A Certain Age (39 page)

"Wha?"

"His name's Gideon—he's tall and—"

"What's his last name?"

"I don't know, but he drives the nightshift and ... if he works for you, I know you'd recognize him, he used to be a Mormon and—"

"Lady, you know how many drivers we got here? They work a week, a day, I don't know who's here. You got to know his last name or his number. You got his number? If you want the Lost and Found, you don't need to speak to a driver. Nothing's been turned in."

She called three or four other companies before realizing it was futile. "Are you going to be much longer? I just have to make one quick call," Lisa said.

"Sorry, sorry. Go right ahead. You don't happen to have a number for Darryl Lever, do you?"

"Who?"

"This guy—"

"Who did you say? Tell me?" Lisa suddenly sounded eager. She emerged from the bedroom and leaned over the balcony; her face had been completely covered in a cracked lavender goo.

"He's an old friend of mine, a lawyer for the homeless, which, in my present circumstance, is perfect for me."

"Did you say Darryl Lever?"

"Yeah. Do you have his number?"

"No! Do you know him? He's gorgeous. I've had a mad crush on him for years.
Everyone's
in love with him."

"Darryl?" Florence said.

"Yeah!"

"I don't have his number anymore."

"Oh." Disappointed, Lisa retreated.

She paced while Lisa was on the phone. Her call took nearly an hour. She inspected the apartment once again. Up close the

ruffles and flounces had a soiled appearance. The windowsills were greasy with soot. That was the city: no matter how rich anybody was, there was no way anything could remain clean for long. And even though Lisa hadn't left for Europe yet, there was a quality of emptiness, as if no one really lived here. It was a place constructed for display; without anybody there to view it, apart from her, it was like a theater set without a play.

"Phone's all yours, darling! I'm terribly sorry to have taken so long."

She called Tracer Schmidt. "This is Florence Collins." Tracer said nothing. "Listen, I realize for whatever reason, you don't like me. But I was wondering, I'm trying to find Darryl Lever, only his number's been disconnected, I thought you might know—"

"He's right here. I'll see if he wants to talk to you."

"You do that."

"Hi, Florence." He was on the phone. She was astonishingly relieved to hear his voice; it was like a comforting blanket. "How are you?"

"Oh, Darryl. I'm fine, I guess. Not really. I've missed you! What are you doing with
her?
I tried to call you at home—there was just one of those recordings—"

"She's looking after me. I haven't been so good. The TB isn't responding to treatment."

"So that must be useful to you, having a private nurse." She didn't mean to sound so sarcastic, but that was how it came out.

"We're engaged, actually."

It took a moment before she could speak. "Oh. Congratulations. When's the wedding?"

"Not sure yet. Not for a while. We think we'll have it at my parents' house. My father and stepmother, actually. That'll be nice, don't you think?"

"I don't know . . . how should I know? Where is it?" Florence could barely believe she was having this conversation.

"You've been there." He began to cough. "In Bridgehampton."

"No."

"Anyway, you've seen it."

"When?"

"That night . . . remember when we went to the Russian nightclub? When I drove you back to the city? I had to stop at my folks' and I ran in. You waited in the car, I think."

"But that . . . that was a mansion! That was your parents' place?" Florence was having trouble catching her breath. "Look, I have a serious, complicated legal problem and I need your help."

"You know, it's just that ... we were on our way out the door. We're going to Switzerland—there's a doctor I think who can help—and then we're traveling around Russia and the Baltic states. Listen, I hope you're not mad at me."

"For what, Darryl? If you mean I took you seriously when you proposed—"

"Oh, not about that. It's just that . . . morally, I felt obligated to repeat what you had said."

"About what?"

"About the jewelry, declaring it missing so you could sell it and the owner could get the insurance."

"I don't understand. I never said anything about taking jewelry—I mean, not seriously."

"You were drunk, but yeah, that's what you were saying. I guess I just felt that . . . well ... if you were in trouble, and someone pointed out what was happening to you—the direction you were headed in"—he lowered his voice; probably Tracer was listening—"you might turn to me for help."

"But if only I had known that—" She didn't finish the sentence. How could she say that if only she had known he was rich, things would have been different. "So you told someone where I work? Who did you tell?"

"I really can't say ... I just made sure it got passed on . . . anonymously. Did they . . . prosecute?"

"Oh, no. No. Of course not. They knew I would never . . . Look, don't worry about it. I, I have to go. Have a good trip!" She hung up before he could say anything else.

13

Sun was coming through
the window. The sheets were clean and white, the blanket soft white cotton. She had slept strangely well, so solidly that for a moment on waking she didn't have a clue where she was. At last she got up and went downstairs, dressed in a white terrycloth robe Lisa had lent her.

She looked in the refrigerator. There was no milk, no coffee, nothing to eat. She hated to put on the same dirty things she had worn yesterday—maybe she could borrow a few things—but she put them on anyway and went to the fancy emporium on the cor-

ner, spending a fortune on takeout cappuccinos, coffee cakes, muffins, fresh-squeezed OJ. If only Lisa would let her stay. It was like buying an offering for Lakshmi—she might have been better off buying flowers and incense.

It was almost noon before Lisa emerged, pushing her Vuitton trunk down the stairs. "Whew! Thank God the pugs went to the kennel yesterday or they'd be screaming in hysteria when they saw the suitcase. Did the doorman call up to say if my limo has arrived?"

"No, not yet."

"So ... I guess you'll be heading out too."

"Um . . . yes. Do you think I could borrow something to wear? I'll have it cleaned and sent back over just as soon as I can."

"Oh, my." Lisa looked her up and down. "We're probably not the same size. I don't know what I have that would fit you. I have some old jeans—but they're a size twenty-six. Would that fit you?"

"A twenty-six! . . ." Florence paused. "That would probably fit me in the waist . . . but how long are they? I'm a lot taller than you. How tall are you?"

"I'm five five."

There was no way Lisa was more than five three. "Gosh, I'm five nine. They'll be masses too short." At least now Lisa didn't have to find out a twenty-six would never fit her. Not that she even believed Lisa was a twenty-six—nobody could have such tiny hips.

"Anyway . . ." Lisa went to the window and looked out. "I can see that must be my car, waiting in front. Florence, could you buzz the doorman to come and collect my trunk?"

It wasn't a speech impediment, it was that Lisa had a fake French accent, Florence thought. All this time she had assumed it was some minor, slightly charming defect. Now she realized it was intentional, pretentious. "Sure! Oh, I almost forgot! Look, I got you a cappuccino, and a whole lot of different cakes, and some OJ." She looked at Lisa pleadingly. If Lisa was going to offer to let her stay, now was the moment.

"I'll take the coffee with me in the car. I can't eat a thing in the morning. Well, sweetie, I'm off. Two weeks in London; a whole month on a yacht in the Aegean. If I can stand it. Stanislaus hates the heat, but October shouldn't be too bad, don't you think? Then I'll probably go to Rome for a while. Come on, I have to lock up. Let's go, shall we?" Her face softened. "Are you going to be okay? I really wish I could let you stay here. It's just that . . . I've had some rather unfortunate experiences, letting friends stay, in the past. The building . . . has regulations, about guests staying when the occupant is away. Isn't that awful? And they threatened me with eviction if I ever did it again. You understand."

"I'll be fine. Have a great time." She didn't wait to see her off but went out the door.

She began to walk west through the park, her thoughts repeating in her head like a broken record. The mansion was his father's. He had only pretended to be poor. His father's mansion. Darryl was rich.

The leaves had begun to change, orange and yellow and dark red lightening to pink. Squirrels sat scratching themselves on the bright green lawn. She perched on the edge of a bench, crying. She didn't even have a tissue; she was about to get her period. When the sun went behind the clouds, it was cold.

"What's wrong?" A kind of humming, beelike, excited, came from someone standing nearby.

She looked up. It was only that filthy old Birdman. He had been around for years, feeding the pigeons. "Nothing. I've been evicted for not paying my maintenance. The bank's foreclosing on my apartment."

"That's terrible. The same thing is about to happen to me."

She looked at him skeptically. He looked a bit like a bird— Samuel Beckett's beaky nose, darting hawk eyes, shirt crusted with dried paste or worse. "The bank's foreclosing on your apartment?"

"Yes. It's not an apartment. It's a townhouse.
Mmm mmm mm."
He hummed constantly.

"Where?"

"Between Fifth and Madison. Just a block away. Do you want to see? I'm almost done with my feeding." He held up a paper sack. "Fifty pounds of cracked corn today! This was full when I began.
Hmmm mmm mm.
Normally I don't allow anyone in my home, except for Marcia, who helps me with the birds. But in your case I'll make an exception. You look like someone who loves birds."

She hated birds, she thought, especially pigeons, with red beaks, fishy eyes, leaving white-green plops everywhere. The way a male chased some hapless female—the male so puffed up, as proud as Charlie Twigall displaying his nude photo, and the female scuttling to get away. The male was not interested in the female—he only wanted her to admire him.

Nevertheless, she got up and followed the Birdman. When he wasn't humming he talked nonstop. "I see so many people who are mean to the birds, letting their children chase them and so forth, and I can't understand such cruelty.
Mmmm hmmmm hmm.
Did you know birds are the direct descendents of dinosaurs? And yet a person who is fascinated by dinosaurs thinks nothing of kicking a pigeon."

He really did live in a townhouse, from the outside a nice limestone building on what had to be one of the best blocks. He unlocked the front door. A stench of birds, of old bird droppings, steamed out at her like guano from a bat cave or the underside of a highway bridge. "I have to keep the windows shut. You understand. My little birds—the birds I rescue—they're unwell and they need the warmth."

It must have once been quite a grand residence. A huge Venetian chandelier—glittering candy-colored pink and blue roses, drooping green ferns, entirely of glass—hung in the center of the huge room; on closer inspection she saw it was riddled with perch-

ing pigeons. They were everywhere—on the Empire sofas and chairs, in wire aviaries—and their soft, muffled cooing sounded exactly like the humming made by the Birdman himself.

"I reserve the main floor for my sickest birds," he said. "On the second floor I have birds that are ready to be returned to the wild; on the third floor, seagulls, crows and other species who don't get along with the pigeons; and on the top floor, the birds who have been restored to health but who will never survive on their own again—if, say, a wing had to be amputated, or a leg is missing."

He opened a cardboard box located on top of what must once have been a very fine Korean table, now etched and scarred with limy droppings. Reaching into the box, he removed a pigeon, completely featherless but fully grown, eyes that were empty sockets. The bird defecated on the carpet. It must once have been a very good Aubusson, but now it was rimmed with furry mold. She averted her gaze. Now that her eyes had fully adjusted to the gloom, she saw that the ceiling had leaked so badly that huge chunks of the rococo plaster were crumbling; a rusty stain, of blood or from a broken pipe, had come through one of the walls; the parquet flooring was bulging like the hulk of a rotting ship. "Poor little thing," he said, kissing the pigeon on its pink blind head.

She was good at walking. She still had that left to her. She walked. Hours passed. It was one of those days when the whole city smelled of fish and fishy water, a primordial fragrance churned from the limnetic source. This was how it must have smelled a million years ago on earth, the odor of something straining to become something else. Once again she thought of killing slugs in the garden. She had read somewhere that slugs had sex lives more passionate than humans'. Once, on stabbing a particularly large banana-slug with black speckles, she was horrified to realize that what had spilled onto the brick pavement was its liver and intestines—the same as a person's, in miniature. Was that, in the end,