I know some of the neighbors are home. As I prepared the finger food, the appetizers and cheese plate, I heard gentle creaks, their feet in the corridors, snatches of conversation, muted radio and television broadcasts, someone practicing a violin, out of tune, repetitive. It brought back memories of my own childhood resisting piano scales, of my Phoebe with her shiny, squeaky clarinet.
Phoebe didn’t even acknowledge the invitation I sent her by phone.Perhaps she’s changed her number, dropped me forever. Was I so dreadful a mother? I’m so ready to find out, to apologize, to see it all from my daughter’s point of view. We’d been so close, flesh of my flesh, the weight of her in my arms and on my lap, her tiny hand in mine, so keen to cuddle and learn from me, then the sharing of clothes and handbags, even teaching her to drive. We got through all of that. I thought we’d be best friends forever, my dream baby, a model child and a teen without too many tantrums. So what did I do wrong?
Chapter 16
Dirk
Iremove the portionof Mrs West’s baked chicken from the oven and serve it for myself with a potato salad with dill, an excellent accompaniment.
It’s been days since I heard from Lucy, not that I’m counting.
I select the music – Chopin – calm. What music would Lucy enjoy? Something brash and fun no doubt – ragtime, for dancing, or brassy big band, or even rock’n’roll.
A memory of a thumping good time arises unbidden, of a party back when Millie and I were students, back before everything – a fifties party, with the women all in full skirts that swirled out and showed their legs the faster we twirled them. We men had slicked back our hair, and our skinny ties swung out as we danced in our short-sleeved shirts and stovepipe trousers.Rock Around the Clock. We drank too much, deafened by music cranked up on a huge stereo, slaves to the beat. The only thing to eat were cubes of cheese, and the next day was a nightmare. I wonder what’s happened to all those people. I know about Millie and Raymond of course. Both gone now. Walt and some of the boys are still friends.
On my gleaming dining table, the chicken cools. Potato salad clags in my throat. Though I eat it every Saturday night, I’m suddenly tired of it, and for the first time, it’s far too quiet in here.
Saturday. Something. Saturday drinks. My neighbor’s party! Lucy invited me in person and followed up with a card. What time did she say? Six? It’s seven o’clock now, and I have no bunch of flowers for her, nothing.
The one night I had a decent invitation, I’ve blown it. I wouldn’t have minded meeting a few neighbors. The only ones I’ve met so far are Lucy and Davey, and now I’ve stood Lucy up. It’s beyond stupid. It’s rude.
Outside my apartment, dusk has settled around the building and light rain begins to drizzle. I settle on a navy polo neck and jeans, the kind of thing Jamison might wear on a golfing weekend with business associates. I’m grateful I don’t have to drive anywhere. I pluck the white roses from the vase on the dining table Mrs West left for me earlier in the week.
I stand and check myself in the long mirror. Is it rude to arrive so late? I can invent an excuse but it’s best to get on with it and apologize. I rush down the stairs.
I stop outside Lucy’s door. It’s suspiciously quiet. I lift my hand but hesitate, knuckles poised.
When it swings open, a rush of welcome smells assails me – of cooking, the kind my cardiologist would forbid – of perfume and bubble bath and chocolate cherries in liquor – of mysterious alluring scents which beg to be explored.
Lucy stands, hand on the door, as if shocked to see me. She is beautifully attired, elegant as the hostess, but for an instant her expression is bleak, then unreadable, and a moment later, her smile is back and she is supremely in command, poised.
I hand over the roses. I regret not taking a moment to wrap the stems. They drip. But I wanted to get on with it. I’m late enough already.
Lucy’s delighted. She takes them from me, and dips her face towards the blooms and inhales deeply, giving me a glimpse of the skin of the back of her neck, so achingly elegant I shiver. She whips her eyes to mine, smiles, then leads me into her kitchen where she grabs a vase, adds water, plunges the stems deep inside and sets them on a side table where an ornate mirror doubles their volume. She places her fingers inside my elbow – an intimate gesture – and drags me forwards.
Lucy’s apartment is generously furnished, mostly with classic, old-fashioned pieces recovered in bright fabrics. There’s a chaise lounge, a Persian rug, and three of her lamps in the corner, quirky. Interesting.
