Authors: Tama Janowitz
from the twenties, with surprisingly good rubies, which might go for a couple of thousand. A handful of gold bangles; a gold pin studded with diamonds in the shape of a pickle ("My aunt worked for the Heinz company for fifty years and that's what they gave her when she retired"); a necklace of topazes that Virginia assured her were yellow diamonds; some cuff links; quite a few rings; a pearl necklace with white and black pearls; and finally, at the bottom of the box, a large gold brooch of a bird, enameled, with diamonds and an eye of ruby. "Just costume."
"No, it's not," Florence said. "I'm guessing this is the most valuable piece you have—it might bring six or seven thousand."
"But surely the diamond pendant is worth much more than that. It was appraised at—"
"Yes, I know. But diamonds really haven't gone up all that much; and I'll have to get someone to take a better look at it. I can't really see under these conditions. It looks like it has quite a large flaw—it's a shame, because it is a large diamond. My rough estimate would be if you sold everything you might get twenty thousand—after our commission."
"But . . ." Virginia was in shock. "These pearls—I know a pearl necklace like this is very valuable. These are black pearls."
"Cultured pearls—they were dyed black."
"Even so, I'm sure giant pearls like these have to be worth a fortune."
"I'm afraid if a pearl necklace isn't worn, the pearls have a tendency to deteriorate."
"And this ring? A ruby? It's a star ruby, isn't it? It must be worth twenty thousand alone."
"It is a ruby. But there are all kinds of rubies, some more valuable and some less so. You're welcome to bring your things in elsewhere, but I doubt you'll get a better figure."
"I don't know what to say. I'm in shock. I thought all this time I would be getting at least a hundred thousand. Now you're telling me twenty thousand at the most!"
"Bring it in to one of the other auction houses."
"I did write to Christie's and Sotheby's. But you were the only
one who offered to come out and look at my things." She shoved the items furiously back in the velvet bags. "Here, you take them. Get whatever you can. There's some other stuff you didn't see, in a couple of other bags somewhere. But I've shown you the best things."
"Why don't you see what someone else says?" Florence wasn't even sure the stuff would bring in twenty thousand. The whole thing was going to be more trouble than it was worth.
"No, I trust you."
"I'll have to make out a receipt. It would be better if you could bring it in yourself, or have someone bring it in for you."
"I want you to take it and get it out of here."
"I'm sure I'll be fine, but I'll have to get you to sign a paper absolving me of responsibility—if I'm mugged, you understand, or there was, say, a train wreck."
"A train wreck?" The woman practically shrieked.
"You know. I mean, if there was an earthquake, or armed robbers boarded the train, or—I don't imagine anything will happen, but I want you to understand. You'd be better off to FedEx it to me tomorrow."
"Take it. I don't care." The woman was growing depressed and enraged. "I've made a list of the things, two copies, one for you and one for me."
"I can take your list, but I'm also going to do one of my own— I have a special way of recording it." She carefully wrote out an itemized description of each piece and had Virginia sign it.
4
Seven O'clock, midsummer evening.
The anorexic army marched across Manhattan, necks ribboned with sinew, dressed in the skimpiest clothing imaginable, on their way to or from the gym. Techno-pop music blared from second-story windows and women could be seen pumping furiously on stationary bicycles, rows of them facing the street; or female infantry brigades flailing their arms as instructors shrieked aerobic commands. The smell of fried sausage rose from corner carts.
It was too late to go home; she went straight to Tracer Schmidt's
apartment still lugging the jewelry in an oversized plastic bag from Wal-Mart. The train had taken only an hour, but for her, sitting by the window as it rattled slowly through the gray wasteland of suburban Long Island, it felt much longer.
It was inconceivable that someone Tracer's age could be so rich, with wealth not acquired through marriage. Her apartment was huge, the penthouse floor of the Central Park West building. She gave Florence a tour, muttering embarrassed platitudes the whole time. There was a huge living room with views over the park, simple early American furniture and a massive blond sofa with winged arms and curled back ("But I don't think the couch goes with the rest of the furniture; it's some Biedermeier thing that Max said would look great in here"); a TV room/library ("And I had the sound system installed by these guys who Max recommended, and I still can't get the darn thing to work in half the rooms"); an exercise room with mirrored walls, stuffed with StairMaster, treadmill, weight training equipment; a huge kitchen with antique laboratory cabinets and restaurant stove; a double staircase, which led to four bedrooms upstairs, and beyond this another staircase, which led to a huge empty water tower, built to balance the genuine water tower on the other side of the building.
Inside the fake water tower was a circular room several stories high and at least fifty feet around, which Tracer had insisted on purchasing with the apartment. Though she had redone the interior, paneled the Walls, installed windows, lighting and an additional, miniature kitchen complete with microwave and dishwasher, she still hadn't decided what the space would become. "Maybe my studio if I decide to do photography again—I majored in photography in college." Around the exterior of the water tower was a terrace with a view on all four sides, so that in the distance looking one way the Hudson River could be seen and in the other direction the park and the lights of midtown Manhattan.
"Great view." Admiring other people's possessions was always a bit awkward. If she was too enthusiastic, it would sound as if she
were fawning; if she was too dry, it would be interpreted as coldness—or jealousy.
"Honestly, I know it's too big for one person, but I really couldn't not buy the place. I needed somewhere to live, and the owner had died, and the family was desperate to sell—of course, the reason it was so cheap is that the maintenance is so high—" Blathering nervously, she went back down to the kitchen, followed by Florence. She opened the refrigerator door and peered in as if she had never seen its contents before. "You want a beer? Or there's a bottle of champagne I could open—"
"A beer's fine." Tracer's nervousness was contagious. Florence couldn't remember why she had been invited. She didn't think she had been very nice to Tracer when they first met. There was always a jockeying for position between women, like dogs trying to establish themselves in a pack. An instant evaluation took place at introduction—which was younger, prettier, richer, had more social status, a better job, a better boyfriend, a husband. If even the slightest miscalculation occurred, the two women might well be enemies for life.
She couldn't see the importance of friendships with women. It didn't occur to her to confide in someone. Nor did she realize women friends might have introduced her to men. Women were objects with which to compete. But as long as Tracer acted admiringly, did a golden retriever friendly shuffle, she could tolerate the disparity in their economic situation. Ninety-nine percent of the time other women expected her to admire them; it was the equivalent of a paw placed firmly on her back, a warming gesture. But she could never bring herself to assume the lesser position. At least Tracer, who seemed to want something from her, was not expecting her to walk around praising her apartment; if anything, she seemed chagrined by the situation.
"So ..." Tracer handed her a beer and sat at the wide French provincial table. "Um . . . what about this friend of yours?"
"You like him?" Florence wanted to know what was going on before she gave Tracer any information.
"He's . . . oh, gosh, he's so cute! We really hit it off last night. I don't know a thing about him and . . . are you going out with him? I mean, I didn't want to step in if he was your territory or . . ."
"Going out with him? Darryl?" Her eyes flickered; it would be a sign to the other woman that the thought had never crossed her mind, that Darryl wasn't even worth considering on the eligibility scale. If Tracer was like most women, Darryl would be devalued and perhaps discarded because of something so minute as this.
"I mean, I couldn't really get him to tell me much ... he doesn't seem to want to talk about himself . . . but he's so clever and funny, it was like having a really great girlfriend to talk to, he's not like most guys. He's not ... is he gay?"
"Darryl? Oh, gosh, no." It was true he was incredibly funny and bright; odd that she had never thought about this before. She looked at Tracer resentfully. "But, gosh, he's so short, and, well . . . wouldn't it be silly? I'm so tall! You are too. He's like a little ... he reminds me of ... I don't know, there's something sort of sickeningly good-looking . . . Montgomery Clift?" Her voice faded. She looked at Tracer, but none of the animation had left her expression. She was nodding, but with just as much eagerness as before.
"But I think a man is sexy if he, you know, looks at you in a certain way, or is funny, and interested in you and asks good questions."
"I don't know where I met him. I've known him since I moved to New York. Actually, I think he was the brother of somebody? No, I think . . . did I meet him at some junior thing at the Museum of Modern Art? Or maybe it was an opening. Anyway, we've only ever been friends. You can have him." Yet she felt slightly uneasy at these words.
"He's got a book coming out soon. We were talking about it last night."
"Oh." She was slightly embarrassed that he hadn't revealed that much to her. "I figured."
"It's nonfiction, following the lives of some of the people he's worked with."
"Yeah, I think he mentioned something like that."
"He's an incredibly brilliant lawyer, he could make a ton if he wanted." Her eyes were glittering with infatuation, her horse face young and sincere. "He graduated top of his class at Harvard—he didn't say that, but I had my uncle look him up in some book—he was a Marshall Scholar at Oxford, then he was working for that very fancy company, but he gave it up to do advocacy for the homeless. He said if I wanted I could come with him to the soup kitchen this week—you know, he goes on Thursdays and helps them with legal advice after the meal."
"Ugh." She pictured a room of foul-smelling drunks, lunatics, encrusted with grime, eating something boiled and white, drinking apple drink from paper cups. And Darryl—with his small, rounded shoulders, those little spectacles perched on the end of his nose which always appeared about to slide off, saved only by the fact that his nose was so boyishly upturned—hopping eagerly from one foot to the next, sincere, inquisitive, never patronizing. How the thought irritated her!
"I can't believe there's nothing between the two of you. I didn't want to start thinking about him if there was something . . ." She stared at Florence earnestly. "I knew I couldn't compete with you—he talked about you every two seconds."
"He's all yours, if you want him!" Tracer could afford to buy someone like Darryl—advocate for the homeless! Maybe if
she
had millions, and was plain, she wouldn't mind a poor and homely good-deed doer. She would have liked to think so. But she could not, for one second, imagine such an existence, just as she was certain that Tracer could not imagine having this hunger, this gnawing inside, to be rich, to be able to walk into a room and have people practically bend to the ground, kowtowing with respect and admiration at the sight of so much money. "So . . . where are you from?"
"I grew up mostly in Pennsylvania, I guess—I mean, we have
a big house in Bucks County, I call that home, but I lived all over the place—my father's a diplomat, he's retired now, but I lived in India, and London—my mother's French—"
"And your name—that's Schmidt as in Schmidt's Pharmaceuticals?"
"Mmm—that was my great-grandfather, he made a ton of money." She paused and her eyes glistened again. "I just thought he was so cute, in that black T-shirt and baggy brown linen pants—any guy who's dressed that way is usually gay. You're sure he's not gay?"
"I don't think so." She was torn between wanting to make up stories and wanting to help Tracer. Her farm face was kindly. It would have been too easy to spoil. "I really like your hair," she said suddenly.
"You do?" Tracer winced, as if Florence's compliment was a trick.
"Honestly? I don't think the cut suits you, but the color is fabulous."
Tracer raised her chin to look at Florence, exposing her throat as if she were telling Florence she had nothing to fear. "You don't think it's a good cut?" she said. "I just had it done."
"You should wear it longer. Wispier." Florence studied her critically. "But it doesn't matter, that color is so beautiful; it looks completely real. Who's your colorist?"
"It's my color," Tracer said.
"Seriously."
"I am serious. It's always been like this. When I was a kid it was white-blond. But what should I do, about the cut?" Absently she began pulling at some hairs in the center of her crown.