensive jewelry I’d ever seen that I didn’t like. I’d thrown that ring into the bottom of my suitcase, but I’d hoped never to wear it without Bob.
I couldn’t waste any more time. I had to get back to the hotel and dress for my dinner date and a much anticipated Broadway show. Finishing my tea, I paid and started back to the Gotham, allowing myself a few minutes to linger in front of the windows on Fifth Avenue.
The downside of my tendency to pack light was the Spartan, some might say boring, nature of my evening wear. For our night out, I’d brought a nondescript packable knit black dress, low black heels, nice-looking but fake pearls, and a cut black velvet scarf with silver sparkles my sister Angela had sent me from a meditation trip she’d taken to Myanmar.
“Gorgeous scarf, Roz,” Kim, the final member of our roommate quartet, said as she stroked the velvet. “Any chance I could borrow it when we go to the opera Saturday? It’s a lot prettier than the scarf I brought with me.”
“That might work out,” I said, admiring the way the sparkles glittered when I wiggled my shoulders under the bright hotel lights. “I don’t think I’m scheduled to wear it that night, and David’s the only one who will have seen it before. Sure.”
I checked my makeup one last time, patted my hair, grabbed my clutch, into which I’d burrowed the obnoxious ring, and headed down to the lobby to meet David. A low wolf-whistle greeted me, and I felt a blush work its way up my cheeks. What is it about sex, at any age, that makes you feel sixteen again? Whatever it is, God bless it!
“You look gorgeous, sweetheart,” David said as he offered me his arm. “Are you going to be okay walking in those shoes? We could catch a cab.”
“These shoes will be fine for a short walk. I wouldn’t want to go hiking in them, though. You look very handsome tonight. It’s kind of fun to dress up once in a while, isn’t it?” I said, smiling as I linked my arm through his.
“If you say so,” David replied, tugging absent-mindedly at his tie with his right hand.
We strolled down 42nd Street as stressed commuters hustled past us to Grand Central and home. We took our time, glancing in the store windows that lined our route. What a consumer culture we have, most of the economy built on getting and spending and we do, indeed, lay waste our powers in that pursuit. Fortunes created by making people crave more, better, faster, bigger, quicker.
It seemed the older I became, the more I fell out of sync. Lately my goal had become not to accumulate more, but to spend my time appreciating the amazing bounty I already had in friends, food, books, health, and every other important aspect of my life. I sort of hated to admit it, but maybe I didn’t really belong in this fast-paced, acquisitions-driven city any more. Maybe, instead, I belonged in the country, on a quieter-paced lake. Huh, who would have guessed?
As we strolled arm-in-arm, David asked, “So tell me why you like the Algonquin so much? I don’t know much about it, except what I saw on their website when I got their phone number for our dinner reservation.”
“It’s a piece of history,” I replied. “You’ll see. When you walk in, you’ll feel like you’ve stepped back in time. It looks just like it did in the Twenties, with cozy tables tucked into corners and potted palms and things. Before the hotel became so famous, there used to be a group of working stiffs―reporters, writers, and actors―who’d meet there for lunch most days.