Park Avenue Summer

by Renée Rosen

  “Where did you grow up?” I asked as I exhaled, picturing him as a young boy waterskiing off the back of a Charger, chopping its way across the Atlantic.

  “Here and there,” he said.

  “Well, that’s informative.”

  “Mostly here,” he said. “I’m sorry. I guess I don’t like talking about myself.”

  “Makes it hard to get to know someone that way,” I said. “What about your family? Siblings?” With just my father left, I was always interested in other people’s families. I noticed he didn’t have any photographs, no portraits on the wall or end tables.

  “I have some half brothers, a couple half sisters.”

  “Oh, I see.” It was clear that he didn’t want to talk about it, so I let it go. It was becoming obvious that nothing was going to happen between us, and this confused me. Admittedly I was disappointed and slightly embarrassed. It was hard to believe that I’d misread the signals this whole time. One more puff off my cigarette before I ground it out and took the last sip of my gimlet. “Well, I should really be going.”

  He nodded, and just as I was about to get up, he made his move, reaching over, grazing my cheek with the back of his hand. I leaned into his touch like a kitten being stroked. My heart began beating faster when he stood up, pulled me to my feet and kissed me. Wrapping his arms about my waist as he walked me back into his bedroom.

  As he started to undress me, unhooking my bra with a quick pinch and slipping the straps down off my shoulders, I covered my breasts with my hands.

  “Don’t be shy,” he said. “You’re beautiful.” He reached for my hands, bringing them to my sides, leaving me exposed. “Let me look at you.”

  As his eyes traveled across my skin, taking in the fullness of my breasts, the curve of my waist, I felt that I was something to be admired. I glanced down at my body, trying to see what he was seeing. The lamp threw a golden glow around me. I reached for the zipper on my skirt and slid it down over my hips. Now I wanted to show him all of me. He came and kneeled before me, his lips pressed to my flesh as I ran my fingers through his hair. Everything coming alive inside me.

  Afterward I lay in his bed, replaying it all in my mind. I’d never experienced anything like that before. Michael and I had been each other’s firsts. Everything was tender but tentative. Sweet and sincere. The best part for me was just being close to him. That was all I wanted. That had been enough. But not anymore. I’d just been with a man who knew his way around a woman’s body. Unlike Michael, Erik was skillful, almost artful in his caresses, his kisses. He’d brought me to near delirium before I shattered in his arms. Now I got it—I was let in on the big secret. At last I understood why sex was such a big deal and why it drove people to extremes.

  I wanted Erik again but it was getting late. I glanced at the alarm clock on his nightstand. It was almost two in the morning. I began to ease out from beneath the covers when he reached for me and pulled me close. The second time was even better than the first, making it even harder to leave his bed.

  An hour later he watched me get dressed, his hair crumpled, the dark shadow of whiskers coming up on his face. “You sure you don’t want to stay?”

  Oh, I wanted to but I couldn’t. “I have to be in the office early.”

  “Wait—I’ll get dressed, get you a taxicab.”

  “It’s okay. I can do it.”

  “Well, at least let me pay for it.”

  That I accepted, because otherwise I would have had to walk.

  As I put on my shoes, he said, “Don’t forget your Playboys.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Are you going to tell her who you got them from?”

  “Tell who?”

  “Oh, c’mon now, Alice. I know the Playboys are for Helen.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Now I understood what the Playboys were for. Two days later, per Helen’s instructions, I was waiting for Mr. Hugh Hefner when he stepped off the elevator.

  Helen knew that Playboy stood for everything Hearst detested. Their greatest fear was that she would turn Cosmopolitan into a Playboy knockoff for women. When she’d first asked me to schedule the meeting with Mr. Hefner, I had looked up from my steno pad and said, “Are you sure you don’t want me to make a lunch reservation somewhere instead?”

  “Oh, please.” She’d fired up a cigarette and laughed. “Berlin and his minions will find out I’m meeting with Hugh anyway. I might as well do it here in my office and save the company the expense of taking him to lunch. Especially after that bill we got for 21. Sheesh. Besides,” she’d said with a mischievous grin, “I like making Hearst nervous. Throws them off balance and gives me the upper hand.”

  Hugh Hefner was a good-looking man with a square jaw, a prominent nose and a full head of dark hair that spilled onto his high forehead. He was suave and charming, a dashing figure in a tailored suit and tie. The pipe parked in the corner of his mouth gave off bursts of aromatic smoke.

  “I’ll take you back to Mrs. Brown’s office,” I said. “If you’ll follow me—right this way.”

  A lot of famous people had walked the halls of Cosmopolitan, especially since Helen Gurley Brown took over. Lauren “Betty” Bacall stopped by once just to say hello. Same was true for Henry Fonda and Tony Curtis and some of the other stars who had appeared in the movie version of Sex and the Single Girl. But Mr. Hefner’s visit stirred the most commotion. Everyone in the office knew who he was, and even the most conservative of the lot paused to watch him pass by; the question marks were practically visible to me, hovering above their heads.

  When I led him into Helen’s office, she sprang up from her sofa and hugged him as if they were old friends, and perhaps they were.

  “Oh, Hugh,” she purred. “It’s so good to see you.”

  I brought them both coffees and left, closing her door behind me. They were sequestered for several hours and the whispering around the halls was growing louder.

  Margot stopped me just outside the ladies’ room. “What’s he doing here?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. She just told me to schedule the meeting.” I started to walk away but Margot grabbed my arm and pulled me aside.

  “No, wait. Is it true?”

  “Is what true?”

  “Is she gonna turn Cosmopolitan into Playboy for women?”

  “If you’re asking if she intends to fill the pages with photos of half-naked men with their rumps in the air, I doubt it.”

  “I’m serious.” She was wringing her hands, her anxiety palpable.

  “Why are you so worried about all this?”

  “It’s just that . . .” Margot paused and looked around before she said, “I just don’t want to see you lose your job. And you know if she tries to copy Playboy, Hearst’ll fire her and you’ll be out the door with her.”

  I would have been touched had her concern been sincere. But I didn’t trust Margot and I wouldn’t dare tell her that Helen would never get fired because it would cost Hearst a fortune to buy out her contract.

  “You worry too much,” I said. “It’ll all be fine. Helen knows what she’s doing.”

  I walked away thinking about how Helen enjoyed making Hearst nervous, and I was satisfied that at that very moment, someone, most likely George, was already on his phone, reporting the Hugh Hefner sighting to Deems.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  One Saturday morning, after breakfast with Trudy, I entered my apartment building, stopping before the wall of mailboxes just inside the doorway. I was surprised to find something other than bills waiting for me.

  I recognized the handwriting immediately and opened the envelope while climbing the stairs. A crisp $20 bill fell out, landing on the floor at my feet. The note inside, scribbled on a single sheet of paper, simply said, I think you dropped this. He didn’t sign it. He didn’t have to. This was something pr
ivate, just between my father and me. I picked up the bill, a smile on my face as the memories came racing back.

  From the time I was a little girl, for no apparent reason, he would hold up a quarter or a fifty-cent piece, sometimes a silver dollar, and as he’d press it into my palm, he’d say, “I think you dropped this.” It was our little secret or so I thought. My mother may or may not have known he did this. Sometimes the coins went into my piggy bank, sometimes straight into my pocket to be spent right away on chocolates and ice cream sodas.

  I went into my apartment and reached for the telephone to thank him. “You didn’t have to do that, Dad,” I said, still holding his note.

  “But you dropped it.” He laughed over the murmur of the TV or maybe it was the radio in the background. Sounded like the Cleveland Indians game, and I pictured him in his chair that reclined back, his slippers dangling off his feet. How many times did I sit on his lap and, in later years, lie on the area rug beside him, propped up on my elbows, watching the game, happy as could be, even though I hated baseball. That was the kind of contentment that could only be appreciated in retrospect.

  “I figured you could use a little help,” he said. “And I knew you wouldn’t ask for it.”

  “I’m okay, Dad, really I am. But I can’t lie, the extra $20 will come in handy.”

  “Good. Just don’t waste it on taxicabs and all those fancy restaurants.”

  “I won’t. I promise.” I smiled, choked up, as I opened a cupboard, a tin of saltines and a jar of peanut butter on the shelf. The refrigerator wasn’t any better stocked.

  “How’s Faye?” I asked, just to keep him on the line.

  “Just getting over a cold,” he said. “It’s this mshuge weather we’re having. Hot one day, snowing the next. And you know spring colds are the worst . . .”

  We talked a few minutes longer and I managed to keep my father on the phone for a full five minutes before we said good-bye.

  When I hung up, I took my $20 to the drugstore around the corner and bought eight rolls of Kodak Tri-X film, thirty-six exposures each, for $10. After I got back to my apartment, I put the change in the jar where I stashed my grocery money, pulled out my address book and dialed Christopher’s number. I had to do it now before I chickened out.

  “Oh, Ali. This is a surprise. Good to hear from you,” he said.

  “I remember we talked about getting together, you know, to do some shooting.” I squeezed the receiver, feeling nervous about taking him up on his offer. I was worried he’d said it just to be nice. Or maybe he forgot he’d said anything in the first place.

  “Sure. You free today?”

  Today! I glanced at my reflection in the tea kettle on the stove. “Today?”

  “Yeah, it’s perfect. Weather’s great. Why don’t you meet me down in the Village?”

  I hung up the phone, amazed at how easy that was.

  * * *

  • • •

  Twenty minutes later I hopped on the subway, and when I passed through the giant arch in Washington Square Park, Christopher was waiting for me, standing next to a lamppost. His hair was windblown and he wore a black T-shirt and jeans, his Nikon hanging at his side. He rolled a copy of the Village Voice in his hand, holding it like a baton.

  “You ready for your photography lesson?”

  “I am.” I smiled, holding up my mother’s camera.

  We walked through a cluster of pigeons and sat on a bench looking out onto the fountain shooting a geyser into the air while droplets skipped and danced on the water’s surface. It was a beautiful day, the temperatures in the high sixties. Flowers were coming up; buds were opening on the shrubs and bushes. Spring green leaves appeared faint, almost like shadows on the trees in the distance. People were riding bicycles; others were stretched out on the grass, heads resting on their bunched-up sweaters and jackets, listening to a cluster of street musicians playing folk songs.

  “Let’s see what you got here. May I?” He reached for the strap, sliding the camera off my shoulder. “Wow,” he said, unsnapping the case. “A Leica IIIc MOOLY. What year? ’46? ’47?”

  “1945. It belonged to my mother.”

  “Wow,” he said again, looking through the viewfinder, aiming at me.

  I laughed and raised my hand, blocking his shot.

  “Ah, c’mon,” he said, teasingly reaching for my hand, pulling it away.

  “I’d rather be behind the camera than in front of it.”

  “Then let’s do it,” he said, pushing up off the bench.

  We wandered about taking pictures of elderly men playing chess, of a vendor roasting nuts, a ghost of smoke blowing before his weathered face.

  “Do you ever feel a little weird, like you’re spying on people?” I asked as I focused my lens on a banjo player, bent over his case, counting up his tips. “You know, like you’re intruding on their privacy?”

  “Some of the most memorable photos of all time would fall into that category. Remember that great shot of the sailor kissing the nurse in Times Square after the war?”

  Funny he would mention that photograph. “That one always reminds me of my parents. My dad was a sailor back from the war when he met my mom.”

  “See? Or what about the photo of the U.S. troops raising the flag at Iwo Jima? Or the Hindenburg? Those are moments that would have been lost forever if someone like us hadn’t been there with a camera.”

  “Excellent point.” I smiled, thinking only a photographer would see the world that way.

  We left Washington Square Park and headed down Waverly Place, taking pictures of anything and anyone that caught our eye: a group of boys on roller skates, a cat perched in a doorway. At one point, we traded cameras and he let me use his Nikon.

  “Hey, look here,” he said, stopping on the sidewalk, aiming my mother’s camera at me.

  I turned around, thumbs in my ears, fingers wiggling at him while I stuck out my tongue.

  “Beautiful. Got it.”

  “Good thing it’s on my camera. I can destroy the negative,” I teased.

  “Damn. There goes my blackmail plan.”

  The afternoon flew by and we lost track of time, shooting until we ran out of film. I was sure Christopher had no idea what that day meant to me but he had helped me over a mental hurdle. As we stood near the subway, talking while people rushed up and down the stairs, he told me I had a good eye and he pointed out things I should work on. But more than all that, he took me seriously. For the first time since I’d arrived in the city, becoming a photographer didn’t seem so far-fetched.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A week later Trudy knocked on my door, asking to borrow some nail polish remover. As soon as she stepped inside, I saw her face and hoped my expression didn’t look as alarmed as I sounded.

  “What happened?” I pinched my bathrobe closed, eyeing the bright red splotches and open sores along her cheeks and chin.

  “Oh, that.” She brought her hands to her face as if she’d forgotten about it until I brought it up. “I gave myself a facial.”

  “Using what? Sandpaper?”

  “Very funny. No, it was a mask. Just buttermilk, honey and lemon juice. It was supposed to remove my freckles but I left it on too long.”

  “Why would you want to get rid of your freckles?” I asked, heading to the bathroom for the polish remover.

  “Because I hate them.”

  “But they’re so cute.”

  “Yeah, that’s the problem. I’m sick and tired of being cute. I’ve heard that my entire life and I’m sick of it.”

  “Being cute isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” I called to her as I sorted through the bottles of Anacin, Vick’s cough syrup and milk of magnesia in the medicine cabinet. “I’m sure there’s lots of women who would love to be cute.”

  I brought the bottle to her and she dropped down on the side
of the bed. “I just want to look sexy and sophisticated for once. But that’s impossible when you’re covered in freckles.”

  “But you’re adorable,” I said, realizing that was the last thing she wanted to hear. But it was true, and the more upset she got about being adorable, the more adorable she became.

  I stepped into the closet and shimmied off my bathrobe before slipping into my dress with the blue princess panel in the front and the gusseted sleeves.

  “Wow, look at you,” said Trudy. “Is that new?”

  “I treated myself. Found it on the sales rack at Alexander’s.” I did a quarter turn, inspecting myself in the mirror on the back of the closet door.

  “You should have come to Bergdorf’s. They give us sales girls a discount, you know. I could have bought it for you and have you pay me back.”

  “Even with your discount, I couldn’t afford anything at Bergdorf’s. I shouldn’t have even bought this,” I said, thinking how I’d used what was left of the $20 my father sent me to buy it. “It set me back almost $9.”

  “Well, you sure look swell. I didn’t know you had a date tonight. Is it with Erik?”

  “Oh, no. No, I don’t have a date.” Not that I hadn’t tried for one.

  The night before, Erik had sat on the edge of his bathtub while fragrant soap bubbles grew up out of the hot water, surrounding me. When the tub was full, he’d stood up, removed his towel and said, “Scoot over.”

  The water had sloshed around us, some of it splattering onto the tiled floor as we kissed and he’d brought my legs around his hips, rocking me back and forth. Sex in a bathtub. Something else I’d never imagined I’d do. But Erik was full of surprises and unexpected ways to please me.

  I had wanted to please him, too, and later, as he dried me off in his monogrammed thick pile towel and wrapped his arms around me, I said, “Why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow night? I’ll cook for you.”