The Marriage of Sticks (7 page)

“Irvin Edelstein, these are my friends Clayton and Miranda. Sit down. I can see you better now. Yes. You
do
have red hair! I thought so. Very nice. I love red. Have you noticed my rugs?”

“I did. I love the way you’ve done this room.”

“Thank you. It’s my magic carpet. When I’m in here I feel just a little bit above the earth. So you’re a friend of Clayton. That’s a good sign. What else do you do?”

“I’m a bookseller too.”

“Perfect! Because that’s what I want to talk about today. Irvin is here to advise me on what I should do. I have very valuable things, Miranda. Do you know why I’ve decided to sell them? Because all my life I’ve wanted to be rich. In one month I’ll be a hundred. I think it would be very nice to be rich at a hundred.”

“What will you do with the money?” It was a rude question to ask, especially after having just been introduced, but I liked Frances already and sensed she had a good sense of humor.

“What will I do? Buy a red Cadillac convertible and drive around, picking up men. God, how long has it been since I was with a man? You know, when you’re my age, you think about who you were all those years. If you’re lucky, you grow very fond of that person. The men I knew were silly most of the time, but they had nerve. Sometimes they even had the kind of guts you usually only dream of. Guts are what matters, Miranda. That’s what Kazantzakis told me. God gave us courage but it is dangerous music to listen to. That man had no fear. Do you know who his hero was? Blondin. The greatest tightrope walker who ever lived. He walked across a rope over Niagara Falls and halfway there stopped to cook and eat an omelette.”

“Clayton said you lived enough for three normal lives.”

“I did, but that was because I was ugly and had something to prove. I was a great lover and sometimes I had courage. I tried to tell the truth when it was important. Those are the things I’m proud of. Someone wanted me to write my autobiography, but it’s my life. I don’t want to share it with people who care less about it than I do. Anyway, by then I was too old to remember if I was telling the truth about everything, and that’s very important. But Irvin gave me this little gizmo and it’s a great comfort.” She reached into her lap and held up a small tape recorder. “I sit here and feel the magic carpets under my feet and the light through the window is warm and when an especially nice memory comes, all I have to do is press this button. I tell the machine something I haven’t remembered for a long time.

“Just this morning, right before you arrived, I was thinking about a picnic I had with the Hemingways at Auteuil. Lewis Gallantiere, Hemingway, and mad Harry Crosby. Why those two men ever got along was beyond me, but it was a lovely day. We ate Westphalian ham and Harry lost three thousand francs on the horses.”

Amazed, I looked at Clayton and silently mouthed, “Hemingway?

“I think of Hemingway a lot. You know, people never stop talking about him and Giacometti, but they always describe them in such distorted, frenzied ways. People want to believe they were wild and dissolute because it fits a romantic image. But Gallantiere said something before he died that must be remembered: All the great artists put in a good day’s work every day of their lives when we were all living in Paris. People want to think those books and paintings arrived out of the ether, whole cloth. But what I remember most is how hard they worked. Giacometti? He would have murdered you if you came to his studio while he was working.”

Clayton gave me many wonderful things over the years, but the introduction to Frances Hatch was the most important. I will remember that first morning with her as long as I live. Afterwards we met frequently, both to settle the business of her collection and because I loved being in that room with her and her crowded memories. In college I’d read a poem by Whitman about an old man in a boat, fishing. He has lived a full life, but is tired now and waiting peacefully to die. Until then, he’s content to sit and fish and remember.

Even as a kid, full of pepper and brass, I was enchanted with the idea of living so fully that at the end you had nothing left you wanted to do and were willing to die.

When we left her apartment that day, I felt like I had been in a room with pure clarity and understanding, if such things are possible. As if they were concrete substances I’d been allowed to hold in my hand awhile and I’d gotten their weight and feel. It proved such things were feasible and it lifted me.

I went back to my store feeling supercharged. I buzzed through the rest of the day wishing only that I had someone important with whom to share the experience. I was glad for the party that night, glad I could mingle and talk and hope for some of the common magic Frances had found all of her life.

I’d been to Dagmar Breece’s home for several dinner parties. Frequently they were loaded with both interesting people and strange people. In contrast to Jaco, who didn’t like anyone stealing his thunder, Dagmar and her boyfriend Stanley had the modesty and good sense to invite an intriguing crowd and let them steer the evening. What was also nice was that you weren’t expected either to dress up or to perform. Showoffs were discouraged, and only if they were engaging were egos permitted to flourish.

I went home at five and changed. The phone rang while I was dressing. It was Zoe, calling to chat. We spoke too long and I barely had time to finish up. Luckily Dagmar and Stan’s building was only a few blocks from mine—although in a decidedly nicer neighborhood.

One of the reasons why I liked living in Manhattan was that the city would share your mood the moment you walked out the door. If you were in a hurry, everything else was too, even the pigeons. You shared the same speed and sense of urgency to get wherever you were going.

When you had time to kill, it was happy to give you things to look at and do that easily took up whole days. I didn’t agree with people who said Manhattan was a cold, indifferent town. Sure it was gruff, but it was also playful and sometimes very funny.

All the way to Dagmar’s the traffic lights were green for me. When I got to her block, I said a little thank-you. Seconds later, a madman pushing a baby carriage heaped with junk wobbled by. Without saying a word, the man smiled and tipped an imaginary hat at me, as if he were the city’s spokesman acknowledging my thanks.

On the back wall of the elevator was a large mirror. Riding up, I had a look. My hair was shorter than a month before. Why do women cut their hair shorter the older they get? Because they don’t want to be bothered? Because few faces can bear to be framed so luxuriously after a certain age? Looking more closely, I saw a lot more gray in my hair than I had been expecting by age thirty-three. The lines around my mouth were okay, but the beauty creams I used were getting more expensive because they were supposed to work that much harder. I held up both hands and turned them back and forth to see how
they
were doing. The elevator stopped. Dropping my hands, I turned around quickly.

The doors opened and I stepped out into the corridor. To my surprise, Dagmar was standing outside their apartment with a champagne glass in each hand.

“Miranda! There you are.”

“What are you doing out here?”

“Hiding from the men. They’re in there talking about boxing.”

“Aren’t there any women?”

“Not yet. Men always come early to parties when they know there are going to be gorgeous women.”

“You
did
invite other women, I hope.”

“Of course. And couples too. I wouldn’t throw you completely to the lions.”

“Now I’m nervous.”

“Don’t be. Just take off your clothes and walk right in. Come on.” She handed me a glass and we went in.

Unlike the Hatch apartment, Dagmar and Stan’s was very sparsely furnished. Jaco had been there once and spitefully said you could clean the whole place with a fire hose and three Brillo pads. That wasn’t true, but it was not cozy and I never understood how two such warm people could be comfortable living in a hi-tech igloo. Walking down the hall to the living room, I heard a bunch of men burst into laughter.

The living room was full of people, but the balance was about half-and-half. Doing a quick scan, I recognized a bunch of them and waved to a few. The unfamiliar men I saw on first glance looked good but not interesting. To a one, they had hair that was either slicked back with gel, gangster style, or falling over their shoulders in the chic of the moment. I knew it was an unfair assessment, but that’s how I went about things: Guilty until proven interesting.

Dagmar squeezed my shoulder and went off to talk to the caterer. A man I’d met there some months before came right up and introduced himself. He was a broker who specialized in railroad stocks. For the next few minutes, we chatted about train rides we had known and loved. That was fine because he did most of the talking, which allowed me to continue looking.

A waiter came around with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Their nice smell reminded me that the only thing I had eaten that day was a Ding Dong and a cup of coffee in the taxi with Clayton. Railroad Man and I took what looked like caviar-and-egg biscuits and popped them into our mouths.

The hors d’oeuvre was so lethally hot and spicy that it exploded on contact. I barely had enough presence of mind to slap a hand across my mouth before squealing like a stabbed rabbit. He did almost exactly the same thing. We stared at each other. It was so unexpected and shocking. Thank God he fumbled in his pocket, brought out a package of tissues, and handed me one. Without a second thought, we spat the bombs into the tissues and wiped our mouths. I think we might have gotten away with it, but some people had seen us and were watching. He looked at me and made the sound of a train whistle: “Woo-OO-Woo!”

I laughed and gave him a push. My eyes were tearing, my mouth was on fire, and I was embarrassed as hell but couldn’t stop laughing. “Everyone’s staring!”

“So what? My life just passed before my eyes.”

Everyone
was
staring, but that made us laugh harder. Stan came over and asked what was wrong. We explained and, sweet man that he is, he ran to stop the waiter from offering the hors d’oeuvres to other people.

Who would have guessed that moment on fire would change everything?

Half an hour later dinner was announced. As we moved into the dining room, a man I didn’t know came up and asked if I was all right. In his forties, he had a big thatch of unruly brown hair a la John Kennedy, and the kind of warm broad smile that made you like him right away, whoever he was.

“I’m fine. I just ate an hors d’oeuvre from hell and it paralyzed me.”

“You looked like you’d seen a goat.”

I stopped. “You mean a ghost?”

There was the smile. “No, like you’d just seen a goat walk into the room! Like this.” In an instant, he wore an imbecilic expression that made me giggle.

“
That
bad?”

“No, impressive! I’m Hugh Oakley.”

“Miranda Romanac.”

“This is my wife, Charlotte.”

A knockout, she had the kind of unique beauty that only deepened and became more interesting with age. Her eyes were Prussian blue, the hair as white-blond and swept as a meringue. My first impression was that everything about Charlotte Oakley seemed Nordic and…white. Until her mouth, which was thick and sexual. How many men had fantasized about that mouth?

“Hello. We were worried about you.”

“I thought I’d eaten a flare.”

“Make sure to say a little prayer to Saint Bonaventure of Potenza before going to bed tonight,” Hugh Oakley said.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s the saint invoked against diseases of the bowels.”

“Hugh!” Charlotte pulled his earlobe. But she was smiling, and oh, what a smile! If I’d been a king, I would have traded my kingdom for it. “One of my husband’s hobbies is studying the saints.”

“My new favorites are Godeleva, who protects against sore throats. Or Homobonus, patron of tailors.”

“Come on, Saint Hugh, let’s eat.”

“Don’t forget—Saint Bonaventure of Potenza.”

“I’m praying already.”

He touched my sleeve and moved away with his wife. We continued to our places at the tables. By coincidence, Hugh and I were seated at the same one, although there were people between us.

Unfortunately, my neighbor took a shine to me and all through the first two courses asked personal questions I didn’t want to answer. Sometimes I looked over and saw Hugh Oakley talking with a well-known SoHo gallery owner. They seemed to be having a great time. I wished I were in their conversation and not mine.

Because I wasn’t paying attention to what the guy on my right was saying, it didn’t register when he began to touch me as he spoke. Nothing bad, just a hand on the arm, then a few sentences later fingers on my elbow to emphasize a point, but I didn’t want it. Once when his hand stayed too long on mine, I stared at the hands until he slowly pulled his away.

“
Oops.
Sorry ’bout that.”

“That’s okay. I’m hungry. Can we eat?”

The silence that followed was welcome. The food was good and my hunger had returned. I dug into the chicken-whatever and was content to eat and let the talk flow in and out of my mind. If it hadn’t been for that, I wouldn’t have heard what Hugh said.

“James Stillman would have been one of the best! It was a tragedy he died.”

“Come on, Hugh, the guy was uncontrollable. Don’t forget the Adcock disaster.”

Hugh’s voice was angry and loud. “That wasn’t his fault, Dennis. Adcock’s husband had us all fooled.”

“Yeah, your friend Stillman most of all.”

I leaned so far forward I felt my chest touching the table. “Did you know James Stillman?”

They looked at me. Hugh nodded. The other man snorted dismissively. “Sure, who didn’t? Half New York knew him after the Adcock thing.”

“What was that?”

“Tell her, Hugh. You’re his big defender.”

“Damned right I am!” He glared, but when he spoke to me his voice dropped back to normal range. “Do you know of the painter Lolly Adcock?”

“Sure.”

“Right. Well, a few years ago her husband said he had ten of her paintings no one had ever seen. He wanted to sell them and contacted Bartholomew’s—”