Park Avenue Summer

by Renée Rosen

  Gregory wasn’t happy, meowing and squealing the whole way back to the apartment. Helen’s doorman, Freddie, flashed a big toothy smile. “Who you got in there?” he asked, bending so that he was eye level with the mesh gate. “Is that Samantha?”

  “No, Gregory,” I said.

  “Well, welcome home, Mr. Gregory. And how are you today, Miss Alice?”

  I’d made so many trips to Helen’s home that Freddie knew me by name and always let me up to her apartment without bothering to announce me. That day he held the main door and then leaped in front of me and called for the elevator.

  “You have yourself a wonderful holiday, Miss Alice.”

  Long ago Helen had entrusted me with a spare key on a Gucci key ring that weighed more than my wallet. When I let myself in, I jumped back and let out a yelp.

  “Surprise!”

  I almost dropped Gregory. I looked at David, vaguely aware of the two women behind him, my hand covering my heart, willing my pulse to simmer down. When I calmed myself, I realized the older woman had to have been Helen’s mother and the one in a wheelchair was her sister, Mary.

  David came up to me, glass of champagne in hand. “I’m sorry, Alice.” He smiled kindly, which was always his nature. “We didn’t mean to scare you. We were expecting Helen. I planned a last-minute surprise for her,” David explained with a half-shoulder shrug. “Dinner tonight at Lutèce. Theater tickets for tomorrow night.”

  “Sounds lovely,” I said.

  “Lutèce.” Mrs. Gurley said the name of the restaurant with disgust, as if she’d just repeated a French curse word. “Helen’ll take two bites and say she’s full.”

  I set the carrier down and opened the latch, letting Gregory loose. I noticed the bottle of Dom Perignon next to the crystal dish of caviar, and my heart sank for them, especially David. This was a wild extravagance for a man conditioned to be almost as frugal as his wife.

  “Let me go back to the office and get her,” I said.

  “Don’t bother.” Mrs. Gurley had Helen’s eyes, but without all the makeup and false lashes. “We should have known. All she cares about anymore is that magazine.”

  “You have to understand the kind of pressure she’s under,” said David. “It’s been an uphill battle for her every step of the way. She’s terrified to take her foot off the gas.”

  “Don’t make excuses for her, David.” Mrs. Gurley folded her arms, her face going sour. “I don’t know why we bothered coming all this way.”

  “Because you miss Helen and Helen misses you. And she does, Cleo,” he said when she opened her mouth to protest. “I don’t understand the two of you, never have, never will. But I do know Helen loves you, and you know it, too.”

  “Well, I hate New York.”

  I felt a pang for Helen. This was her mother. Her mother! I wanted to like her. I wanted her to like me.

  The other cat leaped into Mary’s lap, giving her a start. “Oh! Oh my,” she said, petting Samantha, whose back arched and rolled beneath her hand. “Don’t be so hard on her, Mother. She’ll be here. And remember, it’s not entirely her fault. She didn’t know we were coming.”

  “No, it’s my fault,” said David, setting his champagne down, the moment no longer warranting a celebratory drink. “Alice, I should have told you about this. Not that you could have gotten Helen out of the office any earlier.”

  “I can go back and get her.”

  “Don’t waste your time,” said Mrs. Gurley. “She won’t listen. She doesn’t even listen to her own husband.”

  “Just let me go talk to her,” I said. “I’ll get her back here. I promise.”

  * * *

  • • •

  When I arrived at the office, it was after six o’clock. The lobby and hallways were dark and the air conditioner was turned off so it was already stuffy inside. And eerily quiet, too. I wondered if Helen had already left.

  As I turned the corner, I saw a light coming from the art department. “Hello? Anybody here?” I called out, my steps growing shorter, more tentative. “Tony? Helen?”

  “Alice?” I heard Helen’s heels clacking across the floor, an alarmed look on her face. “Is Gregory okay? Did something happen to him?”

  “No, he’s fine. He’s at your apartment.”

  “Oh, thank God.” Her hand went to her heart.

  “And so is your family.”

  “What?”

  “Your sister and mother are in town. Mr. Brown flew them in for the long weekend. It was supposed to be a surprise.”

  Helen’s hand moved from her chest to her throat. I couldn’t tell if she was pleased or not.

  “They’re waiting for you back at the apartment. You’re all having dinner tonight. At Lutèce.”

  “Oh, that David. Isn’t he thoughtful?” She smiled and shook her head, releasing the floral scent of her perfume. “He spoils me, you know.” She turned back to the wall, studying a spread on the August flatplan.

  “You have an eight o’clock reservation,” I said, surprised by how irritated I sounded. I couldn’t help but think about her family waiting back in the apartment, the champagne going warm, the caviar going bad.

  “Eight o’clock?” She consulted her wristwatch and looked back at me from over her shoulder. “Will you be a dear and let David know I’ll meet them at the restaurant.” She faced front again, uncapped her red marker and began making a notation on one of the spreads.

  “No. No, I won’t do that.”

  “No?”

  She turned and we exchanged an uneasy look, both of us unaccustomed to my objecting to any of her requests.

  “Mrs. Brown,” I said, measuring my words, knowing I should have sweetened my tone but couldn’t. “Your family is waiting for you. Your husband went to a lot of trouble to do this for you, and your mother and sister came all this way just for you. It won’t be a surprise anymore, but—”

  “But . . .”

  “Mrs. Brown”—I stepped in and gently removed the marker from her hand—“there are more important things in life than this magazine.” I replaced the cap on the marker and set it on the railing below the flatplan. “It’s time for you to go home. Your family is waiting for you.”

  I knew I’d gotten to her when she pressed her lips together in a thin line like she did whenever she was backing down, which wasn’t often. Her eyes softened, and without saying a word, she nodded.

  In silence, we walked through the dark, deserted hallway and went into her office. I turned on her desk lamp, sending a warm glow over the papers scattered on top. At her insistence, I packed her attaché case with manuscripts so she could do some work at home over the weekend.

  “I’ll telephone Mr. Brown and let him know you’re on your way. And Mrs. Brown,” I said as I snapped her briefcase shut, “please don’t wait for the bus today. Just go ahead and take a taxicab.”

  I stayed in her office after she left. It was so quiet. I sat down at her desk and ran my hands along the upholstered arms of her chair, trying to imagine what thoughts ran through her mind on any given day. I looked at the clock on her credenza. It was almost seven o’clock. I wasn’t sure if I was hungry or not and thought vaguely about what to do for dinner. Maybe I’d take a book and go sit in a diner. I wondered if Elaine had stayed in town, though I was sure if she had, she already had more invitations than she could possibly accept.

  Without giving it too much thought, I did something I never did at work. I picked up Helen’s phone and made a personal long-distance call. I gripped the receiver, listening to the shrill ringing on the line, picturing the yellow phone in the kitchen, on the counter, trilling away. It wouldn’t be a long call. They never were but I wanted to hear my father’s voice.

  He answered on the fifth or sixth ring.

  “Oh, Ali, sweetheart.” There was some commotion in the background, like a blender or some
thing going. “Are you all right? It’s not eight o’clock yet.”

  “I’m fine. It’s okay, I’m calling from work.”

  “And this they let you do?”

  “Not exactly. I’ll keep it short. I just wanted to say hello. Big plans for the weekend?” Questions were the only way to keep him talking.

  “A barbecue at the Goldblats’. Faye’s making her potato salad.”

  “That sounds nice. It’s pretty quiet around here. A lot of people left the city.” I felt a pang of loneliness as I looked out the window at the empty street. “I was thinking of maybe coming home for a visit next weekend,” I said, having just thought of it. There were so many things I wanted to talk to him about but everything between us was so stiff over the phone. “Would that be okay?”

  “You have to ask such a thing?” He laughed. “Come. I’ll get tickets to the Indians game.”

  “How are they playing this year?”

  “Ah, like hell.” He laughed again. “But it’s still early in the season.” The blender sound in the background grew louder. “Hold on a sec, will you, Ali?” He cupped the phone and I heard muffled voices going back and forth. “Sweetheart, I’m gonna let you go before this call gets you in trouble.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t want him to hang up. “Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “I miss you.”

  “Oh, well, we miss you, too, sweetheart.”

  We? There was no we. I didn’t miss Faye. Just him.

  * * *

  • • •

  The next morning, I made myself a cup of instant coffee and sat down with the newspaper, trying to fight off the melancholy gaining on me. I had a second cup of coffee and spent twenty minutes staring out the window onto Second Avenue, envious of the clusters of people going by, laughing, off to their weekend plans. The last thing I expected just then was a telephone call from Christopher.

  “Oh good. You’re there,” he said when I answered.

  “I am. What are you doing in town? I thought you and Daphne were going to Montreal for the holiday.”

  “Hey,” he said, skipping over my question, “you up for some great people watching today?”

  An hour later, with my camera in hand, I met Christopher at the Washington Square subway station and together we boarded the next train to Coney Island.

  Coney Island had been one of my mother’s favorite spots, and as we strolled down Surf Avenue, we passed places like Weepy’s Pool Hall and Jimmy’s Luncheonette, so familiar to me from her stories. Everywhere I turned, I saw her. I pictured her riding the carousel, eyes sparkling as she whirled past the onlookers. I could see her long brown hair blowing easy as the Wonder Wheel carried her high above the park, and I imagined that devilish grin of hers as she fearlessly accepted dares to do the Parachute Jump and go on the Cyclone. She’d told me the moment she started falling in love with my father, the two of them had been walking hand in hand along the boardwalk on a starlit evening. I felt my mother all around me as I aimed her camera, taking pictures of the beach, looking like a patchwork quilt of sunbathers on their blankets, the surf filled with heads, bobbing in the water.

  “Didn’t I tell you this place was great for people watching?” said Christopher.

  We had just passed a man wearing a woman’s two-piece swimsuit.

  We slipped off our shoes and headed toward the water, walking along the shoreline, the cool ocean bubbling up over our toes. Every now and then we’d stop to photograph something that caught our eye: a couple smooching under a sun umbrella, a boy giggling while his friends buried him in the sand.

  “I’m glad you were home when I called,” he said, his hand on his brow, shielding the sun as he studied the horizon.

  “Me, too. But I thought you and Daphne were heading out of town.”

  “Yeah, well, Daphne got a callback,” he said, eyes still focused on the water. “She’s up for a commercial. They flew her out to Los Angeles. She decided to stay the weekend.”

  “Wow, that’s great. I’ve never been to Los Angeles. Too bad you couldn’t go with her.”

  “It’s just that she was gonna be working the whole time anyway.” He shrugged, cracked a small smile. “She’s got friends out there. She said she wanted to spend time with them.”

  He turned toward me and something about the sunlight hitting his handsome features and the breeze blowing through his hair made me reach for my camera.

  “Hey,” he said, laughing. “Cut it out.”

  “Too late. Got it.” I smiled and advanced the film.

  It was getting late and we hadn’t eaten all day. We stopped for a hot dog at the Nathan’s stand and found a place to sit in the shade. I looked across the way, toward Stillwell Avenue, and spotted Williams Candy, remembering my mother telling me about their special jelly apples. Oh, how she would have loved a day like today, just walking around Coney Island, taking pictures.

  “You okay?” he asked. “You’re so quiet all of a sudden.”

  “Sorry.” I smiled. “I was just thinking about my mom. She loved it here.”

  “You were thirteen when she died, right?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s rough,” he said, bringing his knees toward his chest, circling them in his arms.

  I was thinking about his situation with his mother and how it was no better than mine. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you miss your mom?” Before he could answer, I apologized. We’d talked about all kinds of things, including his strained relationship with his father and mine with Faye, but we’d never talked about his mother. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up.”

  “No, it’s okay.” He shook the hair from his eyes. “I was so young when she left. I never knew her to begin with. The only thing I ever think about is what if? You know? What if she hadn’t left? My whole life would have probably been different. You ever think about that? What if your mom was still alive?”

  I clutched my chest. Just the thought of still having her. It was more than I could put into words. And he got that. He put his arm around me, and I rested my head on his shoulder. We sat like that, two motherless children, looking out at the ocean, watching the sun slip below the horizon.

  We stayed at Coney Island for the fireworks, kids running along the beach with sparklers, everybody oohing and aahing at the flare of reds, blues and greens overhead. The grand finale was spectacular, and as a brilliant burst of colors illuminated the sky, I felt Christopher’s eyes on me. I turned and the two of us held each other’s gaze just a beat longer than we ever had before. I wanted to say something, but what? His eyes were so dark, so intense, you could barely see his pupils. Something had just been set in motion. I couldn’t define it, I didn’t know what it was, but I felt it, every bit as subtle as it was lasting. And whatever it was, it would linger with me long after I broke the spell and turned away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Tuesday morning arrived, and the temporary lull in the city had passed. I, along with the rest of Manhattan, was back at work. Erik called first thing, wanting to see me, and I was relieved. I needed him to snap me back to reality and keep my mind from wandering back to Coney Island, to that moment with Christopher. I’d been thinking about him too much since then and that scared me. We were friends and I didn’t want to muddy that up. Besides, he still had Daphne, and for all I knew, these feelings were only one-sided.

  Helen didn’t say a word about her weekend with her sister and mother. She just told me that because Monday had been a holiday, Dr. Gerson had moved her appointment to that afternoon. “Thank God.”

  We were three weeks out from July hitting the newsstands, and the tension in the office was palpable. Though Helen was pushing hard on the August issue, almost everyone else was operating in limbo, knowing whatever they were working on could all be for n
othing. Still, everyone was willing to put on a brave business-as-usual face for the annual Writers Guild East dinner later that week. Helen had bought a table months ago, and at the last minute, when Bobbie Ashley came down with a bout of food poisoning, she invited me to take her place.

  I was ecstatic but unprepared. I rushed over to Bridget’s desk and waited patiently while she finished a call with Bill Guy. She was chewing bubble gum and I could smell it on her breath when she hung up and asked what was wrong.

  “Help! I’m going to the awards dinner tonight.”

  “You are?” Her eyes perked up as she pulled her hand away from the receiver. “You’re so lucky. I’ve always wanted to go to that.”

  “Look at me,” I said, hands out to my side. The dinner was at the Plaza Hotel and I’d worn a green cotton shift that day. “I can’t go like this.”

  “Just run home and change.”

  “Into what? I don’t have anything that’s fancy enough for a dinner like this.”

  “Okay, don’t worry.” She cracked her gum as she scooted her chair away from her desk. “Come with me.”

  She took me by the hand and led me to the Cosmo Beauty Closet, although it wasn’t a closet at all. It was a room, next to the mailroom and nearly twice the size. As soon as a company developed a new product or a fashion designer introduced a new line, they sent it all our way and into the Beauty Closet it went. The Beauty Closet housed floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with cosmetics, perfumes, shampoos, hair dyes and setting gels, barrettes and headbands. Stepladders reached to the top shelves, where dozens of Styrofoam heads sported wigs and cascading falls in every shade imaginable. Drawers were filled with earrings, cocktail rings, bracelets and other accessories. Belts and handbags hung off hooks on a white pegboard. The latest in shoes were lined up three rows deep on the floor. Whenever Helen needed a birthday or hostess gift, she’d send me to the Beauty Closet to pick out something.