American Music (12 page)

Iris looked out the little window in the kitchen. They lived on the twentieth floor of a postwar building on Second Avenue. It was one of the tallest buildings around and from it she could see the East River and the Empire State Building. It was a fancy apartment for them and too expensive, certainly her mother thought so, but they had taken it anyway right after the trial ended and he had found work and they had had the baby. They needed something to lift their spirits. Of course, having a child lifted their spirits, but it was also difficult and exhausting and it strained their already weakening bond. They didn’t laugh as much together, although one night only a couple of weeks after becoming parents they had decided to go bowling only to realize that they could not bring the baby and had not even thought about getting a babysitter. This made them both laugh. Being parents did not come naturally to them and it was a time in which they could not bring a baby out easily and so they found themselves home much of the time and Iris was grateful for the view.

Still, as the months went on the apartment seemed boxy and low-ceilinged and she regretted having bought a white couch and a white marble table. They were the height of fashion but she craved color. One day she decided to paint one wall in the hallway a dark red. When Alex came home she was smiling and there was Beethoven playing on the record player and the baby was cooing with her feet shooting up in the air like fat flowers and Alex said you cannot do something like that without asking me and how much do you think all this paint costs and do you ever think about anyone besides yourself? She stood up and the red paint dripped onto the parquet floor. That’s when she saw a look on his face that she had never seen before and it was livid and his eyes were widened in astonishment and rage. Years later she recognized that he had not been looking at her but at something deep inside his own brain, yet at the time he was appalled by her and she did not know how it had happened and it was growing bigger and coming closer like a storm.

This was the time when she thought about her life and she decided that she knew what had been the problem. She found the famous photographer’s address in the phone book. She wrapped the wedding picture in newspaper and mailed it to the building in Greenwich Village. She waited for a response that never came. She sat at the typewriter and tried to compose a more thoughtful letter than the hostile note that she had sent with the photograph, but the words would not come. She sat there and hours passed in a flicker. Her whole past scrolled through her mind and she thought about why she had written that fateful letter to the newspaper, how she had become someone so headstrong and impulsive, what would have happened if she had been raised differently, how her marriage would have worked out if she had only been understood so long ago. The baby cried. She went to get her.

Then one day she spent too much money and he was angrier than she had ever seen him. She had been walking home along Madison Avenue and had not been able to resist a new dress for her birthday and besides he gave her such a small allowance, too little to run the house, and she was working so hard taking care of the baby, taking classes, taking his clothes to the cleaner and she hated the way she sounded but more she was frightened of the look on his face as if she could control everything she did, didn’t he know by now that she was the kind of person who would be struck still on a street corner, someone for whom time had no real meaning, a person whose mind was not quite like everyone else’s, and it was all an affront to him instead of a cry for closeness she missed him she was lonely. Not long after that she heard about the photographer’s upcoming show at the Museum of Modern Art. Iris had worked at the museum right after college and still had friends there. She had the address of the brownstone in her change purse.

She could not have those pictures hanging in a museum when those pictures should have been hers. They were more than hers, they were
her
.

Pearl

Her eyes were red and her nose was red and a strand of hair was stuck to her cheek. She was in bed when he got home. She didn’t have to tell him that it had happened again. Joe held her and he felt her neck wet with tears and the lace on her slip wet with tears and he thought that the only thing more painful than unrequited love was unrequited life.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T
he waitress left two cloudy glasses of water on the table and walked away. Joe took out a cigarette although he rarely smoked and he lit it and turned his head to blow out the smoke. Vivian sat with her coat wrapped tightly around her, a scarf still at her throat. She looked pale.

She looked out the window onto an empty lot. They were at a diner on Eighth Avenue in the Thirties. She did not want to risk seeing anyone either of them knew and he had eaten in this all-night coffee shop after gigs. The table was edged with aluminum and the booths smelled of fresh leather. He reached out to take her hand across the Formica but she left it loosely around her glass. Her other hand was in her pocket.

Do you want anything to eat?

No thanks. I don’t have any appetite.

Shouldn’t you have something?

I’m not hungry.

Outside it began to snow. First the gentlest confetti swirled down one at a time like the last remnants of a celebration. Then they began to accumulate and the swirls grew thicker and looked like the long white hair of angels falling down.

The waitress returned and Joe ordered a coffee and a slice of pie. He knew that he wouldn’t eat the pie but he felt bad for the girl and thought that he should order something. When it came the pie sat uneaten on the table, a sweet stark reminder of his foolishness.

He blew out more smoke. He took a sip of coffee. He accepted that she wasn’t going to hold his hand.

I told her, he said.

Her right eye trembled. Her left eye stayed calm.

After what happened we both felt like we could discuss some things. He paused. She said she would like for us to be happy. You and me.

She looked back out the window. The snow was coming now in what appeared to be great heaps like someone was throwing it off a truck. That was it for the angels.

That’s unbelievably kind, she said. You’re very lucky.

We are, he said.

You are, she said, to have such a devoted wife.

He blew out a long stream of smoke this time. It spilled against the window as if it were trying to reach out to the snow, its distant cousin.

I think we could be happy now.

I thought so too, she said.

That doesn’t seem like a yes, he said.

Her hair was piled up in a bun. He could see the fine delicate line of her jaw when she turned to look out the window. Her dark lashes against her pale skin. The tiny rubies in her earrings that he knew had come from her grandfather’s jewelry store. The loose pieces of hair curling at her temple.

This, what’s happened, it’s forced me to think, she said. I don’t think I’m ready for this. She glanced downward.

We don’t have to do that yet. There are ways not to. We could start out just the two of us.

I’m not sure I’m even ready for that, she said. She looked up at him. It seemed as though she was going to lean forward and then she didn’t. To take you away from her and start something I’m not certain about seems cruel. I can’t do that. Not to either of you. I’m not sure anymore I could do it even if I were certain.

The greasy fork sat askew on the pie plate. He picked it up and pointed it at the table.

What happened? What changed?

He looked intently at the fork.

Nothing changed. Everything changed. I still love you.

He laughed a little. He was still looking at the fork. So what will you do?

Now the snow was sticking to the cars and the lampposts. There was a fine dust turning everything silvery and hidden. The sounds of traffic were being muffled. The whistle of the air in the window seemed louder.

She pulled her hand out of her pocket and put something on the table.

I’ve been taking a lot of long walks lately, she said. I found this for sale and I bought it.

A camera? he said.

A Leica. I’ve been taking pictures.

That’s what you’re going to do?

I think so, she said. Do you want to look at it?

He shook his head. She put the camera back in her pocket.

Why can’t you do that with me?

Right now I think it’s the only thing I want to do.

He felt a slow heavy ache in his solar plexus. His eyes were tearing up. He stubbed out his cigarette in the pie.

What about …

I don’t know, she said. We have to talk about that.

He was crying.

How could you let it go this far? How could you let me tell Pearl?

I’m sorry, she said. But you also let it go long.

He wiped his face with his sleeve.

That’s true, he said.

May I? she said. She reached over and took his coffee cup. He nodded. She held it in her hands. For a moment he had a memory of her bathed in late-afternoon light. Her green eyes. Her hands around a cup. Her indifferent look. He felt it returning. He knew that the feeling in his solar plexus would never go away.

You act like you don’t know me, he said.

I love you, Joe, she said. It’s me; I don’t know. Not yet.

They talked for a long time. Through the fogging window they looked like two blurry figures on film, grainy and flickering and gray. When they stood to leave he took her by the elbow and their silhouettes slid down the long horizontal window of the diner like two shadows walking offscreen.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

M
ilo sat on the bench wearing jeans and a jacket. He still wore the same boots. They were tan leather with dark brown laces and they were stained. He was looking down at them when she walked over to him. She stood right there for a long time and her shadow covered him from the winter sun. She would have been offended that he didn’t look up but she realized that he didn’t see her. He looked like he could see something in his boots. He looked like he was watching a movie on the ground.

After a while he looked up. His eyes were red. He said: These stories are killing me.

For the first time he asked her to come to his room. It was allowed now. He showed her his single bed. He had a drawing he’d made of her taped up on the wall and some other memorabilia and letters, but mostly the room was plain and nearly empty. They sat down beside each other on the little bed. They were still wearing their coats.

I think I’ve found you a place to live, she said.

That’s great, he said. He was looking down again.

What are you looking at? she said.

My boots, I guess.

What’s with the boots?

I told you a long time ago. They belonged to the guy who saved my life.

Why do you wear them?

So I won’t forget.

Sometimes it’s okay to forget.

Not this time.

All right.

She stood up and took her coat off and laid it on a chair. She sat back down.

This is going to sound strange, he said, but I really don’t want to leave this place.

That’s not so strange. You’ve been here a long time. You’re used to it. It must feel like home.

He closed his eyes.

Also, I’m thinking, his eyes were still closed and he was clenching his knees, what if it doesn’t work when we leave here?

Her hair swung when she leaned toward him. She put her hand on the back of his coat.

There’s always that chance, she said. But I’m willing to take it.

I don’t mean us, he said. I mean what’s happened here, the stories.

I can take that chance too, she said.

But do you want to?

He looked sideways at her. Those yellow flecks in his eyes. Without thinking about it she took her hand off his coat.

Don’t you want to know? he said.

She blinked. Her brow was clear and smooth but now it tensed a little and her eyes narrowed.

Yes, she said, looking down, I do. She looked up. But not if it’s going to hurt you.

I’m so hurt already, do you think it matters?

Of course it matters. It’s enough already.

But you need to know. I can tell. You need this.

I need you more, she said.

I want to do this for you, he said.

Her eyes were tearing now.

When it ends you’ll leave here?

When it ends I’ll leave.

He had her face in his hands. He kissed her and when he stopped kissing her he took off his coat. Then he reached his hand behind his head and grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled it off. Then he lay down on the bed with his back to her and he took her hand.

The Carriage

The sawdust swirled into tiny piles on the floor when the door opened and closed. A bell rang. The door slammed shut. The wheels of a baby carriage cut smoothly through the sawdust. Behind them, a woman’s feet followed in heels and stockings kicking up more yellow explosions of sawdust. The light in the shop was golden and warm. Two men wearing white coats smeared with red worked behind a counter. The woman pushing the baby carriage smiled when she saw them. Hello, Irv, Hello, Arnold, she said. They glanced up from their cutting and shot her friendly looks and said Hello there, ma’am, and How’s the baby? There were two women there already and while the woman with the carriage waited she gazed at the pink baby bundled in the carriage and played with her. The infant’s face was round and alert and unsmiling although interested in the sudden change of location. Her face registered the dusty air with a quick sneeze. Then it returned instantly to looking up at the lights hanging from the ceiling, the rim of the bonnet of the carriage that caught her vision, the large face of the woman who looked down on her and straightened her cap. The baby kicked off her blanket near her feet and the woman held her feet and said piggies and played with the feet. The infant almost smiled and seemed happy and then looked back at the lights. The woman raised the pitch of her voice and now the baby looked at her, although she did not quite look in her eyes. The woman tucked the feet in their hand-knit booties back underneath the soft blanket.

What’s good today, Irv? Did you save me a nice cut?

I have some beautiful lamb chops.

Marvelous. Give me six.

How’s the proud papa?

Working hard. He’ll be thrilled to have lamb chops.

The man behind the counter wiped his cold wet hands on his apron and began hacking away at some meat. He measured it and wrapped it up in thick white paper and then he tied it up with string. He leaned forward over the counter to hand it to the woman and as he did so he said, Let me see the gorgeous little princess.

The woman turned the carriage around so the man could see.

No, no, lift her up. I need a good look.

The woman removed the infant from her comfortable bedding and lifted her up and showed her to the butcher.

Is she a beauty, the man said.

The woman beamed. The baby squirmed a little. The woman gave her a loving squeeze.

Arnold, c’mere, the man said. Look at her. Look at those gorgeous green eyes.

What was her name?

Who?

The child?

No one said.

I kept searching but I couldn’t find out.

Honor had both hands on his rib cage. She moved them around his back. I looked all over. It isn’t there.

It’s somewhere.

Will you lie on your back? she said.

He shook his head into the pillow.

You can find it without that, he said.

Her hand stopped. She saw a woman rising out from the entrance to a subway station. It was raining slightly when she emerged onto the street.

1973

The rain grew harder. The woman opened an umbrella. It was later, decades later, and although much on the street could have been there when the woman with the baby walked into the butcher shop, you could tell by the clothes, the cars, the style of the streetlights, that time had passed. The woman walked up Lexington Avenue past shoe stores and coffee shops and newsstands that sold cigars. They had black awnings that said Optimo in red. She turned east and headed over toward Second Avenue. She walked down a block of brownstones at the end of which stood a tall brick apartment building and she turned under the awning and walked inside. The doorman said hello.

She got her mail from a wall lined with silver mailboxes. There were letters addressed to Mrs. Alex Michaels. And a postcard that began “Dear Iris.” She turned right at the black-and-white sign that read Fallout Shelter and waited for the elevator. She rode up to the twentieth floor. It was one of the last times she would ever enter this building and she was acutely aware of every landmark on her journey home. On her floor she stepped down the hallway and before she had opened the door her little girl was running to her. Mommy, the girl said. The mother scooped up her daughter. She would not tell her that they were leaving yet. Mommy, the girl said, Did you get rained on? Are you wet? Guess what happened!

Tell me everything, Anna, her mother said.

2006

Honor lay down next to Milo in the narrow bed. My mother’s name is Anna, she said.

Is she alive? he asked.

Yes, she said.

That’s good, he said.

But we haven’t seen each other in a long time.

He put his arm over her chest and touched her hair. Why not? he said.

She had me when she was very young, a teenager. It was hard. She wasn’t ready for me. Not really ever. I know she loved me but she was not ready and so it seemed as if she was always gone, in the midst of leaving, never really there. I left to become a dancer when I finished high school. I came back to New York where she was from and she didn’t want to come back. My grandparents had been very disappointed, and once she left New York they cut her off until she would come back. She didn’t. They reached out to her before they died, but she felt it was too late. And by the time I came back they were gone. They both died fairly young.

Where is she now?

I don’t even know.

But you could find out.

I suppose so.

Do you think that’s her? In the apartment?

Right now I think anything is possible.

She leaned her face on the back of his wide shoulder.

Your body is like a haunted house, she said. And it seems as though I live there.