The man in the ponytail said, “Say yes quickly, son, before she changes her mind. She’s a looker.”
I bit my lip. And I waited for an answer.
—
This morning, I had put on my favorite work outfit: black pants, spiky black heels, black turtleneck, red lipstick. Dramatic? Yes. The men I worked with loved it. They said it gave the right first impression.
Ethan—as he told me on our second date—was not only a record store manager but also a part-time musician, playing bass with his band at obscure bars on Saturday nights. He knew someone who knew someone else, and by our sixth date I had heard about an independent record company in a rented office in SoHo that was inneed of a receptionist. The job was one of precarious stability and strange hours for a company running on pennies, with pay to match. No sane person needing a paycheck would rely on it.
I got it, of course, even with no experience as a receptionist. Their standards weren’t very high. I answered phones, kept schedules, and made coffee. The partners who ran the place were two fortyish men with rumpled sport coats, raspy beards, and bloodshot eyes, who somehow worked both all the time and never. The schedule made no sense. The musicians were younger than me and hit on me regularly, and some of them smelled truly terrible. Boxes of records were stacked randomly behind my desk. People cared greatly about T-shirts. There was absolutely no money. It was the first job I ever had that I loved, and I never wanted to leave it.
After work at least once a week, I’d walk to Lower Broadway to pick up Ethan as he closed the store, and we’d explore the city. We’d eat fifty-cent noodles or catch a second-run movie. We’d wander thrift shops while sipping milkshakes. We’d buy secondhand books. We’d read the scandalous movie titles on the porn posters in Times Square. We’d talk about everything and nothing. We’d hold hands like teenagers. Sometimes he’d kiss me in a doorway, right there among the stacks of garbage and the crazy people. Then we’d go home.
The phone on my desk rang as I was putting on my coat at the end of the day, and because I was in a generous mood, I answered it.
“Dodie,” came my big sister’s voice. “I finally caught you.”
“I’m just leaving,” I said. “Can this wait?”
“No, because you’re never home.”
“Not never.” Ethan and I got in late on the nights we ended at my place. I never checked my messages because I was too pleasantly distracted by then. The tall, quiet ones are apparently the most devastatingly talented.
“Never.” Violet was very sure of this. “I need to talk to you. Give me five minutes.”
I rolled my eyes, though she couldn’t see me. I regretted ever giving her my number at work. “Go.”
“Lisette wants to come the weekend before Christmas,” Violet said. “She wants to see the Brooklyn Bridge, the World Trade Center, and the Rockefeller tree.”
“Violet, those things areboring.No one in New York does those things.”
“Lisette wants to see them, so you’ll take her.” She used the Big Sister Voice of Dire Threat.
“Fine. But we’ll also go shopping. And don’t blame me if she hates it.”
“She won’t hate it. You’ll have to pick her up at Grand Central. I’ll give you her train time. And don’t leave her waiting.”
It was only September. “I can remember to pick up my niece three months from now, yes.”
Violet didn’t notice—or chose not to acknowledge—my sarcasm. She continued with a list of instructions, from what to feed Lisette to making sure she wore her mittens. I looked at my nails and barely paid attention.
Lisette’s visits to me in the city, when she slept on my secondhand sofa, were a new thing. Lisette had a wild, independent streak, and the supervised trips to New York were her parents’ compromise so that she wouldn’t pull a stunt like she had last year. The deal was that Lisette got to spend a weekend with her glamorous aunt—me—and in return, she did her best to behave. So far, it seemed to be working.
“Did you get all of that?” Violet asked on the phone.
“Yes.”
“You didn’t.”
“I absolutely did. If Lisette is giving you so much trouble, why don’t you send her to Vail’s?”
“I already am. At Thanksgiving.”
I laughed. “Does she think she’s getting a turkey dinner?”
“No, she thinks she’s getting toast and canned tuna. Which is what Vail will be eating.”
Lisette probably wouldn’t mind. She was used to the menu at the house in Fell. She had spent two weeks there in the summer, just like Ethan and I had.
