Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (23 page)

“I don’t like the soap,” she complained, when they got into the shower. “And the spray’s too forceful. Hey! I don’t want to get my hair wet! You should have a shower cap.”

“How can you take a shower without getting your hair wet?”

“I told you. Just hold my head away. Like this. The rest of me will get the water. Only turn down the spray a bit.”

“How are we going to have exotic little adventures in here if there are all these prohibitions?”

“We’ll just be like two dear little children.”

His laugh echoed against the tiles. “You’re the weirdest woman in the world, I could eat you up. Oh, and say, what’s the matter with the soap?”

“It’s drying,” she said tersely. “Bad for the skin. You should use Keri or Lubriderm, I’ll bring you some.”

“Let me tell you, no gal I ever showered with objected to the quality of my soap.”

“I’ll wash your mouth out with this if you start talking about other women.”

“Jealous, huh? Ah, the beautiful women I’ve showered with, m’dear. Fifty beautiful girls, fifty. A cast of thousands. The wolf of Sixty-first Street.”

“Open your mouth!”

“You shove that cake of soap in my mouth, I’ll stick your head under the water.”

“Okay, uncle. Enough! My lovely curls — ”

“This is fun,” he said. “It’s not ball-aching, but it’s a hell of a lot of fun, being a dear little child with you.”

“See? There are other ways to entertain oneself.”

Drying off afterward, toweling. One of Jack’s oversized bath towels, which today were a deep royal blue. “You need towels?” she asked him. “You need bed linen? I like to buy you things, you know. Please tell me what you need, Jack.”

“A mink coat,” he said. “Full-length.”

“I’ll have it sent over in the morning.
Seriously
. What are you in short supply on?”

“Why don’t you shut your yap? Save your pennies for Christmas.”

“Okay, what do you want for Christmas?”

He regarded her. “Oddly enough, I was thinking about that the other day,” he said. “What I’m going to give you for Christmas. In a way I can hardly wait for it. It’s been many a year since it meant something to me.”

“Really, Jack?”

“Ah, yes. Well, there are a lot of shopping days until then, gives me time to think up something Christineish. By the way, let’s not forget to get you a shower cap on our walk.”

“And some decent soap.”

“Nag, nag, nag. Get dressed, babe, it’s Gracie Square time.”

Walking over, the sun high in the sky, it was early, they had hours ahead of them. Passing Henderson Place, those magnificent old houses, ivy-trimmed, austere. Then the little park that led to the boardwalk, which was trimmed up with strollers and baby carriages and kids on roller skates, toddlers pedaling away on scooters. The sun on the water, small craft gliding along, the bridges that spanned the rippling blue expanse.

“I used to come here on Sunday mornings with my
Times
,” Christine said when they sat down on one of the benches. “Deepen my summer tan at the same time. It’s a nice place to have handy.”

“I came here when the tall ships passed. Bicentennial year. Great show, that was something to take your mind off your troubles.”

“Were you having troubles then, Jack?”

“Yes, quite a few.”

Maybe, she thought, it pinpointed when the breakup came, Jack’s breakup, his marriage pfft. It sounded rather like that. He didn’t say. He never said anything, or at least hadn’t to date. “There’s that park on Sutton Place too,” she said. “Very small, very pretty, do you know that one?”

“No, I guess not. There’s John Jay, but farther down. I guess I haven’t come across it.”

“We’ll go there sometime.”

“Cigarette?”

“No, I’m too comfy to bother. Thanks.”

“What a day.”

“I love the sun. I love it. I know people who couldn’t care less about the weather. So it’s raining, they say. What’s wrong with rain? So it’s overcast. You wouldn’t want it to be sunny all the time? But I would!”

“I’m not keen on cloudbursts myself,” Jack said. “I even decided against basing myself in London because I wasn’t sure I could stick the gray of it. The pea soupers and the drizzles.”

“You did consider living in England, then?”

“I considered a lot of things. Get away seemed to be a solution. Most of us have periods when we want to run. So I guess at one time I wanted to run. I didn’t get very far, I’m still in the place I started in.”

“So am I.”

“We could be in a worse place. New York seems like home, I guess it always will.”

“Oh, by the way, Jack. I’ve been to London three times, I never ran into a pea soup fog. Believe that if you will.”

“Oh, I don’t think they’re all they’re cracked up to be. I think they’re mostly in Hitchcock thrillers. At least I’ve never been totally fogbound whenever I was there, not thè kind where you can’t see your hand in front of your face. Plenty of pouring rain, though. I find it rather daunting, and it would definitely add to your cleaning bills if you lived there.”

“Suppose you made a big haul with some book of yours. Maybe the one you’re writing now. More money than you ever dreamed of. I assume you’d have your
pièd a terre
here, in New York, and then what else besides? A lovely little chalet in Switzerland? A villa in Nice?”

He thought it over. “Both,” he decided. “Let’s see, now. Oh yeah, Fiesole. A villa in Fiesole, naturally. With that view. That view …”

“I remember that view well,” she said. “Yes, I can picture you up there, in one of those crumbly-stuccoed houses with the red-tiled roofs, sitting in the garden typing, with a bottle of Punt é Mes on a table. You’ve grown a beard, and your face is now a famous face and you, too, have grown fond of the word ‘ratiocination’ and — ”

“Can you tell me when all this is going to happen, I’d just as soon have a little advance notice. And how do I look with a beard display, adorable?”

“Most impressive. There goes one of your Circle Line boats. People on the deck waving as if it were the
QE. II
. Bless them, they seem to be having a fine time.”

“I don’t suppose you’re hungry?”

“Which means you are. Am I a selfish slob to take up a whole day of yours like this? How can you become famous sitting by the water in Gracie Square?”

“What makes you think that, Christine? That I want to become famous.”

“You said it yourself. Nobody knows my name.”

“Salinger’s a household word, but he shuns the limelight. To the point of paranoia. Do you really think I’m the type to go on talk shows and bare my chest like Hemingway?”

“Why not, you’ve got a dandy chest.”

He laughed, played with her hand. “Famous is fine, I’d settle for that, Chris. Nothing wrong with a few whiskers, either, maybe some day I’ll cultivate a bunch. Right now I’m thinking about finding a deli and then going home and feeding our faces. We want to have plenty of time to discuss literature on the sofa before thinking of dinner.”

“There seems to be a lot of eating on the agenda,” she observed. “Where are we going for dinner, do you know?”

“Yeah. That is, if it’s all right with you. Is it all right with you?”

“Just so long as it isn’t a vegetarian place.”

“It is. How’d you guess?”

“Okay. If you insist.”

“It’s a place called Eduardo’s, to be serious. I found it awhile ago, it doesn’t look like much but it’s great, I think very highly of it. Practically right around the corner from where I live. So okay?”

“Certainly, fine.”

There was a delicatessen opposite Schaller & Weber, they went in and bought pastrami, potato salad, a jar of dill pickles. Jack said he had rye bread in the house, sweet butter. They sat in their ladderback chairs polishing it off, then had coffee. After that Jack led her to the bedroom. “Lie down, I want to talk to you,” he said with a leer.

“It was nice down by the water,” she said, when they were lying together. “I’ll remember it, you know. There are some things you remember more than others.”

“Yes, I’ll think of that too.”

“And taking that silly shower. Goddamn it, I forgot to get the soap!”

“The whole day blown to smithereens,” he murmured. “You forgot the soap.”

• • •

“Where is this Eduardo’s?” she asked, when they at last got up and turned on lamps. “It’s Italian, one gathers.”

“First Avenue, Fifty-ninth. Yes, of course Italian.”

She was in the bathroom, at the mirror. “My hair. I look like a Forty-second Street hooker.”

“You look like Primavera.”

“Some Primavera. At my age.”

“Your age. You should know from age. I love your hair that way.”

“Like this? A trollop out of Hogarth?”

“Do Marlon Brando.”

“Shut your bloody trap. May I borrow your comb? Or maybe your egg beater?”

“I don’t have a comb. I do have an egg beater, yes, I’ll go get it.”

“Naturally I was kidding. Naturally I have a comb, would you mind bringing me my handbag?”

“Born to fetch and carry, that’s me.”

“Never mind, I’ll get it. I hate people who say would you mind bringing me this, would you mind bringing me that …”

“Shut up, here it is.”

“Grudgingly, I notice.”

“You’re a crazy woman. When they made you, they — ”

“Broke the mold. I know, I’ve heard that before about myself.”

“You realize it’s true.”

“Listen, Jack. I’m somebody’s mother, I really would like a little respect.”

He sat on the edge of the tub laughing. She could see him in the mirror, grinning away. She glanced at her watch. It was after seven. They had had a whole day.

And now it was almost gone.

When they left she was all smooth and combed and fresh-faced. “What is it you use on your mouth?” Jack asked her. “It’s not lipstick. Not the general kind, anyway.”

“A Germaine Monteuil product. Designed to make the most of what nature gave you. You approve?”

“It’s luscious. That wet look.”

“It’s not supposed to look wet! Just faintly moist!”

“That’s what I said, faintly moist.”

Going down the carpeted stairs. They looked different at this time of the evening, the color of the carpet subtly changed. There were round hanging bulbs at each landing, lit now, a soft light. “This is a steal what you’ve got here,” Christine said. “When I think of some of the dumps Rodney and I went into. I wouldn’t put my worst enemy into any of them.”

“It’s a good place, I’m pleased as punch. Look at this, we’re going out to dinner for the first time. Will wonders never cease? Christ, I’m way up, like over and beyond the Van Allen belt. Dinner with Christine Jennings, who’d believe it?”

“Do they have soft-shelled crabs at Eduardo’s?”

“They do indeed.”

She called the house, pleasantly explaining that one of the girls had suggested staying “in town” for dinner. “You don’t mind, Carl?”

“Have a good time, of course I don’t mind.”

Years ago, saying to Mother, “I won’t be home to dinner, some friends — just dinner, that’s all.”

“Don’t be too late, Christine.”

The same sense of adventure, the same feeling that life held infinite promises, the bright night lights, dark pools of shadow where the light didn’t penetrate, walking along arm in arm. “Balmy,” Jack commented. “A balmy evening, listen to me with my eternal clichés.”

“Well, it’s balmy, who’s criticizing? This is such fun.”

There were cordial smiles at Eduardo’s. Jack was obviously a welcome guest, and there was a heady smell of garlic that greeted you when you opened the door and went inside. Very simpatico, and a jovial waiter who called her signora.
“Buona sera, signora.”

“No, not a martini,” she said, when Jack gave the drink order. “I’ll have a perfect Manhattan, because Italian restaurants know how to put together one of those.”

“I’m learning something about you every day,” he observed.

“But it’s a fact. Dry vermouth and sweet vermouth, and they use the right brand for it, Stock’s, I think. It’s really my favorite drink, but you only get the real McCoy in an Eyetalian place.”

When it arrived she took a sip and then circled two fingers in the air. “I told you so,” she said triumphantly. To the waiter, “Couldn’t be better, thanks, it’s excellent.”

“Bene, bene.”

“So. What do you think of Eduardo’s?” Jack demanded. “No plush and gilt-framed mirrors, but it’s warm and welcoming, do you feel that?”

“Oh, yes, I like it very much. And thank God no piped music, though if they did have it it would probably be Italian, Neopolitan songs and so forth. I wouldn’t mind that. Just the same I’d just as soon not have it, it’s usually too loud anyway.”

“I used to go to Monk’s Court, music there, but on a stereo, and good stuff. Baroque, also Gregorian chants. Carl Orff too,
Carmina Burana
. You wouldn’t mind that, would you?”

“No, I’d like that. Why that sort of thing? Oh, Monks, I see. The motif, I take it.”

“Naturally. The waiters wear rough-spun cassocks, rope-tied round the waist. They’re all fat and jolly, like Friar Tuck.”

“Good food?”

“
Very
old English, hearty fare, slabs of beef, Yorkshire pudding. Nice. You’d like it, want to go sometime?”

“If it’s still in business, sure. So many places are going out of business. When were you there last?”

“About fifty years ago, come to think of it. I’ll check it out.”

“How about the food here, Jack? Veal piccata, I hope?”

“By all means. I thought you were set on the soft-shelled crabs.”

“If the food’s really good I’ll have a hard time deciding. Italian’s my favorite, but only when it’s very special super duper.”

“I would call the food here all of that.”

“That good, huh? I guess I’m glad I came.”

“I know someone else who is. Not mentioning any names.”

“That’s my Jack.”

“
Your
Jack is right. I don’t even ogle dames on the street anymore. That used to be one of my beloved pastimes.”

“Their loss, my gain.”

“You said once that you occasionally saw some man on the street, or on the bus … and were attracted to him. I remember that irked me very much.”