Shelter in Place

by David Leavitt

  After about ten minutes he hung up. “OK, it’s all set,” he said. “A hotel I know, a small one, on the Upper East Side. Eva and I stayed there when we were having our plumbing redone. Oh, and I got you a room with a soaking tub.”

  At the mention of the tub, tears once again breached Kathy’s eyes. “I’m sorry I’m so weepy,” she said.

  “How are you feeling? Can you get up?”

  “I think I can. Yes, I can.”

  Nonetheless, she stayed on the sofa until he brought the car around. The concierge helped him help her out.

  Despite whatever was on at the UN, it took them only half an hour to reach the new hotel. The place was so near to Bruce’s building that he half expected to see Alec and Sparky or even Eva crossing the street.

  “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Lindquist, and welcome to the Arbuthnot,” the bellman said.

  “Thank you, but I won’t be staying here,” Bruce said. “It’s this lady who’ll be staying here. And she’s not Mrs. Lindquist.”

  “Good evening, madam, and welcome to the Arbuthnot,” the bellman said. “May I take your luggage?”

  “I don’t have any,” Kathy said.

  The swiftness with which the bellman calculated and digested the possible implications of this statement was a testament to his training in the art of circumspection. “In any case, your room’s ready,” he said, leading them into the lobby, where the desk clerk asked Bruce if he’d had a good journey, processed his credit card, and gave him two key cards. Curious—the last time he’d stayed at this hotel, he’d paid no attention to its decor. Now he wondered how the lobby looked to Kathy, with its long sofas upholstered in striped green silk, its mahogany bar, its restaurant, before which a reservation book rested on a brass perch. In the lobby, a roast beef smell lingered. Bad oil paintings, each with its own picture lamp, hung on the paneled walls. And yet here and there touches of the contemporary obtruded. The elevators were swift and required the key card to operate. The room they were taken to, recently renovated, was spare and light, almost Japanese in its minimalism.

  “Do you mind that it’s on the fourteenth floor?” Bruce asked.

  “Why should I?” Kathy said, taking in the king-size bed, the view of the park, the bowl of fruit that sat next to the immense television. “This custom of pretending that buildings don’t have a thirteenth floor—I’ve never seen the point of it. I mean, it’s still the thirteenth floor, isn’t it, no matter what they call it? And they don’t do it with 666—have you noticed that? Plenty of buildings have 666 as their street number and nobody says anything about it.” She took off her coat and sat down on a pale lilac armchair positioned to take advantage of the view. “Bruce,” she said, “our coming here together, with no luggage—you don’t think it raised eyebrows, did it?”

  “So what if it did? That’s the thing about hotels like this. Their reputation depends on their discretion.”

  “Are you saying there’s a need for discretion?”

  “No, I’m just saying that if they …” But he couldn’t finish the sentence.

  Kathy laughed. “You’re blushing.”

  “The point is, they know it’s only you who’s staying the night. I explained that when I called. What’s so funny?”

  “Seeing you blush like that. It’s that Nordic complexion. Your face will always give you away.” She slipped off her shoes and lay down on the bed. “Oh, what a glorious mattress. I’m feeling better, by the way.”

  “Your color’s better.”

  “It’s funny—being here with nothing, nothing at all, is actually kind of liberating. I mean, I don’t even have a toothbrush.”

  “The hotel can give you a toothbrush.”

  “Or dental floss, or deodorant, or … anything.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get you some dental floss. I’ll get you some deodorant.”

  “No, it’s OK, I can get by for one night.” But already Bruce had taken his phone from his pocket and was checking Google Maps for nearby drugstores, of which, it turned out, there were no fewer than six within a two-block radius. At some point when he hadn’t been looking, Manhattan had turned into an island of drugstores. Like an invasive species of plant, they had killed off everything native. The last time he’d passed it, for instance, the Duane Reade he chose, he could have sworn, had been a musical instruments shop. Nor, in its current incarnation, was it a drugstore in the sense he was used to. Rather, it was a cross between a supermarket and a department store, with miniature grocery carts and the actual pharmacy in the basement. For Bruce, who rarely shopped, the sheer variety of goods on display was a marvel. There were a dozen types of dental floss alone, waxed and unwaxed, satin-textured and extra-wide, mint-flavored and Listerine-flavored and no-flavored. It took him ten minutes to settle on the right one (mint-flavored, in an attractive steel-gray dispenser), after which he bought deodorant, a toothbrush (in case the one the hotel provided wasn’t any good), toothpaste, nail clippers, Q-Tips, hand lotion, and body lotion. He bought raisin buns, cinnamon buns, barbecue-flavored potato chips, jelly beans, Evian water, and Diet Coke. He bought Advil, Aleve, Tylenol, a pair of slippers, and an oversize pink T-shirt that he figured could serve in a pinch as a nightgown. He almost bought a three-pack of white panties but at the last minute took them out of the cart and left them in the potato chip aisle.

  Kathy had given him one of the key cards so that he could use the elevator. Even so, he knocked on her door before going in. There was no answer. He knocked again—and still there was no answer. “Kathy?” he called. “Kathy!” And then: “I’m coming in.”

  On tiptoe, he stepped into the room. She was lying on the bed, so deeply asleep that when she opened her eyes and saw him she almost screamed. “Sorry,” she said, sitting up. “I’m a little disoriented.”

  “I brought you some things,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said, gazing at the array of shopping bags with the same expression of amazement with which, in the chemo suite, she had gazed at the gargantuan arrangement of flowers.

  Now it was Bruce who sat in the lilac armchair. “Look, before I lose my nerve, there’s something else I want to give you,” he said. “I mean, something serious. Not like those flowers. Those flowers were just … symbolic. A form. This is different.”

  “Oh?”

  “Am I blushing again?”

  “You’re pink as a baby. Why are you so nervous?”

  From his jacket pocket, Bruce extracted his wallet. From his wallet he extracted a folded check, which he handed to Kathy.

  “What’s this?” she said.

  “Open it,” he said.

  She opened it.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “But why on earth … Wait … Is this for real?”

  “It’s for real. As for why on earth, I should think the answer’s obvious. You have debts to pay.”

  “But this goes way beyond what I need to pay off my debts.”

  “I know. I didn’t just want to give you enough to get out of the hole, I wanted to give you enough to ensure that you can go on, from now on, without having to worry. Enough so that you can focus on the important thing, which is your health.”

  Again tears came into Kathy’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said, sitting down on the bed. “I’m just … stunned. Also a little bit embarrassed.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you’d think that after working for you for so long, I’d have learned to handle my own finances better, wouldn’t you?”

  This gave them both a chance to laugh.

  “Bruce, I hope you don’t think I’ve been finagling for this. I haven’t. Honestly, if I’d known you might do something like this, I’d never have told you—”

  “I just want you to promise me one thing—that you’ll spend the money on yourself. On things for yourself.”

  “What else would I spend it on?”

  “Your kids. That’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. First Michael. You told me he thinks you and Lou
haven’t done as much for him as you have for Susie. OK, well, as it happens, our interior decorator, or interior designer, or whatever it is they call themselves these days—he’s a friend. Enough of one that I can talk to him and see if he’ll give Michael an internship.”

  “Oh my God, could you? That would mean the world to him.”

  “Of course, I can’t promise it’ll pay very well. Or at all.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s a foot in the door.”

  “OK, good. I’ll get on to Jake first thing in the morning. Which brings us to Susie.”

  Kathy’s smile faded.

  “I’m going to be frank with you now, Kathy, even though you might not like what I’m going to say. I don’t think you can afford to have Susie and her girls in your house anymore. It’s costing you too much, and I don’t just mean financially. It’s too much stress. Michael’s fine, you’ve said so yourself. And so the question we’re faced with is what to do with Susie.”

  “That’s always been the question.”

  The flatness of Kathy’s tone as she said this surprised Bruce. “Well, then, we just have to find the answer.”

  “And what if there isn’t an answer?”

  “There’s always an answer. For instance, we could find her an apartment.”

  “But I told you, no one will rent to her.”

  “Or see if she can get public housing.”

  “There’s a waiting list.”

  “OK then, what if I find her an apartment and put the lease in my name?”

  “No. It won’t work. She’ll wreck the place. She’ll be on the phone to you every five minutes. She’ll find killer mold and complain to the landlord and the landlord will complain to you.”

  “At least she won’t be under your feet.”

  “Of course she will. And under yours too. Don’t you get that?”

  “Get what?” He stood up from the chair and sat next to Kathy on the bed. “The way I see it, Kathy, the real problem is that you’re not used to people wanting to help you. And that’s all I want to do. With Susie, I mean. I want to save you from Susie.”

  “Don’t talk about my daughter like that.”

  “I’m not saying anything you haven’t said yourself.”

  “That’s different. I’m her mother. I’m her mother, and she’s part of me, and I won’t have anyone talking about her like that.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “That’s my point. You don’t mean.” Kathy was pressing her fingers to her temples. “OK, look, let’s start again. Let’s reboot. Bruce, much as I appreciate all you’re offering, I can’t accept it. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’ll owe you too much. I don’t want to owe anyone that much ever.”

  “But you won’t. It’s a gift. I’m not asking you to pay it back. I’m not asking for anything from you.”

  “Oh, but you are. You’re asking for the satisfaction of seeing everything that’s wrong made right. Only it won’t be. It’ll still be wrong, Susie will still be wrong. She’ll just be wrong somewhere else—”

  “Exactly.”

  “—but she’ll still be my daughter. You’re lucky. You’ve got money—enough money to rescue, and to choose who you rescue—and you want the satisfaction of exercising that power. And yet there’s another side to it. There’s my admitting, my having to admit, that if I’d led a better, more orderly life, I wouldn’t be in this position, and very possibly neither would Susie.”

  “You need to stop thinking about the past. That’s the point of all this. To give you a fresh start.”

  “A fresh start … I hate that expression.”

  “Why?”

  “Because what good is a fresh start if you’re already this close to the end? And I might be. I mean, I could be dead in six months. Or a year. Or six years. I have no idea how to move forward from this, no idea what to do, how to plan.”

  “You don’t have to do anything … OK, look, you’re right about rebooting. Let’s go back to the start. Let’s go back to my giving you the check. That’s all. The check. Forget the rest. Will you accept the check?”

  Suddenly she turned and kissed him. He was startled, and she could tell. He could tell she could tell. The tiniest gesture of resistance on his part—that was all it took before she pulled away. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Oh, God—what was I thinking? Excuse me.”

  She stood and went into the bathroom. She left the door slightly ajar. From where Bruce sat, he could hear water running, the taps of the tub switched on full blast.

  He got up from the bed and stepped closer to the door. “Kathy,” he said.

  “Please go,” she said.

  “No,” he said. “Not until I know you’re OK.”

  “I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Kathy, please.”

  This time she didn’t answer. The water ran fiercely. Steam billowed through the crack in the door.

  The noise he heard—it might have been weeping, or it might have been the water running, or the release of steam.

  What should he do now? Force his way in? That’s what Alec would have done. Were Alec in his shoes, Bruce felt sure, he’d have considered the half-open door’s implications, done a quick risk-benefit analysis, and then gone in or not. Probably gone in. Yet even if the door was an invitation, he knew he couldn’t bring himself to accept it casually. He could only accept it gravely—or not at all.

  It was then that he realized that the obvious next step—the step that everyone, possibly even Kathy herself, seemed to assume he would take—was one he could not bring himself to take.

  Was this ungallant of him? Was it ungallant to be willing to console a suffering woman with money but not love? As a boy, whenever he’d had a crush on a girl, he would indulge in a fantasy of coming upon her, weeping, in a wood. Moved by her sorrow, he would take her in his arms and hold her until the embrace verged into a kiss—as if arousal were the inevitable outcome of comfort, or weeping a tactic in a game of seduction. Yet what if weeping was, rather, exactly what it seemed—an expression of brute misery? In that case, to take advantage of the situation would be caddish. Even if Kathy had left the door ajar on purpose, only a cad, someone like Alec, would actually go through it.

  He saw now that he had a choice. He could sleep with her or he could give her money. He couldn’t do both, since to do both would be to turn a loss into a gain, and in this case, that would be beneath him.

  It was not a difficult choice to make. He would do what would help her most.

  With great care, as if handling something fragile, he took the things he’d bought at Duane Reade out of their bags and arranged them on the bed. Atop them he laid the check. Then he left the room, stopping to hang the DO NOT DISTURB sign.

  It was only when he got to the elevator that he realized he still had the key card. It was in the side pocket of his jacket. As quietly as he could, he retraced the steps to Kathy’s room and slipped it under her door.

  16

  He was late for dinner. The dinner was at a Japanese restaurant in midtown, with Grady, Aaron, Rachel, and Sandra. Although Bruce didn’t know it, only a few blocks away, Min and Jake and Pablo were also having dinner, at an Indian restaurant, with Indira Singh.

  By the time he arrived, the others had already ordered. They were sitting on silk cushions, around a short-legged table built into a recess in the floor and spread with plates of sushi and sashimi. Bruce hated eating in these—what else to call them?—cavities, just as he hated having to take off his shoes, which looked comically huge, like clown shoes, when lined up alongside Eva’s ankle boots, Grady’s moccasins, Rachel’s Mary Janes, Sandra’s Uggs, and Aaron’s sneakers, with their dirty white laces and soles. Unsurprisingly, the group was already in the thick of a lively conversation, the subject of which no one bothered to bring him up to speed on; he had to piece it together on his own. It seemed that a young writer, the a
uthor of a well-received first novel, was being sued by her ex-boyfriend, also a writer, for plagiarism. According to the ex-boyfriend, she had installed spyware on his computer and used it to steal passages from his work, which she had then incorporated into her own. While she admitted to having installed the software, she insisted she had done so only to find out if the ex-boyfriend was seeing other women. Plagiarism, she insisted, had nothing to do with it.

  The scandal fascinated Aaron. “I mean, spyware,” he said, as Bruce tried to make space for his legs in the narrow fissure Eva had saved for him between her and Sandra. “I’m sorry, but since when is installing spyware on someone else’s computer a normal thing to do?”

  “Can anyone install spyware?” Grady asked. “Could I?”

  “You could if you knew how,” Rachel said.

  “Really? Where would I go to learn?”

  “Google.”

  “I always thought spyware was the stuff that got onto your computer when you clicked on the links in spam,” Sandra said.

  “As usual, in his avidity to be the first to share gossip, Aaron’s left out the key ingredient to the story,” Rachel said, “which is that the computer in question was originally hers—the girl’s. She sold it to the boyfriend after they broke up.”

  “That’s what I thought I read,” Eva said. “That it was because it was her computer that she could still log on to it.”

  “Yes, by means of the spyware,” Aaron said.

  “I’m sorry, but who in their right mind would sell their computer to their ex-boyfriend?” Sandra said.

  “I don’t know, maybe he couldn’t afford a new one,” Rachel said. “She might have thought she was doing him a favor.”

  “With the added advantage that she could keep an eye on him,” Aaron said.

  “The whole thing strikes me as kind of lame,” Sandra said.

  “Fine, she did something lame,” Rachel said. “Haven’t we all done lame things with ex-boyfriends? The bottom line is that the plagiarism charge is ludicrous. The guy’s just jealous because she’s published a successful novel and he hasn’t. Men can’t stand it when women do better than them. It enrages them. It’s like they regard having the greater success as their God-given right.”