Summer and the City (16 page)

“He’s still a man.”

I’m about to say, “Yeah, but my father isn’t supposed to act like other men,” when he and Wendy come strolling up the walk, holding hands.

I want to gack. This relationship is obviously more serious than I’d thought.

Wendy is kind of pretty, if you like women with dyed blond mall hair and blue eye shadow rimmed around their eyes like a raccoon.

“Be nice,” Walt says warningly.

“Oh, I’ll be perfectly nice. I’ll be nice if it kills me.” I smile.

“Shall I call the ambulance now or later?”

My father opens the screen door and urges Wendy onto the porch. Her smile is wide and patently fake. “You must be Carrie!” she says, enveloping me in a hug as if we’re already best friends.

“How could you tell?” I ask, gently extracting myself.

She glances at my father, her face full of delight. “Your dad has told me all about you. He talks about you constantly. He’s so proud of you.”

There’s something about this assumed intimacy that immediately rubs me the wrong way. “This is Walt,” I say, trying to get her off the topic of myself. What can she possibly know about me anyway?

“Hello, Walt,” Wendy says too eagerly. “Are you and Carrie—”

“Dating?” Walt interjects. “Hardly.” We both laugh.

She tilts her head to the side, as if unsure how to proceed. “It’s wonderful the way men and women can be friends these days. Don’t you think?”

“I guess it depends on what you call ‘friends,’” I murmur, reminding myself to be pleasant.

“Are we ready?” my father asks.

“We’re going to this great new restaurant. Boyles. Have you heard of it?” Wendy asks.

“No.” And unable to stop myself, I grumble, “I didn’t even know there were restaurants in Castlebury. The only place we ever went was the Hamburger Shack.”

“Oh, your father and I go out at least twice a week,” Wendy chirps on, unperturbed.

My father nods in agreement. “We went to a Japanese restaurant. In Hartford.”

“That so,” I say, unimpressed. “There are tons of Japanese restaurants in New York.”

“Bet they’re not as good as the one in Hartford, though,” Walt jokes.

My father gives him a grateful look. “This restaurant really is very special.”

“Well,” I say, just for the hell of it.

We troop down the driveway. Walt gets into his car with a wave of his hand. “Ta-ta, folks. Have fun.”

I watch him go, envious of his freedom.

“So!” Wendy says brightly when we’re in the car. “When do you start at Brown?”

I shrug.

“I’ll bet you can’t wait to get away from New York,” she enthuses. “It’s so dirty. And loud.” She puts her hand on my father’s arm and smiles.

Boyles is a tiny restaurant located in a damp patch off Main Street where our renowned Roaring Brook runs under the road. It’s highfalutin for Castlebury: the main courses are called pasta instead of spaghetti, and there are cloth napkins and a bud vase on each table containing a single rose.

“Very romantic,” my father says approvingly as he escorts Wendy to her chair.

“Your father is such a gentleman,” Wendy says.

“He is?” I can’t help it. He and Wendy are totally creeping me out. I wonder if they have sex. I certainly hope not. My father’s too old for all that groping around.

My father ignores my comment and picks up the menu. “They have the fish again,” he says to Wendy. And to me: “Wendy loves fish.”

“I lived in Los Angeles for five years. They’re much more health-conscious there,” Wendy explains.

“My roommate is in Los Angeles right now,” I say, partly to get the conversation away from Wendy. “She’s staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

“I had lunch there once,” Wendy says, with her unflappable cheeriness. “It was so exciting. We sat next to Tom Selleck.”

“You don’t say,” my father replies, as if Wendy’s momentary proximity to a television actor raises her even further in his eyes.

“I met Margie Shephard,” I interject.

“Who’s Margie Shephard?” My father frowns.

Wendy winks at me, as if she and I possess a secret intimacy regarding my father’s lack of knowledge regarding popular culture. “She’s an actress. Up-and-coming. Everyone says she’s beautiful, but I don’t see it. I think she’s very plain.”

“She’s beautiful in person,” I counter. “She sparkles. From within.”

“Like you, Carrie,” Wendy says suddenly.

I’m so surprised by her compliment, I’m temporarily disabled in my subtle attack. “Well,” I say, picking up the menu. “What were you doing in Los Angeles?”

“Wendy was a member of an—” My father looks to Wendy for help.

“Improv group. We did improvisational theater.”

“Wendy’s very creative.” My father beams.

“Isn’t that one of those things where you do mime, like Marcel Marceau?” I ask innocently, even though I know better. “Did you wear white greasepaint and gloves?”

Wendy chuckles, amused by my ignorance. “I studied mime. But mostly we did comedy.”

Now I’m completely baffled. Wendy was an actress—and a comedic one at that? She doesn’t seem the least bit funny.

“Wendy was in a potato chip commercial,” my father says.

“You shouldn’t tell people that,” Wendy gently scolds. “It was only a local commercial. For State Line potato chips. And it was seven years ago. My big break.” She rolls her eyes with appropriate irony.

Apparently Wendy doesn’t take herself too seriously after all. It’s another check in her “pluses” column. On the other hand, it might only be a show for my benefit. “It must be a drag to be in Castlebury. After Los Angeles.”

She shakes her head. “I’m a small-town girl. I grew up in Scarborough,” she says, naming the town next door. “And I love my new job.”

“But that’s not all.” My father nudges her. “Wendy’s going to be teaching drama, too.”

I wince as Wendy’s life story becomes clear to me: local girl tries to make it big, fails, and crawls home to teach. It’s my worst fear.

“Your father says you want to be a writer,” Wendy continues blithely. “Maybe you should write for the
Castlebury Citizen
.”

I freeze. The
Castlebury Citizen
is our small-town newspaper, consisting mostly of the minutes from zoning board meetings and photographs of Pee Wee baseball teams. Steam rises from behind my eyes. “You think I’m not good enough to make it in New York?”

Wendy frowns in confusion. “It’s just so difficult in New York, isn’t it? I mean, don’t you have to do your laundry in the basement? A friend of mine lived in New York and she said—”

“My building doesn’t have a laundry.” I look away, trying to contain my frustration. How dare Wendy or her friend presume anything about New York? “I take my dirty clothes to a Laundromat.” Which isn’t exactly true. Mostly I let them pile up in a corner of the bedroom.

“Now, Carrie. No one is making any assumptions about your abilities—” my father begins, but I’ve had enough.

“No, they’re not,” I say spitefully. “Because no one seems to be interested in me at all.” And with that, I get up, my face burning, and zigzag around the restaurant in search of the restroom.

I’m furious. At my father and Wendy for putting me in this position, but mostly at myself, for losing my temper. Now Wendy will come across as kind and reasonable, while I’ll appear jealous and immature. This only inflames my anger, causing me to recall everything I’ve always hated about my life and my family but refused to admit.

I go into the stall and sit on the toilet to think. What really galls me is the way my father has never taken my writing seriously. He’s never given me a word of encouragement, never said I was talented, has never even given me a compliment, for Christ’s sake. I might have lived my entire life without noticing, if it weren’t for the other kids at The New School. It’s pretty obvious that Ryan and Capote and L’il and even Rainbow have grown up praised and encouraged and applauded. Not that I want to be like them, but it wouldn’t hurt to have some belief from my own parent that I had something special.

I dab at my eyes with a piece of toilet paper, reminding myself that I have to go back out there and sit with them. I need to come up with a strategy, pronto, to explain my pathetic behavior.

There’s only one choice: I’m going to have to pretend my outburst never happened. It’s what Samantha would do.

I raise my chin and stride out.

Back at the table, Missy and Dorrit have arrived, along with a bottle of Chianti set in a woven straw basket. It’s the kind of wine I’d be embarrassed to drink in New York.

And with an ugly pang, I realize how average it all is. My father, the middle-aged widower, inappropriately dressed and going through a midlife crisis by taking up with a somewhat desperate younger woman, who, against the plain backdrop of Castlebury, probably appears interesting and different and exciting. And my two sisters, a punk and a nerd. It’s like some lousy sitcom.

If they’re so ordinary, does it mean I am too? Can I ever escape my past?

I wish I could change the channel.

“Carrie!” Missy cries out. “Are you okay?”

“Me?” I ask with feigned surprise. “Of course.” I take my place next to Wendy. “My father says you helped him find his Harley. I think it’s so interesting that you like motorcycles.”

“My father is a state trooper,” she responds, no doubt relieved that I’ve managed to get ahold of myself.

I turn to Dorrit. “You hear that, Dorrit? Wendy’s father is a state trooper. You’d better be careful—”

“Carrie.” My father looks momentarily distraught. “We don’t need to air our dirty laundry.”

“No, but we do need to wash it.”

No one gets my little joke. I pick up my wine glass and sigh. I’d planned to go back to New York on Monday, but there’s no way I can possibly last that long. Come tomorrow, I’m taking the first train out of here.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“I do love you, Carrie. Just because I’m with Wendy—”

“I know, Dad. I
like
Wendy. I’m only leaving because I have this play to write. And if I can get it done, it’s going to be performed.”

“Where?” my father asks. He’s clutching the wheel of the car, absorbed in changing lanes on our little highway. I’m convinced he doesn’t really care, but I try to explain anyway.

“At this space. That’s what they call it—‘a space.’ It’s really a kind of loft thing at this guy’s apartment. It used to be a bank—”

I can tell by his glance into the rearview mirror that I’ve lost him.

“I admire your tenacity,” he says. “You don’t give up. That’s good.”

Now he’s lost
me
. “Tenacity” isn’t the word I was hoping for. It makes me sound like someone clinging to a rock face.

I slump down in the seat. Why can’t he ever say something along the lines of “You’re really talented, Carrie, of course you’re going to succeed.” Am I going to spend the rest of my life trying to get some kind of approval from him that he’s never going to give?

“I wanted to tell you about Wendy before,” he says, swerving into the exit lane that leads to the train station. Now’s my opportunity to tell him about my struggles in New York, but he keeps changing the subject back to Wendy.

“Why didn’t you?” I ask hopelessly.

“I wasn’t sure about her feelings.”

“And you are now?”

He pulls into a parking spot and kills the engine. With great seriousness, he says, “She loves me, Carrie.”

A cynical puff of air escapes my lips.

“I mean it. She really loves me.”

“Everyone loves you, Dad.”

“You know what I mean.” He nervously rubs the corner of his eye.

“Oh, Dad.” I pat his arm, trying to understand. The last few years must have been terrible for him. On the other hand, they’ve been terrible for me, too. And Missy. And Dorrit.

“I’m happy for you, Dad, I really am,” I say, although the thought of my father in a serious relationship with another woman makes me shaky. What if he marries her?

“She’s a lovely person. She—” He hesitates. “She reminds me of Mom.”

This is the cherry on the crap sundae. “She’s not anything like Mom,” I say softly, my anger building.

“She is. When Mom was younger. You wouldn’t remember because you were just a baby.”

“Dad.” I pause deliberately, hoping the obvious falseness of his statement will sink in. “Wendy likes motorcycles.”

“Your mother was very adventurous when she was young too. Before she had you girls—”

“Just another reason why I’ll never get married,” I say, getting out of the car.

“Oh, Carrie.” He sighs. “I feel sorry for you, then. I worry that you’ll never find true love.”

His comment stops me. I stand rigid on the sidewalk, about to explode, but something prevents me. I think of Miranda and how she’d interpret this situation. She’d say it was my father who was worried about never finding true love again, but because he’s too scared to admit it, he pins his fears on me.

I grab my suitcase from the backseat.

“Let me help you,” he says.

I watch as my father lugs my suitcase through the wooden door that leads into the ancient terminal. I remind myself that my father isn’t a bad guy. Compared to most men, he’s pretty great.

He sets down my suitcase and opens his arms. “Can I have a hug?”

“Sure, Dad.” I hug him tightly, inhaling a whiff of lime. Must be a new cologne Wendy gave him.

A yawning emptiness opens up inside me.

“I want the best for you, Carrie. I really do.”

“I know, Dad.” Feeling like I’m a million years old, I pick up my suitcase and head to the platform. “Don’t worry, Dad,” I say, as if to convince myself as well. “Everything is going to be
fine
.”

The moment the train pulls out of the station, I start to feel better. Nearly two hours later, when we’re passing the projects in the Bronx, I’m positively giddy. There’s the brief, magical view of the skyline—the Emerald City!—before we plunge into the tunnel. No matter where I might travel—Paris, London, Rome—I’ll always be thrilled to get back to New York.

Riding the elevator in Penn Station, I make an impromptu decision. I won’t go straight to Samantha’s apartment. Instead, I’ll surprise Bernard.

I have to find out what’s going on with him before I can proceed with my life.

It takes two separate subway trains to get near his place. With each stop, I become more and more excited about the prospect of seeing him. I arrive at the Fifty-ninth Street station under Bloomingdale’s, the heat coursing through my blood threatening to scald me from the inside.

He has to be home.

“Mr. Singer’s out, miss,” the doorman says, with, I suspect, a certain amount of relish. None of the doormen in this building particularly like me. I always catch them looking at me sideways as if they don’t approve.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“I’m not his secretary, miss.”

“Fine.”

I scan the lobby. Two leather-clad armchairs are stationed in front of a faux fireplace, but I don’t want to sit there with the doorman’s eyes on me. I spin out the door and park myself on a pretty bench across the street. I rest my feet on my suitcase, as if I have all the time in the world.

I wait.

I tell myself I’ll only wait for half an hour, and then I’ll go. Half an hour becomes forty-five minutes, then an hour. After nearly two hours, I begin to wonder if I’ve fallen into a love trap. Have I become the girl who waits by the phone, hoping it will ring, who asks a friend to dial her number to make sure the phone is working? Who eventually picks up a man’s dry cleaning, scrubs his bathroom, and shops for furniture she’ll never own?

Yup. And I don’t care. I can be that girl, and someday, when I’ve got it all figured out, I won’t be.

Finally, at two hours and twenty-two minutes, Bernard comes strolling up Sutton Place.

“Bernard!” I say, rushing toward him with unbridled enthusiasm. Maybe my father was right: I am tenacious. I don’t give up that easily on anything.

Bernard squints. “Carrie?”

“I just got back,” I say, as if I haven’t been waiting for nearly three hours.

“From where?”

“Castlebury. Where I grew up.”

“And here you are.” He slings his arm comfortably around my shoulders.

It’s like the dinner with Maggie never happened. Nor my series of desperate phone calls. Nor his not calling me the way he promised. But maybe, because he’s a writer, he lives in a slightly different reality, where the things that seem earth-shattering to me are nothing to him.

“My suitcase,” I murmur, glancing back.

“You moving in?” he laughs.

“Maybe.”

“Just in time, too,” he teases. “My furniture finally arrived.”

I spend the night at Bernard’s. We sleep in the crisp new sheets on the enormous king-size bed. It’s so very, very comfortable.

I sleep like a baby and when I wake up, darling Bernard is next to me, his face buried in his pillow. I lie back and close my eyes, enjoying the luxurious quiet while I mentally review the events of the evening.

We started by fooling around on the new couch. Then we moved into the bedroom and fooled around while we watched TV. Then we ordered Chinese food (why does sex always seem to make people hungry?) and fooled around some more. We finished off with a bubble bath. Bernard was very gentle and sweet, and he didn’t even try to put in the old weenie. Or at least I’m pretty sure he didn’t. Miranda says the guy really has to jam it in there, so I doubt I could have missed it.

I wonder if Bernard secretly knows I’m a virgin. If there’s something about me that flashes “undefiled.”

“Hiya, butterfly,” he says now, stretching his arms toward the ceiling. He rolls over and smiles, and moves in for a kiss, morning breath and all.

“Have you gotten the pill yet?” Bernard asks, making coffee in the spiffy new machine that gurgles like a baby’s belly.

I casually light a cigarette and hand him one. “Not yet.”

“Why not?”

Good question. “I forgot?”

“Pumpkin, you can’t neglect these kinds of things,” he chastises gently.

“I know. But it’s just that—with my father and his new girlfriend—I’ll take care of it this week, I promise.”

“If you did, you could spend the night more often.” Bernard sets two cups of coffee on the sleek dining room table. “And you could get a small valise for your things.”

“Like my toothbrush?” I giggle.

“Like whatever you need,” he says.

A valise, huh? The word makes spending the night sound planned and glamorous, as opposed to last-minute and smutty. I laugh. A valise sounds very expensive. “I don’t think I can afford a
valise
.”

“Oh well then.” He shrugs. “Something nice. So the doormen won’t be suspicious.”

“They’ll be suspicious if I’m carrying a plastic grocery bag but not if I’m carrying a valise?”

“You know what I mean.”

I nod. With a valise, I wouldn’t look so much like a troubled teenager he’d picked up at Penn Station. Which reminds me of Teensie.

“I met your agent. At a party,” I say easily, not wanting to ruin the mood.

“Did you?” He smiles, clearly unconcerned about the incident. “Was she a dragon lady?”

“She practically ripped me to shreds with her claws,” I say jokingly. “Is she always like that?”

“Pretty much.” He rubs the top of my head. “Maybe we should have dinner with her. So the two of you can get to know each other.”

“Whatever you want, Mr. Singer,” I purr, climbing into his lap. If he wants me to have dinner with his agent, it means our relationship is not only back on track, but speeding forward like a European train. I kiss him on the mouth, imagining I’m a Katharine Hepburn character in a romantic black-and-white movie.