Missing Reels (14 page)

Ceinwen wasn’t crazy about Andy, but she was even less fond of seeing someone ganged up on. “You have to study the arts like anything else,” she heard herself say. Her reward was Andy’s hand giving her bare shoulder a pat. She pulled her dress back up and caught Matthew leaning a bit closer.

“That’s right,” said Andy. “We aren’t superior to artists—”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“And if you’d let me finish, I was going to say that we also need theorists to illuminate what the artist is trying to do. And my original point about lost films isn’t—”

“I don’t need their stinkin’ theories,” boomed Harry.

“
Treasure of the Sierra Madre
,” said Matthew, like he’d hit the buzzer on
Jeopardy!
. Andy looked stunned. So did everyone else. As they digested the fact that Matthew had referenced a movie made before Watergate, he spoke across Ceinwen, addressing Andy with the air of a patient tutor. “The Mexican bandits, pretending to be officers? Bogart asks to see their badges, and the leader says, ‘We don’t need no stinkin’ badges.’”

Harry’s glass went up in a silent toast.

“I know the scene,” said Andy. “I didn’t realize you were a John Huston fan.”

“I’m not.” Matthew gave Andy a big smile. “That’s Ceinwen.”

“I thought maybe Anna took you to see it.” She winced. Good grief, who knew professors were this catty. Vintage Visions was more collegial.

“Everybody,” said Matthew evenly, “needs a good movie friend.”

“I agree,” said Donna. “Who wants to go to the movies by yourself?”

Donna then changed the subject, with no attempt at a smooth transition, to Reagan. Politics, apparently, was a much safer subject with academics. Everyone was on the same side.

The party broke up quickly, although Harry and Donna hung back. They took the 1 train at 116th Street. It was cold on the platform, and when they sat down Ceinwen put her feet on the heater underneath the seat. The car was almost empty, just two tired men in down jackets and an old lady in a plaid coat, Bible open in her lap, eyes darting around behind thick-lensed glasses. As soon as the train pulled out she began to speak.

“And seeing the multitudes, he went up into a mountain: and when he was set, his disciples came unto him, and he opened his mouth …”

“Wish she’d shut hers,” muttered Ceinwen.

Matthew didn’t turn. “Done to death, I agree.”

“… blessed are the meek …”

“Maybe she takes requests,” said Ceinwen. “Go on, ask her for Ecclesiastes.”

“Ask her yourself, you’re dressed for it. Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.”

“Oh, go to hell.”

“There’s an idea. Revelations. And upon her forehead was a name written …”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Mystery, Vilma Banky the Great. What did you think I was going to say?”

“I’ll never hear the end of Vilma. Will I.”

“I’m just jealous.” She caught herself before the grin spread. “It would take me days to think of a chat-up line that good. I’d have compared you with that woman in the Marx Brothers movie we saw last week.”

“Thelma Todd?” She was the only blonde.

“No, the other half of the bill.” She shook her head. “The one who hung around Groucho. Similar taste in dresses.”

“
What
?!?”

“Although I can’t help but point out,
she
had a tiara. Remember, you’re fighting for this woman’s honor, which is more—
ouch
! You brat, that
hurt
!” She pulled her foot back. “All right, all right, not her.”

“Ye are the salt of the earth …” The woman was getting louder.

Matthew moved closer and pushed her hair back, sucking in one cheek as he studied her face. “Maybe Ginger.”

“Rogers? I’ll take that.”

“Gilligan’s Island, although the hair—” He put his hand on her knee before she could swing her foot again and they started kissing. After a minute she noticed the subway car had fallen silent and then she heard a shuffling.

They turned their heads to see the Bible lady open the connecting door to change cars. They grinned at each other and kept necking all the way to Christopher Street.

T
HREE NIGHTS A WEEK WAS EASING INTO FOUR
. E
ITHER
A
NNA WAS
writing less, or Matthew had found a place to hide her letters. Ceinwen drew the line at going through his desk. She bought a toothbrush and left it in his bathroom. After a week of him saying nothing about that, she added a bottle of cleanser. The ticket-takers at Theatre 80 had taken to greeting them both by name. The bartender at the Holiday had a special grimace just for them.

With less than two weeks left before Christmas, Matthew had decided they were going out to dinner. At the party Paru had been talking about a French place, way east for a good restaurant, almost near First Avenue. My treat, Matthew told her. Don’t argue. She ordered veal to make him happy. He ordered an entire bottle of wine. Still not as good as Harry’s, but a huge improvement over the offerings at the Holiday.

He was going to London for Christmas. “Aren’t you going home?” he asked.

She shook her head. “New York is wonderful at Christmas anyway. The closer you get to the day, the nicer people get. Unless,” she added, “you’re working retail.”

And Jim and Talmadge would be in town, too. Last year Jim had come out to his family in Michigan. His mother was relieved, said he could call more often. Jim’s sister, though—she seemed to think New York had done something to him. And his parents were divorced. His father never called that much before, and now he didn’t call at all.

Talmadge’s father had skipped out when he was a baby, and he was very fond of his mother. He’d never told his mother, in so many words, but then you’d have to be on life support not to realize Talmadge was gay. The problem was Tacoma. “It makes me drink,” he said. “I don’t even have to feel the wheels hit the runway. They announce that we’re starting our descent into Tacoma, and all I can think is please god somebody get me a tequila and Coke.”

Matthew refilled her wine. She broke off another piece of bread and ran it around the last of the sauce. “London at Christmas sounds like Dickens,” she said. “Maybe you’ll have snow. You can sing ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ through a keyhole.” He was concentrating on laying his knife and fork across the plate. “
A Christmas Carol
?”

“I won’t be in London the whole time.”

She wrapped her hand around her wineglass. “Where else are you going?”

“Christmas Day I’m flying to Modena.”

“Modena.” She took a sip. “What’s Christmas in Modena like?” Did Anna get nicer at Christmas?

“We won’t be there long.” She couldn’t tell if he was looking at the silverware, the plate or the tablecloth. “We’re going to St. Moritz.”

“I didn’t know you knew how to ski.”

“I’ve done it a few times.” The base of her throat was getting hot, but she kept her hand on her glass and her eyes on him until he met them. “We made the reservations before she left. We knew I’d be back in London so of course we arranged to meet.”

“That’s logical.” She could feel her chest moving up and down with the effort not to yell. “When in London, hop next door to St. Moritz. With Anna.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” she said, relaxing her grip on the glass so the stem wouldn’t snap, “it’s great you can afford a ritzy ski resort on postdoc pay. Or is it Anna’s nickel?”

“Nice.” With that accent of his, he could bite off a single word like no one she’d ever known.

“What do you expect me to say?”

“Would you be happier if we were going to sit around the flat in Modena? Why do you have to drag money into it? All sorts of people go there.”

“Glad to hear it. I’m glad you and Ah-nuh can go up and down the slopes and say ‘Hey, isn’t it great there’s all sorts of people right here next to us on this ski lift?’”

He put both hands on the table and leaned as far toward her as he could. “Absolutely bloody incredible. You’re the most class-ridden person I’ve ever met, and I’m
English
for fuck sake.”

“What, you think you folks are the only ones who know about class?” She swallowed some more wine and dialed up the accent as far as it would go, all the way to backcountry. “Southerners know all about it too, hon. We can tell by the accent, same as y’all. On account of a Southerner would hear me talk and know I got myself a little education, leastwise, enough to where he wouldn’t try and tell me, long as he’s in London, might as well run next door to St. Moritz—”

“I didn’t say—”

“—when that’s like sayin’ ‘I was in Atlanta, so I figured what the hell, might as well swing through Omaha.’”

“I didn’t—” He stopped, looked at the startled couple at the next table, and brought his voice down. “I didn’t try to tell you it’s next door, and I don’t appreciate your little digs, when I never imply you’re stupid, never. All I said is that we’re going to be on the same side of the ocean, so of course we’re going to see other.”

“In all fairness, not seeing the logic there
is
kind of stupid of me, isn’t it?” She snapped open her purse. “And I’m also too dumb to know what I’m supposed to do when you get back. Wait for you in the lobby at Courant?”

“You can do what you want. That’s always been the case. I made that clear, didn’t I?” She pulled out her wallet and slammed it on the table. He caught her wine glass as it teetered. She grabbed it away from him and drained the last third in one gulp. “Will you calm down? You bolted that. You’re making—”

“I’m twenty-one. You just said I can do what I want.” She set down the glass, hard, and snatched up her wallet.

“What are you doing? I said I’d pay.” She pulled out two twenties. “And that’s too much.”

She balled up the bills and tossed them across the table. He pulled back as they landed in the last of the sauce on his plate. He put a hand up to the side of his face, as if to hide from the couple just inches away.

“Ceinwen—”

She threw her wallet back in her purse and snarled, “If I need your math help, professor, I’ll stop by during office hours.”

She picked up her coat and purse and half-ran the short way out to the sidewalk, dragging on the coat as she went and hitting another diner in the head with it. When she got to the corner, she knew he wasn’t coming after her, and she started to cry. No tissues in her purse or pockets, and she’d forgotten to take her scarf out of her sleeve. Still walking, she pulled it out and wiped her eyes.

On the corner of Avenue B and Seventh the weirdo called out “Whatsa matter, Blondie, bad date?” She screamed back, “Fuck you,” in part because she hated how predictably she was playing the part, and spent the next block checking to make sure he hadn’t followed her. He hadn’t. But she’d have to avoid that corner for at least the next couple of weeks.

They’d finally fixed the street door, but her key had migrated to the bottom of her purse and she had to pull out half her stuff to find it. She unlocked it, went up the stairs at twice her usual pace and had to catch her breath on the third floor. When she got to the apartment her legs were burning and she was shaking. She walked in, shut the door, and stood face-first against the wall.

“Ceinwen? Is that you?” She didn’t turn to see where Jim was calling from. “What happened?” He was standing next to her. She didn’t move.

“I’m an idiot. That’s what happened.” She wiped her nose with her scarf. “You have my permission to tell me. Ceinwen, you’re an idiot.”

“I’m sorry, honey.” She felt him pat her back. “Nobody’s going to tell you you’re an idiot. Unless you stay here in the hall ruining your scarf.” He took her purse out of her hand. “Take off your coat and come sit down.”

She started to pull it off, then stopped and leaned her shoulder against the wall, the coat trailing on the floor. He slipped it off her arm. “All right. You stand there till you feel like taking a walk to the living room.” She closed her eyes. She heard Jim’s footsteps fade away toward her bedroom. Then she heard him walk back and open the door to the bathroom. She walked to the living room, sat on the couch, dropped the scarf on the floor and covered her face with her hands. Through the bottom of her hands she saw something appear on the coffee table. It was a roll of toilet paper.

“We’re out of Kleenex,” said Jim. “I knew there was something I forgot at Thrifty Mart.”

“Where’s Talmadge?”

“He called from a pay phone to say he’d gone out with George. He should be home soon.”

“Good for him.” She peeled off a long strip and blew her nose. “I’m glad somebody is getting some tonight.”

“You let me know when you’re ready to tell me what happened.” Jim put on his glasses and picked up his book from the coffee table, she pulled off some more toilet paper, and they said nothing for about half an hour. Talmadge’s keys sounded in the door and they heard him singing down the hall.

“Falling in love again, never wanted to, what am I to do—” Talmadge stopped in the doorway. “What the fuck happened?”

Nobody answered.

Talmadge sat down on a floor cushion, coat still on, and demanded the whole story. Jim put down his book and they both listened.

“Well, one thing I can tell you is Mr. Mass on Sunday isn’t nearly as chic as he thinks he is,” said Talmadge. “St. Moritz is over. Greg told me so.”

“Greg?” asked Jim. “You mean that old investment guy? You still see him?”

“No, not for ages. Now that I’m not drinking anymore I actually have to like them. But he knew, and that’s what he said. People go to Gstaad. Or Zersomething.”

“Zurich? That’s for bankers, not skiers.”

“It’s not Zurich.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

“Switzerland, that’s what. I forgot the name, okay? If I was personally familiar with the place, I wouldn’t be spending Christmas on
fucking
Avenue C.” Talmadge got up. “We need a movie here. I could go to the rental place. It’s open till midnight.” She pulled her legs up and hugged her knees. “A movie. Right?”

“Let me go,” said Jim. “It’s two-for-one night. I know exactly what to get.”