Blue Rose In Chelsea (28 page)

     “Poor Sinclair.”

     “It’s not the inheritance that concerns me, Haley.”  Joseph always pronounces my name as if it were holly, which perhaps sounds more upper crust to him.  “I’ve got wads of cash.  I could take care of Sinclair quite lavishly for the rest of our lives.  But it’s what it represents.  Sinclair will have to live the rest of his life knowing that his mother never accepted him, never loved him for himself.  That is a very powerful message for a parent to send to a child, and it can be paralyzing.  There is no peace in that.  I know from experience.  I don’t want him carrying that around forever, if it can be avoided.”

Felix edges closer to The Joseph, taking a shine to him, and tugging at the leather buttons on TJ’s cuffs.  Felix is fascinated with his gold watch.  Joseph takes it off for Felix to play with.

     “How could it be avoided?”  I ask weakly.

     “Now, if someone else was to go in my place, say a woman.  Sinclair didn’t specify the gender of the most important person in the world to him.”

     It takes me a moment to get up to speed, but then I see where The Joseph is going with this.

     “But when Sinclair speaks to her again, he’ll know that you didn’t visit.  She’ll tell him a woman showed up instead.”

     “I don’t think Sinclair intends to visit again, and, frankly, I don’t think his mother is long for this world.”

     “You want me to go in your place, to pose as his girlfriend, or wife?  What if she questions me about things I can’t answer?”

     “I’ve heard she’s a woman of few words, stingy with words as well as affection.  Hard to believe that she could spawn the verbose Sinclair, I know, but from what he tells me, it’s like pulling teeth to get a sentence out of her.”

     Felix wants me to put some milk in his hot chocolate to cool it down.  He and TJ watch me with the same wide-eyed anticipation.

     “The world is full of vipers, Haley.”

      I sip my tea as Joseph expounds on his Viper Theory.  It’s always best to let the viper rants run their course.

     I test Felix’s hot chocolate to make sure it isn’t too hot, then help him spoon his whip cream.  “It would be a lie.”  The Joseph looks weary, though not wholly conscience-stricken.  He looks as if he hopes desperately for my compliance.

     “But a beautiful one,” I say. 

     “Wear tweed,” he suggests, “like a good Scot.  Sinclair has a fabulous cut of it in his closet,” he says with a wink.

~~~~~

     I’m to see the Countess Wellington the next day.  I let myself into Sinclair’s apartment with the key he gave me long ago to keep his flimsy ferns watered.  I riffle through his wardrobe of creations, and choose a lavender tweed swing coat and black A-line merino wool dress.  I wear my black tights and new knee-high suede black boots.  I comb out my curls, apply makeup and just a touch of gloss to my lips.  I file and paint my stubby fingernails a pearly white, and don my grandmother’s diamond wedding ring that I keep safely concealed in a pink felt pouch in my underwear drawer.

I’m hoping to beg off work early, and leave Felix with Esme the maid, but, as luck would have it, Esme’s son leaves school sick and she is the one who leaves early.  I have no choice but to take little Felix with me to the hospital.  I rummage through his closet, delighted to find a brown tweed coat with knickers and a matching cap.  The effect is charming; he looks like a miniature Robert Burns, complete with argyle socks and brogues.

     TJ sends a car for us at the appointed hour, perhaps as a courtesy, or perhaps to insure that I don’t chicken out.  My beautiful black and lavender ensemble, the fashionable Felix, my manicured fingernails, the antique diamond ring, and now the uniformed driver, all serve to increase my resolve as I assume my role.

     Sinclair and I would wring a month’s mileage of conversation out of a caper like this, were I able to share it with him, were he not the secret beneficiary of it all.

     We make our way to the East Side, the driver depositing us at the front door of the hospital.  I inquire at the desk, am directed to the elevator, and locate the flower-filled room on an upper floor.

     TJ was not exaggerating when he says the Countess Wellington is a woman of few words.  She doesn’t flinch when I address her as the Countess Wellington, an auspicious beginning, which gets my adrenaline pumping.

     She’s propped up in her private room, looking strangely accessible in her pink chenille robe, her white hair impressively arranged, while her private nurse, a fresh-faced lass looking and sounding straight out of an Irish Spring soap commercial, fusses with a bouquet of lilies across the room.  “Lilies are for funerals,” the Countess barks out, gesturing, with an imperious flick of her frail wrist, for them to be disposed of.  The nurse suggests offering them to the nurses at the station, and the Countess concurs with an imperceptible nod.   “Pretty,” is the Countess Wellington’s assessment of me, “charming” of Felix.   She seems to struggle with even these few words, a result, perhaps, of the stroke, or possibly it is pride at her loss of faculties that prevents her from attempting more conversation.  I chat amiably.  It’s easy enough to find pleasant things to say of Sinclair.  Easier still because she does not look much at me, her focus remains on Felix; darling Felix who harbors no inhibitions but affectionately sits beside her on the bed, fascinated with her colorful gemstone rings while making unabashed attempts at cuddling, though the most he receives in return is a pat on his tiny hands.  I attempt to entertain the Countess with funny anecdotes of Sinclair; I simply edit Joseph and Evan out of all our adventures.  Luckily, Felix‘s limited vocabulary keeps him from giving me away.  I’m a writer, after all, I remind myself, and after a rocky beginning I relax into my role and plait together a splendiferous tale on that gray February day for the officiously remote, yet oddly frangible, Countess Wellington.

     It’s unclear how much time passes.  The nurse informs me that Mrs. Wellington must rest now. 

     Before I know it, I’m back in the town car, headed for the West Side.  I try to replay the scene in my mind, searching for clues that I was successful.  A furious rain begins to fall, and what should be a brief drive balloons into a two-hour sojourn, as the city sinks into one gargantuan puddle.

     I don’t remember much after that.  The moment I step over the threshold of the brownstone an obviously inebriated Randolph accosts me.  It’s sometime after six o’clock, whereas I’m usually off-shift at five.  The generally oblivious parent Randolph is suddenly up in arms that his son was not home at the appointed hour.  He appears frenzied, manic, and has gotten hold of the wild notion that I tried to kidnap his son, and he won’t let go of it.  He is irrational, and there is no rational explanation I can offer for Felix’s formal attire and for the town car that has delivered us home.

     Randolph rushes Felix up to the apartment.   I retire to mine, when suddenly Randolph bolts through the doorway, ready for a second round.  Before I know it I am backed into the bedroom; there is no path of escape.  He throws me up against a wall, and I grab hold of a shelf that brings my beloved books down upon me.  All I can think about is, this is how it will end.  I’m going to die here in this stuffy little mousetrap of an apartment, all my potential untapped, and without ever having held Evan in my arms.  I’m going to die here; I’m going to become a statistic on some police blotter.  I’ll end up on the cover of the New York Post, or maybe I won’t even rate a cover.  Careen will chose a flattering photo of me for the follow-up story, and my brother will emphasize to the reporter that I was a gifted writer who was too good for the Ivy league.  I’ll bring disgrace upon my family, as the beard who tried to bilk an ailing countess out of her fortune.  They’ll print a photo of Evan, and he’ll finally achieve the fame he so craves.  Maybe they’ll worm a quote out of Wanda; she’ll publish my book posthumously and make a mint.

     And then suddenly, and miraculously, I find myself somewhere beyond Randolph, in the doorway, and then the hallway, and then taking the stairs two at a time.  My legs feel like lead pipes, like a modern day Tin Man.  I’m breathing so heavily it’s as if I’m inhaling the polish right off the ornate wooden banisters.  I’m vaguely aware of something trickling down my face, some sweet liquid on my tongue, and then I’m out in the pouring rain.  I collapse at the bottom of the stoop, scraping my hands on the pavement, just like when I was a little girl back in Brooklyn and took a tumble in my adjustable metal roller skates.  Someone lifts me off the pavement, and there’s a struggle, as I fear it is Randolph, but then I am in a cab.  I can’t recall his face, but his comforting voice informs me that he’s the saxophone player across the way.  He’s on his way to a gig, so he sees my barely-conscious self as far as the emergency room, and then he’s gone; this is New York City, after all, and people have places to go.   I’m given twenty stitches above my left eyebrow, a threadbare green smock to get out of my soaked clothes, and a temporary bed in a room with teal trim.

     I call Dylan, but it will take him two hours by train and then subway to get into the city from my parents’ house.  Dylan sends Evan ahead of him.

When the curtain is drawn back, Evan is standing there.  He moves right to my wound, and inspects the stitches gently, his hands warm and commanding and smelling of soap.  He takes a step back, his arms folded across his Rattle and Hum T-shirt, a black denim jacket hooked over his arm.  Evan wants to know what happened.  He looks like he could explode any minute, a little grenade of plutonium in his gut.  I’m frightened that he hasn’t forgiven me.  I tell him the best I can remember it, how Randolph was irrational and possibly high as a kite when I returned home late with Felix, how he was convinced that I had tried to kidnap his son.

     “Did he hurt you?  I know you told the police that he didn’t.  But did he lay a hand on you?  Did anything happen?”

     “No, nothing like that.  He only shoved me,” I assure him, but he fixes me with a gaze that could melt my green gown right off me.  I’m wondering if he picked up that laser look from Wanda.  “Nothing, I swear it.  I swear, Evan, nothing bad happened.”

     “Because I’ll fucking kill him.  I’ll go there right now, and believe me, he won’t stand a chance against me.”

     I manage to soothe him.  Once convinced, his anger seems to float out of him, like steam off a kettle.  I realize with great relief that the source of the rage simmering under his surface was his fear that Randolph had forced himself on me.

     I try my best to recall the events to Evan: being backed against the wall of the bedroom, my life flashing before me, the irony of my treasured books crashing down on me.

     “My last thought was that I might die, without ever having held you in my arms,” I say, emboldened by his gallant offer to kill Randolph.

     He sinks onto the bed beside me, one hand resting protectively and almost seductively on my hip, the other on his knee.  “Only you could make a life-threatening situation sound romantic.”

     “But then I heard this strange music, bagpipes,” I say faintly, straining to recall the dreamlike atmosphere of the ordeal.

     Evan wonders if it wasn’t, in fact, the saxophone player across the street.

     “No, it was bagpipes.  Trust me, I’m Irish, and the Irish know bagpipes, the sound was unmistakable, and they were playing, what’s that song?”  I hum softly to myself, blinking slowly.  “Danny Boy.”

     I try my best to paint a picture for Evan of the supernatural events that followed, how when Randolph lurched toward me a second time it was as if invisible hands held him back, as if some unexplained force restrained him, while at the same time, something shoved me forward.  It all happened in a split second.  I remember being trapped in the bedroom with Randolph, and then seemingly materializing in the hallway outside my apartment, with no perception or memory of moving through the necessary rooms that would be required to get me out of the apartment, as if a worm hole opened in the matrix of the universe to allow for my escape.

     Evan studies my face, as if searching for coherence there.  He glances at my chart, as if to make some connection between my strange story and perhaps the sedatives they’ve given me.

     “I should not have called Dylan.  I’m afraid Dylan will do something stupid.  He’ll break Randolph’s legs or something worse,” I ramble.

     Evan smiles.  “Dylan is one of the smartest guys I’ve ever known.  He won’t do anything stupid.  At least not with witnesses watching.”

     I smile weakly.  “I should’ve called Sinclair instead.  He’s very good at alerting the authorities,” I say, in my sedated fog.  Evan looks amused, though unclear as to what I’m babbling about.  I detail for him the drama leading up to my confrontation with Randolph:  The Joseph’s request that I play the part of The Beard, and my subsequent charade with the Countess Wellington.  Evan listens raptly, with a lopsided and skeptical grin.  Perhaps he fears I’m delirious.

     “You’re going to move into my apartment,” he says, like a bolt from the blue.

     “Well, no argument here.”  Am I hallucinating?  Now it’s my turn to check my chart to see what drugs they’ve doped me with.

     “I’m making your decisions for you now,” he says.  “You’re not very good at making them on your own.”

     “Oh, is that right?”  I pull myself up taller in my bed, tucking my hair behind my ears to reveal my little pearl cross earrings (a First Communion gift from Mom when I was six years old), so as to look prettier.  I assume my erect dancer carriage as if this will somehow give me an edge in the argument.  I’m energized suddenly, a rocket of bliss ready to blast into some glistening orbit at the invitation to move in with Evan.