Alligators in the Trees (25 page)

“Is this the kind of place you had in mind?” Philip whispered to Priscilla as they followed the middle-aged hostess to a table in the back room.

“Buon appetito,” the woman wished them with a broad smile before she scurried back to her command post.

“Yes, this is my kind of Italian restaurant,” Priscilla answered, looking over the menu chock-full of comforting favorites, such as Lasagna and Chicken Parmigiana. “We could’ve brought Caitlin along with us. I wouldn’t have minded.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that. She really wanted to join us, but it’s Marianne’s night to have her. Maybe tomorrow we can all do something together,” Philip suggested. Priscilla smiled, though she was experiencing strange twinges in the pit of her stomach. She supposed it could have been hunger, but it was most likely dread.

For most women, Philip’s undisguised enthusiasm toward her would have them swooning with visions of long white dresses and a diamond big enough to choke on. But for Priscilla, Philip’s mild but sincere overtures made her skin prickle with fear.

They had made it through the first day of her commitment, with only two more to go. Whenever she thought about it, she had decidedly mixed feelings regarding her postponed departure. After the sharp rush of adrenaline that came with imagining herself en route to Florida, a fog of melancholy descended upon her.

She liked Phil, there was no denying that, but not in the way he apparently liked her. Even though their relationship had been for the most part casual in nature, by her own reckoning, no one outside her immediate family had ever treated her so kindly.

As she tried to choose between the Fettuccine Alfredo and the Spaghetti Bolognese, Priscilla snuck furtive glances at Philip. The day spent with him had changed her opinion of him dramatically. Not only was she deeply impressed by his vision and his wherewithal to carry it through, she also honestly admired his equanimity when faced with such a devastating setback.

She fought back a smile as she watched him deliberating over a menu that must have seemed impossibly pedestrian to his taste. He would never complain, no matter how indifferent the meal might seem to his elevated palate, nor would he allow his discomfort to interfere with her enjoyment of the place.

He was a genuinely sweet man, a man of uncommon integrity. His packaging wasn’t so bad, either. He was tall and trim and had a nice face—almost boyish, in an Ivy League way. His skin was smooth and his jaw line strong. He had never shaken the habit of wearing his hair slightly long in front, but swept back with gel or something, as was probably the fashion when he was at school…

Priscilla flinched as Philip looked up from his menu and caught her gaze. If he realized she had been studying him, his thoughtful blue-grey eyes didn’t show it.

“Have you decided?” he asked pleasantly, folding his menu and setting it aside.

“I’m not sure…lasagna sounds kind of good, but so does spaghetti. What are you going to have?” she asked, keeping her eyes on the menu.

“I think I’m going to try the Veal Saltimbocca,” he said as the waiter approached.

“Buona sera. Are you ready to order?” he asked in a heavy Italian accent. They obliged him, Priscilla first.

“And to drink?”

“Would you like wine or would you prefer beer?” Philip asked. Priscilla chose wine. “A bottle of Chianti Classico,” he said as he handed the modest wine list back to the waiter. “So,” he said, lacing his fingers together and looking at her expectantly.

“So…” she answered, also at a loss for something to say. They smiled awkwardly and turned their attention to the décor, which relied heavily on Italian travel posters and inventive uses of empty Chianti bottles.

It felt strange to her to spend so much time with someone she had so little in common with. Surely it had to feel that way to Philip, despite whatever attraction she held for him. Though he assured her she was providing him an invaluable service by being his companion for a few days, in some ways she felt like a fraud.

It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy his company; quite surprisingly, she did. And she liked getting to know him better. He was about the finest person, in all respects, she had ever come across. But there was no point in becoming better acquainted with him if she would be on a plane, bus or train out of there in less than three days, which she was determined to do.

“It’s been years since I’ve been to a restaurant like this,” Philip said, after wracking his brain for appropriate small talk. “I’d forgotten how cozy these family-style places can be.” Priscilla smiled politely, effectively killing his attempt at chitchat. Fortunately for both of them the salads arrived, along with the wine. The waiter served both and moved on.

“Salud,” Philip offered, raising his glass.

“Cheers,” Priscilla returned, clinking hers to his. One sip had her wishing she had opted for beer.

“Not bad,” Philip concluded, setting his glass down and taking his fork to his salad hesitantly. Again, Priscilla experienced a guilty pang as she watched Philip eat. He was so willing to participate in her world, even after she had so flatly rejected his.

“How’s your salad?” she asked.

“Not bad at all,” Philip admitted. Priscilla was not surprised by his response. He had eaten Frank’s cooking for months on end, just to be near her. Anything had to be better than that. “How’s yours?”

“It’s good.” They worked on their salads in a more relaxed silence. Priscilla worked up her nerve to try the wine again. It went down a bit easier than before.

“I want to thank you for going to see The Phoenix with me,” Philip said, as he pushed his empty salad plate to the side.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“No, I do. I’m grateful to you for giving me your unbiased opinion, for being able to see its architectural merits and not just all the negatives. You can’t know how much that meant to me.” Philip dropped his gaze to his wine glass, staring into it as he pondered his ill-fated achievement.

“You know, I’ve gone through my whole career expecting my buildings to outlive me—that’s what we hope for as architects. Especially the projects I’ve put so much of myself into. It’s an ego thing, I’m sure, but it’s also the hope that what I’ve created is well thought out and well constructed enough to survive many generations.

“I guess it’s particularly painful to me because The Phoenix was the most risky concept I’d ever done. I honestly believed it would generate an economic rebirth in Lower Manhattan. And it has. Old abandoned warehouses have been transformed into upscale modern housing, and a whole slew of neighborhood merchants have moved in to service the influx of new residents.

“But now The Phoenix will only be viewed as a sorry footnote to the revolution it started. Like I said, it’s all wounded ego. Maybe a good humbling was in order.” Philip shot Priscilla a wistful look as he picked up his wine glass. “I guess I need to stop being so maudlin about what happened and get on with it,” he said before taking a healthy swig of wine.

Priscilla didn’t know what to say. She never felt compelled to offer platitudes of encouragement when people faced up to reality. It diluted the hard truth to a palatable mush, easier to get down, but weakened in value. Instead, she changed the subject.

“Does Caitlin go back and forth between your place and her mother’s every other day?”

“During the week, yes. We trade full weekends. At least that’s been the routine so far. We’re still working out the custody issue. I’m not really sure which way is the best for Caitlin—every other day or every other week. Either way seems rough on the kid to me. I keep thinking she’ll eventually get to the point that she doesn’t have any sense of home, all that shuttling around. It can’t be good. But then again, you spent a good part of your youth in transition, and you turned out perfectly fine.”

“I don’t know if you can say that,” Priscilla scoffed. “I’m a thirty-two year-old, unemployed waitress with absolutely no plan for my future. But I’m not sure I can attribute that to having lived in more places than I can remember.

“Anyway, there are millions of former children out there in the world who have survived ‘broken homes.’ In any case, you can’t tie yourself in knots over the past. Or what’s lurking in the future. It might never get to you. Those are about the only words of wisdom I can personally vouch for.”

Philip mulled this over for a moment. “You must have some sort of expectations for the future. You were just minutes away from getting on a train to Florida when I shanghaied you.” Priscilla’s mouth twisted into a small smirk. “What did you plan on doing once you got there? Go to school, get a job, lie on the beach? You must have had something in mind.”

“I wish I could say I did,” she said, embarrassed by her appalling lack of direction. She doubted if Philip had ever taken any kind of action that hadn’t been thoroughly thought out. Except maybe chasing after her.

“You’re saying you were moving to another state with a handful of possessions, and you had no idea of what you were going to do once you got there?” he asked, semi-incredulous.

“You’ve got it.”

Philip stared at her in amazement. “Wow. You’re so brave,” he said, pushing back in his chair as he regarded her. “You don’t know anyone down there and no one was going to pick you up at the station?” Priscilla confirmed this with a shake of her head. “Why Florida then?”

“You’re not going to go into your Florida-bashing routine again, are you?” she asked.

“You never did tell me why you were leaving New York,” Philip persisted.

“Yes I did. I need a change.”

“Well, that’s the beautiful thing about this city—you get tired of living on the Lower East Side, you move to Chelsea or Brooklyn, or even Battery Park City.”

Priscilla arched her eyebrows in annoyance. “I didn’t live in a rundown apartment house on the Lower East Side because I liked the ambiance,” she said.

Philip twitched at his faux pas. “All right, point taken. But there are ways to improve your standard of living. Schooling, for instance. You can learn a profession or a trade. There’s no shame in that.”

Priscilla laughed weakly. “Phil, I’d sign up in a second if I could think of one single thing I would be halfway good at besides slinging hash.”

“Come on, Priscilla—you’re not being fair to yourself. I’m sure there are many occupations you’d excel at,” Philip argued.

“Name one,” she challenged.

Their dinners arrived, and not a moment too soon as far as Priscilla was concerned. She had almost lost her appetite. She couldn’t think of one exercise that gave her a greater sense of paralysis than taking stock of her life.

After three decades in residence on this planet, she had a big goose egg in the accomplishment column. Not that she’d ever thought of keeping score before. But there was a danger in spending time with a successful person; at some point, comparison was inevitable. Maybe that’s why she usually associated with underachievers like herself.

She ineffectually toyed with her spaghetti, taking an inordinate amount of time to assemble a single forkful. The mild tartness of the marinara sauce, which she normally loved, lay flat and flavorless on her tongue. If she had any guts, she realized, this would be the time to admit she was wasting her life. Suddenly, she felt as if she were going to be sick.

“Is there something wrong?” Philip asked, peering at her largely untouched pasta.

“No, I…need to use the restroom. Excuse me,” she said, bolting out of her chair before he could get to his feet.

Philip watched her go, alarmed by the change that had come over her. This was the second time she had run away from the table in the middle of their meal. He had a fleeting worry that she might be bulimic. No, he decided; she looked too healthy to have an eating disorder. He took a sip of wine to wash down the veal, which was actually quite decent, and watched for her reappearance.

What he had not recognized this time was Priscilla’s abrupt emotional unraveling. Priscilla herself had not realized how close she was to a full-scale meltdown until it was almost too late. She had barely made it inside the stall before great sobs burst from deep down inside.

The cries that broke free first were so long in the making, they were soundless, mere ghosts of cries that had been haunting her from within for more years than she could guess. She was doubled over in the effort of setting them free, clutching her sides as they shook their way out. There was such a deep well of pain and hopelessness inside her, she feared she might fall in and drown.

It was some time before her tears exhausted themselves and she was able to come to grips with what had just happened. This was a turning point for her, a real one, not a mere pantomime like the one that had compelled her to leave town. This was her day of reckoning; from this time forward, she would not be able to elude the reality of her life by changing jobs, boyfriends or towns.

She drew a few deep breaths and dabbed at her tear-streaked faced with a great wad of tissue. She blew her nose one last time, filled her lungs to capacity and let her breath seep out of her slowly, like air escaping an untied balloon. She ventured out of the stall to the sink, where she encountered her unwelcome reflection in the mirror.

“Holy shit,” she muttered, as she used a handful of wet paper towels to rub the last traces of makeup from her face. She splashed her face liberally with cold water, enjoying the invigorating and symbolic effects, as though she were washing away the past, preparing for the future. As she studied her red and puffy features in the mirror, she knew executing a metamorphosis would not be easy. But at this stage, she had no other options.

“Are you okay?” Philip asked anxiously in a low voice, as he helped her into her seat.

“I’m fine,” she replied, replacing her napkin on her lap, her manner markedly more serene than when she had left.

“Are you sure? You don’t look quite right,” Philip said, scrutinizing her skeptically. Priscilla laughed lightly, her amusement bringing a more normal color to her face.

“I feel fine.”

Philip smiled, hesitantly at first, but he couldn’t deny that she looked different. Perhaps a little softer, maybe a little younger. She also looked more at peace.

“Did something happen in there?” he asked anxiously. Priscilla beamed another brilliant smile his way.

“I guess so,” she said, picking up her fork as she examined her dinner.

“Let’s order another bowl. That has to be stone cold by now,” Philip said, flagging down the waiter.

“No, no, no,” Priscilla protested, waving his suggestion away.