Park Avenue Summer

by Renée Rosen

  She had prepared the same pasta dish she’d made for me before.

  “Can I tell him about your big news?” Elaine asked.

  “Scavullo?” Christopher reached for the bottle of wine and refilled all our glasses. “She told me. She also told me she’s not taking it.”

  “Oh, I know. I think she’s foolish not to take the job. Maybe you can get through to her,” she said to him, talking about me as if I wasn’t there. “I told her Helen would understand.”

  “But you don’t understand,” I said, feeling a bit tipsy from the martinis followed by the wine. “I can’t just up and quit on Helen. I haven’t even been there four months yet.”

  Elaine tossed her napkin onto her plate and opened a second bottle of Chablis.

  We moved into the living room and Elaine told us about a new book she was editing along with a few new Jackie Susann stories. After we’d polished off the wine, I offered to help clean up, but Elaine, in her not so subtle way, insisted I stop clearing the dishes and suggested that Christopher walk me out and see to it that I got home okay.

  “Should we get you a cab?” he asked when we stepped outside the Dakota.

  “Actually, I wouldn’t mind walking for a bit.”

  “Well, you know Elaine’ll never forgive me if I don’t walk with you.” He smiled, that eyetooth of his killing me. “It’s a nice night and I could use the walk after all that wine.”

  I always enjoyed Christopher’s company but there was something special about being alone with him that night. We were walking down the street, the moon peeking in and out from behind the clouds. Our hands hung at our sides, fingers less than an inch apart. Every so often our shoulders and arms touched, like they had a million times before, but tonight, we were aware of the contact and quickly withdrew, like our limbs were giving off shocks.

  After about twenty minutes, we grabbed a cab.

  “I think you should reconsider the job offer,” he said. “Opportunities like this don’t come along all that often. I started as an assistant. Almost every photographer I know did. That’s the best way to get your foot in the door. And this is Frank Scavullo we’re talking about.”

  “I know, but I can’t. Not now. I just can’t leave Helen.” I looked out the window as we pulled up to the butcher shop. “Well, here we are.”

  Christopher surprised me when he got out and walked me to my door. My pulse quickened, even when he said, all businesslike, “Just promise me you’ll think about the job offer.”

  I nodded and we looked at each other for a moment that seemed to hang forever. A streetlamp overhead created a soft glow around us. My heart was pounding. This was the moment. If ever something was going to happen between us, it was now.

  “Well,” he said for the sake of filling the silence.

  Kiss him, I told myself. Just kiss him.

  “Well,” he said again, “meter’s running. I should get going.” He took a half step backward, breaking the spell. As he reached for the cab door, he turned around and said, “I’m glad you’re back. If you need anything, call me.”

  I watched him get back in the taxi and pull away. My heart was sinking fast. I’d blown it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The next day I woke up with a hangover. My head was throbbing, my eyes burned, my stomach was queasy. I needed coffee and some greasy eggs and hash browns. I was hoping to go to the Candy Shop with Trudy but she wasn’t around. My guess was that she’d stayed over at Milton’s place again. So I went to the diner on my own and took my camera with me.

  After breakfast my head was a little clearer, and I wandered about the Upper East Side, finding myself on Park Avenue, near Erik’s building with its blue awning and the doorman in his pristine uniform with the gold epaulettes. I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, admiring the flower boxes up and down the avenue as a woman who looked like she took tea at the Waldorf strolled by with her French poodle. It was all so perfect, so glamorous, so New York. It was all that I had fantasized about back in Youngstown. But I knew the city now and I knew myself better, too. Truth was, I didn’t belong on Park Avenue.

  Eventually I cut over on 68th Street and went to the subway, and twenty minutes later, quite possibly by design—or the workings of my subconscious—I found myself down in the Village. It was a steamy, hot July day. Gauze-like clouds overhead did little to offer shade. The entire city was sweltering, giving off strong smells, pockets of urine and then, a block over, the scent of garlic roasting. Windows and doorways were thrown open, fans on the apartment building ledges. Bees and flies hovered over the garbage cans on the sidewalks. All the outdoor cafés were packed, people sitting under umbrellas, girls with bare arms, wearing sandals.

  Since I had decided that I wasn’t going to take the job with Francesco, I’d promised myself that despite whatever demands Helen made, I would still carve out time each week for picture taking in addition to taking a class.

  I was down on St. Mark’s Place, my camera swinging at my side from its shoulder strap. I was thinking about Christopher and the way the tips of his hair caught in his lashes. I scolded myself again for not kissing him when I’d had the chance. I kept coming back to the same place in my mind: All this emotion and intensity I felt for him couldn’t have been one-sided. He had to have been feeling it, too.

  As I moved faster and faster down the sidewalk, I found myself on First Avenue. I felt like the planchette on a Ouija board, an invisible force moving me to a place I’d been to only once before. I looked through the stained-glass window on the door as I rang the buzzer. I had no idea what I was going to say or do, I just knew that I wasn’t willing to give up. I was drawn to this man, so drawn to him that I was willing to risk getting my heart broken.

  I heard the front door buzzer sound and I stepped inside. Before I even knocked, the studio door swung open. Christopher looked stunned to see me. And why wouldn’t he have been?

  “Ali? What are you doing here? Is everything okay?” He was standing in the doorway, bare-chested, jeans hoisted up on his hips, the top button undone, and hair rumpled like I’d woken him from a sound sleep.

  “I was just in the neighborhood. Thought maybe we’d do some shooting today? It’s beautiful out.”

  He eyed me for a moment, not saying anything, and when he blinked, his lashes stirred the tips of his hair. He cracked a small smile and that was all the encouragement I needed. I wasn’t going to let another chance pass me by. He opened his mouth to say something and that’s when I leaned in and kissed him.

  He took a half step back and the look on his face stopped me cold. I saw a shadow moving behind him in the doorway. My heart dropped to my stomach as the figure came into focus. It was Daphne, standing there in one of his shirts, her endlessly long legs bare and holding their ground.

  * * *

  • • •

  I bolted. I don’t remember what—if anything—Christopher said or did. I ran blindly down the sidewalk, my camera bobbing at my side as I tried to distance myself from him. I sprinted past storefronts and buildings, running into intersections, dodging cars and taxis blasting their horns, drivers cursing at me. I didn’t care. I kept running, pushing past all resistance inside me. I was so overwhelmed I hadn’t yet felt the pain, but I knew it was chasing me, soon to catch up.

  The sun was scorching down on me, and when I couldn’t take the heat any longer, I ducked into a café on Greenwich Avenue, panting and sweating. I felt like my body was dragging behind me. Thankfully it was dark inside and I stood beneath the ceiling fan, windmilling on high. Someone behind the long mahogany counter called to me, asking what I wanted. I shuffled forward, swatting a fly away from my face. I ordered a glass of cheap red wine, a sickening choice on such a sweltering day, but I couldn’t think of anything that was going to make me feel better. I stood, waiting for my drink, and tried to keep from thinking. I concentrated on my surroundings: the cash register, th
e shelves lined with coffee mugs, canisters of tea, wine bottles and pastries resting under glass domes. Gazing at the wooden staircase leading to the second floor, I had a strong sense of déjà vu. And it wasn’t until I took my wine upstairs and saw the yellowing maps on the wall and the hodgepodge of antique chairs and desks that I realized I’d been there before. With Trudy. It was Caffe Dell’Artista. A couple was sitting by the window in the spot where we’d been seated that day back in March.

  I took the only empty table. It was in the middle of the room. I drank two long glugs of wine, which immediately gave me heartburn. Now that I’d stopped moving, the pain was seeping in. The one time I work up the courage to let him know how I feel, this is what happens. It was like someone had kicked me in the gut. My chest was tight and my hangover from that morning was back in full bloom. There was so much noise inside my head. I rubbed my temples, thinking water. I needed water. I took another gulp of wine. Given the many tears I’d shed lately, I was surprised I wasn’t crying, and perhaps I would have been if I hadn’t been sitting on display in the middle of a café.

  So Christopher didn’t want me and that cut. Cut deep. This very feeling—the rejection—was what I’d been avoiding and protecting myself from. I’d been so terrified of this, certain that it would be more than I could handle. But now it seemed that the fear, the anticipation of the pain, was greater than the actual pain itself. Amazingly enough, I was still breathing. I’d been through worse, and some kernel of strength that I didn’t know was inside me said I would be okay. That yes, in time, I would be fine. This, too, shall pass.

  The couple by the window got up from their table and after a busboy cleared their dishes, I went and sat in their spot, the chair still warm from where the man had been sitting. I took another sip of wine and that moment in Christopher’s doorway, just before I’d humiliated myself, came rushing back to me. I didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to torture myself any more.

  To distract myself, I opened the drawer filled with scraps of papers, napkins and cards. All kinds of new quotes, love letters and, yes, there, somewhere in the middle, mixed in with all the others, I found the declaration Trudy and I had made. It was on a napkin, creased in half, the ink a bit smudged here and there: On this day, Sunday, March 28, 1965, Trudy Lewis and Alice Weiss declare that they will follow their dreams. No matter what. Miss Lewis will pursue a career as an architect and Miss Weiss will become a world-renowned photographer.

  I studied the napkin and drank more wine. It seemed like a lifetime ago that we’d made that pledge to ourselves. Trudy, who’d thought the whole thing was nonsense, was actually working now in an architectural firm. She was enrolling in night classes at The New School that fall. She was pursuing her dream.

  I set the napkin aside and reached for my camera, running my fingers over the worn leather case. What was I waiting for? What was I so afraid of? Yes, the competition in New York was steep but where was my faith in myself? Was I hiding behind Helen and this absurd notion that she needed me, that she couldn’t be Helen Gurley Brown without me? Christopher was gone now. I’d blown everything, including our friendship, but I still had a bigger dream out there waiting for me. I had made a new life for myself here in New York, and just maybe it was time I actually started to live it.

  I looked at the declaration again before I folded the napkin and put it back in the drawer.

  I finished off my wine and went downstairs to use the pay phone. While riffling through the tissue-like pages of the telephone book, I heard people calling out orders in the kitchen, the sounds of dishes clattering. I found the number, dropped a dime through the coin slot and dialed. On the fifth ring, he answered.

  “Mr. Scavullo? It’s me, Alice. Alice Weiss. If the offer’s still good—that is, if you’re still looking for a photography assistant—I want the job. I want to come work for you.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I should have been happy. I should have been out celebrating my new job. Instead, I spent that Sunday sleeping and punishing myself for kissing Christopher. And when I wasn’t thinking about that, I was rehearsing what I was going to say to Helen.

  When Monday morning arrived, my nerves were frayed. As I walked through the revolving door where it all began and headed for the elevator, my pulse raced. I stepped into the lobby, which looked much better—thanks to Helen’s influence—than it had the first day I’d walked through those doors.

  It was still early. The office was quiet, not a lot of people in yet. But Helen was there. She was standing at the edge of her desk, wearing a leopard print miniskirt and a smart bolero jacket with gold fasteners. She was straightening her fishnet stockings, one leg at a time. I didn’t see a single snag or run—amazing.

  I knocked on the door to get her attention. “Can I speak with you?”

  When she looked at me, I sensed right away that she knew something was up. For one thing, I didn’t have her morning newspapers with me but I had brought her a fresh cup of coffee.

  “Sounds serious,” she said, switching legs, working the fishnets up her slender thigh. “I hope everything’s all right.”

  I nodded, forgetting everything I’d planned to say.

  “Alice?” She smoothed her hands down the front of her skirt and went over to her sofa. “Come talk to me.”

  Her kindness wasn’t making this any easier. I went and sat beside her. “I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” My mouth had gone dry and I could barely get the words out, like they were sticking in my throat. “You took a chance on me and I’ll never forget that. This job has been a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

  “But? There is a but coming, isn’t there?” she said, setting her coffee aside.

  I nodded, feeling a rush of pressure inside my head. “I’ve accepted a position working for Mr. Scavullo. I’m going to be his assistant.”

  Helen looked at me.

  I was starting to shrink into an ungrateful heap of disappointment until I saw the corners of her painted lips rise.

  “This is what you really want, isn’t it? To be a photographer?”

  I nodded again, my eyes misting up. “I know this is a horrible time to be leaving you. I feel like I’m abandoning you and I’m so sorry.”

  “You shouldn’t be sorry. Of course I’ll miss you, but you have to do what’s best for you. That’s just smart business. Besides, Frank’s going to be shooting a lot of covers for me. We’ll still be working together.”

  “I want you to know that I didn’t go looking for this job. He came to me.”

  Her smile broadened. “Oh, pussycat, I know that. Who do you think told Frank he should hire you?”

  EPILOGUE

  2012

  I read the obituary again and notice the time. It’s later than I thought so I quickly throw on some jeans and a T-shirt before making my way to the gallery. The exhibit doesn’t open until later that night, so I’ll still have time to come back home, shower and get ready. But for now, there are some last-minute details to iron out.

  It’s about a thirty-minute walk from our home on Sullivan and Third. I probably should have taken a cab or the subway, but I need the fresh air to clear my head. I pass by Washington Square Park, crowded with people stretched out on the grass, others sitting on the benches, reading, feeding the pigeons. There are skateboarders and kids playing Frisbee. Someone’s dog is splashing about in the fountain. A mild breeze ruffles my hair and offers a moment’s relief from the sun and heat.

  With each step, I feel myself trying to comprehend that Helen Gurley Brown is gone. It’s a loss that runs deep because I owe so much to her. If it weren’t for Helen, I never would have worked with Frank Scavullo, which I did for ten years. While I was with him, we shot dozens upon dozens of Cosmo covers, so when I went out on my own, it made sense to start off shooting fashion. I mostly worked for other magazines like Ma
demoiselle and Glamour. But I grew restless and started leaning more toward portraits—mostly of celebrities and musicians. I shot some Rolling Stone covers and album covers, too. But I found the famous, especially rock stars, exhausting, depending on how drunk and high they were. So after a few years, I abandoned studio work altogether and focused exclusively on street photography. Along the way, I hired plenty of assistants, and I’d like to think that I did for them what Helen and Frank had done for me. Given them a jumping-off point, a place to start.

  When I get to the gallery on 24th Street, a whoosh of cold air blasts me, and it’s only then that I realize just how hot it is outside. The owner, a handsome young man with a goatee, meets me in the center of a stark white room and kisses me on either cheek. He’s very Italian and reminds me of Scavullo. He tells me he’s expecting a good turnout and that we have seventy-five RSVPs for the private reception beforehand.

  Together, the owner and I walk through the gallery, stopping before each photo to scrutinize the lighting, the framing, the order. We confirm details on the pricing and the editioning for the prints, and at one point he excuses himself to take a call while I go back to scrutinizing the photographs. He’s carefully curated a large body of work, and I’m pleased to see that he’s included Bow Bridge in Bloom and my personal favorite, my rain-soaked jacket hanging off the coat tree in After the Party.

  This is not my first solo exhibit, but it is a show exclusively about my first works: Alice Weiss, Portrait of a City 1965–1975. I hear footsteps behind me and I turn. Even now, after children and grandchildren and so many years in between, my heart still catches at those dark eyes—which now have creases in the corners.

  “I just heard about Helen,” Christopher says, placing his hands on my shoulders. “You okay?”

  I nod and lean my cheek against the back of his hand.

  Christopher and I have been together almost forty-five years now, so as you can see, things didn’t end with us that day I kissed him in his doorway. Hardly. He was still under Daphne’s spell, and thanks to his mother’s abandoning him, he remained there for some time, taking Daphne back, watching her walk away and still taking her back again. All his life, until me, Christopher had been drawn to women who would leave him. He felt that somehow he deserved that. After all, if his own mother could leave him behind, he must surely have been unlovable. When we did finally get together, he soaked in my love and affection, terrified that I’d take it away like the others. I may have been afraid to love, but Christopher was afraid of being loved. Such an obvious explanation but it took us months to work our way through it.