Summer and the City (18 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I sit tapping my feet in annoyance.

Ryan is at the front of the class, reading his short story. It’s good. Really good—about one of his crazy late nights at a club where some girl with a shaved head tried to have sex with him. It’s so good, I wish I’d written it myself. Unfortunately I can’t give it my full attention. I’m still reeling from my conversation with L’il and the perfidy of Viktor Greene.

Although “perfidy” isn’t a strong enough word. Heinous? Egregious?
Invidious?

Sometimes there are no words to describe the treachery of men in relationships.

What is wrong with them? Why can’t they be more like women? Someday I’m going to write a book called
World Without Men
. There would be no Viktor Greenes. Or Capote Duncans, either.

I try to focus on Ryan, but L’il’s absence fills the room. I keep glancing over my shoulder, thinking she’ll be there, but there’s only an empty desk. Viktor has taken up residence in the back of the room, so I can’t study him without boldly turning around in my seat. I did, however, do a little reconnaissance on my own before class.

I got to school twenty minutes early and headed straight for Viktor’s office. He was standing by the window, watering one of those stupid hanging plants that are all the rage, the idea being that they will somehow provide extra oxygen in this nutrient-starved city.

“Yop?” he said, turning around.

Whatever I thought I was going to say got caught in my throat. I gaped, then smiled awkwardly.

Viktor’s mustache was gone. Waldo had been thoroughly eradicated—much like, I couldn’t help thinking, his unborn child.

I waited to see what he would do with his hands, now that Waldo was gone.

Sure enough, they went right to his upper lip, patting the skin in panic, like someone who’s lost a limb and doesn’t know it’s gone until they try to use it.

“Errrrr,” he said.

“I was wondering if you’d read my play,” I asked, regaining my equilibrium.

“Mmmm?” Having concluded Waldo was, indeed, no more, his hands dropped limply to his sides.

“I finished it,” I said, enjoying his discomfort. “I dropped it off yesterday, remember?”

“I haven’t gotten to it yet.”

“When will you get to it?” I demanded. “There’s this man who’s interested in doing a reading—”

“Sometime this weekend, I imagine.” He nodded his head briefly in confirmation.

“Thanks.” I skittled down the hallway, convinced, somehow, that he knew I was onto him. That he knew I knew what he’d done.

Capote’s laughter brings me back to the present. It’s like nails on a chalkboard, for all the wrong reasons. I actually like his laugh. It’s one of those laughs that makes you want to say something funny so you can hear it all over again.

Ryan’s story is apparently very amusing. Lucky him. Ryan is one of those guys whose talent will always outshine his flaws.

Viktor ambles to the front of the room. I stare at the bare patches of skin around his mouth and shudder.

Flowers. I need flowers for Samantha. And toilet paper. And maybe a banner. “Welcome Home.” I wander through the flower district on Seventh Avenue, dodging puddles of water on which float wanton petals. I remember reading somewhere about the society ladies on the Upper East Side who send their assistants each morning to buy fresh flowers. I wish, briefly, that I could be that kind of person, concerned with the details of fresh flowers, but the effort feels overwhelming. Will Samantha send someone for flowers when she marries Charlie? He seems like the type who would expect it. And suddenly, the whole idea of flowers is so depressingly dull I’m tempted to abort my quest.

But Samantha will appreciate them. She’s coming back tomorrow and they’ll make her feel good. Who doesn’t like flowers? But what kind? Roses? Doesn’t seem right. I duck into the smallest shop, where I try to buy a lily. It’s five dollars. “How much do you want to spend?” the salesgirl asks.

“Two dollars? Maybe three?”

“For that you’ll get baby’s breath. Try the deli down the street.”

At the deli, I settle on a hideous bunch of multicolored flowers in unnatural hues of pink, purple, and green.

Back home, I put the flowers in a tall glass and place them next to Samantha’s bed. The flowers may make Samantha happy, but I can’t shake my own feeling of dread. I keep thinking about L’il and how Viktor Greene ruined her life.

At loose ends, I look doubtfully at the bed. Although not much has happened in it recently, besides the consumption of crackers and cheese, I should wash the sheets. The Laundromat’s creepy, though. All kinds of crimes take place between the washers and dryers. Muggings and stolen clothes and fisticuffs over possession of the machines. Nevertheless, I dutifully strip the bed, stuffing the black sheets into a pillowcase that I sling over my shoulder.

The Laundromat is harshly lit but not crowded. I buy a package of soap from a vending machine and tear it open, the sharp particles of detergent making me sneeze. I stuff the sheets into the washer and sit on top, staking my claim.

What is it about the Laundromat that’s so depressing?

Is it the simple reality of literally exposing your dirty laundry to strangers as you shove it quickly in and out of the washer, hoping no one will notice your ragged underpants and polyester sheets? Or is it a sign of defeat? Like you never managed to make it into a building with its own basement laundry room.

Maybe Wendy had a point about New York, after all. No matter what you think you
can
be, when you’re forced to stop and look at where you actually are, it’s pretty depressing.

Sometimes there’s no escaping the truth.

Two hours later, when I’m hauling my clean laundry up the steps to the apartment, I discover Miranda on the landing, crying into a copy of the
New York Post
.

Oh no. Not again. What is it about the last two days? I put down my sack. “Marty?”

She nods once and lowers the newspaper in shame. On the floor next to her, the top of an open bottle of vodka juts from a small paper bag. “I couldn’t help it. I had to,” she says, explaining the alcohol.

“You don’t have to apologize to
me
,” I say, unlocking the door. “Bastard.”

“I didn’t know where else to go.” She gets up and takes a brave step before her face crumples in pain. “Oh God. It hurts, Carrie. Why does it hurt so much?”

* * *

“I don’t understand. I thought everything was great,” I say, lighting a cigarette as I prepare to bring my best powers of relationship analysis to the situation.

“I thought we were having fun.” Miranda chokes back tears. “I’ve never had fun with a guy before. And then, this morning when we got up, he was acting strange. He had this kind of sick smile on his face while he was shaving. I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want to be one of those girls who are always asking, ‘What’s wrong?’ I was trying to do everything
right
, for once.”

“I’m sure you were—”

Outside, there’s a rumble of thunder.

She wipes her cheek. “Even though he wasn’t really my type, I thought I was making progress. I told myself I was breaking the pattern.”

“At least you tried,” I say soothingly. “Especially since you don’t even like guys. When I met you, you didn’t want to have anything to do with them, remember? And it was cool. Because when you really think about it, guys are kind of a big waste of time.”

Miranda sniffs. “Maybe you’re right.” But in the next second, a fresh round of tears clouds her eyes. “I used to be strong. But then I was taken in by . . .” She struggles to find the words. “I was betrayed by . . . my own beliefs. I guess I thought I was tougher than I am. I thought I could spot a creep a mile away.”

A crack of lightning makes us both jump.

“Oh, sweetie.” I sigh. “When a guy wants to get you in bed, he’s always on his best behavior. On the other hand, he did want to be with you all the time. So he must have really been crazy about you.”

“Or maybe he was using me for my apartment. Because my apartment is bigger than his. And I don’t have any roommates. He had this one roommate, Tyler. Said he was always farting and calling everyone a ‘fag.’”

“But it doesn’t make sense. If he was using you for your apartment, why would he break up with you?”

“How should I know?” She pulls her knees to her chest. “Last night, when we were having sex, I should have known something was wrong. Because the sex was very . . . strange. Nice, but strange. He kept stroking my hair. And looking into my eyes with this sad expression. And then he said, ‘I want you to know that I care about you, Miranda Hobbes. I really do.’”

“He used your full name like that? ‘Miranda Hobbes’?”

“I thought it was romantic,” she snivels. “But this morning, after he’d finished showering, he came out holding his razor and shaving cream and asked me if I had a shopping bag.”

“What?”

“For his stuff.”

“Ouch.”

She nods dazedly. “I asked him why he wanted it. He said he realized it wasn’t going to work out between us and we shouldn’t waste each other’s time.”

My jaw drops. “Just like that?”

“He was so . . . clinical about it. Official. Like he was in court or something and I was being sentenced to jail. I didn’t know what to do, so I gave him the damn shopping bag. And it was from Saks. One of those big red expensive ones, too.”

I sit back on my heels. “Aw, sweetie. You can always get another shopping bag—”

“But I can’t get another Marty,” she wails. “It’s me, Carrie. There’s something wrong with me. I drive guys away.”

“Now listen. This has nothing to do with you. There’s something wrong with
him
. Maybe he was afraid you were going to dump him so he broke up with you first.”

She lifts her head. “Carrie. I ran down the street after him. Yelling. When he saw me coming, he started running. Into the subway. Can you believe that?”

“Yes,” I say. Given what happened to L’il, I’d believe just about anything right now.

She blows hard into a wad of toilet paper. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe he does think I’m too good for him.” And just as I’m beginning to hope I’ve gotten through to her, a stubborn, closed look comes over her face. “If I could just see him. Explain. Maybe we can get back together.”

“No!” I yelp. “He’s already run away once. Even if you do get back together, he’ll do the same thing. It’s his
pattern
.”

She lowers the toilet paper and gives me a doubtful look. “How do you know?”

“Trust me.”

“Maybe I can change him.” She reaches for the phone, but I yank the cord before she can grab it.

“Miranda.” I clutch the phone in my arms. “If you call Marty, I will lose all respect for you.”

She glares. “If you do not hand over that phone, I will have a very hard time considering you a friend.”

“That stinks,” I say, grudgingly passing her the phone. “Putting a guy before your friends.”

“I’m not putting Marty before you. I’m trying to find out what happened.”

“You
know
what happened.”

“He owes me a proper explanation.”

I give up. She picks up the phone and frowns into the receiver. She presses down on the hook a few times, and looks at me accusingly. “You did this on purpose. Your phone’s out of order.”

“Really?” I ask in surprise. I take the phone from her and try it myself. Nothing. Not even air. “I’m pretty sure I used it this morning.”

“Maybe you didn’t pay the bill.”

“Maybe Samantha didn’t pay the bill. She went to LA.”

“Shhhh.” Miranda holds up a finger as her eyes dart around the room. “What do you hear?”

“Nothing?”

“That’s right. Nothing.” She jumps up and starts flipping switches. “The air conditioner’s off. And the lights aren’t working.”

We run to the window. The traffic on Seventh Avenue is in a snarl. Horns honk as several sirens go off at once. People are getting out of their cars, waving their arms and pointing at the traffic lights.

My eyes follow their gestures. The lights swaying over Seventh Avenue are dark.

I look uptown. Smoke is billowing from somewhere near the river.

“What’s happening?” I scream.

Miranda crosses her arms and gives me a tangled, triumphant smile. “It’s a blackout,” she declares.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Okay. Let me get this straight,” I say. “The lining from the uterus migrates to other parts of the body, and when you get your period, it bleeds?”

“And sometimes, you can’t get pregnant. Or if you do, the fetus can actually develop outside the uterus,” Miranda says, proudly displaying her knowledge.

“Like in your stomach?” I ask in horror.

She nods. “Or in your butt. My aunt had a friend who couldn’t poop. Turns out there was a baby growing in her lower intestine.”

“No!” I exclaim, and light another cigarette. I puff on it thoughtfully. The conversation is getting out of hand, but I’m enjoying the perversity. I figure it’s a special day—a day that’s outside of all other days and is therefore exempt from the normal rules.

The entire city is without power. The subways aren’t running and the streets are a mess. Our stairwell has been plunged into darkness. And there’s a hurricane outside. Which means Samantha, Miranda, and I are stuck. For the next few hours, anyway.

Samantha arrived unexpectedly minutes after the blackout began. There was a lot of shouting in the stairwell, and people coming out of their apartments to compare notes. Someone said the ancient telephone building was struck by lightning, while another resident claimed the storm knocked down the phone lines and all the air conditioners caused a power outage. Either way, there are no lights and no phone service. Enormous black clouds rolled over the city, turning the sky an eerie grayish green. The wind picked up and the sky flashed with lightning.

“It’s like Armageddon,” Miranda declared. “Someone is trying to tell us something.”

“Who?” Samantha asked with her usual sarcasm.

Miranda shrugged. “The Universe?”

“My uterus my Universe,” Samantha said, and that’s how the whole conversation began.

Turns out Samantha has endometriosis, which is why she’s always in so much pain when she gets her period. But it wasn’t until she got to LA that the pain became unbearable and she started throwing up, right in the middle of a photography shoot. When the photographer’s assistant found her nearly passed out on the bathroom floor, they insisted on calling an ambulance. She had to have her insides scraped out, and then they sent her back to New York, to rest.

“I’m going to be scarred for life,” Samantha moans now. She pulls down the top of her jeans to reveal two large Band-Aids on either side of her ridiculously flat stomach, and peels away the adhesive. Underneath is a large red welt with four stitches. “Look,” she commands.

“That’s awful,” Miranda concurs, her eyes shining with strange admiration. I was worried that Miranda and Samantha would hate each other, but instead, Miranda appears to have accepted Samantha’s position as top dog. She’s not only impressed with Samantha’s worldliness, but is doing her level best to get Samantha to like her. Which consists of agreeing with everything Samantha says.

Putting me in the position of being the disagreer. “I don’t care about scars. I think they add character.” I can never understand why women get so worked up about these tiny imperfections.

“Carrie,” Miranda scolds, shaking her head in accordance with Samantha’s distress.

“As long as Charlie never finds out,” Samantha says, leaning back against the cushions.

“Why should he care?” I ask.

“Because I don’t want him to know I’m not perfect, Sparrow. And if he calls, I need you to pretend I’m still in LA.”

“Fine.” It seems weird to me, but then again, the whole situation is weird, with the blackout and all. Perhaps it’s even Shakespearean. Like in
As You Like It
when everyone takes on different personas.

“Sparrow?” Miranda asks, jokingly.

I give her a dirty look as Samantha starts talking about my sex life with Bernard. “You have to admit, it’s odd,” she says, propping her feet on the pillows.

“He must be gay,” Miranda says from the floor.

“He’s not gay. He was
married
.” I get up and pace around in the flickering candlelight.

“All the more reason to be horny,” Samantha laughs.

“No guy dates a girl for a whole month without trying to have sex with her,” Miranda insists.

“We’ve had sex. We just haven’t had intercourse.”

“Honey, that ain’t sex. That’s what you do in sixth grade.” Samantha.

“Have you even seen it?” Miranda asks, giggling.

“As a matter of fact, I have.” I point my cigarette at her.

“It’s not one of those bendy ones, is it?” Miranda asks as she and Samantha chortle.

“No, it’s not. And I’m insulted,” I say, in faux outrage.

“Candles. And sexy lingerie. That’s what you need,” Samantha coos.

“I’ve never understood sexy lingerie. I mean, what’s the point? The guy’s only going to take it off,” I object.

Samantha flicks her eyes in Miranda’s direction. “That’s the trick. You don’t take it off right away.”

“You mean you run around his apartment in your underwear?” Me.

“You wear a fur coat. With sexy lingerie underneath.”

“I can’t afford a fur.” Miranda.

“Then wear a trench coat. Do I have to teach you guys everything about sex?”

“Yes, please,” I say.

“Especially since Carrie’s still a virgin,” Miranda screams.

“Honey, I knew that. I knew it the moment she walked in.”

“Is it that obvious?” I ask.

“What I can’t understand is why you’re still one,” Samantha says. “I got rid of mine when I was fourteen.”

“How?” Miranda hiccups.

“The usual way. Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill and the back of a van.”

“I did it on my parents’ bed. They were away at a conference.”

“That is sick,” I say, pouring myself another drink.

“I know. I’m a very sick puppy,” Miranda says.

When is this blackout going to end?

1:45 a.m.

“Babies! That’s all it’s about. Who ever knew the world would be all about babies?” Samantha shouts.

“Every time I see a baby, I swear, I want to throw up,” Miranda says.

“I did throw up once.” I nod eagerly. “I saw a filthy bib, and that was it.”

“Why don’t these people just get cats and a litter box?” Samantha asks.

2:15 a.m.

“I will never call a guy. Never ever.” Samantha.

“What if you can’t help it?” Me.

“You have to help it.”

“It’s all about low self-esteem.” Miranda.

“You really should tell Charlie. About the procedure,” I say, feeling wobbly.

“Why should I?” Samantha asks.

“Because it’s what real people do.”

“I didn’t come to New York to be real.”

“Didja come here to be fake?” I slur.

“I came here to be new,” she says.

“I came here to be myself,” Miranda adds. “I couldn’t be, back home.”

“Me neither.” The room is spinning. “My mother died,” I murmur, just before I pass out.

When I come to, light is streaming into the apartment.

I’m lying on the floor under the coffee table. Miranda is curled up on the couch, snoring, which immediately makes me wonder if this was secretly the reason Marty broke up with her. I try to sit up, but my head feels like it weighs a million pounds. “Ow,” I say, putting it back down again.

Eventually I’m able to roll onto my stomach and crawl to the bathroom, where I take two aspirin and wash them down with the last of the bottled water. I stumble into Samantha’s bedroom and crumple up on the floor.

“Carrie?” she says, awoken by my banging.

“Yer?”

“What happened last night?”

“Blackout.”

“Damn.”

“And endometriosis.”

“Double damn.”

“And Charlie.”

“I didn’t call him last night, did I?”

“Couldn’t. Phones don’t work.”

“Are the lights still off?”

“Mmmm.”

Pause.

“Did your mother really die?”

“Yep.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.”

I hear her rustling around in those black silk sheets. She pats the side of the bed. “There’s plenty of room here.”

I heave myself onto the mattress and promptly fall into a greasy sleep.