Authors: Tama Janowitz
It was Allison Thomas, with a stroller and moony-faced baby. "Allison? What are you doing in town on a Sunday in July?"
"Oh, Archie's taking us on a canal boat through France for three weeks. We're leaving tonight. It's the only vacation he could think of that his parents might enjoy. So I came back from the country on Friday to get ready. What are you doing?"
"I was staying with Natalie and John—you know them, the de Jonghs?"
"Sure."
"I had a big fight with Natalie. She threw me out."
"You're kidding." Allison had always resembled a B starlet. Now, she looked at Florence inquisitively. "Do you want to go and get a coffee?"
"Okay," Florence said.
"What about if we just went down to the basement? You know, they've opened that Japanese teahouse downstairs."
"Did you finish your shopping?"
"I was looking for a new bathing suit. But I didn't see any I liked. What did you get?" Florence pointed to the sunglasses in the display cabinet. "Oh, those are nice. Maybe I should get a pair. Do you think those would look good on me?"
"Try them on." Allison could buy whatever she wanted without thinking twice. "I think you should try on those round ones. They would go with the shape of your face better."
Allison put them on. "Do you think? I don't know."
"I like them. I think the blue glass is a nice color for you."
"What about these? Do you think they would look good on Archie?"
She could barely remember what Allison's husband looked like. "Is it the kind of thing he would wear?"
"I don't know. He's always telling me to buy him things when I shop, but then he never ends up wearing it. Actually, I think he only likes Ray «Bans, this one particular style." Allison handed the glasses back to the salesclerk. "Oh, forget it." She bent over the red-headed infant. "Plum-bun, we're going to go down and have some cake and cookies now, if you behave yourself."
"Where are your other kids?" Florence held open the elevator door.
"The nanny took them to the circus. Thank God she's coming on the trip. Archie's sister is coming with her two kids, one of them is bringing a friend, that's six kids all together under the age of nine; I begged Sara to bring her own nanny, but she said her nanny was going on vacation—I know it's just her way of getting a free nanny out of the situation."
"How many will be on this boat?"
"The six kids, Archie and I, Sara and her husband, Archie and Sara's parents, the nanny—how many is that?—and then the crew of the boat, which also has a chef and a couple of people from the tour company. Supposedly this trip is really fabulous. They do everything for you—the boat just goes along up the canals, very slowly—and if you want to get out and bicycle, they arrange bikes for you, and a picnic lunch; or if you want to go sightseeing, they take you by van and you meet up with the boat later in the day farther down the canal. It was the only kind of vacation thing Archie could think of that all the different generations would enjoy. It is expensive, but not all that much—I think we figured it at about five hundred dollars per person per day for
the three weeks, plus the first-class airfare, but that includes everything."
The Japanese teahouse was in a glass structure in a kind of underground center atrium. Florence felt as if she were in an aquarium: a sheet of running water formed a fountain along one wall, the tiny tables were coral-colored wood and black-and-purple lacquer. The waitresses were all Japanese, dressed in shroud-like Japanese designer outfits. They managed to appear like superior entities despite their lowly status as waitresses. She supposed it was cultural; they must feel superior simply by virtue of being Japanese—things could always be worse, at least they were not loud, oversized, pasty-faced Caucasians, reeking of milk and meat. A couple of menus were delivered to their table; Allison, who had clumsily parked the stroller alongside, knelt to show one of them to the infant. "Look!" She pointed to a picture. "Doesn't this cake look nice? Pink and green! Or would you rather have bean-curd ice cream in the shape of a bunny rabbit, Plum-bun?" The child's bright blue eyes widened slightly—his or her red hair stuck straight up like a Kewpie doll's—but it said nothing.
"How old is . . . he?"
"George's two and a half," Allison said, sitting down on the tiny pink three-legged stool that passed as seating. "He still hasn't spoken a word and his hair has never grown—he was born with it—but the psychologists at his school say he's incredibly bright. So it's just a wait-and-see, at this point. Einstein didn't speak a word until he was five years old. Isn't that right, Plummy?"
"And how old are your other two now?"
"May is seven, Thomasina is five."
Allison was a couple of years younger than she, about thirty. For a brief period they had been friends—they went out at night trying to pick up men, they went to the races at Saratoga Springs and stayed with friends of Allison's. In her early twenties Allison worked for a downtown newspaper, but she was living with a much older wealthy man who owned an Upper East Side restaurant. She wore thrift-store motorcycle jackets and her hair chopped off in
spikes. Then she met Archie: he made her move in with her parents. Almost overnight she traded in her goofy glasses for contact lenses, grew her hair into a respectable chin-length and married Archie in a quiet ceremony—"for the immediate family only, Florence, I'm sorry, but that's Archie!" She had the first baby at twenty-three. And their friendship, for all intents and purposes, was over. When they were both single they could go out hunting for men, a pair of cheetahs; without this pursuit there was nothing to keep them together.
Arch was twenty years older than Allison and managed a hugely successful mutual fund. Florence couldn't understand it. It was true that Allison came from a very good family, but why had Archie selected someone not a part of his world and then made her conform to it? He had basically forbidden Allison to see her again; in fact, Allison had to drop all her old friends—everyone she associated with now had to be selected or vetted by Arch. It seemed that Archie had decided, somewhere along the line, that when he reached a certain age he would find a zany girl from a good background and marry her. And Allison must not have been quite so unusual as she wanted people to believe or she wouldn't have let herself be molded quite so quickly.
Yet why hadn't Archie wanted
her?
She remembered she had screwed him a couple of times before he moved on to Allison. She could have been living Allison's existence, happily married—or at least married and established, never needing to worry about money again—if Archie had chosen her over Allison. He had seemed so dry and deadly at the time; he reminded her of an insect casing. Now, nearly ten years later, she would have taken financial security and social respectability even if dry-and-deadly came buttered alongside.
"Look, Pup-cake, isn't the cake pretty?"
The waitress had delivered a quivering mound of artificially colored cake—or perhaps it was some kind of pudding carved to resemble a sand castle with turrets. Florence had ordered a sea-weed-and-carrot-flavored shake; a shred of kelp spumed out the
top of the glass. "How about you?" Allison said. "How have you been? Seeing any guys? Why did Natalie kick you out?"
"She's crazy!" Florence said. "I don't know if she's paranoid—or going through menopause—she's a lot older than us, you know—"
"Oh, Cmmb-ka! You're getting the cake all over your new outfit, you haven't even worn it once!" Allison daubed frantically at George's blue-striped shirt, a miniature version of the outfit worn by sailors from Marseilles in the twenties. "Oh, God, there's even cake on the hat!" The hat did not quite go with the outfit: it was a little red felt crown, with shiny orbs.
She felt desperate; if only Allison would pay attention to her. Once they had been so close. She was certain Allison knew plenty of guys to introduce her to; someone from a slightly different circle who would be viewing her for the first time, to whom she would still appear fresh. "The truth is, John sort of . . . broke into my room the first night and practically raped me. He told me they were getting divorced."
Allison looked up brightly. "You're kidding!" She began popping bits of George's gelatin into her mouth. "Getting divorced? I didn't hear anything about this. Why didn't you just tell him to get lost, Toots?"
"I don't know," Florence said grimly. "I suppose I felt sorry for him. It all seemed so unreal. I mean, I couldn't believe they would treat a guest like this. She basically locked me up in the storage room and then let her husband break in and screw me. Plus, he told me he was in love with me. And the worst part is, he promised to invest some money for me."
Allison looked delighted. It would be something she could tell Arch about on the plane, Florence thought, wishing she hadn't said anything. At least they would be out of town for three weeks. Maybe by that time she would have forgotten all about it and not repeat the story back in New York. "How awful!" Allison said. "Of course, John's always basically screwed around, but I thought Natalie read him the riot act. There's no way he would ever leave
Natalie. It's all her money, you know, and she would get everything."
"Is it her money? I thought it was his?"
"No."
"Allison, don't you know any guys for me? There must be somebody Archie works with who's single and eligible."
"Oh, gosh, I'll have to think." Allison's mouth dropped open, indicating such a task was hopeless. She had always had a recessive chin, Florence thought bitterly, tempted to suggest she look into plastic surgery. "Let me think about it. I'll ask Archie." Allison rose, leaving the table a disaster of goo and crumbs. "Do you have enough cash, Florence? I should probably get going and I don't see the waitress anywhere in sight. Archie'll kill me if I'm not all packed. He gets so nervous before a flight." She wheeled the stroller toward the elevator door, then stopped and turned around. "Are you going to Kathy's baby shower?"
"Who?"
"Katherine—Katherine Monckton. It's the night after we get back—her baby's due a couple of days later."
"I didn't even know she was pregnant! Who's the father?"
"Remember that guy she used to go out with, when we were all friends? She got back together with him. She says she doesn't want to marry him, though—I guess she doesn't want to have to end up paying alimony. Anyway, I can't believe you weren't invited. I'm speaking to Victoria before I leave; she's giving the party. I'll make sure she invites you."
She wasn't sure if Allison's attitude was one of
noblesse oblige
or if she was just being paranoid. With a regal wave Allison turned away and pushed her carriage into the waiting elevator. And reflected back at Florence on the mirrored walls were a thousand Allisons, with her thousand chattering faces; a thousand Plum-buns, sullen in their thousand strollers; a thousand shopping bags, each matte black, pale gray tissue spilling out the top, reflecting a million dollars.
The drinks and cakes came to thirty-two dollars. She put it on her credit card. On her way out she passed Allison, with the baby stroller occupying the whole aisle, alongside one of the cosmetic counters—all the lipsticks and shadows came in ornate rococo cases shaped like shells, studded with semiprecious stones. Allison smiled weakly over at her and quickly averted her eyes back to the contents of the counter. The rituals of greeting in Manhattan were peculiar. It was entirely possible—had Allison not been leaving town—that the following evening they might have seen each other in a restaurant or at a cocktail party and acted as if they had never met before. Or, conversely, extended shrill cries of joy and profusely kissed and hugged. Such interaction was based on mood, location, whom one or the other was with and degree of despair. Things did not work this way just with Allison but with everyone. But, remarkably, the decision to kiss effusively, or act cold and disinterested, was somehow always arrived at mutually, even if the two parties involved were virtual strangers. And the fact that they were virtual strangers or genuine old friends had no bearing on the type of interaction.
She went up to the men's department and spent seven hundred dollars on a black cashmere crew-neck sweater, three hundred fifty dollars; two black T-shirts, fifty dollars each; a matelot shirt like the one worn by Allison's child, seventy dollars; and a pair of brown linen—silk-blend trousers with pleats and cuffs, on sale for two hundred. The items were all quite large. She wasn't entirely sure what she was doing. She somehow pictured herself with Raffaello, walking along a beach—Oregon? Amalfi?—the soft black sweater tied around his neck while the wind blew.
9
"I can't accept this,"
Darryl said, but he looked delighted. Didn't he understand it was given out of guilt, as a means of getting rid of him? It was no different than in the old days, when a man gave a woman a piece of jewelry or a fur to signify the end of an affair.
"If you're going to devote your life to doing ridiculous good deeds, at least you can look like a successful good-deed doer," she said. She felt angry. She hadn't really intended to give the things to Darryl. Why had she bought them? She knew as soon as
she got home it would be insane to give them to the Italian; it would only frighten him. She should have put them in her drawer until Christmas, when hopefully they would be having a real relationship. But getting a present for him now would only jinx things. "Also, Darryl, you should do something about your hair."