Summer and the City (15 page)

“Carrie won’t say.” Bobby pats my arm. And leaning into my ear, adds in a stage whisper, “Teensie’s the biggest agent in town. She represents everyone. Including Bernard Singer.”

The smile freezes on my face. “That’s nice.”

There must be something in my expression that sets off a warning bell because Teensie deigns to finally look me in the eye.

I glance away, hoping to steer the conversation in another direction. Something tells me this Teensie person will be none too pleased to discover her biggest client is dating little ol’ me. Or was dating little ol’ me, anyway.

The music stops.

“Dinner is served!” shouts Barry Jessen from the top of a ladder.

Chapter Twenty-Two

As if the night couldn’t get any weirder, I find myself seated next to Capote.

“You again?” I ask, squeezing past him onto my folding chair.

“What’s your problem?” he says.

I roll my eyes. Where to begin? With the fact that I miss Bernard and wish he were here? Or that I’d prefer to be sitting next to someone else? I settle on: “I just met Teensie Dyer.”

He looks impressed. “She’s a big agent.”

Figures he’d say that. “She seemed like a bitch to me.”

“That’s stupid, Carrie.”

“Why? It’s the truth.”

“Or your perspective.”

“Which is?”

“This is a hard city, Carrie. You know that.”

“So?” I say.

“You want to end up hard too? Like most of these people?”

I look at him in disbelief. Doesn’t he realize he’s one of them? “I’m not worried,” I retort.

A bowl of pasta comes our way. Capote grabs it and politely serves me, then himself. “Tell me you’re not really going to do your play at Bobby’s.”

“Why not?”

“Because Bobby is a joke.”

I give him a nasty smile. “Or is it because he hasn’t asked you to perform your great work?”

“I wouldn’t do it even if he did. It’s not the way to do things, Carrie. You’ll see.”

I shrug. “I guess that’s the difference between you and me. I don’t mind taking chances.”

“Do you want me to lie to you? Like everyone else in your life?”

I shake my head, mystified. “How do you know people lie to me? More likely they lie to you. But the biggest liar in your life?
Yourself
.” I take a gulp of wine, hardly believing what I just said.

“Fine,” he says, as if I’m hopeless.

He turns to the woman on his other side. I follow his cue and smile at the man on my left.

I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s Cholly. “Hello,” I say brightly, determined to forget about my encounter with Teensie and my hatred of Capote.

“Little one!” he exclaims. “My goodness. You certainly do get around. Is New York turning out to be everything you hoped?”

I glance around the table. Rainbow is slumped in her chair, eyes half closed, while Capote is pontificating about his favorite topic again—Proust. I spot Ryan, who has had the good luck to be seated next to Teensie. He’s making eyes at her, no doubt hoping she’ll take him on as a client. Meanwhile, Bobby is standing behind Barry Jessen, desperately trying to engage him while Barry, now sweating profusely, angrily wipes his face with a napkin.

I experience one of those bizarre moments where the universe telescopes and everything is magnified: the movement of Pican’s lipsticked mouth, the stream of red wine Bobby pours into his glass, the gold signet ring on Teensie’s right finger as she raises her hand to her temple.

I wonder if Maggie was right. Maybe we are all crazy.

And suddenly, everything goes back to normal. Teensie gets up. Barry makes room for Bobby next to him. Ryan leans over to Rainbow and whispers something in her ear.

I turn back to Cholly. “I think it’s fantastic.”

He seems interested, so I start telling him about my adventures. How I got kicked out of Peggy’s. And how I named Viktor Greene’s mustache Waldo. And how Bobby wants me to do a reading of my play when I haven’t even finished it yet. When I’m done, I have Cholly in stitches. There’s nothing better than a man who’s a good audience.

“You should come to a soiree at my house sometime,” he says. “I have this wonderful little publication called
The New Review
. We like to pretend it’s literary, but every so often it requires a party.”

I’m writing my phone number on a napkin for him when Teensie approaches. At first I think I’m her target, but it’s Cholly she’s after.

“Darling,” she says, aggressively inserting a chair between Cholly and me, therefore effectively cutting me off. “I’ve just met the most charming young writer. Ryan somebody. You ought to meet him.”

“Love to,” Cholly says. And with a wink, he leans around Teensie. “Have you met Carrie Bradshaw? She’s a writer too. She was just telling me—”

Teensie abruptly changes the subject. “Have you seen Bernard, lately?”

“Last week,” Cholly says dismissively, indicating he has no interest in talking about Bernard.

“I’m worried about him,” Teensie says.

“Why?” Cholly asks. Men are never concerned about each other the way women are.

“I heard he’s dating some young girl.”

My stomach clenches.

“Margie says Bernard’s a mess,” Teensie continues, with a sidelong glance my way. I try to keep my face disinterested, as if I hardly know who she’s talking about. “Margie said she met her. And frankly, she’s concerned. She thinks it’s a very bad sign that Bernard is seeing someone so young.”

I pour myself more wine while pretending to be fascinated by something at the other end of the table. But my hand is shaking.

“Why would Margie Shephard care? She’s the one who left him,” Cholly says.

“Is that what he told you?” Teensie asks slyly.

Cholly shrugs. “Everyone knows she cheated on him. With an actor in his play.”

Teensie snickers. “Sadly, the reverse is true. Bernard cheated on her.”

A wire wraps around my heart and squeezes tight.

“In fact, Bernard cheated on Margie several times. He’s a wonderful playwright, but a lousy husband.”

“Really, Teensie. What does it matter?” Cholly remarks.

Teensie puts a hand on his arm. “This party is giving me an awful headache. Could you ask Barry for some aspirin?”

I glare at her. Why can’t she ask Barry herself? Damn her and what she said about Bernard and me. “Colin has aspirin,” I interject helpfully. “Pican’s son?”

Teensie’s eyebrows rise in suspicion, but I give her an innocent smile.

“Well, thank you.” She gives me a sharp look and goes off to find Colin.

I hold my napkin to my face and laugh.

Cholly laughs along with me. “Teensie’s a very silly woman, isn’t she?”

I nod, speechless. The thought of the evil Teensie on one of Colin’s pills is just too funny.

Of course, I don’t really expect Teensie to take the pill. Even I, who know nothing about drugs, was smart enough to realize Colin’s big white pill wasn’t an aspirin. I don’t give it much thought until an hour later, when I’m dancing with Ryan.

Swaying precariously on bended knees, Teensie appears in the middle of the floor, clutching Bobby’s shoulder for support. She’s giggling madly while attempting to remain upright. Her legs are like rubber. “Bobby!” she screams. “Did I ever tell you how much I love you?”

“What the hell?” Ryan asks.

I’m overcome by hysteria. Apparently, Teensie took the pill after all, because she’s lying on her back on the floor, laughing. This goes on for several seconds until Cholly swoops in, pulls Teensie to her feet, and leads her away.

I keep on dancing.

Indeed, everyone keeps dancing until we’re interrupted by a loud scream followed by several shouts for help.

A crowd gathers by the elevator. The door is open, but the shaft appears to be empty.

Cries of “What happened?” “Someone fell!” “Call 911,” echo through the loft. I rush forward, fearing it’s Rainbow and that she’s dead. But out of the corner of my eye I see Rainbow hurrying to her room, followed by Colin. I push in closer. Two men have jumped into the shaft, so the elevator must be a mere foot or two below. A limp woman’s hand reaches out and Barry Jessen grabs it, hauling a disheveled and dazed Teensie out of the hole.

Before I can react, Capote elbows me. “Let’s go.”

“Huh?” I’m too startled to move.

He jerks my arm. “We need to get out of here.
Now
.”

“What about Teensie?”

“She’s fine. And Ryan can take care of himself.”

“I don’t understand,” I protest as Capote propels me to the exit.

“Don’t ask questions.” He flings open the door and starts down the stairs. I pause on the landing, baffled. “Carrie!” He turns around to make sure I’m following him. When he sees I’m not, he hops up the stairs and practically pushes me down in front of him. “Move!”

I do as he says, hearing the urgent thump of his feet after me. When we get to the lobby, he bangs through the door and yanks me out after him. “Run!” he shouts.

He races to the corner as I struggle to keep up in the Fiorucci boots Samantha gave me. Seconds later, two police cars, lights flashing and sirens wailing, pull up to the Jessens’ building. Capote slings his arm around my shoulders. “Act normal. Like we’re on a date or something.”

We cross the street, my heart exploding in my chest. We walk like this for another block until we get to West Broadway and Prince Street. “I think there’s a cool bar around here,” Capote says.

“A ‘cool’ bar? Teensie just fell down the elevator shaft, and all you can think about is a ‘cool’ bar?”

He releases me from his grasp. “It’s not my fault, is it?”

No, but it is mine. “We should go back. Aren’t you worried about Teensie?”

“Look, Carrie,” he says, exasperated. “I just saved your life. You should be grateful.”

“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be grateful for.”

“You want to end up in the papers? Because that’s what would have happened. Half the people there were on drugs. You think the police aren’t going to notice? And the next day it’s all over Page Six. Maybe you don’t care about your reputation. But I happen to care about mine.”

“Why?” I ask, unimpressed by his self-importance.

“Because.”

“Because why?” I taunt.

“I have a lot of people counting on me.”

“Like who?”

“Like my family. They’re very upright, good people. I would never want them to be embarrassed. On account of my actions.”

“You mean like if you married a Yankee.”

“Exactly.”

“What do all these Yankee girls you date think? Or do you just not tell them?”

“I figure most women know what they’re getting into when they date me. I never lie about my intentions.”

I look down at the sidewalk, wondering what I’m doing standing on a corner in the middle of nowhere, arguing with Capote Duncan. “I guess I should tell you the truth too. I’m the one who’s responsible for Teensie’s accident.”

“You?”

“I knew Colin had pills. He said they were aspirin. So I told Teensie to get an aspirin from him.”

It takes a moment for Capote to process this information. He rubs his eyes while I worry he’s going to turn me in. But then he tips back his head and laughs, his long curls falling over his shoulders.

“Pretty funny, huh?” I boast, preening in his approval. “I never thought she’d actually take the damn thing—”

Without warning, he cuts me off with a kiss.

I’m so surprised, I don’t respond at first as his mouth presses on mine, pushing eagerly at my lips. Then my brain catches up. I’m confounded by how nice and natural it feels, like we’ve been kissing forever. Then I get it: this is how he gets all those women. He’s a pouncer. He kisses a woman when she least expects it and once he’s got her off-balance, he maneuvers her into bed.

Not going to happen this time, though. Although a terrible part of me wishes it would.

“No.” I push him away.

“Carrie,” he says.

“I can’t.” Have I just cheated on Bernard?

Am I even with Bernard?

A lone taxi snakes down the street, light on. It’s available. I’m not. I flag it down.

Capote opens the door for me.

“Thanks,” I say.

“See ya,” he replies, as if nothing at all just happened.

I sag into the backseat, shaking my head.

What a night. Maybe it’s a good time to get out of Dodge after all.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Oh,” my youngest sister, Dorrit, says, looking up from a magazine. “You’re home.”

“Yes, I am,” I say, stating the obvious. I drop my bag and open the refrigerator, more out of habit than hunger. There’s an almost-empty container of milk and a package of moldy cheese. I take out the bottle of milk and hold it up. “Doesn’t anyone bother to shop around here?”

“No,” Dorrit says sullenly. Her eyes go to my father, but he seems oblivious to her displeasure.

“I’ve got all my girls home!” he exclaims, overcome with emotion.

That’s one thing that hasn’t changed about my father: his excessive sentimentality. I’m glad there’s still a remnant of my old father left. Because otherwise, he appears to have been taken over by an alien.

First off, he’s wearing jeans. My father has never worn jeans in his life. My mother wouldn’t allow it. And he’s sporting Ray-Ban sunglasses. But most bewildering of all is his jacket. It’s by Members Only and it’s orange. When I stepped off the train, I barely recognized him.

He must be going through a midlife crisis.

“Where’s Missy?” I ask now, trying to ignore his strange getup.

“She’s at the conservatory. She learned to play the violin,” my father says proudly. “She’s composing a symphony for an entire orchestra.”

“She learned to play the violin in one month?” I ask, astounded.

“She’s very talented,” my father says.

What about me?

“Yeah, right, Dad,” Dorrit says.

“You’re okay too,” my father replies.

“C’mon, Dorrit,” I say, picking up my suitcase. “You can help me unpack.”

“I’m busy.”

“Dorrit!” I insist meaningfully, with a glance at my father.

She sighs, closes her magazine, and follows me upstairs.

My room is exactly how I left it. For a moment, I’m filled with memories, going to the shelves and touching the old books my mom gave me as a kid. I open my closet door and peek inside. I could be mistaken, but it looks like half my clothes are missing. I spin around and glare at Dorrit accusingly. “Where are my clothes?”

She shrugs. “I took some. And Missy. We figured that since you were in New York, you wouldn’t be needing them.”

“What if I do?”

She shrugs again.

I let it go. It’s too early in my visit to get into a fight with Dorrit—although given her sulky attitude, there’s sure to be an altercation by the time I leave on Monday. In the meantime, I need to probe her for information about my father and this supposed girlfriend of his.

“What’s up with Dad?” I ask, sitting cross-legged on the bed. It’s only a single and suddenly feels tiny. I can’t believe I slept in it for so many years.

“He’s gone crazy. Obviously,” Dorrit says.

“Why is he wearing jeans? And a Members Only jacket? It’s hideous. Mom would never let him dress like that.”

“Wendy gave it to him.”

“Wendy?”

“His girlfriend.”

“So this girlfriend thing is true?”

“I guess so.”

I sigh. Dorrit is so blasé. There’s no getting through to her. I only hope she’s given up the shoplifting. “Have you met her?”

“Yeah,” Dorrit says, noncommittally.

“And?” I nearly scream.

“Eh.”

“Do you hate her?” This is a stupid question. Dorrit hates everyone.

“I try to pretend she doesn’t exist.”

“What does Dad think?”

“He doesn’t notice,” she says. “It’s disgusting. When she’s around, he only pays attention to her.”

“Is she pretty?”

“
I
don’t think so,” Dorrit replies. “Anyway, you can see for yourself. Dad’s making us go to dinner with her tonight.”

“Ugh.”

“And he has a motorcycle.”

“What?” This time I really do scream.

“Didn’t he tell you? He bought a motorcycle.”

“He hasn’t told me anything. He hasn’t even told me about this Wendy person.”

“He’s probably afraid,” Dorrit says. “Ever since he met her, he’s become totally whipped.”

Great, I think, unpacking my suitcase. This is going to be a terrific weekend.

A little bit later, I find my father in the garage, rearranging his tools. I immediately suspect that Dorrit is right—my father is avoiding me. I’ve been home for less than an hour, but already I’m wondering why I came back at all. No one seems the least bit interested in me or my life. Dorrit ran off to a girlfriend’s house, my father has a motorcycle, and Missy is all caught up with her composing. I should have stayed in New York.

I spent the entire train ride mulling over last night. The kiss with Capote was a terrible mistake and I’m horrified I went along with it, if only for a few seconds. But what does it mean? Is it possible I secretly like Capote? No. He’s probably one of those “love the one you’re with” guys—meaning he automatically goes after whatever woman happens to be around when he’s feeling horny. But there were plenty of other women at the party, including Rainbow. So why’d he pick me?

Feeling lousy and hungover, I bought some aspirin and drank a Coke. I kept torturing myself with all the unfinished business I was leaving behind, including Bernard. I even considered getting off the train in New Haven and taking the next train back to New York, but when I thought about how disappointed my family would be, I couldn’t do it.

Now I wish I had.

“Dad!” I intone in annoyance.

He turns, startled, a wrench in his hand. “I was just cleaning out my workbench.”

“I can see that.” I peer around for this notorious motorcycle and spot it next to the wall, partly hidden behind my father’s car. “Dorrit said you bought a motorcycle,” I say craftily.

“Yes, Carrie, I did.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to.”

“But why?” I sound like a woeful girl who’s just been dumped. And my father’s acting like a jerky boy who doesn’t have any answers.

“Do you want to see it?” he asks finally, unable to keep his obvious enthusiasm in check.

He wheels it out from behind the car. It’s a motorcycle, all right. And not just any old motorcycle. It’s a Harley. With enormous handlebars and a black body decaled with flames. The kind of motorcycle favored by members of the Hells Angels.

My father rides a Harley?

On the other hand, I’m impressed. It’s no wussie motorcycle, that’s for sure.

“What do you think?” he asks proudly.

“I like it.”

He seems pleased. “I bought it off this kid in town. He was desperate for money. I only paid a thousand dollars.”

“Wow.” I shake my head. Everything about this is so unlike my father—from his sentence construction to the motorcycle itself—that for a moment I don’t know what to say. “How’d you find this kid?” I ask.

“He’s Wendy’s cousin’s son.”

My eyes bug out of my head. I can’t believe how casually he’s mentioned her. I go along with the game. “Who’s Wendy?”

He brushes the seat of the motorcycle with his hand. “She’s my new friend.”

So that’s how he’s going to play it. “What kind of friend?”

“She’s very nice,” he says, refusing to catch my eye.

“How come you didn’t tell me about her?”

“Oh, Carrie.” He sighs.

“Everyone says she’s your girlfriend. Dorrit and Missy and even Walt.”

“Walt knows?” he asks, surprised.

“Everyone knows, Dad,” I say sharply. “Why didn’t you tell
me
?”

He slides onto the seat of the motorcycle, playing with the levers. “Do you think you could cut me some slack?”

“Dad!”

“This is all very new for me.”

I bite my lip. For a moment, my heart goes out to him. In the past five years, he hasn’t shown an ounce of interest in any woman. Now he’s apparently met someone he likes, which is a sign that he’s moving forward. I should be happy for him. Unfortunately, all I can think about is my mother. And how he’s betraying her. I wonder if my mother is up in heaven, looking down at what he’s become. If she is, she’d be horrified.

“Did Mom know her? This Wendy friend of yours?”

He shakes his head, pretending to study the instrument panel. “No.” He pauses. “I don’t think so, anyway. She’s a little bit younger.”

“How young?” I demand.

I’ve suddenly pushed too hard, because he looks at me defiantly. “I don’t know, Carrie. She’s in her late twenties. I’ve been told it’s rude to ask a woman her age.”

I nod knowingly. “And how old does she think you are?”

“She knows I have a daughter who’s going to Brown in the fall.”

There’s a sharpness in his tone I haven’t heard since I was a kid. It means,
I’m in charge. Back off.

“Fine.” I turn to go.

“And Carrie?” he adds. “We’re having dinner with her tonight. I’m going to be very disappointed if you’re rude to her.”

“We’ll see,” I mutter under my breath. I head back to the house, convinced my worst fears have been confirmed. I already hate this Wendy woman. She has a relative who’s a Hells Angel. And she lies about her age. I figure if a woman is willing to lie about her own birth date, she’s willing to lie about pretty much anything.

I start to clean out the refrigerator, tossing out one scientific experiment after another. That’s when I remember that I’ve lied about my age as well. To Bernard. I pour the last of the sour milk down the drain, wondering what my family is coming to.

“Don’t you look special?” Walt quips. “Though a mite overdressed for Castlebury.”

“What does one wear to a restaurant in Castlebury?”

“Surely not an evening gown.”

“Walt,” I scold. “It’s not an evening gown. It’s a hostess gown. From the sixties.” I found it at my vintage store and I’ve been wearing it practically nonstop for days. It’s perfect for sweaty weather, leaving my arms and legs unencumbered, and so far, no one has commented on my unusual garb except to say they liked it. Odd clothing is expected in New York. Here, not so much.

“I’m not going to change my style for Wendy. Did you know she has a cousin who’s a Hells Angel?”

Walt and I are sitting on the porch, sipping cocktails while we wait for the notorious Wendy to arrive. I begged Walt to join us for dinner, but he declined, claiming a previous engagement with Randy. He did, however, agree to come by for a drink, so he could see the Wendy person in the flesh.

“Maybe that’s the point,” he says now. “She’s completely different.”

“But if he’s interested in someone like Wendy, it calls into question his whole marriage to my mother.”

“I think you’re taking the analogy too far,” Walt responds, acting as the voice of reason. “Maybe the guy’s just having fun.”

“He’s my father.” I scowl. “He shouldn’t be allowed to have fun.”

“That’s mean, Carrie.”

“I know.” I stare out the screen at the neglected garden. “Did you talk to Maggie?”

“Yup,” Walt says, enigmatically.

“What did she say? About New York?”

“She had a great time.”

“What did she say about
me
?”

“Nothing. All she talked about was some guy you introduced her to.”

“Ryan. Whom she immediately bonked.”

“That’s our Maggie,” Walt says with a shrug.

“She’s turned into a sex fiend.”

“Oh, let her,” he says. “She’s young. She’ll grow out of it. Anyway, why do you care?”

“I
care
about my
friends
.” I swing my Fiorucci boots off the table for emphasis. “I just wish my friends cared about me.”

Walt stares at me blankly.

“I mean, even my family hasn’t asked me about my life in New York. And frankly, my life is so much more interesting than anything that’s happening to them. I’m going to have a play produced. And I went to a party last night at Barry Jessen’s loft in SoHo—”

“Who’s Barry Jessen?”

“Come on, Walt. He’s like the most important artist in America right now.”

“As I said, ‘Aren’t you special?’” Walt teases.

I fold my arms, knowing I sound like a jerk. “Doesn’t anyone care?”

“With your big head?” Walts jokes. “Careful, it might explode.”

“Walt!” I give him a hurt look. Then my frustration gets the better of me. “I’m going to be a famous writer someday. I’m going to live in a big, two-bedroom apartment on Sutton Place. And I’m going to write Broadway plays. And then everyone will have to come and visit
me
.”

“Ha-ha-ha,” Walt says.

I stare down at the ice cubes in my glass.

“Look, Carrie,” Walt says. “You’re spending one summer in New York. Which is great. But it’s hardly your life. And in September, you’re going to Brown.”

“Maybe I’m not,” I say suddenly.

Walt smiles, sure I can’t be serious. “Does your father know? About this change of plans?”

“I just decided. This minute.” Which is true. The thought has been fluttering around the edges of my consciousness for weeks now, but the reality of being back in Castlebury has made it clear that being at Brown will only be more of the same. The same kinds of people with exactly the same attitudes, just in a different location.

Walt smiles. “Don’t forget I’ll be there too. At RISD.”

“I know.” I sigh. I sound as arrogant as Capote. “It’ll be fun,” I add, hopefully.

“Walt!” my father says, joining us on the porch.

“Mr. Bradshaw.” Walt stands up, and my father embraces him in a hug, which makes me feel left out again.

“How you doin’, kid?” my father asks. “Your hair’s longer. I barely recognized you.”

“Walt’s always changing his hair, Dad.” I turn to Walt. “What my father means is that you probably didn’t recognize him. He’s trying to look
younger
,” I add, with enough bantering in my voice to prevent this statement from coming across as nasty.

“What’s wrong with looking younger?” my father declares in high spirits.

He goes into the kitchen to make cocktails, but takes his time about it, going to the window every second or so like a sixteen-year-old girl waiting for her crush to arrive. It’s ridiculous. When Wendy does turn up, a mere five minutes later, he runs out of the house to greet her.

“Can you believe this?” I ask Walt, horrified by my father’s silly behavior.

“He’s a man. What can I say?”

“He’s my
father
,” I protest.