Citizen Girl (16 page)

‘You have an insane amount of books. Insane.’ He arches an eyebrow and grins as we bounce onto Houston.

‘Well,
I
like
you
more.’

‘Should have moved you sooner.’

‘As opposed to all the wining and dining?’ I smile.

‘I
asked
for your number.’

‘Duly noted. Hey, have you ever written a pitch?’

‘Not really. But Luke worked for Ogilvy & Mather a while back. You should ask him when he shows up.’

‘I’m supposed to be pitching MC’s feminist interest,
which right now is one paragraph with my passport photo paper-clipped at the top.’

He leans across me to check my side rear-view mirror as we change lanes. ‘Feminist, huh?’

I tense. ‘Yup. Ever seen one in her natural habitat?’

He taps the steering wheel, both of us reverberating with the revving motor beneath us. ‘A real live one?’

‘Uh-huh.’

He nods and leans over to turn on the radio, Dave Mathews filling the cab. I sink back into the seat as Buster slides his hand behind my neck and rests it there. I turn my head slowly, nestling my cheek against his palm and he gives me a little squeeze before returning both hands to the wheel.

When we pull up in front of my new building, I dart across the street to pick up breakfast for Buster’s roommates who, while not exactly brimming with enthusiasm, make short, testosterone-fueled shrift of my belongings. I try Guy again from the Krispy Kreme payphone –
got
to get a cell – but he doesn’t answer.

Upstairs, balancing four pastry boxes and seven steaming coffees, I’m delighted to find Tim and Trevor maneuvering my futon frame into the living room. Luke, who I recognize from the ice rink, is lugging a carton with my posters into the hallway. The crew nods hello, wiping their barely damp brows.

‘Wow, you’re like an assembly line!’ I say as I set breakfast down on a pile of boxes. ‘Please, everyone, help yourselves.’

‘Damn, you got a lotta naked chicks here.’ Luke, rifling my art posters with the same hostility he sliced the rink, holds up an International Center of Photography print for his friends to see, while Trevor lifts a lace thong out of the carton marked ‘underwear’.

‘That’s a Man Ray.’ I tug the lace out of Trevor’s hands. ‘Why don’t you all have a donut while they’re still hot?’

Buster emerges from the hallway and slides the last box onto a stack. ‘How about we help you unpack?’ he asks, unaware that his friends have already begun.

‘No. Thanks. But, please, help yourselves to some breakfast.’

Buster joins us in the crowded living room, putting his arm around me as he reaches for coffee. ‘Isn’t this place awesome?’

‘Yeah. Not bad for a porn set,’ Luke smirks. ‘So they had the camera, what, like, there?’ He points towards my bedroom. ‘Dude, we’ve got a pick-up game at one.’

‘Girl, this is Luke, our hockey champ.’

‘Yes, hi, we’ve met.’

‘Girl was wondering if she could tap your advertising acumen.’ Buster slides his hand around to my waist.

‘Oh no, it’s okay —’

‘No, ask him. He’s a genius.’

‘It’s nothing. I’m just working on a pitch —’

‘I’m sure you’ve pitched before.’ Luke eyes the Man Ray photograph again. ‘Busted, dude, let’s go.’

‘Actually, I’m gonna hang here for awhile and help Girl get set up.’ Buster helps himself to a glazed.

‘Whatever.’ Luke pulls on his leather bomber.

‘I’ll get the court next weekend.’

‘I said
whatever
, man —’ Luke catches himself. ‘Okay, later.’ He wipes his face with a napkin, balling it up and lobbing it across the room onto the floor. The kids look from one parent to the other before shuffling out with sheepish smiles, Tim tripping Trevor to break the tension.

‘Thank you so much! Please, please take the donuts!’ Following them to the door, I angle myself from Luke’s sightline as they pack onto the elevator. ‘Bye!’ I lock the door and lean against it, turning back to Buster. ‘Okay, Luke’s gunnin’ for a tee shirt.’

‘Yeah, he’s a little pissed about the game.’ Buster flexes the brim of his cap.

Forcing a shrug, I say, ‘I’m really fine here. Do you want to go?’

‘No, I really don’t.’

‘Good.’ My tuckered legs finally giving out, I slide to the floor.

Buster takes a donut from the box, wraps it in a napkin, and offers it to me. I bite it, reaching up to hold his other hand. We share the donut until it’s gone and then he traces my cheek with his finger, leaning his face down until his mouth is pressing mine. His lips are soft and he tastes like honey glaze. He leans back, pulling me on top of his strong frame. He smells good feels good tastes good. ‘Let’s unroll the futon,’ he murmurs into my ear, his hands under my shirt, our mouths connecting effortlessly.

‘Okay,’ I murmur in return. He hops up and swiftly lifts me to standing, leaving me momentarily lightheaded.
‘I think it’s in the bedroom.’ I slide my shirt back down.

He darts around the boxes and I hear a loud thump. ‘Shit. Can you give me a hand?’

‘Coming!’ I wipe my hands off on my jeans as I weave around the boxes to find Buster tugging at the twine securing the heavy cotton roll.

‘Maybe you could get some scissors?’

‘Sure.’ I push aside a few cartons, awkwardness descending.

Dust bunnies clumped in his hair, he struggles to free the futon from its string confines. ‘Hey, I, uh, know you’re pretty packed up here,’ he grunts, ‘But do you, uh, have anything?’

‘Sure.’ I turn automatically to the piles to look for …? Suddenly everything is happening in real time, bright Saturday afternoon Technicolor, soot particles suspended in the rays between us. ‘Buster?’ I cross back with neither scissors nor protection to find Buster gnawing on the twine. ‘It’s just, I’ve been awake for three days and I’m on this work deadline, and I still don’t even really —’

‘Know me from Adam.’

‘Yeah.’

He lets the futon slide back to the floor in a swift hiss, his face falling with it. ‘I wore my lucky stuff and everything.’ He lifts his sweater to reveal a taut Vagisil splayed across his chest just as his phone breaks out into an electronic jingle.

‘That’s so sexy I can’t see straight,’ I grin and sally over to him as he shoves his hand into his pocket to pull his cell out.

‘’Sup? … Dude, I
am not
being lame.’ He pats my head like a puppy and walks into the kitchen. ‘What’re you talking about? You met her for five minutes.’ He lowers his voice and I strain to listen. He laughs, ‘She’s not a dyke … No, man. Look … I know you reserved the court.’ He sighs. ‘Fine. No, let’s play. Yeah, I’ll see you downstairs. Later.’ He slaps his phone shut. ‘I have to go.’

‘Oh-kay.’ Because I’m not ripping my dusty clothes off?

He grabs his coat off the bathroom doorknob.

I cross my arms. ‘So, thanks.’

‘No problem. I —’

BUUUUZZZZZZZ. I step around him to hit the talk button of my intercom. ‘Yes?’

‘Buster coming or what?’

‘Hang on.’ I release the button. ‘Wow, you really better run along.’

‘Yeah —’

‘So, if you’re free this week I’d love to take you out for a thank-you lunch —’

BUZZZZZZZZZZ.

‘Lunch … yeah …’ Buster gives me a cursory peck on the cheek. ‘I’ve got a killer week. Maybe a drink?’ With a ‘Later’, he hastily closes the door behind him. I stare at the hairline fissures in the cream paint.

What. The fuck. Was that?

I find the ‘necessities’ carton and pull out, no, not condoms, but the loaned laptop and my phone so as to attend to the other boy in my life. I finally locate a jack
awkwardly placed behind the radiator, but there’s no dial tone yet.

‘Guy?’ I grip the Krispy Kreme payphone.

‘What’s up, Girl?’ he yawns. ‘Todd, man, I’ll be out in five – so get the caddy to wait. Go ahead, Girl, I’m all ears.’

‘I left you a few messages —’

‘Yeah, so what’s up?’

‘I just need details on what I should be pitching.’

‘We covered this yesterday. TODD! TELL THEM TO SET US UP FORTHE WHOLE EIGHTEEN!’ I jerk back from the receiver.

‘We did. I mean, I understand that it’s for Gloria Steinem. It’s just that we haven’t really had a chance to talk yet about the other feminist aspects of MC —’

‘Girl, I’m in a meeting, so I don’t really have time —’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Look, Girl, you can do this! You’ve done all the social-service shit, so this should be right up your alley.’

‘Yes! No, I’m excited to write it, I just need some more information from —’

‘This is a fast-paced business, Girl. I can’t babysit you. You want to climb high? Then you gotta grab that mother, stick it in your mouth, and go for it, okay?’

‘ … Okay.’

The phone goes dead.

‘Just a moment,’ Julia calls out to me Sunday evening as I slide my umbrella into the brass stand. Her elegant
Sutton Place vestibule makes my box-furnished abode seem just one notch above dorm room. ‘Hello!’ She opens the door, tying an apron over her caramel sweater, her shiny bob pulled back into a low ponytail, a wisp of pale blonde shot with gray framing her face. ‘Come on in, I was just about to heat up some manicotti – would you like some?’

‘That sounds delicious, but I don’t want to impose.’

‘Not at all.’ Julia takes the phone from me with a smile. ‘You trekked all the way over here in this cold, the least I can do is offer you sustenance.’ At her prompting I step into the softly lit entry hall and pull off my mittens as she clears a stack of files from the bench. ‘Go ahead and put your things down. I just want to get the pasta in the oven.’

Peeling off my damp coat and scarf, I fight the urge to curl up on the toile cushion. Exhausted from packing, writing, unpacking, writing, boss-stalking, and writing some more, I follow her happily into the pine kitchen, where Pierre Deux prints bring the grandeur of the prewar space down to a cozy scale. ‘What’s the weather doing out there?’ she asks as she adds the relocated files to one of many stacks lining the counters.

‘Still sleeting,’ I say, sliding into the banquette.

‘The drive back was a little hairy. Thanks for running the phone up; I’ve been under a pile of paperwork.’ She pulls off her oven mitts. ‘Immigration wants everything in triplicate, as if these women still had their passports.’ She pulls a bottle of red out of the wine rack. ‘And you? Tell me at your age you’re having fun weekends.’

‘Well, this one was devoted to moving.’ I smile wearily. ‘My apartment is completely covered in boxes. You have a beautiful home. I love this floor.’ I admire the marble black and white checkerboard pattern that merges the entryway and kitchen.

‘Oh, thank you.’ She gracefully slides the cork out with one swift torque. ‘It always feels so wonderfully Fred Astaire to me.’ She pulls out two glasses. ‘I was constantly traveling when I worked in finance. The floor’s how I knew I was home – particularly on no sleep. Wine?’

‘I’d love some. You were in finance?’

‘Investment banking, primarily capitalizing on the fall of the Eastern bloc.’

‘Wow.’

‘It sounds wow, doesn’t it?’ Julia laughs, pouring for us both. ‘It was mostly a lot of bad vodka and bugged hotel rooms. And yet they were amazed when I took early retirement!’

I laugh. ‘And now you’re with Magdalene?’

‘Now, I
am
Magdalene,’ she smiles, repeating the turn of phrase. She spreads her arms. ‘Welcome to Central Headquarters!’

‘Thanks. Happy to be here,’ I grin as she clinks my glass. ‘You’ve started your own organization.’ I push aside the image of Grace pointing her red pen at me. ‘That’s really amazing. How long have you been operational?’

‘We just got our first bit of funding about six months ago, but human trafficking is something I’ve wanted to address for ages.’ Julia leans back on the counter. ‘I spent
the better part of my career underwriting towns whose main export
was
their women.’

‘That’s …’ I falter.

‘Shameful.’ She walks to the refrigerator and pulls out a block of Parmesan. ‘I was done with corporate life.’ She passes me the cheese and a grater. ‘Would you mind?’

‘Not at all.’ I peel back the plastic wrap as she slides a bowl over to me. ‘MC, Inc. is actually my first venture into corporate life.’ I start sloughing the fragrant cheese against the metal grid. ‘I was working for Doris Weintruck.’

‘The feminist-speak-voice-of-young-women?’ She waves her hand, her antique gold stacking rings dancing.

‘That’s the one.’

‘What did you do for her?’

‘Everything. Anything.’ I take out a spark of frustration on the cheese. ‘It was all a lot more administrative than I signed on for. But under her auspices I was doing my own research, so that was good.’

‘Really? On what?’

‘How to make charities more effective.’ I shake the grater over the plate. ‘I’m intrigued by the disparity between how passionate the women I’ve worked for are about creating change and their inability to achieve it. There’s a real resistance to … process.’

‘I know exactly what you mean.’ Julia dresses the salad. ‘In the last eight weeks I’ve sat in on enough unproductive, let’s-all-say-what-we-
feel
meetings to make me wonder if I shouldn’t have opened a tackle shop.’ She smiles, I swoon. ‘Whatever else I say about banking,
those people know how to get things done – oh.’ Julia lifts a bucket from the sink and sets it on the draining board, her face soft with concern. ‘My houseguest must be washing her under-things. I’ll have to show her how the machine works.’

‘Will she be joining us?’ I ask.

‘Goodness, no. Moldova’s exhausted. She’s been sleeping since I brought her home from Immigration.’ She turns from the sink. ‘I’m sure I’m breaking social service rule number one, but I found beds for twenty-seven of the twenty-eight girls and just couldn’t leave Moldova behind. Let’s have a seat while the oven does its thing.’ I follow her into the grand living room, where the mahogany dining table is serving as a workstation, coils of cord snaking over forms, neatly delineated by colored Post-its.

‘Please excuse the mess, my home office seems to be migrating. And I can’t get the damned fax machine to work for the life of me. That’s where three decades of good secretarial help leaves you – utterly handicapped.’ Julia curls into a silk club chair.