Found in the Street (5 page)

6

By half past 8 the apartment had begun to fill up, and it looked like a party. People talked more loudly in order to be heard, and Sylvia Kinnock's laughter, a single shriek now and then, sounded muffled. Louis Wannfeld was here, and Isabel Katz, the old friend of Natalia's who ran the Katz Gallery. It was Natalia's twenty-eighth birthday, though she and Jack had not announced that fact when they extended the invitations, they had simply asked people to come for drinks after 7, and said maybe there'd be something to eat too. Only Natalia's closest friends might connect the date with her birthday. Natalia liked to do something on her birthday, but hated the idea of people feeling that they had to bring a present.

Joel MacPherson had come, and Jack had showed him four more roughs for the
Dreams
book, plus two finished with the pale pink, blue and green he would use on all of them. Joel was extremely pleased.

“Let's put 'em up—put 'em up all around the table like this.” He demonstrated by leaning one against the wall at the back of Jack's worktable, daintily, as if it were precious, then his hands spread as he whispered, “We'll ask the people in and see what they think.—Or don't you like that?” Joel's plump face beamed as if it were publication day.

Jack hesitated, not liking the idea. “But this is my private room, Joel!” he said with a laugh.

Joel's face fell like a disappointed child's. “I love the old grampa—looking like Jehovah or something. And his son—groveling.” Joel pointed, smiling again, at the diminutive figure of the middle-aged husband Caspar, crawling on the floor toward his somnolent but dominant father-figure. “And the sex scenes—well—” Joel seemed at a loss for words of praise.

Jack jerked his head. “Let's go back.”

As soon as he entered the big living-room where more people were standing than sitting, Jack's eye fell on Louis' tall figure in his dark blue summer suit, white shirt, the terribly chic blue bowtie, as Louis handed a small object in white tissue paper to Natalia. She opened it. They were both standing by a front window. Jack saw Natalia's lips part in pleased surprise, and she held up what looked like a silver chain of some heaviness with a red pendant stone.

“Jack, where's your drink?” asked Isabel Katz, looking at him with eyes whose upper lids were of a more intense pale blue than some in Jack's drawings. “Mine's fresh. I was going to toast Natalia's health. Just us.”

Isabel's made-up face was in contrast to Natalia's, because Natalia had been doing something till the last minute, making the guacamole dip or simply shifting on her feet in feigned panic at the thought of “a party”, and hadn't put even lipstick on before the first ring at the door. Isabel was smallish, slender, with dark hair done in a bun in back. She was at least forty-five, and needed some make-up, but underneath, as they said, she was not the made-up type. Isabel Katz was all art, not even business art or the kind that made money, just art. Isabel painted too, but was modest about her work. And what did she think of his stuff, his talent, Jack wondered, if she bothered to think about it? “I'm on white wine,” Jack said. “I'll get some.” He did, and lifted his glass.

Isabel raised her scotch and water. “To Natalia.”

“To her,” Jack said, and drank.

“Canapés,” said a small figure suddenly beside and below them. Amelia held a plate of little hot sausages, each stuck with a toothpick. Amelia was diligent at parties, passing things around slowly and steadily, non-stop. “Ple-ease, Daddy.”

Isabel didn't want any, and Jack took one to please his daughter. Amelia moved off to the sofa crowd.

“You look pale,” Isabel said.

“Pale?” Jack was surprised.

“In the last seconds.—You feel all right, Jack?”

“Sure I do.”

“Natalia's looking well, don't you think so? She looks happier—this last year.”

Jack was pleased by this comment. “You should know. I hope so.'' Natalia was now working five or six hours a day, five days a week, at Isabel's gallery.

“Who's the girl with the long dark hair?” Isabel asked.

“Oh. Sylvia—Kinnock. Old friend of Natalia's. School friend, I think. Don't you remember, a couple of years ago, Natalia went away—well, to Europe—with Sylvia for a few months. I thought you knew her.''

“N-no. I remember when Natalia was away in Europe.—The girl's got a wild face. Interesting,” Isabel said with a smile.

Jack looked at Sylvia with new eyes. There was something gypsy-like about her face or her manner, though Jack remembered Natalia saying her family was Catholic and rather strict. Sylvia was Natalia's age, unmarried, and had a job that made her travel a lot, some kind of public relations. Odd that Isabel hadn't met Sylvia in all these years, but Isabel kept to herself in the evenings, and saw her best friends singly for drinks or dinner usually.

“Would you—” Jack had been about to introduce Isabel to Sylvia, but Isabel greeted someone with a warm “
Hello-o
,”
and Jack knew she was stuck for a while. Jack took a sip of his white wine, not wanting it now, even though it was excellent cool Frascati. Sylvia. Jack had not thought of her in maybe a year. He realized that he felt a faint resentment toward her, because Natalia had spent so much time with her on that trip when Amelia had been about two years old. It had been as if Natalia had wanted to kick over the traces of marriage, wanted to forget she was a wife and mother and feel independent again. Amelia had stayed with her grandmother in Ardmore, in the care of a nanny whose face Jack remembered but not her name. Natalia had been away for at least six months, and though Sylvia had come back to New York for a time, he remembered, Natalia had gone to Mexico and Sylvia had joined her there for a while. Natalia had come back in a more cheerful mood, but had been rather silent or laconic about her travels.
It's not the first time I've been either to Europe or to Mexico, after all.
Jack could still hear Natalia's voice saying that.

“Hello, Jack. You look thoughtful.” Louis Wannfeld smiled affably at him. He had a broad mouth with full, pink lips, large teeth, a bald head. “It's a great party. I'm glad to be here.”

What did one say to that? Jack murmured something with equal affability, and asked Louis if his drink was all right.

“Yes, thanks. Looks like a Bloody Mary but it's plain tomato juice,” said Louis. “I hear you've got some new drawings. For a book.” The spotlight behind Louis, focused mainly on the ceiling, made the crown of Louis' bare head look as if he wore a silver halo.

“Well—yes. Not yet ready for publication. Or inspection. In fact—” Now Jack smiled. “The book hasn't got a contract yet, but we have some strong interests, Joel and I.”

“Yes, Joel,” said Louis, and sipped. “You don't even use a pencil starting these drawings, Natalia said.”

Jack replied. No, under ideal conditions, when he wasn't working for money. Jack was thinking, the latest was that Louis did
not
have cancer, though for three weeks Natalia had thought he had, because of what Louis had said. The New York doctor had saved him with a new verdict. What did Louis have? Something that made him watch his diet, cut out coffee, and preferably alcohol too. Jack had an unpleasant feeling that Louis was talking to him now to be polite, so Jack steered him toward Sylvia, who was talking with Joel in the middle of the living-room.

“Louis,” said Sylvia, “are you a stuffed silk shirt tonight or a boiled owl?”

Louis laughed, his tall lean frame bent in a polite bow. “Not a boiled owl, anyway, I'm on the wagon.”

Jack had not known that Sylvia and Louis were so chummy. He drifted away to the kitchen to see how Susanne was doing. Susanne had come to help out, and she was busy, but not too busy—she had a wonderfully easy manner—slicing the ham now with a very sharp knife, arranging it on a platter with pickles and olives and chunks of pineapple. Amelia hovered, eager for Susanne to hand her another plate of something that she could pass around.

“Darling, we're coming to the serious part now,” said Susanne. “You'll get to put some of the stuff on the table.”

“And
this
.”
It was Joel's voice, distant but loud.

Jack went down the hall and saw Joel and a couple of other people in his workroom whose curtain was pushed half open. “Hey, Joel,” Jack said, advancing. “What's up here?”

“I just wanted to show Louis. He asked me about—I just showed him the couple lying here.” Joel looked a little ashamed of himself, but not much.

And here was Isabel, smiling politely, Jack thought. And one other woman whose name Jack was not sure of. “Well, I did say—These aren't finished drawings. Not quite.—Of course they're not roughs either, I admit.”

“You don't make roughs, I know,” said Louis in his soft and careful voice.

Just sometimes, Jack thought, and who cared?

Isabel Katz' astute eyes narrowed as she gazed at the fine penline in the drawing Jack called, to himself, the masturbatory fantasies of the father.

“Well, that's enough, folks. Got to wait for the book.” Jack wanted the people out of his workroom. “No more, Joel!” Joel had been reaching for more.

“Out! Out!” said Isabel, shooing people. “I like them, Jack.”

That was a remark that he valued. Jack looked at the floor and turned. They were all leaving his room. Take it easy, Jack told himself, as he drifted deeper into the crowded living-room. Don't hold it against Joel, it was just Joel's extrovert nature, wanting people to share everything, even before it was finished. Jack poured a Jack Daniel's at the bamboo cabinet.

The serious eating had begun. Amelia was passing paper plates and napkins to everyone, looking like a little robot in her blue jeans and red-and-white checked shirt, moving among people without bumping, as if guided by radar. Natalia bent and squeezed Amelia's shoulders for an instant, and they looked like duplicates, one large, one small version of each other, due mainly to their blondish lank hair.

There was a sudden crack of thunder. Some people said, “Ah­h!” meaning that with rain it was going to be cooler. They were in a crazy heat wave, at the very end of September. Out the window it didn't look as if rain would come, it looked merely sullen, indifferent. Joel was getting a little high, Jack noticed, his face was pinker and he was talking a blue streak to a man who had arrived with Isabel, gesticulating. Joel was almost thirty, and he was still like a teen-ager, enthusiastic, optimistic for brief spells, downcast for longer spells, arguing with himself and aloud to Jack sometimes on the subject of “What am I doing with my life?” He wanted to quit his job and couldn't afford to. The money was too good. Jack felt suddenly
de
trop
—the
term came to him—but he really wanted simply to walk, to move on his own. It would be rude to slip out, even though Natalia and Sylvia and Louis, all standing in a corner, seemed to be engrossed in their conversation. Some people would notice that he was missing, when it came time to say good-bye. And when would that be? Three or four had already left. Some would stay until very late.

Amelia elected to bring her own plate over to join him, for which Jack felt rather flattered. Jack sat at one end of the sofa, Joel next to him, and Amelia was happy on the floor, where Jack told her her plate would be much safer. The abominated TV tables were up, all three of them. Joel had brought a girl to whom he was paying little attention. The girl, named Terry, had reddish hair. Jack had never known Joel to be overboard about any girl. Was there something just a little bit wrong with everybody, making them less than happy, halfway unhappy even?

“You're not sore at me,” said Joel, chewing, but with an anxious look.

“About the drawings?—Na-ah. Forget it,” Jack replied.

‘‘Y'know—the sketch where the man, the husband, stands on that—cliff and he's about to fall off?”

“It's a building ledge. Yes.”

“The ledge. How about having some little women down there—sort of laughing at him. Lots of little women, some with their arms out as if they're going to catch him and some—”

Jack laughed. “Yep. Gotcha.” He was thinking that there was room for the little women in the drawing now, and it might be a good idea.

Natalia laughed, rising on her toes, closing her eyes. She was still with Louis and Sylvia, and Isabel Katz had joined them, but only to say good night, it seemed. She left with the man to whom Terry had been talking.

“Good night, Jack. Thank you,” Isabel said. “Don't get up!”

Before long, Jack had managed his exit too. “I'm going down with Joel,” he said to Natalia, and with a glance at Sylvia and Louis. “See you.”

Joel and Terry, who worked at CBS too, had to watch a program at 11 tonight. Jack walked with them toward Seventh Avenue where there was the best chance for a taxi.

“Can't tell you how I've enjoyed it, Jack,” said Terry, beaming at him. “What a terrific apartment too! Bye!”

They had found a taxi. A wind swirled, and Jack felt the first drops of rain hit his face. The hell with the rain, he thought, he'd walk for half an hour, and come back and find Natalia and Louis ensconced on the sofa, probably drinking espresso, of which Louis was very fond, even if the doctor had banned it. Susanne would have gone home, after sticking all the glasses she could in the dishwasher and starting it. And Natalia would sit till maybe 2 in the morning, because it was her birthday and she could indulge herself with her soulmate, the whole sofa's length between them as each lolled back against a sofa arm.

Jack licked rainwater from his upper lip. His shoes were starting to feel squishy. Where was he? Way below West Houston now. He turned back and walked fast. The few people who were out in this downpour were either running or had umbrellas. Jack shoved wet hands into his pockets, lowered his head, and trotted uptown. In his right hand pocket, he felt coins, enough for a coffee somewhere, at least, to wait it out for a few minutes. The streetlights, shopfront lights made a glare on the surface of Seventh Avenue. Jack crossed when a red shimmered. He had spotted a coffee shop farther up on the other side of the avenue.