by Renée Rosen
The meal was delicious, and afterward Elaine said, “Why don’t we take our coffee into the living room and I’ll show you the photos I found of your mother.”
At last we were getting to it. I had studied all the photographs I had of my mother, memorizing each smile, every glance and hand gesture. I had pieced together my own version of her life, my own story. But I knew my story was incomplete. Other than my father, who wasn’t big on talking about my mother, Elaine was the one person who could fill in the blanks.
She went to another room and came back a few minutes later with a flat lacquered box. “Now I know I have some others. Somewhere.” She raised her hands as if saying somewhere could have been anywhere. “Come.” She patted the seat cushion next to her. “Take a look . . .”
I sat down and she handed me a photo, the corner creased and bent.
“I think that was shortly after we met.”
I looked at the black-and-white snapshot, the two of them standing in the doorway of the Plaza Hotel. It gave me goose bumps when I held it.
“See how much you look like her?”
I swallowed hard. Of course I saw the resemblance. But to me, my mother was always much more beautiful. There was something about her, an enchanting quality that people were drawn to. Especially men. Women—at least the women back in Youngstown—were leery of her and probably jealous. They regarded my mother as the big-city girl who thought she was better than them, and in truth, my mother did think that about herself. There wasn’t one thing back home that she didn’t compare to New York: The restaurants weren’t as good, the bagels weren’t real bagels, the selection of cheese was nonexistent, the clothes were a season behind.
“You know, there weren’t a lot of us Jewish girls at the Barbizon,” Elaine was saying, “so your mother and I stuck together. I remember on Yom Kippur the other girls wanted to fast with us so they could lose weight.” She picked up another photo. “Oh, would you look at this? This must have been taken in one of our rooms.”
Elaine handed me the photo of my mother lying at the foot of a bed, propped up on her elbow, smiling into the camera. Whoever took the photograph had perfectly captured that rascally look in my mother’s eyes. It was a look I had cemented in my mind, the look she got right before she’d burst out laughing.
“Oh, how the camera loved your mother. She couldn’t take a bad picture if she tried. Even Harry Conover used to say that.”
“Who’s Harry Conover?”
“You’ve never heard of Harry Conover?” she asked, surprised. “Before there was an Eileen Ford or John Casablancas, there was Harry Conover. He owned the biggest modeling agency in New York. I got my first job through him. For Pond’s Face Cream—that might have been when we took this one.” Elaine laughed, handing me the next photo. It was the two of them with cold cream on their faces, a playful look in their eyes, mouths forming exaggerated O’s. “You know your mother could have done very well as a model if her father hadn’t put the kibosh on that.”
“Why? He didn’t want her to model?”
“Oh, heavens no. Her father, the judge,” she said with finger quotes, “was very strict. Always worried about what other people would think. He didn’t like the idea of his daughter posing for money. In his mind, she might as well have been a pin-up girl.”
Elaine was so casual, so matter-of-fact, but I was hanging on her every word. Other than him being a judge, I knew next to nothing about my mother’s father.
“No one ever talked about my mother’s side of the family,” I said. My mother’s parents had both died right before I was born. “What is it about my family and car accidents?” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, first my mom’s parents die in a car crash and then she does, too. It’s like car accidents are hereditary in my family.”
Elaine gave me a cryptic look as she poured a dollop of cream in her coffee and gave it a long, leisurely stir.
“My dad’s parents are gone, too,” I said. “So I’ve never had any grandparents.”
“Well, all I know is that your mother’s father completely overreacted when she met your father. You would have thought she’d committed a crime.”
“He didn’t like my dad?” I pictured my father, kindhearted and soft-spoken, the most nonconfrontational person I’d ever met. “I thought everyone loved him.”
“Oh, honey, it was the circumstances more than anything. I don’t know how her mother felt about everything, but I can tell you her father was a real shit. Sorry,” she said, reading my pained expression. “But it’s true. He just about broke your mother’s heart. Trust me, your parents did the right thing.”
“About what?” I had no idea what she was talking about. It was like we were having two separate conversations.
“Like I said, her father was a real shit. And her mother should have stepped in but she didn’t.” Elaine looked as if she was about to say something else but had lost her train of thought. After a moment, she raised her cup. “More coffee?”
I tried to find out more about this awful thing my mother’s father had done, but Elaine kept dodging it, and by the end of the evening, I left with more questions than answers.
I supposed I could have asked my father about it, but I was never able to keep him on a long-distance call long enough for a serious conversation. And he wasn’t big on letters, either, so there was no point in writing to him about it. I would have to wait until I saw him next, whenever that would be.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Responses to Helen’s bosom memo were trickling in all week long. I’d leave my desk to get a cup of coffee or go to the ladies’ room, and by the time I came back, more would appear, folded in half, sealed with a piece of tape. Others were stapled shut or else in envelopes. Most were typed so no one would recognize the handwriting.
My telephone line buzzed and I was summoned to the mailroom to retrieve a package for Helen. When I returned, two more anonymous bosom confessionals were on my desk.
I was slicing the first one open when Mr. Berlin came charging down the hall. “Helen! Helen, this time you’ve gone too far.” He was waving a copy of Women’s Wear Daily in his hand, his face blood red, his heavy jowls quivering. “You’re making us the laughingstock of the entire magazine industry.”
Before I could intervene, Helen was standing in her doorway, her Pucci ruffles all aflutter, her voice still silky smooth. “Richard, what on earth is the problem this time?”
“How in the hell did a memo of yours end up in Women’s Wear Daily?”
“What memo? What are you talking about?” Though she tried keeping her voice calm, I could tell she was alarmed.
“It’s right here. In their gossip column.” He opened the magazine and began to read aloud, not caring who heard: “‘We need your help for an upcoming piece about bosoms and foreplay. Please tell me how you would like men to handle your bosom during lovemaking.’”
I watched the color drain from Helen’s face as he recited her memo verbatim along with the editorial heckling that accompanied it. By now, everyone had stopped what they were doing and had gathered around, speechless, while Richard Berlin continued to ream her out.
“I hope you’re proud of yourself, Helen. You’ve got everyone laughing at us. At you. What the hell were you thinking? You know perfectly well that I never would have let you run an article like that in the first place.”
And that’s when Helen exploded. “That memo was confidential,” she screeched, her delicate voice unable to muster any real power. “They had no right to share that with anyone outside this office.” Her eyes were turning glassy even before she ran into her office and slammed the door.
“What the hell are you all staring at?” Berlin barked at the onlookers. “Everybody back to work.” They scattered like billiard balls after a clean break.
Once Berlin stalked off, I went to Hel
en’s door and knocked tentatively. “Mrs. Brown? Mrs. Brown, may I come in?” There was no answer so I slowly turned the knob and opened the door. She was curled up in the fetal position on her sofa, sobbing into clenched fists. “I’m so sorry that happened. Is there anything I can do?” I asked, inching closer, holding out a handkerchief for her. “Would you like a glass of water? A cigarette? Anything?”
“How did this happen?” she mumbled, taking the handkerchief. “Why would someone do such a thing?”
“I don’t know,” I said, sitting beside her. She seemed so fragile, like a little bird. “I only gave that memo to the girls here in the office.”
“And one of those girls gave it to Women’s Wear Daily.” She started rocking back and forth. “This is a nightmare. Do you know how many people read Women’s Wear Daily? And the timing.” She sat still, letting the repercussions sink in. “My God, I’m trying to save this magazine. I have to bring on writers and photographers. I have to convince advertisers to spend money with us, and now no one is going to take me seriously.” Her lashes had come unhinged, hanging cockeyed like broken window blinds. She reached up and gently peeled them away, setting them on the coffee table—two curved caterpillars.
As she blew her nose and dried her eyes, I sat there, witnessing a shift in her. I’d never seen her that angry before.
“I don’t care who it is,” she said, her voice turning hard and brittle, finding the strength that had eluded her moments before in front of Berlin. “I’m going to find the little bitch who leaked that memo. I’m going to find her and fire her on the spot.”
* * *
• • •
First thing the next morning, while a group of us were getting our coffees, Helen marched into the kitchen holding a piece of paper. It was like the parting of the sea the way everyone moved to let her through. Without saying a word, Helen went over to the bulletin board and stabbed a thumbtack through a note: There’s a viper in our nest!!!!!
She turned and left without making eye contact with anyone, not even me. Everyone crowded in closer to the bulletin board as if there were something more there to see. I leaned against the counter, my coffee turning cold while I watched the girls, my colleagues and friends, wondering which one of them could have done such a thing. I knew a lot of them had issues with Helen, but I couldn’t imagine someone would have disliked her enough to blatantly sabotage her editorship like this, not to mention the entire magazine.
When I came back to my desk, Erik was walking about the floor. I was certain he was loving the whole Women’s Wear Daily debacle. I’d been doing my best to avoid him ever since the party and, given the bosom memo, that felt like a lifetime ago. I watched Erik from the corner of my eye. He stopped to chat with Bill Guy and with Bridget and some of the other secretaries. When he started making his way toward me, a rush of heat flushed through my body. I thought I’d made peace with all this, but I was fuming.
“There she is,” he said, acting all chipper, as if nothing were wrong. His glib tone only infuriated me more. “Haven’t seen you around lately.”
“Yeah, well, I sure have seen you.”
He furrowed his brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I was at Katie Murphy’s party last weekend.”
“You were? I didn’t even see you.”
“I know you didn’t.”
“Well, why didn’t you come over and say something?”
“Because you were busy. I didn’t want to interrupt you while you were on a date.”
He twisted up his handsome face. “What? Who? You mean Sharon?” He laughed. “I wasn’t on a date. Sharon’s an old friend. I ran into her at the party. That’s all.”
I picked up my pen and jotted down some random nonsense on a notepad just for the sake of having something to do.
“C’mon, Ali, it’s no big deal.”
I gave him a harsh stare and then wanted to rewind the last few minutes and start over so I could come across indifferent and unfazed.
“You believe me about Sharon, don’t you?”
I stopped writing and set the pen down. “Do I look stupid to you?” So much for defusing the situation. Now I was only making it worse.
“Ali, c’mon now, why are you getting so worked up over this?”
I sighed, planting my elbows on my desk, resting my head in my hands. I was bewildered. “Maybe I don’t know how to have a casual fling. Maybe I—”
“Ali—”
I held up my hand. “Let me finish.” I looked into his eyes, lovely as they were, and said, “I’m not looking to fall in love with you. I’m not interested in some deep, complicated relationship.” I could tell by the way his mouth hung open that he wasn’t expecting me to say that. Or else he didn’t believe me. “I mean it,” I said. “I’m not looking for a relationship. I’m all for something fun and easy—no strings attached. But”—I lowered my voice to a whisper—“we’re sleeping together and I’m sorry, but I can’t do that if you’re having sex with other women. It makes me feel dirty. Like I’m using someone else’s toothbrush.”
He laughed and rubbed his chin. I had no idea what was going through his mind.
“If you want to sleep with other women, that’s fine,” I said. “We don’t have to see each other. No hard feelings.”
He laughed again. “I don’t want to sleep with other women.”
I kept talking, like I hadn’t heard him. “I’m just not interested in sharing you when it comes to that department.”
“I don’t want to sleep with other women,” he repeated as he looked at me and smiled. It was his bedroom smile, the smile he gave me when he knew he was thrilling every inch of me. I hated myself in that moment, but heaven help me, I wanted the thrill again.
* * *
• • •
Later that night I ended up at Tavern on the Green with Erik because he’d promised he’d take me there, and plus, according to him, “You can’t really call yourself a New Yorker until you’ve dined there.”
The decor played off its Central Park locale with pinks the shade of blooming flowers and greens that matched the grass outside. It was like sitting in the middle of a garden. Just as my mother had described it. She’d told me that a lot of celebrities ate there and I was pretty sure that was Ava Gardner across the way, dining with a young actor-like type.
It was all so over the top, so absurd. So very Erik. None of it was real but that was fine by me. It fit the fairy-tale New York I’d always imagined—me in a glamorous restaurant with a handsome man. This was exactly what I’d wanted from him and I was sure Helen would have approved. My mother would have, too. It was pure single girl fun.
After he’d ordered two champagne cocktails at 95¢ apiece, I said, “You certainly do live well, Mr. Masterson.”
“I work hard, might as well enjoy the fruits of my labor, right?”
“I don’t suppose you ever get a craving for peanut butter and jelly, huh?”
He smiled. “Not lately, no.” He raised his champagne glass to mine and said, “To one of the most challenging women I’ve ever met.”
I brought the glass to my mouth and paused. “Is that a compliment or a complaint?”
“For now it’s a compliment. Ten years from now, it might be a complaint.”
“Ten years? Don’t you think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself? I doubt we’ll even remember each other’s names in ten years.”
“See? That’s what I’m talking about. Nothing gets past you. You don’t suffer fools gladly. I’m not used to that but I’m beginning to think I like it. You definitely keep me on my toes.”
We both sipped on that sentiment, and in between the cherrystone clam cocktail and the frog legs sautéed in butter, we danced to the Milton Saunders Orchestra. I glanced down at our feet, the tips of his shoes unapologetically bumping into my new baby dolls.
“I should have warned you,” he said, “I have two left feet.”
It was true. He was a terrible dancer, and I teased him mercilessly about it through one more song before returning to our table in time for the pineapple cheese pie and an ice cream roll with Nesselrode sauce. The bill came, but Erik called the waiter back over and ordered two brandies.
His apartment was a short taxicab ride from the restaurant and we kissed and groped the whole way. Once upstairs, we wasted no time. We undid each other’s buttons and zippers, eagerly as children opening Christmas presents. I was on his bed, half out of my dress and nearly out of my mind. He was leaning over me, the tips of his hair brushing against my cheek, when the telephone rang.
He groaned.
“Do you need to get that?”
We both looked at the phone on his nightstand, ringing.
“Nah, it’s probably work.” The phone rang another half-dozen times before the caller gave up.
We were back at it and five minutes later the phone rang again. He paused for a moment, propped himself up on his elbows, eyeing the receiver.
“It’s okay,” I said, scooting out from under him. The shrill ringing filled the apartment with a sense of urgency. “You should answer it. It might be important.”
When the phone rang for a third time, he picked up. I heard a man’s voice on the other end and felt a rush of relief. “Yeah,” Erik said, running his fingertips over my shoulder and down my arm. “I know you’ve been calling, but I can’t talk now. Why?” He peeled back the sheet and eyed my body, shaking his head in a my oh my kind of way. “Because I’m busy.” He hung up the phone, deliberately leaving the receiver off the hook.
“Not important, I gather?”
“This right here”—he leaned in and kissed me—“this is what’s important.”
Afterward we lay in his fine bed making shadow puppets on the wall.