Claudia Silver to the Rescue (9780547985602) (6 page)

From the dining room, Claudia heard the scrape of chairs.

“Don't drag the Stickley!” Ricky hollered from his office. He had gone back to his magazine. Faye emerged in the hall with Kim behind her, then stumbled to Claudia and hugged her tightly, smelling of China Rain and pinning Claudia's arms to her sides before letting a sob fly. “Don't leave till I tinkle,” she choked, and hurried off to the bathroom.

“You know what they say,” Kim began. “When one door closes . . .”

“It's closed,” Claudia concluded brightly. The first thing she needed to do was deposit Ricky's check. The next thing, she had no real idea.

“Take me with you,” Gwen joked, as a few tears spilled over the rims of her pale eyes. “We're really going to miss you around here.” She thrust a neon sticky into Claudia's palm, on which she'd written her phone number. “You can call me at home anytime if you need anything, or just to say hi.”

“Thanks, Gwen,” Claudia said. She was gone before anyone noticed she'd forgotten to request low-sodium soy sauce.

In the two long years she'd worked at Georgica Films, Claudia had never once left the building during lunch. Now, as a newly former employee, she walked south, toward the Village, adopting an appreciative daze as the city rushed around her with the bustle and purpose of midday.

Lunchtime out in the world was a revelation. Claudia waited in the long line at the window counter of John's Pizza, among the UPS guys, NYU students, slim gay men with teacup breeds tucked under their arms, and young mothers grabbing a slice as they wearily eyed their nearby toddlers, muzzled with sippy cups and strapped into flimsy umbrella strollers laden with Korean-grocery bags. Claudia threw away her paper plate and its oil-spattered wax-paper liner. Still working on the crust, she headed for the curbside pay phone she'd been eyeing through the window during her hasty meal. From the inside pocket of her bomber jacket, she pulled the torn phone book page she'd been carrying around for weeks.

“Yeah?” the voice answered.

“Mrs. Parker?”

“No.”

“Oh. Um . . . then may I please speak to Ramona?” Claudia inquired.

“She in school right now,” the voice replied. “Can I
help
you with something?”

“Is . . . is this Darleen?”

“Why don't you tell me who
this
is.”

Claudia exhaled, ruffling the silence that strung the phone receivers across two boroughs. “Darleen, it's Claudia Silver. You know, from the block. And from school.” She pictured the black and white linoleum of the Parkers' kitchen, the open shelves of jarred tomatoes and peaches from their grandparents' place in North Carolina, the big plastic tub of Tang, and the Panasonic radio perpetually tuned to WBLS. Still no reply. “I . . . I ran into Ramona the other night, and, um, I forgot to ask her a question.”

Darleen chuckled. “Oh, you
ran into
my sister, is that how we're playing it.” Claudia pumped another quarter into the phone before the mechanical operator could even think about interrupting.

“Listen, Darleen,” Claudia said. “I fucked up.”

“That's cool,” Darleen assured her, “and now I'm gonna fuck
you
up, and then we're gonna be even.”

“Fine,” Claudia consented.

“Fine?”
Darleen echoed, incredulous. “Damn, girl. You lie down easy.”

“No, I don't,” said Claudia.

“What you want to ask my sister?” Darleen demanded.

“I suppose I could ask you.” Claudia hesitated. “I was wondering if Ramona, or you, has seen Phoebe around. And if so, you know, how she's doing.” She neither wanted to say nor think the name
Robbie.

“How come you gotta ask
me
that? You get your phone cut off? Or your legs?”

“Not exactly,” Claudia admitted. “But Phoebe and I . . . we've been out of touch.”

“I see Phoebe every other damn day,” Darleen countered. “
You
the one who's out of touch. Where you staying these days?”

“Park Slope,” Claudia replied.

“Oooh,” Darleen teased. “You a Slopie now. Too good for the ghetto.”

“It's not that,” Claudia said. “Please. Can you tell me how she's doing?”

“I only see her
around,
” Darleen explained, with some irritation. “I ain't her
parole
officer.”

 

Claudia's subway car was empty, except for a lone guy in a Triple FAT parka sleeping hunched over, his head resting in his own lap, and a pair of Dominican girls with white lipstick sharing a single pair of headphones. Still, Claudia rode home standing, commanding a doorway, her eyes obscured by the dark green lenses of her aviators. She looked tough and felt empty. Not particularly bereft, but hollow and disconnected from her own nerve endings.

As the F train emerged from the tunnel at Carroll Street and chugged its ascent, Claudia turned to take in the sweeping view. It was a cold November day, with narrow, shredded clouds skittering high in a blue sky. Each backyard and rooftop stood in bright relief, heightened and silent, emanating a life force that penetrated the scratched Plexiglas of the train window, like a photo-realistic painting she'd seen at the Whitney Museum as a child, standing at Edith's side. Claudia imagined she could see her entire life unfurling across this landscape of brick, concrete, and metal that she knew by heart. Her high school was over there and Edith's brownstone was here. There was the school yard where she'd had her first kiss. Her college was over the river and through Morningside Park, a crosstown bus ride from where she'd been born. She belonged to this tiny part of the world, but the feeling wasn't mutual. Claudia's universe easily carried on without her.

At this time of day, the quiet apartment presented an appealing, shabby gentility. Claudia made her bed, and put the kettle on. When the buzzer rang it jolted the cozy scene. It could have been a package from UPS, filled with Bronwyn's latest order from J.Crew, and yet, as the buzzer sounded again a moment later, Claudia sensed danger.

Darleen was waiting at the top of the step, still with the Jheri curl and the Air Jordans, her white breath filling the air. Claudia opened the door and braced herself for a bitch-slap. But Darleen merely gestured, as Ramona appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

She had brought someone with her.

Standing behind Ramona was a tall sixteen-year-old girl with broad shoulders, long arms, and knee-high Minnetonka moccasins.

Phoebe.

She wept loudly as she ascended the stairs into Claudia's arms. She had grown taller than her older sister, but she collapsed into the hug, hanging her body from Claudia's shoulders, so that Claudia both embraced her and held her up. Ramona swiped at her own tears.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” sobbed Phoebe.

“Thank you,” Claudia said to Darleen. “Thank you so much.” Darleen shrugged, and slung her arm around her own sister's narrow shoulders. “By the way,” Darleen said, squinting at Claudia, “the ghetto is up here.” She tapped her temple with authority. “You know that, right?” The Parkers turned to go.

“Ramona,” said Claudia. “I'm sorry. For accusing you.”

“It's cool,” said Ramona.

“No it ain't,” Darleen reprimanded.

“I mean, it's
okay.
”

“That's right,” Darleen concurred.

The Parkers headed for Seventh Avenue, and a corner table at Smiling Pizza. On the bus home, Darleen would flash the pass she'd been expertly doctoring since high school graduation, seven years ago.

Claudia gently peeled Phoebe from her body. “Are you okay?” she asked, grave. Phoebe shook her head. “Is that a stupid question?” Phoebe gave a slight laugh and nodded, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “Let's go inside,” Claudia said.

They sat on the futon couch in Claudia's small living room. Phoebe looked around, taking in the brick-and-plank bookcases, the hanging plants, the rocking chair draped in a Mexican blanket, the Richard Avedon poster of a bald man covered in bees. “Your house is really nice,” she said.

“What's going on?” Claudia asked. Phoebe's face crumbled as she curled into Claudia's lap. “Did you get my cards?” Claudia asked.

“Cards? No,” said Phoebe. “I don't get any mail. Robbie confiscates all of it. He says I can have it when I'm eighteen unless he decides to burn it first.”

Claudia clenched her jaw and stroked her sister's hair. “It's okay,” she said.

“No,” said Phoebe. “It's not.” The only person she'd sort of told what life was like at home had been Ramona, which was why Mrs. Parker had banned her daughter from stepping foot in their house ever again. Phoebe wished she could stay right here, in her sister's lap, and not talk about anything, but felt the nagging pressure that confiding in Claudia might be her equivalent of rent.

“What I mean is, I will help you, Feebs,” said Claudia.

Claudia told herself she would figure this one out. She would get another job, and her thousand bucks from Ricky Green and her credit cards would get her from here to there; she could have her own little corner of the Seventh Avenue flea market, and sell back her vintage purses. She'd call Bronwyn's dad at his law firm and ask him about guardianship and he would find her a pro bono attorney. Phoebe could have her bedroom; Claudia would sleep on the couch. Phoebe would finish high school on an accelerated schedule and get a swimming scholarship to St. John's and work part-time. She could model, people always said so.

Claudia would make a raft from a rooftop, and she would pull her sister up beside herself. Someday, when the waters receded, they would find that there was a house still standing, and that it was mostly intact.

2

C
LAUDIA SILVER HAD ALWAYS STRUGGLED
with Christmas Eve in New York City. She knew that happy New York Jews weren't supposed to ignore Christmas, they were supposed to
participate
in it with one of two rituals, and possibly both: the eating of the Chinese food and the going-to of the movies. Claudia wished she'd come from that kind of jolly Jewish household, taking on the gentile shopping season with an amused smile and deep pockets. Instead, her holidays were sponsored by Bronwyn's family, with Phoebe as her special guest. The sisters had been roommates for the last month.

Stepping from the shower into her apartment's crooked little bathroom, Claudia wrapped her body in one of Bronwyn Tate's monogrammed bath sheets and her hair in a coordinating bath towel. As she crossed the living room, she heard a voice coming from the answering machine, and realized that Phoebe, plugged into her Walkman on the futon sofa (
Ring the alarm, I don't wanna stay calm cause I'm about to rip this psalm
), reading a
Betty and Veronica
comic she'd rescued from Edith's house and eating a bowl of raisins, was making no move to answer the phone. Claudia's brief annoyance turned to relief when she realized the nature of the call.

“ . . . Office of Career Services. Please give me a call to discuss an opportunity that might be a good fit. I'll be out of the office through the New—”

Claudia dove on the nearest portable receiver, this one languishing with a largely drained battery on the coffee table. “Hello?” she cried, hurrying to the brick-and-plank étagère to fuss with the answering machine, which droned with feedback as she tried to get it to stop. “Yes, hello?” she repeated, breathless. “This is Claudia.”

Phoebe didn't know that Claudia was out of a job. She didn't know that the holiday season was a shitty time to look for one, unless you wanted to slave in a remote corner of Macy's Cellar, a notion that Claudia had briefly considered and then rejected, having been taught by Edith at an early age the womanly art of gift wrapping, not yet convinced that it had come to that. Phoebe didn't know that Ricky Green's thousand-dollar severance package had evaporated considerably, and that Claudia had considered picking up some shifts at the restaurant where she'd worked through college, except hadn't, because that would feel like going backward, and Claudia was determined to press forward, gunning along an ambivalent fulcrum from dawn till dusk since she'd gotten canned from Georgica Films, her wheels growing muddier and her chassis sinking. Phoebe didn't know that groceries, takeout burritos, movie tickets, and the two six-packs of cotton bikinis that Claudia had bought her from the Modell's on Fulton Street, along with a gray hoodie to layer under her peacoat now that the weather was growing nasty, had been purchased by Uncle MasterCard. Phoebe didn't know that Claudia was stealing from herself to give her the things that she herself wanted.

Claudia didn't know that Phoebe had called Edith's house to report she wasn't dead. The first time, when Robbie answered, Phoebe had promptly hung up. The second time, Edith answered. Phoebe, paused, then hung up. The third time, Phoebe had left a message on the answering machine:
“Hey, um. It's me. Phoebe. I just want you to know that I'm okay. I'm staying with a friend for a little while. In Park Slope, actually. I'm going to school. And I'm, uh . 
.
 . yeah.”

Claudia didn't know that Phoebe missed her mother.

“Oh good,” said Cheryl Polski, on the other end of the line. “Claudia. It's Cheryl, from Career Services. What are you doing at home on Christmas Eve?”

“What are you doing at work?” Claudia shot back.

“I just ran in to pick up some files to work from home over the holidays, and saw that a new posting's come in,” Cheryl explained amiably. “I think it might be up your alley.”

Claudia tensed, glanced over at Phoebe, and tugged at her towel. “Do tell,” she said.

“
Hope Valley
is hiring a second assistant to the executive producer. Shelly Gerson. She's an alum.”