The Last Chance (9 page)

“I did,” Rachel said. “I really did.”

Nikki was still smiling while she let herself into the building and ran lightly up the flight of stairs to her apartment. Forty-two years old and not a bit out of breath, she thought proudly. She was just in time for the ten o’clock programs on television. Her favorite was on tonight, the one that Robert detested and always made her turn off if they were watching TV in bed together. There were certain advantages to living alone!

She had just started to put her key into the lock of her apartment door when she noticed that the entire lock was loose. She touched it and it moved in her hand. Her heart turned over. It had all seemed unreal, like statistics, but now … Someone had tried to break in and had been frightened away, or maybe had broken in. Maybe he was still in there. She was suddenly flooded with rage. How dare anyone intrude on her life, mess up her things, the things she loved? Nikki pushed the door open and entered the apartment.

No one was in the living room, nor had ever been. She went into the bedroom, the kitchen, and looked into all the closets. The adrenaline stopped pumping and her rage subsided. Nothing had been touched. What the hell was she going to do now? She couldn’t call Robert, he would have a fit. She’d better call the locksmith. They had a twenty-four-hour number for emergencies.

She called the locksmith and he said he would be over in about an hour because he had to come from Queens. “You just put this lock
in
, you know,” Nikki said. “It cost me fifty dollars.”

“You ought to have a plate that bolts onto the door over the lock,” he said. “Then nobody can tear the lock out.”

“Now you’re telling me?”

“I usually wait till they ask.”

“Bring it,” Nikki said.

She sat down to wait. It occurred to her that it was a dumb thing to do, just sit here, because the burglar might come back. He wouldn’t want to waste the nice job he’d done on her fifty-buck lock. She put a cassette into her little player so he would know the apartment was occupied and poured herself a big glass of white wine. God, anybody could just walk right in. She decided to call Margot. Margot could come over and bring Kerry, then there would be a man around. But Margot’s phone rang and rang. They were either out or screwing. What a pain. Who else could she call? Ellen owed her a favor for getting her the job, but she lived on the West Side, even farther away than Margot, and by the time she got dressed and came over the locksmith would be there—or the burglar. She would call Rachel. She didn’t like making Rachel come out again right after getting home, but she didn’t like sitting here all alone either.

“Oh, my God!” Rachel cried. “Go ring your neighbor’s bell and wait there till I come.”

It had never occurred to Nikki to ring her neighbor’s bell. From the moment she had moved into this apartment her greatest joy had been the privacy and anonymity the building afforded. She didn’t even know who her neighbors were. She drank down the last of the wine and went out into the hall. She didn’t like leaving her apartment alone, she preferred staying in there and guarding it. There were three other apartments on the floor. She rang the bell of the one nearest hers.

No answer. She rang again. She heard the scrape of the peephole cover being pushed aside. “Who is it?” asked a quavery voice.

“Nikki Gellhorn, your next-door neighbor.”

The door opened a crack, held to by a stout chain, but Nikki couldn’t see anyone inside. Then she looked down and there was a tiny old woman, about four feet tall, about eighty years old, looking at her with suspicious little eyes like a wizened monkey.

“What do you want?”

“Somebody tried to break into my apartment.”

“Ooh. Did they rob you?”

“They got scared off, but they might come back and I—”

Crash! The woman slammed her door shut before Nikki could even finish her sentence. Furious, Nikki rang the woman’s bell again, hard.

“Call the police,” the old voice called through the peephole. “The police.”

“Well, now I know about one of my terrific neighbors,” Nikki muttered. She wouldn’t bother with the other two. She would save them for something really important, like when the burglar stole her phone.

The elevator door opened. There was Rachel, her eyes shining, her cheeks flushed. She rushed over to Nikki and grabbed her in a big hug. “Oh, Nikki, I was scared to death! Why are you in the hall?”

“It’s too long a story to tell without a drink,” Nikki said. She led Rachel back inside her apartment.

“I’m so glad you called me,” Rachel said. She tossed her mink coat on the couch. “I would have been hurt if you’d called anybody else.”

“I did call the locksmith.”

“Oh, you know what I mean. I mean I really feel that you and I are friends now.”

“And what else are friends for?” said Nikki, and giggled.

She opened a new bottle of white wine. Rachel sipped at hers. “You’re so calm,” Rachel said. “I feel like we’re having a party.”

“Well, we are.”

Rachel inspected the lock without touching it. “Maybe the police can get some fingerprints off it,” she said. “Life is a mess, isn’t it?”

“I think it’s usually fun,” Nikki said. “This isn’t so bad. It’s kind of fun. You’re here.”

“I admire you so much,” Rachel said. “I always have.”

“Well, thank you.”

“When I got home, Lawrence was in his den working. He didn’t want to talk. I’m glad you called. I missed you.”

I don’t believe it, Nikki thought. She’s got a crush on me! I wonder if she’s gay. I always thought half those jet set people were bisexual.

“What are you thinking?” Rachel asked.

“Nothing,” Nikki said. “I’m just thinking I’m glad you’re here so I don’t have to be all alone.” Why do I do this? I shouldn’t encourage her. But I
like
that she has a crush on me. Nobody ever did before.

Rachel wondered if she’d been too pushy. Having a best friend was so complicated when you were both grown-ups. The secrets you shared were different, so guarded. When she was a little girl she’d sat in her tree house with her best friend and confided, “I hate my mother,” and her best friend had whispered, “I hate mine too.” You’d say you loved each other and swear it in blood. But now you and your new best friend had a lifetime of dissembling to keep you apart, and if you came right out and told her you loved her, she would think you were desperately lonely and would draw back.

She knew she didn’t know Nikki well enough to love her, but she thought about her all the time. She would have liked to be able to see life through Nikki’s eyes, to be so independent. Rachel felt now that she had wasted her life. Making Lawrence comfortable was not enough. He could hire people to do that. She should have been somebody in her own right, not just an echo. But it wasn’t too late. Nikki was older than she was and had grabbed the moment. She was going to grab the moment too and become a real person. Lawrence would be glad … no, she had to stop thinking about herself through his eyes;
she
would be glad.

The doorbell rang and they both jumped. Nikki had put the unlocked door on the chain. “Locksmith,” a cheerful male voice sang out.

Nikki let him in. He looked the lock over and lit a cigarette. “Maybe you ought to have an alarm lock,” he said.

“Not with my neighbors,” Nikki said. “They’d just crawl under the bed.”

“Y’see, this is a good lock. He had too much trouble trying to pick it, so he just tried to yank it out. I’ll give you one of those plates that bolts right through the door. Nobody can get them off—the harder you try, the more resistance you get.”

“Good,” Nikki said. “Do it.”

“Now you’re safe unless you let somebody in,” Rachel said, smiling at Nikki. “You know enough not to let a stranger in, don’t you?”

“I let them in all the time,” Nikki said sarcastically. “I ask them right off the street. Especially the guys in the tight jeans. I may be a Wilton housewife but I’m not a hick.”

When the new lock was installed Nikki wrote out a check and the locksmith left. Rachel felt drained and tired. “May I use your phone?”

“Do you have to ask? You saved me.”

Rachel called the limousine service and told them to send a car right away. Nikki was looking at her with amusement. Maybe it
was
silly, but it was late, and that was the way she lived. She told them what apartment the driver should buzz when he arrived.

“What did your husband say when you dashed out of there?” Nikki asked.

“I left him a note on his pillow with your phone number. I said you were having an emergency. He probably thinks it’s something emotional. I’m not the type people call when they have a real emergency like a burglary.”

“I don’t know why not. I’ll refer you to all my friends.”

Margot took the phone out of the closet and turned the bell back on. She would call her service another time. Kerry was standing over the dying fire. He turned and looked at her. “Another log, love? Or do we go to sleep?”

“I hate to go to sleep,” she said. “I feel as if I’m missing all those hours when I could be with you.”

“You
are
with me.”

“I know, but I’m asleep, so I don’t know it.”

He yawned. “I vote for sleep.”

We used to stay up all night and talk, she thought. She felt the smallest warning. They’d had almost three months together. She was hopelessly in love with him. But he couldn’t be tired of her, not so soon. She was resigned to it happening some day, but not this soon. He probably really was tired. She wouldn’t be surprised, the way he used up all that energy and the way he hardly ate anything. She went out of her way to go to gourmet shops to buy him wonderful treats and then he had no appetite. That was why he had such a beautiful body. It wasn’t just youth, it was the way he lived. Or maybe he loved her as much as she loved him. She had very little appetite now too. Sometimes he would wake up in the middle of the night and look at her, and hug her, and say, “Oh, Margot, I love you so much.”

Moments like that she carried with her for days, until they happened again. Sometimes lately she could even go through a whole day with a feeling of safety, that he wouldn’t abandon her, that together they could stop time. She would give anything for that, do anything, if only she knew what to do.

April 1975

Jill Rennie knew her mother was on the prowl again. She had broken up with the gray-faced man, and he phoned often, at dangerous times, when the whole family was home. Jill had answered the phone a few times and had been sorry for him when she recognized the desperation in his voice. He was a gray mouse, that was what he was.

“For you, Mom,” she would say cheerfully.

“Who is it?” her mother would ask.

“I don’t know,” Jill would lie. Then she would go into her room and listen on the extension. They had a lot of push-button phones in that apartment. One number was for her parents, the other was for Jill and Stacey to spend hours talking to their friends. Her father liked push-button phones and he also liked the kind where you pushed little square buttons instead of dialing. Her mother said they were too expensive and they couldn’t afford them any more, but her father insisted. Jill thought that was great. She loved gadgets.

She had lost six pounds and was down to eighty-five. People had begun to notice. First, of course, it was her sister.

“Jill, you look horrible,” Stacey said. “You look scary. How much do you weigh?”

“What difference does it make if I feel all right?”

“Do you know what happens when you starve? Your body starts eating its own protein. You’re eating your muscles. Then you’ll eat your spinal column, and then you’ll die.”

“Where did you read that crap?”

“Jill, don’t you even feel hungry?”

“I eat.”

“You can fool them, but you can’t fool me. You don’t eat.”

“All right, I’m not hungry.”

“If you get any thinner they’ll have to put you in the hospital and force-feed you,” Stacey said.

“I’d just throw up,” Jill said calmly. “You know I throw up if I ever have to eat something I don’t want to.”

“Then they’ll put you on I.V. They’ll stick needles in your veins. Aren’t you a little bit concerned about that?”

“Nope,” Jill said cheerfully.

“I looked up your symptoms in a medical book at the public library,” Stacey said. “You have adolescent anorexia nervosa. They can’t cure it. Only you can cure it. Either that or you die.”

“Well, we’ll worry about that later,” Jill said. “Why don’t you go out and play doctor with some nice little boy?”

“They’ll put you in Payne Whitney,” Stacey said. “They’ll have you committed. They’ll put you in the psycho ward.”

“Do you mind getting out of my room? I have to study for a French test.”

Stacey stood there, sturdy and adamant, her hands thrust into the pockets of her faded jeans, but her eyes were scared. “I don’t want you to
die
, Jill. You’re the only sister I’ve got.”

“Be a good girl and make me a milkshake, Stace. With the raw milk and one fertilized egg, and
no sugar
. Okay? You can bring it in and I’ll drink it while I’m studying.”

Stacey came back in a little while with the foamy milkshake. “I’ll just wait here while you drink it,” she said suspiciously.

“You don’t trust me?”

“No.”

“Well, help yourself to a chair.” Stacey set the milkshake on the table beside Jill and sat down, waiting. Jill read her French book and every few minutes she took a little sip. She couldn’t drink it faster, but if she waited too long it would get into her body. She finished the whole milkshake and forced a smile. “Okay? Now take the glass away and wash it, please.”

The minute she heard Stacey go into the kitchen Jill bolted for her bathroom and threw up. She was getting quite good at it, she could almost throw up at will. She flushed the toilet, brushed her teeth, and came out of the bathroom feeling her old healthy self again. Stacey was standing in the doorway.

“I knew you’d do that,” Stacey said.

“I didn’t do anything. You’re crazy.”

“Who is it you hate so much?” Stacey asked, and she looked as if she was going to cry. “Is it Mom? Is it yourself? Is it me?”