Summer and the City (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Later, on my way downtown, I pass a store for medical supplies. In the window are three mannequins. Not the pretty kind you see in Saks or Bergdorf’s, where they make the mannequins from molds of actual women, but the scary cheap ones that look like oversized dolls from the 1950s. The dolls are wearing surgical scrubs, and it suddenly hits me that scrubs would make the perfect New York uniform. They’re cheap, washable, and totally cool.

And they come neatly packaged in cellophane. I buy three pairs in different colors, and remember what Bernard said about a valise.

The only good thing about going to my father’s this weekend was that I found an old binoculars case that belonged to my mother, which I purloined to use as a handbag. Perhaps other items can be similarly repurposed as well. When I trip by a fancy hardware store, I spot the perfect carryall.

It’s a carpenter’s tool bag, made of canvas with a real leather bottom, big enough for a pair of shoes, a manuscript, and a change of scrubs. And it’s only six dollars. A steal.

I buy the tool bag and stick my purse and scrubs into it, grab my suitcase, and head to the train.

It’s been humid the past few days, and when I enter Samantha’s apartment there’s a closed-in smell, as if every odor has been trapped. I breathe deeply, partly due to relief at being back, and partly because this particular smell will always remind me of New York and Samantha. It’s a mixture of old perfume and scented candles, cigarette smoke and something else I can’t quite identify: a sort of comforting musk.

I put on the blue scrubs, make a cup of tea, and sit down at the typewriter. All summer I’ve been terrified about facing the blank page. But maybe because I went home and realized I have worse things to worry about—like not making it and ending up like Wendy—that I’m actually excited. I have hours and hours stretching before me in which to write. Tenacity, I remind myself. I’m going work until I finish this play. And I will not answer the phone. In an effort to make good on my promise, I even unplug it.

I write for four hours straight, until hunger forces me out in search of food. I wander dazedly into the deli, the characters still in my head, yapping away as I buy a can of soup, heat it up, and place it next to my typewriter so I can eat and work. I beetle on for quite a while, and when I finally feel finished for the day, I decide to visit my favorite street.

It’s a tiny, brick-paved path called Commerce Street—one of those rare places in the West Village that you can never find if you’re actually looking for it. You have to sneak up on it by using certain landmarks: the junk store on Hudson Street. The sex shop on Barrow. Somewhere near the pet store is a small gate. And there it is, just on the other side.

I stroll slowly down the sidewalk, wanting to memorize each detail. The tiny, charming town houses, the cherry trees, the little neighborhood bar where, I imagine, all the patrons know one another. I take several turns up and down the street, pausing in front of each house, picturing how it would feel to live there. As I gaze up at the tiny windows on the top floor of a red-brick carriage house, it dawns on me that I’ve changed. I used to worry that my dream of becoming a writer was just that—a dream. I had no idea how to do it, where to begin and how to continue. But lately, I’m beginning to feel that I
am
a writer. This is me. Writing and wandering the Village in my scrubs.

And tomorrow, if I skip class, I’ll have another day like this one, all to myself. I’m suddenly overcome with joy. I run all the way back to the apartment, and when I spot my pile of plays on the table, I’m can’t believe how happy I am.

I settle in to read, making notes with a pencil and underlining especially poignant bits of dialogue. I can do this. Who cares what my father thinks? For that matter, who cares what anyone thinks? Everything I need is in my head, and no one can take that away.

At eight o’clock, I fall into one of those rare, deep sleeps where your body is so exhausted, you wonder if you’ll ever wake up. When I finally wrench myself out of bed, it’s ten a.m.

I count the hours I slept—fourteen. I must have been really tired. So tired, I didn’t even know how shattered I was. At first, I’m groggy from all the sleep, but when the grogginess dissipates, I feel terrific. I put on my scrubs from the day before, and without bothering to brush my teeth, go straight to the typewriter.

My powers of concentration are remarkable. I write without stopping, without noticing the time, until I type the words “THE END.” Elated and a little woozy, I check the clock. It’s just after four. If I hurry, I can get the play photocopied and into Viktor Greene’s office by five.

I leap into the shower, my heart pounding in triumph. I slide into a clean pair of scrubs, grab my manuscript, and run out the door.

The copy place is on Sixth Avenue, just around the corner from the school. For once, it’s my lucky day—there’s no line. My play is forty pages long and copying is expensive, but I can’t risk losing it. Fifteen minutes later, one copy of my play tucked neatly into a manila envelope, I gallop to The New School.

Viktor is in his office, slumped over his desk. At first I think he’s asleep, and when he doesn’t move, I wonder if he actually
is
dead. I knock on the door. No response. “Viktor?” I ask in alarm.

Slowly, he lifts his head, as if he has a cement block on the back of his neck. His eyes are puffy, the lower lids turned out, defiantly exposing their red-rimmed interior. His mustache is ragged as if rent by despairing fingers. He props up his cheeks with his hands. His mouth falls open. “Yes?”

Normally, I would ask what’s wrong. But I don’t know Viktor well enough, and I’m not sure I want to know anyway. I take a step closer, holding the manila envelope aloft. “I finished my play.”

“Were you in class today?” he asks mournfully.

“No. I was writing. I wanted to get my play finished.” I slide the envelope across his desk. “I thought maybe you could read it tonight.”

“Sure.” He stares at me as if he barely remembers who I am.

“So, uh, thanks, Mr. Greene.” I turn to go, glancing back at him in concern. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Mmmm,” he replies.

What the hell’s the matter with him? I wonder, bounding down the stairs. I walk briskly for several blocks, buy a hot dog from a vendor, and ponder what to do next.

L’il. I haven’t seen her for ages. Not properly, anyway. She’s the one person who I can really talk to about my play. Who will actually understand. And if Peggy’s there—so what? She’s already kicked me out once. What can she do to me now?

I hike up Second Avenue, enjoying the noise, the sights, the people scurrying home like cockroaches. I could live here forever. Maybe even become a real New Yorker someday.

Seeing my old building on Forty-seventh Street brings back all kinds of memories—Peggy’s nude pictures, her collection of bears, and those tiny little rooms with the awful camp beds—and I wonder how I managed to last even three days. But I didn’t know better then. Didn’t know what to expect and was willing to take anything.

I’ve come a long way.

I press impudently on the buzzer like I mean business. Eventually, a small voice answers. “Yes?” It’s not L’il or Peggy, so I assume it’s my replacement.

“Is L’il there?” I ask.

“Why?”

“It’s Carrie Bradshaw,” I say loudly.

Apparently L’il is home, because the buzzer goes off and the locks click open.

Upstairs, the door to Peggy’s apartment widens a crack, just enough for someone to peek out while keeping the chain latched. “Is L’il here?” I ask into the crack.

“Why?” asks the voice again. Perhaps “why” is the only word she knows.

“I’m a friend of hers.”

“Oh.”

“Can I come in?”

“I guess so,” the voice says nervously. The door creaks open, just enough for me to push through.

On the other side is a plain young woman with unfortunate hair and the remnants of teenage acne. “We’re not supposed to have visitors,” she whispers in fear.

“I know,” I say dismissively. “I used to live here.”

“You did?” The girl’s eyes are as big as eggs.

I stride past her. “You can’t let Peggy run your life.” I yank open the door to the tiny bedrooms. “L’il?”

“What are you doing?” the girl bleats, right on my heels. “L’il isn’t here.”

“I’ll leave her a note then.” I fling open the door to L’il’s bedroom and halt in confusion.

The room is empty. The camp bed has been stripped of its linens. Gone is the photograph of Sylvia Plath that L’il used to keep on her desk, along with her typewriter, ream of paper, and all her other belongings.

“Did she move?” I ask, perplexed. Why wouldn’t she tell me?

The girl backs out of the room and sits on her own bed, pressing her lips together. “She went home.”

“What?” This can’t be true.

The girl nods. “On Sunday. Her father drove up and got her.”

“Why?”

“How should I know?” the girl says. “Peggy was really pissed off, though. L’il only told her that morning.”

My voice rises in alarm. “Is she coming back?”

The girl shrugs.

“Did she leave an address or anything?”

“Nope. Just said she had to go home is all.”

“Yeah, well, thanks,” I say, realizing I won’t get anything more out of her.

I leave the apartment and walk blindly downtown, trying to make sense of L’il’s departure. I rack my brain for everything she told me about herself and where she was from. Her real name is Elizabeth Reynolds Waters, so that’s a start. But what town is she from specifically? All I know is that she’s from North Carolina. And she and Capote knew each other before, because as L’il said once, “people from the South all know each other.” If L’il left on Sunday, she must have reached home by now, even if she was driving.

I narrow my eyes, determined to find her.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Without knowing exactly where I’m going, I realize I’m on Capote’s street. I recognize his building right away. His apartment is on the second floor, and the yellow old-lady curtains are clearly visible through the window.

I hesitate. If I ring his bell and he’s home, no doubt he’ll think I’ve come back for more. He might even presume that his kiss was so wonderful, I’ve fallen head over heels for him. Or maybe he’ll be annoyed, assuming I’ve come to yell at him for his inappropriate behavior.

What the hell? I can’t live my life worrying about what stupid Capote thinks. I press hard on his buzzer.

After a few seconds, the window flies open and Capote sticks his head out. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me.” I wave.

“Oh. Carrie.” He doesn’t look particularly happy to see me. “What do you want?”

I open my arms in a gesture of exasperation. “Can I come up?”

“I’ve only got a minute.”

“I’ve only got a minute too.” Jeez. What a jerk.

He disappears for a moment, and reappears, jangling some keys in his hand. “The buzzer isn’t working,” he says, tossing the set down to me.

The buzzer is probably worn out from all his female guests, I think, as I trudge upstairs.

He’s waiting in the entry in a ruffled white shirt and black tuxedo pants, fumbling with a shiny bow tie. “Where are you off to?” I ask, snickering at his getup.

“Where do you think?” He steps back so I can pass. If he has any memory of our kiss, he certainly isn’t acting like it.

“I wasn’t expecting to find you in a monkey suit. I never figured you for the type.”

“Why’s that?” he asks, somewhat offended.

“The right end goes under the left,” I say, indicating his bow tie. “Why don’t you use one of those clip-on things?”

As expected, my question rattles him. “It isn’t proper. A gentleman never wears a clip-on bow tie.”

“Right.” I insolently run my finger over the pile of books on his coffee table as I make myself comfortable on the squishy couch. “Where are you headed?”

“To a gala.” He frowns disapprovingly at my actions.

“For what?” I idly pick up one of the books and flip through it.

“Ethiopia. It’s a very important cause.”

“How big of you.”

“They don’t have any food, Carrie. They’re starving.”

“And you’re going to a fancy dinner. For starving people. Why don’t you just send them the food instead?”

That’s it. Capote jerks on the ends of his bow tie, nearly choking himself. “Why are you here?”

I lean back against the cushions. “What’s the name of the town L’il comes from?”

“Why?”

I roll my eyes and sigh. “I need to know. I want to get in touch with her. She left New York, in case you don’t know.”

“As a matter of fact, I do know. Which you would have known as well if you bothered to come to class today.”

I sit up, eager for information. “What happened?”

“Viktor made an announcement that she’d left. To pursue other interests.”

“Don’t you find that strange?”

“Why?”

“Because L’il’s only interest is writing. She’d never give up class.”

“Maybe she had family issues.”

“You’re not even curious?”

“Look, Carrie,” he snaps. “Right now my only concern is not being late. I’ve got to pick up Rainbow—”

“All I want is the name of L’il’s hometown,” I say, becoming officious.

“I’m not sure. It’s either Montgomery or Macon.”

“I thought you knew her,” I say accusingly, although I suspect my disdain might actually be about Rainbow. I guess he’s seeing her after all. I know I shouldn’t care, but I do.

I rise. “Have fun at the gala,” I add, with a dismissive smile.

Suddenly, I hate New York. No, scratch that. I don’t
hate
New York. I only hate some of the people in it.

There are listings for three Waterses in Montgomery County and two in Macon. I start with Macon, and get L’il’s aunt on the first try. She’s nice as can be, and gives me L’il’s number.

L’il is shocked to hear my voice, and not, I suspect, altogether pleased, although her lack of enthusiasm could be due to embarrassment at having abandoned New York. “I went by your apartment,” I say, my voice filled with concern. “The girl there said you moved back home.”

“I had to get away.”

“Why? Because of Peggy? You could have moved in with me.” No response. “You’re not sick, are you?” I ask, my voice pitched with worry.

She sighs. “Not in the traditional sense, no.”

“Meaning?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she whispers.

“But L’il,” I insist. “What about writing? You can’t just quit New York.”

There’s a pause. Then she says stiffly, “New York is not for me.” I hear a muffled sob as if she’s put her hand over the receiver. “I have to go, Carrie.”

And suddenly, I put two and two together. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. It was so obvious. I simply never imagined that anyone could be attracted to him.

I feel sick. “Is it Viktor?”

“No!” she cries.

“It
is
Viktor. Why didn’t you tell me? What happened? Were you seeing him?”

“He broke my heart.”

I’m stunned. I still can’t believe L’il was having an affair with Viktor Greene and his ridiculous mustache. How could anyone even kiss the guy with that big bushy Waldo in the way? And on top of it, to have him break your heart?

“Oh, L’il. How awful. You can’t let him force you out of class. Plenty of women have affairs with their professors. It’s never a good idea. But sometimes the best thing to do is to pretend it didn’t happen,” I add in a rush, thinking briefly about Capote and how we’re both behaving as if we never kissed.

“It’s more than that, Carrie,” she says ominously.

“Of course it is. I mean, I’m sure you thought you were in love with him. But really, L’il, he’s not worth it. He’s just some weird loser guy who happened to win a book award,” I ramble on. “And six months from now when you’ve published more poems in
The New Yorker
and won awards yourself, you won’t even remember him.”

“Unfortunately, I will.”

“Why?” I ask dumbly.

“I got pregnant,” she says.

That shuts me up.

“Are you there?” she asks.

“With Viktor?” My voice trembles.

“Who else?” she hisses.

“Oh, L’il.” I crumple in sympathy. “I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”

“I got rid of it,” she says harshly.

“Oh.” I hesitate. “Maybe it’s for the better.”

“I’ll never know, will I?”

“These things happen,” I say, trying to soothe her.

“He made me get rid of it.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling her agony.

“He didn’t even ask if I wanted it. There was no discussion. He just assumed. He assumed—” She breaks off, unable to continue.

“L’il,” I whisper.

“I know what you’re thinking. I’m only nineteen. I shouldn’t have a child. And I probably would have . . . taken care of it. But I didn’t have a choice.”

“He forced you to have an abortion?”

“Pretty much. He made the appointment at the clinic. He took me there. Paid for it. And then he sat in the waiting room while I had it done.”

“Oh my God, L’il. Why didn’t you run out of there?”

“I didn’t have the guts. I knew it was the right thing to do, but—”

“Did it hurt?” I ask.

“No,” she says simply. “That was the weirdest thing. It didn’t hurt and afterward, I felt fine. Like I was back to my old self. I was
relieved
. But then I started thinking. And I realized how terrible it was. Not the abortion necessarily, but the way he’d behaved. Like it was a foregone conclusion. I realized he couldn’t have loved me at all. How can a man love you if he won’t even consider having a baby with you?”

“I don’t know, L’il—”

“It’s black-and-white, Carrie,” she says, her voice rising. “You cannot even pretend anymore. And even if I could, we’d always have this thing between us. Knowing that I was pregnant with his child and
he didn’t want it
.”

I shudder. “But maybe after a while . . . you could come back?” I ask carefully.

“Oh, Carrie.” She sighs. “Don’t you get it? I’m never coming back. I don’t even want to
know
people like Viktor Greene. I wish I’d never come to New York in the first place.” And with a painful cry, she hangs up.

I sit there twisting the phone cord in despair. Why L’il? She’s not the type of person I’d imagine this happening to, but on the other hand, who is? There’s a terrible finality about her actions that’s frightening.

I put my head in my hands. Maybe L’il is right about New York. She came here to win and the city beat her. I’m terrified. If this could happen to L’il, it could happen to anyone. Including myself.