The Ramblers (7 page)

“Good. Fine. Did a little client prep and ran a few miles on the treadmill and tidied up. I know that things are going to go haywire in a few days with Thanksgiving and all the wedding hoopla, so I need to be on my game.” There is a tension in Smith's face as she speaks, an unmistakable stiffness to her jaw. She stares out over the water.

“The wedding will be fine, Smith,” Clio says. “I'll make sure you survive it.”

Clio too must survive it. Yet another party to make her anxious. And by all indications, the wedding will be in keeping with all things Anderson: tastefully extravagant. Sally and Smith's parents, Bitsy and Thatcher, have been unfailingly kind to Clio, in their own Waspish way, and Clio will always have a special softness for Bitsy, who drove Smith to New Haven the night that Clio's mother died, but Clio's never
felt totally comfortable in the family's presence. She knows that in their eyes she'll always be Smith's quirky college roommate, Smith's pity project. Smith checks her watch, seems anxious.

“Hot date?” Clio says.

“Soooo . . . ,” Smith says coyly. “I invited Tate to join us.”

“Tate?”

“Tate Pennington? From the game yesterday? Jesus, Clio, do you remember anything from last night?”

“Oh! Tate! Of course,” Clio says. This was one of the first things Smith mentioned when she arrived at the hotel's opening party. That she'd run into her old friend Tate at the Yale-Harvard tailgate that morning; that they laughed about being the only “pathetic singletons” there.

“I hope you're not upset that I invited him. Thought we three could go abuse Thatcher's tab at the Boathouse?”

“Yeah. Sure,” Clio says, but the truth is that she is slightly annoyed. She was craving time alone with her friend, eager for Smith's take on Patrick's appearance, for some timely optimistic gloss. They've met like this almost every week for years now, and it's become a ritual of sorts, a bookend to each week, their Sunday date. Typically, they sit here for a while and then walk through the Ramble and find their spot in the grass by the Gill.

“I guess Tate built some kind of photography app with another guy from our class and they sold it about a year ago,” Smith says breathlessly. “He just got separated . . . from a girl in our class. Olivia Farnsworth, long dark hair, Silliman, field hockey team? Remember her?”

Clio shakes her head no as Smith pops up and waves. “There he is!” she says.

He's still tall and thin and fair, endearingly disheveled. Though she never got to know him well, her memories of him are sharp and enduring, in contrast to the rest of the red brick and ivy blur. Smith likes to point out that Clio never made much of an effort to get to know most of their classmates. Throughout college Clio cultivated an air of aloofness. She wore the same plain uniform every day—faded jeans and a
sweater—and threw her hair back in a ponytail. She worked hard to seem like she didn't care, but underneath it all was a simple, gnawing sense of inferiority, that everyone else fit in and she didn't. During the week, she kept to herself, diligently attending class and studying hard, working various jobs to help with tuition, spending time with Smith and making phone calls to Jack. On weekends, while Smith flitted around from party to party, ever the well-bred social butterfly, Clio hid in the hushed stacks at Sterling Memorial Library or went home to run errands for her overwhelmed parents, stocking the fridge with her mother's favorite yogurt, her father's Heineken and Canadian bacon, running to the pharmacy to refill a prescription.
They'll figure it out without you,
Smith said insistently. But Clio wasn't so sure.

She has come to realize over the years how foolish this façade was, that everyone else was no doubt just as lost and insecure and confused as she was. But Tate made an impact and she remembers him fondly. He was a bit of an oddball like she was, effeminate or maybe just artsy, an outsider who had never been to Nantucket or Paris, who didn't smoke pot at prep school or know how to handle a lacrosse stick. He carried a Polaroid camera everywhere, even to his shifts at the campus laundry, where he and Clio worked together freshman year, at first quietly side by side, but soon dipping into cathartic conversations about their new privileged peers, kids who didn't have to work to subsidize their tuition like they did, kids who went out for expensive sushi dinners instead of eating in the dining hall, kids like Smith, who were essentially members of a different species.

“Clio Marsh,” Tate says, throwing his arm around her a bit awkwardly. “Wow. It's been a while. You look great. Different.”

Clio smiles. The flattery does little to distract her from the fact that she's very likely losing the one man she's cared about, but she does what she's learned to do. She pretends, pushes through, reaches out to hug this classmate she hasn't seen in more than ten years. “You too, Tate. How have you been?” she asks.

At this question, he laughs. “Oh, you know, a combination of amaz
ing and miserable. I'm ready for a Bloody Mary. After last night, my head's in revolt. The hair of the dog might do the trick,” he says without missing a beat.

“On to the Boathouse then?” Smith says, looking at Clio.

Clio shrugs. She feels faint, as if the wind is passing through her. She's here, but she's not. She finds a word, a single word, all she can muster: “Sure.”

“Ah, the famous Loeb Boathouse. Designed by revered park architect Calvert Vaux in 1872,” he says, suddenly slipping into tour guide mode. “Built to provide a covered spot for docking and storing boats. Victorian details. Demolished in 1950 after falling into terrible disrepair and the new Boathouse opened its doors in 1954. Unofficial headquarters for birders who jot their sightings in a notebook inside the building.”

Smith looks over at Clio and smiles. “Clio here is one of the city's most celebrated birdwatchers. I imagine you know all about this famous notebook, Clio?”

Clio nods yes but wishes Smith would pick up on the fact that she's not up for chitchat. Sure, she knows about the notebook, but she can't shake the feeling that she's participating in some kind of bizarre theatrical game. Still, she plays along because she cares about Smith, because each word spoken takes her out of her catastrophizing head.

“So how do you know so much about the Boathouse?” Clio says.

Tate smiles. “I'm working on an image-recognition New York City architecture app. That, and applying to grad programs in photography. I'm kind of all over the place, to be honest, but trying to be cool with the fact that I really have no fucking clue what I'm doing.”

This is the Tate she remembers. The guy who's quick to admit his own ignorance. Yale was a glittering place, intimidating at times, and how refreshing it was to encounter a kindred soul who didn't pretend to have it all together.

The three of them make their way to the bar and restaurant not far from them in the park. Despite the cold, there's plenty of activity.
Families. Joggers. Bikers. Dogs. When they enter the restaurant, the maître d' makes a beeline for Smith and kisses her on the cheek hello.

“My Napoleonic father's a regular in these parts,” she whispers to Tate. “Lots of client meetings. You know how it goes.”

They sit at a table by the window. The waiter hands them menus and Tate is quick to order his drink. Smith follows suit and Clio orders a drink too, though she will not drink it. Her head is already too light. When the cocktails arrive, Tate plucks an olive from his and tosses it in his mouth. He drains his glass quickly, as if on a mission, and looks up at Clio. Smiles. “We used to have some pretty good talks while we were busy doing glamorous tasks like cleaning the washers.”

Clio nods. Thinks back. “We did.”

Clio remembers those months, how she looked forward to seeing him during their shifts. He lacked the pretension she glimpsed in so many of their classmates. He was on the quiet side, but everything he did say felt real in a way. His comments on their shared new culture were interesting, if somewhat antiestablishment, and made her feel less alone.

“Look at you two,” Smith says. “Bonding over dirty laundry, literally.”

Tate grins. “Clio, not sure whether Smith's given you the scoop, but by way of background, I'm a minor-league wreck at the moment. Going through a divorce. Stoked to be back in New York City, though. California was never for me.”

“Love troubles abound,” Smith says before Clio has a chance to get a word in. “Clio here is dealing with a situation with her boyfriend. Tell him, Clio. How great to get a male perspective.”

Clio stares at Smith, trying to figure out why she would put her on the spot like this. She knows how private Clio is. She considers standing up, leaving. The fresh air outside would be a balm and she'd feel better, but she can't do that to her friend. Nor can she just sit here and ignore Smith's invitation to speak. “Um, so, I've been dating someone
and I thought it was casual but now he wants me to move in with him,” she says, as if the story's really this simple.

“Wow, that's great. You love him?” Tate asks earnestly, fiddling with his ice. His gaze is steady.

Clio stares down into the depths of her drink, a Bloody Mary that's growing watery as the ice melts. It startles her how easily he throws the word out. Love. It's a simpler thing for other people, she thinks.

“Um, well, I've never been in love before,” she says, forcing a shaky smile. “So I'm not sure I know.” She catches Smith's eye and can see that her friend is catching on, that she's concerned. Clio's seen this look many times.

“Is he a good guy, at least?” Tate says, glancing toward Smith.

Clio nods. So does Smith.

“He's old as the hills,” Smith says. “But he's extremely charming in this kind of vaguely paunchy Pierce Brosnan way. And he adores Clio. Yes, he's a good guy.”

“Old as the hills? Smith! He's
fifty,
” Clio says, grateful for the sudden dose of levity. She pretends to hit Smith with her napkin.

“He's ancient! He'll keel over at any moment!” Tate says.

“Okay, fine, he's not ancient. But he's not a sprite like us either,” Smith says. “And I say cheers to that.”

“And I say go for it then. I know I should be advocating restraint after the crap I've been dealing with, but hell, that's not the way to live life. You've got to risk it. What's the point otherwise? Play it safe and then die alone?”

“So depressing. I liked you more when you were talking about the campus laundry,” Smith says, nudging him playfully.

Smith orders another round of drinks and tucks her hair behind her ear. She's flirting again, something Smith does expertly, but also something Clio hasn't seen her do in a while. This lightness has been missing. Even with Asad, there was a frank seriousness to Smith, a detectable caution in her dress and mannerisms, a palpable undercurrent of fear that Smith would lose him. But here she sits, sipping a daytime cocktail in this
sun-blanched restaurant, a true smile on her face. Still, Clio can see it in the dark circles under Smith's eyes, the melancholy that lingers.

“What Clio failed to mention is that he doesn't just want her to move in. He
designed
a full apartment on the top floor of his hotel for them to live in. All she has to do is move her things a few blocks from my place and, voilà!”

Voilà.

Smith's words are like cuts, each one sharper than the next. Clio knows she means well, but she can't do this. She can't sit here at this fancy restaurant and drink vodka and carry on like her life is some Hollywood movie, inching toward some simple, saccharine happy ending. She must get out of here.

She stands abruptly. Smith grabs Clio's arm. “You okay?”

Clio nods quickly. Assures them both she's just fine even though that's a lie. She's not fine. She's coming apart, bit by bit, her body growing weak, her mind addled with images of Henry's smile, with his triumphant laughter, with the last words she heard him speak.
What's wrong with you?

“I need to run,” Clio says, “I need to get in touch with Henry.” She pushes her drink to the center of the table; she hasn't taken a single sip. “This one's up for grabs. You two can fight over it.”

“We'll duke it out,” Tate quips, the concern in his eyes quickly fading.

Clio finds a twenty in her bag and hands it to Smith, as she always does. Smith bats it away. “Stop. It's Thatcher's pleasure.”

“It was so good to see you again, Tate,” Clio says. He gives her a knowing look, a comforting nod, as if to say,
She's in good hands; I'm still that quiet kid from freshman year
.

At the door of the restaurant, Clio looks back. The two of them are deep in conversation, laughing.

As she exits the restaurant, she nearly stumbles. Her exhaustion is thick and throttling. It's unclear what awaits her, but she can't put it off any longer.

“You barely know me.”

C
lio wanders out of the park and pulls out her phone. She dials Jack. When he picks up, one of his daughters cries in the background. “Hang on,” he says. “Let me sneak into the bathroom.”

As always, the sound of his voice soothes her. She hears a door close and then it's quiet. “I have so much to tell you,” she says. “I think I screwed things up with Henry. I'm no good at this, Jack. And now Smith is off drinking with this guy from college and I'm worried she's falling apart and I'm dreading coming home to my dad. It's just so sad.”

“Have you called your dad, Clio?” Jack says.

“Not yet,” she says, and is suddenly defensive with guilt. “I just got back yesterday.”

“You've managed to call me twice since you've been back,” he says.

“Because it's
you,
” Clio says.

“Call him,” Jack says. “Let him know when you're coming home. Call me later and tell me everything, but go call your dad. There's a small human banging on the door anyway. I've got to go.”

Clio laughs. “All right, Mr. Conscience. Say hello to the small human.”

She hangs up and stares at the screen. She promised her father she'd call to discuss Thanksgiving as soon as she got home, but yesterday was a flurry of activity from the moment she touched down at JFK. She'd hoped to catch up on some sleep after her trip, but Smith had other plans: a makeover.

This was a big night, Smith argued, and Clio needed to look the part. She insisted that Clio borrow a dress and heels, that if she took the train home that evening from the Yale-Harvard game in New Haven and found Clio wearing her melancholy navy shift dress to the party, she wouldn't forgive her.

So instead of spending the day sifting through her field notes from Ecuador, Clio, flattened by fatigue, floated from salon to salon, where Smith had booked appointments for her, being pampered. She sipped mint tea and nibbled on almond cookies and allowed herself to be transformed from angst-ridden ornithologist to well-heeled ingénue. It was all an act, a contrivance, but Clio delighted in not fighting it; it was, oddly, just what she needed. And when she stood in front of Smith's full-length mirror ready to go in her glittery dress and heels, her dark-blond hair smooth and straight, makeup flawless on her pale skin, she felt a surge of confidence.

The day had slipped by and the party began and, well, she never called her dad.

She loves him, she reminds herself of this, but talking to her father inevitably brings her back. All those years of the three of them—Clio and her mother and father—in that small house weathering the hibernations and disappearances and outbursts, the empty fridge and
thrown dishes, the visits from the police, the tears and rants and apologies, the endless sinister storms Clio would understand only when she was older and finally learned the truth.

She reaches the museum steps and sits, hands deep in her pockets, her breath leaving white wisps of condensation in the air. From her perch, she spots a trio of pigeons near the curb. They peck at a twist of pretzel and this makes her think of her mother, who was always full of odd facts about Darwin. One such fact was that he studied pigeons, obtaining skins from around the world, tucking into pigeon treatises, befriending fellow fanciers and joining London pigeon clubs.
Say hello hello to the pigeons,
Eloise would say when they spoke on the phone.

She dials. Her father answers on the second ring. She can picture his movements, his standing up from his TV chair and walking swiftly to the kitchen to the home's only phone. On Sundays he watches football, something Eloise gave him flak for. She thought it was a brutal sport.

“Marsh residence,” he says. The mere sound of his voice and tears prick her eyes. Guilt spreads within her, a gnawing feeling that she's fallen woefully short as a daughter, that she's betrayed him somehow by getting on with her life, a life that doesn't really include him.

“Hey, Dad, it's Clio,” she says, swallowing, a familiar lump forming in her throat.

“So you got back okay?”

“Yes,” she says. “Last night was the opening of Henry's hotel. It went well.”

“Good to hear,” he says, his voice distant.

“I'd like for you to meet him at some point,” Clio surprises herself by saying, and waits.

“I'd like that,” he says, his words perfunctory, trailing off and giving way to a heavy silence.

The truth is that she's not ready for her father to meet Henry. She's never been ready to bring a man home. Not that there have been many men. Clio's chalked it all up to choice; after having a front-row seat to
her parents' struggle, she hasn't exactly been eager to commit. But now there is a man in the picture and she cares about him and, no, she's not ready for any of this.

The silence now doesn't surprise her, but it does leave her crestfallen. When her mother died, she foolishly hoped that her relationship with her father would reset itself, that they'd learn to lean on each other, that they'd make efforts to get to know each other. Her hopes were high; she'd be dutiful about calling often, about checking in. She'd reach out several times a week even if only to talk about the banal details of their respective lives, her work with the birds, his construction jobs. It would be healthy for each of them to indulge in some of the normalcy they never had when her mother was around.

She willed an optimism that felt flimsy at times, a deep wish that things would magically transform, that he would find his voice in the precarious aftermath, and she'd find hers too, that they'd take greater interest in each other's lives, that they'd ask each other questions and make up for all those lost years.

They didn't. It hasn't happened that way. Instead, more distance. More silence. Clio has rationalized it all, has worked hard to assuage her own blooming shame, soothing herself with stories likely fictive; maybe this is what her father prefers.

He's always been quiet, a man of few words, never one to examine or explore life too deeply, the strong silent type who never really seemed all that strong—though who is she to judge, there's no saying she would have had more fortitude in his unfortunate spot of essentially babysitting a time bomb.

He's stayed in New Haven and she's stayed here. They talk from time to time, their calls strained and halting and full of hurt that neither of them seems to be able to unpack. She can't shake the feeling that she's abandoned him.

“I'm going to catch an early train on Wednesday,” she says.

“I told you I can handle the house,” her father says now. “You don't
need to come. I know you've been busy with the travel and with Henry. I can handle it and I don't want to burden you with—”

“Dad,
stop,
” she says, aware of a trace bitterness in her voice, biting her lip. “I'm coming home. I want to, okay? If you can pick me up at the station, great. Otherwise, I'll catch a cab, or call Jack, or something . . .”

“I always pick you up,” he says.

“You didn't last year,” she says quickly, immediately regretting this unnecessary barb. Why must she always bring up the past?

“I have to work on Wednesday, but if you get in before eight or eight thirty, that'll work.”

“I think there's a 5:57 or 5:47. I'll be in before eight. We can have dinner together, or—”

“Good then.”

“How are the Giants playing?” Clio asks. It's a foolish, insipid question, but it's all she's got. They've perfected a collective cowardice, grown skilled at talking about everything other than what matters.

“Oh, not so well. Nice to take a break from the packing, though. Having myself a Heineken that Jack brought by. I'm looking forward to seeing you,” he says. “It's been too long.”

It's been too long.
A dagger. Always.

“Yeah, you too, Dad,” she says before hanging up. She looks down at her phone and then up at the trees, the sky, city strangers out and about, doing their Sunday stuff. A bolt of determination hits her: This time, things with her father will be different. She will go home and see him and they will talk. They will get somewhere.

Clio stands and walks down to the sidewalk. She begins her well-worn route back to the hotel, cutting through by the Hayden Planetarium. She walks by the Nobel statue and heads west along Seventy-Ninth. When she reaches Amsterdam, she feels herself slowing. A surprising
sense of calm falls over her as she takes in this little corner of the world that's become so familiar. She's come to recognize certain people and certain dogs. Down the way, ruddy-faced men stumble euphorically from under the neon harp of the Dublin House, the charming sliver of a pub where she and Henry had drinks on their first date after he walked her through the construction site for the hotel.

That night. She remembers it so clearly, how easy it was to talk to him, how he was a gentleman but also fun. He walked her back to the San Remo and handed her his very own copy of E. B. White's
Here Is New York,
telling her:
Read this and you will understand.
She wasn't sure what she was meant to understand and didn't ask but it was all very clever; this ensured that she would see him again because she'd have to return his book. She promised to read it, and this made him smile and he took her face in his hands, bent down and whispered words she wouldn't forget.
Just think, days ago, I didn't know you. Time is a funny thing.

And then their first kiss. A simple kiss, a wispy tease, barely there at all. He pulled away and stood quietly, his tall silhouette stark against a wallpaper of trees and spring night sky. And Clio just stayed there on the sidewalk, smiling. He walked away into the night, making it only as far as the corner before turning back to see if she was still there. She was.

He's it,
Smith said later after all the Googling. Clio fought her on this. There was no
it
.
It
was a fiction, a fairy tale, a fallacy.
It
was what got people in trouble. But Smith wouldn't budge. She held firm.
It, I tell you.

She stayed up and read
Here Is New York
. She read carefully but quickly, and when she got to the final page, the part he'd underlined about the beleaguered willow tree . . .
Life under difficulties, growth against odds, sap-rise in the midst of concrete . . .
she felt tears filling her eyes.

When she closed the book, a scrap of paper fell out and floated to the floor, a scrap of paper she's saved.
You might just be my thing. —HK.

Goodness, he liked her. Even then. From the very beginning. Enough to call his brother. Enough to write a love note. Last night was not good, there's no way to make it good now, but they will talk about it like they have talked about nearly everything and move on; she will make it right. Determined, Clio picks up her pace.

At the entrance of the hotel, she pauses and peers inside. Through the glass, she beholds a new scene: a hum of activity, vitality, life, the first guests.

She walks inside. The concierge greets her warmly. “Welcome back, Ms. Marsh. He's in the garden,” he says.

Nerves come as she walks past a boisterous crowd gathered at the elevator bank, toward the glass door to the courtyard. She grabs the handle and pushes her way out.

Henry is sitting on a bench and turns toward her. A tired smile overtakes his face, but there is distance in his eyes. Things are different now.

“I needed some air,” Henry says, standing. “I've been a disaster all day.”

“Me too,” she says, nodding.

He wears his favorite ivory cable Aran sweater, his heather-gray Irish flat cap, an old pair of Levi's. He hesitates for a moment but then comes straight at her, eyes steady and tired, and wraps his whole body around her. He lifts her up, carries her to the bench and holds her on his lap. She stares up at the white sky.

A fleck of cold brings her back to the moment.

“Snow,” Henry says. “I have a thing for snow.”

“I didn't know that,” she says.

“Now you do.”

With the two of them, there's been little silence. All those years, both of them alone, saving up stories. They've packed their time together with words. But here and now: silence. Clio wants to believe that there's something peaceful about this snowy quiet.

“Come on,” he says. “Let's head up.”

They ride up in the small elevator with an older couple who's just checked in. Henry shifts into work mode, turning on the charm, welcoming them to his hotel, but Clio hangs back and takes in the rich detail of the tiny space. The wallpaper—made of recycled strips of old
New York Times
. The lantern that once hung in the Algonquin Hotel, where E. B. White wrote
Here Is New York;
the round vintage buttons with numbers in an antique font. The red light of the ceiling camera reminds her of his words last night:
People will see us.
The memory arouses her, fills her with warmth. All she wants is for everything to be fine, to fast-forward through the hard parts. All she wants is to kiss him, to feel his weight on top of her again.

When Henry opens the door to his room, Clio sees something that both saddens her and makes perfect sense: the bookshelf is back in its place. The door is hidden once more, gone, as if it were all a dream. Empty room service platters rest on the bed. Newspapers are strewn everywhere. Clio drops her bag to the carpet, takes a deep breath.

Henry unzips her jacket, peels it from her and marches it to the closet, where he hangs it.

“What happened last night?” he says, nibbling his nail, pulling her to sit beside him on the bed. “You scared me running off like that. Tell me about these panic attacks. What do they feel like? Why do they happen?”

His questions are fair. Straightforward. She's answered them before.