Rules of Civility (38 page)

—Hello, Teddy.

—Katey, I need to talk to you.

—I'm late for a date.

He winced.

—Can't you give me five minutes?

—All right. Shoot.

He looked around the street.

—Isn't there a place where we can sit down?

I took him to the coffee shop on the corner of Twelfth and Second. The place was one hundred feet long and ten feet wide. A cop at the counter was building the Empire State Building out of sugar cubes and two Italian boys sat at the back eating steak and eggs. We took the booth near the front. When the waitress asked if we were ready to order, Tinker looked up as if he didn't understand the question.

—Why don't you bring us coffee, I said.

The waitress rolled her eyes.

Tinker watched her walk away. Then he dragged his gaze back to me as if it took an act of will. He had a satisfying grayness to the skin and rings under the eyes as if he hadn't been sleeping or eating well. It made his clothes look borrowed, which in a way, I suppose they were.

—I want to explain, he said.

—What's to explain?

—You've got every reason to be angry.

—I'm not angry.

—But I didn't seek out my situation with Anne.

First Anne wants to explain her situation with Tinker. Now Tinker wants to explain his situation with Anne. I guess there are two sides to every story. And, as usual, they were both excuses.

—I've got a great little anecdote for you, I said, interrupting him. You'll think it's a hoot. But before I get to that, let me ask you a few things.

He looked up with grim resignation.

—Was Anne actually an old friend of your mother's?

. . .

—No. I was at Providence Trust when we met. The head of the bank invited me to a party in Newport. . . .

—And this exclusive arrangement you have—this concession to sell the shares of a railroad—those are her holdings?

. . .

—Yes.

—Were you her banker before or after your
situation
?

. . .

—I don't know. When we met, I told her I wanted to move to New York. She offered to introduce me to some people. To help me get on my feet.

I whistled.

—Wow.

I shook my head in appreciation.

—The apartment?

. . .

—It's hers.

—Nice coat by the way. Where
do
you keep them all? Now what was I about to tell you? Oh yeah. I think you'll find this funny. A few nights after Eve bounced you, she threw herself such a celebration that she passed out in an alley. The cops found my name in her pocket and they picked me up to identify her. But before they let us go, a nice detective sat me down with a cup of coffee and tried to get us to change our ways. Because he thought we were prostitutes. Given Evey's scars, he assumed she'd been roughed up on the job.

I raised my eyebrows and toasted Tinker with my coffee cup.

—Now, how ironic is
that
!

—That's unfair.

—Is it?

I took a sip of coffee. He didn't bother to defend himself, so I barreled ahead.

—Did Eve know? About you and Anne, I mean.

He shook his head wanly. The very definition of wanly. The apotheosis of wanly.

—I think she suspected there might be another woman. But I doubt she realized it was Anne.

I looked out the window. A fire truck rolled to a stop at the traffic light with all the firemen standing on the runners, hanging from the hooks and ladders, dressed for a fire. A boy on the corner holding his mother's hand waved and all the firemen waved back—God bless them.

—Please, Katey. It's over between Anne and me. I came back from Wallace's to tell her. That's why we were having lunch.

I turned back to Tinker thinking out loud.

—I wonder if Wallace knew?

Tinker winced again. He just couldn't shake that wounded look. It was suddenly inconceivable that he had seemed so attractive. In retrospect, he was so obviously a fiction—with his monogrammed this and his monogrammed that. Like that silver flask in its leather sheath, which he must have topped off in his spotless kitchen with a tiny little funnel—despite the fact that on every other street corner in Manhattan you can buy whiskey in a bottle that's sized for your pocket.

When you thought of Wallace in his simple gray suit giving quiet counsel to the silver-haired friends of his father, Tinker seemed a vaudeville performer by comparison. I suppose we don't rely on comparison enough to tell us whom it is that we are talking to. We give people the liberty of fashioning themselves in the moment—a span of time that is so much more manageable, stageable, controllable than is a lifetime.

Funny. I had looked upon this encounter with such dread. But now that it was here, I was finding it kind of interesting; helpful; even encouraging.

—Katey, he said, or rather implored. I'm trying to tell you. That part of my life is over.

—Same here.

—Please, don't say that.

—Hey! I said cheerfully, cutting him off again. Here's one for you: Have you ever been camping? I mean, actually camping in the woods? With the jackknives and the compasses?

This seemed to strike a chord. I could see his jaw muscles tense.

—You're going too far, Katey.

—Really? I've never been there. What's it like?

He looked down at his hands.

—Boy, I said. If your mother could only see you now.

Tinker rose abruptly. He banged his thigh into the corner of the table, disturbing the tranquility of the cream in its pitcher. He laid a fivedollar bill by the sugar, showing appropriate consideration for our waitress.

—Coffee's on Anne? I asked.

He staggered to the door like a drunk.

—Is
this
too far? I called after him. It doesn't seem so bad!

I put another five dollars on the table and got up. As I walked toward the door I staggered a little too. I looked up and down Second Avenue like a wolf that's escaped from its cage. I checked my watch. The hands were splayed between the nine and the three, like two duelers back-to-back who have counted off paces and are about to turn and fire.

The night was young.

It took Dicky five minutes to answer the banging on his door. We hadn't seen each other since we crashed the party at Whileaway.

—Katey! What a terrific surprise. Terrific and . . . hieroglyphic. He was dressed in tuxedo pants and a formal shirt. He must have been tying his tie when I began knocking because it was hanging freely from his collar. It made him look dashing in an untied-black-tie kind of way.

—May I?

—Absolutely!

When I had gotten off the subway uptown, I had stopped for a drink or two at an Irish bar on Lexington. So I slid past him into the living room a little like a will-o'-the-wisp. I had only been in Dicky's place when it was crowded with people. Empty, I could see how orderly Dicky was under his gay exterior.
Everything
was in its proper place. The chairs were arranged in alignment with the cocktail table. The books in the bookcases were organized by author. The freestanding ashtray was just to the right of the reading chair and the nickel-plated architect's lamp just to the left.

Dicky was staring at me.

—You're a redhead again!

—Not for long. How about a drink?

Obviously expected elsewhere, Dicky pointed toward the front door and opened his mouth. I raised my left eyebrow.

—Why, yes, he conceded. A drink is just the thing.

He went to a fine Macassar cabinet along the wall. The front panel came down like the writing surface of a secretary.

—Whiskey?

—Your pleasure is mine, I said.

He poured us both a dram and we clinked glasses. I emptied mine and held it out in the air. He opened his mouth again as if he was going to speak but emptied his glass instead. Then he poured us both more suitable portions. I took a swig and spun around once as if to get my bearings.

—It's a lovely place, I said. But I don't think I've seen the whole thing.

—Of course, of course. Where are my manners? Right this way!

He gestured through a door. It led into a little dining room lit by taper-style sconces. The colonial table had probably been in the family since New York was a colony.

—Here lies the refectory. The table's designed for six, but seats fourteen in a pinch.

At the other end of the dining room was a swinging door with a porthole. We went through it into a kitchen that was as clean and white as heaven.

—The kitchen, he said turning his hand in the air.

We went through another door and down a hallway, passing a guest room that was obviously unused. On the bed were summer clothes neatly folded, ready to be stowed for the winter. The next room was his bedroom. The bed was neatly made. The only loose piece of clothing was his tuxedo jacket, which hung over a chair in front of a little writing desk.

—And what's in here? I asked, pushing open a door.

—Uhm. The lavatorium?

—Ah!

Dicky seemed sweetly reluctant to include it on the tour; but it was a work of art. Wide white tiles with a heavy glaze ran from floor to ceiling. It had the luxury of two windows: one over the radiator and one over the tub. The tub was a freestanding porcelain number six feet long with claw feet and nickel plumbing rising from the floor. On the wall a long glass shelf was lined with what appeared to be lotions, hair tonics, colognes.

—My sister has an affinity for Christmas gifts from the salon, Dicky explained.

I ran my hand along the rim of the tub as one would along the hood of a car.

—What a beauty.

—Cleanliness is next to godliness, Dicky said.

I emptied my drink and put the glass on the windowsill.

—Let's give it a spin.

—What's that?

I lifted my dress up over my head and kicked off my shoes.

Dicky looked as wide-eyed as a teenager. He emptied his drink in a gulp and put it teetering on the edge of the sink. He began talking excitedly.

—You'll not find a finer tub in all New York.

I turned on the water.

—Its porcelain was fired in Amsterdam. Its feet were cast in París. They were fashioned after the paws of Marie Antoinette's pet panther.

Dicky ripped off his shirt. A mother-of-pearl stud skittered across the black-and-white tiles of the floor. He pulled off his right shoe with a tug, but he couldn't get the left one off. He hopped up and down a few times and stumbled against the sink. His whiskey glass slipped from its perch and shattered against the drain. He held the shoe up in the air with a victorious expression.

I was naked now and about to climb in.

—Suds! he shouted.

He went to the shelf of Christmas gifts and studied it frenetically. He couldn't decide which of the soaps he should choose. So he grabbed two jars, stepped to the rim of the tub, and dumped them both in. He stuck his hands in the water and whisked it into a froth. The rising steam gave off a heady smell of lavender and lemon.

I slipped in under the bubbles. He jumped in after me like a truant jumping in a watering hole. He was in such a rush that he didn't realize he was still in his socks. He took them off and slung them against the wall with a splat. He reached behind his back and produced a brush.

—Shall we?

I took the brush and tossed it onto the bathroom floor. I slid my legs around his waist. I put my hands on the rim of the tub and lowered myself onto his lap.

—
I'm
next to godliness, I said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Your Tired, Your Poor, Your Tempest-Tost

On Monday morning, I was in the back of a limousine with Mason Tate on our way to interview a grande dame on the Upper West Side. He was in a foul mood. He still didn't have a cover story for the premier issue, and every week that passed without one seemed to lower his threshold for dissatisfaction. Proceeding up Madison Avenue, his coffee had been too cold, the air too warm, the driver too slow. To make matters worse, as far as Tate was concerned this interview, set up by the publisher, was a colossal waste of time. The doyenne's upbringing was too good, he said, her intelligence too dull and her eyesight too dim to promise any skinny of interest. So if being asked to accompany Mr. Tate on an interview was normally a compliment, today it was a form of punishment. I wasn't out of the doghouse yet.

We turned onto Fifty-ninth Street in silence. On the steps of the Plaza stood the hotel's officious captains dressed in long red coats with big brass buttons. Half a block away, the epauletted officers of the Essex House wore a sharply contrasting shade of blue. This would no doubt make things so much easier should the two hotels ever go to war.